 | Later Lays and Lyrics |  |
92
BITTER MEMORIES
MY STUDY.
I.
I am not lonely in my quiet room,Though nought of mortal shape is near me now,
While wanes my taper in the deepening gloom,
And drops af studious toil are on my brow;
Against my window chafes the leafless bough,
Drear sign that birds and flowers no more delight,
And, sweeter than young Love's first, whispered vow,
Æolian voices quaver while I write,
As if they sung the dirge of melancholy night.
II.
On the arched gateway, near my office door,With head erect a carven, couchant hound
Seems shivering in the blast of winter hoar,
And watching for his master, homeward bound;—
Flecked by the starlight is the frozen ground
As if the dead were parting with their shrouds;
The drifting snow gives out a muffled sound,
Like din remote of mighty, mustering crowds,
While through the fields of Heaven float stormy, airborne clouds.
III.
Dimly illumined is the pictured wallWhere flitting shadows hurry to and fro;
96
While back returns a dream of Long Ago;
I see loved streams, with music in their flow,
Within whose waves in youth I cast the line,
And woods where, hunting, spared were fawn and doe
Through love for babe and wife, no longer mine,
Translated to a land where reigneth Love Divine.
IV.
Quaint books are on the shelves, well thumbed and old,Chaucer our morning star—and Spencer, king
Of a weird realm, with purple draped and gold,
Sitting enthroned in an enchanted ring;
Immortals, breathing an eternal spring,
“Rare Ben,” “Sweet Will,” and others, world-renowned,
Back the grand age of Albion's Virgin bring;
Writers that walked, by Cam and Isis, gowned,
And bards, neglected now, of yore with laurel crowned.
V.
The master-spirits of the Solemn PastStill in their works are living, breathing here,
But how can one whose soul is overcast
Con o'er the lettered tomes of bard and seer?
From far-off shores a mystic voice I hear
That calls on me to finish tasks begun,
With the stern warning—“lo! the goal is near!
Soon will thy darkened thread of life be spun,
And chaplet for thy brow, when marble-cold, be won.”
97
A LAMENT—WRITTEN AT SEA.
I.
With an angry sea before us,While dark, gray clouds float o'er us
We're drifting to and fro;
The spicy gales have left us,
A wintry chill bereft us
Of summer's tropic glow.
II.
With head winds bravely battling,Our ship with cordage rattling
Rides on the emerald crest;
The wildest roar of ocean
Can wake no dread emotion
In my despairing breast.
III.
Man, when the worst he knoweth,Although the whirlwind bloweth,
Is self-possessed and calm;
For when the heart is breaking,
Forever, ever aching,
Where is the healing balm?
IV.
I think of one who sleepeth,While many a mourner weepeth,
Untimely lost and drowned;
In dreams, tossed on the billow,
He sits near my rude pillow
With angel beauty crowned.
98
V.
I know his spirit hoveringIs near when night is covering
The waters with her pall;
And for sweet Willie grieving
I start from sleep believing
I hear once more his call.
VI.
Oh! what a wild, deep yearningI feel for the returning
Of my brave, gifted boy;
And yew and cypress throwing
A funeral gloom, are growing
Upon the grave of joy.
VII.
Hark! in mine ear is ringingA voice more sweet than singing:
“I've seen the radiant shore
Where Death can triumph never,
And youth blooms on forever—
Dear Father! mourn no more.”
EPECEDIUM.
I.
The sumach, colored like a dying ember,Proclaims the race of fiery Summer o'er;
Resigning crown and throne to mild September,
She reigns no more.
99
II.
Not only radiant Summer hath departed,But a dear friend has left this darkened clime;
One nobly gifted, pure and gentle-hearted
Is done with time.
III.
Again will summer come back with the swallow,Bearing a rose-wreathed sceptre in her hand,
And airy beings in her train will follow
From Fairy-Land;
IV.
Again will Earth, arrayed in rich apparel,The bloom and freshness of its youth renew,
And skies that listen to the lark's wild carol,
Be robed in blue:
V.
But who come back to still the restless yearningIn aching bosoms, from Death's chill domain?
With prayers and tears we wait for their returning,
In vain, in vain!
VI.
Faster and faster from his ghostly quiver,By the Pale Archer deadly shafts are drawn;
With every breath, across the still, black river,
Another's gone.
VII.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made of,” singethWith thrilling power earth's grandly gifted son;
And ere the seed we plant in toil upspringeth,
Our work is done.
100
VIII.
How weak are mortals in their best condition!How frail the tenure of an earthly trust!
On every wind we hear the stern monition
Of “dust to dust!”
