 | Songs of the sea, with other poems |  |
67
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
GONELLO.
This is a true story. Gonello, the son of a glover, in Florence, was born between the years 1390 and 1400. While still a young man, he was received into the service of Nicolo the Third, Marquis of Ferrara, who installed him as his Fool, and became so much attached to him, that he surrounded him with favors, and even consulted him, sometimes, in state affairs. The traits of Gonello's character, and the events of his history and death, as I have metrically described them, are almost literally accordant with the historical account. He was convicted of lèze-majesté, inasmuch as he had laid violent hands on his sovereign; was seized and punished in the manner narrated in the poem. The marquis ordered a pompous funeral; nor was any circumstance omitted that could evince his respect for the memory of the jester. The life of Gonello, forming a considerable volume, was written by one Bartolomeo del Uomo.
This is a true story. Gonello, the son of a glover, in Florence, was born between the years 1390 and 1400. While still a young man, he was received into the service of Nicolo the Third, Marquis of Ferrara, who installed him as his Fool, and became so much attached to him, that he surrounded him with favors, and even consulted him, sometimes, in state affairs. The traits of Gonello's character, and the events of his history and death, as I have metrically described them, are almost literally accordant with the historical account. He was convicted of lèze-majesté, inasmuch as he had laid violent hands on his sovereign; was seized and punished in the manner narrated in the poem. The marquis ordered a pompous funeral; nor was any circumstance omitted that could evince his respect for the memory of the jester. The life of Gonello, forming a considerable volume, was written by one Bartolomeo del Uomo.
'Twas in fair Florence, in the olden time,
A wight, Gonello named, was born and bred;
A famous jester, an unequalled mime,
Sworn foe to dulness of the heart and head.
Sunny his spirits as his own fair clime;
Mirth was his raiment, and on mirth he fed:
In truth, he was a most diverting fellow;
No cross-grained Æsop, but—in short, Gonello.
A wight, Gonello named, was born and bred;
A famous jester, an unequalled mime,
Sworn foe to dulness of the heart and head.
Sunny his spirits as his own fair clime;
Mirth was his raiment, and on mirth he fed:
In truth, he was a most diverting fellow;
No cross-grained Æsop, but—in short, Gonello.
But Dulness holds it treason to be witty;
And, having ridiculed some dolt of rank,
Gonello was condemned to leave the city,—
A hard return for such a harmless prank.
Neither his jokes nor tears could gain him pity,
And all his friends were busy or looked blank,
When he drew near to ask them for assistance,
Telling him, by their shrugs, to keep his distance.
And, having ridiculed some dolt of rank,
Gonello was condemned to leave the city,—
A hard return for such a harmless prank.
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And all his friends were busy or looked blank,
When he drew near to ask them for assistance,
Telling him, by their shrugs, to keep his distance.
He turned away in loneliness of heart,
Bestowing many a bitter gibe on those
Who, because Folly feared some random dart
While Wit was foraging, had grown his foes.
“Dear Florence,” quoth he, “must I then depart?
O Fun and Fortune, spare me further blows!”
Was it not Vandal cruelty to pester
With banishment so capital a jester?
Bestowing many a bitter gibe on those
Who, because Folly feared some random dart
While Wit was foraging, had grown his foes.
“Dear Florence,” quoth he, “must I then depart?
O Fun and Fortune, spare me further blows!”
Was it not Vandal cruelty to pester
With banishment so capital a jester?
Gonello shook the dust from off his shoes,
And the ungrateful city jokeless left.
One friend, please Fortune, he would never lose—
A merry heart—that still remained uncleft.
What should he do? what fit employment choose,—
Of home, of patron, and of means bereft?
At length he recollected a report,
A fool was wanted at Ferrara's court.
And the ungrateful city jokeless left.
One friend, please Fortune, he would never lose—
A merry heart—that still remained uncleft.
What should he do? what fit employment choose,—
Of home, of patron, and of means bereft?
At length he recollected a report,
A fool was wanted at Ferrara's court.
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Thither he went to seek the situation,
And urged his claims with such a comic face,
That he was made, by formal installation,
Prime fool and licensed jester to his grace;
And, having settled down in this vocation,
He put on motley as became his place;
And thenceforth passed his precious time in joking,
Punning and quizzing, revelling and smoking.
And urged his claims with such a comic face,
That he was made, by formal installation,
Prime fool and licensed jester to his grace;
And, having settled down in this vocation,
He put on motley as became his place;
And thenceforth passed his precious time in joking,
Punning and quizzing, revelling and smoking.
His jests, unlike some jests that we might name,
Had nothing in them of a mouldy savor;
But fresh, and apt, and tipped with point they came,
To put grim Melancholy out of favor;
To drive Imposture to his den of shame,
To scourge Pretence, and make true Merit braver:
So that you granted, after you had laughed,
Though Wit had feathered, Truth had barbed the shaft.
Had nothing in them of a mouldy savor;
But fresh, and apt, and tipped with point they came,
To put grim Melancholy out of favor;
To drive Imposture to his den of shame,
To scourge Pretence, and make true Merit braver:
So that you granted, after you had laughed,
Though Wit had feathered, Truth had barbed the shaft.
The marquis held him in esteem so great,
That, spite of motley wear, the jester soon
Became a dabster in affairs of state,
Though frowned upon by many a pompous loon
'Twas an odd combination of his fate—
A politician, honest man, buffoon!
But he was frank—rare trait in an adviser;
And, though a fool, no senator was wiser.
That, spite of motley wear, the jester soon
Became a dabster in affairs of state,
Though frowned upon by many a pompous loon
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A politician, honest man, buffoon!
But he was frank—rare trait in an adviser;
And, though a fool, no senator was wiser.
And so, on rapid wing, his days flew by.
What though a league of dunces might oppose?
From modest Worth he never drew the sigh,
And never added to Affliction's woes.
But, ah! securest joy, mishap is nigh;
The storm condenses while the noontide glows:
The marquis failed in health—grew more unwell;
And, thereupon, a strange event befell.
What though a league of dunces might oppose?
From modest Worth he never drew the sigh,
And never added to Affliction's woes.
But, ah! securest joy, mishap is nigh;
The storm condenses while the noontide glows:
The marquis failed in health—grew more unwell;
And, thereupon, a strange event befell.
His grace's illness was a quartan ague,
Which the physicians tried in vain to cure.
I hope, dear reader, it may never plague you:
Doubtless 'tis quite unpleasant to endure.
Should this digression seem a little vague, you
Will see how hard it is a rhyme to lure,
And pardon me the fault; or, what is better,
Remould the stanza, and make me your debtor.
Which the physicians tried in vain to cure.
I hope, dear reader, it may never plague you:
Doubtless 'tis quite unpleasant to endure.
Should this digression seem a little vague, you
Will see how hard it is a rhyme to lure,
And pardon me the fault; or, what is better,
Remould the stanza, and make me your debtor.
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One remedy there was; but who would dare
Apply it, hazarding the patient's wrath?
'Twas simply this,—to take him unaware
And throw him overboard, by way of bath;—
A liberty he might not tamely bear,
But sweep the rash adventurer from his path.
Since the physicians would not then apply it,
Gonello secretly resolved to try it.
Apply it, hazarding the patient's wrath?
'Twas simply this,—to take him unaware
And throw him overboard, by way of bath;—
A liberty he might not tamely bear,
But sweep the rash adventurer from his path.
Since the physicians would not then apply it,
Gonello secretly resolved to try it.
No great regard had he for outward rank;
And as the marquis strolled with him one day,
In idle mood, along the river's bank,
He pushed him over headlong from the quay;
Then, seeing him drawn out ere thrice he sank,
Turned a droll somerset, and ran away;
Knowing, unless he vanished with velocity,
His priceless ears might pay for the atrocity.
And as the marquis strolled with him one day,
In idle mood, along the river's bank,
He pushed him over headlong from the quay;
Then, seeing him drawn out ere thrice he sank,
Turned a droll somerset, and ran away;
Knowing, unless he vanished with velocity,
His priceless ears might pay for the atrocity.
The marquis was pulled out, all wet and dripping,
Enraged at having been so vilely treated;
Albeit, indeed, the unexpected dipping
Had, strange to say, his malady unseated.
But still he swore, the knave should catch a whipping.
In this he quickly found himself defeated;—
His followers said, Gonello had decamped;
On learning which, his highness swore and stamped.
Enraged at having been so vilely treated;
Albeit, indeed, the unexpected dipping
Had, strange to say, his malady unseated.
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In this he quickly found himself defeated;—
His followers said, Gonello had decamped;
On learning which, his highness swore and stamped.
All with responsive choler were inflamed—
At least they said so—at the daring deed;
And, the next day, an edict was proclaimed,
In which 'twas by authority decreed,
Gonello was a traitor, who had aimed
Even at his liege's life;—and so, “take heed,
All ye whom it concerns, he dies, if found,
Ever again, upon Ferrara ground.”
At least they said so—at the daring deed;
And, the next day, an edict was proclaimed,
In which 'twas by authority decreed,
Gonello was a traitor, who had aimed
Even at his liege's life;—and so, “take heed,
All ye whom it concerns, he dies, if found,
Ever again, upon Ferrara ground.”
Gonello read the merciless decree,
Then critically conned it o'er and o'er,
And pondered every syllable, to see
If no equivocal intent it bore.
Some subtle quirk, he thought, some jesting plea,
Might help his fame and favor to restore.
Yes! he has wrested an equivocation,
After hard study, from the proclamation.
Then critically conned it o'er and o'er,
And pondered every syllable, to see
If no equivocal intent it bore.
Some subtle quirk, he thought, some jesting plea,
Might help his fame and favor to restore.
Yes! he has wrested an equivocation,
After hard study, from the proclamation.
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“'Tis only on Ferrara ground,” he said,
“The penalty here threatened can befall;
On ground of friendly Padua if I tread,
Do I infringe the edict? Not at all!”
So, without fear of jeoparding his head,
He went to give his grace a morning call,
And crossed in motley state Ferrara's bound,
Perched on a wagon, labelled “Paduan Ground.”
“The penalty here threatened can befall;
On ground of friendly Padua if I tread,
Do I infringe the edict? Not at all!”
So, without fear of jeoparding his head,
He went to give his grace a morning call,
And crossed in motley state Ferrara's bound,
Perched on a wagon, labelled “Paduan Ground.”
By this device he hoped to have evaded
The clutches of the prowling men of law;
But, ah! he did not view the thing as they did,
Who stood not for entreaty or for flaw,
But pulled him down, unpitied and unaided,
And thrust him in a prison's greedy maw,—
Assuring him that, spite of needful haste,
The “affair” should be conducted in good taste.
The clutches of the prowling men of law;
But, ah! he did not view the thing as they did,
Who stood not for entreaty or for flaw,
But pulled him down, unpitied and unaided,
And thrust him in a prison's greedy maw,—
Assuring him that, spite of needful haste,
The “affair” should be conducted in good taste.
“The affair? Ha! what affair?” Gonello cried;
“Can it then be I'm under mortal ban?
Is this the way 'gainst lapses to provide,—
To cut the head off of the erring man?
To make the law a ruthless homicide?
Is this the wisest, most remedial plan?
If I escape this sentence of impiety,
I'll found an anti-blood-spilling society.”
“Can it then be I'm under mortal ban?
Is this the way 'gainst lapses to provide,—
To cut the head off of the erring man?
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Is this the wisest, most remedial plan?
If I escape this sentence of impiety,
I'll found an anti-blood-spilling society.”
Alas! 'tis only when the mischief reaches
Our own quick sense of wrong, we feel for others;
'Tis then Experience, the laggard, teaches
A truth the unfeeling world too often smothers,—
And yet a truth which conscience ever preaches,—
The good of all is lodged in one poor brother's.
O! when mankind shall feel this truth aright,
No Fourier need scheme, no Taylor fight.
Our own quick sense of wrong, we feel for others;
'Tis then Experience, the laggard, teaches
A truth the unfeeling world too often smothers,—
And yet a truth which conscience ever preaches,—
The good of all is lodged in one poor brother's.
O! when mankind shall feel this truth aright,
No Fourier need scheme, no Taylor fight.
But where's Gonello? To his dungeon-cell
A priest has come to give him absolution.
