Gen. Albert Pike's poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Life is a count of losses,
Every year;
For the weak are heavier crosses,
Every year;
Lost Springs with sobs replying
Unto weary Autumn's sighing,
While those we love are dying,
Every year.

It is growing darker, colder,
Every year;
As the heart and soul grow older,
Every year;
I care not now for dancing,
Or for eyes with passion glancing,
Love is less and less entrancing,
Every year.

The days have less of gladness,
Every year;
The nights more weight of sadness,
Every year;

Fair Springs no longer charm us,
The winds and weather harm us,
The threats of Death alarm us,
Every year.

There come new cares and sorrows,
Every year;
Dark days and darker morrows,
Every year;
The ghosts of dead loves haunt us,
The ghosts of changed friends taunt us,
And disappointments daunt us,
Every year.

Of the loves and sorrows blended,
Every year;
Of the charms of friendship ended,
Every year;
Of the ties that still might bind me,
Until Time to Death resigned me,
My infirmities remind me,
Every year.

Ah! how sad to look before us,
Every year;
While the cloud grows darker o'er us,
Every year;

When we see the blossoms faded,
That to bloom we might have aided,
And immortal garlands braided,
Every year.

To the Past go more dead faces,
Every year;
As the loved leave vacant places,
Every year;
Everywhere the sad eyes meet us,
In the evening's dusk they greet us,
And to come to them entreat us,
Every year.

“You are growing old,” they tell us,
“Every year;
“You are more alone,” they tell us,
“Every year;
“You can win no new affection,
“You have only recollection,
“Deeper sorrow and dejection,
“Every year.”

The shores of life are shifting,
Every year;
And we are seaward drifting,
Every year;

Old places, changing, fret us,
The living more forget us,
There are fewer to regret us,
Every year.

But the truer life draws nigher,
Every year;
And its Morning star climbs higher,
Every year;
Earth's hold on us grows slighter,
And the heavy burden lighter,
And the Dawn Immortal brighter,
Every year.

Hymns to the Gods.

No. 1. TO HĒRA.

I.

Mother of Gods! devoutly we incline
Our willing knees before thy holy shrine,
Where Imbrasus runs seaward, strong and swift,
Through the green plains of Samos. Lo! we lift
Gladly to thee our many-voiced strain,
Sung never to thy Majesty in vain.
The day wears on; the expanding sun stoops low;
While, in the east, thy Messenger's bent bow
Gladdens the eyes of eager worshippers.
A soft, sweet wind thy garlands lightly stirs,
Where thy loved flowers, dear Queen of Heaven, Divine!
White lillies with the dittany entwine,
And the gay poppy. Wilt thou deign to hear
Our solemn chant—loud, earnest, and sincere—
And grant our prayer? Come from Olympus down,
In regal glory, with thy starry crown,
And sceptre flashing with great gems, whereon
Thy cuckoo broods! Let not the reluctant sun
Dip in the sea, before our glad eyes greet
The distant glitter of thy snowy feet,

Sandaled with ivory,
That shame the fairest of our green isle's daughters,
And flash upon the undulating sea,
Like rays of star-light on a blue meer's slumbering waters!

II.

Power, Empire, Virtue,—these are thy gift;
Inspired by thee, low men their eyes uplift,
As hawks to the sun, and aim at high estate,
And reach it; while the mighty and the great,
Toppling like towers, fall headlong. By thee urged,
Men in the sloughs of wretchedness immerged
Arm them anew with courage resolute,
Bear pain and evil with endurance mute,
And grow divine in virtuous fortitude.
Woman, by thee with constancy endued,
In ill report and evil fortune clings
More closely to her husband's side, and brings
Her lovely patience ever to his aid
In the world's fierce trials. Power and Empire fade
And are dissolved like a thin April cloud;
But Virtue is immortal. Men have bowed
A thousand years before thy lofty shrines,
Clamoring for Power; but rarely one inclines,
In prayer for Virtue, Truth and Constancy,
Before thine altars the obsequious knee.

We, prostrate at thy feet,
Of these—the only true and priceless treasure—
Do humbly and beseechingly entreat
Thy Majesty benign to grant us ample measure.

III.

Where tarriest thou, Cithæronæa, now?—
Perhaps, upon some mountain's regal brow—
Cyllene or Oromedon—reclined,
No cares of state disturbing thy great mind,
Thou gazest on our lovely Grecian isles,
Along whose shores the tranquil ocean smiles
Serene as thou: around thee hoary firs
Swing their tall heads, and many an old beech stirs,
And, dreaming, murmurs, and the grave oaks spread
Their leafy limbs; and, watching overhead,
Thy kingly hawk, scarce moving his wide wings,
Rocked by the mountain-breezes, idly swings:
Perhaps in some secluded, shady nook,
On the green margin of a happy brook,
Lulled by its music into tranquil sleep,
While thy young Nymphs demurely round thee keep
Their patient vigil. In whatever spot
Of rarest beauty,—cave, lawn, dell, or grot,
Cool glade, deep vale, or silver-sanded shore,
Or river-bank shaded with sycamore,—

Hearken, oh, lovely Queen!
To the loud echo of our plaintive voices:
Approach us while the laughing Earth is green,
And the young Spring in buds and golden flowers rejoices.

IV.

Oh, Queen! beloved of all the laughing Hours,
Let snowy-shouldered Hebe, crowned with flowers,
Before the rising of the evening-star,
Harness the peacocks to thy jewelled car:
Leave, for a time, the mighty Thunderer's side,
And thy swift birds let dextrous Iris guide
To our fair shore. Stay not thy flashing wheels
On the dark Euxine, ploughed with many keels,
Or where the vexed Propontis hoarsely swells;
In Cos, or Naxos, or the Arcadian dells;
Come, Heaven's wonder! come to our island, first;
Where thou wast born, and by the Seasons nursed!
By those sweet hours when all thy virgin charms
Were first encircled by Jove's mighty arms,—
When thy large eyes, magnificently bright,
Looked into his with soft and loving light,
And, on his breast hiding thy blushing face,
Thou hadst no peer in loveliness and grace,—
By those sweet hours, come! while the sun yet slides
Down the sky's slant, and bless these innocent brides,

Who watch the western sky,
Their breasts with fear and rapture palpitating:
Come! thou, who must their virgin zones untie,
Lest they, despairing, weep, and faint with longer waiting.

1845.

No. 2. TO POSEIDŌN.

I.

God of the mighty deep! wherever now
The waves beneath thy brazen axles bow;
Whether thy strong, proud steeds, wind-winged and wild,
Trample the storm-vexed waters round them piled,
Swift as the lightning-flashes that reveal
The quick gyrations of each massive wheel,—
While round and under thee, with hideous roar,
The broad Atlantic, with thy scourging sore,
Thundering like antique Chaos in his spasms.
In heaving mountains and deep-yawning chasms,
Fluctuates endlessly; while through the gloom,
Their glossy sides and thick manes flecked with foam,
Career thy coursers, neighing with mad glee,
In fierce response to the tumultuous sea:—

Whether they tread the sounding sands below,
Among wrecked ships, where the green sea-plants grow,
Broad-leaved, and sighing with eternal motion
Over the pale, cold tenants of the ocean:
Oh, come! our lofty altars for thee stand,
Smoking with incense, on the level strand.

II.

Perhaps with loose rein now thy horses roam
Over the Adriatic. No salt foam
Stains their fine limbs, but softly, leisurely,
They tread with silver feet that still, calm sea,
Fanning the waters with their floating manes,
That gleam like mist in sunshine; while shrill strains
From clamorous trumpets round thy chariot ring,
And green-robed sea-gods praising thee, their king,
Chaunt loudly; while Apollo bends his gaze
Lovingly on thee, and his soft, clear rays
Tame thy wild coursers' eyes. The air feels warm
On the sea's forehead, where the cold, harsh storm
So lately thundered, and the rebel winds
That Æolus in cave and den now binds,
Beat their broad wings. Perhaps long leagues below
Thou sleepest in green caves, where sea-flowers glow
Brighter than sapphires: many a monster cumbers
The sand around thee; aged Triton slumbers

Care-free and still; and glad, sweet, bright eyes peep
From many a nook, watching thy dreamless sleep.

III.

Perhaps thou art resting on some Indian isle,
Under a broad, thick tree, where, many a mile,
Stretches a sunny shore, with golden sands,
Piled in fantastic shapes by Naiads' hands;
Where the small waves come coyly, one by one,
And curl upon the beach, like molten gold,
Thick-set with jewellery, rare and old.
Sea-nymphs sit near, and with small delicate shells
Make thee such melody, as in deep dells,
Of a May-night, is by the Fairies made,
When, frolicking within some sober shade,
They sound their silver flutes, soft, faint, and sweet,
In strange but exquisite tunes; and delicate feet
Dance softly on the grass-blades gemmed with dew,
That bend, not break: all wanton airs that blew
So lately through the spice-trees, hover there,
With overladen wings that loan to the air
Wealth of perfume. Oh! wilt thou not arise,
And come with them to our new sacrifice?

1829.

No. 3. TO DĒMĒTĒR.

I.

Goddess of bounty! at whose spring-time call,
When on the dewey earth thy first tones fall,
And echo in its heart, each young green blade
Springs, wondering, into life; the dull, gray glade
Is liveried with new grass,—from each chill hole,
Where they had nestled, dumb, and dull of soul,
The glad birds come, and sing for joy to thee,
Among the thronging leaves; and fast and free
The rivers run, crushing their icy chains,
Broken by thee and by thine April rains,
Through green glad valleys: Thou who chiefly art
The Goddess of all beauty,—thou whose heart
Is ever in the sunny meads and fields,—
To whom the laughing earth looks up, and yields
Her choicest treasures: Thou, that in thy car,
Drawn by winged dragons, when the morning star
Sheds his cool light, dost touch the budding trees,
And all their blossoms woo the trembling breeze;
Oh! pour thy light
Of truth and joy upon our souls to-night,
And grant to us great plenty and sweet ease!

II.

Benignant Goddess of the rustling corn!
Thou to whom reapers sing, and on the lawn
Bind up gigantic sheaves of full-eared wheat;
While innocent maids, with little, dancing feet,
Bring thee gay poppies, weave for thee a crown
Of modest flowers, and gracefully bend down
To garland thy full baskets; at whose side,
Among the sheaves, young Bacchos loves to ride,
With bright, clear, sparkling eyes, and feet and mouth
All wine-stained in the glad and sunny south!
Perhaps ye ride among the leafy vines,
While round thy neck one rosy arm he twines,
And with the other hand still gathers up
And presses the plump grapes, and holds the cup
To thy loved lips, then throws aside the wine,
And crowns thee with the green leaves of the vine,
Kisses thy brow, thy mouth, thine eyes most bright
With love and joy. If those dear eyes now light
Some favored hill
Of vine-clad Thrace, oh! come, while all is still,
And with them bless the coming of this night!

III.

Lo! the small stars rise from the silver ocean,
And wander up the sky. A sweet emotion
Stirs the white bosoms of the thin, soft clouds;
And the light mist, that the gray hills enshrouds,

Gleams like a rain of diamonds in the air.
Lo! a soft blush of light is rising there,
Like silver shining through a tint of red;
And soon the queenly moon her love will shed
Like pearl-mist on the islands and the sea,
Which thou wilt cross to view our mystery.
Lo! we have torches here for thee, and urns,
Where incense with delicious odor burns,
On altars piled with glowing fruit, as sweet
And ripe as thy sweet lips; with yellow wheat,
Flowers gathered while the Dawn lay half-asleep,
And Indian spices: patiently we keep
Our earnest watch for thee, bending before
Thy waiting altars, till to our fair shore
Thy chariot-wheels
Shall roll, while Ocean to the burden reels,
And utters to the sky a stifled roar.

1830.

No. 4. TO DIÓNŪSOS.

[I.]

Where art thou, Dionusos? On the hills
Of some fair land afar, where sweet wine fills
The clustered grapes, dost stain thy ripe lips red
With rich old juice, that men long ages dead—

Thy votaries—pressed and hid? Dost thou hold up
'Twixt thee and the sun thy jewel-cinctured cup,
With luminous rubies brimmed? Or doth thy car,
Lit by the blaze of the far northern star,
Roll over Thracia's hills, while all around
Shout thy mad bacchanals, and rings the sound
Of merry revelry, and distant men
Start at thy clamor? Or in some cool glen
Reclinest thou, under dark ivy leaves,
Idling the day off, while each mad Faun weaves
Gay garlands for thee, sipping a great bowl
Of stout, strong wine; and the dismaying roll
Of thy all-conquering wheels no more is heard,
But thy strong tigers, with no fierce dream stirred,
Crouch at thy feet?
Iacchos! come to meet
Thy worshippers, that here with merry word
Of olden song thy godhead long to greet.

II.

Oh, thou who lovest pleasure! at whose heart
Wine's warmth is always felt; who takest part
In all mad, wanton mirth; who in the dance
Of merry maidens joinest, where the glance
Of bright black eyes, and twinkling of white feet,
Of lovely girls delight thee, when they meet

Under the summer moon!—Giver of peace
To all careworn, sad men!—whose smiles make cease
The piercing pains of grief; for whom young maids
Weave ivy garlands, and in pleasant glades
Hang up thine image, and, with happy looks,
Go dancing round, while shepherds, with long crooks,
Join the glad company, and glide about
With merry laugh and many a hearty shout,
Staining with rich dark grapes each little cheek
That most they love; and then, with sudden freak,
Seizing the willing hand, and dancing on
About the green mound:—Oh, thou merry son
Of supreme JOVE!
Wherever thou dost rove,
Among the thick vines, come, ere day is done,
And let us too thy sunny influence prove.

III.

Where art thou. CONQUEROR!—before whom fell
The jewelled kings of Ind, when the strong swell
Of thy great multitudes came on them, and
The mystic thursos in thy red right hand
Was shaken over them, till every soul
Grew faint, as smit with lightning; when the roll
Of thy great chariot-wheels was on the neck
Of mighty potentates; till thou didst check

Thy tigers and wild lynxes on the shore
Of the Indian sea, and still its angry roar
With sparkling and delicious Grecian wine
Poured on its waters, till the contented brine
Gave forth new odors, and a pleasant scent
Of rare perfume; and haggard men, all spent
With long, sharp sickness, drank in life anew,
When the rich sea-breeze through their lattice blew
Bacchos! who tramplest Care with thy soft feet,
Oh, hither turn thy tigers, strong and fleet,
And light our happy isles
With the radiance of thy smiles!
Come, with thy hair dewy with wine, and meet
Those who, for thee, have trod the weary miles.

IV.

Come to our ceremony! Lo, we rear
An altar of green turf, the sea-beach near,
And garland it with vine-shoots, and the leaf
Of glossy ivy. Come! and chase all grief
Far from us! Lo! upon the turf we pour
Full cups of wine, till all along the shore
Eddies the luscious odor. See! a mist
Is rising from the wine-stained turf—(Ah, hist!—
Alas! 'twas not his cry!)—Come with thy train
Of riotous Satyrs, pouring forth a strain

Of utmost shrillness on the noisy pipe.
Come, with thine eye and lip of beauty ripe
And wondrous rare, and let us hear thy wheels
Rolling along the hills, while twilight steals
Quietly up, and dusky sober Night
Is hindered from her star-track by the light
Of thy wild tigers' eyes! Cross the calm sea
With all thy mad and merry company!
The stars shall wax and wane,
And ere day comes again,
We'll wander over hill and vale with thee,
Sending afar a loudly joyous strain.

1829.

No. 5. TO 'APHRODÍTÉ.

I.

Oh, thou most lovely and most beautiful!—
Wherever cooingly thy white doves lull
Thy bright eyes to soft slumber; whether on
The truant south-wind floating, or if gone
To some still cloud in dreamy sleep that swings,
And there reclining, while its snowy wings
Blush into crimson: whether thy delicate wheels,
Over green sward that scarce the pressure feels,

Brush the bright dewdrops from the bending grass,
Leaving the poor, green blades to look, alas!
With dim eyes at the moon,—(Ah! so dost thou
Dim other eyes and brighter!)—whether now
Thou floatest over the sea, while each white wing
Of thy fair doves is wet, and sea-maids bring
Sweet odours for thee,—(Ah! how foolish they!
They have not felt thy smart,
They know not, while in ocean-caves they play,
How cruel and strong thou art!)

II.

Hear, 'Aphrodite! Hear our rustic song!
Thalassia, hear! for unto thee belong
All pleasant offerings; ring-doves coo to thee,
While they entwine their arch'd necks lovingly,
Among the murmuring leaves; thine are all sounds
Of pleasure on the earth; and where abounds
Most happiness, for thee we surely look.—
In the dusk depths of some leaf-shaded nook
Thou hidest frequently, where soft winds wave
Thy sunny curls, and cool airs fondly lave
Thy radiant brow, and ruffle the delicate wings
Of thy tired doves; where his quaint love-tale sings,

With small, bright eyes, some little, strange, sweet bird,
In notes that never but by thee are heard.—
In some such spot dreaming thou liest now,
And with half-open eye,
Drinkest in beauty. Fairest of heaven, do thou
Hear kindly our faint cry!

III.

Doris! from whom all things upon this earth
Take light and life; for whom even laughing Mirth
Doubles his glee; thou, whom the joyous bird
Continually sings; whose name is heard
In every pleasant noise; at whose warm glance
All things look brighter; for whom wine doth dance
More merrily within the agate vase,
To meet thy lip; glimpsing at whose sweet face,
Joy leaps on faster, with a clearer laugh,
And Sorrow flings into the sea his staff,
And tossing back the hair from his dim eyes,
Looks up again to long-forgotten skies;
While Avarice forgets to count his gold,
And even offers thee his wealth untold,
Dear as his heart's blood. Thou to whose high might
All things are glad to bow,
Come unto us, and with thy looks of light,
Bless and console us now!

IV.

Hear us, 'Ourania! Thou whom all obey!
At whose sweet will rough Satyrs leave their play,
And gather wild-flowers to adorn the hair
Of the young nymphs, and nuts and berries bear
To those they fancy most. Paphia, to whom
They leap in awkward mood through the dusk gloom
Of darkening oak-trees, or at sunny noon
Play unto thee, on their rude pipes, a tune
Of wondrous languishment! Thou, whose great power
Brings up young sea-maids from each ocean-bower,
With many an idle song to sing to thee,
And bright locks floating mist-like on the sea,
And glancing eyes, as if in distant caves
They spied their lovers,—(so along blue waves
Small bubbles flit, mocking the genial sun;)—
Let cares no more oppress
Thy servitors! but, ere our feast is done,
Our new loves kindly bless!

V.

Oh, thou who once didst weep, and with sad tears
Bedew the pitying woods! by those great fears
That haunted thee when young Adonis lay
With dark eyes drowned in death;—by that dull day

That saw him, wounded, fall, with many a moan,
On the dead leaves, and sadly and alone
Breathe out his life;—deign thou to look upon
All maidens who for too great love grow wan
And pity them! Come to us when Night brings
Her first faint stars; and let us hear the wings
Of thy most beautiful and bright-eyed doves,
Fanning the breathless air. Let all the Loves
Fly round thy chariot, with sweet, low songs
Murmuring upon their lips. Come! each maid longs
For thy fair presence, Goddess of true Love!
Float through the odorous air,
And, as thy light wheels roll, from us remove
Sadness and love-sick care.

VI.

Lo! we have many kinds of incense here,
To burn to thee; wine as the sunshine clear,
Fit for young Bacchos; flowers we have here, too,
Gathered by star-light, when the morning-dew
Was fresh upon them; myrtle-wreaths we bear,
To place upon thy bright, luxuriant hair,
And shade thy temples. 'Tis the proper time
For all fair beauty. Thou, who lovest the clime
Of our dear isle, where roses bud and blow
With honey in their bosoms, and a glow

Like thine own cheek, lifting their modest heads,
To be refreshed with the transparent beads
Of diamond dew, paling the young moon's rays,—
Our altars burn for thee, and on the blaze
We pour rich incense from great golden vases.
Queen Cypria! hear our words,
And hither urge, circled with all the Graces,
Thy team of snow-winged birds!

1829.

No. 6. TO APOLLŌN.

I.

Bright-haired Apollon! Thou that ever art
A blessing to the world! whose generous heart
Aye overflows with love and light and life!
Thou, at whose glance all things on earth are rife
With happiness! to whom, in early Spring,
Flowers lift their heads, whether they laughing cling
To the steep mountain's side, or in the vale
Timidly nestle! Thou, to whom the pale
Chill, weary Earth looks up, when Winter flees,
With patient gaze, and the storm-shattered trees

Put forth fresh leaves, and drink deep draughts of light,
Poured from thy brilliant orb! Thou in whose bright,
Coruscant rays, the eagle feeds his eye
With flashing fire, and far, far up on high
Screams out his haughty joy! By all the names
And the high titles that thy Godhead claims,—
Phoibos, or Clarios, golden-haired Apollo,
Cunthios, or Puthios,—cease for a time to follow
The fleeing Night, and hear
Our hymn to thee, and smilingly draw near!

II.

Most exquisite poet! Thou, whose great heart's swell
Pours itself out on mountain, lawn, and dell!
Thou who dost touch them with thy golden feet,
And make them for the Painter's use complete;
Inspired by whom the Poet's eyes perceive
Great beauty everywhere,—in the slow heave
Of the unquiet sea, or in the roar
Of its resounding waters,—on the shore
Of pleasant streams,—in the dark, jagged rift
Of savage mountains, where the black clouds drift,
Flushed with swift lightning,—on the broad, dark brow
Of silent Night, that solemnly and slow
Walks up the sky. Oh, thou, whose influence
Tinges all things with beauty, makes each sense
Double delight, and clothes with a delicate grace
All that is young and fair; while all the base

Flits far, like darkness!—thou that art in truth
Incarnate lordliness, hear! while our youth
With earnest yearning cry:
Answer our hymn, and come to us, Most High!

III.

In quaint disguise, with wondrous grace and fire,
Often thou makest, on thy golden lyre,
Exquisite music, on smooth, sunny glades,
Where on the greensward dance the village maids,
Their hair adorned with wild-flowers, or a wreath
Of thine own laurel; while, reclined beneath
Some ancient oak, thou smilest at these elves,
As though thou wert all human like themselves.
Sometimes thou playest in the darkening wood,
While Fauns glide forth, in dance grotesque and rude,
Flitting among the trees with awkward leap,
Like their god, Pan; and from fir-thickets deep
Come up the Satyrs, joining the mad crew,
And capering for thy pleasure. From each yew,
And beech, and oak, the wood-nymphs shyly peep,
To see the revelry; and from its sleep
The merry laughter wakes the startled wood,
And music cheers its dusk, deep solitude.
Oh, come, and let the sound
Of thy sweet lyre eddy our isle around!

IV.

Great Seer and Prophet! Thou that teachest men
The deepest-hidden lore, and from his den
Dost pluck the Future, so that he floats by
In visible shape, apparent to the eye,
But robed with visions: thou, in whose high power
Are health and sickness: thou who oft dost shower
Great plagues on impious nations, with hot breath
Withering their souls, and raining sudden death
Like fiery mist among them; or, again,
Like the sweet breeze after a summer rain,
That thrills the earth like love, thou sendest out
Health, like a lovely child, that goes about,
With soft, white feet, among the sick and weak,
Kissing with rosy lip each poor pale cheek,
Shaking perfume from its white wings, and through
The shrivelled heart stirring the blood, anew
To fill the abandoned veins. Oh, thou, whose name
Is hymned by all, let us too dare to claim
Thy holy presence here!
Hear us, bright God, and lend a gracious ear!

V.

Hear us! Thou master of the springing bow,
Who lovest in the gloomy woods to throw
Thine arrows to the mark, like the keen flight
Of those that fill the universe with light.

From the sun's quiver shot! From whom grim bears
And lordly lions flee, timid as hares,
To hide among safe mountains! Thou, whose cry
Sounds in the autumn-woods, where whirl and fly
The brown dry leaves,—when with his riotous train
Bacchus is on the hills, and on the plain
Full-armed Demeter; when upon the sea
The brine-gods blow their shells, and laughingly
The broad world rings with glee. Then thy clear voice
Stills into silence every truant noise,
Pealing with utmost sweetness on the hills,
And in the echoes of the dancing rills,
Over the sea and on the sounding plain,
And eddying air, until all voices wane
Before its influence:
Draw near, great God, before the day goes hence!

VI.

By that most fatal day, when with a cry
Young Huakinthos fell, and his dark eye
Was dimmed with blood,—when, dying, on a bed
Of his own flowers he laid his wounded head,
Breathing great sighs; by those heart-cherished eyes
Of long-loved Huakinthos, by the sighs
That then, oh, young Apollon, thou didst pour
On every gloomy hill and desolate shore,

Weeping away thy soul, and making dull
Thine eyes with eclipse, till the chilled earth was full
Of sad forebodings, for thy radiance dimmed;
Prayers by pale priests in many a fane were hymned
To the pale-eyed Sun; the frightened Satyrs strayed
Long in dark woods, and then to the chill glade
Came to lament that thou wast still unkind;
Artemis wept for love, and plained and pined
For light and life: by that most fearful grief,
Oh! bright Apollon, hear, and grant relief
To us who cry to thee!
And let us, ere we die, thy glory see!

1829.

No. 7. TO ARTEMIS.

I.

Most graceful Goddess! whether now thy feet
Pursue the dun deer to their deep retreat
In the heart of some old wood, or on the side
Of some high mountain; where, most eager-eyed,
Thou glidest on the chase, with bended bow,
And arrow at the string, a wondrous glow
Of exquisite beauty on thy cheek, and feet

White as the silver moon, graceful and fleet
As her soft rays,—with quiver at thy back
Rattling to all thy steppings. If some track
In far-off Thessaly thou followest up,
Brushing the dew from many a flower's full cup,
With head bent forward, harking to the bay
Of thy good hounds, while in the deep woods they,
Strong-limbed and swift, leap on with eager bounds,
And from far hills their long, deep note resounds,
Thy sweetest music: Orthia, hear our cry,
And let us worship thee, while far and high
Climbs up thy brother,—while his light falls full
Upon the earth,—for when the night-winds lull
The world to sleep, then to the lightless sky
Delia must glide, with robes of silver dew
And sunward eye!

II.

Perhaps thou hiest to some shady spot
Among broad trees, while frightened beasts hear not
The clamor of thy hounds; there, dropping down
Upon green grass and leaves all sere and brown,
Thou pillowest thy delicate head upon
Some gnarled and moss-robed root, where soft winds run
Riot about thee, and thy fair Nymphs point
Thy death-winged arrows, or thy hair anoint

With Lydian odors; and thy strong hounds lie
Lazily on the ground, and watch thine eye,
And watch thine arrows, while thou hast a dream.
Perhaps in some deep-bosomed, shaded stream
Thou bathest now, where even the loving Sun
Catches no glimpse of thee; where shadows on
The water's dusk collect, and make it cool,
Like the wind-chilled wide sea, or some clear pool
Deep in a cavern; hanging branches dip
Their ringlets in the stream, or slowly drip
With tear-drops of clear dew: before no eyes
But those of flitting wind-gods, each nymph hies
Into the deep, cool, rippling stream, and there
Thou pillowest thyself upon its breast,
Queen Cynthia, the Fair.

III.

By all thine hours of pleasure!—when thou wast
Upon tall Latmos, moveless, tranced, and lost
In boundless pleasure, ever gazing on
Thy bright-eyed youngster; when the absent Sun
Was lighting remote seas, or at mid-noon
Careering through the sky! By every tune
And voice of joy that thrilled about the chords
Of thy great heart, when on it fell his words.

In that cool, shady nook, where thou hadst brought
And placed Endumion;—where fair hands had taught
All beauty to shine forth; where thy young maids
Had brought rare shells for him, and from the glades
All starry flowers, with precious stones, and gems
Of utmost beauty, pearly diadems
Of ancient sea-gods: birds were there, that sang
And carolled ever; living waters rang
Their changes at all times, to sooth the soul
Of thy Endumion; pleasant breezes stole
With light feet through the nook, that they might kiss
His dewy lips. Ah! by those hours of bliss,
Worth a whole life in heaven, come to us, fair
And beautiful Aricia! Take us under
Thy gentle care.

