 | Later Lays and Lyrics |  |
139
SONGS AND BALLADS
THE PINE.
I.
While mossy old pines sang a lullaby wild,I couched on the grass, when an innocent child,
And fancied that angels were hovering round;
No instrument fashioned by frail mortal hand
Could rouse in my bosom a feeling so grand
As that magical, soft and mysterious sound.
II.
In keeping with Freedom's proud throne on the hills,How the roar of a storm-troubled pine forest thrills—
The heart of the mountaineer mantled in cloud;
It sends to the valleys a voice of dismay,
And sounds like the quick march of hosts to the fray,
While drums beat the charge and the trumpet is loud.
III.
Though soft are the tones that the wild winds evokeFrom the glossy-leaved beech or centennial oak,
The pines give a sweeter response to their call;
And often I think, when the branches are stirred,
Of rich, organ peals in some old minster heard,
While ghosts seem to start from the echoing wall.
IV.
When winter is coating the hillside with snow,And dropping a shroud on the meadows below,
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Ice covers its trunk with a glittering mail,
And it welcomes the rush of the pitiless gale,
Its green arms uptossing in frantic delight.
V.
Meet place for the bird of our banner to rest,Or build for his royal descendant a nest,
Is the tall, misty cone of some towering pine;
Its branches give tongue and proclaim him a king
When sunward, in circles, he mounts on the wing,
To gaze on the earth like a vision divine.
VI.
Oh! grand is the dash of the surf on the shore,And wild the mad torrent's tumultuous roar,
While cliffs overhanging with spray-drops are wet;
But the sigh of the wind in a forest of pines,
Like troops on the hill-summits, marshalled in lines,
Is a sound that a poet can never forget.
VII.
Now it swells on the ear, with a billowy roll;Anon breathes in whispers of love to the soul—
For spirits are touching the emerald keys:
Talk not of the magic of lute or of lyre,
Poetic emotion they cannot inspire
Like melody woke in the pines by the breeze.
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WHAT I WOULD BE.
I.
What would I be? Not rich in goldAnd with a narrow heart,
Or, misanthropic, stern and cold,
Dwell from my kind apart?
I would not be a man of war,
Who looks on death unmoved,
Give me a title dearer far:
“The well-beloved!”
II.
I would not wear a laurel crown,Its leaves conceal the thorn;
Too oft the children of renown
Are friendless and forlorn.
Oh! let me lead a blameless life,
By young and old approved;
Called, in a world of sin and strife,
“The well beloved!”
III.
God grant me power to guard the weak,And sorrow's moaning hush,
And never feel upon my cheek
Dark Shame's betraying blush;
And when at my creator's call
From earth I am removed,
Let Friendship 'broider on my pall:
“The well beloved!”
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BLUE-EYED FLORENCE.
I.
Blue-Eyed Florence! where art thouWith thy radiant baby-brow,
And thy voice of silvery tone,
And thy smile, an angel's own?
Place upon thy father's knee
Well I know was dear to thee;
He is toiling far away,
And hath vanished many a day
Since he crossed home's cottage sill—
Is his love remembered still?
II.
Blue-eyed Florence, it was blissEvery morn to claim thy kiss,
Feel from this world-weary heart
Dross and earthiness depart—
Sharer in thy love—so bright
With a flash of heavenly light—
Listen, while thy mother smiled,
To thy questions, darling child!
Puzzling to the wisest brain—
Will that bliss return again?
III.
Brightest of the rosy bandIn sweet childhood's fairy land,
Does remembrance ever stray
To thy father, far away?
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Comes thy sunny joy to dim,
Sometimes, with a moistening eye,
Throw thy doll and play-things by?
Is his name upon thy tongue
When the matin hymn is sung!
IV.
Blue-eyed Florence! when I meetLittle children in the street,
Closely do I hunt for traces
Of thy beauty in their faces;
For thy burst of joy unbounded,
For thy temples fair and rounded,
For thy glance of star-like beam,
And thy hair of golden gleam;
For thy motion like a linnet,
And thy laugh with music in it,
And I bless them if I find
Aught recalling thee to mind.
V.
Ah! it is a grievous wrongWe should parted be so long;
That thy carol, like a bird,
Must by other ears be heard,
Singing some quaint nursery air
In thy little rocking chair;
Others mark thy budding charms—
Others toss thee in their arms,
While thy father, sad and lonely,
Sees thee in a night-dream only.