“Good father,” quoth the jester, “all is well;—
The spirit carries its own retribution;—
Yes, its own bias is its heaven or hell.
But hark! the signal for my execution!
The knell of fun! Lead on! Though I'm a sinner,
By this fair light, I hope to be the winner!”
A priest has come to give him absolution.
“Good father,” quoth the jester, “all is well;—
The spirit carries its own retribution;—
Yes, its own bias is its heaven or hell.
But hark! the signal for my execution!
The knell of fun! Lead on! Though I'm a sinner,
By this fair light, I hope to be the winner!”
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There stands the scaffold—there the fatal block!
What crowds have gathered to the scene of blood!
Gonello bows his head, and waits the shock
That shall unseal the life-encircling flood.
An interval succeeds, that seems to mock
The horror of the gasping multitude;
When, lo! the grinning minister of slaughter
Dashes upon the block a pail of water!
What crowds have gathered to the scene of blood!
Gonello bows his head, and waits the shock
That shall unseal the life-encircling flood.
An interval succeeds, that seems to mock
The horror of the gasping multitude;
When, lo! the grinning minister of slaughter
Dashes upon the block a pail of water!
An uproar of applauses rends the air;—
“Long live the marquis, and Gonello long!
'Twas a sham sentence! O, requital fair!
And Mercy has but worn the mask of wrong!”
Thus, while rebounding joy succeeds despair,
Exclaim, 'mid wild hurrahs, the hustling throng;
And Laughter treads on Grief's receding heel,
Stunning the fugitive with peal on peal.
“Long live the marquis, and Gonello long!
'Twas a sham sentence! O, requital fair!
And Mercy has but worn the mask of wrong!”
Thus, while rebounding joy succeeds despair,
Exclaim, 'mid wild hurrahs, the hustling throng;
And Laughter treads on Grief's receding heel,
Stunning the fugitive with peal on peal.
But soft! the jester—why does he remain,
On the uncrimsoned platform, mute and still?
Has agonizing terror stunned his brain,
Or sudden gladness sent too fierce a thrill?
Faints he from rapture or excess of pain?
His heart beats not—his brow is pale and chill—
Light from his eyes, heat from his limbs has fled;—
Jesu Maria! he is dead—is dead!
On the uncrimsoned platform, mute and still?
Has agonizing terror stunned his brain,
Or sudden gladness sent too fierce a thrill?
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His heart beats not—his brow is pale and chill—
Light from his eyes, heat from his limbs has fled;—
Jesu Maria! he is dead—is dead!
Ay, the wrought spirit, straining for the light,
And fixed in its conceit that death was near,
Felt the sharp steel in harmless water smite,
Heard the air part as no one else could hear.
Its own volition was its power of flight
Above this gross, material atmosphere.
A phantom axe was wielded to forestall
The stroke it deemed the headsman would let fall.
And fixed in its conceit that death was near,
Felt the sharp steel in harmless water smite,
Heard the air part as no one else could hear.
Its own volition was its power of flight
Above this gross, material atmosphere.
A phantom axe was wielded to forestall
The stroke it deemed the headsman would let fall.
And so the farce became a tragedy.
The moral of it you may briefly read;—
Carried too far, jokes practical may be
Edge tools to make the meddlers' fingers bleed.
But, poor Gonello! spendthrift child of glee!
Wit's bounteous almoner! 'twas hard indeed,
That thou, the prime dispenser of good jokes,
Should fall at last the victim of a hoax!
The moral of it you may briefly read;—
Carried too far, jokes practical may be
Edge tools to make the meddlers' fingers bleed.
But, poor Gonello! spendthrift child of glee!
Wit's bounteous almoner! 'twas hard indeed,
That thou, the prime dispenser of good jokes,
Should fall at last the victim of a hoax!
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And yet the marquis, who had but designed
Rough trick for trick, deserves our pity more;
For, from that hour of grief, his peace of mind
Incurably was wounded at the core.
Mirth bade his heart farewell—he pined and pined,
As though Life held no further joy in store.
Gonello had both balked him of his jest,
And himself played his last one and his best.
Rough trick for trick, deserves our pity more;
For, from that hour of grief, his peace of mind
Incurably was wounded at the core.
Mirth bade his heart farewell—he pined and pined,
As though Life held no further joy in store.
Gonello had both balked him of his jest,
And himself played his last one and his best.
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THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA.
In the year of our Lord 404, a young Asiatic monk, named Telemachus, lost his life in a generous attempt to prevent the combat of the gladiators, in the amphitheatre at Rome. He had stepped into the arena to separate the combatants, when the spectators, surprised and exasperated at his interruption of the brutal exhibition, overwhelmed him with a shower of stones. But from that time forth the human sacrifices of the amphitheatre were abolished. In allusion to the fate of Telemachus, Gibbon, with more acrimony than truth, remarks, “Yet no church has been dedicated, no altar has been erected, to the only monk who died a martyr to the cause of humanity.” I have no especial partiality for monks, but history repeatedly gives the lie to Gibbon's assertion. It shows to what a discreditable extent of recklessness he could be carried by his prejudices, where his choice lay between an implied compliment to Christianity and a misrepresentation of facts.
In the year of our Lord 404, a young Asiatic monk, named Telemachus, lost his life in a generous attempt to prevent the combat of the gladiators, in the amphitheatre at Rome. He had stepped into the arena to separate the combatants, when the spectators, surprised and exasperated at his interruption of the brutal exhibition, overwhelmed him with a shower of stones. But from that time forth the human sacrifices of the amphitheatre were abolished. In allusion to the fate of Telemachus, Gibbon, with more acrimony than truth, remarks, “Yet no church has been dedicated, no altar has been erected, to the only monk who died a martyr to the cause of humanity.” I have no especial partiality for monks, but history repeatedly gives the lie to Gibbon's assertion. It shows to what a discreditable extent of recklessness he could be carried by his prejudices, where his choice lay between an implied compliment to Christianity and a misrepresentation of facts.
Honored be the hero evermore,
Who at Mercy's call has nobly died!
Echoed be his name from shore to shore,
With immortal chronicles allied!
Who at Mercy's call has nobly died!
Echoed be his name from shore to shore,
With immortal chronicles allied!
Verdant be the turf upon his dust,
Bright the sky above, and soft the air!
In the grove set up his marble bust,
And with garlands crown it, fresh and fair.
Bright the sky above, and soft the air!
In the grove set up his marble bust,
And with garlands crown it, fresh and fair.
In melodious numbers, that shall live
With the music of the rolling spheres,
Let the minstrel's inspiration give
His eulogium to the future years!
With the music of the rolling spheres,
Let the minstrel's inspiration give
His eulogium to the future years!
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Not the victor in his country's cause,
Not the chief who leaves a people free,
Not the framer of a nation's laws,
Shall deserve a greater fame than he.
Not the chief who leaves a people free,
Not the framer of a nation's laws,
Shall deserve a greater fame than he.
Hast thou heard, in Rome's declining day,
How a youth, by Christian zeal impelled,
Swept the sanguinary games away
Which the Coliseum once beheld?
How a youth, by Christian zeal impelled,
Swept the sanguinary games away
Which the Coliseum once beheld?
Crowds on crowds had gathered to the sight,
And the tiers their gazing thousands showed,
When two gladiators, armed for fight,
O'er the arena's sandy circle strode.
And the tiers their gazing thousands showed,
When two gladiators, armed for fight,
O'er the arena's sandy circle strode.
Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long,
As, with shields advanced, the athletes stood:
Was there no one in that eager throng
To denounce the spectacle of blood?
As, with shields advanced, the athletes stood:
Was there no one in that eager throng
To denounce the spectacle of blood?
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Ay, Telemachus, with swelling frame,
Saw the inhuman sport renewed once more:
Few were gathered there could tell his name,
And a cross was all the badge he wore;
Saw the inhuman sport renewed once more:
Few were gathered there could tell his name,
And a cross was all the badge he wore;
Yet, with brow elate and godlike mien,
Stepped he forth upon the circling sand;
And, while all were wondering at the scene,
Checked the encounter with a daring hand.
Stepped he forth upon the circling sand;
And, while all were wondering at the scene,
Checked the encounter with a daring hand.
“Romans!” cried he, “let this reeking sod
Never more with human blood be stained!
Let no image of the living God
In unhallowed combat be profaned!
Never more with human blood be stained!
Let no image of the living God
In unhallowed combat be profaned!
“Ah! too long hath this colossal dome
Failed to sink and hide your brutal shows:
Here I call upon assembled Rome
Now to swear, they shall forever close!”
Failed to sink and hide your brutal shows:
Here I call upon assembled Rome
Now to swear, they shall forever close!”
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Parted thus, the combatants, with joy,
'Mid the tumult found the means to fly;
In the arena stood the undaunted boy,
And, with looks adoring, gazed on high.
'Mid the tumult found the means to fly;
In the arena stood the undaunted boy,
And, with looks adoring, gazed on high.
Pealed the shout of wrath on every side;
Every hand was forward to assail;
“Slay him! slay—” a thousand voices cried,
Wild with fury; but he did not quail.
Every hand was forward to assail;
“Slay him! slay—” a thousand voices cried,
Wild with fury; but he did not quail.
Hears he, as entranced he looks above,
Strains celestial, which the menace drown?
Sees he angels, with their eyes of love,
Beck'ning to him with a martyr's crown?
Strains celestial, which the menace drown?
Sees he angels, with their eyes of love,
Beck'ning to him with a martyr's crown?
Fiercer swelled the people's angry shout;
Launched against him flew the stones like rain;
Death and terror circled him about;
But he stood and perished—not in vain!
Launched against him flew the stones like rain;
Death and terror circled him about;
But he stood and perished—not in vain!
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Not in vain the youthful martyr fell:
Then and there he crushed a bloody creed;
And his high example shall impel
Future heroes to as brave a deed.
Then and there he crushed a bloody creed;
And his high example shall impel
Future heroes to as brave a deed.
Stony answers yet remain for those
Who would question and precede the time:
In their season, may they meet their foes,
Like Telemachus, with front sublime!
Who would question and precede the time:
In their season, may they meet their foes,
Like Telemachus, with front sublime!
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WOODHULL.
General Nathaniel Woodhull was born at Mastic, Long Island, in 1722, and was engaged in several gallant actions, during the war of the American revolution. At the time of the invasion of Long Island by the royal forces, in 1776, he was overtaken at Jamaica, with two or three companions, by a detachment of the seventeenth regiment of British dragoons, and the seventy-first regiment of infantry. He gave up his sword in token of surrender; but the subordinate officer, who first approached, ordered him to say, “God save the king.” This Woodhull refused to do; for which the officer struck him severely over the head with his sword; and of the effects of the wound Woodhull eventually died.
General Nathaniel Woodhull was born at Mastic, Long Island, in 1722, and was engaged in several gallant actions, during the war of the American revolution. At the time of the invasion of Long Island by the royal forces, in 1776, he was overtaken at Jamaica, with two or three companions, by a detachment of the seventeenth regiment of British dragoons, and the seventy-first regiment of infantry. He gave up his sword in token of surrender; but the subordinate officer, who first approached, ordered him to say, “God save the king.” This Woodhull refused to do; for which the officer struck him severely over the head with his sword; and of the effects of the wound Woodhull eventually died.
'Twas when Long Island's heights beheld
The king's invading horde,
That, by outnumbering foes compelled,
Our chief gave up his sword.
The king's invading horde,
That, by outnumbering foes compelled,
Our chief gave up his sword.
Then spoke the victor: “Now from me
No mercy shall you wring,
Unless, base rebel, on your knee,
You cry, ‘God save the king!’”
No mercy shall you wring,
Unless, base rebel, on your knee,
You cry, ‘God save the king!’”
With reverent but undaunted tone,
Then Woodhull made reply,—
“No king I own, save one alone,
The Lord of earth and sky!
Then Woodhull made reply,—
“No king I own, save one alone,
The Lord of earth and sky!
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“But far from me the wish that ill
Your monarch should befall;
So, freely, and with right good will,
I'll say, God save us all!”
Your monarch should befall;
So, freely, and with right good will,
I'll say, God save us all!”
Shouted the foeman, “Paltering slave!
Repeat, without delay,
‘God save the king,’ nor longer brave
The fury that can slay!”