1829.

No. 8. TO ARÉS.

I.

Great War-God! mighty Ares! Hear our hymn,
Sung to thee in the wood-recesses dim
Of dusky Caria, near the Icarian wave!—
When war's red storms in lurid fury rave,
And the fierce billows of his hungry tide
Over the groaning land sweep far and wide;—

When his thick legions, clad in gleaming steel,
And bristling thick with javelins, madly reel
In desperate conflict;—when the mighty roar
Peals upward, shaking heaven's great golden floor,
Even as the tumult of the maddened sea
Shakes granite towers;—when Fear, and Agony,
And Desperation, riot, hand-in-hand,
And Fire and Famine waste the lean, lank land:—
Then thou, rejoicing, ragest through the field;
Like mountain-thunder clangs thy brazen shield;
Thy falchion, like the lightning, flashes far;
The frightened Earth, under thy sounding car,
(Whirled swiftly by thy brazen-footed steeds,
Flight and mad Terror), shuddering, quakes and shivers;
And ever, as the war's red surge recedes,
Brooks swelled with blood run downward to red rivers.

II.

Turn thy wild coursers from our lovely land!
Let not their hoofs trample our golden strand!
Shake not thy spear above our fruitful hills,
Nor turn to blood the waters of our rills!
Crush not our flowers with thy remorseless wheels,
Nor let our grain be trod with armed heels,
That the poor starve! Let not thy sister ride,
With Pestilence and Famine, by thy side;

But come with Aphrodite in thy arms
Enfolded, radiant with a thousand charms,—
Her lovely head held on thy massive chest,
Her sweet eyes soothing into placid rest
Thy fiery passions; while her doves glide through
The sparkling atmosphere. Bring with thee, too,
Thy lovely children, at their mother's side;—
Eros, whose form expands, and wings grow wide,
When his sweet brother, Anteros, is near,
The God of tenderest love, and faith sincere;—
With fair Harmonia clinging to thy neck,
And mingling music with her glad caresses;
While the young Charites flit round, and deck
With dew-enjewelled flowers thy loved one's golden tresses,

III.

Let thy harsh wheels roll through Abarimon,
Where Mount Imaus glitters in the sun,
Throned like a king, in solitary state:
Make there more rugged and more desolate
The frozen Scythian wildernesses; grind
To dust the Indian rocks, and like the wind
Drive thy fleet coursers through the Median plains,
And over Bactria's barbarous domains;
But spare the isles of our beloved Greece,
And leave them sleeping tranquilly in peace.

Here, under an old, stately, branching oak,
Thine altar sendeth to the clouds its smoke,
Whereon the wolf and hungry vulture bleed,
The magpie, and the bold and generous steed.
We bow in adoration at thy shrine,
Dark-bearded God, majestic and divine!
Our incense, burning, loads the eddying air,
And Kuthereia joins us in our prayer.
Wilt thou not listen kindly to the strain
Which now around our vine-clad hills is pealing?
For when did Beauty ever sue in vain,
Even in his sternest mood meekly to Valor kneeling?

1845.

No. 9. TO PALLAS.

I.

Hear, blue-eyed Pallas! Eagerly we call,
Entreating thee to our glad festival,
Held in the sunny morning of the year,
On this our rosy isle, to thee most dear.
Thine altar, builded by young maidens' hands,
Near the Carpathian's sparkling water stands,
Upon the slant and sunny Rhodian shore,
Gracing the green lawn's undulating floor,

Walled in with trees, which, sweeping wide around,
Rampart the precincts of the holy ground.
Myriads of roses, flushing full in bloom,
Send to far Caria surge of rich perfume,
Like the glad incense of our prayer, which floats
Up to the trembling stars. The ringing notes
Of silver flutes roll through the echoing woods,
Startling the Fauns in their shy solitudes.
A hundred boys, each fairer than a girl,
Over the greensward, clad in armor, whirl
In thy wild mystic dance. A hundred maids,
In white and gold, come from the dusky glades,—
The loveliest of our beauty-blessed isle,—
Their small white feet gleaming like stars, that smile
In the dark azure of a moonless night.
They bear thy robe of pure and stainless white,
Sleeveless, embroidered richly with fine gold,
Whereon thy deeds are told,
Those, chiefly, done of old,
When, blazing in the van, thou didst the Giants fight.

II.

Brain-born of Zeus! Thou who dost give to men
Knowledge and wisdom; and hast brought again
Science and art, in renovated youth,
And taught fair Greece to love and seek the truth;

Thou to whom artist and artificer,
Fearing thy potent anger to incur,
Bend down beseechingly, and pray for aid,
In all the cunning mysteries of their trade;
Inspired by thee, young men, immersed in cells,
Drink deep of learning, at Time's ancient wells,
Forget that Beauty's starry eyes still shine,
And love Athene only, the Divine:
Old gray-haired sages pore on antique scrolls,
And feed with wisdom's oil their burning souls,
Inspired by thee, the prophet sees afar
The signs of peace, the portents of grim war;
Foretells the strange and wayward destinies
Of nations and of men, and when the skies
With genial rains will bless the husbandman,
Or vex the earth with hail. Thy favor can
The life of those well loved by thee prolong,
And make hoar Eld youthful again and strong.
Oh, come to us! while glittering with dew
Young Day still crimsons the horizon's blue!
Come, Parthenos! to thy beloved home,
Nor longer idly roam,
Where hungry oceans foam,
Round barbarous continents and islands new.

III.

Oh, come not to us, clad in armor bright,
Intolerable unto mortal sight,

With flashing spear, and helm of blazing gold,
Crested with griffin-guarded sphynx! nor hold
Thine aegis, blazing with Medusa's eyes,
Wreathed with live serpents! Not in warlike guise,
As when against the Giants thou didst march,
With strong tread shaking earth and the sky's great arch,
Terrific in thy panoply of war,
Jove's lightning in thy right hand flashing far;
Till, struck with fear and overpowering dread,
Heaven's baffled adversaries howling fled!
Come in thy garb of peace, with kindly smile,
Breathing new beauty on thy flowery isle;
With mystic veil over thy dazzling brow,
And soft feet, whiter than the mountain-snow!
Come to us over the exulting sea,
From thy Tegaean shrine in Arcady;
Thy sacred dragon gliding o'er the waves,
While nymphs, emerging from deep ocean-caves,
Floating like stars upon the misty spray,
Carol around thee many a pleasant lay;
And grim Poseidon, smiling at the strain,
Gives thee glad welcome to his vast domain;
And Aiolos bears incense from the shores,
Where the mad Ganges roars,
And his great torrent pours
I' th' Indian sea, and all the trees rich odors rain.

IV.

Thou who the daring Argonauts didst guide
Over the stormy sea's rebellious tide;
By Lemnos and by sunny Samothrace,
(Fair isles, that sit the waves with swan-like grace,)
By Troas and the dark Symplegades;
And send them, with a favorable breeze,
Through the wide Euxine into Colchis; hear!
Oh, Virgin Goddess! and come smiling near,
While here we wait upon the silver sands,
And stretch imploringly our suppliant hands!
Then shall our maidens, of long summer eves,
Embowered among the overshading leaves,
(While, taught of thee, their sweet task they fulfill,
Plying the distaff with a curious skill,)
Tell of the time, when, brighter than a star,
Approaching on the azure sea afar,
Thou didst our humble ceremonies bless,
And smile upon their budding loveliness,—
When new flowers sprang in every sunny vale,
New odors loaded every pleasant gale,
And whiter corn, and richer wine and oil,
Thenceforward paid the husbandman's glad toil;
And blander breezes, and serener skies
Thereafter blessed the isle. Oh, good and wise!

Oh, radiant Goddess! Shall this sacred day
Glide mournfully away,
Fading to evening gray,
And thou not deign to glad our anxious, longing eyes?

1845.

No. 10. TO HERMĒS.

I.

Hear, white-winged Messenger! If thy swift feet
Loiter within Heaven's starry walls, where meet
The Gods, their nectar daintily to sip
At indolent leisure; where thy beardless lip
Utters such eloquence, that thine old foe,
Imperial Here, doth her hate forego,
And hang entranced on thy sweet accents, while
Cypria rewards thee with inviting smile,
And wise Athene's cup stands waiting by,
Till thou hast ended;—whether, near the sky,
Among the palpitating stars thou soarest,
Or foldest thy bright pinions in some forest
That crowns an Asian mountain;—if thy wings
Fan the broad sea, where sultry Afric flings
His hot breath on the waters, by the shore
Of Araby the blest; or in the roar

Of crashing Northern ice:—oh, turn, and urge,
Thy winged course to us! Leave the rough surge,
Or icy mountain-height, or city proud,
Or haughty temple, or dim wood, down-bowed
With weakening age,
And come to us, thou young and mighty Sage!

II.

Thou who invisably dost ever stand
Near each high orator, and hand-in-hand
With golden-robed Apollon, touch the tongue
Of the rapt poet; on whom men have hung,
Strangely enchanted, when, in dark disguise,
Thou hast descended from cloud-curtained skies,
And lifted up thy voice to teach bold men
Thy world-arousing art! Oh thou, that when
The ocean was untracked, didst teach them send
Great ships upon it! Thou, who dost extend,
In storm or calm, protection to the hopes
Of the fair merchant! Thou, that on the slopes
Of Mount Kullene first mad'st sound the lyre
And the delicious harp,—with childish fire
And magical beauty playing, in dark caves
Marvellous tunes, unlike the ruder staves
That Pan had uttered; while each wondering Nymph
Came out from tree and mountain, and the lymph

Of mountain-stream, to drink each echoing note
That over the entranced woods did float,
With fine clear tone,
Like silver trumpets on a still lake blown.

III.

Thou matchless Artist! Thou, whose wonderous skill,
In ages past the earth's wide bounds did fill
With every usefullness! Thou, who dost teach
Quick-witted thieves the miser's gold to reach,
And rob him of his sleep for many a night,
Getting thee curses! Mischievous, mad sprite!
Young Rogue-God Hermes! always glad to cheat
All Gods and men;—with mute and noiseless feet
Going in search of mischief; now to steal
The spear of Ares, now to clog the wheel
Of young Apollon's car, that it may crawl
Most slowly upwards! Thou, whom wrestlers call,
Whether they strive upon the level green
At dewy nightfall, under the dim screen
Of ancient oaks, or at the sacred games,
In fiercer contest! Thou, whom each then names
In half-thought prayer, when the quick breath is drawn
For the last struggle! Thou, whom, on the lawn,

The victor praises, and ascribes to thee
His fresh-reaped honors! Let us ever be
Under thy care,
And hear, oh hear, our solemn, earnest prayer.

1829.

No. 11. TO FLORA.

I.

Hear, lovely Chloris, while we sing to thee!
Thou restest now beneath some shady tree,
Near a swift brook, upon a mossy root;
All other winds with deep delight are mute,
While Euros frolics with thy flowing hair,
A thousand odors floating on the air,
And rippling softly through the dewy green
Of the thick leaves, that murmuringly screen
Thy snowy forehead. Struggling through their mass,
The quivering sunlight snows upon the grass
In golden flakes. Round thee a thousand flowers,
Still glittering with the tears of Spring's light showers,
Offer the incense of their glad perfume
To thee, who makest them to bud and bloom,
With thy kind smile and influence divine.
Thine arms around young Zephuros entwine,

And his round thee. With roses garlanded,
On his white shoulder rests thy lovely head;
Thy deep eyes gaze in his,
Radiant with mute, unutterable bliss,
And, happy there,
Oh, lovely, young, enamored pair,
Your rosy lips oft meet in many a long, warm kiss!

II.

Now the young Spring rejoices, and is glad,
In her new robes of starry blossoms clad;
The happy earth smiles like an innocent bride,
That sitteth, blushing, by her husband's side;
The bird her nest with earnest patience weaves,
And sings, delighted, hidden in the leaves;
From their high homes in cavernous old trees,
The busy legions of industrious bees
Drink nectar at each flower's enamelled brim,
Breathing in murmured music their glad hymn;
The Nereids come from their deep ocean-caves,
Deserting for a time the saddened waves;
The Druads from the dusky solitudes,
Of venerable and majestic woods;
The Naiads from deep beech-embowered lakes;
The Oreads from where hoarse Thunder shakes

The iron mountains;—wandering through cool glades,
And blushing lawns, when first the darkness fades,
Before the crimsoning morn,
And ere the young Day's sapphire tints are gone,
In glad haste all,
Their lovers to enwreathe withal,
Gather the fresh-blown flowers, gemmed with the tears of Dawn.

III.

Come, gentle Queen! we spill to thee no blood;
Thine altar stands where the gray, ancient wood,
Now green with leaves, and fresh with April rains,
In stately circle sweeping round, contains,
Embowered like a hill-environed dell,
A quiet lawn, whose undulations swell
Green as the sea-waves. Near a bubbling spring,
Whose waters, sparkling downward, lightly wring
On the small pebbles—round whose grassy lip
The birds and bees its crystal waters sip—
Thine altar stands, of shrubs and flowering vines,
Where rose with lilly and carnation twines.
We burn to thee no incense. These fresh blooms,
Breathe on the air more exquisite perfumes,
Than all that press the overladen wind
That seaward floats from Araby to Ind.

No priests are here prepared for sacrifice,
But fair young girls, with mischievous, bright eyes,
With white flowers garlanded,
And by their young, delighted lovers led,
With frequent kisses,
And fond and innocent caresses,
To honor thee, the victim and the priest instead.

1845.

No. 12. TO HUPNOS.

I.

Kind Comforter of all the weary Gods,
With drooping eyelids, head that ever nods!
Thou silent soother, that with all thy train
Of empty dreams, dim tenants of the brain,
Vague as the wind, dost sleep in thy dark cave,
At whose mouth sluggishly white poppies wave,
In the light airs that saunter by thy bed,—
Thine only throne, with darkness tenanted,
And curtains black as are the eyes of Night!—
Thou, who dost sleep, when wanes the reluctant light,
Deep in lone forests, where gray Evening hides,
Trembling at sight of the sun; and Shadow glides

Through silent tree-tops: or if, half-awake,
Thou dozest on the margin of some lake,
Land-locked, and still as the mute, cloudless sky;
While thy quaint Dreams, wayward and wanton, fly,
With mischievous pranks, fantastic tricks, mad mirth,
About the sluggard, Earth:
Oh, come, and hear the hymn that we are chanting,—
Here, where the shivered star light through thick leaves is slanting!

II.

Thou lover of the banks of idle streams,
Shadowed by broad old oaks, with scattered gleams
From moon and stars upon them;—of the ocean,
When its great bosom throbs with no emotion,
But the round moon hangs out her lamp, to pour
A sparkling glory on its level floor!
Thou, that reclinest on the moist, warm sands,
While winds come dancing from far southern lands,
With dreams upon their backs, and wings that reek
And drip with odors; or upon a peak
Of cloud, that, like a hill of chrysolite,
Leans on the western sky, when the bland night
Comes late in summer; or beneath the sea,
Scarce conscious of the dim monotony
Of the great waves, here murmuring like the wings
Of swarming dreams, while the huge ocean swings

His bulk above thy listless, heavy head!
(As, chained upon his bed,
A conquered Titan, with unconscious motion,—
Even so respiring swings the mute and sleeping ocean.)

III.

Thou who dost bless sad mourners with thy touch,
And make sharp Agony relax his clutch
Upon the bleeding fibres of the heart,
Pale Disappointment no more mope apart,
And Sorrow dry her tears, and cease to weep
Her life away, gaining new cheer in sleep!
Thou who dost bless the birds, at evening gray,
When, tired of singing all the summer day,
They, longing, watch to see the evening star,—
Thy herald,—on the sky's blue slope! Where are
Thy flocks of fitting dream, dear God, by whom
All noise is most abhorred? Come to this gloom,
So cool, so fresh, where nought the silence stirs,
Except the murmur of the dreaming firs!
Touch our tired eyes! Make the dusk shades more dense!
Ah! thou hast come! We feel thine influence,
Forget our hymn, and sink in sleep away;
And so, till new-born Day
Climbs high in heaven, with fire-steeds swiftly leaping,
Here we'll recline, beneath the vine-leaves calmly sleeping.

1830.

LATONA.

There was a sudden stir,
Ages ago, on the Ægean Sea.
With a loud cry, as of great agony,
The blue deep parted, and the angry roar
Of a great earthquake echoed round the shore;
The tortured waters, trembling, stood aghast;
Delos emerged, and anchored firm and fast
Among the Cyclades, lay calm and still.
In one brief moment, valley, plain, and hill
Were carpeted with verdure, and great trees
Sprung to full stature, shaking in the breeze
Their limbs and leaves; and fruits, and buds, and flowers
Longed for the sunshine and the summer showers.
Pursued by Here, poor Latona had
Till then been wandering, terrified and sad,
Round the great earth, and through the weltering seas,
Praying for mercy on long-bended knees,
But still denied. Many a weary day,
Above the shaggy hills, where, groaning, lay
Enceladus and Typhon, she had roamed,
And over valcanoes where lava foamed;
And sometimes in dark forests she had hid,
Where the lithe serpent through the long grass slid,

Over gray weeds and tiger-trampled flowers;
Where the grim lion couched in tangled bowers,
And the fierce panther, proud of his dappled skin,
Startled the woods with his deep, moaning din.
All things were there to terrify the soul;—
The hedgehog that across her path did roll,
Gray eagles, fanged like pards, old vultures bald,
Fierce hawks, and restless owls, whose hoot appalled;
Red scorpions, lurking under mossy stones,
And here and there great piles of rotting bones
Of the first men who won renown in wars;
Brass heads of arrows, javalins, scimitars,
Old crescent shield, and edgeless battle-axe;
Large yellow skulls, with wide and gaping cracks,
Too old and dry for worms to harbor in,—
Only the useless spider there did spin
His treacherous web.

Then would she stop, and lay
Her weary head among dead leaves, and pray
That she might die,—and fainting thus remain,
Pulseless, till thou, O Zeus! wouldest rise, and rain
Thy light upon her eyelids. Then the tide
Of life once more through her cold heart would glide,
Her soul grow strong, and once more fit to cope
With all her fate, and many a cheerful hope
Glow in her heart; then, O King Zeus! wouldst thou
With the bright terrors of thy frowning brow,

Scare every hateful creature far away.
Then would she rise, fairer than rosy Day,
And through the tiger-peopled solitudes,
And oderous brakes, and panther-guarded woods
Journey, until she reached the curving edge
Of the blue sea; and there, on some high ledge
Of porphyritic rock, sit long, and look
Into thine eye, nor fear that from some nook
The hideous shapes that haunted her would meet
Her startled eyes.

One day she cooled her feet
On a long, narrow beach. The encroaching brine
Had marked, as with an endless serpent-spine,
The hard, smooth sand with a long line of shells,
Like those the Nereids gather, in deep cells
Of the sea, for Thetis: such they pile around
The feet of cross old Nereus, having found
That this propitiates him; such they bring
To slippery Proteus as an offering,
When they would have him tell their destiny,
And what young God their first love is to be.
And there Latona paced along the sands,
Dreaming of journeys into unknown lands,
And persecutions to be suffered yet:
And when some wave, less shy than others, wet
Her rosy feet, she tingled as when Thou
Didst first thy lips press on her blushing brow.

Still she paced on over the firm, cool sand,
And the heaped shells, and, once or twice, would stand
And let her long, bright, golden tresses float
Over the waters. Lo! the threatening note
Of the fierce, hissing Dragon strikes her ear!
Startled, she shivers with a horrid fear,
And, mad with terror and insane despair,
Flees to the sea, and seeks destruction there.
But thy great Brother met her as she fell
Into the waves, and gave her power to dwell
Beneath the waters, like a Naiad, born
Within the sound of Triton's mellow shell,
That stills the waves. Then wandered she forlorn
Through many wonders:—coral-raftered caves,
Sunk far below the roar of clamorous waves;
Sea-flowers like masses of soft golden hair
Or misty silk; great shells, and fleshless spine
Of old Behemoth; flasks of hoarded wine,
Among the timbers of old, shattered ships;
Goblets of gold, that had not touched the lips
Of men a thousand years.

At length she lay,
Despairing, down, to weep her life away
On the sea's floor, alone;—and then it was
Thy mighty voice, the Deities that awes,
Lifted to light under fair Grecian skies
That lovely Cycladean Paradise,

And placed Latona there, when fast asleep,
With parted lips, and respiration deep,
And all unconscious. When, refreshed, she woke,
She lay beneath a tall, wide-branching oak,
Majestic, king-like,—from whose depths peeped out
All those shy birds whose instinct is to doubt
And fear mankind. Doves, with soft, patient eyes,
Did earnestly artistic nests devise,
Busy as bees under the sheltering leaves;
Thrushes that love to house beneath mossed eaves;
Merles, brought from the far Azores, with their clear,
Mellow, and flutty note;—the chaffinch, dear
To the rude Thuringian, for its mazy trills;
The mountain-finch, from Shetland's rugged hills,
With its brown eyes, and neck of velvet-black;
The sweet canary, yearning to flit back
To his own isles;—the small gold-crested wren,
Uttering its hurried trill of terror, when
Aught hostile came anear its elegant nest,
And pale-brown eggs;—the skylark, with his breast
Wet with the morning dews, who never sings
Upon the ground, but whose fine music rings
High in the heavens;—the golden oriole,
That mimics the rude flourishes which roll
From braying trumpets, with his flute-like notes;
Affectionate redstarts, who, with mellow throats,

First hail the dawn;—song-throstles, bold and fond
From Smyrna and from ancient Trebizond
That sing in lofty tree-tops, at still noon,
A musical and melancholy tune;
The happy bulfinch, with his modest song,
Low, soft, and sweet,—rose-ouzels, and a throng
Of mountain linnets from the Orkney Isles,
And warbling ortolons, from where the smiles
Of the warm sun ripen the grapes of France;
The frisking white-throat, with his antic dance,
That sings at sultry summer-noon, and chases
The small aphides through the tangled mazes
Of rose and honeysuckle;—black-caps, nesting
In the white thorn; who, while the world is resting,
At midnight, wake with full, sweet melodies,
Wild, deep, and loud, the sleep-enchanted bees;
Blue-throated robins, bred near northern seas;
And pied fly-catchers, nesting in old trees;
And, last of all, the peerless nightingale.—
Cicadas sang, hid in the velvet grass;
Bees all around did their rich store amass,
Or clung together on a swinging bow,
In tangled swarms;—above her pale, fair brow
Hung nests of callow songsters; and so nigh
That she could touch it, lay, with lively eye,

A small, gray lizard; such do notice give
When serpents glide; and in all lands they live,
Even by the good-will of the rudest hind.
Close to her feet, an antelope reclined,
Graceful, large-eyed, white as the stainless fleece
Of snow upon the topmost Pyrenees,
And cropped the young buds of the sheltering trees
From the drooping limbs. In the deep, sombre woods
No voice stirred; nor in these sweet solitudes
Did aught disturb the birds, except the hymn
Sung by the fountain, from whose grassy brim
Its liquid light, in thin, clear, sparkling jets,
Rained ever on the thirsty violets;
The hum of leaves that whispered overhead,
The brook that sang along its pebbly bed,
The water-fall deep in the forest hid,
And the slight murmur of the waves, that slid
As softly up the firm, unyielding sand,
As gentle children, clasping hand and hand,
In the sick chamber of a mother grieve,
And glide on tiptoe.—

Here, O Zerus, one eve,
When thou didst shine high in the darkling west,
And bathe Night's glossy hair and ebon breast,
And gentle eyes with brightness,—while the Earth
Sent up soft mists to thee, thy maid gave birth

To bright Apollo, and his sister fair,
The ivory-footed Huntress;—such a pair,
Tall-statured, beautiful, as now they sit
On golden thrones, where, on Olympus met,
The austere Senate of the immortal Gods
Obeys and trembles if the Thunderer nods.—
And when the radiant wings of morning stirred
The darkness in the East, Latona heard,
Faint and far off, the well-remembered hiss
Of the great dragon. Bitter agonies
Shot through her soul, and she had swiftly fled,
And tried again old Ocean's friendly bed,
Had not Apollo, young, sun-bright Apollo,
Restrained her from the dark and perilous hollow,
And asked what meant the noise.

“It is,” she said,
“The monster Python, a great dragon, bred
After the Deluge, in the stagnant mud,
And thirsting for thy mother's innocent blood,
Sent by great Here, Heaven's vindictive Queen,
To slay us all.”

Upon the dewy green
Lay ready to the hand a nervous bow
And heavy arrows, eagle-winged, which thou,
Oh, Zeus! hadst placed within Apollo's reach.
These grasping, the young God stood in the breach

Of circling trees, with eye that fiercely glanced,
Nostril expanded, lip pressed, foot advanced,
And arrow at the string; when, lo! the coil
Of the great dragon came, with sinuous toil,
And vast gyrations, crushing down the branches,
With noise as when a hungry tiger cranches
Huge bones; and then Apollo drew the bow
Full at the eye, nor ended with one blow;
Dart after dart sped from the twanging string,
All at the eye: until, a lifeless thing,
The dragon lay.—

Thus the young Sun-God slew
The scaly monster; and then dragged and threw,
(So strong he was), the carcass in the sea,
Where the great sharks feasted voraciously,
Lashing the water into bloody foam
In their fierce fights.

Latona thence could roam,
With her brave children and defenders near,
In earth, air, sea, or heaven, free of fear;
Here forgave, and Zeus the twins did set,
To guide the sun and moon, as they do yet.

1830.

THE OLD CANOE.

Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep,
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride,
Leans gloomily over the murky tide;
Where the reeds and the rushes are long and lank,
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank,
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,
There lies at its mooring the old canoe.

The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a sea bird's wings that the storm has lopped,
And crossed on the railing, one o'er one,
Like the folded hands when the work is done,
While busily back and forth between,
The spider stretches his silvery screen

And the solemn owl with the dull “too whoo,”
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.

The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave,
Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay,
Hiding its mouldering dust away,
Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower,
Or the ivy that mantels the falling tower,
While many a blossom of loveliest hue,
Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe.

The currentless waters are dead and still,
But the twilight wind plays with the boat at will,
And lazily in and out again,
It floats the length of the rusty chain;
Like the weary march of the hand of time,
That meet and part at the noon-tide chime,
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew,
By the dripping bow of the old canoe.

Oh, many a time with careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick,
And laughed as I leaned o'er its rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,

To see that the faces and boats were two,
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.
But now, as I lean o'er its crumbling side,
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear is a sober tone,
The hands that lent to the light skiff wings,
Have grown familiar with sterner things;
But I love to think of the hours that sped,
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossom waved or the green grass grew,
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe.

ARIEL.

I.

I had a dream: Methought Ariel came,
And bade me follow him; and I arose:
Lighter my body seemed than subtle flame,
Or than the invisible wind that always blows
Above the clouds. So upward I did aim,
With quick flight, as the sky-lark sunward goes,—
Led by the splendour of Ariel's wing,
Whose snowy light before fled, glittering.

II.

So, floating upward through the roseate air,
And through the wide interstices of cloud,
We climbed the mist-hills, till we halted, where
The frowning peaks beneath the azure glowed;
Then gazed I all around;—no sun blazed there,
But crimson light through the pure ether flowed,
And dimmed the moon's eye and the stars' white cones,
Till they were scarce seen on their golden thrones.

III.

Awhile we trod along the quivering peaks
Of foaming cloud; over entangled rifts
Of purple light; through crimson-misted breaks;
And saw blue lightning crouching in white drifts,
Restless and quivering, while the broad, deep lakes
Of vapor tremble as he stirs and shifts,
Waked by the diapason of the thunder,
That swells upon the wild wind rushing under.

IV.