IX.
Ye childless parents of the dead! oft fatedAre the heart's idols first to pass away
From this dark sphere—we cherish hope, translated
To endless day.
X.
The canker feeds upon the sweetest roses,And shafts spare not the bird of brightest plume;
On Beauty's brow the pale seal oft reposes
Of early doom.
XI.
What consolation can the mourner borrowFrom an affliction like the one ye bear?
What lenitive can cure the pangs of sorrow
Your hearts that tear?
XII.
The blissful thought that he hath left behind himA stainless name—a record without blot—
And well fulfilled the tasks that were assigned him,
And faltered not.
XIII.
The blissful thought that noble emulationFired his brave, generous spirit to the last;
His aim, a proud position in the nation
When youth was past.
101
XIV.
The blissful thought that war and wild commotionVex not the quiet realm that claims your son;
While ye are tossed upon a troubled ocean,
His port is won.
XV.
If skill were mine the wondrous harp to wakenThat sang of “Lycidas without a peer,”
A dirge more worthy friend so early taken
The world should hear.
XVI.
But all a bard whose soul is crushed and brokenCan give, by way of tribute, I bestow,
Though nothing more than sighings that betoken
His utter wo.
XVII.
Better to perish in the happy morning,Than travel through the day with fainting form,
Night coming on, with thunder-mutter warning,
In darkness—storm;
XVIII.
Perish before the soul is disenchanted,And turns with loathing from the things of time,
To find the world it clung to demon-haunted,
And foul with crime.
102
MY OLD COMRADE.
I.
Keen, darting wit that wounded not the heartAt which was aimed his brightly polished dart;
Quaint humor that gave colloquy a zest,
While laughter followed every harmless jest;
A soul to meanness that could not descend,
Were traits that marked my dear departed friend.
He was not for the fashion of these times,
And praised the ring of Father Chaucer's rhymes;
Better he loved weird Spencer to peruse
Than glittering couplets of the modern muse,
And with advancing years prized more and more
The crystal well-head of Shaksperean lore.
II.
He held in veneration, deepest awe,Black-lettered tomes of Anglo-Saxon law,
And Bracton, Coke, to him were dearer names
Than Kent and Story, although great their claims.
Sitting as judge, learned counsellors in vain
Would use their skill to cloud his active brain;
He brushed their webs of sophistry aside
With common sense—a sure, unerring guide—
Bringing to mind the stern, judicial sway
Of men who wore the robe in Blackstone's day.
III.
Field sports he loved: from rise till set of sunOft would he range the woods with dog and gun,
Rest from the heat of noon at some wild spring,
And the old songs of Allan Ramsey sing,
103
With silvery echoes of his well-played flute;
He loved old Walton's art, and threw the fly
With a firm hand, and true unerring eye;
And while regaling on some grassy bank,
His comrade cheered with merry quip and crank.
IV.
Ah! when the star of such a one has setHow deeply filled the soul is with regret;
Earth is too poor in men of mould like him
To lose them in the land of shadows dim—
To hear pale Grief above their ashes pour
Groans answered by that grim word “nevermore!”
WAYSIDE RHYMES.
I.
Sick of the dust and din of trade,Weary of noise by Mammon made,
And intercourse with living lies,
Poor, gilded cheats in mortal guise,
And Fashion's gaudy butterflies
I left for Nature's greenwood halls
The gloom of close, confining walls,
And sought cool arbors, dim and still,
That lend enchantment to Glenrill,
And where Oatka's waters roll
Held audience with my own sad soul.
104
II.
Oh! what a luxury to lieOn the mossed forest floor alone,
And when aside the boughs are blown,
Catch glimpses of the deep, blue sky!
Thus in an idlesse mood I lay
While closed the long, midsummer day;
Each nodding wild flower, wind-swept leaf
Sang a low lullaby to grief;
Birds warbled from their pulsing throats
Condoling, sympathizing notes,
Until I thought, opprest and ill,
That Nature's offspring loved me still,
And knew their worshipper—though gone
The glory of his golden dawn:
The power to wake, from day to day,
The sounding legend and the lay:
The gifted vision to descry
Shapes rarely seen by mortal eye.
III.
Sleep, like a blessing, on me fellWhile rustled over me the trees,
And music of the pastoral bell
Was wasted by me on the breeze.
Although my visual orbs were sealed
I saw with open, spirit eyes,
From catacomb, and battle field,
Sites of lost marts, sepulchral caves,
Earth's nameless, unrecorded graves,
Gray bards and warriors rise.