Repeat, without delay,
‘God save the king,’ nor longer brave
The fury that can slay!”
But Woodhull said, “Unarmed, I hear;
Yet threats cannot appal;
Ne'er passed these lips the breath of fear,
And so, God save us all!”
Yet threats cannot appal;
Ne'er passed these lips the breath of fear,
And so, God save us all!”
“Then, rebel, rue thy stubborn will,”
The ruffian victor cried;
“This weapon shall my threat fulfil;
So perish in thy pride!”
The ruffian victor cried;
“This weapon shall my threat fulfil;
So perish in thy pride!”
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Rapid as thought, the murderous blow
Fell on the prisoner's head;
With warrior rage he scanned his foe,
Then, staggering, sank and bled.
Fell on the prisoner's head;
With warrior rage he scanned his foe,
Then, staggering, sank and bled.
But anger vanished with his fall;
His heart the wrong forgave:
Dying, he sighed, “God save you all,
And me, a sinner, save!”
His heart the wrong forgave:
Dying, he sighed, “God save you all,
And me, a sinner, save!”
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THE LAST OF HIS TRIBE.
A sunny slope upon a mountain's side:
Green woods and yellow fields of waving corn
Look down upon the Indians' birchen tents.
The young men of the tribe are at their sports:
Who is the fleetest hunter of them all?
Whose arrow floats the surest to the mark?
Who is in council wise, in battle brave?
'Tis the youthful Etlah;—
On his breast is hung
Many a shining trophy,
Which proclaims his worth.
Green woods and yellow fields of waving corn
Look down upon the Indians' birchen tents.
The young men of the tribe are at their sports:
Who is the fleetest hunter of them all?
Whose arrow floats the surest to the mark?
Who is in council wise, in battle brave?
'Tis the youthful Etlah;—
On his breast is hung
Many a shining trophy,
Which proclaims his worth.
Years fled. The white men burst upon that vale,
And the fair hamlet was a desolation.
The warriors of the tribe are met in council:
Whose kindling eye the indignant tear-drop fills?
Whose matchless tones of eloquent appeal
With one vibration shake a thousand hearts,
And wake a thousand echoes to his cry?
'Tis the chieftain Etlah's;—
He is clad for fight,
And his cry is “Vengeance!”
As he lifts his spear.
And the fair hamlet was a desolation.
The warriors of the tribe are met in council:
Whose kindling eye the indignant tear-drop fills?
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With one vibration shake a thousand hearts,
And wake a thousand echoes to his cry?
'Tis the chieftain Etlah's;—
He is clad for fight,
And his cry is “Vengeance!”
As he lifts his spear.
The battle-field, the clangor, and the smoke;
The white man's trumpet, and the Indian's yell;
The flying steed, his fetlocks clogged with gore,
The trampled rider and the dying foe!
Whose rallying shout is loudest 'mid the fray?
In whose right hand has Havoc placed the axe?
Who, meteor-like, streams through the ranks in blood?
'Tis the avenging Etlah;—
Though his little band
Fall in heaps around him,
Yet he does not quail.
The white man's trumpet, and the Indian's yell;
The flying steed, his fetlocks clogged with gore,
The trampled rider and the dying foe!
Whose rallying shout is loudest 'mid the fray?
In whose right hand has Havoc placed the axe?
Who, meteor-like, streams through the ranks in blood?
'Tis the avenging Etlah;—
Though his little band
Fall in heaps around him,
Yet he does not quail.
Night ends the combat. On the trodden grass,
Wet more with slaughter than the dews of heaven,
The unconscious stars, serenely bright, look down.
Beside a rushing stream, some dusky forms
Lie couched in slumber; but one stands apart,
Leans on his rifle and surveys the field:
What lonely watcher thus surveys the field?
'Tis the intrepid Etlah,
Calm in his despair;
Lo! his best and bravest
Lifeless strow the plain!
Wet more with slaughter than the dews of heaven,
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Beside a rushing stream, some dusky forms
Lie couched in slumber; but one stands apart,
Leans on his rifle and surveys the field:
What lonely watcher thus surveys the field?
'Tis the intrepid Etlah,
Calm in his despair;
Lo! his best and bravest
Lifeless strow the plain!
Under a tree scathed by the lightning's bolt,
Meet emblem of his fate, a warrior kneels;—
For him, no living heart beats tenderly;
Friend, kinsman, brother, sister, mother, wife—
All are no more!—his heart is desolate;
And for the shadowy hunting-grounds he sighs,
And prays to the Great Spirit for release:
'Tis the aged Etlah,
Last of all his tribe;—
Who remains to cheer him?
Who remains to mourn?
Meet emblem of his fate, a warrior kneels;—
For him, no living heart beats tenderly;
Friend, kinsman, brother, sister, mother, wife—
All are no more!—his heart is desolate;
And for the shadowy hunting-grounds he sighs,
And prays to the Great Spirit for release:
'Tis the aged Etlah,
Last of all his tribe;—
Who remains to cheer him?
Who remains to mourn?
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THE DEATH OF WARREN.
SET TO MUSIC BY W. R. DEMPSTER.
When the war-cry of Liberty rang through the land,
To arms sprang our fathers the foe to withstand;
On old Bunker Hill their entrenchments they rear,
When the army is joined by a young volunteer.
“Tempt not death!” cried his friends; but he bade them good-by,
Saying, “O! it is sweet for our country to die!”
To arms sprang our fathers the foe to withstand;
On old Bunker Hill their entrenchments they rear,
When the army is joined by a young volunteer.
“Tempt not death!” cried his friends; but he bade them good-by,
Saying, “O! it is sweet for our country to die!”
The tempest of battle now rages and swells,
'Mid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of bells;
And a light, not of battle, illumes yonder spire—
Scene of woe and destruction;—'tis Charlestown on fire!
The young volunteer heedeth not the sad cry,
But murmurs, “'Tis sweet for our country to die!”
'Mid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of bells;
And a light, not of battle, illumes yonder spire—
Scene of woe and destruction;—'tis Charlestown on fire!
The young volunteer heedeth not the sad cry,
But murmurs, “'Tis sweet for our country to die!”
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With trumpets and banners the foe draweth near:
A volley of musketry checks their career!
With the dead and the dying the hill-side is strown,
And the shout through our lines is, “The day is our own!”
“Not yet,” cries the young volunteer, “do they fly!
Stand firm!—it is sweet for our country to die!”
A volley of musketry checks their career!
With the dead and the dying the hill-side is strown,
And the shout through our lines is, “The day is our own!”
“Not yet,” cries the young volunteer, “do they fly!
Stand firm!—it is sweet for our country to die!”
Now our powder is spent, and they rally again;—
“Retreat!” says our chief, “since unarmed we remain!”
But the young volunteer lingers yet on the field,
Reluctant to fly, and disdaining to yield.
A shot! Ah! he falls! but his life's latest sigh
Is, “'Tis sweet, O, 'tis sweet for our country to die!”
“Retreat!” says our chief, “since unarmed we remain!”
But the young volunteer lingers yet on the field,
Reluctant to fly, and disdaining to yield.
A shot! Ah! he falls! but his life's latest sigh
Is, “'Tis sweet, O, 'tis sweet for our country to die!”
And thus Warren fell! Happy death! noble fall!
To perish for country at Liberty's call!
Should the flag of invasion profane evermore
The blue of our seas or the green of our shore,
May the hearts of our people reëcho that cry,—
“'Tis sweet, O, 'tis sweet for our country to die!”
To perish for country at Liberty's call!
Should the flag of invasion profane evermore
The blue of our seas or the green of our shore,
May the hearts of our people reëcho that cry,—
“'Tis sweet, O, 'tis sweet for our country to die!”
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ODE
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.
When, on Yorktown's battle-field,
He beheld Cornwallis yield,
“Cheer not!” said our patriot chief;
“Let Posterity's acclaim
Sound the triumph and the fame.”
Mute were our victorious host;
And it was no empty boast:
We, and freemen yet unborn,
Shall salute his birthday morn.
He beheld Cornwallis yield,
Washington, though present at the surrender at Yorktown, deputed General Lincoln to receive the sword of Lord Cornwallis. This was done in a retaliatory spirit. When the Americans capitulated at Charleston, Cornwallis, instead of receiving Lincoln's sword himself, slightingly directed him to deliver it to Colonel St. Leger. The affront thus offered to one of his favorite officers was not forgotten by Washington; and when the appropriate time came, he resented it, by meting out a similar measure of indignity to his lordship.
My authority for this anecdote is my kinsman, the late Major Winthrop Sargent, in whose mental custody it could hardly have remained for a series of years had it not been true. Major Sargent was major of artillery at the battle of Brandywine, September 11th, 1777, and adjutant-general at the terrible battle of the Miami Villages, November 4th, 1791. On both occasions he was wounded—on the latter, severely. He shared the privations of our army at Valley Forge, and was one of a delegation sent by Washington to make a representation of them to the Congress, at Philadelphia. On the consummation of our independence, Major Sargent contemplated pursuing his military career in Europe; and Washington transmitted through General Knox the following certificate: “I certify that Major Winthrop Sargent, lately an officer in the line of artillery and aid-de-camp to Major-General Howe, has served with great reputation in the armies of the United States of America; that he entered into the service of his country at an early period of the war, and, during the continuance of it, displayed a zeal, integrity, and intelligence, which did honor to him as an officer and a gentleman. Given under my hand and seal, this 18th day of June, 1785. (Signed) George Washington, late Commander-in-chief, &c. &c.” Major Sargent subsequently received the appointment of governor of the territory of Mississippi.
“Cheer not!” said our patriot chief;
“Let Posterity's acclaim
Sound the triumph and the fame.”
Mute were our victorious host;
And it was no empty boast:
We, and freemen yet unborn,
Shall salute his birthday morn.
Now, then, let our voices ring;
Now memorial tributes bring!
Are there battles to be won?
Let the cry be, “Washington!”
Now memorial tributes bring!
Are there battles to be won?
Let the cry be, “Washington!”
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In our nation's doubtful day,
In her peril and dismay,
When the bravest hearts repined,—
Steadfast as the eternal rock,
He withstood the tempest-shock;
And when Victory came down
With her shining laurel-crown,
Still his glory found increase,
For he was the first in peace.
In her peril and dismay,
When the bravest hearts repined,—
Steadfast as the eternal rock,
He withstood the tempest-shock;
And when Victory came down
With her shining laurel-crown,
Still his glory found increase,
For he was the first in peace.
Though thy frame is in the dust,
Spirit of the brave and just,
Thou art all thy country's still:
Still thy great example lives,
And its life to millions gives;
Still thy influence we hail,
Still thy counsels shall prevail;
And thy very name shall be
Like a spell to Liberty!
Spirit of the brave and just,
Thou art all thy country's still:
Still thy great example lives,
And its life to millions gives;
Still thy influence we hail,
Still thy counsels shall prevail;
And thy very name shall be
Like a spell to Liberty!
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THE DAYS THAT ARE PAST
We will not deplore them, the days that are past:
The gloom of misfortune is over them cast;
They were lengthened by sorrow and sullied by care,
Their griefs were too many, their joys were too rare;
Yet now that their shadows are on us no more,
Let us welcome the prospect that brightens before!
The gloom of misfortune is over them cast;
They were lengthened by sorrow and sullied by care,
Their griefs were too many, their joys were too rare;
Yet now that their shadows are on us no more,
Let us welcome the prospect that brightens before!
We've cherished fair hopes, we've plotted brave schemes,—
We've lived till we find them illusive as dreams;
Wealth has melted like snow that is grasped in the hand,
And the steps we have climbed sink beneath us like sand;
Yet shall we despond while of health unberest,
And honor, bright honor, and freedom are left?
We've lived till we find them illusive as dreams;
Wealth has melted like snow that is grasped in the hand,
And the steps we have climbed sink beneath us like sand;
Yet shall we despond while of health unberest,
And honor, bright honor, and freedom are left?
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O, shall we despond, while the pages of time
Yet open before us their records sublime?
While, ennobled by treasures more precious than gold,
We can walk with the heroes and martyrs of old?
While humanity whispers such tales in the ear,
As it softens the heart, like sweet music, to hear?
Yet open before us their records sublime?
