 |
 | The Outcast, and other poems |  |
vii
DEDICATION.
As o'er the pages of the past we turn,
One leaf with genuine glory seems to burn.
Not that which pictures to the admiring gaze,
The hot Crusaders led by Godfrey on—
Not that which glows with never-dying rays,
From names like Richard, Conrad, Bohemond!
Not that which tells of rushing armies led
By these proud chieftains of the tossing plume—
How gallant leaders glorious fought and bled,
And found in Syria's soil a holy tomb.
One leaf with genuine glory seems to burn.
Not that which pictures to the admiring gaze,
The hot Crusaders led by Godfrey on—
Not that which glows with never-dying rays,
From names like Richard, Conrad, Bohemond!
Not that which tells of rushing armies led
By these proud chieftains of the tossing plume—
How gallant leaders glorious fought and bled,
And found in Syria's soil a holy tomb.
No! 'tis a page perchance thine eye hath scorned,
By no proud deeds of chivalry adorned.
It tells no story of the belted knight,
No tale of heroes clad in glittering mail—
Unfolds no picture of the thrilling fight,
Where horsemen charge, and bleeding cohorts quail.
'Tis but the legend of a simple band,
Who spread the sail, and o'er the trackless sea,
Sought lonely refuge in a savage land,
Where they might breathe their prayer in liberty.
By no proud deeds of chivalry adorned.
It tells no story of the belted knight,
No tale of heroes clad in glittering mail—
Unfolds no picture of the thrilling fight,
Where horsemen charge, and bleeding cohorts quail.
'Tis but the legend of a simple band,
Who spread the sail, and o'er the trackless sea,
Sought lonely refuge in a savage land,
Where they might breathe their prayer in liberty.
No inspiration drew they from the peal
Of stirring clarion, or the trenchant steel—
The garish trappings of the martial field,
They left in scorn to those who seek renown.
Their's was a nobler work; their sword and shield,
From heaven's bright armory came shining down.
Feeling as if the skies were drawn aside,
And God looked on, unhidden by a veil,
They braved the tempest and the battling tide,
Scoffing the winter's blast, and fierce December's hail.
Of stirring clarion, or the trenchant steel—
The garish trappings of the martial field,
They left in scorn to those who seek renown.
Their's was a nobler work; their sword and shield,
From heaven's bright armory came shining down.
Feeling as if the skies were drawn aside,
And God looked on, unhidden by a veil,
They braved the tempest and the battling tide,
Scoffing the winter's blast, and fierce December's hail.
viii
Though spurned by nature, still upon the rock,
Firm as its base defying every shock,
They set their foot: though bitter sorrow rolled
Wave after wave successive o'er the band,
'Twas sternly met, and nature soon controlled,
Yielded submissive to their conquering hand.
The howling panther left his grisly lair,
The twilight forest stooped before their sway—
The desert blossomed 'neath their culturing care,
And dimpling harvests showed the zephyr's play.
Firm as its base defying every shock,
They set their foot: though bitter sorrow rolled
Wave after wave successive o'er the band,
'Twas sternly met, and nature soon controlled,
Yielded submissive to their conquering hand.
The howling panther left his grisly lair,
The twilight forest stooped before their sway—
The desert blossomed 'neath their culturing care,
And dimpling harvests showed the zephyr's play.
This was no conquest of the sword, and yet
It hath a brighter gleam than e'er was set,
On hero's glittering blade; not Godfrey's steel,
Throws back a ray so glorious, pure and deep,
As that which burned beneath a chilling seal,
In the stern pilgrim's bosom! Doth it sleep?
Nay, in the sons of those strong men of old,
That lurking flame is living, bright, and blest—
Like snow-capt peaks the outward form is cold,
But yet they bear deep fires within their breast.
It hath a brighter gleam than e'er was set,
On hero's glittering blade; not Godfrey's steel,
Throws back a ray so glorious, pure and deep,
As that which burned beneath a chilling seal,
In the stern pilgrim's bosom! Doth it sleep?
Nay, in the sons of those strong men of old,
That lurking flame is living, bright, and blest—
Like snow-capt peaks the outward form is cold,
But yet they bear deep fires within their breast.
O'er many a forest-shaded hill and stream,
These sons have borne their father's bosom-beam.
Far in the West it lights the solitude,
Spreading its lustre like the march of day—
And oft encircled by the savage wood,
The spire and school-house show its glorious ray.
To these, ye Children of the pilgrim-tie,
Where'er ye dwell, I dedicate my lyre!
Pleased if perchance the breath that whispers by,
May fan the embers of your pilgrim-fire!
These sons have borne their father's bosom-beam.
Far in the West it lights the solitude,
Spreading its lustre like the march of day—
And oft encircled by the savage wood,
The spire and school-house show its glorious ray.
To these, ye Children of the pilgrim-tie,
Where'er ye dwell, I dedicate my lyre!
Pleased if perchance the breath that whispers by,
May fan the embers of your pilgrim-fire!
65
THE CAPTIVE'S DREAM.
I.
Ere yet the mountain peak hath caught the gleamThat streams afar before the rising day,
The eagle's wing is flashing in the beam,
Up with the clouds, and glorious as they.
Far westward sweeps that meteor-bird away,
O'er misty vales, and cities wrapt in sleep,
Spurning the haunts of men for forests gray,
As nature made them, sullen, wild and deep.
There, in that land—o'er many a hill and stream,
The wild deer yet hath never heard the peal
Of deadly rifle; there, the Indian's dream
Hath ne'er been broken by the white man's steel.
There, steepling rocks o'er dusky valleys rise,
And woo that prophet-eagle from afar.
There shall he close at night his weary eyes;
There, fold his wing, no fear his rest to mar.
No rattling wheel shall cross his midnight dream;
66
Soothed by the wolf's lone howl, the panther's scream,
The roaring fall—his sleep shall be secure.
II.
'Tis night! That eagle's weary wingReposes o'er the dusky wood,
And far around, no living thing
Disturbs the sleeping solitude.
The streams are mute, the winds are dead,
No whispered sigh the forests breathe;
Save that the panther's stealthy tread,
Crushes, perchance, a leaf beneath,
You well might deem that death had thrown
His chill shroud o'er the landscape lone.
But there a captive warrior lies,
Encircled by his victor foes—
No shelter but the open skies,
No hope but death that warrior knows.
Beneath night's mantle, dark and deep,
The swarthy band of conquerors sleep,
67
But well the captive's practised sight
Can see from watchful eyes around,
Shot through the shadows of the night
Rays such as fire the panther's eye,
When hunger calls, and blood is nigh.
III.
Why heeds he not these signs of death?He knows and scorns their power!
With even pulse, and quiet breath,
He waits the appointed hour.
His tribe is now extinct—at morn
They met their fate in battle—now,
Their gory scalps their foes adorn—
He hath no duty but to bow
To fate—the blistering flame to feel—
To bide, unmoved, the gashing steel—
To brave what savage arts avail,
To make the lofty spirit quail—
To die in honor, and depart
To that far promised land of peace,
68
And cares, like fainting billows, cease.
IV.
Such are the noble thoughts that stay,The captive's bosom at this hour
Of desolation, and convey
To the stern soul a soothing power.
And now the pride upon his brow,
The scorn upon his lips depart;
On the moist sod his form doth bow,
And gentle visions warm his heart.
What beauty on his spirit beams,
In the far fairy land of dreams!—
High on a rock he seems to stand,
And wide survey the promised land.
How gloriously the sun doth rise,
As from a liquid sea of day,
And go all gushing to the skies,
Scattering around the rosy spray,
O'er mountains topped with spotless snow,
And thousand summer vales below!
69
As ocean,—and it gently heaves
Its bosom to the winds, unseen,
Yet whispering to the conscious leaves.
Here flows a river; there is found
The level prairie like a sea
Unrolled, the air its only bound;
And there, afar, in majesty,
The ocean, rival of the skies,
Rolls in its own bright emerald dyes!
V.
These are the golden scenes that fillThe dreamer's first long gaze—but now
His eye reposes on the still
Lone lake, that deeply sleeps below.
How tranquil, beautiful and blue!
How smooth its glassy wave! how true
Each bordering leaf, and tree, and flower,
As pencilled in its holy rest!
How free the wild deer on the shore!
How white the swan that swims its breast!
70
VI.
Long, long entranced the dreamer gazedOn this lone spot in verdure dressed,
And felt new dreams of beauty raised
Within his cold and haughty breast,
As from that lonely lawn and lake,
A melting voice of love and peace,
Whispered, as if Manitto spake,
And bade each human passion cease.
VII.
Touched with these thoughts, the dreamer's eyeWas lifted toward the bending sky,
And there remote, yet clearly seen,
A glorious mountain reared its brow,
And bathed in clouds of golden sheen,
Seemed like a dazzling alp of snow.
There on that pure and glittering throne,
Manitto in his glory shone—
Wreathy and faint the awful form!
Yet peaceful as the shining bow
That writes its promise on the storm,
The Spirit's high and holy brow!
71
VIII.
Humbly to earth the savage bowed,In tears, yet not, oh, not in grief!
But, hark! what shout, so wild and loud,
Breaks through his slumbers sweet but brief?
He wakes, and sees the kindling fire!
He knows his doom and nerves his soul,
He braves each pang each torture dire,
And bows to fortune's stern control!
IX.
'Tis morn, the wind is toying with the leaves,And wild birds sing amid the forest bowers;
Streaked with the sun, the laughing ripple heaves
Its breast aloft to meet the o'erstooping flowers—
The silver mists are floating in the sky,
The rainbow trembles o'er the roaring fall;
The mountain robe hath caught a rosier dye,
And love and joy go hymning o'er them all—
The morn no memory of the midnight brings,
No lingering echo whispers of the dead;
Life sports amid the beam on joyous wings,
And o'er the forest tomb forgetfulness is spread!
80
THE ATHEIST.
'Tis autumn and the sunset hour. The breeze
Is like a woman's whisper, yet the leaves,
The willing leaves, descend upon its wing,
And strew the pale grass, with the yellow shower.
'Tis evening, and the hills are gathering round
Their sleepy brows the twilight veil of rest.
'Tis autumn, and the forest breathes no more
Those low sweet tones, that came with summer dew,
But a faint wail is stealing from its leaves
With sad and solemn cadence to the heart.
Is like a woman's whisper, yet the leaves,
The willing leaves, descend upon its wing,
And strew the pale grass, with the yellow shower.
'Tis evening, and the hills are gathering round
Their sleepy brows the twilight veil of rest.
'Tis autumn, and the forest breathes no more
Those low sweet tones, that came with summer dew,
But a faint wail is stealing from its leaves
With sad and solemn cadence to the heart.
There is a humble dwelling near. It stands
In solitude, and penury hath thrown
Its blight around it. On a low worn bed,
A wasted form is laid; peaceful and pale
She waits her doom: her brow is cold as marble,
But a smile is on her lip, and a light
As if from Heaven is beaming in her eye.
Her life hath been a tale of wo—her heart,
By bitter trial hath been wrung—her tears
Have flowed fast as the vernal torrent—yet
Silent as dew. And she hath suffered all,
In love and meekness, for her hope was stayed,
On the sure Rock of Ages. Oft she turned,
In poverty—in sickness—and in scorn,—
In persecution—wretchedness and want,
From the dark vale of tears, with hope and trust,
To heaven—and with assured view, she saw
Her coming rest and recompense—and thus
She gathered strength to bear her weary wo!
Now, for a moment, death doth sweep away,
Those leaden clouds that hover o'er the mind,
Setting the fancy free—and through the soul,
Sending one lightning flash, ere yet goes down
In night, the meteor gleam that lit the eye!