Trenched were their brows with scars of conflict fought
On storied plains, and in the realm of thought;
105
And read the firm, fixed purpose of my soul
O'er syrens of temptation to prevail,
And exercise a lofty self-control.
They knew the crosses I had borne,
The paths of fearful peril I had trod,
At times forlorn, forsaken as of God,
And pitying gazed upon my heart-strings torn.
IV.
Rang, like a clarion, loud and clearFrom august lips these words of cheer:
“Be patient under suffering, and your load
Bear, like the Saviour, on a thorny road;
Temptation made us strong;
The noblest spirits must be crucified,
By the fierce furnace of affliction tried
Ere clothed with might to conquer hideous Wrong.
Some of our number died
Outstretched upon the rack of torture dire,
And others perished at the stake by fire;
The agony is o'er, the guerdon won,
Angelic lips have warbled out well done!”
V.
Oh! palm-crowned spirits of the mighty Dead,These words brought healing to a heart that bled;
Ye knew my struggle to refrain
From the charmed cup of Circe drugged with bane;
My stern adherence to a solemn vow
When Pleasure, dazzling sorceress, tried her spell
And strove in vain to write upon my brow
The hieroglyph of Hell;
106
In ear of one more dear than life or light;
The guiding star of my tempestuous night,
Had blistering words of foulest falsehood spoke.
THE MOTHER'S APPEAL.
I.
“Bring back my dead!”Thus cried the mother of a boy
Who fell in battle slain;
Source of her greatest hope and joy
For whom she wails in vain.
II.
“Bring back my dead!”Beneath our starry banner's fold
He yielded up his life—
Alas! for such a heart grown cold
In this infernal strife.
III.
“Bring back my dead!”He was an infant in my lap,
I nursed him on my breast;
Although he wore no shoulder strap
He battled with the best.
107
IV.
“Bring back my dead!”My lips have touched the bitter cup
Of sorrow and despair;
His precious life is offered up,
The loss I cannot bear.
V.
“Bring back my dead!”His sister has a lonely grave,
No buried brother nigh;
Give my young warrior a grave
Beneath his native sky.
VI.
“Bring back my dead!”The Rappahannock rolls its flood
Where comrades dug his grave,
And in his blanket, soaked with blood,
He sleeps—bring back my Brave!
VII.
“Bring back my dead!”Far dearer are the cold remains
Than any living one;
On thy bright memory are no stains
Of guilt, my darling son!
VIII.
“Bring back my dead!”The leaves of autumn, far away,
Fall on the burial-mound;
Secession's curse is on the clay,
It is unholy ground.
108
IX.
“Bring back my dead!”Victorious over death and night
The cannon rung his knell;
A martyr in the cause of right
My beardless hero fell.
X.
“Bring back my dead!”Uncoffined on the field he sleeps,
My Beautiful and Brave,
And watch Columbia's Genius keeps
Beside his unmarked grave.
XI.
“Bring back my dead!”In soil by foul Rebellion cursed
He cannot slumber well;
Here in this valley was he nursed,
Here toll his funeral bell.
XII.
“Bring back my dead!”I see him in my nightly dreams,
His brow is fresh and fair;
Endowed with health and hope he seems,
No mark of carnage there.
XIII.
“Bring back my dead!”Far dearer are his cold remains
Than any living one;
On his bright memory are no stains
Bring back, bring back my son!
109
LINES WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR “WILLOW MOUNT,” AVON, N. Y.
I.
Why from my aching heart is banished gladness,Why seems the ghost of desolation near,
Why is my mood one of prevailing sadness?
Thou art not here.
II.
Why in the midnight deep am I awakingWhile the wan ghosts of memory appear,
And farewell mourning Love of Hope seems taking?
Thou art not here.
III.
Why in my bosom thrill the chords of sorrow,While mournful music falls upon the ear,
Why from my book and pen no comfort borrow?
Thou art not here.
IV.
I toil alone heart-broken, sick, unaided,While Winter's bitter blast chants dirges drear;
With funeral black both èarth and sky are shaded:
Thou art not here.
V.
When will I hear again that voice far sweeterThan flute-notes heard on moon-lit waters clear?
I cannot waken to melodious metre:
Thou art not here!
110
VI.
Star of my being! will thy lustre neverTo one adoring send a beam of cheer,
Or have we parted, darling one! forever?
Would thou wert here!
VII.
Would I had wings to conquer cruel distanceThat I might fly thy seraph voice to hear!
Thou art the light and life of my existence—
Would thou wert here!
VIII.
I feel like one who sees, all shrouded lying,The last who loved him on the dismal bier,
And murmurs words she faltered out while dying—
Thou art not here.