While, ennobled by treasures more precious than gold,
We can walk with the heroes and martyrs of old?
While humanity whispers such tales in the ear,
As it softens the heart, like sweet music, to hear?
O, shall we despond, while, with vision still free,
We can gaze on the sky, and the earth, and the sea?
While the sunshine can waken a burst of delight,
And the stars are a joy and a glory by night?
While each harmony running through nature can raise,
In our spirits, the impulse of gladness and praise?
We can gaze on the sky, and the earth, and the sea?
While the sunshine can waken a burst of delight,
And the stars are a joy and a glory by night?
While each harmony running through nature can raise,
In our spirits, the impulse of gladness and praise?
O, let us no longer than vainly lament
Over scenes that are faded, and days that are spent!
But, by faith unforsaken, unawed by mischance,
On Hope's waving banner still fixed be our glance;
And should Fortune prove cruel and false to the last,
Let us look to the future, and not to the past!
Over scenes that are faded, and days that are spent!
But, by faith unforsaken, unawed by mischance,
On Hope's waving banner still fixed be our glance;
And should Fortune prove cruel and false to the last,
Let us look to the future, and not to the past!
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THE GAY DECEIVER.
SET TO MUSIC BY W. R. DEMPSTER.
Summer wind! Summer wind!
Where hast thou been?
Chasing the gossamer
Over the green?
Rifling the cowslip's wealth,
Down in the dale?
Light-pinioned pilferer,
Tell me thy tale!
Where hast thou been?
Chasing the gossamer
Over the green?
Rifling the cowslip's wealth,
Down in the dale?
Light-pinioned pilferer,
Tell me thy tale!
“I am a rover gay,
Dashing and free,—
Now on the land astray,
Now on the sea.
I quaff the honey-breath
Of the young rose;
I kiss the violet
Where the brook flows.”
Dashing and free,—
Now on the land astray,
Now on the sea.
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Of the young rose;
I kiss the violet
Where the brook flows.”
Out on thee, fugitive,
Fickle, untrue!
Leaving the violet,
Whom wilt thou woo?
Canst thou delighted be
With hearts undone?
Canst thou show constancy
Never to one?
Fickle, untrue!
Leaving the violet,
Whom wilt thou woo?
Canst thou delighted be
With hearts undone?
Canst thou show constancy
Never to one?
“Ah! hear me, maiden dear!
Turn not away:
I have a rover been
Until to-day;
But now I find a home
Where I can rest;—
Captive, I sink, at length,
Here on thy breast.”
Turn not away:
I have a rover been
Until to-day;
But now I find a home
Where I can rest;—
Captive, I sink, at length,
Here on thy breast.”
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FLORETTE.
ILLUSTRATIVE OF A PICTURE.
Spring-flower of loveliness! gentle Florette!
Who that once saw thee could ever forget?
While a spark of life lingers, this heart and this brain
Shall thy beauty recall and thy image retain.
Who that once saw thee could ever forget?
While a spark of life lingers, this heart and this brain
Shall thy beauty recall and thy image retain.
Though Time has sped far on his merciless flight
Since first thy dear features enchanted my sight,
As clearly they rise upon memory yet
As when, in the bloom of thy graces, we met.
Since first thy dear features enchanted my sight,
As clearly they rise upon memory yet
As when, in the bloom of thy graces, we met.
'Twas a bright day in autumn: on hill-side and plain,
Like a yellower sunshine, appeared the bright grain;
And there 'mid the reapers, Florette, didst thou stand,
With the spoils of the harvest half-clasped in thy hand.
Like a yellower sunshine, appeared the bright grain;
And there 'mid the reapers, Florette, didst thou stand,
With the spoils of the harvest half-clasped in thy hand.
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Well and boldly the limner hath ventured to trace
Thy dark-folded hair and thy luminous face;
But the image engraven deep, deep in my heart,
Is matchless in nature and fairer than art.
Thy dark-folded hair and thy luminous face;
But the image engraven deep, deep in my heart,
Is matchless in nature and fairer than art.
99
THE SPRING-TIME WILL RETURN.
The birds are mute, the bloom is fled,
Cold, cold the north winds blow;
And radiant Summer lieth dead
Beneath a shroud of snow.
Sweet Summer! well may we regret
Thy brief, too brief sojourn;
But, while we grieve, we'll not forget,
The Spring-time will return!
Cold, cold the north winds blow;
And radiant Summer lieth dead
Beneath a shroud of snow.
Sweet Summer! well may we regret
Thy brief, too brief sojourn;
But, while we grieve, we'll not forget,
The Spring-time will return!
Dear friend, the hills rise bare and bleak
That bound thy future years;
Clouds veil the sky, no golden streak,
No rainbow light appears;
Mischance has tracked thy fairest schemes,
To wreck—to whelm—to burn;
But wintry-dark though Fortune seems,
The Spring-time will return!
That bound thy future years;
Clouds veil the sky, no golden streak,
No rainbow light appears;
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To wreck—to whelm—to burn;
But wintry-dark though Fortune seems,
The Spring-time will return!
Beloved one! where no sunbeams shine
Thy mortal frame we laid;
But O, thy spirit's form divine
Waits no sepulchral shade!
No, by those hopes which, plumed with light,
The sod, exulting, spurn,
Love's paradise shall bloom more bright—
The Spring-time will return!
Thy mortal frame we laid;
But O, thy spirit's form divine
Waits no sepulchral shade!
No, by those hopes which, plumed with light,
The sod, exulting, spurn,
Love's paradise shall bloom more bright—
The Spring-time will return!
101
THE FOUNTAIN IN THE CITY.
Amid the city's din and dust, thy foaming column springs,
And on the trodden soil around refreshing moisture flings.
And on the trodden soil around refreshing moisture flings.
Thou'rt like that grateful human heart, O fountain pure and bright!
Which, in the midst of sin and care, is ever fresh and white;
Which, in the midst of sin and care, is ever fresh and white;
Which scatters love and joy around, and, as it gushes, shows
Each ray from Heaven, its fountain-head, and Faith's prismatic bows.
Each ray from Heaven, its fountain-head, and Faith's prismatic bows.
102
THE CAPTIVE.
“Rise from thy dungeon floor!
Captive, thy hour is nigh!
Look on the rising sun once more,
And then prepare to die!
Is not the green earth fair?
The morning gale how sweet!
With Spring's first odors in the air,
Her blossoms at our feet!
Captive, thy hour is nigh!
Look on the rising sun once more,
And then prepare to die!
Is not the green earth fair?
The morning gale how sweet!
With Spring's first odors in the air,
Her blossoms at our feet!
“Captive! gaze well around:
Wouldst leave this cheerful light—
This world, where pleasures so abound—
For death's unfathomed night?
Listen! a word, a sign,
That thou abjur'st thy creed,
Life, riches, honors—all are thine:
Ha! wilt thou now be freed?”
Wouldst leave this cheerful light—
This world, where pleasures so abound—
For death's unfathomed night?
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That thou abjur'st thy creed,
Life, riches, honors—all are thine:
Ha! wilt thou now be freed?”
The captive gazed, and said,—
“O, lovely is the light;
And fairer scenes were never spread
Beneath my waking sight;
And fragrant is the breath
Of this reviving breeze;
But O, more fair than all, is death,
To him whose spirit sees!
“O, lovely is the light;
And fairer scenes were never spread
Beneath my waking sight;
And fragrant is the breath
Of this reviving breeze;
But O, more fair than all, is death,
To him whose spirit sees!
“For that is life indeed,
Which heeds not time and space;
And freedom, where no bonds impede
The spirit's heavenward race.
O, speed me to that goal,
Beneath that brighter sky!
Death cannot daunt the immortal soul;—
Brother, lead on to die!”
Which heeds not time and space;
And freedom, where no bonds impede
The spirit's heavenward race.
O, speed me to that goal,
Beneath that brighter sky!
Death cannot daunt the immortal soul;—
Brother, lead on to die!”
104
FANTASY AND FACT.
Thou say'st we never met before
Within the world's wide space;
And yet the more I gaze, the more
I recollect thy face:
Each feature to my mind recalls
An image of the past,
Which, where the shade of Memory falls,
Is sacred to the last.
Within the world's wide space;
And yet the more I gaze, the more
I recollect thy face:
Each feature to my mind recalls
An image of the past,
Which, where the shade of Memory falls,
Is sacred to the last.
But she whose charms revive in thine
Was not, alas! of earth;
And yet for earth not too divine,
Though Fancy gave her birth.
She haunted me by summer streams,
And burst upon my sight,
When, through the pleasant Land of Dreams,
I roamed at will, by night.
Was not, alas! of earth;
And yet for earth not too divine,
Though Fancy gave her birth.
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And burst upon my sight,
When, through the pleasant Land of Dreams,
I roamed at will, by night.
Lost idol! why didst thou depart?
O, let thine earnest eyes—
Abstraction, vision, though thou art—
Once more my heart surprise!
She comes, a fair and sylph-like girl:
Whom, happy, doth she seek?
And raven curls their links unfurl
Adown her radiant cheek.
O, let thine earnest eyes—
Abstraction, vision, though thou art—
Once more my heart surprise!
She comes, a fair and sylph-like girl:
Whom, happy, doth she seek?
And raven curls their links unfurl
Adown her radiant cheek.
I clasp her hands in mine once more—
Again I am a boy!
The past shows nothing to deplore,
The future is all joy.
We wander through deserted halls;
We climb the wooded height;
We hear the roar of waterfalls,
And watch the eagle's flight.
Again I am a boy!
The past shows nothing to deplore,
The future is all joy.
We wander through deserted halls;
We climb the wooded height;
We hear the roar of waterfalls,
And watch the eagle's flight.
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We stand where sunset colors lie
Upon a lake at rest;
And O, what clouds of Tyrian dye
Are sloping down the west!
And high above the purple pile,
The evening star appears;
Till, as we gaze, the loved one's smile,
Like twilight's, ends in tears.
Upon a lake at rest;
And O, what clouds of Tyrian dye
Are sloping down the west!
And high above the purple pile,
The evening star appears;
Till, as we gaze, the loved one's smile,
Like twilight's, ends in tears.
I turn to thee, and start to see
Again that bright ideal,—
The eyes, the shape, the ringlets free,
The fanciful made real!
Two visions have waylaid my heart,
A false one and a true;
And, by the soul of truth, thou art
The fairer of the two!
Again that bright ideal,—
The eyes, the shape, the ringlets free,
The fanciful made real!
Two visions have waylaid my heart,
A false one and a true;
And, by the soul of truth, thou art
The fairer of the two!
107
A MORNING INVOCATION.
Wake, slumberer! Summer's sweetest hours
Are speeding fast away;
The sun has waked the opening flowers
To greet the new-born day;
The deer leaps from his leafy haunt,
And swims the purple lake;
The birds their grateful carols chant,—
All Nature cries, “Awake!”
Are speeding fast away;
The sun has waked the opening flowers
To greet the new-born day;
The deer leaps from his leafy haunt,
And swims the purple lake;
The birds their grateful carols chant,—
All Nature cries, “Awake!”
O, lose not in unconscious ease
An hour so heavenly fair:
Come forth, while yet the glittering trees
Wave in the genial air,—
While yet a dewy freshness fills
The morning's fragrant gale,
As o'er the woods and up the hills
The mist rolls from the vale.
An hour so heavenly fair:
Come forth, while yet the glittering trees
Wave in the genial air,—
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The morning's fragrant gale,
As o'er the woods and up the hills
The mist rolls from the vale.
Awake! Too soon, alas! too soon,
The glory shall decay,
And, in the fervid eye of noon,
The freshness fade away.
Then seize the hour so swift of flight,
Its early bloom partake:
By all that's beautiful and bright,
I call on thee, Awake!
The glory shall decay,
And, in the fervid eye of noon,
The freshness fade away.
Then seize the hour so swift of flight,
Its early bloom partake:
By all that's beautiful and bright,
I call on thee, Awake!
109
THE FUGITIVE FROM LOVE.
Is there but a single theme
For the youthful poet's dream?
Is there but a single wire
To the youthful poet's lyre?
Earth below and heaven above—
Can he sing of nought but love?
For the youthful poet's dream?
Is there but a single wire
To the youthful poet's lyre?