What lovely visions burst upon her view—
Spirits in robes of white, with beckoning hands,!
A pardoning God! and there a Saviour stoops,
With welcome on his lip, to seek and save!
In solitude, and penury hath thrown
Its blight around it. On a low worn bed,
A wasted form is laid; peaceful and pale
She waits her doom: her brow is cold as marble,
But a smile is on her lip, and a light
As if from Heaven is beaming in her eye.
Her life hath been a tale of wo—her heart,
By bitter trial hath been wrung—her tears
81
Silent as dew. And she hath suffered all,
In love and meekness, for her hope was stayed,
On the sure Rock of Ages. Oft she turned,
In poverty—in sickness—and in scorn,—
In persecution—wretchedness and want,
From the dark vale of tears, with hope and trust,
To heaven—and with assured view, she saw
Her coming rest and recompense—and thus
She gathered strength to bear her weary wo!
Now, for a moment, death doth sweep away,
Those leaden clouds that hover o'er the mind,
Setting the fancy free—and through the soul,
Sending one lightning flash, ere yet goes down
In night, the meteor gleam that lit the eye!
What lovely visions burst upon her view—
Spirits in robes of white, with beckoning hands,!
A pardoning God! and there a Saviour stoops,
With welcome on his lip, to seek and save!
“Fool!” saith the Atheist! “'tis a dream—a cheat
Of lying Priestcraft. There is no God nor Heaven!
The grave—the cold damp dungeon of the soul
And body, yawns to receive thee! Darkness,
Not light, shall be thy recompense; the wing,
The raven wing of night, eternal, deep,
Shall cast its rayless shadows o'er thy tomb.
Silence shall brood upon thy breast—decay
Shall waste thee with its fingers—and the flood
Of cold forgetfulness, that hides the brute,
Shall spread its sullen waters over thee!”
Of lying Priestcraft. There is no God nor Heaven!
The grave—the cold damp dungeon of the soul
82
Not light, shall be thy recompense; the wing,
The raven wing of night, eternal, deep,
Shall cast its rayless shadows o'er thy tomb.
Silence shall brood upon thy breast—decay
Shall waste thee with its fingers—and the flood
Of cold forgetfulness, that hides the brute,
Shall spread its sullen waters over thee!”
Alas! poor unbeliever thou art mad—
Lost mid the mazes of thy thorny pride!
And while the sun shines broadly from the sky,
Thou gropest in caverns of philosophy;
Aye, like a moth art addled with a taper!
What wouldst thou—that we leave the light of Heaven,
To follow thy delusive torch in dim
Despair? No! let the worm woo down the birds
From the bright sky to grovel in his slime—
Let the dank lizard teach the bounding deer
To quit the grassy vale where waters glide
Gemmed with the golden morn—to dwell in caves
Where night and silence hold their dim dominion—
Let the pale corse with ghastly visage speak
To the winged spirit, and persuade it down
From paradise to sleep in cold decay—
But we will ne'er forego our fond belief,
Anchored in Heaven, and steadfast as the sun!
Lost mid the mazes of thy thorny pride!
And while the sun shines broadly from the sky,
Thou gropest in caverns of philosophy;
Aye, like a moth art addled with a taper!
What wouldst thou—that we leave the light of Heaven,
To follow thy delusive torch in dim
Despair? No! let the worm woo down the birds
From the bright sky to grovel in his slime—
Let the dank lizard teach the bounding deer
To quit the grassy vale where waters glide
Gemmed with the golden morn—to dwell in caves
83
Let the pale corse with ghastly visage speak
To the winged spirit, and persuade it down
From paradise to sleep in cold decay—
But we will ne'er forego our fond belief,
Anchored in Heaven, and steadfast as the sun!
Seest thou yon sparkling steam, yon blushing flower?
That waving forest, and those azure hills?
Seest thou the wide sky-tinted ocean, weaving
Its shoreless tissue o'er the rolling sphere?
What gives them all their beauty? 'Tis the ray
Of yonder orb! And thus the hope of Heaven
Redeems the soul of man from utter darkness:
'Tis that which gives to love its holy hue,
To home its sanctity—to life its light!
And thou, pretending to bestow a boon,
Wouldst rend our hope, our sun from yonder sky,
And shroud the soul in everlasting winter!
Oh no! that hope is like the tinted bow
Upon the cloud to every land: and He
Who hung it there in beauty and in power,
To bear the bosom up against the fear
Of death's dark flood—He will redeem his pledge!
He who hath put a voice in every wave,
In every budding flower, and sighing breeze,
To whisper of eternity: who made
The heart of man to listen, and to hope,—
Will see that hope fulfilled, and put to shame,
The prophecy that deems his Providence,
His book of Nature, and the Eternal Word,
Stamped with the seal of God, a hollow lie!
That waving forest, and those azure hills?
Seest thou the wide sky-tinted ocean, weaving
Its shoreless tissue o'er the rolling sphere?
What gives them all their beauty? 'Tis the ray
Of yonder orb! And thus the hope of Heaven
Redeems the soul of man from utter darkness:
'Tis that which gives to love its holy hue,
To home its sanctity—to life its light!
And thou, pretending to bestow a boon,
Wouldst rend our hope, our sun from yonder sky,
And shroud the soul in everlasting winter!
Oh no! that hope is like the tinted bow
Upon the cloud to every land: and He
Who hung it there in beauty and in power,
84
Of death's dark flood—He will redeem his pledge!
He who hath put a voice in every wave,
In every budding flower, and sighing breeze,
To whisper of eternity: who made
The heart of man to listen, and to hope,—
Will see that hope fulfilled, and put to shame,
The prophecy that deems his Providence,
His book of Nature, and the Eternal Word,
Stamped with the seal of God, a hollow lie!
85
THE FORTUNE HUNTER.
A haughty Eagle soaring in the sky,
Saw far beneath an azure mountain lie.
Curious to mark the spot with nearer view,
Close o'er his back his curving wings he drew,
Fixed his keen eye, his rudder tail he bent,
And circling widely, shaped his sheer descent.
Poised on the cliff at length, his plumes he shook,
And bent on all around, a searching look.
'Twas a wild peak, whose tempest-beaten brow
Frowned o'er a vale that distant lay below.
Here rocks, thick woods and chasms dark were seen,
With a wild cataract foaming white between;
A cultured valley there unfolded lay,
Here shone a river, yon a silver bay.
Saw far beneath an azure mountain lie.
Curious to mark the spot with nearer view,
Close o'er his back his curving wings he drew,
Fixed his keen eye, his rudder tail he bent,
And circling widely, shaped his sheer descent.
Poised on the cliff at length, his plumes he shook,
And bent on all around, a searching look.
'Twas a wild peak, whose tempest-beaten brow
Frowned o'er a vale that distant lay below.
Here rocks, thick woods and chasms dark were seen,
With a wild cataract foaming white between;
A cultured valley there unfolded lay,
Here shone a river, yon a silver bay.
The Eagle's fancy kindled as he gazed,
And high ambition in his bosom blazed—
He thought—“'Twere bliss to own this fair domain,
This rock my throne, o'er these wild scenes to reign.
No huntsman's foot these beetling crags could scale,
Here I would sit unmoved and drink the gale;
And when the humor stirred, I'd win my way,
High in the light and hang o'er yonder bay;
Or deep beneath I'd thread the sullen dell,
And scare the panther with my piercing yell;
Now muse enraptured o'er yon foaming fall,
Now scent the tempest and the whirlwind call!
But these high pleasures pass with youth away,
These wings must droop, this piercing sight decay;
Old age's frost will chill my fancy's fire,
And quench in death ambition's high desire.
O let me then some deeper plan devise,
On which long hope may build, true fortune rise.
What may be done? The rock on which I rest,
A high descended race of eagles long possessed.
By conquest won—by valor strong maintained,
This cliff their castle, here they proudly reigned.
But they are gone—all, all in death recline,
Save the high heiress of this noble line.
This bird I'll woo, and if my suit prevail,
These realms are mine, I'll share them with the gale!
And here I'll found a noble line, whose name
Shall give to future date my form and fame.”
And high ambition in his bosom blazed—
He thought—“'Twere bliss to own this fair domain,
86
No huntsman's foot these beetling crags could scale,
Here I would sit unmoved and drink the gale;
And when the humor stirred, I'd win my way,
High in the light and hang o'er yonder bay;
Or deep beneath I'd thread the sullen dell,
And scare the panther with my piercing yell;
Now muse enraptured o'er yon foaming fall,
Now scent the tempest and the whirlwind call!
But these high pleasures pass with youth away,
These wings must droop, this piercing sight decay;
Old age's frost will chill my fancy's fire,
And quench in death ambition's high desire.
O let me then some deeper plan devise,
On which long hope may build, true fortune rise.
What may be done? The rock on which I rest,
A high descended race of eagles long possessed.
By conquest won—by valor strong maintained,
This cliff their castle, here they proudly reigned.
But they are gone—all, all in death recline,
Save the high heiress of this noble line.
This bird I'll woo, and if my suit prevail,
These realms are mine, I'll share them with the gale!
87
Shall give to future date my form and fame.”
This resolution ta'en, the princess bird
He sought—his purpose stated, and his suit preferred.
With all becoming scorn his tale she heard,
Talked of presumption—but of that repented
‘And saying she could ne'er consent, consented.’
Now let us haste—two rapid years have flown,
And their first brood, four eaglets, full are grown.
What disappointment! e'en a father's eye,
In his own brood can nought of promise spy:
The first had scarce an eagle's form or flight,
But a lank bittern seemed to every sight.
The lofty crag and noble cliff he spurned,
And deep in swamps his vulgar pleasures earned;
In lowland pools he fondly loved to wade,
And on loose fish that floated by, he preyed.
The next could never soar; his wing too brief
And tail too long—his father marked with grief.
The third was overgrown—a sulky fowl,
That favored less the eaglet than the owl.
He put on airs—and wore a haughty look,
And for an eagle was by geese mistook;
But wiser birds his hoot and horns suspected,
And left the eagle feigned, an owl detected.
The fourth, a maiden bird, unlike the others,
Was fair, but no more eagle than the brothers,
Her legs too long, her plumage all too gay,
Her peacock form,—no noble blood betray.
Yet high-bred airs she feigned, and tossed her head,
Stretched her long neck, her gaudy tail she spread,
And spurned all humbler birds, save those who gazed,
Confessed their homage, and her plumage praised.
This passed with shallow fowls, but birds of sense,
Who looked thro' artifice and thro' pretence,
Scorned the dull cheat, by which the little mind
Would steal the honor due the nobler kind.
He sought—his purpose stated, and his suit preferred.
With all becoming scorn his tale she heard,
Talked of presumption—but of that repented
‘And saying she could ne'er consent, consented.’
Now let us haste—two rapid years have flown,
And their first brood, four eaglets, full are grown.
What disappointment! e'en a father's eye,
In his own brood can nought of promise spy:
The first had scarce an eagle's form or flight,
But a lank bittern seemed to every sight.
The lofty crag and noble cliff he spurned,
And deep in swamps his vulgar pleasures earned;
In lowland pools he fondly loved to wade,
And on loose fish that floated by, he preyed.
The next could never soar; his wing too brief
And tail too long—his father marked with grief.
The third was overgrown—a sulky fowl,
88
He put on airs—and wore a haughty look,
And for an eagle was by geese mistook;
But wiser birds his hoot and horns suspected,
And left the eagle feigned, an owl detected.
The fourth, a maiden bird, unlike the others,
Was fair, but no more eagle than the brothers,
Her legs too long, her plumage all too gay,
Her peacock form,—no noble blood betray.