And moored within a labyrinthine bay
Girded by massive foam-cliffs, rough, storm-worn,
On a flat shore of leaden vapour, lay
A boat carved out of orange mist, which morn
Had hardened into crystal, many a day,
Deep in a rift in a vast glacier torn:—
We stepped on board,—we loosed her from the bank,
Our thirsty sail, spread wide, the breezes drank.

V.

And swiftly then our winged bark flew on,
While I sat looking downward from the prow;
Down broad, shade-margined rivers, dark and dun,
Over smooth lakes, sea-green, with golden glow,

Flecked with broad black spots, here and there, upon
Their mirrored surface:—now we float below
Like a fleet shadow, over the vext breast
Of boundless, billowy oceans of white mist.

VI.

Then rushed we into chasms, deep, wide and black,—
By huge, bleak, stormy mountains, of the foam
And rolling masses of the thunder-rack;
Dark, quivering precipices of deep gloom,
Aeries of brooding lightning;—and did tack
In narrow inlets, through which roared the boom
Of the mad wind; wherein did Thunder dream,
And on the far blue waves his lightnings gleam.

VII.

And then we issued to the open vast
Of cloudless air above; and while the sail
Its silver shade upon my forehead cast,—
Like lightning or swift thought, before the gale
Fled our bright barque. Strange wonders there we passed,
Currents of astral light, cold, thin and pale,
Strange, voiceless birds that never sink to earth,
And troops of fairies, dancing in mad mirth.

VIII.

Then we descended, till our barque did float
Above the peak of one lone mountain; and
Ariel furled the sail, and moored our boat
Upon the margin of a narrow strand
Of undulating mist, that from remote
And dangerous seas had come, o'er many a land,—
An amaranthine effluence of ocean,
Changing forever with eternal motion.

IX.

Then, bending from the helm, Ariel gazed
With keen eyes downward through the mighty vast,
And waved his hand. The piles of mist upraised,
That on the mountain's lofty crown were massed;
And, gazing earthward, eager and amazed,
While either way the rent clouds slowly passed,
I saw a mighty palace, reared upon
The grey, scarred summit of that towering cone.

X.

Columns of gold, with emerald inwrought,
Ruby and jasper, and infoliate
With leaves of silver, intricate as thought;
Statues of gold, intercolumniate;

Great altars, fed with costly odours, bought
With toil and blood; and round the rude doors wait
Large hosts of slaves, bending the patient knee,
As though they lingered there some King to see.

XI.

“Here,” said Ariel, “liveth Tyranny,
Remorseless reveller in war and blood;
And these that humbly bend the supple knee,—
Within whose inmost heart-cells ever brood
Hatred, despair, chill fear and misery,
Peopling with terrors the sad solitude,—
These are his slaves. They bow there, night and day,
And costly homage to his altars pay.

XII.

“And now, behold! forth from his broad gates ride
His kindred fiends, the tools of his fierce ire,
Your glorious Republic to divide,
Friend against friend, the son against the sire,
And near their graves who for your freedom died,
Slay with the sword and devastate with fire:
And I have brought thee here, that thou mayest tell
Thy countrymen to shun that purple Hell.”

XIII.

Then, with a roar like thunder, open flew
The brazen gates, and all the mountain quivered,
And trembled like a child: and far off, through
The distant hills, against the grey rocks shivered,
That awful sound; and a wild voice that grew
A terror to me, surging up, delivered,
In tones that like a brazen trumpet roared,
The order for the march:—Forth came the horde!

XIV.

First came Ambition, with his discous eye,
And tiger-spring, and hot and eager speed,
Flushed cheek, imperious glance, demeanour high;—
He in the portal striding his black steed,
Stained fetlock-deep with red blood not yet dry,
And flecked with foam, did the wild cohort lead
Down the rough mountain, heedless of the crowd
Of slaves that round the altar-steps yet bowed.

XV.

Next came red Rashness, with his restless step,
In whose large eyes glowed the fierce fire that boiled
In his broad chest. Large gouts of blood did drip
From his drawn sword; the trembling slaves recoiled:

Scorn and fierce passion curled his writhing lip;
His dress was torn with furious haste, and soiled;—
So, springing on his reeking steed, he shook
The reins, and downward his swift journey took.

XVI.

Then came dark Disappointment, with the foam
Of rage upon his lips, sad step and slow,
Stern, wrinkled brow, clenched teeth, and heavy gloom,
Like a shadow on his eyes,—in these a glow
Like that of baleful stars within a tomb;
His tangled locks left in the wind to blow;
And so did he forth from the palace stride,
And stalk away down the steep mountain-side.

XVII.

Next followed Envy, with deep-sunken eye,
Glaring upon his mates. He beat his breast
And gnashed his teeth, with many a bitter sigh;
For in his heart, deep in its core, a nest
Of fiery scorpions gnawed, that never die,
Writhing and stinging ever;—on he pressed,
Mounted upon a pale and hound-eyed steed,
And down the mountain, snarling, did proceed.

XVIII.

And then old Avarice, tottering out, appeared,
With wrinkled front and gray and matted hair,
And elfish eyes, blue-circled, small and bleared:
He slowly walked, with cautious, prying air,
Working his lips under his filthy beard,
Peering upon the ground with searching eye,
Clutching a purse with yellow, wasted hand,—
And so he followed the descending band.

XIX.

Then came Corruption, with his serpent-tongue,
Quick, hurried gait, and eye astute, yet bold;
And while, amid the crouching, base, bowed throng
Of suppliant slaves, he did his quick way hold,
He loudly hurried Avarice along,
Who crawled before him with his bag of gold;
Bestriding then his rich-apparelled steed,
He followed swiftly where his mates did lead.

XX.

Next, dark Fanaticism, his haggard face
Flushing with holy anger, down the track
Went, loud bewailing that the good old days
Of fire and faggot had not yet come back,

When Error was a crime, and to the ways
Of Truth men were persuaded by the rack;—
On either side, a little in advance,
Bigotry rode, and harsh Intolerance.

XXI.

Hypocrisy came next, prim, starched and staid,
With folded hands and upturned pious eyes,
As though God's law he punctually obeyed;
His sordid greed seeks its base end by lies;
He lusts for every ripe, voluptuous maid,
Then wrings his hands, and prays, and loudly cries,
“Owner of men! stand off, afar, while I,
“Holier than thou art, piously pass by!”

XXII.

And next came Treason, with his blood-stained hand,
Deep, black, fierce eye, and bold, unquailing air;
While even as he passed his hot breath fanned
The grovelling slaves into rebellion there:
His armour clashed, and his broad battle-brand
Did in the purple sheen like lightning glare;
And so his fiery courser he bestrode,
The echo of whose hoofs roared down the road.

XXIII.

Last came King Anarchy. His cold eyes flashed
With red fire blazing up from Hell's abyss;
His large white wolf-teeth angrily he gnashed,
His blue lips parted like a tigress's:
His dusky destrier was with foam besplashed,
And fiery serpents did around him hiss,
Writhing amid his war-steed's misty mane,
Whose hoofs the young grass scorched like fiery rain.

XXIV.

As he rode down, there mustered in the rear
A hideous flock, some few in human form,
Some shapeless. Here came, crouching by, pale Fear,
Revenge and Wrath, and Rapine, a base swarm;
And Cruelty and Murder, and their peer,
Red Persecution, pouring a hot storm
Of fire and blood from his relentless hand;—
All these are under Anarchy's command.

XXV.

When the horde passed below the mountain's brow,
With clashing hoof, mad turmoil and loud din,
Within the hall there rose a wild halloo,
As though a thousand fiends rejoiced therein;—

100

The upper air vibrated it unto,
The currents trembled of its crimson sheen;
The lightning-lofts were shaken; and our boat
Rocked on the strand where the harsh echo smote.

XXVI.

Then did Ariel lift the snowy sail,
Of our ethereal barque. The helm he took,
And up behind us sprang a gentle gale,
Murmuring astern, like a sweet summer-brook,
That broad-leaved water-plants from daylight veil;—
And, while the sail a snowy brightness shook
Upon the prow, I lay and watched the boat,
Steered by Ariel, on its voyage float.

XXVII.

Then, passing swiftly, with a favoring gale,
Round the grey forehead of the storm-scarred hill,
We did descend. Near us the moonlight pale
Slept in thick masses, soberly and still,
In the deep nooks of many a purple vale,
Of frosted mist; and down a ringing rill
Of sunlight, flowing past a lofty bank
Of amber cloud, toward the green earth we sank.

101

XXVIII.

And then we passed by mountain-nourished rivers,
Vexed to white foam by rocks their sides that galled;
Near hoary crags, by lightning split to shivers,
Peopled by nervous eagles, grey and bald;
Forests wherein the wind-wave always quivers,
Shaking their deep hearts green as emerald;
Lakes that, like woman's bosom, panting swell,
Robed with the living foam of asphodel.

XXIX.

Within the shadow of old crumbling columns,
Along these lakes we sailed, and saw beneath
Great water-snakes rolling their scaly volumes
Among the water-vines that there did wreathe;—
Through chasms of purple gloom, with rivers solemn
Moaning between their jagged, rocky teeth;—
And then again above the earth we lifted,
And lowered the sail, and helmlessly there drifted.

XXX.

Below us, stretching from the broad green sea
Into wide prairies, did a fair land lie,
Studded with lakes as still as porphyry
And blue hills sleeping in the bluer sky,

102

From whose white cones' serene sublimity
The snowy lightning dazzled the sun's eye;
The amethystine rivers thence rolled down
To fling their foam on Ocean's hoary crown.

XXXI.

Great cities, queen-like, stood upon his shore,
And on the banks of those majestic rivers,
And near broad lakes, where at the awful roar
Of one great cataract the stunned earth shivers:
Ships went and came in squadrons, flocking o'er
That Ocean which the Old and New World severs,
Shading the bays and rivers with their sails,
Their starred flags laughing at propitious gales.

XXXII.

Broad fields spread inland, robed in green and gold,
And waving with a mighty wealth of grain,
From where the bear snarled at the Arctic cold,
To the Mexique Gulf, and the Pacific Main:—
Far South, in snowy undulations, rolled,
With their white harvests many a treeless plain;
And where the Sierra westwardly inclines,
Gleamed a new Ophir, with its glittering mines.

103

XXXIII.

The Throne of Liberty stood in that land,
Its guards the Law and Constitution; these,
These and no other held supreme command,
And everywhere, through all the land, was peace.
Grim Despotism fast in his iron hand
Held all men's rights in the ancient Monarchies;
But Freedom reigned here undisturbed and calm,
Holding an eagle on her snowy palm.

XXXIV.

Then, as I gazed, it seemed men's hearts became
Transparent to me as the crimsoned air,
Or as the thin sheet of a subtle flame;
And I could see the passions working there
Like restless serpents; how they went and came,
And writhed or slept within their fiery lair;
So that I saw the cause of each vibration
That shook the heart-strings of that youthful nation.

XXXV.

I watched the souls of all that people, when
That train of fiends did thitherward repair;
I saw old creeping Avarice crouch therein,
Like a caged panther; and his grizzled hair

104

Choked up the springs of Virtue, so that men
Were proud the Devil's livery to wear,
And did begin to count and calculate
That Union's value which had made them great.

XXXVI.

I saw red Rashness and Ambition urge
Men to ill deeds for office; with a wing
Like the free eagle's, lo! they swift emerge
From the dens and caves of earth, and upward spring,
With daring flight; but like the baffled surge,
That doth against a rock its masses fling,
They are repelled; some great, calm, kingly eye
Withers their plumes; a little while they fly,

XXXVII.

And then, still striving with their shrivelled wings,
Drop on the earth, and in each cankered soul
Pale Disappointment crouches, Envy clings,
Rage, Hate, Despair at the sweet sunlight scowl,
Revenge and fiery Anger dart their stings
Into themselves, and with the sharp pain howl;
Then forth these patriots go, a motley brood,
And preach sedition to the multitude.

105

XXXVIII.

Then Faction and the Lust for office shook
Their filthy wings over the whole land, lighting
On hill and plain, by river, lake and brook
The fires of discord, and new hates exciting;
And lean Corruption sneaked in every nook,
With Avarice's hoards to crime inviting;
Till men no longer saw that glittering Star,
The Constitution, shining from afar.

XXXIX.

Fanaticism preached a new crusade,
And Bigotry damned slavery as a crime;
Intolerance, brandishing his murderous blade,
Denounced the Southron in bad prose and rhyme;
The Pulpit preached rebellion; men, dismayed,
Saw the red portents of a bloody time
Burn ominous upon the Northern sky,
And sword-like comets, threatening, blaze on high.

XL.

Treason, without disguise, all clad in mail,
Stalked boldly over the distracted land:
Cries of Disunion swelled on every gale;
The Ship of State drew near the rocky strand,

106

With rent sails, through the lightning and the hail;
Her mariners a reckless, drunken band;
And Freedom, shuddering, closed her eyes, and left
Their vessel on the weltering seas to drift.

XLI.

Then Anarchy turned loose his maddened steed,
Whose iron hoofs went clanging through the land,
Filling men's hearts with fear and shapeless dread;
Then leaped on board, and with audacious hand,
Grasped he the helm, and turned the vessel's head
Toward unknown seas, and, at his fierce command,
Through the red foam and howling waves, the dark,
Ill-visaged mariners to ruin sailed the barque.

XLII.

I shuddered for a time, and looked again,
Watching the day of that eventful dawn;
Wild War had broken his adamantine chain,
Bestrid the steed of Anarchy, and drawn
His bloody scimiter; a fiery rain
Of blood poured on the land, and scorched the corn;
Wild shouts, mad cries, and frequent trumpets rang,
And iron hoofs thundered with constant clang.

107

XLIII.

I saw and heard no more, for I did faint,
And would have fallen to the earth, had not
Ariel stooped and caught me as I went.
He raised the sail, and left that fearful spot;
And while into the soft, cool air I leant,
Drinking the wind that followed the swift boat,
He said to me, with gentle voice and clear,
Ringing like tones æolian in my ear:

XLIV.

“Thou has not seen the woes that are to come,
The long, dark days, that lengthen into years,
The reign of rapine, when the laws are dumb,
The bloody fields, the hearth-stones wet with tears;
The starving children, wrangling for a crumb,
The cries of ravished maidens, that God hears,
And does not heed, the blackened walls that stand
Amid the graves, through all the wasted land.

XLV.

“Go, tell your misled people the sad fate,
The bitter woes and sharp calamities,
That in the swiftly-coming Future wait;
The fruit of Faction's sordid villainies,

108

Of discord and dissension, greed and hate,
And all that in man base and brutal is;
Unless they guard, with sleepless vigilance,
Their liberties against such dire mischance.”

XLVI.

He said no more; meanwhile we kept along
The elemental greenness of the ocean,
Whose great breast throbbed and trembled with the strong
Stern pulses of its vibratory motion;
Across still bays, mid many a tangled throng
Of misty isles, sleeping like sweet devotion
In woman's heart, bordered with low white shores,
Running off inland with green level floors.

XLVII.

We saw grey water-plants that fanned the deep,
With golden hair, far down beneath the boat;
Caverns, shell-paven, where the Naiads sleep;
Clouds of thick light through the great Vast that float;
Great emerald-rifts, wherein the ripples keep
A constant murmur of æolic notes;
Broad beds of coral, rosy as the Dawn,
The radiant sea-flowers thick on many a lawn.

109

XLVIII.

And then we left the boat, and quick descended,
Through the clear air, as we had first arisen,
Unto my home, wherein I found extended
That which again became my sad soul's prison;
Then with a brief adieu he upward wended,
While far behind long lines of light did glisten;
Leaving me meditating on my dream,
Which still like deep and dark reality doth seem.

1833.

110

ODE TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

Thou glorious mocker of the world! I hear
Thy many voices ringing through the glooms
Of these green solitudes; and all the clear,
Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear,
And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs
Of vanished nations rolls thy music-tide:
No light from History's starlit page illumes
The memory of these nations: They have died:
None care for them but thou; and thou mayst sing,
Over me, too, perhaps, as thy notes ring
Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified.

Glad scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave
The world's mad turmoil and incessant din,
Where none in others' honesty believe,
Where the old sigh, the young turn gray and grieve,
Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within;
Thou fleest far into the dark green woods,
Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win
Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes
No discord on thy melodies. Oh, where,
Among the sweet musicians of the air,
Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes?

111

Ha! what a burst was that! The Æolian strain
Goes floating through the tangled passages
Of the still woods; and now it comes again,
A multitudinous melody, like a rain
Of glassy music under echoing trees,
Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul
With a bright harmony of happiness,
Even as a gem is wrapped, when round it roll
Thin waves of crimson flame; till we become,
With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb,
And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal.

I cannot love the man who doth not love,
As men love light, the songs of happy birds;
For the first visions that my boy-heart wove,
To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove
Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds
Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun,
Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, as words
From the Poet's lips float gently, one by one,
And vanish in the human heart; and then
I revelled in such songs, and sorrowed, when,
With noon-heat overwrought, the music-gush was done.

I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee,
Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades,
Alone with Nature!—but it may not be:
I have to struggle with the stormy sea

112

Of human life until existence fades
Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar
Through the thick woods and shadow-chequered glades,
While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o'er
The brilliance of thy heart; but I must wear,
As now, my garments of regret and care,
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore.

Yet, why complain? What though fond hopes deferred
Have overshadowed Life's green paths with gloom?
Content's soft music is not all unheard:
There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird,
To welcome me, within my humble home;
There is an eye, with love's devotion bright,
The darkness of existence to illume.
Then why complain? When Death shall cast his blight
Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest
Beneath these trees; and from thy swelling breast
Over them pour thy song, like a rich flood of light.

1834.

113

AN EVENING CONVERSATION.

One day last Spring,—one sunny afternoon,—
Lapt in contented indolence, I lay
Within a pillared circle of old trees;
Deep-bedded in the smooth luxurious sward,
That, fed by dropping dew and faithful shade,
Grew green and thick under the stout, strong oaks.
Around me the broad trees kept watch and ward,
Swinging their foreheads slowly in the air,—
Green islets in an eddying overflow
Of amber light. Among the emerald leaves
The broken waves from that enfolding sea
Struggled to reach the young birds in their nests,
As truth strives earnestly to reach the heart,
Often repulsed, yet still endeavouring.
One strip of light lay on the level grass,
Like a thin drift of pearl-snow, tinged with rose.
There I had lain since noon, stretched out at ease,
Reading, by turns, in this and that old book,
Fuller, Montaigne, and good Sir Thomas Browne,
Feltham and Herbert. Mingling with the light,
As in a song mingle two girls' sweet voices,
The song of many a mad bird floated up,
Dazzling my ears, to the high empyrean.
Breaking upon the blue sky's western beach,

114

Flung upward from the throbbing sea below,
The waves of light and cloud foamed up in spray,
Stained by the sun with all his richest colours,
Sapphire and sardonyx: floating forth, perfumes
From rose and jasmine wandered wide abroad,
Into the meadow, and along the creek,
That dances joyfully along its bed
Of silver sand and pebbles, through the glade.
And like a child, frightened at sudden dusk,
Stops, still as death, under yon dark gray crag,
Of thunder-scarred and overhanging rock,
Where in deep holes lurks the suspicious trout.
The locust-trees, with honey-dropping blooms,
Tempted the bees, that, darting to and fro,
Grew rich apace with their abundant spoil:
And the magnolia, with its sweet perfume,
Within large circle loaded all the air.
My children played around me on the grass,—
Sad rogues, that interrupted much my thought,
And did perplex my reading,—one in chief,
A little chattering girl with bright brown eyes,
Scarce taught to speak distinctly, but my pet,
As she well knew, and of it took advantage.
While there I lay, reading in idle mood,
I heard a step along the shaded walk,
Where the clematis and the climbing rose,
The honeysuckle and the jasmine turned

115

Their bright eyes to the sun,—an emerald arch,
With golden flowers embroidered. Looking up,
I saw approaching, with his kindly smile,
And outstretched hand, the dearest of my friends,
Who played with me in childhood on the sands,
And on the sounding rocks that fringed the sea,
And on the green banks of the Merrimac;
Grew up with me to manhood, with me left
Our ancient home, and many a weary month,
Fast by my side, still toiled and travelled on,
Through desert, forest, danger, over mountains,
Amid wild storms, deep snows,—bore much fatigue,
Hunger and thirst, bravely and like a man.—
After warm welcome kindly interchanged,
Idly we stretched ourselves upon the sward,
And lightly talked of half a hundred things,
Each with a little head upon his arm,
Whose bright eyes looked as gravely into ours,
As though they understood our large discourse:
Until at length it chanced that Luther said,
Responding to some self-congratulation
That bubbled from the fountain of my heart,
At thinking of my humble, happy life:—

“We are all mariners on this sea of life;
And they who climb above us up the shrouds,
Have only, in their over-topping place,
Gained a more dangerous station, and foothold

116

More insecure. The wind, that passeth over,
And harmeth not the humble crew below,
Whistleth amid the shrouds, and shaketh down
These overweening climbers of the ocean,
Into the seething waters of the sea.
The humble traveller securely walks
Along green valleys, walled with rocky crags,
Deep-buried vales, in Alps or Apennine,
By Titans sentinelled, yet rich with flowers,
And gushing with cool springs;—a cloudless sun
Lighting his pathway;—while the venturous fool,
Who climbed the neighboring mountain, sees, aghast
The purple drifts of thunder-shaken cloud
Roll foaming over the blue icy crags,
On which his feet slip,—feels the heavy spray
Dash, roaring like a sea, against his side,
And bitterly reprents he climbed so high.
Sharp lightning flashes through the billowy dusk
Of the mad tempest. Through the lonely pines,
Far down below him, howls the exulting wind,—
The thunder crashes round his dizzy head,—
And smitten by the earthquake's mailed hand
The just whereon he stands gives way, like Power,
And down a thousand fathoms headlong falls
The ambitious climber, a bruised, bloody mass,
Before the peaceful traveller below.
Better a quiet life amid our books,

117

Than, like mad swimmers in a stormy ocean,
To breast the roar and tumult of the world.”

“I think so, too: and I am well content
To lead a peaceful, quiet, humble life,
Among my children and my patient books.
Disgrace and danger, like two hungry hounds,
Run ever on the track of those who do
Good service to their country, or achieve
Distinction and a name above their fellows.
And slander is an ever-current coin,
Easy of utterance as pure gold, deep-stamped
With the king's image, in the mint of Truth.
What service to his country can one do,
In the wild warfare of the present age?
To gain success, the masses must be swayed;—
To sway the masses, one must be well skilled
And dexterous with the weapons of the trade.
Who fights the gladiator without skill,
Fights without arms. Why! he must lie and cheat
By fair pretences, double and turn at will,
Profess whatever doctrine suits the time,
Juggle and trick with words, in everything
Be a base counterfeit, and fawn and crouch
Upon the level of the baser sort.
I love the truth, because it is the Truth,
And care not whether it be profitable,
Or if the common palate relish it.

118

Of all things most I hate the Plausible:
An open knave's an open enemy;
But sleek Pretence with the stilletto stabs,
At dusky corners, of a starless night.
The True and Popular are deadly foes,
Ever at dagger's point, in endless feud.
If one could serve his country by success,
Or strengthen her defences, he might well
Endure abuse and bitter contumely,
Slander and persecution; but to fling
One's self down headlong from the vessel's prow,
Into the angry chasms of the deep,
Without a hope to stay the ship's mad course,
Is the profoundest folly of the time.—
Behold how nobly sets the Imperial Sun!
The golden glories of his mellow rays
On the green meadow-level fall aslant;
On either side, the crests of snowy cloud,
With crimson inter-penetrated, shrink
And yield him room: no dusky bar obscures
The broad magnificence of his wide eye;
Though farther south, dark as a cataract
Of thundering waters, a great cloud lets down
Its curtain to the blue horizon's edge;
While, here and there, a wing of snowy foam,
Upon its front, glints like the shining sail
Of some aerial shallop, fleeing swift

119

Along the surface of the tranquil deep.—
Will truth at any time shine broadly forth,
Even as the sun shines, with no cloud of Error
To intercept a single glorious ray?”

“Truth is omnipotent, and will prevail;
And Public Justice certain.”

“Aye, my friend!
A great man said so. 'T is a noble thought,
Nobly expressed; itself a creed complete.
But in what sense is Truth omnipotent,
And at what time is Public Justice certain?—
Truth will avenge herself, for every wrong,
And for all treason to her majesty,
Upon the nation or the individual,
That doth the wrong, by those grave consequences,
Which do, from falsehood or in deed or word,
By law inflexible result. The cause
Why nations do so often topple down,
Like avalanches, from their eminence,
Why men do slink into disastrous graves,
In the stern sentence hath been well expressed;
‘Ye would not know the truth or follow it.’
Truth has the power to vindicate itself;
But to convince all men that 't is the truth,
Is far beyond its reach: and public virtue
And public service eminent, are paid,
In life, by obloquy and contumely,

120

But, after death, by large obsequies,
And monuments and mausolea. Thus
Is public justice certain. We regard
With slight observance and a careless glance,
The Sun that now has closed his radiant eye,
Below the dim horizon's dusky verge,
So long as we behold him in the heavens,
And know that God's Omnipotence compels
His due return. We give no earnest thanks
Of heartfelt gratitude for this great gift
Of light, the largest blessing of them all.—
Lo! he has sunk beneath the glassy sea
Of the broad prairie, whose great emerald lid
Shuts slowly over him. If never more
That glorious orb should rise to light the earth,
Men, staggering blindly through unnatural night,
Would understand the blessing they had lost,
And public justice would be done the Sun.”

“After a long, dark night, a starless night,
In which the thin moon early struggled down
To where the sky and desert met together,
Plunging with hard endeavor through the surf
And spray that gloomed along the tortured heaven,—
After a long, dark night of storm and sleet,
The daylight comes with slow and feeble steps.
How imperceptibly the Dawn begins,
After the storm has sobbed itself asleep,

121

To shine upon the eyelids of the East.
By slow degrees the distant snowy crests
Of the great mountains, where, for age on age,
Tempests have vainly thundered, are discerned
Upheaving their dim heads among the clouds.
The straining eye then makes the contour out
Of the near forests. Then a rosy mist
Spreads like a blush upon the purple clouds
Becoming by degrees a crimson light;
Until, at last, after a weary watch,
Kept by cold voyagers on disastrous seas,
Or storm-vexed travellers on wide desert plains,
The broad sun rushes through the eddying mist,
Flinging it off, as from a frigate's prow
Flash back the sparkling waves. The wakened world,
Gladdened with light, rejoices in her strength,
And men adore the imperatorial Sun.
So shall it be with Truth. Long Ages are
The minutes of her twilight. The white sails
Of the Dawn's boat are crimsoned by her light,
Where it lies rocking near the eastern strand,
Waiting a pilot to assume the helm,
And steer it round the circle of the sky;
For Truth below the horizon lingers yet.
But after you and I are dead and cold,
Our bones all mouldered to a little dust,

122

Our monuments all crumbled into clay,
She, like the sun, shall rise and light the world,
Never to set. The humblest man has power
To accelerate her coming; and the words
We speak or write, in that effect shall live
Long after we are gathered to the dead.
Thought shakes the world, as the strong earthquake's tread
Shakes the old mountains and the impatient sea.
Each written word, teaching the humblest truth,
No matter in what homely garb arrayed,
Is one of those uncounted myriad drops
That make the stream of Thought, which first sprung forth
A slender, feeble rill, when all the earth
Was dark as midnight, from the inmost caves
And deep recesses of the human mind,
Where it was born. Think you one drop is lost
Of all by which that stream has grown so great?—
No longer trickling over the gray rocks,
Or foaming over precipice and crag,
It rolls along, a broad, deep, tranquil stream,
Resistless in calm energy and strength,
Through the wide plains,—and feels the giant pulse,
(So near it is to universal power),
Of Ocean throbbing in its great blue heart.
Let us work on!—for surely it is true
That none work faithfully without result.

123

What if we do not the result perceive?
God sees it: it is present now, to Him:
So that we know our labour is not lost.”