Earth below and heaven above—
Can he sing of nought but love?
Nay! the battle's dust I see—
God of war, I follow thee;
And, in martial numbers, raise
Worthy pæans to thy praise!
Ah! she meets me on the field—
If I fly not, I must yield.
God of war, I follow thee;
And, in martial numbers, raise
Worthy pæans to thy praise!
Ah! she meets me on the field—
If I fly not, I must yield.
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Jolly patron of the grape,
To thy arms I will escape:
Quick, the rosy nectar bring—
“Io Bacche!” I will sing!
Ha! confusion! every sip
But reminds me of her lip.
To thy arms I will escape:
Quick, the rosy nectar bring—
“Io Bacche!” I will sing!
Ha! confusion! every sip
But reminds me of her lip.
Pallas, give me wisdom's page,
And awake my epic rage!
Love is fleeting, love is vain;—
I will try a nobler strain!
O, perplexity! my books
But reflect her haunting looks.
And awake my epic rage!
Love is fleeting, love is vain;—
I will try a nobler strain!
O, perplexity! my books
But reflect her haunting looks.
Jupiter, on thee I cry—
Take me and my lyre on high!
Lo! the stars beneath me gleam—
Here, O poet, is a theme!
Madness! she is come above!
Every chord is whispering, “Love!”
Take me and my lyre on high!
Lo! the stars beneath me gleam—
Here, O poet, is a theme!
Madness! she is come above!
Every chord is whispering, “Love!”
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WHEN THE NIGHT-WIND BEWAILETH.
SET TO MUSIC BY W. R. DEMPSTER.
When the night-wind bewaileth
The fall of the year,
And sweeps from the forest
The leaves that are sere,
I wake from my slumber
And list to the roar;
And it saith to my spirit,
“No more—never more!
O! never more!”
The fall of the year,
And sweeps from the forest
The leaves that are sere,
I wake from my slumber
And list to the roar;
And it saith to my spirit,
“No more—never more!
O! never more!”
Through memory's chambers,
The forms of the past,
The joys of my childhood
Rush by with the blast;
And the lost one, whose beauty
I used to adore,
Seems to sigh with the night-breeze,
“No more—never more!
O! never more!”
The forms of the past,
The joys of my childhood
Rush by with the blast;
112
I used to adore,
Seems to sigh with the night-breeze,
“No more—never more!
O! never more!”
The trees of the forest
Shall blossom again,
And the wild birds shall carol
A soul-thrilling strain;
But the heart fate has withered
No spring shall restore;
And its songs shall be joyful
No more—never more!
O! never more!
Shall blossom again,
And the wild birds shall carol
A soul-thrilling strain;
But the heart fate has withered
No spring shall restore;
And its songs shall be joyful
No more—never more!
O! never more!
113
TO A SINGING BIRD.
Blithe little prisoned warbler,
Thy silvery tones outbreak,
Like raindrops among summer leaves,
Or on a glassy lake!
How can such gleeful carols
Gush from thy quivering breast,
When in that gloomy cage thou'rt held,
Far from thy native nest?
Thy silvery tones outbreak,
Like raindrops among summer leaves,
Or on a glassy lake!
How can such gleeful carols
Gush from thy quivering breast,
When in that gloomy cage thou'rt held,
Far from thy native nest?
O, dost thou never languish,
And droop thy head in pain;
Missing the genial island-home
Thou may'st not see again?
The palm-tree bent above thee
With blossoms on its bough,
The vine-leaves clustered by thy side,—
No verdure cheers thee now.
And droop thy head in pain;
Missing the genial island-home
Thou may'st not see again?
114
With blossoms on its bough,
The vine-leaves clustered by thy side,—
No verdure cheers thee now.
Thy wings, that chased the sunbeam,
Have weak and nerveless grown;
And faded is the golden hue,
That on thy plumage shone;—
Brick walls and dusty pavements
Are all that meet thine eye,
For thou art even hidden from
The blue, impartial sky.
Have weak and nerveless grown;
And faded is the golden hue,
That on thy plumage shone;—
Brick walls and dusty pavements
Are all that meet thine eye,
For thou art even hidden from
The blue, impartial sky.
And yet thou hast forgiven
Thy nature's grievous wrong;
And thy full heart exultingly
Pours itself forth in song;—
An exile and a captive,
All lonely and bereft,
The impulse that now prompts thy lay,
The rapture still is left.
Thy nature's grievous wrong;
And thy full heart exultingly
Pours itself forth in song;—
An exile and a captive,
All lonely and bereft,
The impulse that now prompts thy lay,
The rapture still is left.
115
O joy-creating minstrel!
I bless thee for the thought,
Which thy untutored harmony,
Thy hymn of love hath brought:
If, in thy hour of darkness,
Such grateful glee is thine,
How should the immortal hope within
Forbid me to repine!
I bless thee for the thought,
Which thy untutored harmony,
Thy hymn of love hath brought:
If, in thy hour of darkness,
Such grateful glee is thine,
How should the immortal hope within
Forbid me to repine!
116
THE FIRST SNOW-STORM.
As for the first wild flower,
In the early time of spring;
As for the summer shower,
When earth is languishing;
As for the rainbow's blending;
As for the day-star's glow,—
Have I looked for the descending
Of the first November snow.
In the early time of spring;
As for the summer shower,
When earth is languishing;
As for the rainbow's blending;
As for the day-star's glow,—
Have I looked for the descending
Of the first November snow.
It comes! on pinions airy
The virgin flakes alight,
Like the torn plumes of a fairy,
Or the apple-blossoms white;
With undulating motion,
The frozen ground they reach,
Or melt into the ocean,
That booms along the beach.
The virgin flakes alight,
Like the torn plumes of a fairy,
Or the apple-blossoms white;
117
The frozen ground they reach,
Or melt into the ocean,
That booms along the beach.
Why watch I thus the falling
Of the first November snow?
Because on me 'tis calling
In the voice of long ago;
Because it ever blendeth
With the memories of the boy;—
Each flake, as it descendeth,
Enshrouds a perished joy!
Of the first November snow?
Because on me 'tis calling
In the voice of long ago;
Because it ever blendeth
With the memories of the boy;—
Each flake, as it descendeth,
Enshrouds a perished joy!
O! for those days when, rushing
Into the powdery air,
I felt the free, wild gushing
Of a spirit without care!
How, through the drifts that whitened
Our windows-sills at home,
I dashed, with heart unfrightened,
Like a dolphin through the foam!
Into the powdery air,
I felt the free, wild gushing
Of a spirit without care!
How, through the drifts that whitened
Our windows-sills at home,
I dashed, with heart unfrightened,
Like a dolphin through the foam!
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And then the merry ringing
Of the sleigh-bells at the door,
And the winter evening, bringing
A thousand pleasures more!
And the dear friends who surrounded
Our log-devouring hearth,
And the old songs that resounded,
And the hours of blameless mirth!
Of the sleigh-bells at the door,
And the winter evening, bringing
A thousand pleasures more!
And the dear friends who surrounded
Our log-devouring hearth,
And the old songs that resounded,
And the hours of blameless mirth!
Ah, first snow of November!
These joys thou dost recall;
But with them I remember,
They shall no more befall:
Companions have departed,
With whom that season fled;
And some are weary-hearted,
And some are with the dead.
These joys thou dost recall;
But with them I remember,
They shall no more befall:
Companions have departed,
With whom that season fled;
And some are weary-hearted,
And some are with the dead.
119
SUMMER IN THE HEART.
The cold blast at the casement beats;
The window-panes are white;
The snow whirls through the empty streets:
It is a dreary night!
Sit down, old friend; the wine-cups wait:
Fill, to o'erflowing, fill!
Though Winter howleth at the gate,
In our hearts 'tis summer still!
The window-panes are white;
The snow whirls through the empty streets:
It is a dreary night!
Sit down, old friend; the wine-cups wait:
Fill, to o'erflowing, fill!
Though Winter howleth at the gate,
In our hearts 'tis summer still!
For we full many summer joys
And greenwood sports have shared,
When, free and ever-roving boys,
The rocks, the streams, we dared;
And, as I look upon thy face,
Back, back o'er years of ill,
My heart flies to that happy place,
Where it is summer still.
And greenwood sports have shared,
When, free and ever-roving boys,
The rocks, the streams, we dared;
120
Back, back o'er years of ill,
My heart flies to that happy place,
Where it is summer still.
Yes, though like sere leaves on the ground,
Our early hopes are strown,
And cherished flowers lie dead around,
And singing birds are flown,
The verdure is not faded quite,
Not mute all tones that thrill;
And seeing, hearing thee to-night,
In my heart 'tis summer still.
Our early hopes are strown,
And cherished flowers lie dead around,
And singing birds are flown,
The verdure is not faded quite,
Not mute all tones that thrill;
And seeing, hearing thee to-night,
In my heart 'tis summer still.
Fill up! The olden times come back
With light and life once more;
We scan the Future's sunny track
From Youth's enchanted shore;—
The lost return: through fields of bloom
We wander at our will;
Gone is the Winter's angry gloom—
In our hearts 'tis summer still.
With light and life once more;
We scan the Future's sunny track
From Youth's enchanted shore;—
The lost return: through fields of bloom
We wander at our will;
Gone is the Winter's angry gloom—
In our hearts 'tis summer still.
121
THE CONQUEROR.
A trampled battle plain!
The work of death was done;
On the unburied slain,
Through mist, red looked the sun;
The trumpet's blare, the shout,
The quick artillery's roar,
The carnage and the rout
Shook the wide field no more.
The work of death was done;
On the unburied slain,
Through mist, red looked the sun;
The trumpet's blare, the shout,
The quick artillery's roar,
The carnage and the rout
Shook the wide field no more.
Surrounded by the dead,
Wherever strayed his eyes,
His gory steed his bed,
The soldier strove to rise.
Vain was the effort—vain!
The death-wound in his side,
The ebbing blood, the pain,
Life's rallying power defied.
Wherever strayed his eyes,
His gory steed his bed,
The soldier strove to rise.
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The death-wound in his side,
The ebbing blood, the pain,
Life's rallying power defied.
“And must I, then,” he said,
“With all my dreams of fame,
Of hosts to conquest led,
Perish without a name?
O, for my mother's voice!
My home, my native sky!
And her, my true heart's choice,
For whom in death I sigh!”
“With all my dreams of fame,
Of hosts to conquest led,
Perish without a name?
O, for my mother's voice!
My home, my native sky!
And her, my true heart's choice,
For whom in death I sigh!”
He paused: a maid, whose hair
Streamed loosely on the breeze,
Sank wounded by him there;
It is herself he sees!
Death, thou canst not appall!
Ambition, quit the field!
Love is the conqueror—all
To woman's love must yield!
Streamed loosely on the breeze,
Sank wounded by him there;
It is herself he sees!
A letter dated Monterey, October 7th, 1846, describes a Mexican woman as having been mortally wounded while going to succor a dying soldier on the field of battle. “I think it was an accidental shot that struck her,” says the writer. “Passing the spot, next day, I saw her body still lying there, with the bread by her side, and the broken gourd with a few drops of water still in it—emblems of her errand.”
Death, thou canst not appall!
Ambition, quit the field!
Love is the conqueror—all
To woman's love must yield!
123
ADELAIDE'S TRIUMPH
The narrative from which the main incident of this little ballad is drawn appeared, some time since, in a French journal, as I learn from a friend, to whose recollection I am indebted for the story. He will perceive that in giving it a poetical dress, I have materially altered it, and lost, I fear, much of the simple pathos which struck me in his oral narration.
The narrative from which the main incident of this little ballad is drawn appeared, some time since, in a French journal, as I learn from a friend, to whose recollection I am indebted for the story. He will perceive that in giving it a poetical dress, I have materially altered it, and lost, I fear, much of the simple pathos which struck me in his oral narration.
First Part.
“Adelaide, come stand beside me,
Stand beside my pillowed head;—
From my eyes the light is fading,
From my cheek the hue is fled:
Let me hold thy hand so dainty,
Let me touch thy silky hair;
Ringlets gray and fingers wasted
With them poorly may compare.
Stand beside my pillowed head;—
From my eyes the light is fading,
From my cheek the hue is fled:
Let me hold thy hand so dainty,
Let me touch thy silky hair;
Ringlets gray and fingers wasted
With them poorly may compare.