Yet high-bred airs she feigned, and tossed her head,
Stretched her long neck, her gaudy tail she spread,
And spurned all humbler birds, save those who gazed,
Confessed their homage, and her plumage praised.
This passed with shallow fowls, but birds of sense,
Who looked thro' artifice and thro' pretence,
Scorned the dull cheat, by which the little mind
Would steal the honor due the nobler kind.
We pass o'er years: the mountain-eagle dead,
His race is scattered and his fame is fled.
The lofty peak, that once his sway confessed,
By vulgar birds is parcelled and possessed.
Wrens, jays and crows, now chatter, caw and sing,
Where proudly swept the monarch eagle's wing:
Degraded, poor and scorned, his worthless race,
Wander with lowland birds, as scorned and base.
The proud are fallen—wealth is passed away,
And wisdom draws this lesson from the lay—
That he who weds for wealth, is like to be
The father of a foolish progeny;
Sowing in pride, his harvest shall be shame,
Shared by himself and those who bear his name!
His race is scattered and his fame is fled.
The lofty peak, that once his sway confessed,
By vulgar birds is parcelled and possessed.
Wrens, jays and crows, now chatter, caw and sing,
89
Degraded, poor and scorned, his worthless race,
Wander with lowland birds, as scorned and base.
The proud are fallen—wealth is passed away,
And wisdom draws this lesson from the lay—
That he who weds for wealth, is like to be
The father of a foolish progeny;
Sowing in pride, his harvest shall be shame,
Shared by himself and those who bear his name!
92
FANCY.
I've seen an eagle sweeping through the sky,
With a swift pinion, and a piercing eye;
I've seen the sun when sinking down in night,
Dye all the clouds in rosy showers of light;
I've seen the moon when stealing o'er the hill,
The quiet vale with silent beauty fill;
I've seen the lake reflect its borders true,
And the mock landscape seem the lovelier view;
I've seen the ocean deeply laid to rest,
With the soft moon-beams sleeping on its breast,
While the blue sky with each bright planet given
In the broad mirror, seemed a dream of heaven;
I've seen the whirlwind stretch its pinions wide,
And o'er the land in fearful terror ride;
I've seen the lightning from the tempest spring,
And through the night its startling splendor fling;
I've seen the rainbow on the vapory shroud,
Smile through the shower—God's signet on the cloud!
I've seen stern winter bind the joyous wave,
And make the lawless mountain stream a slave;
I've seen the breath of spring go forth in might,
And bid the latent blossoms leap to light;
I've seen pale death, the blush of beauty steal,
And the cold brow with deeper beauty seal!
With a swift pinion, and a piercing eye;
I've seen the sun when sinking down in night,
Dye all the clouds in rosy showers of light;
I've seen the moon when stealing o'er the hill,
The quiet vale with silent beauty fill;
I've seen the lake reflect its borders true,
And the mock landscape seem the lovelier view;
I've seen the ocean deeply laid to rest,
With the soft moon-beams sleeping on its breast,
While the blue sky with each bright planet given
In the broad mirror, seemed a dream of heaven;
I've seen the whirlwind stretch its pinions wide,
And o'er the land in fearful terror ride;
I've seen the lightning from the tempest spring,
And through the night its startling splendor fling;
I've seen the rainbow on the vapory shroud,
Smile through the shower—God's signet on the cloud!
I've seen stern winter bind the joyous wave,
93
I've seen the breath of spring go forth in might,
And bid the latent blossoms leap to light;
I've seen pale death, the blush of beauty steal,
And the cold brow with deeper beauty seal!
But not the eagle's wing, or searching glance,
Or sun, moon, lake, or ocean's broad expanse;
Not the dark whirlwind, not the lightning's gleam,
Not the soft rainbow, or its peaceful beam;
Not icy winter, not the breath of spring,
Not the deep spell of terror's pallid king;
Not the wide realm that nature calls her own,
Can match the power to wizard Fancy known.
Or sun, moon, lake, or ocean's broad expanse;
Not the dark whirlwind, not the lightning's gleam,
Not the soft rainbow, or its peaceful beam;
Not icy winter, not the breath of spring,
Not the deep spell of terror's pallid king;
Not the wide realm that nature calls her own,
Can match the power to wizard Fancy known.
Say, can the eagle's wing like Fancy fly?
Can his keen vision pierce like Fancy's eye?
Can sun or moon such fairy colors give,
As in the golden dreams of Fancy live?
Can the lone lake, which but one landscape shows,
Vie with a power that endless beauty knows?
Can the smooth ocean, which no more reveals,
Than the blue veil which heaven's deep breast conceals—
Match the bold thought that tears that veil away,
And pours on distant skies the beams of day?
Can all the forms of beauty and of fear,
That nature's wonder-working hand can rear,
Rival the spirit whose superior skill,
Can bring or banish all these forms at will?
No!—Fancy's reign is wider than the waves;
Brighter than all the realms the ocean laves—
Her works are wilder than the sea and air,
Than all the elements, can do or dare.
And when this ‘scroll’ hath passed away in flame,
And all the stars forget its date and name,
Still Fancy's joyous wing shall tireless sweep,
O'er the far shoreless waves of Heaven's ethereal deep!
Can his keen vision pierce like Fancy's eye?
Can sun or moon such fairy colors give,
As in the golden dreams of Fancy live?
Can the lone lake, which but one landscape shows,
Vie with a power that endless beauty knows?
Can the smooth ocean, which no more reveals,
94
Match the bold thought that tears that veil away,
And pours on distant skies the beams of day?
Can all the forms of beauty and of fear,
That nature's wonder-working hand can rear,
Rival the spirit whose superior skill,
Can bring or banish all these forms at will?
No!—Fancy's reign is wider than the waves;
Brighter than all the realms the ocean laves—
Her works are wilder than the sea and air,
Than all the elements, can do or dare.
And when this ‘scroll’ hath passed away in flame,
And all the stars forget its date and name,
Still Fancy's joyous wing shall tireless sweep,
O'er the far shoreless waves of Heaven's ethereal deep!
95
THE RIVULET
When winter takes its stormy flight,
And blushing spring reveals its light,
The captive mountain stream, unbound,
First feebly steals along the ground,
And seeks its hidden path to screen
'Mid tangled trees and branches green.
But bolder soon its waters play,
Full in the light of open day;
Then whirl along in eddies deep,
And fling their murmurs down the steep.
Now full and free the gallant stream
Holds dalliance with the morning beam;
Now throws aloft its gauzy spray
To see the rainbow o'er it play;
Now saunters where the lilies dip,
Kissing in turn each proffered lip;
Now forward flies, like lover fleet,
Some kindred rivulet to meet,
That lingers in the vale below,
And sighs with some fond stream to flow;
And now, when evening throws its veil,
Of twilight dim, o'er hill and dale—
It pauses in its wild career,
Spreads smooth its surface broad and clear,
And hushed in holy stillness lies,
Looking with rapture to the skies,
While deep within its bosom true,
Is traced Heaven's own wide world of blue!
And blushing spring reveals its light,
The captive mountain stream, unbound,
First feebly steals along the ground,
And seeks its hidden path to screen
'Mid tangled trees and branches green.
But bolder soon its waters play,
Full in the light of open day;
Then whirl along in eddies deep,
And fling their murmurs down the steep.
Now full and free the gallant stream
Holds dalliance with the morning beam;
Now throws aloft its gauzy spray
To see the rainbow o'er it play;
Now saunters where the lilies dip,
Kissing in turn each proffered lip;
Now forward flies, like lover fleet,
Some kindred rivulet to meet,
That lingers in the vale below,
96
And now, when evening throws its veil,
Of twilight dim, o'er hill and dale—
It pauses in its wild career,
Spreads smooth its surface broad and clear,
And hushed in holy stillness lies,
Looking with rapture to the skies,
While deep within its bosom true,
Is traced Heaven's own wide world of blue!
Child of the hills, where lightnings streak!
Thy cradle is the azure peak,
Thy robes, the wreaths of morn that float,
Thy lullaby, the thunder note!
Born of the snow, by tempests fed,
In chasms rocked, in forests bred,
Thy sport is o'er the rocks to leap;
Thy dance, in caverns dark and deep;
Thy frolic, foaming white to run
And toss thy bubbles to the sun!
Thy cradle is the azure peak,
Thy robes, the wreaths of morn that float,
Thy lullaby, the thunder note!
Born of the snow, by tempests fed,
In chasms rocked, in forests bred,
Thy sport is o'er the rocks to leap;
Thy dance, in caverns dark and deep;
Thy frolic, foaming white to run
And toss thy bubbles to the sun!
Bright offspring of the cloud and storm!
There's beauty in thy crystal form!
Though wild and wayward thy career,
Thy face is fair, thy music dear;
Thou art fond childhood's image fair,
With full blue eye and sunny hair—
A thing of beauty and caprice,
Now soft as summer's sighing breeze,
Now wild as winds that whirl on high,
A cloud of leaves to winter's sky!
There's beauty in thy crystal form!
Though wild and wayward thy career,
97
Thou art fond childhood's image fair,
With full blue eye and sunny hair—
A thing of beauty and caprice,
Now soft as summer's sighing breeze,
Now wild as winds that whirl on high,
A cloud of leaves to winter's sky!
Sweet mountain stream! I love to trace
Thee in thy light and playful chase—
But more I love the beams that play
O'er childhood's light and laughing way;
The filial love that beameth strong
In tearful eyes, through lashes long;
The rainbow smile that often peers
In lustre through a cloud of tears;
The awe that o'er the young face steals,
When night its wondrous sky reveals;
The high arched brow, with feeling fraught,
The long fixed gaze of living thought,
That tells of immortality,
Kindled within that bright blue eye,—
These, these are beauties more divine,
Sweet mountain rivulet, than thine!
Thee in thy light and playful chase—
But more I love the beams that play
O'er childhood's light and laughing way;
The filial love that beameth strong
In tearful eyes, through lashes long;
The rainbow smile that often peers
In lustre through a cloud of tears;
The awe that o'er the young face steals,
When night its wondrous sky reveals;
The high arched brow, with feeling fraught,
The long fixed gaze of living thought,
That tells of immortality,
Kindled within that bright blue eye,—
These, these are beauties more divine,
Sweet mountain rivulet, than thine!
98
THE SPIRIT COURT OF PRACTICE AND PRETENCE.
Ye who but wake as wakes the morning light,
And go to rest like roosting fowls at night,
Deeming this outside world of earth and stone
The only world to man immortal known,—
Ye who have ne'er discovered in the breast
Another world, as in a lake at rest,
Reflected to the spirit's raptured eye,
More wonderful than this of cloud and sky,—
Ye, who mid darkness in a dungeon stand,
Twirling a key all idly in the hand,
Which used aright would draw the bolts aside,
And throw the gates of glorious vision wide—
Go to your rest, and leave this noon of night,
Blackness to you, to me, a world of light!
Sleep! and re-count, in dreams, your yellow store,
Or taste again your vulgar pleasures o'er;
Pursue with greedy hand the bubble prize
Of fame or fortune, cheating as it flies—
Climb to the mountain top with eager gasp,
For seeming gems that perish in the grasp,—
And while the nightmare, brooding o'er your rest,
Draws sighs and moans alternate from your breast,
Let wizard fancy with its wand of power,
Roll up the shadowy curtain of the hour,
And to my soul the hidden things unfold,
That night and silence in their bosom hold.