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THINGS COMING.
I.
Morn is coming;—hear the lark!Rose-streaks in the orient mark!
Earth will soon be fair to view
Like a Beauty bathed in dew.
II.
Night is coming—holy night!Stars her arching dome will light,
And the moon, with silver horn,
Travel on to meet the morn.
III.
Joy is coming—light of tread,With a wreath-encircled head;
Brief, but sweet will be his stay
Ere he vanishes away.
IV.
Grief is coming—on the galeSoon will float her sable veil,
Strewing, while she wildly grieves,
Funeral earth with cypress leaves.
V.
Spring is coming vernal rainsSoon will warm Earth's frozen veins
And the violets will rise
Tinted with cerulean dyes.
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VI.
Summer 's coming—in the waveWing-tips will the swallow lave,
And the blossoms that unclose
Will out-blush the sunset's rose.
VII.
Autumn 's coming—with his frostBlighting flowers, the early lost!
Blackening each fragile stem,—
Vainly will we mourn for them.
VIII.
Winter 's coming, and our feetSoon will soil his winding sheet;
Iced in armor, he will hear
Our appeal with deafened ear.
IX.
Death is coming—for no prayerWill the ghostly king forbear;
In his fleshless arms to fold
Rich and poor, the young and old.
X.
When the Reaper comes to reapLet us fold our arms in sleep,
Trusting that a God of love
Will our spirits waft above.
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THINGS FLYING.
I.
Time is flying—fast the sandLeaves the hour-glass in his hand;
Where his feet have hurried by
Ashes, bones and ruins lie.
II.
Hope is flying—this her strain,While she seeks the open main,
“Where the waters foam and rage,
I can find no anchorage.”
III.
Ah! the star is fading fastThat burned bright above her mast,
And the midnight soon will veil
Her bright, disappearing sail.
IV.
Peace is flying—notes of war,Trumpet, drum, and cannon-jar
Have affrighted her from earth,
And she seeks her place of birth.
V.
Birds are flying—Autumn drearWhispers of old Winter near,
And they seek the golden strand
Of some flowery tropic land.
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VI.
Leaves are flying, sere and pale,On the wild November gale;
Thus poor human glory flies,
Thus dissolve our earthly ties.
VII.
Youth is flying—and his voiceWill the heart no more rejoice;
On his bloom hath fallen blight,
Changing it to corpse-like white.
VIII.
Love is flying—woe and sinHave our Eden entered in;
Funeral dirge and tolling bell
Marred the song he sang so well.
IX.
Wealth is flying—let it fly!Trust in things that cannot die;
Coffins, destined for the mould,
Vainly we inlay with gold.
X.
Truth is flying—weary strifeHe hath waged with wrong for life;
Armed again for conflict stern,
Let us pray for his return!
XI.
Pray that God may give him powerIn the deadly trial-hour;
While the hosts of sin and error
At his war-cry flee in terror.
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TASSO'S FAREWELL.
I.
I will never cease to love thee,While the stars keep watch above me;
In thy laugh is music ringing,
And thy voice is sweet in singing;
Love-light, in thy bright eye beaming,
Wakes the poet from his dreaming,
And thy smile hath summer in it,
But that heart—would I could win it!
II.
Tell me, tell me by what tokenCan I prove my vow unbroken
When my soul, with rapture burning,
Counts the hours of my returning,
After absence long and dreary,
Toiling through the winter weary,
To regain the wreath that crowned me,
Ere the bonds of evil bound me.
III.
When my day of storm is ended,If my soul hath not ascended,
I will come to thee in vision
From my happy home Elysian,
Cheer thee in thine hours despairing,
Guard thee, for thy welfare caring,
Knowing, when this life is over,
Thou in Heaven wilt meet thy lover.
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IV.
'Till extinguished life's last ember,Leonor I will remember,
Though the cruel fates dissever
Those who should be ONE forever;
I will see my love in dreaming,
Think of her when morn is beaming,
And her name shall live in story,
Woven in my crown of glory.
SONG.
I.
When will this heartache cease,Ruin before me;
When will the Dove of Peace
Spread his wing o'er me?