“Come, and let compassion summon
Thoughts of ruth to move thy heart,—
Gentle thoughts, that, full of pity,
Take the contrite sinner's part;
Reverential recollections
Of His words who came to save;
Of His words that breathed forgiveness,
Of His mercy that forgave.
Thoughts of ruth to move thy heart,—
Gentle thoughts, that, full of pity,
Take the contrite sinner's part;
124
Of His words who came to save;
Of His words that breathed forgiveness,
Of His mercy that forgave.
“Where a stately stream is gliding,
Near a slope of wooded ground,
Rises Lord De Warrene's mansion,
Fairest of the country round:
Eighteen summers have I counted,
Since its widowed master brought
To this roof a female infant,—
Here a foster-mother sought.
Near a slope of wooded ground,
Rises Lord De Warrene's mansion,
Fairest of the country round:
Eighteen summers have I counted,
Since its widowed master brought
To this roof a female infant,—
Here a foster-mother sought.
“‘Too much care thou canst not show her,’
Said he, with a heavy sigh;
‘For to give the dear one being
Did my noble lady die.’
‘Proud am I to tend thy daughter,’
Answered I with zealous tone;
But I started, on comparing
That sweet infant with my own.
Said he, with a heavy sigh;
‘For to give the dear one being
Did my noble lady die.’
‘Proud am I to tend thy daughter,’
Answered I with zealous tone;
But I started, on comparing
That sweet infant with my own.
125
“Child of health and matchless beauty,
Born to gladden, seemed the one;
While my own poor bud lay drooping,
Ere its morning was begun.
Lord De Warrene left his daughter;
But an evil thought had sway
In my soul, before he claimed her,
Two brief summers from that day.
Born to gladden, seemed the one;
While my own poor bud lay drooping,
Ere its morning was begun.
Lord De Warrene left his daughter;
But an evil thought had sway
In my soul, before he claimed her,
Two brief summers from that day.
“Do not clasp my hand so tightly;
Gaze not with an air so wild;
I'm thy forster-mother only—
Yes! thou art De Warrene's child!
In the scroll beneath my pillow,
Proofs that none will question find;—
All I can of reparation,
Dying, would I leave behind.”
Gaze not with an air so wild;
I'm thy forster-mother only—
Yes! thou art De Warrene's child!
In the scroll beneath my pillow,
Proofs that none will question find;—
All I can of reparation,
Dying, would I leave behind.”
Wonder at the strange disclosure,
Anguish at the sight of death,
In the maiden's heart contending,
Seemed to battle for her breath:
But a step was heard approaching,
And a distant door unlatched;
Shaking off those stiffening fingers,
Eagerly the scroll she snatched.
Anguish at the sight of death,
In the maiden's heart contending,
Seemed to battle for her breath:
126
And a distant door unlatched;
Shaking off those stiffening fingers,
Eagerly the scroll she snatched.
When the last sad rites were ended,
In that room she stood alone;
Bare the rafters, coarse the ceiling,
And the floor of naked stone.
And a smile of bitter meaning
O'er her clouded features passed,
As that treasured scroll she opened,
And a look around her cast.
In that room she stood alone;
Bare the rafters, coarse the ceiling,
And the floor of naked stone.
And a smile of bitter meaning
O'er her clouded features passed,
As that treasured scroll she opened,
And a look around her cast.
Then she read, and finished reading,
And her passion deeper grew;
To her brow the ruby mounted,
From her eyes the lightning flew.
“What!” she murmured, “was I cheated
Of my birth's exalted rights—
Of a lordly sire's affection,
Of a stately home's delights?
And her passion deeper grew;
To her brow the ruby mounted,
From her eyes the lightning flew.
“What!” she murmured, “was I cheated
Of my birth's exalted rights—
Of a lordly sire's affection,
Of a stately home's delights?
127
“Was I made to herd unduly
With the poor and lowly-bred;
Made to join in rustic labors—
Rise before the dawn from bed?
Was I clothed in homely raiment,
Fed on plain and frugal fare,
I, the Lord De Warrene's daughter,
I, the Lord De Warrene's heir?
With the poor and lowly-bred;
Made to join in rustic labors—
Rise before the dawn from bed?
Was I clothed in homely raiment,
Fed on plain and frugal fare,
I, the Lord De Warrene's daughter,
I, the Lord De Warrene's heir?
“Has, the while, a mere usurper—
A discarded peasant child—
Filled the station I was born to,
And my father's heart beguiled?
Has she been the mansion's lady,
Robed in silks with jewels rare,
While the whole of my adorning
Was a wild rose for my hair?
A discarded peasant child—
Filled the station I was born to,
And my father's heart beguiled?
Has she been the mansion's lady,
Robed in silks with jewels rare,
While the whole of my adorning
Was a wild rose for my hair?
“But the hour of retribution,
Long deferred, at length has come;
I will face this changeling lady,
And a word shall strike her dumb:
I will say to knights and servants,
‘Let the low impostor be!
And your true-born, lawful lady
Clad in these poor garments, see!’
Long deferred, at length has come;
I will face this changeling lady,
And a word shall strike her dumb:
128
‘Let the low impostor be!
And your true-born, lawful lady
Clad in these poor garments, see!’
“Then to Lord De Warrene turning,
Bold in my attested claim,
Will I lay the proof before him,—
Proof of her maternal shame!
Proudly will I wait his answer,
At his feet in reverence kneel;
Then my triumph, my requital,
She shall surely see and feel!”
Bold in my attested claim,
Will I lay the proof before him,—
Proof of her maternal shame!
Proudly will I wait his answer,
At his feet in reverence kneel;
Then my triumph, my requital,
She shall surely see and feel!”
Thus, in menaces impatient,
Forth the maiden's anger broke;
Eagerly she threw her mantle
O'er her shoulders, as she spoke;
Then, accoutred for a journey,
Hastened from that mean abode;
And threw back the whitewashed wicket,
Opening on the dusty road.
Forth the maiden's anger broke;
Eagerly she threw her mantle
O'er her shoulders, as she spoke;
Then, accoutred for a journey,
Hastened from that mean abode;
And threw back the whitewashed wicket,
Opening on the dusty road.
129
But not many steps she'd taken,
When she paused and looked behind;
There the rose-bush she had planted,
There the honey-suckle twined.
Do they mutely seem to chide her,
That she turns in friendly quest,
Gathers flowers and buds, and gives them
To her lily-shaming breast?
When she paused and looked behind;
There the rose-bush she had planted,
There the honey-suckle twined.
Do they mutely seem to chide her,
That she turns in friendly quest,
Gathers flowers and buds, and gives them
To her lily-shaming breast?
None could now dispute her beauty,
As affection lit the gloom
In those eyes, whose tender beaming
Fell upon her garden's bloom.
Shape, and mien, and chiselled feature,
Drooping lash, and affluent hair,—
All seemed fairer by the token,
In the heart was something fair.
As affection lit the gloom
In those eyes, whose tender beaming
Fell upon her garden's bloom.
Shape, and mien, and chiselled feature,
Drooping lash, and affluent hair,—
All seemed fairer by the token,
In the heart was something fair.
But she paused a moment only;
And, when she upraised her head,
Not the bough relieved from pressure
Springs more buoyant than her tread.
Why on yonder wooded mountain
Hath she fixed her straining eyes?
Close behind that purple summit
Lord De Warrene's mansion lies.
And, when she upraised her head,
Not the bough relieved from pressure
Springs more buoyant than her tread.
130
Hath she fixed her straining eyes?
Close behind that purple summit
Lord De Warrene's mansion lies.
Second Part.
In a parlor wide and lofty,
Where the summer breezes came,
Sat the lady of the mansion,—
Constance was the lady's name.
Covered were the walls with velvet,—
Blue the tint, but heavenly light;
Nailed with frequent stars, all golden,
Mimicking the stars of night.
Where the summer breezes came,
Sat the lady of the mansion,—
Constance was the lady's name.
Covered were the walls with velvet,—
Blue the tint, but heavenly light;
Nailed with frequent stars, all golden,
Mimicking the stars of night.
And a mirror reached, broad gleaming,
From the ceiling to the floor;
Set between two Gothic windows,
Fronting an emblazoned door;
And a carpet, rich and downy,
Toil of many a Turkish loom,
Leaf and bud and flower inwoven,
Lent its lustre to the room.
From the ceiling to the floor;
Set between two Gothic windows,
Fronting an emblazoned door;
131
Toil of many a Turkish loom,
Leaf and bud and flower inwoven,
Lent its lustre to the room.
Light the maiden's silken labor;
Yet she quickly threw it by,
And her weary hands enfolding,
Heaved a languor-laden sigh.
Tall and slender was her stature,—
Blue her eyes and pale her cheek,
And the language of her features,
Like Madonna's, pure and meek!
Yet she quickly threw it by,
And her weary hands enfolding,
Heaved a languor-laden sigh.
Tall and slender was her stature,—
Blue her eyes and pale her cheek,
And the language of her features,
Like Madonna's, pure and meek!
As she leaned, in idle dreaming,
Where the sunset breeze blew cool,
Came a mingled sound of voices
From the marble vestibule;
And a lackey, in attendance,
Uttered words as if to chide;
While a youthful female stranger
In a queenly tone replied.
Where the sunset breeze blew cool,
Came a mingled sound of voices
From the marble vestibule;
And a lackey, in attendance,
Uttered words as if to chide;
While a youthful female stranger
In a queenly tone replied.
132
With her words the door was opened;
And, in humble garb arrayed,
In the presence of the lady
Stood a fair and panting maid:
Of a long, unaided journey
Shoes and raiment bore the trace;
And exertion's humid crimson
Like a wet rose made her face.
And, in humble garb arrayed,
In the presence of the lady
Stood a fair and panting maid:
Of a long, unaided journey
Shoes and raiment bore the trace;
And exertion's humid crimson
Like a wet rose made her face.
With fatigue her limbs were failing,
Passion had her brain o'erwrought;
And she leaned against the wainscot
To recall the power of thought.
“Tell me,” said the Lady Constance,
“Whom, sweet maiden, would'st thou seek?
Tell me why thy breast is heaving;
Why this crimson paints thy cheek.
Passion had her brain o'erwrought;
And she leaned against the wainscot
To recall the power of thought.
“Tell me,” said the Lady Constance,
“Whom, sweet maiden, would'st thou seek?
Tell me why thy breast is heaving;
Why this crimson paints thy cheek.
“But I'll tax thee not to answer,
For thou'rt weak and trembling still;
Thou shalt come and rest beside me,
And instruct me at thy will.”
Then, her flexile waist encircling,
Constance led her to a chair,
And with kerchief fine and fragrant,
Wiped her cheek and forehead fair.
For thou'rt weak and trembling still;
Thou shalt come and rest beside me,
And instruct me at thy will.”
133
Constance led her to a chair,
And with kerchief fine and fragrant,
Wiped her cheek and forehead fair.
Adelaide, in silent wonder,
Every look and motion scanned;
Noted well the lady's features,
And her thin, transparent hand.
She had dreamed of glances haughty,
Listened for a scornful word;
But she saw an angel smiling,
And an angel's accents heard.
Every look and motion scanned;
Noted well the lady's features,
And her thin, transparent hand.
She had dreamed of glances haughty,
Listened for a scornful word;
But she saw an angel smiling,
And an angel's accents heard.
“I'll not chide her,” thought the maiden;
“Soft and mild shall be my tone;
For I should at least repay her
With a kindness like her own.”
Then, the lady's hand uplifting,
Thrice she strove to tell her tale;
Thrice her heart, the purpose stifling,
On the brink made utterance fail.
“Soft and mild shall be my tone;
For I should at least repay her
With a kindness like her own.”
Then, the lady's hand uplifting,
Thrice she strove to tell her tale;
Thrice her heart, the purpose stifling,
On the brink made utterance fail.
134
But she rose and looked around her,
Over all that rich saloon;
Round on many a gilded moulding,
And on many a silk festoon.
And the maiden stepped elated
O'er the carpet's gay design,
As the thought swelled in her bosom,
“All these glittering gauds are mine!”
Over all that rich saloon;
Round on many a gilded moulding,
And on many a silk festoon.