And go to rest like roosting fowls at night,
Deeming this outside world of earth and stone
The only world to man immortal known,—
Ye who have ne'er discovered in the breast
Another world, as in a lake at rest,
Reflected to the spirit's raptured eye,
More wonderful than this of cloud and sky,—
Ye, who mid darkness in a dungeon stand,
Twirling a key all idly in the hand,
Which used aright would draw the bolts aside,
And throw the gates of glorious vision wide—
Go to your rest, and leave this noon of night,
Blackness to you, to me, a world of light!
Sleep! and re-count, in dreams, your yellow store,
Or taste again your vulgar pleasures o'er;
Pursue with greedy hand the bubble prize
99
Climb to the mountain top with eager gasp,
For seeming gems that perish in the grasp,—
And while the nightmare, brooding o'er your rest,
Draws sighs and moans alternate from your breast,
Let wizard fancy with its wand of power,
Roll up the shadowy curtain of the hour,
And to my soul the hidden things unfold,
That night and silence in their bosom hold.
'Tis midnight, and the waveless sea of gloom
Sinks the wide city to a dreamless tomb:
No footfall wakes an echo in the street,
No voices come from those who part or meet:
No setting stars the lapsing hours reveal,
But the dim Heavens are shut as with a seal!
Hushed o'er the awful scene of mimic death,
Time folds his weary wing, and holds his breath.
My eye is closed, yet lingering beams of light
Steal o'er the inward soul, like things of sight,
Seeming the shapeless hues that dimly glide
Within, when first the visual lid is tied;
Yet as the spirit gazes, melting, take
Pinions of fire, and bid a world awake!
With glittering gold the starry heavens ascend,
And skies auroral, o'er the landscape bend.
Glancing around on waving pinions fly,
A thousand forms all radiant as the sky.
Flashing, yet faint, they distant seem to glide,
Like dreams away—light shadows o'er a tide;
Yet nearer seen, each brow is well defined,
And the high impress speaks the lofty mind;
Gazing they pass, with their keen vision bent,
On the uncurtained bosom, deep, intent!
Sinks the wide city to a dreamless tomb:
No footfall wakes an echo in the street,
No voices come from those who part or meet:
No setting stars the lapsing hours reveal,
But the dim Heavens are shut as with a seal!
Hushed o'er the awful scene of mimic death,
Time folds his weary wing, and holds his breath.
My eye is closed, yet lingering beams of light
Steal o'er the inward soul, like things of sight,
Seeming the shapeless hues that dimly glide
Within, when first the visual lid is tied;
Yet as the spirit gazes, melting, take
100
With glittering gold the starry heavens ascend,
And skies auroral, o'er the landscape bend.
Glancing around on waving pinions fly,
A thousand forms all radiant as the sky.
Flashing, yet faint, they distant seem to glide,
Like dreams away—light shadows o'er a tide;
Yet nearer seen, each brow is well defined,
And the high impress speaks the lofty mind;
Gazing they pass, with their keen vision bent,
On the uncurtained bosom, deep, intent!
Startled, and shrinking from a scene so new,
My naked spirit all revealed to view,
I turned around to seek some friendly guide,
And found a gentle vision at my side.
She spoke, and whispering in my wondering ear,
Revealed the story that I burned to hear.
‘Spirit of earth! I bid thee mark my theme,
Nor hold this scene a light fantastic dream—
A veil hangs lightly 'twixt thine earth and heaven,
A thin partition which thy soul hath riven,—
Unclouded now, thy spirit-searching eye,
Looks on this scene, the threshold of the sky.
Stay! for thy wing hath yet an earthy stain,
And seeks to win a higher flight in vain,—
Enough for thee this glorious vision sent,
Till from thy soul the mortal shroud is rent.
Here in this midway space 'twixt Earth and Light,
We hold our Spirit Court, this beaming night:
Passing before, as in a mirror true,
Scenes from your world, will come in stern review,
And as the players rise to act their part,
We lift the veil that seeks to hide the heart—
Discerning thus, unfolded to the sense,
The gulf that yawns 'twixt Practice and Pretence.’
My naked spirit all revealed to view,
I turned around to seek some friendly guide,
And found a gentle vision at my side.
She spoke, and whispering in my wondering ear,
Revealed the story that I burned to hear.
‘Spirit of earth! I bid thee mark my theme,
Nor hold this scene a light fantastic dream—
A veil hangs lightly 'twixt thine earth and heaven,
A thin partition which thy soul hath riven,—
Unclouded now, thy spirit-searching eye,
101
Stay! for thy wing hath yet an earthy stain,
And seeks to win a higher flight in vain,—
Enough for thee this glorious vision sent,
Till from thy soul the mortal shroud is rent.
Here in this midway space 'twixt Earth and Light,
We hold our Spirit Court, this beaming night:
Passing before, as in a mirror true,
Scenes from your world, will come in stern review,
And as the players rise to act their part,
We lift the veil that seeks to hide the heart—
Discerning thus, unfolded to the sense,
The gulf that yawns 'twixt Practice and Pretence.’
She spoke, and pointed to a dazzling throne,
That like a cloud of summer glorious shone!
There, in their snowy robes with sapphire blent,
The awful judges, Truth and Reason, bent.
Waked from its sleep, as by a bugle call,
The past came summoned from its shadowy thrall.
Nearer I drew, and saw the mimic show,
Reveal the story of the world below;
All that had chanced on earth, the by-gone year,
Passed in review—a fearful vision here!
Touched by the light that issued from the throne
Each heart was seen, each hidden purpose known.
The weeded widow covering 'neath her veil,
Thoughts of new joys that breath in passion's gale—
The city dame who casts her portals wide,
Shewing cut glass and plate on every side,—
Seeking by vulgar pomp and gauche display,
In ‘good society,’ to make her way—
The whirling waltzer, half alive to shame,
Affecting coolness in the midst of flame—
The fortune-hunter, on his bended knee,
To some rich heiress swearing lustily
A holy passion, while his truant breast
Is only constant to the glittering chest—
The craven critic hid in candor's mask,
Urged by some paltry spite, bent o'er his task—
Intent to wound, yet if the feeble bow,
Fail of its mark, the pole cat's shaft can throw—
The editor—a thing of thousand tongues,
Empowered to speak with nation-stirring lungs—
To throw fair freedom's banner on the wind,
And forward lead the glorious march of mind—
Reason's artillery placed at his command,
And wit's keen sword entrusted to his hand—
While yet unmindful of his high behest,
Taking close counsel with his narrow breast,
The flag unfurled, displays a party sign,
As passion prompts or interest may incline—
Reason's loud battery, basely turned aside,
Becomes the pop-gun of his petty pride,
And wit's bright steel, now sullied, dull and weak,
The sly stiletto of his private pique—
The politician seeking votes to get,
Like the shrewd spider weaving wide his net,
Flattering the throng and wooing to his snare,
The weak or wicked, with insidious care—
Seeking to melt with passion's focal glass,
All he can cheat, into one ductile mass—
Agrarian, atheist, tippler—one and all—
Wrong-headed moths predestined to his thrall—
Mixed with fanatic flies of every hue,
All sent of God, if what they tell is true—
Discordant elements, which but agree
To be his dupes and wear his livery—
The heartless statesman, shifting to the breeze,
Reckless of shame—if he the mob may please—
And while his heart is deeply bent on spoil,
His soft pretences flow around like oil—
By love of man pretending to be swayed,
While love of self is still his only trade—
Himself the point from which each ripple bends,
To which each backward wave reflected tends—
Willing to grovel on and grime his soul,
If so it leads to power, and strong control—
To day unsaying what he said before,
This week forswearing what last week he swore—
Juggling with honor, truth, his country's good—
For what? an office—or perchance for food!—
The shrewd sectarian, fearing Heaven will be
Too full to grant him ample farm and fee,
Seeking to station at the guarded gate,
A sharp police to watch the traveller straight—
With pettifogging arts to strain the law,
Or in the passport find some specious flaw—
Another—conscious of his bleachless sin,
Battering Heaven's gate to let each scoundrel in—
Another still—the atheist—worst of all—
Seeking in death the immortal soul to thrall,
Filling the pit where crime should find its doom,
And shrouding Heaven in everlasting gloom—
The lordly master, clinging to the tie,
That holds the slave, himself enslaved thereby—
Like the Etruscan convict bound to death,
Clasping the corse and feasting on its breath—
Yet tells you this is glorious liberty,
Ordained of old, and sealed by God's decree!—
The hot enthusiast, warned, but warned in vain,
Seeking to rend the hapless negro's chain—
And while he strikes to break the galling clasp,
Clenches each rivet with a sterner grasp!—
These, these, like insects of a thousand dyes,
Passed and repassed before our wondering eyes.
Mixed with the good, the virtuous and the true,
Catching their hues the hypocrite came to view;
And well I marked where pride and fashion reigned,
The tide of life flowed on more darkly stained;
While oft where poverty had thrown its blight,
Truth shone around, with Heaven's redeeming light.
O'er scenes like these the Court bent smiling down,
While others still provoked their fearful frown!
That like a cloud of summer glorious shone!
There, in their snowy robes with sapphire blent,
The awful judges, Truth and Reason, bent.
Waked from its sleep, as by a bugle call,
The past came summoned from its shadowy thrall.
Nearer I drew, and saw the mimic show,
Reveal the story of the world below;
102
Passed in review—a fearful vision here!
Touched by the light that issued from the throne
Each heart was seen, each hidden purpose known.
The weeded widow covering 'neath her veil,
Thoughts of new joys that breath in passion's gale—
The city dame who casts her portals wide,
Shewing cut glass and plate on every side,—
Seeking by vulgar pomp and gauche display,
In ‘good society,’ to make her way—
The whirling waltzer, half alive to shame,
Affecting coolness in the midst of flame—
The fortune-hunter, on his bended knee,
To some rich heiress swearing lustily
A holy passion, while his truant breast
Is only constant to the glittering chest—
The craven critic hid in candor's mask,
Urged by some paltry spite, bent o'er his task—
Intent to wound, yet if the feeble bow,
Fail of its mark, the pole cat's shaft can throw—
The editor—a thing of thousand tongues,
Empowered to speak with nation-stirring lungs—
To throw fair freedom's banner on the wind,
103
Reason's artillery placed at his command,
And wit's keen sword entrusted to his hand—
While yet unmindful of his high behest,
Taking close counsel with his narrow breast,
The flag unfurled, displays a party sign,
As passion prompts or interest may incline—
Reason's loud battery, basely turned aside,
Becomes the pop-gun of his petty pride,
And wit's bright steel, now sullied, dull and weak,
The sly stiletto of his private pique—
The politician seeking votes to get,
Like the shrewd spider weaving wide his net,
Flattering the throng and wooing to his snare,
The weak or wicked, with insidious care—
Seeking to melt with passion's focal glass,
All he can cheat, into one ductile mass—
Agrarian, atheist, tippler—one and all—
Wrong-headed moths predestined to his thrall—
Mixed with fanatic flies of every hue,
All sent of God, if what they tell is true—
Discordant elements, which but agree
104
The heartless statesman, shifting to the breeze,
Reckless of shame—if he the mob may please—
And while his heart is deeply bent on spoil,
His soft pretences flow around like oil—
By love of man pretending to be swayed,
While love of self is still his only trade—
Himself the point from which each ripple bends,
To which each backward wave reflected tends—
Willing to grovel on and grime his soul,
If so it leads to power, and strong control—
To day unsaying what he said before,
This week forswearing what last week he swore—
Juggling with honor, truth, his country's good—
For what? an office—or perchance for food!—
The shrewd sectarian, fearing Heaven will be
Too full to grant him ample farm and fee,
Seeking to station at the guarded gate,
A sharp police to watch the traveller straight—
With pettifogging arts to strain the law,
Or in the passport find some specious flaw—
Another—conscious of his bleachless sin,
105
Another still—the atheist—worst of all—
Seeking in death the immortal soul to thrall,
Filling the pit where crime should find its doom,
And shrouding Heaven in everlasting gloom—
The lordly master, clinging to the tie,
That holds the slave, himself enslaved thereby—
Like the Etruscan convict bound to death,
Clasping the corse and feasting on its breath—
Yet tells you this is glorious liberty,
Ordained of old, and sealed by God's decree!—
The hot enthusiast, warned, but warned in vain,
Seeking to rend the hapless negro's chain—
And while he strikes to break the galling clasp,
Clenches each rivet with a sterner grasp!—
These, these, like insects of a thousand dyes,
Passed and repassed before our wondering eyes.