“Content you friend! I shall not cease to work.
I am the harnessed champion of Truth,
Cuirassed and greaved, sworn to her glorious cause,
With Beauty's favor glittering in my helm.
But henceforth I shall labour in the peace
And quietness of my beloved home.
No good is wrought by mingling in the fray
Of party-war. Under these kingly trees,
Encouraged by my children's loving eyes,
Soothed to serene and self-possessed content,
By all the sights and sounds that bless me here,
Will I work ever in her noble cause.
The words of Truth should flow upon the ears
Of the unwilling world, until it heeds:
Even as the crystal waters of our spring,
That, night and day, all seasons of the year,
Indifferent to censure or to praise,
Seen and unseen, singing their quiet tune,
Leap joyfully over its grassy brim,
Starred with bright flowers; rain on the thankful sward,
Where now the almond drops its rosy gems,
And the syringa trails its drooping twigs,
Fringed thickly with its small and snowy blooms;
And murmuring their gratitude to God,

124

Flow onward, seeking patiently the sea;
Not other now, than when, for many an age,
Primæval forests hid it from all sight,
Save the fond stars; no lip bent down to drink;
And since creation's morning, not an eye
Of man had seen it. 'T is a pregnant lesson.”

“I see its waters gleaming in the light
Of the young moon, and hear the slender sound
Of the stirred pebbles in its narrow bed.
If men would do their duty, like the springs,
Committing the result and their reward
To God, who loveth all, the golden age,
That most delicious fable of old rhyme,
Would come indeed.”
“I, for my single self,
Shall still live on in this, the peaceful calm
And golden ease of my dear humble home:
As in the sheltered harbor of some isle,
Enclosed by southern seas, the storm-worn ship
Escaped the waves, old ocean's hungry hounds,
That cry and chafe without, furls all her sails,
And sleeps within the shadow of the trees,
Rocked by the undulations caused by storm,
That vexes all the ocean round the isle.
Here will I make myself a golden age,
Here live content, and happier than a king.

125

Nor bird that swings and sleeps in his small nest,
Nor bee that revels in the jasmine-blooms,
Nor humming-bird, that robs the honeysuckle,
Nor cricket, nested under the warm hearth,
Shall sing or work more cheerfully than I.”
With this, the moon, opening one azure lid,
Had sometime poured her light upon the birds,
Among the green leaves of the ancient oaks;
The drops rained thick upon the bright green grass,
From the spring's brim, like a swift silver hail;
The meadow seemed a wide, clear, level lake
Of molten silver, by her alchemy;
The shoulders of the northern mountains glittered
With a new glory, and one splintered peak
Shot up in bold relief against the sky,
With one large star resting upon his crown,
A beacon-light on a Titanic tower.
Around that peak, to north and east stretched out
The line of dusky forest, far away,
Bounding the prairie like a rampart there,
With curtain, bastion, scarp and counterscarp.
The thick stars smiled upon the laughing earth,
As bright and cheerful as a young child's eyes.
The thin leaves, shaken by the southern wind,
Murmured in night's pleased ear. The light dew fell
On bud and flower; and, wakened by the moon,

126

The locust and the katydid sang loud
And shrill within the shadows of the trees.
While in the thorn-tree, growing near the spring,
Hid in the drifted snow of its white blooms,
The merry mimic of our southern woods
Poured out large waves of gushing melody,
That overflowed the meadow many a rood,
And undulated through the pillared trees.
Our little audience, fallen fast asleep,
Reminded us of home. So we arose,
And slowly walking to the house, there sat
Near the large windows, where the moon shone in
Upon the carpets, and the Spring's warm breath,
Sweet as a girl's, came heavy with perfume;
And, with a bottle of bright, sparkling wine,
From sunny France, and fitful conversation,
Sustained awhile, then dying into silence,
Prolonged our sitting far into the night.

1845.

127

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

Our shallop, long with tempest tried,
Floats calmly down life's tranquil tide;
Blue skies are laughing overhead,
The river sparkles in its bed;
The sunbeams from the waters glancing,
On the white canvas flashing glisten;
The small waves round our vessel dancing,
Melt and dissolve in silver foam,
And we, in our frail home,
To the charmed water-music listen.

We and our little children float,
Dreaming, in this enchanted boat:
A gentle and propitious gale,
Follows, and fills the snowy sail,
From spicy Southern wildernesses,
And thickets of acacia blowing,—
Where dewy morning's golden tresses,
Shine through the darkling purple gloom
And, loaded with perfume,
The sea of air is overflowing.

Great trees their branches overhead
Thrust forth, with flowers thick-garlanded;

128

And while our little bark we steer
Through the bright rosy atmosphere,
The thick leaves murmuringly quiver;
The golden sunlight, floating, flashes
On green isles jewelling the river,
On whose smooth, silver-sanded shore,
Foaming up evermore,
The current musically plashes.

But westward a dark, frowning cloud
Veils the bright river, like a shroud;
Where, wandering under unknown skies,
Its course is hidden from our eyes.
We only know that onward ever,
Lapsing with fluctuating motion,
The mighty and majestic river,
To where the sunset glories fade,
Through changing light and shade
Runs to Eternity's broad ocean.

Between what bleak and desert shores,
Down what harsh cataracts it pours,
Over what rocks and treacherous shoals,
The fretted river hoarsely rolls,
We know not: We are in God's keeping:
He loves and will protect us ever.

129

Now, while our little ones are sleeping,
Kneel we in earnest prayer to Him
To guide us through the dim
And unknown perils of Life's river.

1845.

130

SPRING.

O, thou delicious Spring!
Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers,
Raining from clouds exhaled from dews that cling
To odorous beds of rare and fragrant flowers,
And honeysuckle bowers,
That over grassy walks their tendrils fling:
Come, gentle spring!

Thou lover of soft winds!
That wander from the invisible upper sea
Whose foam the clouds are, when young May unbinds
Her dewey hair, and with sweet sympathy
Makes crisp leaves dance with glee,
Even in the teeth of that old sober hind,
Winter unkind.

Come to us! for thou art
Like the pure love of children, gentle Spring,
Filling with delicate pleasure the lone heart;
Or like a modest virgin's welcoming;
And thou dost bring
Fair skies, soft breezes, bees upon the wing,
Low murmuring.

131

Red Autumn, from the South,
Contends with thee. What beauty can he show?
What are his purple-stained and rosy mouth,
And nut-brown cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow,
And exquisite fresh glow,
Thy timid flowers, in their sweet virgin growth
And modest youth?

Hale Summer follows thee,
But not with beauty delicate as thine;—
All things that live rejoice thy face to see;
But when he comes, they pant for heat, and pine
For Arctic ice, and wine
Thick-frozen, sipped under a shady tree,—
With dreams of thee.

Come, sit upon our hills,
Wake the chilled brooks, and send them down their side,
To make the valleys smile with sparkling rills;
And when the stars into their places glide,
And Dian sits in pride,
I, too, will breathe thine influence that thrills
The grassy hills.

Alas! sweet Spring!—not long
Wilt thou remain, lament thee as we may;
For as rude Summer waxes stout and strong,
Thou wilt grow thin and pale, and fade away

132

As dreams flit, scared at day;
Thou wilt no more to us or earth belong,
Except in song.

So I, who sing, shall die,
Worn thin and pale, perhaps, by care and sorrow;
And, fainting, with a soft, unconscious sigh,
Bid unto this poor body that I borrow,
A long good-by,—to-morrow
To enjoy, I hope, eternal Spring on high,
Beyond the sky.

1829.

133

AULD LANG SYNE.

“Should auld acquentance be forgot,
“And never brought to min'?
“Should auld acquentance be forgot,
“And Auld Lang Syne?

“For Auld Lang Syne, my Jo!
“For Auld Lang Syne;
“We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet
“For Auld Lang Syne.”

“An' surely ye'll your glasses fill,
“An' surely I'll fill mine,
“An' we'll tak' a right gude willy-wought
“For Auld Lang Syne.

“For Auld Land Syne, etc.

'Tis mony a year sin' first we met,
Wi' song an' jest an' wine,
And aft we saw the day-star rise
In Auld Lang Syne,

For Auld Lang Syne, etc.

134

We a' hae had our ups an' doons,
Great sorrows, joys divine;
And some hae won, and some hae lost,
Sin' Auld Lang Syne.

For Auld Lang Syne, etc.

And some hae foemen been, and charged
In column and in line,
Each fighting for his flag and faith,
And Auld Lang Syne.

For Auld Lang Syne, etc.

And they who lost, nae malice bear,
Nor murmur nor repine;
And they who won, the losers luve,
For Auld Lang Syne.

For Auld Lang Syne, etc.

And some hae seen the simmer sun
On mony a broad land shine,
And wandered mony a weary foot,
Sin' Auld Lang Syne.

For Auld Lang Syne, etc.

The laurel and the cypress on
Some grassy graves entwine,
Where those are laid who lo'ed us weel
In Auld Lang Syne.

For Auld Lang Syne, etc.

135

And some we luve, in foreign lands
To see their ain land pine,
And backward look, wi' fond regret.
To Auld Lang Syne.

For Auld Lang Syne, etc.

We a' hae had our luves and hates—
The hates we a' resign,
But keep the luves a' fresh and green,
For Auld Lang Syne.

For Auld Lang Syne, etc.

“An' there's a han', each trusty frien',
“And gi'e's a han' o' thine!
“An' we'll tak' a right gude-willy wought,
“For Auld Lang Syne.

“For Auld Lang Syne, etc.”

An' when we shut the book o' life,
An' a' of earth resign,
The memories shall, if sad, be sweet,
Of Auld Lang Syne.

For Auld Lang Syne, etc

1869.

136

THE STRUGGLE FOR FREEDOM.

The Ancient Wrong rules many a land, whose groans
Rise swarming to the stars by day and night,
Thronging with mournful clamour round the thrones
Where the Archangels sit in God's great light,
And, pitying, mourn to see that Wrong still reigns,
And tortured Nations writhe in galling chains.

From Hungary and France fierce cries go up
And beat against the portals of the skies;
Lashed Italy still drinks the bitter cup,
And Germany in abject stupor lies;
The knout on Poland's bloody shoulders rings,
And Time is all one jubilee of kings.

It will not be so always. Through the night
The suffering multitudes with joy descry
Beyond the ocean a great beacon-light,
Flashing its rays into their starless sky,
And teaching them to struggle and be free,—
The light of Order, Law, and Liberty.

Take heart, ye bleeding Nations; and your chains
Shall shiver like thin glass. The dawn is near,

137

When Earth shall feel, through all her aged veins
The new blood pouring; and her drowsy ear
Hear Freedom's trumpet ringing in the sky,
Calling her braves to conquer or to die.

Arm and revolt, and let the hunted stags
Against the lordly lions stand at bay!—
Each pass, Thermopylæ, and all the crags,
Young Freedom's fortresses!—and soon the day
Shall come when Right shall rule, and round the thrones
That gird God's feet shall eddy no more groans.

1853.

138

NIGHT ON THE ARKANSA.

Night comes upon the Arkansa with swift stride,—
Its dark and turbid waters roll along,
Bearing wrecked trees and drift,—deep, red, and wide.
The heavy forests sleeps on either side,
To the water's edge low-stooping; and among
The patient stars the moon her lamp has hung,
Lit with the spirit of the buried sun.
No blue waves dance the stream's dark bosom on,
Glittering like beauty's sparkling starry tears;
No crest of foam, crowning the river dun,
Its misty ridge of frozen light uprears:
One sole relief in the great void appears—
A dark, blue ridge, set sharp against the sky,
Beyond the forest's utmost boundary.

Not so wast thou, O, brave old Merrimac!
As I remember thee; as thou art seen
By the Soul's eyes, when, dreaming, I go back
To my old home, and see the small boats tack
On thy blue waters, gliding swift between
The old gray rocks that o'er them fondly lean,
Their foreheads scarred with lightning. There, around

139

Grim capes the surly waterswhirl and bound;
And here and there grave patriarchal trees
Persuade the grass to clothe the reluctant ground
And frowning banks with green. Still villages
Sleep in the embraces of the cool sea-breeze:—
Ah, brave old stream!—thou seemest to infold
My heart within thy waters, as of old.

1838.

140

MY NATIVE LAND, MY TENNESSEE.

[WRITTEN FOR MRS. WASHINGTON BARROW.]

The Sunset flings upon the Sea
Its golden gush of life and light;
The waves with pleasant melody
On the white sands are sparkling bright;
Old Ocean, round his many isles,
Like a fair infant sleeping smiles;—
So would I sleep, and dream of thee,
My own, my native land, my Tennessee!

Tall mountains with their snowy cones,
Far inland, bathed in sunshine, blaze;
Like gray-haired giants on their thrones,
Crowned with the young dawn's golden rays.
Toward them I lean, and fain would lie
Guarded by those that pierce thy sky,
Thou dearest land on earth to me,
My own, my native land, my Tennessee!

Landward and swift the sea-bird flies,
Dipping his strong and nervous wings
In the blue waves, as home he hies,
A truant from his wanderings.

141

He goes to seek his gentle mate,
His young with longing eyes that wait;
So would I fain haste home to thee,
My own, my native land, my Tennessee!

Existence!—'tis but toil and strife,—
Yet I'll not murmur or repine,
So that the Sunset of my life,
Sweet day! be clear and calm as thine;—
So that I take my last, long rest,
Dear native land, on thy loved breast;
Land of the gallant and the free!
My own, my native land, my Tennessee!

1839.

142

O DEAREST, O DAINTIEST MIGNONNE!

O dearest, O daintest Mignonne!—
O Darling! most perfect and rare!—
What one of all Eve's fairest daughters
With Mignonne can claim to compare?

Your gray eyes take captive your lovers,
Your kisses are each worth a throne;
Your dear arms and hands would impassion
A statue of Parian stone.

Your voice thrills with exquisite pathos,
In every heart that can feel
The magic of song and sweet music,
And of all that these jointly reveal.

Your lips, curled in scorn, are delicious,
When you pout, you are lovelier still,—
When they part, as enchanted I kiss them,
My soul with glad rapture they thrill.

Your bosom—we see but its contour,
And dream of its beauties divine;
So was Paradise closed against Adam,
As Love veils his holiest shrine.

143

Your dear little lilly-stem fingers
Weave nets for the catching of hearts;
Your tresses make fetters to bind them,—
The slaves of your mischievous arts.

Your little feet make sweetest music,
Your ankle one's fingers can span;—
What exquisite charms do you hide from
The eyes of inquisitive man!

My heart struggles hard in your meshes,
Like a bird in a merciless hand;
I'm your captive, your servant, your bondman,
Obedient to every command.

Capricious and willful, but loving,
Offended, you quickly forgive;
For you know that I love you so dearly,
I must cease, if you do not, to live.

You smile, Heaven's golden gates open,—
With light heart all dangers we dare;
You frown,—and the gates shut behind us,
We sink in the pit of despair.

144

O dearest, O daintiest Mignonne!
O Darling! most perfect and sweet!—
On my heart, if you will, you can trample,
For 'tis under your delicate feet.

1868.

145

“AFTER THE MIDNIGHT COMETH MORN.”

[A SONG, DEDICATED TO SENORITA CAROLINA CASSARD.]

The Years come, and the Years go,
And the leaves of life keep falling,
Queridita!
And across the sunless river's flow,
With accents soft and whisper's low,
The friends long lost are calling,
Queridita!
While Autumn his red glory wears,
And clouds oppress the sky, like cares:—
But the old griefs die, and new joys are born,
And always after Midnight cometh Morn.

The Years wake, and the Years sleep,
And the Past is full of sorrow,
Queridita!
The thoughtless laughs and the thoughtful weeps,
And each the fruit of his follies reaps,
For To-day is the Fate of To-morrow,
Queridita!
But new loves tempt us to forget
The old, and old friends love us yet:—
So the old griefs die, and new joys are born,
And always after Midnight cometh Morn.

146

The Years laugh, and the Years sigh,
But the flowers for you are blowing,
Queridita!
As Girlhood's days go dancing by,
And Womanhood's blithe May is nigh,
With hopes and fancies glowing,
Queridita!
While Love his nets for you prepares,
And lurks to catch you unawares;—
And the old griefs die, and new joys are born,
And always after Midnight cometh Morn.

The Years live, and the Years die,
And all they touch they sadden,
Queridita!
But still the heart can Time defy,
Hope still with purple flush our sky,
And sober friendship gladden,
Queridita!
And well as we have loved before,
In Autumn we can love once more:—
For the old griefs die, and new joys are born,
And always after Midnight cometh Morn.
Querida mia!

1870.

147

THE WIDOWED HEART.

LACHRYMÆ PONDERA VOCIS HABENT.
TRISTIS ERIS, SI SOLUS ERIS: DOMINÆQUE RELICTÆ
ANTE OCULOS FACIES STABIT, UT IPSA, TUOUS.

Thou art lost to me forever!—I have lost thee, Isadore!
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more;
Thy tender eyes will never more look fondly into mine,
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine,—
Thou are lost to me forever, Isadore!

Thou art dead and gone, dear loving wife, thy heart is still and cold,
And mine, benumbed with wretchedness, is prematurely old:
Of our whole world of love and joy thou wast the only light,
A star, whose setting left behind, ah me! how dark a night!—
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!

The vines and flowers we planted, Love, I tend with anxious care,
And yet they droop and fade away, as though they wanted air:

148

They cannot live without thine eyes to feed them with their light:
Since thy hands ceased to train them, Love, they cannot grow aright;—
Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore!

Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother gone,—
What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone?
For if I say, “To Heaven,” then the poor things wish to learn
How far it is, and where, and when their mother will return:—
Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore!

Our happy home has now become a lonely, silent place;
Like Heaven without its stars it is, without thy blessed face:
Our little ones are still and sad;—none love them now but I,
Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always nigh!—
Thou lovest us in Heaven, Isadore!

Their merry laugh is heard no more, they neither run nor play,
But wander round like little ghosts, the long, long Summer-day:

149

The spider weaves his web across the windows at his will,
The flowers I gathered for thee last are on the mantel still,—
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!

Restless I pace our lonely rooms, I play our songs no more,
The garish Sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings, O melancholy strain!
For my heart is like an Autumn-cloud that overflows with rain;
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!

Alas! how changed is all, dear wife, from that sweet eve in Spring,
When first my love for thee was told, and thou to me didst cling,
Thy sweet eyes radiant through their tears, pressing thy lips to mine,
In our old arbor, Dear, beneath the over-arching vine;—
Those lips are cold forever, Isadore!

The moonlight struggled through the leaves, and fell upon thy face,
So lovingly upturning there, with pure and trustful gaze;

150

The Southern breezes murmured through the dark cloud of thy hair,
As like a happy child thou didst in my arms nestle there;—
Death holds thee now forever, Isadore!

Thy love and faith so plighted then, with mingled smile and tear,
Was never broken, Darling, while we dwelt together here:
Nor bitter word, nor dark, cold look thou ever gavest me—
Loving and trusting always, as I loved and worshipped thee;—
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!

Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in health,
So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our wealth:
Thy voice of music cheered me, Love, in each despondent hour,
As Heaven's sweet honey-dew consoles the bruised and broken flower;—
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!

Thou art gone from me forever;—I have lost thee, Isadore!
And desolate and lonely I shall be forevermore:
Our children hold me, Darling, or I to God should pray
To let me cast the burthen of this long, dark life away,
And see thy face in Heaven, Isadore!

151

THE DEAD CHASE.

A LEGEND.

A morning of early June,—
The wind slept cradled in leaves,
And the throstles were singing a soft low tune,
In the ivy under the eaves.

The silver brooklets murmured
Sweet music in the grass;
As the faint tones of an organ
Swell at the evening mass.

The velvet sward, like a smooth, green sea,
Glittered and flashed incessantly,
With dewy diamonds of the dawn,
Through which went springing the spotted fawn;
And the snake lay idly across the path,
That wound amid the vibrating swath.

Within the deep-green heavy glooms,
Were beds of orange and crimson blooms,
Whose sweet perfume and odor stole
To the inmost crypts of the grateful soul,
Like harmonies faintly heard, that seem
The sweet, sad memories of a dream.

152

The lily grew in the shade,
And the dew-drop lay in its blossom,
Like a rosy diamond, laid
On a virgin's snowy bosom:

The heart of the crimson rose was blushing
At the kisses of the sun;
Like the cheek of a timid maiden, flushing
After her heart is won.

A wall of cliffs half ringed the dell
That sheltered by it slept;
In one gray crag a hollowed cell
Near which a leaping torrent fell,
And a Hermit his vigils kept.

A snowy mountain, close behind,
Shot upward like a flame,
From which with a roar like a mighty wind
The headlong river came.

A man once proud and stately,
Now haggard with despair;
Whose scared eyes, straining, seem to see
Far off some great calamity;
Some terror, darkening all the air,
And armed with nameless agony.

153

The woodlark, from her low nest, toward
The sky shot, like a dart,
Gladly carolling as she soared
Into the sky's blue heart.

He neither heeds, nor hears, nor sees,
Nature to him is dumb,
And all her charming coquetries
Have odious become.

His face grows dark; no longer now
His soul its dread obeys;
His eyes that full of anguish were,
Like a hunted tiger's blaze.

A sound came clashing past,
On the wings of the startled air,
Like the sound of hoofs that far and fast
A reckless rider bear.

The eagle rose from the trackless snows,
Where he sat like a king on his throne;
And high he flew, where the sunlight through
His dark gray plumage shone;
Unfolded his heart in a wild scream there,
And fanned with his wings the morning air.

154

A great steed came, like a mighty rain,
Down the steep mountain's side;
Thick as a storm his flowing mane,—
A horse for a Prince to ride.
He stopped before the Hermit's cell,
Like a statue of stone, immovable.

And near this courser stood
A black hound, with fresh blood
About his feet and upon his jaws;
His teeth were long, and sharp, and white,
Left by his curling lips in sight;
His strong feet fanged with claws.

He bayed not, and he made no moan,
But beside the steed he sat like stone,
And looked in the Hermit's eye:
What want they with the Hermit,
That on him thus they stare.—
That hound so fiery-eyed, that steed,
A stern and silent pair?

The Hermit shuddered at the sight.
But never a word he said;
Only his lips became as white
As the marble lips of the dead.

155

Slowly he comes to the steed that waits,
As men walk in their sleep;
As birds that a serpent fascinates
Into their jaws do creep.

Now springs he upon the courser's back,
Saddle and bridle none;
The hound has risen, and, baying loud,
Down the green slope has gone.

Uprose the sun; the steed sped on;
His hoofs the green sward tore;
Over stream and hill, through brake and dell,
While the hound bayed on before.

He came to a river broad and deep;
Its waves ran high, its banks were steep;
He made nor stop nor stay,
But plunging in, through the loud din
Of its rapids stretched away.

Over sharp rocks and hillsides bald,
Where the spotted adder sleeps,—
Through forests as green as emerald,—
As the tyrannous tempest sweeps,

All day, all day, he stretched away,
And the tramp of his hoofs was heard,

156

Like an earthquake's foot, when his fiery heart
In his adamant caves is stirred.

All day, all day, he stretched away,
Till the gentle moon uprose,
And her soft, pale rays kissed Night's sweet face,
The firs and the mountain-snows.

And then he was heard careering up
That mountain's rocky side;
The eternal ice-crags crowned its top,
And the streams that poured from the Giant's cup,
Rushed foaming down his side.

And now he follows the black sleuth-hound,
On a glacier's frozen sea,
Grinding to snow with his iron hoof
Its still, green waves' transparent woof,
That since God gave the world its form,
Defies the lightning and the storm.

Midnight! midnight! The horse has stopped;
The moon stands still, likewise;
Without a mist, without a cloud,
The stars have shut their eyes.

The black hound circles round the steed:
Loud baying,—long and loud;

157

The Hermit sits as pale as Death:
But his eye is hard and proud.

A spectre comes athwart the moon;
Her light gleams through its bones
A cold wind rushes swiftly by,
All eddying with groans.

The mist of its long yellow hair
Floats like a ragged cloud;
What does the skeleton, without
A winding-sheet or shroud?

Out-springs the great black hound again;
Once more the scent is won;
Leap after leap, bay after bay:
He and the horse stretch far away;—
They chase the skeleton!

Day comes at last. The night is past,
But still the hunt holds on;
On hound and horse and spectre shine
The red rays of the sun.

Slow, slow as Death, Time draws his breath;
'Tis a weary space to noon;
And high and high the sun's red eye
Shines, shadowy, like the moon.

158

A desert stretches every way;
Dawn's crimson and dusk Evening's gray
Rest upon either edge;
The wind above it sighs alway;
Like the sighing of thin sedge.

In the middle of the desert
The horse and hound have stopped;
The hunted skeleton, likewise:
Upon the earth has dropped.

The hound lies panting by its side:
With his red nostrils open wide;
His eyes like torches glare:
The rider too has left his steed:
And sitteth speechless there.

Through his long hair the sharp wind moans:
But all beside is still;
He cannot choose but gaze upon
The green bones of the skeleton;
Through which the breezes thrill.

All day they sat in the desert:
Till the sun slid down the sky:
And in the west his lids of mist
Were folded over his eye.

159

Then in the west a shape appeared:
Between them and the sun;
Nearer and nearer yet it drew:
Until an armed man it grew:
A mail-clad destrier on.

“What dost thou here with hound and horse:
“Without a shield or spear?
“And why dost watch that skeleton:
“So mossy, green, and sere?

“What dost thou here? Twilight draws near:
“The weary Day recedes;
“Night's pilots her dark galley steer
“Among the trembling stars; while here
“Thou tellest over thy beads:—

“What dost thou here?” “Alight and learn:
“'Tis long to mirk midnight:
“Another sun will set, before
“Thou seest thy lady bright.

“Alight! I have a tale to tell:
“It will profit thee to hear:—
“That will vibrate in thy memory
“For many a long, long year.”

160

The Knight has leaped from his destrier,
And sits by the Hermit's side,
And listens to a strange, wild tale,
There in the desert wide.

“A chase was held, long years ago,
“On a sunny day of June,
“Where a hundred noble horsemen rode,
“From morning till high noon,

“With wanton glee and revelry,
“While the hounds before them ran;
“For, clad in steel, on strong, fleet steeds,
“They chased an outlawed man.

“For many an hour we chased the game;
“Hound after hound fell back,
“Till, man by man, I passed them all,
“And my strong hound led the pack.

“All night led on the deep-mouthed hound;
“And all night followed I;
“The wayward moon went slowly down,
“The white stars left the sky.

“Uprose the sun; my hound kept on,
“My good horse faltered not;
“And when the sun was in the south,
“I reached this desert spot.

161

“The Heretic lay here. Ah, God!
“That I that sight should see!
“His dead, dead eyes were opened wide,
“And sadly gazed at me.

“His flesh was torn, his bones were bare,
“All mangled was his head,
“And by his side my gaunt sleuth-hound
“Lay, with his jaws blood-red.

“I sate down by the dead man's side;
“I had no power to go;
“Methought that Time also was dead,
“His feet went by so slow.

“My good hound fawned upon my breast,
“And kindly too I him caressed;
“My tears did freely flow;
“I thought he was my only friend,
“And God Himself my foe.

“Alas! that weary afternoon!
“Nor sight nor sound came by;
“Only the lonesome wind, that through
“The dead man's hair did sigh.

“The moon uprist, swathed in gray mist,
“And up the heaven stole,
“While from the dead man's eyes, her light
“Pierced to my inmost soul.

162

“The cold wind swept across the plain,
“And savored of the sea;
“It came from my dear, sunny home,
“Lost like a dream to me.

“The corpse's pale lips then unclosed,
“His teeth in the moonlight shone,
“I sat and wept and beat my breast,
“Till close upon night's noon.

“Out of the chalice of the east,
“Dark clouds began to rise,
“Mass upon mass, and broad and fast,
“Red currents crossed the skies;

“And a moaning sound grew up afar,
“Like music in the air;
“It circled round and round the dead,
“And wailed and murmured there;

“A star slid down from heaven's roof,
“And nestled by his head;
“I knew it was his spirit, come
“With me to watch the Dead.