Far from “this shoal of time,”
Stranger to sorrow,
Will not some brighter clime
Bid me good morrow!
Raven's croak:
“Trust not to-morrow!”
II.
Fame has a phantom provedWorth not the chasing;
Lost ones, the well beloved,
Earth is embracing:
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Not a spark flashes;
Where rang the voice of mirth,
Cold lie the ashes:
Raven's croak:
“All dust and ashes!”
III.
How can the eagle soar,Broken his pinion?
King he will rule no more
Air's blue dominion:
How can the minstrel sing
With his doom written,
By Despair's mortal sting
Fearfully smitten—
Raven's croak:
“Fearfully smitten!”
IV.
Hark! from the clouds aboveVoices are calling
“Trust to Eternal Love,
Though night is falling;
Daylight will break at last,
Darkness will vanish;
Thoughts of the mournful Past
From your soul banish—
Angels cry
“From your soul banish!”
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MY DAUGHTERS.
I.
What flowers are meet for me so sweetAs my daughter, eldest born?
A violet crown the glossy brown
Of her locks would best adorn.
When the lines I trace of her gentle face,
I think an angel near;
And griefs that sting my heart take wing
Her lute-like voice to hear.
II.
I will twine a wreath of the mountain heathFor my youngest daughter's brow;
For her well tuned ear delights to hear
The wind in the pine tree's bough.
Six summers bright a golden light
On her clustering curls have shed,
And I feel the glow of long ago,
When I list to her bounding tread.
III.
Her soul has fire that says “aspire!”Let good or ill betide;
And her gleesome call is like the fall
Of streams down a mountain's side.
Long lashes fringe, with a darkening tinge,
Eyes blue as the Alpine flower;
And in her glance burns wild romance,
Boon Nature's fearful dower.
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IV.
For the brow of my third, that radiant bird,What chaplet shall I weave—
My spirit child, that a moment smiled,
And of guilty earth took leave?
For her fair young brow, angelic now,
Twine amaranthine flowers;
In the land of light, with the blest and bright,
She walks through thornless bowers.
V.
This golden tress of little Bess,Remembrance wildly wakes;
On her infant cheek was the roseate streak
When a bright June morning breaks.
They say she died and, where tears are dried,
That she walks in endless youth;
That her spirit near her father dear
Whispers the words of truth.
A FRIEND'S WISHES.
I.
I wish you joy and health, my boy!A purse with gold well lined;
To bless thy life, a virtuous wife
Of cultivated mind!
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Down life's swift rolling stream;
No cloud on high to rob thy sky
Of sunlight's cheerful gleam.
II.
May age to thee no winter be,But like the summer glow;
And song and fame light up a flame
Beneath thy locks of snow:
And Heaven thy soul, when reached time's goal,
Receive within its bowers,
To meet once more friends gone before,
Crowned with unwithering flowers.
AN ÆOLIAN MELODY.
I.
My bosom has Æolian cords,That warble wildly to the soul,
And oft the strain takes form in words
That echo like a death-bell's toll;
Anon it makes my pulses beat
With power beyond expression sweet,
II.
The door of my sad heart it opes,And memories wake long cold and dead;
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Stir in their dark and mouldering bed—
Loved faces, in that heart enshrined,
Bring back the mournful Past to mind.
III.
Unearthly songs that long have slept,To chant defying mortal skill
Wake, when those bosom chords are swept
That soon will broken be, and still.
Alas! those chords, though finely strung,
Can never sing as they have sung.
IV.
Long have I walked beneath a cloud,The seal of doom upon my brow!
Off with these laurel wreaths! the shroud
Would best become the mortal now;
For one, long-loved, cannot be mine—
I stained with guilt—she half-divine.
V.
These bosom-chords in happier days,To joyous melodies kept time,
But now, attuned to saddest lays,
Alone with wailing voices chime;
Or make Æolian reply
To a lost soul's despairing cry.
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GREETING TO MARY.
I.
Happy New-Year! to Mary dear,From one whose heart is aching;
Her image fair is painted there
Although its chords are breaking.
May saints keep guard, my Mary ward
From ills to life belonging;
And on her way, from day to day,
May angel guides be thronging,
In hours of deep dejection,
To give her hope, protection.
II.