And the maiden stepped elated
O'er the carpet's gay design,
As the thought swelled in her bosom,
“All these glittering gauds are mine!”
With that glance and that reflection
Came her half-retreating mood;
And, with footstep light and hasty,
She returned where Constance stood.
But as words for vent were struggling,
In her better nature's spite,
Suddenly a beauteous vision
Rose before her wandering sight.
Came her half-retreating mood;
And, with footstep light and hasty,
She returned where Constance stood.
But as words for vent were struggling,
In her better nature's spite,
Suddenly a beauteous vision
Rose before her wandering sight.
'Twas the figure of a matron,
Who with mild and saint-like grace,
And all traits of mortal beauty,
Seemed to gaze into her face.
'Twas so lifelike that she started;
But the Lady Constance said,
“'Tis a painting of my mother,
Of my mother, who is dead.”
Who with mild and saint-like grace,
And all traits of mortal beauty,
Seemed to gaze into her face.
135
But the Lady Constance said,
“'Tis a painting of my mother,
Of my mother, who is dead.”
“Of thy mother?” sighed the maiden,
Gazing on the picture still.
“Ay, thou strange one,” answered Constance;
“Why do tears thy eyelids fill?”
“Ask not!” Adelaide besought her;
And upon her knees she fell,
Bowed upon her hands her forehead,
And let tears her passion tell.
Gazing on the picture still.
“Ay, thou strange one,” answered Constance;
“Why do tears thy eyelids fill?”
“Ask not!” Adelaide besought her;
And upon her knees she fell,
Bowed upon her hands her forehead,
And let tears her passion tell.
“Hark!” exclaimed the Lady Constance,—
“Hark! I hear my father's tread!”
And she glided from the parlor,
While her pallid cheek grew red.
Then uplooked the kneeling maiden,
On that pictured face once more:
“O, my mother dear,” she murmured,
“Hear me, guide me, I implore!
“Hark! I hear my father's tread!”
And she glided from the parlor,
While her pallid cheek grew red.
Then uplooked the kneeling maiden,
On that pictured face once more:
“O, my mother dear,” she murmured,
“Hear me, guide me, I implore!
136
“Well I know I may not meet thee
In thy happy home above,
Till each proud and selfish feeling
Is cast out by perfect love;
And I fear the thoughts are evil
Which within my bosom fight,
For thy smile hath waked my spirit,
And 'tis groping for the right.
In thy happy home above,
Till each proud and selfish feeling
Is cast out by perfect love;
And I fear the thoughts are evil
Which within my bosom fight,
For thy smile hath waked my spirit,
And 'tis groping for the right.
“Slender is my store of knowledge,
With the poor and simple bred;
But I know we live more fully
When this clog of flesh is dead;
And that God is just and gracious,
Every day I feel the more:
O, my mother, bid him help me,—
Hear me, guide me, I implore!”
With the poor and simple bred;
But I know we live more fully
When this clog of flesh is dead;
And that God is just and gracious,
Every day I feel the more:
O, my mother, bid him help me,—
Hear me, guide me, I implore!”
Rising then, she brushed the tear-drop
From her cheek's vermilion bloom,
As, with Constance, Lord De Warrene
Entered hand in hand the room.
Noble not in title only,
But in heart and form he seemed,
And the gentleness of manhood
From his open features beamed.
From her cheek's vermilion bloom,
As, with Constance, Lord De Warrene
Entered hand in hand the room.
137
But in heart and form he seemed,
And the gentleness of manhood
From his open features beamed.
To a dim recess withdrawing,
Adelaide observed him well;
Heard the fond paternal welcome
From his ready lips that fell;
Marked the love-lit glance responsive
In the lady's pleading eyes:
Were the twain not child and father,
Theirs were even holier ties.
Adelaide observed him well;
Heard the fond paternal welcome
From his ready lips that fell;
Marked the love-lit glance responsive
In the lady's pleading eyes:
Were the twain not child and father,
Theirs were even holier ties.
And a struggle, brief but bitter,
Shook the maiden's inmost soul;
And from her fast-heaving bosom
She half drew the fatal scroll.
But the memory of her mother
Came to save her on the verge;
And she hid the tell-tale parchment
With her humble scarf of serge.
Shook the maiden's inmost soul;
And from her fast-heaving bosom
She half drew the fatal scroll.
But the memory of her mother
Came to save her on the verge;
And she hid the tell-tale parchment
With her humble scarf of serge.
138
Of a clear and steadfast purpose
Now her kindling visage tells;
And the majesty of Conscience
Every recreant pleading quells.
Smile, ye ever watchful angels!—
She has won the heavenly palm;
And a peace the world can give not
Makes her confident and calm.
Now her kindling visage tells;
And the majesty of Conscience
Every recreant pleading quells.
Smile, ye ever watchful angels!—
She has won the heavenly palm;
And a peace the world can give not
Makes her confident and calm.
In his flaming bush, the martyr
May a lofty courage show;
With a pure, intrepid ardor,
Freedom's chief to battle go;
But, my maiden, in the combat
Of thy motives, good and bad,
Thou hast shown as true a mettle,
Thou as great a triumph had!
May a lofty courage show;
With a pure, intrepid ardor,
Freedom's chief to battle go;
But, my maiden, in the combat
Of thy motives, good and bad,
Thou hast shown as true a mettle,
Thou as great a triumph had!
139
Third Part.
And was this the end of trial?
Never more did pride assail?
Did her spirit, unrepining,
Never waver, never quail?
Ah! no lack of human leaven
Was there in the maiden's mould;
She could feel the charms of station,
She could prize the power of gold.
Never more did pride assail?
Did her spirit, unrepining,
Never waver, never quail?
Ah! no lack of human leaven
Was there in the maiden's mould;
She could feel the charms of station,
She could prize the power of gold.
Goodness is no stable treasure
You within the heart may lock;
Like the air, it groweth purer
From the wind, the thunder-shock.
All its life in action lieth;
Without evil thoughts to try,
Without buffets, without sorrows,
Ere maturing it would die.
You within the heart may lock;
Like the air, it groweth purer
From the wind, the thunder-shock.
All its life in action lieth;
Without evil thoughts to try,
Without buffets, without sorrows,
Ere maturing it would die.
140
Handmaid to the Lady Constance
Now had Adelaide become.
She was slighted by the many,
Noted for her face by some;
And at length a noble gallant—
How could such a gallant fail?—
Knelt, and, with a graceful candor,
Breathed a strangely-pleasing tale.
Now had Adelaide become.
She was slighted by the many,
Noted for her face by some;
And at length a noble gallant—
How could such a gallant fail?—
Knelt, and, with a graceful candor,
Breathed a strangely-pleasing tale.
“I was sent to woo thy mistress,”
Said he, with a gentle smile;
“And I might have loved her duly,
Had I not seen thee the while.
If, through lowly birth and station,
Thus thy modest graces shine,
How would'st thou adorn my household,
Could I make thee wholly mine!
Said he, with a gentle smile;
“And I might have loved her duly,
Had I not seen thee the while.
If, through lowly birth and station,
Thus thy modest graces shine,
How would'st thou adorn my household,
Could I make thee wholly mine!
“Much I may not boast of riches,—
Mine a younger son's estate;
And I brave a father's anger,
Asking thee to share my fate.
But a loving heart I bring thee,
And, wilt thou its love repay,
Hands to toil for thee I offer,
And a mind to win my way.”
Mine a younger son's estate;
And I brave a father's anger,
Asking thee to share my fate.
141
And, wilt thou its love repay,
Hands to toil for thee I offer,
And a mind to win my way.”
O, but then her courage tottered,
And hot tears her eyelids wet,
As new-springing Love with Duty
In a doubtful conflict met!
How one little word could level
All that barred her from his side!
But the word remained unspoken,
And his proffer she denied.
And hot tears her eyelids wet,
As new-springing Love with Duty
In a doubtful conflict met!
How one little word could level
All that barred her from his side!
But the word remained unspoken,
And his proffer she denied.
“Fare thee well!” he said, and parted,
Fame or fortune to pursue;
And the light that with him vanished,
Often, often did she rue.
Yet, upon her hours of grieving,
Peace would like a dove descend,
When her own true heart she questioned,
And found Conscience was her friend.
Fame or fortune to pursue;
And the light that with him vanished,
Often, often did she rue.
Yet, upon her hours of grieving,
Peace would like a dove descend,
When her own true heart she questioned,
And found Conscience was her friend.
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But a change was now impending
In the maiden's outward lot;
For her chastened soul no longer
Showed the one corroding spot
Bleached beneath the winds of trial,
Washed by sorrow's clearing rain,
On its heavenly-shining raiment
Lay no trace of earthly stain.
In the maiden's outward lot;
For her chastened soul no longer
Showed the one corroding spot
Bleached beneath the winds of trial,
Washed by sorrow's clearing rain,
On its heavenly-shining raiment
Lay no trace of earthly stain.
So when use had made her happy
In her self-forgetful sphere,—
When no sigh for earthly grandeur
Wakened the regretful tear,—
Smitten by a mortal illness
Suddenly her mistress lay;
And the maiden watched beside her,
Ever fondly, night and day.
In her self-forgetful sphere,—
When no sigh for earthly grandeur
Wakened the regretful tear,—
Smitten by a mortal illness
Suddenly her mistress lay;
And the maiden watched beside her,
Ever fondly, night and day.
But it pleased our heavenly Father,
In his mercy, to dismiss
Constance to a brighter region,
To a world of purer bliss:
And to Adelaide she whispered,
Smiling with her latest breath,
“We shall meet again, my sister:
A sweet summoner is Death!”
In his mercy, to dismiss
Constance to a brighter region,
To a world of purer bliss:
143
Smiling with her latest breath,
“We shall meet again, my sister:
A sweet summoner is Death!”
When the bell had finished tolling,
And the sod had spread its green
Over all of form and feature
Mortal eye had ever seen,—
Where her flowers and birds seemed waiting
In that consecrated room,
Knelt the gray-haired Lord De Warrene,
Knelt in solitary gloom.
And the sod had spread its green
Over all of form and feature
Mortal eye had ever seen,—
Where her flowers and birds seemed waiting
In that consecrated room,
Knelt the gray-haired Lord De Warrene,
Knelt in solitary gloom.
“O, my gentle child,” he murmured,
“Can I see thy face no more?
Little did my heart conjecture,
Thou so soon wouldst go before!
All my age might hope of comfort
In thy fragile life was bound:
Where shall now Affection wander,
Where a love like thine be found?”
“Can I see thy face no more?
Little did my heart conjecture,
Thou so soon wouldst go before!
All my age might hope of comfort
In thy fragile life was bound:
Where shall now Affection wander,
Where a love like thine be found?”
144
Trembling in each limb and fibre,
Faltering as she slowly stept,
Adelaide approached her father,
Sank beside him as he wept;
And ere he could know her present,
Or could hear her timorous tread,
She had placed the scroll before him,
And all eagerly he read.
Faltering as she slowly stept,
Adelaide approached her father,
Sank beside him as he wept;
And ere he could know her present,
Or could hear her timorous tread,
She had placed the scroll before him,
And all eagerly he read.
With a cry of wild amazement,
Suddenly he stood upright;
On the maiden gazed, and drew her
Nearer, nearer to the light.
“Child!” he gasped, “thou bring'st a title
Such as scrolls could not contain;
In that smile thy mother liveth,
In that face thy rights are plain!”
Suddenly he stood upright;
On the maiden gazed, and drew her
Nearer, nearer to the light.
“Child!” he gasped, “thou bring'st a title
Such as scrolls could not contain;
In that smile thy mother liveth,
In that face thy rights are plain!”
And with tears of tender transport,
He beheld her and embraced;
Twined his fingers in her ringlets,
Each familiar charm retraced.
But when came the slow conception
Of her trial's full extent,
O'er and o'er again he clasped her,
And with love was reverence blent.
He beheld her and embraced;
Twined his fingers in her ringlets,
Each familiar charm retraced.
145
Of her trial's full extent,
O'er and o'er again he clasped her,
And with love was reverence blent.
“O, how blest beyond deserving,
Am I in this joy!” he said;
“I, who questioned Heaven's disposal,
I, who deemed all comfort fled!
How hath God's own hand repaid me
The bereavement I deplore!