“And by its light,—oh, sad, sad sight!
“Two shadows I could see;
“One sate on either side, both gazed
“By turns on him and me.

163

“A soft light from their snowy hair
“Fell on his dead, pale face;
“They were his mother and his sire,
“Come from their heavenly place,
“To watch their dead, dead, mangled son,
“The last of all their race.

“Ah, God! those eyes did search my soul,
“So calm and sad they were;
“They were a conscience unto me,
“And yet I could not stir.

“The dark clouds folded over the moon,
“Like a wild rushing river,
“The lightning in the stormy east
“From bank to bank did quiver.

“Peal upon peal the thunder spoke,—
“My soul it did rejoice;
“Me from that death in life it woke,
“Like an old schoolmate's voice.

“That star still shone, in light or gloom,
“Like light in a dead man's eye;
“Those white-haired shadows never stirred,
“But still sat calmly by.

164

“Again I had the power to move,
“And I turned away mine eye;
“Between me and the clouds I saw
“A troop come hurrying by.

“With eager course they, man and horse,
“Like the wind of a tempest pressed;
“The lightning glittered through their shapes,
“As it glitters through the mist.

“This shadowy army of the dead,
“Rushed by me like the wind,
“Before, the thunder-hounds did bay,
“And a tempest howled behind.

“And, as they swept by me, I knew
“Each wan and ghastly face;
“Oh, God! how changed, since I and they
“Began that awful chase!

“The corse's spirit-star was quenched,
“As they came hurtling past,
“And he uprose as if alive,
“And before the troop fled fast.

“My hound sprang forward on the track
“Of the dead, bay after bay,
“My horse, too, joined the spectral host,
“And madly dashed away.

165

“All night the fierce storm roared around,
“And the thunder's constant roll;
“But still the gray-haired shadow's voice,
“Was heard above the tempest's noise,
“Like moans within the soul.

“And every year, this very night,
“That chase is held again:
“Again the skeleton flits fast
“Before that phantom-train.

“And every year, the very day
“When we began the chase,
“No matter where my weary heart
“Has found a resting-place;

“No matter where I dwell, my horse
“And hound come back to me;
“I cannot choose but mount, and thus
“The horrid hunt have we.

“And here, yea, even here, the chase
“Fails never to be stopped;
“And here, this day, these mouldering bones,
“Moss-grown and green, have dropped.

166

“I am a wretched, lonely man,
“No friend, no home, no God;
“Who many a year, through many a clime,
“My weary way have trod,—
“Alas! I would that I could lay
“My head beneath the sod!

“The white hair of those parents lies
“Like a shadow on my soul;
“In dreams his sightless eyeballs burn
“My worn heart like a coal.

“I pray to Heaven by night and day,
“My tears flow like the rain;
“And yet my useless cries procure
“No peace: I pray in vain.

“I dream that I was once a child,
“No bird more blithe and gay,
“My young heart, like a honey-bee,
“That hums the live-long day:
“But now it is a maimed bird,
“That mourns its life away.”

“God help thee, man! Thy crime was great,
“But in the eye of Heaven,
“Repentance may atone for all,—
“Thy great sin be forgiven.

167

“So we must dig a grave, and lay
“These mouldering bones therein,—
“Perhaps they there may rest, until
“The great assize begin.

“And we must pray to God on high
“And his beloved Son,
“To shed their gentle, genial rain
“Of love thy heart upon.

“So shall thy great sin be atoned,
“The murdered so forgive;
“And like the dead man touched by Christ,
“Thou shalt arise and live.”

With sword and battle-axe, the twain
Full earnestly did work,
While round them from the eastern caves
Night gathered, thick and mirk.

The moon arose, the gentle stars
Opened their lustrous eyes;
The spirit-star sate near the dead,
The shadows came likewise.

Before the moon fared overhead,
The grave was hollowed deep,
And earnestly they cried to Heaven.

168

To pardon and to keep
The soul whose sin had been so great,
And its remorse so deep.

The Hermit kneeled by the skeleton,
His thick tears wet the bones,
Like echoes from his inmost soul,
He uttered earnest moans.

His tears fell on the spirit-star,
And it blazed like a shaft of fire;
While music stole from the shadows' lips
Like the murmuring of a lyre.

They laid the bones within the grave,
They piled the sods thereon,
And many a fervent prayer they prayed,
After this toil was done.

The white star circled thrice around
The sodded grave above,
And the Hermit felt a load of woe
From his anguished heart remove;
For the light of the shadows' glittering hair
Sank into his soul and nestled there,
Like a dream of gentle love.

169

The moon that stood right overhead,
Was quenched as 'twere a lamp,
And a cold wind woke, and flitted by,
Its dark wings chill and damp.

Afar upon the east rang out,
A wild, fierce, startling bay,
And through the misty fields of foam,
Careered the wild array.

Till, near the grave, like a rushing wave,
The spectral huntsmen halt,
And circling round, each shadowy hound
Bays loudly, as at fault.

The star, arising from the grave,
Slowly towards Heaven soared,
And from it a great snowy light
Upon the Hermit poured.

Faint music from the pale, sad lips
Of the gray-haired shadows stole,
And filled the mute, delighted air,
And soothed the Hermit's soul.

Shrill cries were heard, the air was stirred,
As if wings rustled there,
And the spectral huntsmen melted, like
Thin shadows, into air.

170

Then through the lonely desert rung
The Æolian harps of Heaven
And angel-voices sweetly sung,
“The guilty is forgiven;
“Calm, calm thy troubled soul to peace!
“Thy chains of woe are riven.”

171

“LOVE BLOOMS BUT ONCE.”

A SONG.

When Autumn's chilly winds complain
And red leaves withered fall,
We know that Spring will laugh again,
And leaf and flower recall.

But when Love's saddening Autumn wears
The hues that death presage,
No Spring in Winter's lap prepares
A second Golden Age.

So when Life's Autumn sadly sighs,
Yet smiles its cold tears through,
No Spring, with warm and sunny skies,
The Soul's youth will renew.

Love blooms but once and dies—for all,—
Life has no second Spring:
The frost must come, the snow must fall,
Loud as the lark may sing.

O Love! O Life! ye fade like flowers,
That droop and die in June;
The present, ah! too short, is ours;
And Autumn comes too soon.

1865.

172

TO A ROBIN.

WRITTEN IN NEW MEXICO ON HEARING THE SONG OF THE ONLY RED-BREAST I EVER SAW THERE.

Hush, where art thou clinging,
And what art thou singing,
Bird of my own native land?
Thy song is as sweet as a fairy's feet
Stepping on silver sand.
And thou art now
As merry as though thou wert singing at home,
Far away, in the spray
Of a warm shower raining through odorous gloom;
Or as if thou wert hid, to the tip of thy wing,
By a broad oaken leaf in its greenness of Spring,
With thy nest lurking 'mid a gray heaven of shade,
To protect thy dear young from all harm fitly made.

Hush, hush! Look around thee!
Bleak mountains impound thee,
Cliffs gloomy, rocks barren and dead:
A desolate pine doth above thee incline,
But yields not a leaf for thy bed,

173

And lo! below,
No flowers of beauty or radiance bloom,
But weeds,—grayheads,—
That mutter and moan when the wind-tides loom.
And the rain never falls in the warm, sunny Spring,
To freshen thy heart or to strengthen thy wing.
But thou livest a hermit these deserts among,
Where Echo alone makes reply to thy song.

And while thou art chanting,
With head thus up-slanting,
Thou seemest a thought or a vision,
That flits with quick haste o'er the heart's lonely waste,
With an influence soothing, elysian:
Or a lone sweet tone,
That sounds for a time in the ear of sorrow;—
Ah! soon, too soon,
I must bid thee a long and a sad good morrow:—
But if thou wilt turn to the South thy wing,
I will meet thee again at the end of Spring,
And thy nest may be made where the peach and the vine
Shall shade thee, and tendril and leaf shall entwine.

Art thou not a stranger, and darer of danger,
That over these mountains hast flown?—
For the land of the North is the clime of thy birth,
And here thou, like me, art alone.
Go back on thy track;—

174

It were wiser and better for thee and me,
Than to moan, alone,
So far from the waves of our own bright sea;—
Then the eyes that we left to grow dim, months ago,
Will greet us again with their idolized glow.
Let us haste, then, sweet bird, to revisit our home,
Where the oak-leaves are green, and the sea-waters foam.

1832.

175

FAREWELL TO NEW ENGLAND.

Farewell to thee, New England!
Farewell to thee and thine!
Good-bye to leafy Newbury,
And Rowley's hills of pine!

Farewell to thee, brave Merrimac!
Good-by! old heart of blue!
May I but find, returning,
That all, like thee, are true!

Farewell to thee, old Ocean!
Gray father of mad waves!
Whose surge with constant motion
Against the granite raves.

Farewell to thee, old Ocean!
I shall see thy face once more,
And watch thy mighty waves again,
Along my own bright shore.

Farewell the White Hill's summer snow,
Ascutney's cone of green!
Farewell Monadnock's regal glow,
Old Holyoke's emerald sheen.

176

Farewell gray hills, broad lakes, sweet dells,
Green fields, trout-peopled brooks!
Farewell the old familiar bells!
Good-bye to home and books!

Good-bye to all! To friend and foe!
Few foes I leave behind;
I bid to all, before I go,
A long farewell and kind.

Proud of thee am I, noble land!
Home of the fair and brave!
Thy motto evermore should stand,
“Honor, or honor's grave!”

Whether I am on ocean tossed,
Or hunt where the wild-deer run,
Still shall it be my proudest boast,
That I'm New England's son.

So a health to thee, New England!
In a parting cup of wine!
Farewell to leafy Newbury,
And Rowley's woods of Pine!

1831.

177

BUENA VISTA.

From the Rio Grand's waters to the icy lakes of Maine,
Let all exult! for we have met the enemy again:
Beneath their stern old mountains we have met them in their pride,
And rolled from Buena Vista back the battle's bloody tide;
Where the enemy came surging swift, like the Mississippi's flood,
And the reaper, Death, with strong arms swung his sickle, red with blood.

Santana boasted loudly that, before two hours were past,
His Lancers through Saltillo should pursue us fierce and fast:—
On comes his solid infantry, line marching after line;
Lo! their great standards in the sun like sheets of silver shine;
With thousands upon thousands,—yea, with more than three to one,—
Their forest of bright bayonets fierce-flashing in the sun.

Lo! Guanajuato's regiment, Morelos' boasted corps,
And Guadalajara's choosen troops!—all veterans tried before.

178

Lo! galloping upon the right four thousand lances gleam,
Where, floating in the morning wind, their blood-red pennons stream;
And here his stern artillery climbs up the broad plateau:
To-day he means to strike at us an overwhelming blow.

Now, Wool, hold strongly to the heights! for, lo! the mighty tide
Comes, thundering like an avalanche, deep, terrible, and wide.
Now, Illinois, stand steady! Now, Kentucky, to their aid!
For a portion of our line, alas! is broken and dismayed:
Great bands of shameless fugitives are fleeing from the field,
And the day is lost, if Illinois and brave Kentucky yield.

One of O'Brien's guns is gone!—On, on their masses drift,
Till their cavalry and infantry outflank us on the left;
Our light troops, driven from the hills, retreat in wild dismay,
And round us gathers, thick and dark, the Mexican array.
Santana thinks the day is gained; for, now approaching near,
Minon's dark cloud of Lancers sternly menaces our rear.

179

Now, Lincoln, gallant gentleman, lies dead upon the field,
Who strove to stay those cravens, when before the storm they reeled.
Fire, Washington, fire fast and true! Fire, Sherman, fast and far!
Lo! Bragg comes thundering to the front, to breast the adverse war!
Santana thinks the day is gained! On, on his masses crowd,
And the roar of battle swells again more terrible and loud.

Not yet!—Our brave old General comes to regain the day;—
Kentucky, to the rescue! Mississippi, to the fray!
Again our line advances! Gallant Davis fronts the foe,
And back before his rifles, in red waves the Lancers flow.
Upon them yet once more, ye brave!—The avalanche is stayed!
Back roll the Aztec multitudes, all broken and dismayed.

Ride! May!—To Buena Vista! for the Lancers gain our rear,
And we have few troops there to check their vehement career.
Charge, Arkansas! Kentucky, charge! Yell, Porter, Vaughan, are slain,

180

But the shattered troops cling desperately unto that crimsoned plain;
Till, with the Lancers intermixed, pursuing and pursued,
Westward, in combat hot and close, drifts off the multitude.

And May comes charging from the hills with his ranks of flaming steel,
While shattered with a sudden fire, the foe already reel:
They flee amain!—Now to the left, to stay the torrent there,
Or else the day is surely lost, in horror and despair!
For their hosts pour swiftly onward, like a river in the Spring,
Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thundering.

Now, good Artillery! bold Dragoons! Steady, brave hearts!—be calm!—
Through rain, cold hail and thunder, now nerve each gallant arm!
What though their shot fall round us here, yet thicker than the hail?
We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale.
Lo! their battery is silenced! but our iron sleet still showers.
They falter, halt, retreat!—Hurrah! the glorious day is ours!

181

In front, too, has the fight gone well, where, upon gallant Lane,
And on stout Mississippi, the thick Lancers charged in vain:
Ah! brave Third Indiana! you have nobly wiped away
The reproach that through another corps befell your State to-day:
For back, all broken and dismayed, before your storm of fire,
Santana's boasted chivalry, a shattered wreck, retire.

Now charge again, Santana! or the day is surely lost—
For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed.
Still faster roar his batteries,—his whole reserve moves on;
More work remains for us to do, ere the good fight is won.
Now for your wives and children, men! Stand steady yet once more!
Fight for your lives and honors! Fight as you never fought before!

Ho! Hardin breasts it bravely! and heroic Bissell there
Stands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air:
The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one:

182

Hardin is slain; McKee and Clay the last time see the sun:
And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray,
Grew cold, its last thoughts turning to its loved ones, far away.

Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front!—for the hurricane of fire
Crushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire!
Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come! Again Bragg climbs the ridge,
And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge:
Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield,
Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field.

The guns still roared at intervals: but silence fell at last,
And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast.
And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield,
And patiently and pitying she looked upon the field,
While careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead,
Despairingly and sullenly by night Santana fled.

And thus on Buena Vista's heights a long day's work was done,
And thus our brave old General another battle won.

183

Still, still our glorious banner waves, unstained by flight or shame,
And the Mexicans among their hills still tremble at our name.
So, honor unto those that stood! Disgrace to those that fled!
And everlasting glory unto BUENA VISTA'S DEAD!

February 28, 1847.

184

NOON IN SANTA FÉE.

The sun shines dull in the mist amid,
That, like a grief, is shading him;
And though the mountains be not hid,
Their distant blue is faint and dim,
Yet marking with their outline deep
The paler blue that bends above.
The winds have moaned themselves to sleep,
And scarcely now their soft wings move,
With an unquiet, slumberous motion,
Watched by the pale, mute, flitting Noon,—
That wanderer of Earth and Ocean,
Whose stay all men desire, but none obtain the boon.

It is the hour for saddened thought,
When all things have a softened tone,—
A dream-like indistinctness, fraught
With all that makes man feel alone.
Perhaps the hour and time it is,
That in the sad and dreaming heart
Make gray Time's ancient images
Into a new distinctness start;

185

Till all that I have lost or left,
Or loved or worshipped in my youth,
Comes up like an unwelcome gift,
With all the sad and stern reality of truth.

The troubled image of the Past,
Its buried years, before me rise;
And gazing in the distant vast,
Dim shapes I see, with saddened eyes,
Like those that I have known before,
But altered, as I, too, have changed:
Many that near my heart I wore,
Some long ago from me enstranged.
Ah! yes! I know that sad fair face,
That matchless form, that witchery,
Thy step of air, thy winning grace,—
I see thee, loved one! in the dim obscurity.

Fair Fancy, Memory's sister, weaves
No golden web of hope for me,
Or, if she smile, she still deceives
With all a wanton's mockery;—
She points me to a fireless hearth,
And,—that most sharp and bitter sting,
We feel upon the lonely earth,—
Cold looks and colder welcoming:

186

Friends washed off by life's ebbing tide,
Like sands along the shifting coasts,
The soul's first love another's bride;
And other melancholy thoughts that haunt like ghosts.

Well, I have chosen my own rough way,
And I will walk it manfully;
And do the best that mortal may,
Wherever duty leadeth me.
No heart that is not wholly cold,
Can help but love, can help but hate;
What malice knows will sure be told,—
Libels on all distinction wait:
But as the misty mountain-mane
Doth not for ever shade its blue,
So vanishes each slander-stain
From all who earnestly and well their duty do.

1832.

187

RE-UNION.

Let us drink, together, fellows, as we did in days of yore,
And still enjoy the golden hours that Fortune has in store,
The absent friends remembered be, in all that's sung or said,
And Love immortal consecrate the memory of the dead.

Fill every goblet to the brim?—let every heart be filled
With kindly recollections, and all bitter ones be stilled!
Come round me, dear old fellows, and in chorus as we sing,
Life's Autumn days shall be as glad as were its days of Spring.

Drink, Brothers, to the absent who are living, first of all,
While each familiar name and face we lovingly recall!
The generous and brave and good! The kind, and frank, and true,
Who knew not how false word to speak or what was base to do.

We see the faces of the Dead; they hover in the air,
And looking on us lovingly, our mirth they seem to share;
O dearly loved! though ye have gone to other stars or spheres,
We still have for you thoughts of love and consecrated tears.

188

Pour a libation rich with love upon the graves that hold
The ashes of the gallant hearts that long ago grew cold;
And swear that never party feuds or civil war shall break
Our bonds of love, and enemies of friends and comrades make.

The Dead are with us always, friends! let us their teachings heed!
“Forgive thy brother, if he err!” they eloquently plead:
“Let bygones be bygones!” they cry; “let the old love revive!
“And on the altars of your hearts keep Friendship's fire alive.”

It is better far to love than hate, for Nations as for men;
Let us hope the good old humour soon will bless the land again:
But if the politicians still should wrangle, scold, and fight,
Their quarrels shall not break the ties that we re-knit tonight.

Our Autumn days of life have come, the frosts begin to fall,
Beyond the dark, deep river, hark! we hear old comrades call.
To the Dead and Living whom each loves, let each his goblet fill;
And the memory of the dead shall make the living dearer still.

Washington, January, 1869.

189

ANNIE.

The golden, climbing jasmine grows
Along the bright, clear Ouachita:
On each bewildered wind that blows,
Its sweet perfume there overflows,
And, eddying, floats afar.
It is a wild, sweet, simple flower,
Each leaf a glossy evergreen,—
And when the spring-rains softly shower,
Its jewelled ringlets, gold and green,
Float on the charmed air, between
The stately trees, that overlean
The sunny Ouachita.

Up each tall oak and sturdy ash,
And elm, along the Ouachita,
Where dew-drops on the thick leaves plash,
Its flowers like beauty's glad eyes flash,
Each a bright golden star,—
Tempting the mad bees there to roam,
Great misers, adding to their store
Of honey, in their hollow home,
In that great branching sycamore,
Around whose knees the waters roar,
A dozen centuries or more,
On sunny Ouachita.

190

I love its simple flowers that gleam
Along the silver Ouachita:
I love the bright, clear, dancing stream,
For there I dreamed a happy dream,
Brief, as all such dreams are.
I met my little Annie there,
A dear, sweet, lovely, blushing maid,
A flower as delicate and fair
As those I twined with each dark braid
Of glossy hair, while far we strayed,
Wrapt in the green trees' pleasant shade,
By sunny Ouachita.

Her soft eyes, and her angel face,
Like sunshine, blessed the Ouachita:
And blushing in my fond embrace,
With childlike innocence and grace,
Trusting, she wandered far.
There, hand in hand, and heart in heart,
Two souls together knit in one,
We lingered daily, loth to part,
Nor noticed, as the green world spun
Unceasingly around the sun,
Time's river swiftly by us run,
Like rapid Ouachita.

191

How fondly did her soft arms twine
Around me on the Ouachita!
Her sweet lips chastely pressed to mine,
Her brown eyes radiant and divine,—
Each brighter than a star.
She was my heart, my soul, my all;
I loved her dearer than my life;
And ere the autumn leaves should fall,
Shorn by the sharp frost's glittering knife,
I hoped, escaping the world's strife,
To make her my own darling wife,
On sunny Ouachita.

Sadly, Ah! sadly by me glide
Thy waters, clear, cold Ouachita!
My Annie, my betrothed bride,
That summer, sickened, drooped, and died!
My Heaven lost its star.
A prayer for me was on her lips,—
The last she ever uttered here;
Her sweet eyes, dark in death's eclipse,
For me still glittered with a tear:
Why could I not be with thee, dear,
Or know that thou wast dying, near
The sunny Ouachita?

192

Thy woods are green, thy flowers are bright,
Thy waters sparkle, Ouachita!
Thy glades still gleam with golden light;
But day to me is like a night
Moonless, without a star.
Dear Annie! while above thy grave
I sing this melancholy strain,
The wild-flowers that upon it wave
Are watered with my eyes' warm rain,
Yet does one happy thought remain:—
We shall be one in Heaven again,
As on the Ouachita.

1844.

193

HOME.

How many a tongue
With words of wondrous eloquence, hath sung
Of “Home, sweet Home!” How the old memories throng,
Stirred by the sweet notes of the dear old song,
Into the heart, and tears suffuse the eyes,
Of high and low, the simple and the wise.
'Tis a trite theme: and yet if it impart
One new, fresh feeling to the wearied heart,
Why not sing of it, when the sad soul longs
To hear the old, familiar, simple songs?
Old memories that visit us in dreams
Are always most delicious; and old themes
The only beautiful. Whoever hath
No pleasant recollection of the path
He paced to school, of the orchard, the old mill
Clacking and clattering with a rare good will,
The fields and meadows, and the silver brooks
That often made him truant to his books,
The marshes where he shot, the clear cold streams
Where the trout lurks;—who never in his dreams
Drinks from the bucket at the deep old well,
Or in the old church hears the old organ swell;

194

Hath grown hard-hearted, needs must be unkind,
And deserves pity from the poorest hind.
All things whatever that we see or hear,
Contain Home's image, and to eye and ear
Bring back old things; as in pellucid lakes
The clouds are imaged, when the fresh dawn breaks.
Is it because the heart to the harp is like,
The simple harp, which, on it though you strike
A hundred notes, has still its undertone,
The key-note of them all, that rings alone,
A pensive sound, after the rest are dead?
The fresh cool rain, that plashes overhead,
On the clay-covered roof, the music rude,
Invading suddenly my solitude,
With discord dire, true Aztec minstrelsy,
A barbarous music, murdered barbarously;
The delicate foot that glances past the door;
Bring vividly from memory's lumber-store,
The rains that often lulled me to sweet rest
In the old garret, where I lay and guessed
At the meaning of full many a puzzling book;
The music of the clear contented brook,
That over the pebbles, chafing into foam,
Ran rippling, half a mile or so from home;
The ancient well-sweep, older than my sire,
A stout and hale old age; the warm peat-fire

195

Of winter nights, when out of doors the sleet
And drifting snow at door and window beat;

The brave old house, fallen somewhat to decay,
Yet sound to the core, lusty, though mossed and gray,
With its dark rafters of good Yankee oak,
Seasoned by time, and blackened by much smoke;
Familiar fields walled round with massive rocks,
Where the autumn-harvest stood in sheaves and shocks;
And every ancient and familiar thing,
That seemed to watch and love me slumbering:
The magic music of my old friend's flute;
So very soft, yet rich, and sound and clear;
Though, sweet as it was, when its fine tones were mute,
His voice was still more pleasant to my ear.
The foot—but that's a dream:—
Yet one may keep alive a sunny dream,
In some green nook, deep in his inmost heart.
Ah! never may that priceless dream depart,
Or, fading, cease life's twilight-hours to bless!
That memory of the love and happiness,
That were the sunlight of life's golden dawn.
As summer-showers to the emaciated lawn;
Dews to sweet flowers; light to the sky-lark's eyes,
Who fain would sing at the gates of Paradise
His orisons, and thinks dawn comes too slow;
Leaves and cool shade to the nested throstle; so

196

To me that dream of early love is dear,
When frowning Destiny is most austere;
Even when he chills the soul with cold eclipse,
The memory of long kisses on sweet lips,
The clear brown eyes, the gentle, loving look,
All soothe me, like some melancholy book
Of beautiful words, wherein enraged men read,
Until to passion gentle thoughts succeed,
And, as the book is, they are quiet too.

1832.

197

LINES TO A LADY.

The wind is low as woman's sigh,
The myriad stars are shining bright,
The pale moon, like a lustrous eye,
Smiles calmly on the brow of night;
And close beside her beams one star
Of love, like woman's deep devotion,
Of one shrined thought the worshipper;
Pouring its mellow light afar,
Mingled with moonbeams, on the prairie's waveless ocean.

All sounds of mortal sense are still;
The earth is like a weary child,
That, having played and wept its fill,
Sleeps calmly in the forest wild;
For she, with all her myriad brood
Of fiery passions, sleeps like heaven;
While not a murmur stirs the wood,
Or the green prairie's solitude,
Nor over heaven's face one restless cloud is driven.

And moon, and star, and planet shine
Upon one home of happiness,
Flooding it with a light divine,
As though they would its inmates bless,

198

Where, by the night-breeze gently fanned,
Like giants calmly slumbering,
Old gnarled oaks, a sturdy band,
Around that lonely dwelling stand,
And o'er its roof their wild, grotesque arms fondly fling.

This pleasant night will soonbe gone,
As vanishes a sunny dream;
'Tis but a bubble, floating on
Old Time's resistless, rapid stream.
Yet shall thy sky, sweet lady, be
For ever cloudless, clear, and bright,
As this that now I joy to see
In all its glittering mystery,
Over thy home of peace wheeling its rapid flight.

1846!

199

CHRISTMAS.

The Christmas time is drawing near, the pleasant Christmas time;
Let us hail its coming cheerfully, with a song of rude old rhyme:
A good rough song, like those that when old England yet was young,
Under old Saxon rafters with a jolly chorus rung;
And round shall pass the merry glass, grim care we'll drive away,
And music and the dance shall greet the gladsome Christmas day.

Old feuds we'll bury fathoms deep, old friendships we'll renew,
And closer cling to those we love, as the ivy to the yew;
There may be Winter out of doors, the keen, cold wind may sing
Shrilly and sharply, but within the warm heart shall be Spring;
Kind feelings, like sweet jasmine buds and flowers shall come again,
And blossom like the summer rose, blessed with a morning rain.

200

Had we our way, the good old sports should be revived once more;
Again should maiden's little feet dance twinkling on the floor;
While overhead again should hang the dark-green mistleto,
And all lips that strayed under it the forfeit pay, we know.
The Yule-log should again be brought by many a stout, strong hand,
And some fair girl should light it, with the last year's sacred brand.

Once more should pass the wassail-bowl, of nut-brown ale and old,
A sovereign panacea, that, against the winter's cold!
With the nutmeg, toast and ginger:—all the vintage of the Rhine
Can neither warm the brain as well nor make dark eyes to shine
With half as much mad mischief, or with half as merry glee:—
So away with wine! good Yule-tide ale for MY sweetheart and me!

“And both in town and country, in the cottage and the hall,
There should be fires to curb the cold, and meat for great and small.”

201

The neighbors should be bidden in, and all have welcome true,
And think the good old fashions were far better than the new;
The roasted apples once again should cover all the hearth,
And many a good old-fashioned game make the rafters ring with mirth.

And the boar's head dressed with a green silk scarf, and with trumpets blown before,
Come marching solemnly along with a carol sung at the door;
Then the maidens should the cake cut up, and she who found the bean,
Should be, the whole long holidays, a lovely Christmas Queen;
With pretty grace and modesty the coronal to wear,
That brings not to the youthful head uneasiness or care.