IX.
There is a kingdom, bright beyond expression,That cannot be portrayed by bard or seer;
Thither our lost ones march in pale procession,
The dead, the dear.
X.
Not dead, but to a better land translatedWhere never wailing cry-woke mystic fear,
And I, with life's poor, fleeting pleasure sated,
Long for that sphere.
XI.
Oh! naught could make me pause, ere crossed death's waters,Chill as the blast with icebergs floating near,
Save one, the purest, fairest of Eve's daughter's,
Who is not here.
111
XII.
My bark long tossed upon the breakers foamingTo a calm port of Peace I fain would steer,
And build a nuptial bower, no longer roaming,
For one not here.
XIII.
Vain are such dreams, and worse than vain complaining:Earth boasts no cure for agony like mine,
The lees alone are in my cup remaining
Gone, gone, Life's wine.
HERETOFORE.
“From all its kind this wasted heart,
This moody mind now drifts apart;
It longs to find the tideless shore
Where rests the wreck of Heretofore.”
—Motherwell.
This moody mind now drifts apart;
It longs to find the tideless shore
Where rests the wreck of Heretofore.”
—Motherwell.
I.
Fresh are the roses of to-dayWith hues that match the sunset's glow,
But sweeter, dearer far than they
Are flowers that withered long ago;
Young flowers that graced a radiant shore
Washed by the waves of Heretofore.
112
II.
Take back this tome with gilded leaves,The work of one by woe untaught;
The soul of constancy that grieves
Within can find no room for thought:
I love alone to ponder o'er
The blotted scroll of Heretofore.
III.
Names written on that record dim,And stained with unavailing tears,
While airy visions round me swim,
Bring back the joys of other years;
And beams, outshining noontide, pour
Through the torn clouds of Heretofore.
IV.
Discordant to my mood of mindIs music of the present hour,
For only in the past I find
A voice that hath a spell of power;
A voice that wakes to life once more
The buried forms of Heretofore.
V.
I love the home, so glad of old,Though damp and mouldy now its walls,
And converse sweet with phantoms hold
That glide at midnight through its halls,
For they are wanderers from the shore
Of thy dim realm, oh, Heretofore!
113
VI.
Kind looks, as slowly they depart,On me the wan procession cast,
For well they know that one poor heart
Keeps green remembrance of the past—
A heart that trembles to its core,
When sung the songs of Heretofore.
VII.
I love old oaks that feebly wave,And weeds that hide a ruined hearth;
Pale moss upon a sunken grave,
And every crumbling wreck of earth,
For they are teachers of a lore
That lends a charm to Heretofore.
NEW YEAR MUSINGS.
I.
How swiftly pass, on cloudy wing, the years,With all their joys and woes, their hopes and fears,
Bound to a dark, dead sea that knows no sail,
Nor billow foam-flecked by the ruffling gale;
The vast receptacle of empires dead,
Heroic shapes, and dreams of glory fled,
Within whose peaceful depths of silence lie
All that of mortal memory can die.
114
II.
Come back, ye vanished hours! and bring againForms of the loved and lost, bewailed in vain;
Bring me lost May-time, with its rosy wreath,
And change to Fairy-land life's “blasted heath!”
Bring me the romance that so warmed of old,
Giving to common clay the gleam of gold.
Once more, once more, ye vanished hours, return!
For the sweet dreams of innocence I yearn.
Oh! let me feel the calm that once I felt
When, at my mother's knee, in prayer I knelt,
And, starred with hope, my fair, unclouded brow
Told no sad tale of lines that seam it now;
When my brave brother, who untimely died,
Stood in his rosy beauty by my side;
Forget, a few brief moments, that my life
Must pass away in storm and doubtful strife—
That nought is certain underneath the skies
Save useless tears, and tombs, and broken ties:
And feel those throbbings of tumultuous joy
That swelled my bosom when a shouting boy;
The burning glow that flushed my cheek to read
Of martyr, patriot and chivalric deed,
And catch one ray of the strange light that made
Earth in Elysian loveliness arrayed.
III.
I call—but no responsive echo wakes;Through the black cloud no beam of beauty breaks;
Gone are emotions that my soul up-bore,
Tossed on the sea, or standing on the shore:
115
One grain of vanished time, that man awhile
May warm his frozen veins in childhood's smile.
Youth! a frail, tender violet of the Spring,
Lies in his misty tomb, a withered thing;
And though our bosoms ache, our tear-drops flow,
We cannot wrest one flower from Long-Ago.
| Later Lays and Lyrics | |