If he took an angel from me,
'Twas a seraph to restore!”
Am I in this joy!” he said;
“I, who questioned Heaven's disposal,
I, who deemed all comfort fled!
How hath God's own hand repaid me
The bereavement I deplore!
If he took an angel from me,
'Twas a seraph to restore!”
Could another grace be added
To the triumph of the maid,
I might tell thee what befell her
As the Lady Adelaide;
How that belted earls and barons,
High in honor and command,
Came, with royal state to back them,
And were suppliants for her hand;
To the triumph of the maid,
I might tell thee what befell her
As the Lady Adelaide;
How that belted earls and barons,
High in honor and command,
Came, with royal state to back them,
And were suppliants for her hand;
146
How no hope, though e'er so distant,
Could the boldest of them gain;
When, at length, a youth unnoted
Sued, and did not sue in vain!
And, while belted earl and baron
Smothered as they might their gall,
How the rumor was repeated,
He had loved her first of all.
Could the boldest of them gain;
When, at length, a youth unnoted
Sued, and did not sue in vain!
And, while belted earl and baron
Smothered as they might their gall,
How the rumor was repeated,
He had loved her first of all.
But my tale is fitly ended.
We may safely trust her now.
Wealth and station cannot alter
That serenely radiant brow.
Sin may tempt and sorrow wound her,
Still she'll conquer in the strife;
And the self-denying maiden
Be transcended in the wife.
We may safely trust her now.
Wealth and station cannot alter
That serenely radiant brow.
Sin may tempt and sorrow wound her,
Still she'll conquer in the strife;
And the self-denying maiden
Be transcended in the wife.
147
THE DRAMA'S RACE.
This address was originally written for the occasion of a complimentary benefit to the manager of the Park Theatre, September 27th, 1839. Among the performers who appeared that evening were Mr. Power, the celebrated Irish comedian, who was shortly afterwards lost in the President, Miss Tree, Madame Caradori Allan, Madame Vestris, Mr. Charles Matthews, Mr. Barry, and Mr. Browne.
This address was originally written for the occasion of a complimentary benefit to the manager of the Park Theatre, September 27th, 1839. Among the performers who appeared that evening were Mr. Power, the celebrated Irish comedian, who was shortly afterwards lost in the President, Miss Tree, Madame Caradori Allan, Madame Vestris, Mr. Charles Matthews, Mr. Barry, and Mr. Browne.
SPOKEN BY MISS ELLEN TREE, AT THE PARK THEATRE.
Thanks! There is no illusion here:
Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, all appear,
And grace our house to-night;—
Still striving, as we do, to please,
A rich requital, smiles like these—
This fair inspiring sight!
Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, all appear,
And grace our house to-night;—
Still striving, as we do, to please,
A rich requital, smiles like these—
This fair inspiring sight!
Ah! as in boxes and in pit,
A goodly company, ye sit,
Are there no conjured shapes that flit
Your fancy's gaze before?
Shapes which this storied dome recalls,
Which start from these half-conscious walls,
Past pleasures to restore?
A goodly company, ye sit,
Are there no conjured shapes that flit
Your fancy's gaze before?
Shapes which this storied dome recalls,
Which start from these half-conscious walls,
Past pleasures to restore?
148
In worthiest state, I see them rise—
The brave, the beautiful, the wise,
The guilty, and the good—
The Drama's race! They come, they pass,
In crowds, o'er Memory's magic glass,—
A mingled multitude!
The brave, the beautiful, the wise,
The guilty, and the good—
The Drama's race! They come, they pass,
In crowds, o'er Memory's magic glass,—
A mingled multitude!
“Angels and ministers of grace
Defend us!” Is it Hamlet's face,
Hamlet the Dane, I see?
He bends his melancholy eyes
On vacancy, and, hark! he sighs,
“To be, or not to be!”
Defend us!” Is it Hamlet's face,
Hamlet the Dane, I see?
He bends his melancholy eyes
On vacancy, and, hark! he sighs,
“To be, or not to be!”
Indignant Hotspur rushes by,
And “Mortimer!” is still his cry—
Nought can his rage restrain.
Shylock gasps forth, “Is that the law?”
Old Lear puts on his crown of straw;
“Richard's himself again!”
And “Mortimer!” is still his cry—
Nought can his rage restrain.
Shylock gasps forth, “Is that the law?”
Old Lear puts on his crown of straw;
“Richard's himself again!”
149
Ah, Romeo! Romeo! is it thou?
Fair Juliet hears thy honeyed vow
Beneath the moon's pale beam;
And lo! Macbeth, with blood-stained hands!
And see where black Othello stands,
“Perplexed in the extreme!”
Fair Juliet hears thy honeyed vow
Beneath the moon's pale beam;
And lo! Macbeth, with blood-stained hands!
And see where black Othello stands,
“Perplexed in the extreme!”
“Run, run, Orlando!” Rosalind
Thy tributary verse shall find—
“The inexpressive she!”
Fear not to tell her of thy flame;
And do not fail to carve her name
Upon the nearest tree.
Thy tributary verse shall find—
“The inexpressive she!”
Fear not to tell her of thy flame;
And do not fail to carve her name
Upon the nearest tree.
“Farewell! farewell!” 'Tis Jaffier speaks;
And wretched Belvidera shrieks
As only wretches can.
Ha, Benedick! thou'rt caught at last!
Fair Beatrice the net hath cast—
Thou'lt be “the married man.”
And wretched Belvidera shrieks
As only wretches can.
Ha, Benedick! thou'rt caught at last!
Fair Beatrice the net hath cast—
Thou'lt be “the married man.”
150
Lo, Brutus, with a fierce appeal,
O'er lost Lucretia lifts the steel,
And shouts, “No more be slaves!”
And stern Virginius, pale and wild,
Folds to his breast his darling child;—
Then, thus!—her honor saves!
O'er lost Lucretia lifts the steel,
And shouts, “No more be slaves!”
And stern Virginius, pale and wild,
Folds to his breast his darling child;—
Then, thus!—her honor saves!
“Ho, Ion! 'Tis thy father's life!”
He grasps the sacrificial knife,
And seems transfixed with wonder;
And, as the fates of Argos roll
Their lurid terrors o'er his soul,
Exclaims, “Was not that thunder?”
He grasps the sacrificial knife,
And seems transfixed with wonder;
And, as the fates of Argos roll
Their lurid terrors o'er his soul,
Exclaims, “Was not that thunder?”
What an astounded group is seen,
Where falls my Lady Teazle's screen—
To none but Charles a joke!
There Julia mourns her fatal choice;
And, list! “That voice! 'Tis Clifford's voice,
If ever Clifford spoke!”
Where falls my Lady Teazle's screen—
To none but Charles a joke!
There Julia mourns her fatal choice;
And, list! “That voice! 'Tis Clifford's voice,
If ever Clifford spoke!”
151
Hoping he don't “intrude,” Paul Pry,
With his umbrella, comes to spy
What mischief may be done.
Ha, Ollapod! for human ills,
Your jokes are better than your pills—
“Good sir, I owe you one!”
With his umbrella, comes to spy
What mischief may be done.
Ha, Ollapod! for human ills,
Your jokes are better than your pills—
“Good sir, I owe you one!”
Pizarro, Douglas, William Tell,
Pauline, Sir Giles—I know you well,
As o'er the scene ye flock;
And Bardolph, with a cup of sack;
And there—“Well, go thy ways, old Jack,”
And fight “by Shrewsbury clock.”
Pauline, Sir Giles—I know you well,
As o'er the scene ye flock;
And Bardolph, with a cup of sack;
And there—“Well, go thy ways, old Jack,”
And fight “by Shrewsbury clock.”
But, hark! the impatient prompter stamps;—
A hint I've been before the lamps
A reasonable space;
And, at that sound, the airy throng,
Like guilty creatures, crowd along,
And, fading, leave no trace.
A hint I've been before the lamps
A reasonable space;
And, at that sound, the airy throng,
Like guilty creatures, crowd along,
And, fading, leave no trace.
152
The spell is broken:—but, before
I heed the summons, one word more,
If patience yet endures:
Till all its stars have disappeared,
May still the Drama's cause be cheered
By hands and lips like yours!
I heed the summons, one word more,
If patience yet endures:
Till all its stars have disappeared,
May still the Drama's cause be cheered
By hands and lips like yours!
153
FAREWELL ADDRESS.
SPOKEN BY MISS ELLEN TREE AT THE PARK THEATRE.
The curtain falls—closed is the Drama's page:
Why lingers Beatrice upon the stage?
Away, illusion!—this is not thy sphere—
The sigh is faithful, and the grief sincere.
Should utterance tremble, should the tear-drop start,
They will but echo and o'erflow the heart.
Why lingers Beatrice upon the stage?
Away, illusion!—this is not thy sphere—
The sigh is faithful, and the grief sincere.
Should utterance tremble, should the tear-drop start,
They will but echo and o'erflow the heart.
Three years, my friends—how brief they seem!—have fled
Since on your shore 'twas my good hap to tread;
And if some anxious fears were mine at first,
How on my soul your liberal welcome burst!
Ye cheered my efforts—took me by the hand:
No more was I a stranger in the land.
A stranger! Why? on every side I heard
My native accents in each spoken word;
And every greeting which my toil beguiled
Was from the “well of English undefiled.”
The mighty poet, whose creations bright
The Drama's spell evoked for you to-night,—
Did I not find his memory and his strains
Here as familiar as on Stratford's plains?
Your sires and he one Saxon stock could claim,
And ye with us partake his endless fame.
Since on your shore 'twas my good hap to tread;
And if some anxious fears were mine at first,
How on my soul your liberal welcome burst!
Ye cheered my efforts—took me by the hand:
No more was I a stranger in the land.
154
My native accents in each spoken word;
And every greeting which my toil beguiled
Was from the “well of English undefiled.”
The mighty poet, whose creations bright
The Drama's spell evoked for you to-night,—
Did I not find his memory and his strains
Here as familiar as on Stratford's plains?
Your sires and he one Saxon stock could claim,
And ye with us partake his endless fame.
Ah! as the loiterer by some pleasant way,
Though duty bid him haste, would fain delay,—
Review the prospect beautiful—retrace
Each sunbright feature and each shadowy grace,—
So would I linger—so would I forget,
It is, alas! to part, that we have met.
Though duty bid him haste, would fain delay,—
Review the prospect beautiful—retrace
Each sunbright feature and each shadowy grace,—
So would I linger—so would I forget,
It is, alas! to part, that we have met.
Yet, ere I go, desponding Memory asks,
Is this the last of my too happy tasks?
Shall I no more a scene like this behold,
Or tread these boards, in your approval bold?
Too strong the chance that it will e'en be so—
Fate answers, “Ay!” but ah! Hope whispers, “No!”
Is this the last of my too happy tasks?
Shall I no more a scene like this behold,
Or tread these boards, in your approval bold?
Too strong the chance that it will e'en be so—
Fate answers, “Ay!” but ah! Hope whispers, “No!”
155
And yet, though mute the voice, and closed the scene;
Though oceans stretch, and tempests roar between;
Whatever hues may mark my future lot,
Still let me dream that I'm not all forgot;
That Shakspeare's fair abstractions may restore
A thought of her who once their trophies wore;
That Talfourd's pathos, Knowles's tragic art,
Some wavering recollection may impart—
A look, a tone, that sympathy impressed,
That was the touch of nature to your breast.
Though oceans stretch, and tempests roar between;
Whatever hues may mark my future lot,
Still let me dream that I'm not all forgot;
That Shakspeare's fair abstractions may restore
A thought of her who once their trophies wore;
That Talfourd's pathos, Knowles's tragic art,
Some wavering recollection may impart—
A look, a tone, that sympathy impressed,
That was the touch of nature to your breast.
But heedless Time hath brought our parting near:
Why do I still, superfluous, linger here?
Ah! think not ever an unreal part
So tasked my powers, and filled my beating heart!
I may not speak the thoughts that in it swell,—
I can but say, kind, generous friends, farewell!
Why do I still, superfluous, linger here?
Ah! think not ever an unreal part
So tasked my powers, and filled my beating heart!
I may not speak the thoughts that in it swell,—
I can but say, kind, generous friends, farewell!
| Songs of the sea, with other poems | |