While New-Year chimes revive old times,Though full of solemn warning,
Wake, harp-strings wake, the silence break,
And give my love good morning!
May nought annoy, the birds of joy
Sing in her praise forever;
The demon Care, the ghoul, Despair,
Molest my Mary never,
While Heaven at last receives her—
A crown of glory weaves her.
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MY SCOTTISH BEAUTIES.
I.
Ellen, Jean and FloraI prize all things above,
With blushes like Aurora,
Smiles like the Queen of Love.
They are my own three Graces
With eyes that flash delight,
May Time on their sweet faces
One wrinkle never write.
II.
Thy form, majestic Ellen!Thy proud and stately mien
Should grace no humbler dwelling
Than palace of a Queen.
Across the dark blue water,
In Europe's ancient land
Was never born a daughter
With air of more command.
III.
I know that there are manyMore dazzling in their charms,
But Burns would long, sweet Jenny!
To clasp you in his arms.
When near I feel devotion
As if thou wert a shrine—
Eyes, with the blue of ocean
In their clear depths, are thine.
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IV.
And Flora, gentle Flora,Unsung thou shalt not be;
Rose, Mary, Blanche and Cora
Are names less dear to me.
Thy household virtues make thee
A wife to be desired;
For life the bard would take thee
Although in rags attired.
V.
I am no pleasure-seeker,A sober life I live,
But fill, fill high the beaker,
And pledge the toast I give!
“Ellen, Jean and Flora
I prize all things above,
With blushes like Aurora,
Smiles like the Queen of Love.”
SNOW FLAKE AND ONNOLEE.
I.
There is a mare whose silken hairGleams in the sun like gold,
Her nostrils spread and beauteous head
Show lineage high and bold.
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Wherever reins are drawn;
Like other steeds no whip she needs
To swiftly urge her on.
II.
And by her side, with even stride,Speeds Onnolee, her mate;
The bits she champs while on she tramps
Untiring in her gait.
The look of game in her sinewy frame
Commands the turfmen's praise;
On her glossy coat and mane afloat
The ladies' love to gaze.
III.
An Arab sire has given fireTo dark eyes full and clear;
Away with checks for their arching necks
While both outpace the deer!
The fastest nag in rear must lag
When they are stripped to trot;
Though bad the track they will not slack,
Of a breed that falters not.
IV.
Sure-footed, strong, they move alongFleet as the gliding doe;
Hooves small and round upon the ground
Fall light as flakes of snow.
Each agile limb of these trotters trim
Is laced with swelling veins:
Look out! look out! when they're about,
And Harry holds the reins!
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“INSULA SANCTORUM.”
I.
If souls were free from fraud and guile,And ignorance had less effrontery;
If battle blades were sheathless while
One traitor lived to curse his country;
If far more prized than golden ore
At Freedom's shrine were deep devotion,
The sainted Isle would flash once more,
A jewel on the breast of ocean.
II.
When ages of Oppression restUpon a land once bright with glory—
Resentment in each generous breast
Enkindled by her mournful story—
Better the cannon's angry peal
To rouse than tongue that idly preaches—
The ringing rhetoric of steel
Than eloquence of uttered speeches.
III.
When Valor finds in danger's hourThe mask of Honor worn by Treason,
And thrown away on lawless Power
Are arguments though based on reason,
Resolve to win the field, or die,
Should waken as one man the Nation,
While bugle call and rallying cry
Are heard, not empty declamation.
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IV
If hearts to dare and heads to planIn crushing tyranny united,
Then in his majesty would man
Rise up, and every wrong be righted;
If men would ancient feuds forego,
And faction cease to make commotion,
Outshining moon again would glow
Our Emerald on the breast of Ocean.
LONGING FOR SUMMER.
I.
How happy the swift birds of passage must be,Flying southward in flocks over mainland and sea,
To rest their tired wings in some fair southern isle,
Where the bright eyes of summer eternally smile;
And thither, my love! had we wings we would fly,
Nevermore to live under this bleak northern sky!
Our forms are too frail and our hearts are too warm
For this desolate region of darkness and storm.
II.
Oh! long have I waited to rove, hand in hand,With the girl of my heart in some tropical land;
We would banquet on fruitage, delicious and sweet,
While winds blowing landward would temper the heat,
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Through the salt pools of ocean would sluggishly wade,
And birds, darting out from the cool leafy glooms,
The rainbow's own tints would flash back from their plumes.