Mixed with the good, the virtuous and the true,
Catching their hues the hypocrite came to view;
106
The tide of life flowed on more darkly stained;
While oft where poverty had thrown its blight,
Truth shone around, with Heaven's redeeming light.
O'er scenes like these the Court bent smiling down,
While others still provoked their fearful frown!
Two duellists we saw twelve yards apart,
Waiting the word to fire, with flickering heart.
Swelling they stood, and bravely sought to bear,
A lofty courage in their haughty air,
While hid beneath we read the thin deceit,
And saw each breast confess the shallow cheat.
Fear of light fashion's law, which bade them fight,
And do the law of God and man despite—
Fear of disdain, forsooth, from ladies' lashes,
Fear of the wit from leaden brains that flashes—
Fear, and the craven hope, that luck would guide,
His bullet true, and turn his foeman's wide,—
These were the motives playing round the heart,
In either bosom, veiled with conscious art.
Waiting the word to fire, with flickering heart.
Swelling they stood, and bravely sought to bear,
A lofty courage in their haughty air,
While hid beneath we read the thin deceit,
And saw each breast confess the shallow cheat.
Fear of light fashion's law, which bade them fight,
And do the law of God and man despite—
Fear of disdain, forsooth, from ladies' lashes,
Fear of the wit from leaden brains that flashes—
Fear, and the craven hope, that luck would guide,
His bullet true, and turn his foeman's wide,—
These were the motives playing round the heart,
In either bosom, veiled with conscious art.
Before a court, on trial for his life—
Amidst the crowd, his children and his wife—
A prisoner stood—the jury ranged around—
And grisly judges with their looks profound.
The world believed him guilty, and the law
Was but the halter which they wished to draw.
This was enough—the prosecutor too
Saw that the rope was but the rascal's due.
The proof, indeed—the proof, was rather lame,
And the poor fellow might acquittal claim.
But danger stared the lawyer in the face—
The prisoner's rescue might be his disgrace.
Should he escape, the disappointed throng
Would hold his talents lighter than a song.
How light the feather of a life became
When weighed against the lawyer's love of fame!
His plea he opened—'twas a noble theme—
Mercy he painted as a holy dream;
And then in sudden contrast, boldly drew,
The midnight murderer to the startled view!
The prisoner quailed beneath the speaker's frown,
And the poor stricken wife fell senseless down.
The children shrieked,—and o'er the rabble crew
A flash of mercy, like an angel flew;
It passed, and as the deeper gloom of night
Drinks the red lightning, vanished from the sight!
I gazed upon the lawyer's bosom—bare
To me—though curtained o'er with studious care.
He caught the mercy from the crowd—the gloom—
I marked in that the prisoner's certain doom!
Deep in his heart I read the stern intent,
And saw his genius to the effort bent—
With magic skill, he wove the fatal woof,
Turning light gossamer to cable proof;
And as the spider, conscious of his art,
Wound it and wound it round his victim's heart.
The spell of eloquence fell all around,
And judge and jury in its toils were bound—
The verdict, guilty, and the doom of death,
Came to the lawyer's ear like music's breath.
What tho' perchance the man was guiltless? still
The greater triumph of his matchless skill—
And if stern conscience whisper in his ear,
That he perchance is more the murderer here—
Cold to the accusation, he replies,
I'm but the agent—'tis the court that tries!
Amidst the crowd, his children and his wife—
107
And grisly judges with their looks profound.
The world believed him guilty, and the law
Was but the halter which they wished to draw.
This was enough—the prosecutor too
Saw that the rope was but the rascal's due.
The proof, indeed—the proof, was rather lame,
And the poor fellow might acquittal claim.
But danger stared the lawyer in the face—
The prisoner's rescue might be his disgrace.
Should he escape, the disappointed throng
Would hold his talents lighter than a song.
How light the feather of a life became
When weighed against the lawyer's love of fame!
His plea he opened—'twas a noble theme—
Mercy he painted as a holy dream;
And then in sudden contrast, boldly drew,
The midnight murderer to the startled view!
The prisoner quailed beneath the speaker's frown,
And the poor stricken wife fell senseless down.
The children shrieked,—and o'er the rabble crew
A flash of mercy, like an angel flew;
It passed, and as the deeper gloom of night
108
I gazed upon the lawyer's bosom—bare
To me—though curtained o'er with studious care.
He caught the mercy from the crowd—the gloom—
I marked in that the prisoner's certain doom!
Deep in his heart I read the stern intent,
And saw his genius to the effort bent—
With magic skill, he wove the fatal woof,
Turning light gossamer to cable proof;
And as the spider, conscious of his art,
Wound it and wound it round his victim's heart.
The spell of eloquence fell all around,
And judge and jury in its toils were bound—
The verdict, guilty, and the doom of death,
Came to the lawyer's ear like music's breath.
What tho' perchance the man was guiltless? still
The greater triumph of his matchless skill—
And if stern conscience whisper in his ear,
That he perchance is more the murderer here—
Cold to the accusation, he replies,
I'm but the agent—'tis the court that tries!
The Drama rose—and in the gorgeous glare
The circling boxes glittered full and fair.
Fresh from the hand of art, the temple gleams,
And this, its opening night—how fair it seems!
Mother and daughter, father, son and heir—
All, all, expectant—they are seated there.
The manager appears, with bow profound
Answering the cheers that burst from all around.
The shout subsides and in the breathless pause,
Thus in a shrewd address he pleads his cause—
“Is this the hour when smiles around us beam,
To think of sorrow, and of ills to dream?
Forgive—a mist hangs brooding o'er the night,
And a deep vision comes before my sight!
As a far cloud a shadowy form doth rise,
And mark its giant outline on the skies.
There, there it stands, a thing of awful form,
And o'er the landscape hovers like a storm—
Stretching its sway abroad, and sending far
A threatening sound of ruin, waste and war.
A muttered echo comes o'er hill and height,
As if a whirlwind gathered there its might;
Then, like the lifted tide, an eager band
Of ruthless men came sweeping o'er the land.
109
Fresh from the hand of art, the temple gleams,
And this, its opening night—how fair it seems!
Mother and daughter, father, son and heir—
All, all, expectant—they are seated there.
The manager appears, with bow profound
Answering the cheers that burst from all around.
The shout subsides and in the breathless pause,
Thus in a shrewd address he pleads his cause—
“Is this the hour when smiles around us beam,
To think of sorrow, and of ills to dream?
Forgive—a mist hangs brooding o'er the night,
And a deep vision comes before my sight!
As a far cloud a shadowy form doth rise,
And mark its giant outline on the skies.
There, there it stands, a thing of awful form,
And o'er the landscape hovers like a storm—
Stretching its sway abroad, and sending far
A threatening sound of ruin, waste and war.
A muttered echo comes o'er hill and height,
As if a whirlwind gathered there its might;
Then, like the lifted tide, an eager band
Of ruthless men came sweeping o'er the land.
110
Alas! what desolation marks the path
Of the fell tempest in its march of wrath!
Temples are mared and godlike statues broke,
Proud arches fall, fair towers are wreathed in smoke:
The silver lyre is dumb, sweet music hushed,
And all around is desolate and crushed;
All that was beautiful hath lost its form,
And only tells the fury of the storm.
Such is the scene where vulgar passion reigns,
And gothic prejudice hath burst its chains.
And shall the Drama live, when music dies,
The arts are banished, and sweet pity flies?
Shall the dark spirit of a darker age
Lift its red banner, and yet spare the Stage?
It may not be,—they mark its classic dome,
And as a surge the swelling legions come—
Before the shock its costly columns bend,
The arches totter and the walls descend;
One heavy sound—one echo to the skies,
And the fair edifice in ruin lies!
See! Shakspeare's godlike form is now defaced,
His hallowed fane by savage feet debased,
While babbling lips revile his mighty name,
And his immortal leaves light up the flame!
Of the fell tempest in its march of wrath!
Temples are mared and godlike statues broke,
Proud arches fall, fair towers are wreathed in smoke:
The silver lyre is dumb, sweet music hushed,
And all around is desolate and crushed;
All that was beautiful hath lost its form,
And only tells the fury of the storm.
Such is the scene where vulgar passion reigns,
And gothic prejudice hath burst its chains.
And shall the Drama live, when music dies,
The arts are banished, and sweet pity flies?
Shall the dark spirit of a darker age
Lift its red banner, and yet spare the Stage?
It may not be,—they mark its classic dome,
And as a surge the swelling legions come—
Before the shock its costly columns bend,
The arches totter and the walls descend;
One heavy sound—one echo to the skies,
And the fair edifice in ruin lies!
See! Shakspeare's godlike form is now defaced,
His hallowed fane by savage feet debased,
111
And his immortal leaves light up the flame!
'Tis a dread scene, for in the ghastly glare,
Vice stalks abroad, and folly dances bare;
The villain fears stern satire's lash no more,
And easy conscience feels no smarting sore.
That startling mirror which displayed the heart,
And made the self-detected sinner start—
That mirror now by bigot heels is trod,
Beat down and trampled with the common sod;
And o'er its ruins, beaming still with light,
That flashes from its fragments free and bright,
Full many a monster holds his revel time,
And celebrates the jubilee of crime!
Alas! is this the doom of that which sprung
To birth and beauty, when the skies were young?
Is this the end of that which came in light,
At Athens, rising o'er a world of night?
Shall that which drew the throng, and ruled their fire,
Where Tully spoke, and Maro swept the lyre,—
Shall virtue's school, and virtue's champion quail,
And the dark reign of ignorance prevail?
Shall Shakspeare, Racine, Otway be forgot,
And Roscius, Garrick, Siddons be a blot?
Shall superstition wave her wand again,
The world roll back, and priestcraft forge its chain?
Vice stalks abroad, and folly dances bare;
The villain fears stern satire's lash no more,
And easy conscience feels no smarting sore.
That startling mirror which displayed the heart,
And made the self-detected sinner start—
That mirror now by bigot heels is trod,
Beat down and trampled with the common sod;
And o'er its ruins, beaming still with light,
That flashes from its fragments free and bright,
Full many a monster holds his revel time,
And celebrates the jubilee of crime!
Alas! is this the doom of that which sprung
To birth and beauty, when the skies were young?
Is this the end of that which came in light,
At Athens, rising o'er a world of night?
Shall that which drew the throng, and ruled their fire,
Where Tully spoke, and Maro swept the lyre,—
Shall virtue's school, and virtue's champion quail,
And the dark reign of ignorance prevail?
Shall Shakspeare, Racine, Otway be forgot,
112
Shall superstition wave her wand again,
The world roll back, and priestcraft forge its chain?
Nay, 'tis a dream, ye boding thoughts away!
The world is free, and reason holds its sway:
The Drama lives, and triumphs here to-night,
In smiles of kindness, and in beauty's light!