And the Christmas tree again should grow, and its golden fruitage shine,
Around its dark-green glossy leaves; the ivy fondly twine
Its melancholy tendrils round the trunk and every limb,
As sad thoughts cling around the heart, when at night the fire burns dim:
Not of holly, bay or laurel—we would have no royal tree—
But the lusty, green Magnolia, fit emblem for the free.

202

Alas! the good old days are gone! Time blows an adverse gale;
On the waves of new strange oceans falls the shadow of our sail;
No more old games we play, we crown no fair young Queen or King;
'T was a mere idle dream, that through my mind went wandering;
Like as the sea-wind softly blows through a shell upon the shore,
And makes a low, sweet melody, echo of ocean's roar.

Not all a dream! We can forgive those that have done us wrong,
Draw closer to old friends, and make affection's bonds more strong;
Create more sunlight on Life's ways, more starlight in the heart,
And get us ready for the time when we must hence depart;—
So may we live in peace with all, and when we pass away,
Look back without a bitter thought to this fair Christmas Day.

1849.

203

TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

Sweet bird! Thou singest in the lonely woods,
Far from great cities. There men dream of life,
And walk with blinded eyes, while grim Care broods
Upon their withered hearts: and snarling Strife,
Flaps her foul wings before the eyes of men,
Hate gnaws their hearts, and sordid Avarice halts
Out from his noisome, miserable den,
Clutching men's souls with yellow, shrivelled hands,
Till each shrinks up, and filthy gods exalts
To proud dominion, worse than Pagan lands
Ever bowed down before;
While, grasping handfuls of his glittering ore,
He makes of it, oh, wonder! tough, strong bands,
To bind them to his sordid service and curst lore.

Thou knowest nought of this. Thy home is in
The thick green forests. There thou hast thy nest,
Where the leaves whisper with an earnest din,
And gentle winds cool thy harmonious breast,
And there thy music fills the listening wood,
And rings among the giant forest trees,
Waking up every slumbering solitude,
And sending out, with never-ceasing flow,

204

A different strain on the wings of every breeze,
Now loud, now soft, now rapid, and then slow,
With many a merry change;
And causing men, for thy wild, wondrous range,
Hault in their journeying, and seek to know
What emulous mad bird pours out a song so strange.

Thou small philosopher, who laughest at
All troubles of the world! I would that I
Thy mirth and merriment could imitate,
And high above all care and trouble fly.
Thou art not drunken with rich, rosy wine;
Joy ever nestles in thy happy heart,
Shaking a dewy influence divine
From his soft wings upon it. Thou, whose throat
Surpasses in its powers all human art,
Who startlest each lone bird with his own note,
As if thou wert his mate;—
Thou, whose fine song is heard, early and late,
Through the thick leaves and flowers to dance and float;—
Teach me the joyful secret of thy happy state!

It cannot be that thou, who now dost sing
With so tumultuous melody, while round
All spirits of the woods are hovering
And drinking in with eager ears each sound,—

205

It cannot be that thou, too, dost conceal
The sorrows of thy soul in stormy mirth,
Or that thou dost not in good earnest feel
The joyance of thy song. That is for men
Who walk alone on the pain-peopled earth,
And pour out melodies with tongue and pen
That all the world admire;
While they with their own songs grow faint and tire,
And sadly droop and languish, even when
Their golden verse burns brightest with poetic fire.

1828.

206

NIGHT.

A REVERIE.

I cannot sleep; for many a dream of home
Through the dark caverns of the brain has come,
Peopling its desert with bright images
Of all that I have left or lost: there is
No sleep for me; and I will walk awhile.
'Tis midnight, and the thick stars brightly smile
Upon the slumbering earth; the deep clear stream
Glides noiseless by my feet; the still world dreams
Of its age of gold, long vanished. All around
The listening ear detects no passing sound,
Save the wild wolf's cry, that among far hills,
Afflicts night's ear with long, low, mournful thrills;
And the hoarse owl, that now and then booms out
His harsh, unearthly, melancholy shout,
And then is silent; while at intervals,
The watch-dog moans, and stirs, and once more falls
Into deep slumber. Still as infant death,
The broad and heavy forest sleeps beneath
The white foam of the Galaxy, which lies
Above its green waves, with its myriad eyes,
Patiently shining from its silver drifts.
No wind his wild and mournful voice uplifts,

207

Among the tree-tops; everything lies still.
Now is the hour for thought; the mind can fill
Itself with voices at this solemn hour.
The thoughts so dormant under daylight's power,
Like wingless bees, swarming about the heart,
With wild, uncertain, troubled melody,
Are shaped by midnight's calm, resistless art,
To forms that, coming from the shadowy sea
Of memory, people the quivering soul.
The echoes of the past roll through the heart,
With palpable and strange reality,
And shake its strings, as the wind shakes the chords
Of an Æolian harp, till from its roll
The keen vibrations of intensest thought.
The soul now wanders back to its old home,
And flits through every well-remembered spot,
Where I was used in olden time to roam;
And peers in many a much-loved face, that not
A thousand years could from my heart erase:
Wanders beneath old trees, by rustic wells,
And quaint old houses hidden in low dells,
And ancient orchards of old mossy trees,
And wheat-fields waving in the summer breeze,
And rude old bridges, spanning clear blue streams,
And many a lillied pond that idly dreams
Under great trees; so that, for some small space,
I leave this wild uncultivated place,

208

And am again, oh, blessed word! a boy:
The golden wings of peace, contentment, joy,
Wave over me again, and soothe the soul,
Hushing the passions I cannot control.

Night! Thou art lovely and magnificent,
When down from heaven thou silently has leant,
Soothing earth, sea, and sky to gentle sleep,
While summer-clouds and stars their watches keep.
Night! I have watched thee many a weary hour;
I have stood high on earthquake-rifted tower
Of granite mountain, in eternal snow,
And there have worshipped thee, and bended low
Before thy presence. Then thy stars were cold
And glittering, as the bright and heartless world.
Then sometime thou didst hang thy silver lamp
On the sky's wall; and like white flags unfurled,
Around the blue of heaven's star-tented camp,
The clouds shook in the wind, and with soft light
Thou fed'st thy lamp. Over unbounded plains,
The wolf-heart Indian's broad and dry domains,
I have beheld thee in thy every guise,
Where thy caress has often soothed mine eyes
To quiet sleep upon the rugged ground,
And now, O Queen! as thus I pace around,
Holding with thee this converse, thou dost seem
To speak to me, like voices in a dream.

209

Is it the tree-tops moaning their low dirge?
The sweet, soft murmuring of the air-sea's surge
Among their tremulous leaves? Oh, no: it is
Thy spirit whispering to the charmed trees,
And thus it findeth words:

The stars are mine; and when I rise
To bless the weary earth and skies,
Then they lift up their lids of blue,
And gladly gleam heaven's black robes through.

Their radiant eyes, that were quenched all day
By the tyrant sun, at my coming gray
Are lighted, and sparkle with glee again,
Until at the dawn my dark tides wane.

The woods are mine, when they sleep so still,
That their pulses hardly throb or thrill:
And when their hearts, deep, dark, and dim,
Are stirred, and sing their awful hymn.

The sea is mine, when the thick stars lie
On its calm breast and wink at the sky;
Or tempest frets it into waves,
And shakes the dead in their deep-sea graves.

The mountains are mine,—each snowy cone
That lifts like a prayer toward God's high throne;

210

And every cavern, dark and mirk
As those where the murderer does his work.

The mountains are mine,—around their peaks
I wrap my wings while the lightning leaks
From the gaping rifts of the thunder-rack,
And the starry snow has become jet-black.

The plains are mine, when they sleep as still
As a child that just has gained his will;
When I lift to the gale my broad, black sail,
And the winds behind my storm-ship wail.

The earth is mine, for my foe, the sun,
Continually circling her, runs on:
For many a long and weary age,
The sun and I our conflict wage:

And I am to overtake him yet,
When the earth will see his last long set:
When he will be quenched upon her brink,
And she will back to choas sink.

Then will I reign for ever and ever.
When the stars are all sunk in heaven's river;—
It has been once,—it shall be again,—
For Time even now begins to wane.

211

I am a portion of choas, left
For long years over the earth to drift;
At times to be full of peace and calm;
Then alive with the lightning and thunder-psalm.

The earth will be my slave again,
But my victory will be all in vain;
There will be a brighter and better sphere,
Which I can never come anear.

While I shall hold Creation's shell,
Her myriad souls, I know full well,
Out of her cold, deep heart will rise,
And float like stars up to unseen skies.

And while over chaos and ruin I brood,
In the purple glooms of my solitude,
In heaven will God's great loving eye
Be the sun of a day that will never die.

1833.

212

MORNING.

A LAMENT.

I.

The dew steeps the heart of the flower,
And the green bending rays of the grass,
And there, in an unseen shower,
The mist and sweet odors mass:
The sensitive plant of the bosom,
Is quivering, shrinking, and pale;
No dews feed its withering blossom,
The winds through its parched leaves wail.

II.

The fast stream that runs from the mountain,
Is wreathing its white brow with mist;
And its edge, like the brim of a fountain,
With grass and sweet flowers is kissed:
The waves of the heart's crimson river
Flow on, uncrowned with light;
The weeds on its dark banks shiver,
And shrink from the roar of its flight.

213

III.

The sunshine is cradled in leaves,
And rocked by the unseen air,
While the sea of emerald heaves,
With a slumberous motion there:
No cheerful sunshine sleeps
In the dark caves of the soul,
But the sad heart ever weeps
For a grief beyond control.

IV.

Morn's purple and crimson torrent,
Upon the mountain pours;
And still amid that current,
The sunlight rains its showers:
The fire of passion blazes,
Less hotly than of old;
And sorrow, like sea-mist, chases
The morning's purple and gold.

V.

The eagle sits on his eyrie,
A golden haze around him clings,
On a pyramid lone and dreary
He fans the snow with his wings:

214

The eagle Ambition remaineth,
Fanning the icy heart;
His keen eye never waneth,
Till the soul and its frail house part.

VI.

The thrush on his nest is brooding,
His wings slowly winnow the air,
And a sea of music is flooding
The great green forest there:
No cheerful song is ringing
Through the sad heart's solitude;
Nor birds of joy soft-singing,
Among its ruins brood.

VII.

The influence of the morning
Is sweet after the recent rain;
To the heart it is only a warning,
That night will come again:
The heart was once all glory,
Till boyhood faded away;
Its course is now the story
Of an evanescent day.

215

VIII.

The spirit of the morning burneth
On his altar orient;
But the glooms that the sea inurneth,
At night will be unpent:
The spirit of life is fainting,
Pressed by the glooms of death;
Like moonlight on a painting,
Life merely lingereth.

IX.

A shadow is on the soul,
Like a shadow on the sea;
Though the songs of glory roll
With a grave sublimity:
Like a current of pale moonlight,
In the light of a flickering lamp,
A light like a shadow, half dark, half bright,
Is life in this earthly camp.

X.

Pale Death is bending over
The worn and weary heart;
Ah, what a constant lover,
Grim Emperor, thou art!—

216

The soft, faint light of sorrow
Shines on the wasted scroll;
It will close, and the lamps go out to-morrow;
The arrow is near its goal.

1835.

217

AT MIDNIGHT.

A LAMENT.

I.

The stars are massing in heaven,
Lid after lid they unfold;
But the showers of light that are given
To the earth are frosty and cold:
The light of each earthly star,
Of Fortune, Honor, and Fame,
Is shining brightly afar,
But cold to the heart is their flame.

II.

The moon sitteth on the mountain,
Like a golden eagle alit
By the brim of a foaming fountain,
Where his wings with the spray are wet;
The moonlight of friendship has vanished,
From the crags that shadow my way,
The stars from my heaven are banished,
And wander sadly away.

III.

The cold wind wails through the flower,
Shaking its leaves to the ground,
And the grass receives the shower
With a melancholy sound:

218

The flowers of joy are shattered
By sorrow's tyrannous air,
And their crimson leaves are watered
By the night-dew of despair.

IV.

The sphered Venus resteth
Upon a western cone,
And coldly she investeth
With light her icy throne:
The sphered light of Love
Revolves within the heart,
And its wasting fountains move
With a convulsive start.

V.

The shadows of the ridges
Are massed upon the plain,
And there, from withered sedges,
The dying winds complain:
The heavy shades of anguish
Are massed upon the soul,
And there the death-notes languish,
And through its desert roll.

219

VI.

The snowy tents are sleeping
Upon the dusky prairie,
Like white-winged eagles, keeping
Watch over their lonely eyrie:
The shadows of the Past
Are sitting by my side;
The world is else a vast,
And I with them abide.

VII.

Thin spheres of dew are raining,
Unseen, in the moonlit air;
And the grass, when night is waning,
Bright crowns of frost will wear:
Death-frosts are swiftly chilling
The pulses of the heart;
Slow, slow the harp is thrilling,—
Its harmonies depart.

VIII.

The clouds are slowly steering
Their fleets around the moon;
Amid them she is veering,
To vanish, ah! too soon!—

220

The moonlight of existence
Is flickering and pale:
And darkly, in the distance,
Death spreads his shadowy sail.

IX.

The soul is slowly moaning
Her sad and stern lament;
Decay is fast dethroning
The passions Heaven lent:
Death's steps are sadly echoing
Its wasted cells within;
Far in its deepest caves they ring,
With melancholy din.

X.

The eagle, proudly soaring,
Mourns not the fleeting night,
When, on the mountains pouring,
Awakes the red daylight:
Why mourn this dream of Life
When happily 'tis waning,
And on its clouds of strife
The light of Death is raining?

1835

221

THE LIGHT OF DAYS LONG PAST.

Our afternoon of life has come,
Its darkening hours are here;
The evening shadows lengthen,
And the night is drawing near;
To some the sky is bright, to some
With clouds is overcast;
But still upon our Present smiles
The Light of Days long past.

The Autumn of our life is here,
Its summer flowers are dead;
But still the wine-cup charms us,
And young lips rosy-red.
What though the river to the sea
Runs steadily and fast?
Upon its shifting waves still smiles
The Light of Days long past.

We meet here as we met of old,
Kind words to say or sing;
Forgetting age, and all the cares
That age and losses bring:

222

The friendships sealed in younger days
Still firm and faithful last,
And newer friendships brighten in
The Light of Days long past.

1866.

223

TO MARY.

I ken a charming little maid,
As sweet and winsome as a fairy;
I wadna ask wi' wealth to wed,
If I could wed wi' thee, Mary!

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
As wanton as the winds that vary;
But ne'er was I sae truly blest,
As when I met wi' thee, Mary!

Like a wee purple violet,
That hangs its blushing head sae weary,
When wi' sweet dew its leaves are wet,—
Sae modest, sweet art thou, Mary!

Thy brow is white, as is the mist,
That sleeps on heaven's forehead starry;
Or mountain snow by sunrise kissed,—
Thy heart is purer still, Mary!

Thy e'en are like an eagle's e'en,
That sitteth proudly on his eyrie;
They glitter with a radiant sheen,
Yet modest as thy heart, Mary!

224

Upon thy rosy cheek, the soul
Seems in the gushing tide to vary,
And crimson currents in it roll,
As though they wad break through, Mary!

If I could press thee in my arms,
As my wee wife and bonnie fairy,
I wadna gi'e for thy sweet charms,
The warld and a' its wealth, Mary!

How sweetly wad the hours gae by,
That noo sae solemn are and dreary,
If thou upon my heart didst lie,
My ain, my loving, dear Mary!

1834.

225

ORA ATQUE LABORA.

PRAY AND WORK.

Swiftly flashing, hoarsely dashing,
Onward rolls the mighty river;
Down it hurries to the sea,
Bounding on exultingly;
Still the lesson teaching ever,
Ora atque labora!

Trembling fountains on blue mountains,
Murmuring and overflowing,
Through green valleys deep in hills,
Send down silver brooks and rills;
Singing, while in sunlight glowing,
Ora atque labora!

Onward flowing, ever growing,
In its beauty each rejoices;
While on Night's delighted ear,
Through the amber atmosphere,
Sounds the murmur of their voices,
Ora atque labora!

226

Archly glancing, lightly dancing,
See its eddies chase each other;
Round old roots they flashing whirl,
Over ringing pebbles curl;
Each one singing to his brother,
Ora atque labora!

Still descending, mingling, blending,
Lo! a broad, majestic river!
Under whose perpetual shocks,
Lofty crags and columned rocks
Shaken, echo as they quiver,
Ora atque labora!

Hoarsely roaring, swiftly pouring
Through tall mountains cloven asunder,
Over precipices steep,
Plunging to abysses deep,
Loud the cataract's voices thunder,
Ora atque labora!

Sunlight shifting, white mist drifting
On its forehead, thence it marches,
Swelled with freshets and great rains,
Shouting through the fertile plains,
Spanned with aqueducts and arches,
Ora atque labora!

227

Thus Endeavour striveth ever
For the thankless world's improvement;—
Each true thought and noble word,
By the dull earth, though unheard,
Making part of one great movement,—
Ora atque labora!

Work then bravely, sternly, gravely,—
Life for this alone is given;
What is right, that boldly do,
Frankly speak out what is true,—
Leaving the result to Heaven,
Ora atque labora!

1844.

228

AUTUMN.

It is the evening of a pleasant day,
In these old woods. The sun profusely flings
His golden light through every narrow way
That winds among the trees: His spirit clings
In orange mist around the snowy wings
Of many a patient cloud that now, since noon,
Over the western mountain idly swings,
Waiting, when night-shades come, alas! too soon,
To veil the timid blushes of the virgin moon.

The trees with crimson robes are garmented,
Clad with frail brilliance by the wrinkling frost;
For the young leaves that Spring with beauty fed,
Their greenness and luxuriance have lost,
Gaining new beauty at too dear a cost,—
Unnatural beauty, essence of decay.
Too soon, upon the harsh winds wildly tossed,
Leaving the naked trees ghost-like and gray,
These leaf-flocks, like vain hopes, will vanish quite away.

How does your sad, yet calm, contented guise,
Ye melancholy autumn solitudes!
With my own feelings softly harmonize;
For though I love the hoar and solemn woods,

229

In all their manifold and changing moods,
In gloom and sunshine, storm and quietness,
By day, and when the dim night on them broods,
Their lightsome glades, their deep, dark mysteries,
Yet a sad heart best loves a still, calm scene like this.

Soon will the year, like this sweet day, have fled
With swift feet speeding noiselessly and fast,
As a ghost speeds to join its kindred dead,
In the dark realms of that mysterious Vast,
The shadow-peopled, vague and infinite Past.
Life's current downward flows, a rapid stream,
With clouds and shadows often overcast,
Yet lighted by full many a sunny beam,
Of happiness, like sweet thoughts in a gloomy dream.

Like the brown leaves our loved ones drop away,
One after one, into the dark abyss
Of sleep and death; the frosts of trouble lay
Their withering touch upon our happiness,
Even as the hoar-frosts of the Autumn kiss
The green life from the unoffending leaves;
And Love, and Hope, and Youth's warm cheerfulness,
Flit from the heart;—Age lonely sits and grieves,
Or sadly smiles, while Youth his day-dream fondly weaves.

230

Day draweth to its close: Night cometh on:
Death, a dim shape, stands on Life's western verge,
Casting his shadow on the startled sun,
A deeper gloom that seemeth to emerge
From endless night. Forward he bends, to urge
His eyeless steeds, fleet as the tempest's blast;
Hark! hear we not Eternity's grave surge,
Thundering anear? At the dread sound aghast,
Time, pale with frantic terror, hurries headlong past.

1842.

231

AN INVITATION.

Come out and sit with me, dear wife, beneath these branching trees,
And let our little children come, and clamber on our knees!
It is a sweet, soft, pleasant morn, the loveliest in May,
And their little hearts are beating fast, longing to be at play.

The shadows here are thick and cool, the south wind stirs the leaves,
The martin sings a merry note upon the ivied eaves;
The crisp grass wears a richer green, from yesterday's soft showers,
And is jewelled over thickly with the rarest of your flowers.

The odors of the jasmine and the roses fill the air,
And the bees, refreshed by Night's sweet rest, again begin to bear
Rich freightage to their palaces under the locust trees,
Rejoicing in the influence of this sweet summer breeze.

The humming-birds are busy through the flower-encumbered vines,
Where the golden honeysuckle, from our own green woods, entwines

232

With its paler foreign sisters, 'mid whose dark-green, glossy leaves
The flowers profusely clustered there entice the tiny thieves.

Where the coral woodbine flauntingly displays its crimson blooms,
And our native yellow jasmine pours abroad its rich perfumes;
Where the climbing roses cluster, painted rich with every hue,
And stem, and leaf, and bud, and flower, are glittering with dew.

A hundred snowy doves upon the grass have settled down,
Like a drift of stainless snow upon a green hill's sunny crown;
They wait to be, as usual, by our little children fed,
Who, idle ones, are playing here, under the trees, instead.

The mocking-bird, for many a week so busy, now can rest,
For yesterday I saw him give the last touch to his nest;
His eyes shine brightly now with joy, his song rings loud and shrill;
Now here, now there, in mad delight, he's not a moment still.

Behold! just overhead, his mate is sitting on the nest,
You can see above its edges, the gray feathers of her breast,

233

Ah, happy bird!—but we, dear wife, are happier than she;
For OUR young carol round us now, in childhood's merry glee.

The sun's first rays are shooting up above the eastern woods;
But here, among these circled trees, no prying light intrudes:
Five sturdy oaks are ranged around; five children round us throng.
And after each we'll name a tree, that shall to each belong.

This tallest one for Hamilton, our little manly boy,
Whose dark and thoughtful eyes are now so radiant with joy;
This, Walter's, whose bright, dancing ones with merry mischief shine,
But still, affectionate and kind, are images of thine.

This, for our silent little girl, the quiet Isadore,
Who sits demurely working at her doll's new pinafore;
This, for our blue-eyed Lilian, the merriest of all;
This smallest, for the babe, that by his father's name we call.

Life's spring has passed from us, dear wife; its summer glides away,
And melancholy autumn comes, robed in its vesture gray;

234

We may linger on till winter; we may die before we are old;
But these young oaks will live and thrive when we are dead and cold.

We have been very happy, dear, for more than ten long years:—
How short, as we look backward, that long space of time appears!
And if these dear ones all are spared, around our hearts to cling,
The autumn of our life will be as happy as its spring.

For many a pleasant year, perhaps, to bless us, they may live,
Kind solace and assistance to our feeble age to give;—
May help us totter out beneath these interlocking trees,
Enjoying, as life fades away, the pleasant morning breeze.

We will make them virtuous, honest, true, kind, generous; and when
They are grown to lovely women, and true-hearted, gallant men,
Then, having done our duty, we, without a tear or sigh,
With cheerful resignation may be well content to die.

And after we are dead and gone, and buried many a year,
They, with THEIR children gathered round, may sit as we do here;

235

New flowers will bloom around them then, though these, like us, will fade;
But the green oaks we planted still will bless them with their shade.

Then will they think of us, dear wife, with love and grief sincere,
And sadly on our memory bestow a silent tear;
Let this our consolation be, while life shall swiftly wane,—
In our sweet children's virtues we shall live and love again.

236

TO GENEVIEVE.

Of all the rivers of the West,
I love the clear Neosho best;
For there was I first truly blest,
There first in my fond arms I pressed
My blushing Genevieve.
Her eyes were bright, yet black as night,
And radiant with love's holy light,—
A tender, melancholy pair,
Brilliant as if were throned there
Twin love-stars of the eve.
How dear to me that rosy mouth,
Sweet as the sweet-brier of the South,—
These little, graceful, dancing feet,
That flew so joyfully to meet
Me, on our old, rude, oaken seat,
Close to the clear Neosho!

On my fond heart her forehead fair
In trusting fondness pillowed there;
The sunshine, flashing from her hair,
With golden glory filled the air
That swam round Genevieve.

237

Her lips divine pressed close to mine,—
Nay, frown not, Dian!—pure as thine
Were soul and heart, and lip and eye;
Pure as an angel of the sky
Was my sweet Genevieve;—
Her bosom's snowy paradise,
Forbidden to unhallowed eyes,
Beat with devotion on my breast;
And, clasping fondly her slight waist,
Those rosy, loving lips I kissed,
Chaste as the cold Neosho.

The river murmured in its bed;
The scented clover round us spread;
The birds sang gladly overhead;
Bees at the honeysuckle fed;—
All loved my Genevieve.
Her petted deer was ever near,
A gentle thing, devoid of fear;
The flowering vines above us made
A silver dusk, half light, half shade,
From morn till dewy eve.
And there she murmured in my ear
The words I longed and hoped to hear,

238

Confessing she was all my own,
Which her dear eyes before had shown,
While often we sat there alone,
Close to the clear Neosho.

Over the lofty Cavanole
The crimson clouds still foam and roll
But she is gone that was the soul,
Illuming like a sun the whole,
My sweet young Genevieve.
Vanished are those bright hours that rose,
Like golden drifts at day's soft close;
That face no longer greets me here,
Which made these grassy banks so dear,
I stay behind to grieve.
Yet still I love the tranquil tide,
On which I wooed and won my bride.
Long years have passed since she was there,
Yet I preserve with jealous care,
Our old, rude, twisted oaken chair,
That hallows the Neosho.

1840.

239

LINES WRITTEN ON THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.

The deep transparent sky is full
Of many thousand glittering lights,
Unnumbered stars that calmly rule
The dark dominions of the night;
The mild, sad moon has upward risen,
Out of the gray and boundless plain;
And all around the white snows glisten,
Where frost and ice and silence reign,
While ages roll away, and they unchanged remain.

These mountains, piercing the blue sky,
With their eternal cones of ice;
These torrents, dashing from on high,
O'er rock and crag and precipice,
Change not, but still remain as ever,
Unwasting, deathless and sublime,
And will remain, while lightnings quiver,
Or stars these hoary summits climb,
Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time.

It is not so with all. I change
And waste as with a living death,
Like one that has become a strange
Unwelcome guest, and lingereth

240

Among the memories of the past,
Where he is a forgotten name.
For time hath mighty power to blast
The hopes, the feelings, and the fame,
To make the passions swell, or their wild fierceness tame.

The swift wind whistles shrill and loud,
And cools my fever-heated brow;
Such was I once, as free, as proud,
And yet, alas! how altered now!
And while I gaze upon the plain,
These mountains, this eternal sky,
The scenes of boyhood come again,
And pass before the vacant eye,
Still wearing something of the shape I knew them by.

Yet why lament? For what are wrong,
False friends, cold hearts, sharp words, deceit,
And life already spun too long,
To one who walks with bleeding feet
The world's rough paths? All will but make
Death sweeter, when he comes at last.
Although the outraged heart may ache,
Its agony of pain is past,
And patience makes it firm, while life is ebbing fast.

241

Perhaps, when I have passed away,
Like the sad echo of a dream,
There may be some one found to say
A word that will like sorrow seem.
That I would have—one genuine tear,
One kindly and regretful thought,
Grant me but that; and even here,
In this lone, strange, unpeopled spot,
To breathe away this life of pain I murmur not.

1832.

242

MA TRISTE CHÉRIE.

Your wondrous eyes look sadly into mine,
Look anxiously and eagerly in mine,—
Look like a sorrowing angel's into mine,
Until mine ache and fill with bitter tears.
O, what a tale of sadness and of sorrows,
Those dear eyes tell,—of days that seem like years,
Of nights of sighs, and of unwelcome morrows,
Of doubts and pains and griefs and heavy fears!

Your amber eyes look, darkening, into mine,
Fixed and dilating, deeply into mine,
Look questioning, beseeching, into mine,
Until my heart aches with a heavy pain.
I feel the pangs of your soul's crucifixion,
And in the echoing chambers of my brain,
The words that told me of your great affliction
Continually repeat their sad refrain.

Darling! the crown of thorns is yours to wear;
Life is a cross, that you must bravely bear;
A burthen of long griefs and constant care,—
The penalty that Genius always pays.