III.
I would build thee a home amidst whispering bowers,While Time glided by, his old scythe wreathed with flowers;
I would hear in thine accents, unaided by art,
The music that passage would find to my heart,
And toil for thee only, my loved and my own!
In this drear world no longer heart-broken, alone;
No more looking mournfully into the past,
But, soul knit to soul, live and love to the last.
SONG.
I.
Bloom for us a little longer,Last Rose of the summer hours!
May your drooping stem grow stronger
Kissed by silvery dew and showers.
The Flower-Queen gave a fragrant sigh,
Whispering with her sad good-bye!
“Lonely, oh! so lonely!”
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II.
Last leaf of the forest clingingIn the chill autumnal blast!
Listen to wild voices singing
Of sweet things too bright to last;
Tongue the leaf in falling found
Singing with a rustling sound,
“Lonely, oh! so lonely!”
III.
Poet holding once communionWith the forms of beauty flown,
Rent are golden cords of union,
And thou wanderest alone:
Answered, pale and evil-starred,
With a wailing voice the Bard,
“Lonely, oh! so lonely!”
IV.
Let me cross the mystic river,Let me walk the radiant shore!
From the bonds of clay deliver
One in love with earth no more:
Here, where fairest forms conceal
Oft such hollow heart, I feel
“Lonely, oh! so lonely!”
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EASTER CAROL.
I.
Rejoice thou that weepest,And hold up thy head;
Awake thou that sleepest—
Arise from the dead!
Hope bursts from the prison
That held her so long;
The shout—“Christ is risen!”
Wakes earth into song.
II.
Gross darkness is banishedFrom Death's wintry cave,
And mourning has vanished
Like mist from the wave;
For Christ light bestoweth,
Though dark is the way,
The fount whence it floweth
Is day—endless day.
III.
Despair furls foreverHer banner of gloom;
Its black fold will never
Again wrap the tomb;
Hope bursts from the prison
That held her so long;
The shout—“Christ is risen!”
Wakes earth into song.
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ALONE.
I.
In nevermore there is despair;In fare-thee-well, a dirge-like tone;
But agony, too hard to bear,
Breathes in that mournful word—alone!
It tells of broken hearts and ties,
Long silent lips, and curtained eyes;
Of vanished birds, abandoned nests,
And white hands clasped on silent breasts.
II.
Alone! alone! what echoes wakeIn memory's cavern, at the sound;
While phantoms their appearance make,
As if the lost again were found.
But ah! how desolate the thought
Such figures are of moonlight wrought:
Alone! alone! no sadder word
By mortal ear is ever heard.
TO STELLA IN HEAVEN.
I.
I have seen thee in my dreaming,I have though of thee by day,
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In the distance far away.
The cloud that floats above me
Takes the likeness of thy form;
Oh! say, dost thou still love me
In a realm that knows not storm?
II.
Where the crystal streams are rollingThrough amaranthine bowers—
Unheard the death-bell tolling,
As in this world of ours;
Where the form, divinely moulded,
Is never laid to rest,
With the pale hands meekly folded
On the frozen, pulseless breast.
III.
Oh! say, dost thou rememberWhen first I called thee mine,
Or quenched is love's bright ember
In the home that now is thine?
The cloud that floats above me
Takes the likeness of thy form,
Oh! say, dost thou still love me
In a realm that knows not storm?
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JANE.
I.
Far you must go, and look round you in vainTo find sweeter girl than my Highland lass, Jane;
Many be summers, with bird-notes and bowers,
That drop in her pathway their innocent flowers;
Ever, with Truth setting seal on her brow,
May she be pure, and as spotless as now!
II.
In her blue eyes beams a soul-kindled light,The lone star of eve is less placid and bright;
Tinged in her lip with the red of the dawn,
Light is her footstep as tread of the fawn;
Beauty has painted her cheek with the rose,
Round her a charm her own loveliness throws.
III.
In the rich lines of that beautiful face,Painter might find his true model of grace;
I know that her heart with affection is warm,
And sculptor might study the mould of her form:—
Far you must go and look around you in vain
To find fairer girl than my Highland lass, Jane.
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