The Drama lives, and with the dawning year
Catches new beams, and brighter omens here.
And, oh! the Drama, made for noblest ends,
The Good, the Wise, the Fair, be ye its friends!
As plants that flourish in a genial sky,
Fair fruits unfold, and healing dews supply;
Yet flowerless wither in the chilling gale,
Creep with the weeds, and noxious airs exhale,—
So is the Drama formed for good or ill,
And ye, its masters, shape it as ye will!
To its deep art, the earth, the air, the sea,
And the dark caverns of the soul are free.
Ambition, busy as the restless deep—
Revenge, as ruthless as the lion's leap,—
Delusive hope that gilds our distant views,
As rainbow's touch the hills with heavenly hues—
Pale fear that walks with wizard wand by night,
And bids dim spectres haunt the cheated sight—
The sailing clouds, like spirits on the air,
Now dark as demons, now as angels fair—
The lofty mountain with its purple beams,—
The sloping valley and its silver streams,—
The waving forest, meadow, lawn and lake—
The glassy wave, and waves that wildly break
In surges on the rocks—the deep voiced storm—
The whirlwind, and the tempest's fearful form—
The lightning flash, the thunder stroke that rings
Like the loud chariot of the King of Kings,—
The bugle blast that from the rampart peals—
The mellow lute, on twilight wing that steals—
And woman's voice, that well might rise to Heaven,
Mix with the seraph song, and be forgiven—
These, these are subject to the Drama's art,
And lend their aid to move and mend the heart.
The world is free, and reason holds its sway:
The Drama lives, and triumphs here to-night,
In smiles of kindness, and in beauty's light!
The Drama lives, and with the dawning year
Catches new beams, and brighter omens here.
And, oh! the Drama, made for noblest ends,
The Good, the Wise, the Fair, be ye its friends!
As plants that flourish in a genial sky,
Fair fruits unfold, and healing dews supply;
Yet flowerless wither in the chilling gale,
Creep with the weeds, and noxious airs exhale,—
So is the Drama formed for good or ill,
And ye, its masters, shape it as ye will!
To its deep art, the earth, the air, the sea,
And the dark caverns of the soul are free.
Ambition, busy as the restless deep—
Revenge, as ruthless as the lion's leap,—
Delusive hope that gilds our distant views,
113
Pale fear that walks with wizard wand by night,
And bids dim spectres haunt the cheated sight—
The sailing clouds, like spirits on the air,
Now dark as demons, now as angels fair—
The lofty mountain with its purple beams,—
The sloping valley and its silver streams,—
The waving forest, meadow, lawn and lake—
The glassy wave, and waves that wildly break
In surges on the rocks—the deep voiced storm—
The whirlwind, and the tempest's fearful form—
The lightning flash, the thunder stroke that rings
Like the loud chariot of the King of Kings,—
The bugle blast that from the rampart peals—
The mellow lute, on twilight wing that steals—
And woman's voice, that well might rise to Heaven,
Mix with the seraph song, and be forgiven—
These, these are subject to the Drama's art,
And lend their aid to move and mend the heart.
Such is the Stage, and in your smiles I read,
A generous verdict for the cause I plead,
And as the blushing hills reflect the day,
So shall our hearts their grateful homage pay.
Our task shall be to gather fruits and flowers
From nature's field, and fancy's ample bowers;
To mix a moral with the wreath we bind,
And while we feast, to heal the sickened mind.
And as the rod that lifts its slender spire,
To teach a harmless path to Heaven's fierce fire—
So shall our art direct wild passion's way,
And bid its lightnings for your pleasure play!”—
A generous verdict for the cause I plead,
And as the blushing hills reflect the day,
114
Our task shall be to gather fruits and flowers
From nature's field, and fancy's ample bowers;
To mix a moral with the wreath we bind,
And while we feast, to heal the sickened mind.
And as the rod that lifts its slender spire,
To teach a harmless path to Heaven's fierce fire—
So shall our art direct wild passion's way,
And bid its lightnings for your pleasure play!”—
Such was the plea, and thundering plaudits sent,
Up to the dome its echoing arches rent—
Then twanged the choir, and pelting showers of sound,
Relentless fell one very ear around—
Viol and serpent, trumpet, harp and horn,
In rival rage put melody to scorn!
Up to the dome its echoing arches rent—
Then twanged the choir, and pelting showers of sound,
Relentless fell one very ear around—
Viol and serpent, trumpet, harp and horn,
In rival rage put melody to scorn!
The curtain rose, and bursting on the view,
From mimic bowers a form fantastic flew,
Ample above, below, with wonderous art,
Her insect waist seemed nearly cut apart.
With twinkling feet she came, and tripped along,
As if she floated on a fairy's song—
No envious gauze her swelling bosom dims,
No prudish drapery hides her tapering limbs;
Poised on her toe, she twirling flew around,
Then upward leaped with high aerial bound—
And then—but stay! the decent muse must pause,
And drop the curtain, midst the loud applause!
From mimic bowers a form fantastic flew,
Ample above, below, with wonderous art,
Her insect waist seemed nearly cut apart.
115
As if she floated on a fairy's song—
No envious gauze her swelling bosom dims,
No prudish drapery hides her tapering limbs;
Poised on her toe, she twirling flew around,
Then upward leaped with high aerial bound—
And then—but stay! the decent muse must pause,
And drop the curtain, midst the loud applause!
The Ballet o'er, again the crashing choir,
Poured forth their volley like a muster-fire.
Not their's the task to elevate the soul,
And banish vice by melody's control.
Despising simple strains that touch the heart,
They only sought to show their wond'rous art;
To draw down thunders from the shouting band,
Who most applaud what least they understand;
Or please the few, whose souls are in the ear,
Alive to sounds, but dead to music dear—
On heartless “execution” ever bent,
Feeling with sense, but not with sentiment.
Poured forth their volley like a muster-fire.
Not their's the task to elevate the soul,
And banish vice by melody's control.
Despising simple strains that touch the heart,
They only sought to show their wond'rous art;
To draw down thunders from the shouting band,
Who most applaud what least they understand;
Or please the few, whose souls are in the ear,
Alive to sounds, but dead to music dear—
On heartless “execution” ever bent,
Feeling with sense, but not with sentiment.
This done, the whirling curtain upward flew,
And the bright Opera shone upon our view!
It was a scene from some far sunny clime,
Where love is but the gentler name of crime:
Where sly intrigue is still the business dear,
From the light marquis to the gondolier;
Where truth and virtue are but vulgar saws,
The banished exiles of voluptuous laws:
Where 'neath the olive grove and mantling vine,
The voice of man and nature seems divine:
Where lawyers plead and brigands rave in rhyme,
And arrant vixens scold in tune and time!
Such was the scene, and well the unfolding story,
Act after act, displayed the opera's glory.
The gallant priest, the light voluptuous wife,
The generous corsair, played it to the life!
And all was music, soft, seductive, sweet,—
How cold the critic to condemn the cheat!
How hard the heart that did not feel it best,
To mock religion, and make truth a jest—
To laugh at virtue, as a thing of yore,
A musty prejudice—a vulgar bore,—
Fit for the puritans who knew no better,
Than to interpret scripture to the letter!
But all unworthy those of brighter days,
Who draw their morals from Italian lays—
Who by this precious ‘school of virtue’ taught,
Conceive that pleasure only claims our thought—
That life is but a merry masquerade,
The soul a plaything, and intrigue our trade—
That oaths are songs, that lies are peccadilloes,
And gentle bandits quite the best of fellows.
116
It was a scene from some far sunny clime,
Where love is but the gentler name of crime:
Where sly intrigue is still the business dear,
From the light marquis to the gondolier;
Where truth and virtue are but vulgar saws,
The banished exiles of voluptuous laws:
Where 'neath the olive grove and mantling vine,
The voice of man and nature seems divine:
Where lawyers plead and brigands rave in rhyme,
And arrant vixens scold in tune and time!
Such was the scene, and well the unfolding story,
Act after act, displayed the opera's glory.
The gallant priest, the light voluptuous wife,
The generous corsair, played it to the life!
And all was music, soft, seductive, sweet,—
How cold the critic to condemn the cheat!
How hard the heart that did not feel it best,
To mock religion, and make truth a jest—
To laugh at virtue, as a thing of yore,
A musty prejudice—a vulgar bore,—
Fit for the puritans who knew no better,
Than to interpret scripture to the letter!
117
Who draw their morals from Italian lays—
Who by this precious ‘school of virtue’ taught,
Conceive that pleasure only claims our thought—
That life is but a merry masquerade,
The soul a plaything, and intrigue our trade—
That oaths are songs, that lies are peccadilloes,
And gentle bandits quite the best of fellows.
The play was o'er, and as the curtain fell,
I gazed around, to mark the audience well.
There sat the sallow rake with sunken cheek—
There at his side the maiden, modest, meek.
At home, around the bright fire-side, her heart
Strong in its purity, with shrinking start,
As when a serpent seeks to fascinate,
Had spurned in scorn the hollow reprobate.
But now beneath a softer atmosphere,—
His voice did not offend her—nay, 'twas dear—
His gaze was kind—and gentle was his sigh—
And she returned it, tho' with downcast eye.
I saw her breast—a mirror pure and true,
But sullying vapors o'er its surface flew—
A healthful flower, that breathed a noxious air,
And sick'ning strewed its dying fragrance there—
A gentle bird half charmed, which, though it 'scape,
Bears on its soul the coiling serpent's shape.
I gazed around, to mark the audience well.
There sat the sallow rake with sunken cheek—
There at his side the maiden, modest, meek.
At home, around the bright fire-side, her heart
Strong in its purity, with shrinking start,
As when a serpent seeks to fascinate,
Had spurned in scorn the hollow reprobate.
But now beneath a softer atmosphere,—
His voice did not offend her—nay, 'twas dear—
His gaze was kind—and gentle was his sigh—
And she returned it, tho' with downcast eye.
I saw her breast—a mirror pure and true,
But sullying vapors o'er its surface flew—
A healthful flower, that breathed a noxious air,
118
A gentle bird half charmed, which, though it 'scape,
Bears on its soul the coiling serpent's shape.
O'er scenes like this, around each circling tier,
I bent my gaze, in sorrow and in fear—
From many a youthful heart, I saw the bloom
Of purity, brushed rudely to its tomb.
That holiest thing on earth, the blossom-flush
Of maiden modesty, had lost its blush—
And the soiled bosom like the scentless rose,
No sweet returning fragrance ever knows—
The priceless bloom of innocence once fled—
It will not bud again—the root is dead.
I bent my gaze, in sorrow and in fear—
From many a youthful heart, I saw the bloom
Of purity, brushed rudely to its tomb.
That holiest thing on earth, the blossom-flush
Of maiden modesty, had lost its blush—
And the soiled bosom like the scentless rose,
No sweet returning fragrance ever knows—
The priceless bloom of innocence once fled—
It will not bud again—the root is dead.
Not o'er the young, the gentle and the true,
Alone, that night the red sirocco flew:
O'er harder hearts it swept with softening sway,
And ties of duty melted light away.
Things it were insult to a lady's ear,
To name elsewhere, were lawful topics here—
And who will fail to speak of what they see,
And feel, together, in close sympathy?
Not that the heart gives way before a shock—
But drop by drop the water wears the rock.
By light attrition, manners ever change—
What once we spurned, soon ceases to be strange—
My lady's hat that seemed at first a fright,
Is soon in fashion, and we deem it right.
The thing we hated, now familiar grown,
We take of course, and wear it as our own:
And thus that wall, our pious fathers built—
Strict conversation—as a bar to guilt—
O'erthrown by manners foreign to our clime,
Will not the weak or wicked rush to crime?