243

Lean on my love! let it your burthen lighten!
When the clouds darken, hope for better days!—
Hath love no radiant influence to brighten,
For heavy hearts, the dark world's painful ways?

Look not so sadly, Darling, in my eyes!
Look not so mournfully into my eyes!
With piteous entreaty, in my eyes:
Yet turn not yours away, for in their light
Is all my life, and all my joy of living;
Is all that makes the day not sombre night!—
O eyes so true, so loving and forgiving,
Laugh once again, and make the dark world bright!

O sad, sweet eyes! O stars that light my soul!
O eyes that saturate with love my soul!
That fill with pain and sympathy my soul!
Ye hold me like a captive bound in chains.
O sweet, fair face, sweetest when melancholy!
Sweet lips that tremble with unuttered pains!
O Soul of Innocence, sublime and holy!
Your sorrows pass, but still the trace remains.

O helpless Love! that cannot help the one!
O fruitless Love! that cannot bless the one,
That cannot comfort or console the one,
Who is the idol of its adoration!

244

Why should there be no healing in caresses,
No power to comfort in my life's oblation,
When one kind word from you my tired heart blesses,
One look of love gives me such consolation!

1869.

245

FANNY.

Through the broad, rolling prairie I'll merrily ride,
Though father may fume, and though mother may chide,
To the green, leafy island—the largest of three—
That quietly sleeps in that silent, green sea;
For there my dear Fanny, my gentle young Fanny,
My own darling Fanny, is waiting for me.

Ho! Selim! push on!—The green isle's still afar,
And morning's red blush dims the dawn's regal star;
Before the sun rises, she'll watch there for me,
Her eyes like twin-planets that soothe the vext sea;—
My young, black-eyed Fanny, my winsome, sweet Fanny,
My own darling Fanny, will watch there for me.
Swift, Selim! swift, sluggard!—more swiftly than this;
There are ripe, rosy lips that I'm dying to kiss,
And a dear little bosom will throb with delight,
When the star on your forehead first glitters in sight;—
My glad, little Fanny, my arch, merry Fanny,
My graceful, fair Fanny,—no star is so bright.

Then her soft, snowy arms round me fondly will twine,
And her warm, rosy lips will be pressed close to mine,
And her innocent bosom with rapture will beat,
When again, and no more to be parted, we meet:

246

My lovely young Fanny, my own darling Fanny,
The flower of the prairie, so modest and sweet.

So, father may grumble, and mother may cry,
And sister may scold;—I know very well why;
'Tis that beauty and virtue are all Fanny's store,
That, while we are rich, she, alas! is quite poor;—
My lovely young Fanny, my faithful, true Fanny,
My own darling Fanny, I'll love you the more.

Ho, Selim! fleet Selim! bound fast o'er the plain!
The morning advances, the stars swiftly wane;
I see in the distance the green, leafy isle—
Between us and it stretch full many a mile—
Where my true-hearted Fanny, my own constant Fanny,
Shall welcome us both with a tear and a smile.

1842.

247

REFLECTIONS.

The stars shine sweetly in the skies,
Where, hours ago, they gently stole,
Even as a lady's lovely eyes
Look in upon her lover's soul:
The murmur of the mighty river,
Rolls on, a melancholy tune;
Over the eastern mountains quiver
The first rays of the wasted moon;
For daylight cometh, ah, too soon,
To end a pleasant night that ought to last for ever.

In the dim starlight, all around,
Sleeps each deserted, lonely street,
Save when, at intervals, resound
Some watcher's melancholy feet.
High up in heaven one lovely star
Pours in upon my soul its light;
As, nested from the world afar,
A dove, with eyes clear, fond, and bright,
Gazes, with earnest, mute delight,
Upon its young, that all its life and treasure are.

It seems as if the stars could hear,
So soft, so still, so calm it is,
Each footfall, that, distinct and clear,
Rings through the city's passages.

248

The wild excitement of the day,
Calmed by this sweet night's gentle power,
Like a strange dream has passed away,
And now at this late, silent hour,
The heart expands, as does a flower,
Fed by the light and dew of a soft morn in May.

The snows of Time fall cold upon
The fountains that well up within
The boyish heart, and mock the sun
With their bright, bubbling, merry din.
There comes no joyous summer-rain,
That can unlock these frozen springs;
Nor can the southern breeze again
Release them with its sunny wings:
The icy mass that round them clings,
Through life's long winter grows, and growing doth remain.

Now the thick stars grow pale, and fade
Before the moon's unclouded brow,
Whose light, encroaching on gray shade,
Sleeps like a drift of mountain-snow.
How trivial now appear the fret
And fever of this busy life!

249

The cares and troubles that beset,
The madness of this party-strife,
Wherewith all hearts are now so rife,
That even I, who blame, feel the wild fever yet.

But tree and leaf and bud and flower
Speak with a language eloquent;
And soothed by them and this sweet hour,
I feel how vainly life is spent;
How wretched and degrading all
This toil for power and office is,
In which one needs must crouch and crawl
If he expect or hope success;
The unwashed feet of thousands kiss,
And grovelling before strange idols prostrate fall.

How little do mankind commune
With Nature, or the truths regard,
Whereof, at all times, night or noon,
Her student reaps a rich reward!
We scarcely glance at that great book,
Whose bright leaves ever open lie;
Nor therein for instruction look,
With calm and philosophic eye.
Alas! that we should live and die
As if mankind no more of aught divine partook.

250

Out on this wretched party-war!
Where the best weapons, trick, chicane,
And perjury and cunning are,—
Its picked troops, scoundrelism's train,—
Where baser men outweigh the best,
Lies always over truth prevail,
Wisdom by numbers is oppressed,
Knavery at Virtue dares to rail,
Slanders the brightest name assail;—
Victory in such a war humble's the victor's crest.

Henceforth, myself I dedicate
To other service. Let me read
Thy pages, Nature!—though so late
Thy voice of reprimand I heed.
From bud and leaf, from flower and bloom,
From every fair created thing,
Thy teachings will my soul illume,
So long in darkness slumbering;
That when to Life's bright sunny Spring,
Autumn succeeds, it may not all my hopes entomb.

My children, with their innocent looks,
My home, with modest, humble cheer,
My old, familiar, friendly books,
Companions faithful and sincere?—

251

What want I more, if I am wise,
To cheer me on my quiet way?
Honor and fame no more I prize,—
Let those THAT harvest reap who may.—
But lo! Dawn heralds blushing Day,
And now, contentedly, I close my weary eyes.

1844.

252

SUNSET IN ARKANSAS.

Sunset again! Behind the massy green
Of the continuous oaks the sun hath fallen,
And his last rays have struggled through, between
The leaf-robed branches, as hopes intervene
Amid gray cares. The western sky is wallen
With shadowy mountains, built upon the marge
Of the horizon, from Eve's purple sheen,
And thin, gray clouds, that insolently lean
Their silver cones upon the crimson verge
Of the high Zenith, while their unseen base
Is rocked by lightning. It will show its eye
When dusky Night comes. Eastward, you can trace
No stain, no spot of cloud upon a sky,
Pure as an angel's brow.
The winds have folded up their swift wings now,
And, all asleep, high up in their cloud-cradles lie.

Beneath the trees, the dusky, purple glooms
Are growing deeper, more material,
In windless solitude. The young flower-blooms
Richly exhale their thin, invisible plumes
Of odor, which they yield not at the call
Of the hot sun. The birds all sleep within
Unshaken nests; save the gray owl, that booms
His plaintive cry, like one that mourns strange dooms;
And the sad whip-poor-will, with lonely din.

253

There is a deep, calm beauty all around,
A heavy, massive, melancholy look,
A unison of lonely sight and sound,
Which touch us, till the soul can hardly brook
Its own sad feelings here.
They do not wring from the full heart a tear,
But give us heavy thoughts, like reading a sad book.

Not such thy sunsets, oh New England! Thou
Hast more wild grandeur in thy noble eye,
More majesty upon thy rugged brow.
When Sunset pours on thee his May-time glow,
He looks on capes and promontories high,
Clay granite mountain, rock and precipice,
Crowned with the white wreaths of the long-lived snow;
On sober glades, and meadows wide and low;
On wild old woods, gloomy with mysteries;
On cultivated fields, hedged with mossed rocks,
And greening with the husbandman's young treasure;
On azure ocean, foaming with fierce shocks
Against stout shores, that his dominion measure;
On towns and villages,
And environs wealthy with flowers and trees,
Full of gray, pleasant shades, and sacred to calm leisure.

When Sunset radiantly unfolds his wing
Upon thy occident, and fills the clouds
With his rich spirit, while the laughing Spring
Leans towards the arms of Summer, like a king

254

He treads the West, and sends in glittering crowds
His flocks of colors forth upon the river
Of the blue sky, there spirit-like to cling
To the cloud-cliffs and waves, there wandering
And circling westwardly the world for ever.
Thy sunsets are more brilliant and intense
But not so melancholy or so calm,
As this that now is fast retreating hence,
Shading his heavy eyes with misty palm,
Lulled to an early sleep
By Thunder, from the western twilight's deep,
Under the far horizon muttering a stern psalm.

1833.

255

MIGNONNE.

In the sad evening of my life,
A single star upon me smiles,
And makes the world's turmoil and strife
Seem distant from me many miles,—
The Star of one great love, that gleams
My solitary way upon;—
I love once more, and in my dreams
I whisper one dear name—My Darling, Chere Mignonne!

I love you with a man's great love,
A loyal love, profound and true,
Pure as the star-light that above
The low earth loves to shine on you:
A love that all my being fills,
And cannot wane till life is done,
Whose passionate ardour through me thrills,
And makes me all thy slave, My Darling, Chere Mignonne!

No fancy 't is, no mere desire,
No furious and fickle flame;—
Such love did Petrarch's soul inspire,
And make immortal Dante's name:—

256

A love that finds its recompense
In serving the beloved one,—
So pure, so perfect, so intense,
My deathless love for you, My Darling, Chere Mignonne!

Your passionate love I cannot win;
Life's Autumn cannot be so blest:—
Lock up my secret, Darling! in
The sanctuary of your breast!
Let none my idle passion know!
No answering love I count upon,
Yet cannot help but love you so,
And wish for youth once more, My Darling, Chere Mignonne!

And if I sometimes chafe, because
You are indifferent and cold,
And Nature will not change her laws,
And teach the young to love the old;
I do not love you less, but more:
Of all the world of women none,
Though I have often loved before,
Has been so loved as you, My Darling, Chere Mignonne!

257

Am I ungenerous?—It IS wrong;
But love that doubts is always so.
I bear the burthen, when the long,
Still watches of the sad night go
With slow steps by my sleepless eyes,
While your sweet kisses linger on
My lips, almost like agonies,
Because I cannot win My Darling, Chere Mignonne!

O Darling! love me lest I die!
Let not the cloud between us stay!
One kiss will chase it from my sky,
And make the dark night joyous day.
You are my love, my life, my all,
Yet never to be all my own;
For me the leaves of Autumn fall,
For you the Spring-flowers bloom, My Darling, Chere Mignonne!

1868.

258

INVOCATION.

What cheer, Imperial Mountain? Titan, hail!
Thy distant crest gleams in the morning-light,
Like a small shallop's broad and snowy sail,
Over still waters urging its swift flight.
What cheer, old thunder-scarred and wrinkled peak!
On which the elements in vain their fury wreak?

On thy wide shoulders rests the eternal snow,
Wherein broad rivers have their hidden springs;
Down thy rough sides impetuous torrents flow,
The cataract with sullen thunder rings,
And flashing fiercely round thine aged feet,
Against thy patient rocks the fretted waters beat.

Through the dark foam and fluctuating surge,
That ever dash thy rugged breast upon,
Thou dost in silent majesty emerge,
Lifting thy forehead proudly to the sun:
Like a great truth, simple, and yet sublime,
Gleaming above the surge of Error and of Time.

259

Thou standest there for ever, day and night,
Like a great man, calm, self-possessed, serene;
Who, doing what he knoweth to be right,
Stands up, firm-rooted, earnest, and sincere,
Calmly the suffrage of the world contemns,
Seeks not its worthless praise, nor heeds if it condemns.

Above the Northern Cordilleras towers
Thy haughty crest, like some strong feudal King,
Elect of Principalities and Powers,
To whom far isles unwilling tribute bring;
Who holds with pomp and majesty his court,
Among the mail-clad Barons that his throne support.

Thou standest firm there, like an iron will,
Triumphant over time and circumstance,
Sternly resolved its duty to fulfill,
And ever towards its object to advance;
While careless of the clamorous hounds that bay,
Through all impediments it marches on its way.

How many ages is it, since the snows
First on thy forehead and wide shoulders fell?
How many since the wandering sun arose,
Wondering at thee, grim-visaged sentinel!
On the wide desert's western margin set,
To watch its solemn loneliness, as thou dost yet?

260

Wast thou an island in the overflow
Of the great flood? Did any from afar
Look wistfully to thy eternal snow,
Over new oceans gleaming like a star?
Or did the waves thee also overwhelm,
Last spot of earth in the wide waters' angry realm.

Howe'er it be, still thou art planted there,
As when the Deluge round thee ceased to roar;
Thy snows the bright hues of the morning wear:
The crimson glories of spring-sunrise pour
On thy white brow that proudly fronts the sky,
Bidding a calm defiance to Day's burning eye.

Fierce storms for centuries against thee dash,
On thy bare head rain torrents of sharp hail,
The baffled lightnings round thy temples flash,
Over thee roar the thunder and the gale.
What matter to the calm and well-poised soul,
Though round it slander howl, and persecution roll.

The tempests vanish. The round moon shines bright;
In Heaven's glad ear the cataract's grave hymn
Sounds, through the solemn silence of the night:
Around thy brow the white stars thickly swim,
Anxious thine aged solitude to cheer,
Even as a wife's fond eyes shine, earnest and sincere.

261

So all the storms and clouds that gather round
A great man's reputation, pass away,
And leave it with a brighter glory crowned;
Above the elemental surge and spray,
To shine on distant ages, far across
The stormy sea of Time, on whose wild waves they toss.

1844.

262

CAROLINE.

They said that we should meet no more,
They said she never should be mine
They swore to see me dead, before
I should wed Caroline.
But rivers to the ocean run,
And none can stay their rapid course;
The springs gush upward to the sun,
With a resistless force;
Man cannot keep fond lips apart,
Nor sever loving heart from heart,
Nor me from Caroline.

What chains can fetter the fond soul,
Or bind the pre-determined will?
I left them in their wealth to roll,
I was a free man still.
I wandered to the far Southwest,
I labored manfully and long,
For Caroline inspired my breast,
Her promise made me strong.
And now, a free man still, I ride,
To claim my lovely, blushing bride,
My dark-eyed Caroline.

263

There is a green and cheerful spot,
Where, through a valley, ramparted
With mountains, the bright Cossitot
Sparkles along its bed;
The forest, from the river's brim
In stately semicircle sweeps;
In which, imprisoned like a gem,
An emerald meadow sleeps;
Across it, through the columned green,
A pleasant cottage may be seen,
Builded for Caroline.

No earl hath lovlier demesne
Than that fair valley's solitude;
Nor looks on forests half so green
As that primeval wood.
And it is honestly my own,
Its price with my own hands I earned,
For long I labored there alone,
While still I often turned
Mine eyes to our old home, and knew
That there she waited, fond and true,
My constant Caroline.

My dear wife's loving, happy eyes,
Her cheerful voice and sunny looks,
Our love, that flower from Paradise,
And music, and old books;

264

With honest labor every day,
All blessing our sweet solitude,
Shall from our fireside scare away
All troubles that intrude.
And while life calmly journeys on,
Dearer with each returning sun
Shall be my Caroline.

1840.

265

THE MAGNOLIA.

SONG.

What, what is the true Southern Symbol,
The Symbol of Honor and Right,
The Emblem that suits a brave people
In arms against number and might?—
'Tis the ever green stately Magnolia,
Its pearl-flowers pure as the Truth,
Defiant of tempest and lightning,
Its life a perpetual youth.

French blood stained with glory the Lilies,
While centuries marched to their grave;
And over bold Scot and gay Irish
The Thistle and Shamrock yet wave:
Ours, ours be the noble Magnolia,
That only on Southern soil grows
The Symbol of life everlasting;—
Dear to us as to England the Rose.

Paint the flower on a field blue as Heaven,
Let the broad leaves around it be seen,
“Sempervirens” the eloquent motto;
Our colors the Blue, White and Green.

266

Type of Chivalry, loyalty, virtue,
In Winter and Summer the same,
Full of leaf, full of flower, full of vigor,—
It befits those who fight for a name.

For a name among Earth's ancient Nations,
Yet more for the Truth and the Right,
For Freedom, for proud Independence,
The old strife of Darkness and Light.
Round the World bear the flag of our glory,
While the nations look on and admire,
And our struggle, immortal in story,
Shall the free of all ages inspire.

What though many fall in the conflict,
And our blood redden many a field?,
The foe's on our soil, fellow-soldiers!
And God is our strength and our shield.
Through the fire and the smoke bear our banner
Ever on, while a fragment remains!
What though we are few and they many?
The Lord God of Armies still reigns.

1861.

267

THE FIRST WILD-FLOWER OF SPRING.

Young nursling of the Spring and southern mind!
Thou comest like tenderness fostered by neglect,
Or like new hope within a desert mind,
Lonely and beautiful. With new gladness decked,

The Earth is waking from her dreamless sleep
Of barrenness and winter. Warmer airs
Come hovering down from the great upper Deep,
And brood upon her. The wide azure wears

The semblance of a sleeping ocean, in
Its great blue eye, and wandering clouds spread out
Upon that upper sea their canvas thin,
And float, obedient to the winds, about

Over its depths, freighted with rain and dew,
Wherewith to bless the trees and struggling flowers,
When Night, in pensive silence, wanders through
The clustering stars, guarded by darkling hours.

268

Spring, gentle Spring! thou nurse of happiness!
Cradled at first among cold winter winds,
And thronging clouds, gloomy and motionless!
Thou comest like a dream of joy, that blinds
The heart with happiness; and thou dost bless
The barren earth, and the deep sluggish minds
Of men benumbed by Winter. The glad ocean
Lifts his blue waves to thee, with deep emotion.

Aye! thou didst sleep, while Winter ruled, afar,
In the calm greenness of the sea-girt isles;
While every wondering and impatient star
Watched for the coming of thy many smiles,
And thy soft winds, that would the frosts unbar,
Whereby the seed-girt flowers were held in piles
Of frozen earth. Yet still thy sleep was calm,
Beneath the olive and the graceful palm.

Then thou didst wake; thy genial influence poured
From the unmeasured crystalline of heaven;
The winds of winter fled away, and roared
Behind the western mountains; life was given
To the earth again; the quiet rains were showered
On its cold brow; its frozen mass was riven,
And like awakening dreams, the flowers sprang up,
Each holding to the sun its thirsty cup

269

One sprang, as suddenly as first love springs
At times, within the lonely soul, from out
The mass of damp leaves and decaying things,
And shyly looked at the sun, in timid doubt;
And then great clouds opened their snowy wings,
And, eagle-like, sailed leisurely about,
So that the light rain and the lighter dew
Fell, like a spiritual influence, through

The chasm of air. The joyful earth vibrated;
Verdure shot up, like many a pleasant thought
Of universal joy; the sea, elated,
Quaked on his shores; with melody untaught,
The birds sang loud; and everything created
A new joy from the Spring's young spirit caught:
And all, from man to the poor worm that crawls,
Felt like worn captives freed from Pagan thralls.

Spring, sweetest of the seasons! welcome here,
As calm is to the storm-tossed mariner,
Wine to the goblet, music to the ear,
Thou to the poet art,—aye! welcomer.
When Summer heralds thee unto thy bier,
As Autumn in his turn shall herald her,

270

Thy memory to me shall yet be sweet,
As of loved friends whom still we hope to meet.

But thou, the earliest of the young Spring's dreams,
Too early cam'st, and met'st the sharp white frost;
Lured by the Syren-song of babbling streams,
Venturing too soon, to thy most bitter cost.

The chill east wind thy tender petals froze,
And shy and pale thou nestlest quite away
Among thick leaves, and where the tall grass grows;—
Thou hast arisen like a starry ray

Of sudden thought within a poet's brain,
Or a swift flash of passionate love within
The soul of woman; and thou dost maintain
Thyself aloof from the monotonous din

Of the old twirling oak leaves, from the moan
Of the gray weeds, the dull monotony
Of the harsh winds, and the dead limb, that, lone
And dry, swings creaking from the leafless tree.

Thou droopest towards the earth again, like one
For life and its tumultuous storms unfit;
Now chilled and shivering; but the fiery sun,
Like a great censer in the sky uplit,

271

Will shrivel soon thy slight leaves with his fire,
And thou wilt vanish like a cloudy scroll;
As many a poet, fainting on his lyre,
Wastes with the fiery passions of his soul.

1833.

A FRAGMENT.

Like the young moon,
When, on the sunlit limits of the night,
Her white sheen trembles amid crimson air,
And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might,
Doth as the herald of her coming, bear
The ghost of her dead mother, whose dim form
Bends in dark ether from her infant's chair.

272

LES MARCHANDES.

FOR A FAIR.

PRINTEMPS.

Sweet Spring stands blushing 'mid the flowers,
Heralded by benignant showers,
And soft airs through the young leaves sighing
While winter flits to northern skies,
But scowls back as he ice-ward hies,
Enraged at her sweet sunny eyes,
As she with merry scorn defies
The grim old graybeard flying:
Her lovely head with rosebuds crowned,
Her little feet that glad the ground,
While flitting by the lilied lakes,
And dancing rivulets, she makes
The earth its frosty fetters break,
And everything to life awake,
As when the world began;
Such, but still merrier, lovelier yet,
My loving, mischievous, dear pet,
My blue-eyed Lilian.

273

AVRIL.

Young April! waking of a sweet spring morn,
When the fresh south-wind stirs the panting leaves;
And with loud welcome to the rose-lipped dawn,
The mocking-bird floats heavenward from the eaves;—
Young April, laughing with her dark, bright eyes,
Upon the timid flowers that scarce dare raise
Their jeweled foreheads toward the dewy skies,
Lit by the crimson of the sun's first blaze:—
April, all smiles and blushes,—such and more,
Is our dear, little, timid Isadore.

MAI.

The merry, laughing, rosy-fingered May!
Whose snowy feet upon the thick grass tread,
As softly as the footsteps of young Day
Upon a patient mountain's frosty head:
Young May, all smiles, with flowers thick-garlanded,
And lips whose rich hue shames the envious rose,
Cheeks like carnations blushing through spring-snows;
A graceful gait, a lovely leaf-crowned head;—
Nor Spain nor Italy has ever seen
A rarer maiden than young Josephine.

274

JUIN.

June! with her lap wealthy with golden fruit;
Young frolic June, under the green trees sleeping!
Her small head pillowed on a mossy root,
And on a snowy arm; one rosy foot,
Half-hidden, through the enamored flowers is peeping;
The cool west-wind, with rapture almost mute,
Sings a low tune; and gliding softly there,
The timid sunshine kisses her sweet face,
And turns the thick cloud of her soft dark hair
Into a glory. Lo! she wakes, and grace
And beauty breathe in every movement. Where,
In all the world, in what most fortunate place,
Is face more lovely, eyes that brighter shine?
Where shall we find a peer for Caroline?

LA MAITRESSE DE LA POSTE.

Let Coleridge sing his Genevieve,
Who at his sad song could but grieve,
And loved because she pitied;
And Keats his lovely Madeline,
With rosy mouth and eyes divine,
And lips for kisses fitted;

275

That with her lover through the night,
Darkness without, within all light,
To far-off countries flitted.
Let Tennyson his Lilian sing
And lovely Oriana,
And scale the skies with tireless wing,
In praise of Mariana,
I sing one lovelier by far,
One pure and gentle as a star,
A modest, young, sweet creature,
In whose fair face a blushing grace
Illumines every feature.
Pure as the stainless Alpine snows,
And lovelier than the sweet moss-rose,—
What rhyme can, by what poet cannie,
Tell half the grace and beauty rare,
That fill like sunshine the glad air,
And float round Little Annie?

1850.

276

CARISIMA.

“Do you not know I love you?”—So you cried,
And blessed my lips with kisses multiplied,
Sweeter than those for which Adonis died—
Kisses that promised true love's long endurance;
While your dear eyes in mine my soul were reading,
With wistful, anxious, eager question pleading,
To know if I believed the sweet assurance.

“Yes, I do know you love me,”—I replied,
“And in that love I am beatified;
“It is my wealth, my glory, and my pride,
“The evening-glory of a clouded west:”—
Without it, earth were but a desert dreary,
Under life's burthens I should faint and weary,
And long to fall asleep and be at rest.

Darling! with what can I such love repay?
What can October give to delicate May?—
The afternoon hours of a waning day,
The saddening Autumn of Life's fading year.—
I can but give the love that sacrifices
Itself to bless the one it idolizes,—
Itself, and all delights to lovers dear.

277

Sad recollections of the shadowy years,
Of radiant hopes fainting to gloomy fears,
Of smiles and laughter dying into tears,
These, and no more, remain to me of life.
These and no more!—calamities and crosses,
Regrets and griefs, reverses, and the losses
That were the bitter fruits of civil strife.

Sad memories of lost loves and broken trust,
Kisses from lips long mouldered into dust,
Short lived delights that ended in disgust,—
These are the only treasures of the Past;
A Past of love, dreams, shadows, mirth and sadness,
Of hours of reason and long days of madness;
A morning-sky, with clouds soon overcast.

Youth, Beauty, Genius—more than queenly dower;
Over men's hearts a more than royal power;
The certainty of Fame's triumphal hour;
An hundred worshippers before your throne;—
How can you, rich with these divine largesses,
Value my love, or care for my caresses?—
And yet you are my darling and my own.

Like dark and rainy days on bitter sands
Or barren moors—long days in foreign lands,

278

To one who nothing spoken understands,
If I did doubt your love, my life would be,—
Aimless and hopeless, like a vessel drifting,
Shattered by storm, before the unquiet, shifting,
Capricious winds, on a dark Northern sea.

Father in Heaven! I thank thee for the gift
Of this dear love, my grateful soul to lift
Out of the depths!—no more I, blinded, drift
Alone, in darkness, towards the frowning portal
Beyond whose folds no difference of age is,
Where those who love may read the same bright pages,
In the mysterious Book of Love immortal.

April, 1869.

279

SIMILES.

I.

Above me snows and ice-crags, and around
The Cordilleras towering, grand and stern;—
Near me a stream over the black rocks bounding,
Its echoes from the caverned slopes resounding:—
Off in the distance a blue, grass-rimmed lake,
Through which the stream shoots, and the slight waves make
A soft, low music on the pebbled shore.
The sun's rays its blue bosom penetrate,
And still the thirsty waters beg for more;
And still the sun, from his exhaustless store,
Rains down his beams, until, with its full freight,
The lake appears a sheet of silver light
And liquid diamonds, flashing a full return
Back to the generous sun.
Thou, fair and bright,
Star of my soul! for whom for ever burn
The altars of my soul's idolatry,
Let thy soft rays of love into the sea
Of my sad soul sink and become a part
Of it and of its essence; then shall I,
Strong with thy strength, and struggling with stout heart,
Effect somewhat, before it comes to me to die.

280

II.

Lo! the great mountain's snowy shoulders gleam,
Above the clouds, high in the upper air;
Perpetual sentinels the giants seem
Of the lake's quiet. Their gray heads are bare
In God's great presence, which is mighty there,
In the ethereal, thin, keen element.
One floating cloud hath down from heaven leant,
Far down one slope, and feeds the springing leaves,
And silently condensing into dew,
Feeds the parched grass that gratefully receives
The welcome gift, and gladly grows anew,
And smiles in the light.
Dear lady of my love!
My soul's throned Queen, all empresses above!
Though distant from me half a continent,
Where other clouds are floating past the shores
Against which the Atlantic, dashing, roars;
Be thou like this one, which the Pacific sent,
As tribute to the haughty mountains. Here,
Like a soft cloud or rosy atmosphere,
Let thy dear love envelope me, and bless
My sad soul's thirsty desert and parched wilderness.