Will not the willing fortress soon be won,
When once the insidious parley is begun?
Alone, that night the red sirocco flew:
O'er harder hearts it swept with softening sway,
And ties of duty melted light away.
Things it were insult to a lady's ear,
To name elsewhere, were lawful topics here—
And who will fail to speak of what they see,
And feel, together, in close sympathy?
Not that the heart gives way before a shock—
119
By light attrition, manners ever change—
What once we spurned, soon ceases to be strange—
My lady's hat that seemed at first a fright,
Is soon in fashion, and we deem it right.
The thing we hated, now familiar grown,
We take of course, and wear it as our own:
And thus that wall, our pious fathers built—
Strict conversation—as a bar to guilt—
O'erthrown by manners foreign to our clime,
Will not the weak or wicked rush to crime?
Will not the willing fortress soon be won,
When once the insidious parley is begun?
Next comes the Farce—an importation new,
From London—where if Bulwer tells us true,
A lying fop, like Pelham is genteel,
And where in high life, 'tis the vogue to steal—
Not, gentle reader, such vile stuff as cash—
For that, in good society, is trash—
But like the naked lords of Papua's isle,
They steal each other's wives, once in a while.
Strange, it might seem, to boast of equal laws,
Where if one steal a horse, the halter draws:
While yet to steal a wife, brings no attaint,
And at St. James's does not soil a saint!
And yet more strange, that we should love the tale,
That lifts from this low life, the decent veil—
That thus we pore o'er Bulwer's sullying page,
And cheer the offspring of the British stage—
Induced to sanction what is vile and silly,
Because, forsooth, 'tis done in Piccadilly.
From London—where if Bulwer tells us true,
A lying fop, like Pelham is genteel,
And where in high life, 'tis the vogue to steal—
Not, gentle reader, such vile stuff as cash—
For that, in good society, is trash—
But like the naked lords of Papua's isle,
They steal each other's wives, once in a while.
Strange, it might seem, to boast of equal laws,
Where if one steal a horse, the halter draws:
120
And at St. James's does not soil a saint!
And yet more strange, that we should love the tale,
That lifts from this low life, the decent veil—
That thus we pore o'er Bulwer's sullying page,
And cheer the offspring of the British stage—
Induced to sanction what is vile and silly,
Because, forsooth, 'tis done in Piccadilly.
But to the Farce: the scene in London laid,
Told the old story of the lord and maid;
And while the latter like a leaf was cast,
Down to her grave, the lordling braved the blast—
Nay—as a feather in his tossing plume,
Wore the black record of that maiden's doom;
And with seduction added to his fame,
His grace, his fortune and his lordly name,
Who could resist? He wooed a lady bland,
And she, forgiving, fondly gave her hand!
Told the old story of the lord and maid;
And while the latter like a leaf was cast,
Down to her grave, the lordling braved the blast—
Nay—as a feather in his tossing plume,
Wore the black record of that maiden's doom;
And with seduction added to his fame,
His grace, his fortune and his lordly name,
Who could resist? He wooed a lady bland,
And she, forgiving, fondly gave her hand!
The curtain fell, and on their faces grave,
I read the sentence, Truth and Reason gave:
And with their frown imprinted on my sight,
The solemn vision faded into night!
I read the sentence, Truth and Reason gave:
And with their frown imprinted on my sight,
The solemn vision faded into night!
The passage, Romans vii. 24, ‘Who shall deliver me from the body of this death,” is supposed to refer to a custom of punishing crimes, by tying the culprit to a dead body. Valerius Maximus says, the Etruscans were not a little cruel in the invention of punishments; that they tied the living to the dead body, face to face, and thus they rotted together.
121
THE GREEK LOVERS.
Fly, Greek! for the gloomy battle-cloud
Hangs darkling in thy rear;
The shout of the turbaned foe is loud,
And his flashing steel is near.
Hangs darkling in thy rear;
The shout of the turbaned foe is loud,
And his flashing steel is near.
Thy ready sword, and thy gallant hand,
Gainst a host would strike in vain;
Then hasten thou to some refuge-land,
Across yon murmuring main.
Gainst a host would strike in vain;
Then hasten thou to some refuge-land,
Across yon murmuring main.
Thy home is lost—thy friends are dead—
Beneath you murky pall,
That casts its shadows wide and dread,
They sleep in their ghastly thrall.
Beneath you murky pall,
That casts its shadows wide and dread,
They sleep in their ghastly thrall.
They will not wake though the clarion rings—
Alas! how cold the Greek
Who sleeps while his bleeding country flings
Her call from each bannered peak!
Alas! how cold the Greek
Who sleeps while his bleeding country flings
Her call from each bannered peak!
122
Hoof-torn, and sabre-scarred, they rest,
Fathers, and sons, and brothers—
Lover, and loved, still breast to breast—
And clinging babes and mothers.
Fathers, and sons, and brothers—
Lover, and loved, still breast to breast—
And clinging babes and mothers.
The crescent waves o'er the trampled cross,
The Turks on the Christian tread;
Oh! stay not, Greek, to count thy loss—
A price is on thy head!
The Turks on the Christian tread;
Oh! stay not, Greek, to count thy loss—
A price is on thy head!
Thy path is o'er the deep—away!
The moonbeam lights the tide;
Launch thy swift shallop through the spray,
With that trembler at thy side!
The moonbeam lights the tide;
Launch thy swift shallop through the spray,
With that trembler at thy side!
Thy sheltering sword around her brow
Hath been a shield to-day;
And she is all that liveth now,
Young Greek, to thee—away!
Hath been a shield to-day;
And she is all that liveth now,
Young Greek, to thee—away!
124
MY HOME AND THEE.
I love the landscape, and its heavenly hue,
The rolling river, and the swelling sea,
The deep green valley, and the mountain blue;
But better still my home—my home—and thee!
The rolling river, and the swelling sea,
The deep green valley, and the mountain blue;
But better still my home—my home—and thee!
I love bold nature's voice, loud ocean's roar,
The pouring cataract, and the melody
Of winter winds, and sighing woods; but more
The voice of love—my home—my home and thee!
The pouring cataract, and the melody
Of winter winds, and sighing woods; but more
The voice of love—my home—my home and thee!
I have an eye that sees, a heart that feels
The charm that nature flings o'er lawn and lea;
Yet to my breast a frequent sadness steals
To think how far I roam—from home and thee!
The charm that nature flings o'er lawn and lea;
Yet to my breast a frequent sadness steals
To think how far I roam—from home and thee!
And when the glories of the landscape past,
Come thick and thronging o'er my memory—
To envious hate, my love is turned at last,
For these divide me—from my home and thee.
Come thick and thronging o'er my memory—
To envious hate, my love is turned at last,
For these divide me—from my home and thee.
130
SONG: THE RIVER.
Oh! swiftly flows the stream,
Its waters will not stay,—
They glide like pleasure's dream,
Away, away!
Its waters will not stay,—
They glide like pleasure's dream,
Away, away!
The laughing ripples flash
With many a silver ray,—
But light as love they dash
Away, away!
With many a silver ray,—
But light as love they dash
Away, away!
The eddies, clear as glass,
Like lingering lovers play,—
But soon like lovers pass
Away, away!
Like lingering lovers play,—
But soon like lovers pass
Away, away!
But other waves as bright
Along these banks will stray,—
Then let them speed their flight
Away, away!
Along these banks will stray,—
Then let them speed their flight
Away, away!
132
FAREWELL.
Why, when the sun withdraws its light,And sinks in some far western wave,
Leaving the vale, lawn, landscape, height,
Mantled in evening's shadows grave—
Why is no sadness at the heart,
To see that warm fond friend depart?
'Tis that he comes again to-morrow,
To light the eye, and laugh at sorrow.
Why do we part with spring—its flowers,
Its bloom, its sunshine, and its showers,
And see its verdant honors die,
With scarce one tribute, tear or sigh?
'Tis that another year will bring
These beauties back with speedy wing.
Why do we see the forest shed
Its willing leaves, now dim and dead,
And weep not? 'tis that vernal rain
Will bid the forest bloom again.
But oh! 'twere hard to look our last
On setting sun, or fading flower;
133
And know these scenes, for us, are o'er.
But more than spring, or sun, or bloom
Of forest, there is one to me:
Yet from her lips I take my doom—
And say a last farewell to Thee!
134
THE TWO STREAMS.
Two mountain streams like joyous youth,
Came down the steep with dance and song—
Rosy with morn and clear as truth,
The laughing waters swept along.
Came down the steep with dance and song—
Rosy with morn and clear as truth,
The laughing waters swept along.
Away they went with madcap glee,
And headlong leap o'er rock and bar,
Shouting like noisy school set free
And sending forth their music far.
And headlong leap o'er rock and bar,
Shouting like noisy school set free
And sending forth their music far.
And now they toss their snowy fingers,
And throw the gauzy spray in air,
And now each circling eddy lingers,
To gaze upon the rainbow there.
And throw the gauzy spray in air,
And now each circling eddy lingers,
To gaze upon the rainbow there.
And now the playful wavelets twine
Their swelling breasts with bubbles bright,
And now the rougher billows shine,
With foam-wreaths on their brows of light.
Their swelling breasts with bubbles bright,
And now the rougher billows shine,
With foam-wreaths on their brows of light.
135
The streams now reach the valley deep
And side by side like lovers go,
And in their wide meandering sweep,
Move with a soft and silvery flow.
And side by side like lovers go,
And in their wide meandering sweep,
Move with a soft and silvery flow.
And now the moonlit ripples glide
With plaintive sighs mid bowering willows—
The whispering zephyrs woo the tide
And hold fond dalliance with the billows.
With plaintive sighs mid bowering willows—
The whispering zephyrs woo the tide
And hold fond dalliance with the billows.
And now the eddies whirl with bliss,
White lilies in their arms all drooping,
And leaping waters steal a kiss,
From roses to their lips half stooping.
White lilies in their arms all drooping,
And leaping waters steal a kiss,
From roses to their lips half stooping.
And now these kindred streams unite,
And fondly mingle into one—
One full fair tide, whose waters bright,
Quiver and flash beneath the sun!
And fondly mingle into one—
One full fair tide, whose waters bright,
Quiver and flash beneath the sun!
Onward it flows! But soon the stream—
That silver stream, whose peaceful lave
Seemed like a pure and placid dream,
Is stained with many a turbid wave.
That silver stream, whose peaceful lave
Seemed like a pure and placid dream,
Is stained with many a turbid wave.
136
Its crystal breast is torn and crossed
By busy ships that o'er it ply,
And its once tranquil wave is lost,
Amid the strife that hurries by.
By busy ships that o'er it ply,
And its once tranquil wave is lost,
Amid the strife that hurries by.
Onward it flows with ceaseless sweep
To meet the fretful ocean's roar,—
And there it mingles with the deep,
And the fair stream is seen no more!
To meet the fretful ocean's roar,—
And there it mingles with the deep,
And the fair stream is seen no more!
137
TO JANE.
There is a world of bluer skies,
And lovelier light than this of ours,
Where higher, holier mountains rise,
And valleys bloom with fairer flowers:
And lovelier light than this of ours,
Where higher, holier mountains rise,
And valleys bloom with fairer flowers:
Where streams of liquid crystal flow,
And forests wave with odors teeming,
And all around, above, below,
In Heaven's prismatic light is gleaming.
And forests wave with odors teeming,
And all around, above, below,
In Heaven's prismatic light is gleaming.
And airy messengers have sought
These rosy realms of fancy through,
And fairest fruits and flowers have brought,
To form an amulet for you.