1832.

281

A DIRGE.

OVER A COMPANION, KILLED BY COMANCHES AND BURIED IN THE PRAIRIE.

Thy wife shall wait
Many long days for thee;
And when the gate
Swings on its unused hinges, she,
Opening her dim and grief-contracted eye,
And still forbidding hope to die,
Longing for thee will look;
Till like some lone and gentle summer brook,
That pineth in the summer-heat away
And dies some day,
She waste her mournful life out at her eyes.
Vainly, ah! vainly we deplore
Thy death, departed friend! No more
Shalt thou be seen by us beneath the skies.
The barbed arrow has gone through
Thy heart, and all the blue
Hath faded from thy clay-cold veins, and thou,
With stern and pain-contracted brow,
Like one that wrestled mightily with death,
Art lying there.

282

Whether above the skies,
Thou at thy death didst soar,
And treadest Heaven's floor
With great joy beaming in thine eyes;
Or buried there
Commencest an eternal sleep,
And shalt in atoms only rise to the air,
As thinks despair;—
We bid thee here a last, long, sad adieu!
Rest there, pale sleeper!
Another trophy of the grim old Reaper,
Cut down and withering under unknown skies.
Farewell! our course yet farther westward lies.
Thy grave is deeper than the wolf can go,
And we have driven the wheels above thee, so
That the Indian may not find thy sepulchre.
Farewell! for now the trains begin to stir;
And we with quivering lip,
And lingering and reluctant step,
Must leave thee here, alone. Once more, farewell!

1832.

283

GERTRUDE.

Many sweet flowers in the prairie shine,
And many in the wood;
But the fairest flower of all is mine,
My darling young Gertrude.
Her hazel eyes so roguish bright,
Filled with her dear soul's radiant light
Her rosy, pouting lips invite
The long, warm kiss:
And yesterday, at last, I heard
From that sweet mouth the welcome word
That makes existence bliss:
My promised wife, star of my life,
My darling young Gertrude!

Many a bird in the prairie sings,
And many in the wood:
But none whose song so sweetly rings
As that of my Gertrude:
The happy day draws swiftly near,
When, trusting to my love sincere,
She will become tenfold more dear,—
That bright, glad day,

284

When in my loving, loyal arms,
Enfolding all her glowing charms,
A thousand times I'll say,
“My dear, sweet wife! star of my life!
My darling young Gertrude!”

1843.

285

LINES.

WRITTEN ON THE MOUNTAINS WEST OF THE RIO DEL NORTE.

The sun's last light is in the sky,
His last warm breath is on my brow,
Dark shadows to the mountains high
Begin to stoop on swift wings now.
The rudy twilight quivers up
Above the line of snowy crests,
Like wine that in an agate cup
From tremulous motion never rests.
The great hills in the south grow blue
And indistinct, and far away
In the orient their silver hue
Is changing into sullen gray.
All objects, where the shadows play,
Grow dim and indistinctly deep,
Tired Nature's eyes now close, and she inclines to sleep.

Into the soul sad fancies swarm,
As bees swarm, clinging to each other;
Or waves, when memories of storm
Excite them to devour each other.
The dreams of hope, at morning born
That love the daylight and the sun,
Have fled, and wander far, forlorn,
Or vanished slowly, one by one:

286

And all the painful thoughts that rested,
In deep calm slumber, in the breast
Which many a day they have infested,
Awake, and bitterly molest
The heart, their most unwilling nest,
Their home, and worse than all, the food
Of these, the vulture-eyed, and all their ravening brood.

One thought of home is often there,
Like a lone bird, with sad, deep eyes,
Immovable as dull despair,
A grief profound that never dies.
Now when Death's influences seem
On all the universe around,
Now when the sleepy mountains dream,
Plunged into silence most profound;
When rock and pine, and snow and sky,
Sleep shaded by Night's dusky wing,
A sleep like death, to man's dim eye
The self-same awful, sombre thing;
All these sad influences bring
That melancholy thought again,
And on the heart it falls like a cold winter-rain.

Perhaps death now is busy there,
And some dear soul that I have loved,
Into the chill and desert air
Hath sadly from its home removed.

287

Perhaps they mourn some loved one dead
Thinking of me, the absent, too;
While I, unconscious, have not shed
A tear, nor even their sorrow knew.
Perhaps, whenever I return,
After my ordered task is done,
Instead of some loved face and form,
I may but find a simple stone,
A sister's cold heart set upon;
While they will long before have ceased
To mourn for her whom I shall mourn as just deceased.

'Tis sad to wander all alone
Through the wide world, a homeless thing,
Like a lost wave that makes its moan,
And hastens to the land, to fling
Its life away upon the shore,
With nothing near to mourn its death;
But like the eagle far to soar,
While Fate his full nest shattereth;
Then to return, and fainting fly
Round a wrecked home made desolate,
Perhaps to hear his young's last cry,
The last sob of his dying mate;
This is the sharpest blow of Fate,
The most unutterable woe,
Crushing the heart and brain at one tremendous blow.

288

This must men bear, as men have borne
A thousand giant woes beside;
And should this dearest hope be shorn
Away, this light, that scarce descried,
Hath been my beacon-fire of late;
Still I have much to do in life,
And manfully must front my fate:
For duty is a constant strife.
The branchless tree still liveth on,
The mastless ship still holds her way,
Nor heeds the wind, the storm, the sun:
So will I work all life's brief day,
Doing my duty as I may:
And some, perhaps, will mourn my death,
When neither hate prevents, nor envy hindereth.

1832.

289

TO THE MOON.

Oh, quickly rise,
Thou lovely and most welcome Moon!
Look into my sad eyes,
Ere sober Night too quickly hies;—
And bless me soon!

Here I have kept,
Watching to see thine advent bright,
While others lay and slept;
As I at other times have wept,
For day's fresh light.

Here I have lain,
And eastward kept my anxious gaze,
But all thus far in vain:
No shower of light like silver rain
Shines through the haze.

The evening star
Has chidden me, saying, “Get to bed!
She wanders yet afar,
Where the great Asian deserts are
Inhabited

290

“By Scythian hordes;
Or where the springs of Indus rise;
Or flash the fiery swords
Of dry Sahara's Arab lords;
Or where the skies

“Smile on the shores
Of Teneriffe, or on old Rome:
Or where the Danube roars;
Or, tortured by Venetian oars,
The lagunes foam.”

That star has set
Behind the western hills; and thou
Hast not arisen yet,
Though all the silver stars are met
In heaven now.

Ah! here she comes!
And all those silver stars grow pale,
As, swimming through gray glooms,
The queen of love and light illumes
Crag, hill, and dale.

Now I can sleep,
If thou wilt but vouchsafe to shine
From heaven's abysses deep,
And pleasantly mine eyelids steep
In light divine.

291

The stars that peer,
Like timid children, from on high,
(Small pilots they, that steer
Their sparkling boats around thy sphere),
Love not as I.

Adieu! Adieu!
My heavy lids begin to close,
And from thy domain blue,
Sleep's gentle and refreshing dew
Upon them flows.

Stay in thy flight!
In at my humble casement shine,
And bless with thy soft light,
Oh, silver nautilus of night,
All that is mine!

1830.

292

THE DYING WIFE.

Dear husband, raise me in thine arms,—the hour is drawing near
When I must part with thee, and these our little children dear.
Though froward often, I have been a loving, faithful wife,
And on thy breast I fain would rest, and breathe away my life.

Nay, weep not! let me kiss the tears from thy dear eyes away;—
They are dim with weary watching many a long sad night and day:
It is our heavenly Father's will; I only go before
To that bright home, where we shall meet, to part again no more.

The fresh world seems more beautiful, as life draws to its close,
For death, like sunset, over it a mellow beauty throws.
All nature seems more lovely when life's day is nearly gone,
Than when it radiantly glowed, in childhood's rosy dawn.

293

How pleasantly the soft Spring sky is brightening again!
How cheerfully the meadows smile, after the sweet soft rain!
The waving corn-fields flash with light, like a forest of green spears,
And on the flowers, like jewels, shine the light rain's pearly tears.

The rustling leaves and pattering drops make music in the air,
The odor of the grateful flowers swells heavenward like a prayer,
The glad birds carol loudly, while they feed their happy young,
And the bees are very busy, leafy labyrinths among.

Soon will fair sunset's golden feet trample the western hill,
With crimson light ensandaled,—soon the busy world be still;
And long before the rosy morn wakes on the eastern sea,
Our little ones, dear husband, will be left alone with thee.

Alas, Alas! my children! Give me strength, dear God in Heaven!
Thou knowest how most earnestly and truly I have striven
To bow my heart submissively unto thy will divine;
Oh, Father, aid and strengthen me!—for I would not repine.

294

Now, husband, let me clasp them in a last, long, sad embrace,
While yet my dim eyes can discern each sweet familiar face;
To-morrow they will wonder why their mother sleeps so still,
And why they cannot wake her with sweet kisses at their will.

Farewell, dear children! Bitter tears are filling my tired eyes,—
I cannot speak the thousand words, out of my heart that rise:
Your arms around your mother's neck no more will fondly twine,
Your sweet eyes, gazing into hers, no more with gladness shine.

She is going a long journey; many a Spring will come and go,—
To Summer heat and Autumn frosts succeed the Winter snow;
And still, from that far spirit-land, in which the bright stars burn,
No more, when daylight glads the earth, your mother will return.

295

But often, when, at night, your eyes are closed in gentle sleep,
She by each little pillow will a constant vigil keep;
And while the silver moonlight on each forehead softly streams,
She will visit all her little ones, and talk with them in dreams.

You must love your kind, good father; you must love each other well,
Nor ever say an angry word, nor any falsehood tell:
Be kind to everything that lives, and though I go before,
You shall come to me in Heaven, and be with me evermore.

Dear husband, love our little ones, when I am dead and gone,
When the dewy grass and laughing flowers my grave are growing on;
Oh, cherish and protect them, lest they sadly pine away,
Like buds on which no longer shines the blessed light of day.

Thine eyes may fondly look upon some sweet girl's sunny face;
A fair young wife may sleep upon thy bosom in my place;
Other children may be born to thee, THY love with these to share,
But demanding and receiving ALL their youthful mother's care.

296

Yet these will be as dear to THEE; for in each little face,
The features of thy first love thou wilt still delight to trace:
I leave them, a rich legacy, beyond all price, to thee,
And I know that thou wilt love them, for the love I bear to thee.

Slow sinks the sun,—the world grows dark,—dear husband, let us pray!
I am ready now resignedly to pass from earth away:
But a thought of thee, beloved, when all other thoughts depart,
Will linger yet, within the cold, dark chambers of the heart.

1840.

297

A LAMENT FOR DIXIE.

Southrons, conquered, subjugated,
Mourn your country devastated!
Mourn for hapless, hopeless Dixie!
Homes once happy, desolated,
Church and altar desecrated;
Mourn for fallen, ruined Dixie!

Lament the fall of Dixie!
Alas! Alas!
On Dixie's land we'll sadly stand,
And live or die for Dixie,
Endure! Endure!
All ills endure for Dixie!
Endure! Endure!
All ills endure for Dixie!

Mourn your dead whose bones lie bleaching,
Courage to the living teaching;
Wail, but still be proud for Dixie!
Mourn your Southland, crushed and trampled,
Bearing sorrows unexampled;
Wail, but still be proud for Dixie?

Lament, &c.

Prey despoiled and victim bleeding,
Not to man for mercy pleading,

298

Unto God alone cries Dixie:
Cross of anguish bravely bearing,
Crown of thorns submissive wearing,
Patient and resigned is Dixie.

Lament, &c.

All our States lie fainting, dying,
Each to each with sobs replying,
Each still loving, honoring Dixie:
By the accurst scourge lacerated,
By her freed slaves ruled and hated,
She is still our own dear Dixie.

Lament, &c.

Dear to us our conquered banners,
Greeted once with loud hosannas;
Dear the tattered flag of Dixie:
Dear the field of Honor glorious,
Where, defeated or victorious,
Sleep the immortal Dead of Dixie.

Lament, &c.

Conquered, we are not degraded,
Southern laurels have not faded;
Mourn, but not in shame, for Dixie!
Deck your Heroes' graves with garlands,

299

Till the echo comes from far lands,
“Honor to the dead of Dixie!”

Lament, &c.

All is not yet lost unto us,—
Baseness only can undo us;
Mourn,—you cannot blush,—for Dixie!
Kneeling at your country's altar,
Swear your children not to falter,
Till the right shall rule in Dixie.

Lament, &c.

If her fate be sealed, we'll share it;
By our shroudless dead we swear it;
Ours the life or death of Dixie!
By her Past's all-glorious story,
By her loyal Martyrs' glory,
We will live or die with Dixie!

Lament, &c.

Shall there to our Night of Sorrow
Be no glad and bright To-morrow?
Is hope, even, lost to Dixie?—
Every dark night hath its morning,
Long, though, oft, delayed its dawning:
Wait! be patient! pray for Dixie!

300

Hope for dawn for Dixie!
Endure! Endure!
On Dixie's land we'll fearless stand,
And hope and pray for Dixie.
Endure! Endure!
All ills endure for Dixie!
Endure! Endure!
All ills endure for Dixie!

1868.

JUBILATE.

Now our night of terror endeth,
God his Rose of Dawn now sendeth,
Giving life and light to Dixie:
Arms no longer Fraud sustaining,
Knaves and thieves no longer reigning,
Hope is once more born for Dixie.
Life has come to Dixie;
She's free! free!! free!!!—
On Dixie's land we now may stand,
No longer tortured Dixie:
She's free! free!! free!!!
Our own, dear, wasted Dixie:
She's free! free!! free!!!
For God is good to Dixie.

1877.

301

ELLEN.

We parted in the Spring,
When the flowers were all in bloom,
When the air was loaded with perfume,
And birds were on the wing:
Fondly the dear girl I caressed;
To her fair brow my lips I pressed,
Clasping her closely to my breast,
Then turned my sad eyes to the West,
And left my darling Ellen.

We parted at the spring,
Where first she told her love,
The thick stars shining bright above,
The waters murmuring.
We were so poor we could not wed,
Lest we and ours should want for bread;
And so my humble sail I spread,
And westward turned my shallop's head,
To work, and win my Ellen.

She was a young thing then;
Her bright eyes filled with tears:
Her bosom, then disturbed with fears,
Shall bound with joy again.

302

At last, my long probation's done;
Four weary years their course have run,
And, fame and fortune earned and won,
I come to my beloved one,
My true love, my sweet Ellen.

Ho, Soldan! Ho, good steed!
This is the last day's ride:
Bear me but safe to Ellen's side,
And thou shalt rest indeed;
When, smiling through a rain of tears,
She pours in my enraptured ears
Her tale of many hopes and fears,
That haunted her for four long years,—
My fond, my faithful Ellen.

Then, parted nevermore,
Our life shall calmly glide,
Like a clear river's tranquil tide
Along a grassy shore;
Or, if there come some carking care
Between us we'll the burden share,
Making it easier to bear:—
Ho, Soldan! we are almost there!
Speed on to my sweet Ellen!

1840.

303

BROWN OCTOBER.

October, brown October, with his slow
And melancholy step, has left the hills
And comes upon the plains. The wild winds blow
Through the thick leaves, with cold and gusty thrills,
Turning their greenness to the sere red hues
Of sober Autumn. Through the murmuring dells,
Heralded by the frost, that wildly strews
The faded leaves along his way, strides on
The sober Month: and over the bright eye
Of the desponding sun,
The cold clouds fold their vesture dun,
Or on the bare gray hills like couching eagles lie.

The crimson heart of every summer flower
Has pined away; and round the withered stalks
The gray and faded leaves begin to shower
Into a rotting mass: uncertain flocks
Of winged seeds go floating through the air,
Steered by mad winds: struck by the noiseless shocks
Of the white frost, the long night busy there,
The nuts bestrew the ground. Fields mourn the loss
Of verdure; and the stubble, dry and gray,
That the chill wind-gusts toss,
While the dun clouds drift thick across,
Seems, with a useless life, to sadly waste away.

304

How well the time accordeth with the soul!
Autumn is in the heart: and these sere woods,
These winds that coldly through the valley roll,
These dull blue clouds, these withered solitudes,
Gray weeds and falling leaves, do all resemble
The lonely season on the soul that broods:
The winds of sorrow through its pale blights tremble,
Its falling hopes and passions in decay,
Like the dead leaves, give melancholy warning,
That life ebbs fast away
From the sad heart, once glad and gay
With the unsullied greenness of its life's young morning.

And now, oh Life! it makes its calm farewell!
No peace or joy it hopeth for on earth,
The crimson fountain once did gladly swell,
But now it hardly throbs. The jocund mirth
Of boyhood's day has gone, and in its stead
Sit Weariness, and Loneliness, and Dearth:
The golden visions from the soul have fled,
And each has left a sombre shadow there,
Amid which memory sees the once-loved faces,
And in the whispering air
Hears soft, sweet voices say, “Prepare,
O weary one, to leave the old and well-known places.”

1832.

305

THE SILVER WEDDING.

A MASQUE.

Personated at Washington, on the 8th of April, 1878.

James Alexander Williamson: Ann Whitfield Gregory: Married April 7, 1853.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Annus Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-three.
Annus Eighteen Hundred and Seventy-eight.
Content, the Nymph Autarke.
Peace, the Nymph Eirene.
Love, the Nymph Philotes.
Confidence, the Nymph Pistis.
Spring Earine.
Summer Thereia.
Autumn Phthinoporon.
Winter Cheimon.

307

Annus 1853 loquitur.
Ho! Eighteen Hundred Seventy-Eight, what means this concourse here?
Whereat we are by Father Time commanded to appear,
Your predecessors twenty-five, part of the long array,
Which waits for you to join it, at the close of your brief day?—
We come from that dim land, the Past, thick-peopled with dead years,
Which, born with smiles, grew old with cares, and died with sobs and tears:
We come, as unto aged men the memories come, that bring
Past joys to give delight, past griefs again the heart to sting.
Guests welcome or unwelcome we, according as we bear
Remembrances, to Serf or King, of happiness or care,
Of joys or sorrows, weal or woe, of honour or of shame,
For which some glorify the Past, some bitterly defame.

VOICES, AFAR OFF.
North
—The Past is the Fate of the Present;
Is a Realm no change that knows;

308

South
—Is the Lawgiver of the Future,
The source of its joys and woes;

East
—The dead Years are diademed Monarchs,
Whom the Years that come after obey;

West
—And yesterday is as remote from us,
As the Stars are far away.

Annus 1878 loquitur.
You bring, as every Year's ghost brings, sad memories to all,
Of losses, disappointments, griefs, that rich and poor enthrall;
Yet here you and your comrades bring remembrance of Content,
Of good deeds done, of virtuous lives, of no days idly spent,
Of much to be with pride reviewed, of little to regret,
Of plighted vows unbroken, and of love not weary yet.
You are welcome, Years of peace and war! in this Elysium, where
Parents and children cheerfully life's chafing burdens bear;
Thou, Eighteen Fifty-three, who heardst the vows that made these one,
And Ye who know how nobly they the work of life have done.

309

You come as witnesses to prove that they have ever been
Fond husband, faithful, loving wife, patient, unvexed, serene;
As witnesses, renewal of those solemn vows to hear;
Though Ghosts, yet guests most welcome at the Silver Wedding's cheer.

Annus 1853 loquitur.

Let, then, the Shades of all the dark, sad days,
That make large part of every dead Year's train,
Of every woe that stings and sin that slays,
Unto the Past's dark realm retire again!
But let the Shades of Sorrows here remain,
Which, born with patience, blessings proved and gain.
With these blest Shades let those appear that make
The home a heaven in which they do abide;
Let them here live, nor in all time forsake
The house by loving memories sanctified.
Come! fair Content, Peace, Love and Confidence,
Sisters of Hope, and born of Innocence.

Come! with the Seasons of the living Year,
And while these bring gay flowers and golden fruit,
For those who are to many friends so dear,
Let them not be indifferent or mute,
But with fair wishes kindly spoken bless
Those who so well do merit happiness.

Here enter, hand in hand, four young ladies, dressed in white, representing Content, Peace, Love, Confidence; and two representing

310

Spring and Summer, with two men representing Autumn and Winter; who all enclose the husband, wife and children in a circle; and Spring, Summer and Autumn crown them with wreaths of flowers, and set at their feet baskets of fruit, at the appointed times.
Loquitur Content.

I am the Nymph Content:—

I come with treasures in my hands,—
Not gold nor gems from many lands,
But tranquil thoughts and gentle words,
That please like flowers and songs of birds;
To me the home enchantment owes,
The flowers that bloom amid the snows,
The heart's calm ease, to bravely bear
Reverses, wrongs, and daily care.

Hear what an English Poet sung,
In the days when Queen Elizabeth was young.

Some one at a distance reads:
Sweet are the thoughts that savour of Content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent,
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown;
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
That make homes happy, ever dwell in this!
The homely house that harbors peaceful rest,
The cottage that affords no pride nor care,
The modest ways of maidens neatly drest,
The sweet consort of mirth and music rare,

311

These make the truest and most lasting bliss;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

Loquitur Peace.
I am the Nymph Peace;—
There is peace in the lonely cells,
In the Convent's cloisters grey,
Where, sweet as the chime of the Convent-bells,
Life calmly glides away.
But better the peace that blesses
The family in its home,
Where the grey hairs mingle with bright brown tresses,
And the Young care not to roam;
Where the eyes of one sister are bright,
And the voice of another is sweet,
And the father reads in the soft still light,
And the children play at his feet.
The home of a mother's delight,
The haven of wedded bliss,
A home that is tranquil and gay and bright,
Even such a home as this.

Loquitur Love.
I am the life of the household,
The Love of the husband and wife,
The love between parents and children,
The love that is dearer than life.

312

Eyes by me lighted grow brighter,
Hearts by me warmed are glad,
Homes where I live are lighter,
And sorrowing souls less sad.
When the bridal flowers have withered,
I do not pine away,
My flowers bloom and are gathered
In November as in May.
They fade not, this home perfuming,
As they did so long ago,
Here they shall still be blooming,
When Winter brings his snow.

Loquitur Confidence.
I am the Nymph Confidence:—
I drive away distrust and doubt,
That into homes like serpents crawl;
And jealousy, that coils about
The heart and turns the blood to gall.
Mine are the true and loving eyes,
Through which one looks in on the Soul,
The loyal troth that Time defies,
The faith that can mistrust control.
Here I abide, a constant guest,
With Peace and Love, and sweet Content;
By us this home shall still be blest,
Beyond the reach of accident.

313

Annus 1878 loquitur.
Now let my seasons four their homage pay,
Bringing their offerings meet;
First Spring, a maiden sprightly, blithe and gay,
With delicate dancing feet;
Then Summer, on whose lips departing May
Pressed kisses long and sweet;
Then Autumn, sober-clad in russet grey,
Then Winter, white with sleet.

Loquitur Earine, Spring.

When the man was the maiden wooing,
And life was a troop of bright hours,
I smiled on and favored the suing,
And crowned them with garlands of flowers.
Again I bring roses and pansies,
Carnations and hyacinths, too,
Fair types of all delicate fancies,
To crown these now wedded anew.

[Giving Flowers.]

White rosebuds and lilies the rarest,
Camellias, violets blue,
For these, among maidens the fairest,
Whose eyes are so tender and true.

[Giving Flowers.]

314

May the world not for them lose its brightness,
As the years chase each other away,
Nor their hearts lose the innocent lightness,
That makes them so happy to-day.

Loquitur Thereia, Summer.
When the Spring died, and I was queen,
Twenty-five years ago,
And the flowers still bloomed, and the leaves were green,
And the birds sang loud or low,
The maiden was matron, and home was gay,
And the hours swifted-footed danced away.
To wife and husband I brought fruits then,
Golden and green and purple and red,
Now flowers and fruits I bring again,
After so many years have fled.
Their summer of life is ended,—
May its memories that remain,
Of joys and sorrows blended,
Give more of pleasure than pain.

Loquitur Phthinoporon, Autumn.

When the days in October grow shorter and colder,
And leaves are crimsoned by frost,

315

May these friends whom we love, growing grayer and older,
No days have to count as lost!
May the world still for them be a good world to live in,
With good in it always to do,
A good world to help and to comfort and give in,
With praise for the honest and true.

May they be never sick of hope deferred,
Nor in the field or vineyard toil in vain;
Nor words of kindness be by them unheard,
Nor thanklessness of children give them pain.

Loquitur Cheimon, Winter.
When I, with storm of snow and sleet
And wind loud-howling reign,
And pavements are icy in every street,
And rivers rebel in vain,
In the inter-spaces between the storms,
When the sky is cold and clear,
May these not want the fire that warms,
And the good old-fashioned cheer!
Nor the good old wishes become but forms,
“Merry Christmas” and “Happy New Year.”

316

For the Poet has said and sung
These words, that are wise and true,
“The Old need not envy the Young,
“The Old need not scorn the new;
“For hearts can be warm when days are cold,
“And the night may hallow the day,
“Till the heart, though at even-tide weary and old,
“May rise in the morning gay,
“To its work in the bright new day.”

Loquitur Annus 1853.

Thus said the Poet, in the olden time,
When sense not sound builded the stately rhyme,—
“The cottage nestling in the lowly dale,
“Ill fortune never fears, because so low;
“The anchored mind, dreading no fickle gale,
“Sleeps safe when Fate doth Princes overthrow;”
Content still smiles, when portly statesmen feel
That fear and danger tread upon their heel.

If Fortune frowns and scowls, may that to these work good!
If Fortune flattering smiles, may it not prove a snare!
May crosses bravely borne, ills patiently withstood,
And length of peaceful days for new life them prepare!

317

May hope gild every cloud, Faith make the future bright,
And patience them maintain in quiet and delight;
While, till their changeless love shines into perfect day,
Bravely they hand in hand do walk their homeward way,
And hear, behind the bells in wintry Autumn ringing,
The soft sweet chorus of the loving angels singing.

318

THE BRIDAL.

Ring, bells! your glad carillons,
For two fond hearts made one,
The old, old story telling,
In Paradise begun.

To holy church now cometh
The soldier with his bride,
Up the aisle gravely pacing,
Unto the altar side.

Worth against many rivals,
Wins more than golden fruit:
Grace, virtue, genius, beauty,
Reward his patient suit.

Queen over hearts long reigning,
She lays her sceptre down,
One heart must now content her,
One love be all her crown.

Must we say “Good-bye!” Darling?
Ah! word so hard to say!
Must we, so long adoring,
Give you to him, to-day?

319

Dear heart of child so loving,
So tender and so true,
Heart that is ever seeking,
Some generous act to do:

Dear eyes so bright in gladness,
To loved ones' faults so blind,
So eloquent in sadness,
When fortune was unkind.

Hands that were never weary
Of toil for other's sake;
Tongue that with sweet tones pleading,
Bitter words never spake:

We part with her in sorrow,
We give her up with tears,
Losing with her the blessing
Of all the coming years.

Take, then, this gift most precious,
Be to her kind and true!
And as you guard and keep her,
May God be good to you!

May 28, 1878.

320

Επος.

Chaunted by Jack Savage, at the Life-Wake of the Fine Arkansas Gentleman, who died before his time, 1859.

A gentleman from Arkansaw, not long ago, 'tis said,
Waked up one pleasant morning, and discovered he was dead;
He was on his way to Washington, not seeking for the spoils,
But rejoicing in the promise of a spree at Johnny Coyle's.

One spree at Johnny Coyle's, one spree at Johnny Coyle's;
And who would not be glad to join a spree at Johnny Coyle's?

He waked and found himself aboard a rickety old boat;
Says the ferryman, when questioned, “on the Styx you are afloat;”
“What! dead?” said he;—“indeed you are,” the grim old churl replied;
“Why, then, I'll miss the spree at Coyle's,” the gentleman replied.