These rosy realms of fancy through,
And fairest fruits and flowers have brought,
To form an amulet for you.
And friendship's hand and love's soft fingers
Of these have wreathed a mystic token;
And, oh the chain that round it lingers—
While life remains, be that unbroken!
Of these have wreathed a mystic token;
And, oh the chain that round it lingers—
While life remains, be that unbroken!
138
GOD AND MAN.
When God is heard, the giant whirlwinds rise,
And o'er the land with blackening pinions sweep,
Stretching their dark pavilion through the skies,
And heaving hills and valleys o'er the deep.
And o'er the land with blackening pinions sweep,
Stretching their dark pavilion through the skies,
And heaving hills and valleys o'er the deep.
Again he speaks! and the quelled tempests flee,
Like eagles scared, on rapid wings away,
And o'er the sky and shore and startled sea,
Peace sheds her light and happiness her ray!
Like eagles scared, on rapid wings away,
And o'er the sky and shore and startled sea,
Peace sheds her light and happiness her ray!
Man lifts his voice! what saith the marching cloud?
Straight on its errand through the vault it flies—
Heedless as if a bubble burst its shroud,
Or some light insect whispered to the skies!
Straight on its errand through the vault it flies—
Heedless as if a bubble burst its shroud,
Or some light insect whispered to the skies!
Again he speaks! will slumbering tempests wake
To do his bidding? Nay, the sullen storm
Rests on its pillow, till Jehovah break
The giant's sleep, and rouse his angry form.
To do his bidding? Nay, the sullen storm
Rests on its pillow, till Jehovah break
The giant's sleep, and rouse his angry form.
139
TO KATE.
I met a lily in the vale,
Just opened to the morning gale;
'Twas pure as light, and snowy white,
And so I stopped to gaze.—
And “thou art beautiful,” I said—
That lily did not hide its head,
But freely forth its odors shed,
To pay me for my praise.
Just opened to the morning gale;
'Twas pure as light, and snowy white,
And so I stopped to gaze.—
And “thou art beautiful,” I said—
That lily did not hide its head,
But freely forth its odors shed,
To pay me for my praise.
Beside my path a wild rose grew,
All spangled o'er with diamond dew;
And oh, 'twas fair as things of air—
I could not pass it by,
Unheeded as a common flower—
And so I clapped it, and a shower
Of tribute pearls confessed my power,
And told me not to fly.
All spangled o'er with diamond dew;
And oh, 'twas fair as things of air—
I could not pass it by,
Unheeded as a common flower—
And so I clapped it, and a shower
Of tribute pearls confessed my power,
And told me not to fly.
I found upon the mountain height—
A virgin spring all pure and bright—
'Twas rippling clear, as beauty's tear—
All lonely in its leafy bower;—
I knelt its crystal lip to kiss;
And, oh, its sparkles told of bliss
Its sighing waters would not miss,
And bade me kiss once more!
A virgin spring all pure and bright—
140
All lonely in its leafy bower;—
I knelt its crystal lip to kiss;
And, oh, its sparkles told of bliss
Its sighing waters would not miss,
And bade me kiss once more!
But, Kate, there is a lovelier thing
Than lily, rose, or mountain spring—
I tell thee true—thou little shrew!
And yet it wakes my fears—
For when I praise, behold it frowns!
And when I clasp, away it bounds!
And when I kneel before it, zounds!
I feel a tingling in my ears!
Than lily, rose, or mountain spring—
I tell thee true—thou little shrew!
And yet it wakes my fears—
For when I praise, behold it frowns!
And when I clasp, away it bounds!
And when I kneel before it, zounds!
I feel a tingling in my ears!
141
THE JUNIATA.
Stream of the hills! how calm thy waters flow,
Beneath that sullen cliff of green and brown,
Bearing the thunder-cloud upon its brow,
As if it were some tyrant on his throne!
Beneath that sullen cliff of green and brown,
Bearing the thunder-cloud upon its brow,
As if it were some tyrant on his throne!
And thou, fair river, bending gently there,
With trembling bosom, and with whispers sweet,
Seemest that monarch's queen in beauty rare,
Murmuring of peace and pity at his feet.
With trembling bosom, and with whispers sweet,
Seemest that monarch's queen in beauty rare,
Murmuring of peace and pity at his feet.
Flow on, bright waters! through each winding dell.
And braid thy currents with the far sea waves;
Bid these wild banks a long and last farewell,
And lose thy being in dim ocean caves.
And braid thy currents with the far sea waves;
Bid these wild banks a long and last farewell,
And lose thy being in dim ocean caves.
'Tis thus with all that's beautiful below—
Love, hope, and youth, are speeding to the sea,
Sparkling awhile like waters in their flow,
Then lost forever in eternity!
Love, hope, and youth, are speeding to the sea,
Sparkling awhile like waters in their flow,
Then lost forever in eternity!
142
GRANDFATHER'S BOY.
When some tall sage, revered and gray,Prolongs his late and lingering stay,
What reverent eyes upon him turn!
How from his lips we love to learn
The legends of the olden time,
When the deep wood was in its prime,
And when, as fancy paints the view,
All was heroic, bold, and new!
What though the gray old man may stride
Some hobby now and then, and ride
Full tilt against this generation,
Preaching the downfall of the nation?
Still, still, we love to hear him tell
Of wile and war with savage fell,
Of bristling bears that bounded by
And looked lone travellers in the eye;
Of panthers stealing o'er the wold,
And hungry wolves that sought the fold.
And how around his aged knees,
143
And beg with many an earnest dun,
To hear of war and Washington!
How will the favorite grandson climb
And claim his seat at such a time,
And list intently to the tale,
With wondering eye and cheek all pale—
Though he perchance can only sift
From look and tone the story's drift.
How on the morrow will that boy,
With swelling thought resign his toy,
Steal the cocked hat, and on his nose,
The reverend spectacles impose,
Mount to the vacant chair, and place
The wise gazette before his face,
And there, half sly, half serious pore
The last night's legend o'er and o'er,
And deem himself in boyish glory,
The gray haired hero of the story!
144
SONNET.
Tell me ye viewless spirits of the air,Wh osteal upon the soul with silent wing,
Seeming to wake as with its breath, a string
That yields wild melody, all hidden there—
Tell me if ye are visions from the tomb,
Or dreams awaked by wizard fancy's call,
Or ministers of ill, released from thrall,
In robes of light, to tempt us to our doom?
Or messengers of peace from regions blest,
On mercy's errand stooping from above?
Or friends departed, drawn by lingering love
To whisper weal or warning to the breast?
Ye have no voice to answer, but the eye
Doth trace your homeward pathway to the sky!
145
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.
The hand that late in friendship's graspWas warm and true to mine,
Now lies within a mouldering clasp,
Submissive and supine.
The eye that shone so calmly blue—
And deep as yonder sky,
As if a world of thought it knew—
Alas 'tis closed for aye!
The cheek that kindled with fresh feeling,
As hills reflect the day,
The dawn of every thought revealing—
'Tis cold unconscious clay!
The lip is mute, the silent breast,
A lonely house within—
And the soul in its land of rest,
Forgets this world of sin.
146
TO A MOTHER,
ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD.
Beneath my window grew a tree,
And on that tree a bird was bred—
'Twas dear, that little bird to me,
As dew on thirsting roses shed.
And on that tree a bird was bred—
'Twas dear, that little bird to me,
As dew on thirsting roses shed.
Its carol came at misty morn,
Mingling with all my dreams of love—
And from its lowly perch of thorn,
It bore my winged thoughts above.
Mingling with all my dreams of love—
And from its lowly perch of thorn,
It bore my winged thoughts above.
And oh, I never dreamed to part
With one so fair, to me so dear—
But fondly deemed 'twould stay, my heart
With songs of love and peace to cheer.
With one so fair, to me so dear—
But fondly deemed 'twould stay, my heart
With songs of love and peace to cheer.
But winter came, and in the morn,
That gentle bird had flown away—
No music echoed from the thorn,
No foot was clinging to the spray!
That gentle bird had flown away—
No music echoed from the thorn,
No foot was clinging to the spray!
147
'Twas gone, and its sweet silver chime,
To other lands away was borne;
And happy in its genial clime,
I would not, though my heart be torn—
To other lands away was borne;
And happy in its genial clime,
I would not, though my heart be torn—
I would not wish that bird to stay,
In this cold land of storm and sleet—
Yet oft I deem some summer day,
My little bird once more to meet!
In this cold land of storm and sleet—
Yet oft I deem some summer day,
My little bird once more to meet!
148
THE CONVICT.
'Tis the midnight hour: in the prisoner's cell
No sound is heard, save the grinding chain,
And a thobbing pulse, whose beatings tell
Of an aching heart, and a troubled brain.
No sound is heard, save the grinding chain,
And a thobbing pulse, whose beatings tell
Of an aching heart, and a troubled brain.
The raven gloom in that narrow den,
No shadowy form to the eye reveals;
But a ray like the gleam of a tiger's ken,
In his lair at night, through the blackness steals.
No shadowy form to the eye reveals;
But a ray like the gleam of a tiger's ken,
In his lair at night, through the blackness steals.
Yet it is not fear of the morrow's doom,
Of the muffled drum, and the death-array,
That chases sleep from the pirate's room,
And fills his eye with the lightning's play—
Of the muffled drum, and the death-array,
That chases sleep from the pirate's room,
And fills his eye with the lightning's play—
For he hath closed in the dark sea-fight,
And smiled on the corses all gashed and grim,
As they rose to view by the pale moonlight,
And glared through the glassy wave on him.
And smiled on the corses all gashed and grim,
As they rose to view by the pale moonlight,
And glared through the glassy wave on him.
149
Aye, he hath smiled with a scoffer's lip,
And laughed at death when the blast was high,
When the sea-bird sunk on the staggering ship,
And the billows howled o'er the breakers nigh—
And laughed at death when the blast was high,
When the sea-bird sunk on the staggering ship,
And the billows howled o'er the breakers nigh—
He hath laughed at these in the midnight gloom,
And trolled his song on the whirlwind's wing,
And he careth not for the morrow's doom,
Or the fatal clasp of the strangling string.
And trolled his song on the whirlwind's wing,
And he careth not for the morrow's doom,
Or the fatal clasp of the strangling string.
Why heaves he then like the troubled wave,
When lashed by the tempests that o'er it sweep?
It is, that the hush of the sullen grave,
Cannot lull the soul in its lasting sleep.
When lashed by the tempests that o'er it sweep?
It is, that the hush of the sullen grave,
Cannot lull the soul in its lasting sleep.
His days are told, and the midnight pall,
O'er life's cheating pageant its shadow flings,
And the restless spirit now bursting its thrall,
Waves startled and buoyant its quickened wings.
O'er life's cheating pageant its shadow flings,
And the restless spirit now bursting its thrall,
Waves startled and buoyant its quickened wings.
Time's gathered mist from his mind is hurled,
And the lightning flashes of truth reveal
To his shrinking vision, that spirit world,
Which the clouds of earth from the sight conceal.
And the lightning flashes of truth reveal
To his shrinking vision, that spirit world,
Which the clouds of earth from the sight conceal.
150
As the vessel that catches with fluttering sail,
The freshening tempest and flies before—
So he in his bosom doth feel the gale,
That drives him a wreck on eternity's shore.
The freshening tempest and flies before—
So he in his bosom doth feel the gale,
That drives him a wreck on eternity's shore.
As the rock mounted eagle, that oft hath defied
The stroke of the gale, and the bolt of the blast,
Now bleeding and torn, from his ærie of pride,
To the doom of the vale by the whirlwind is cast—
The stroke of the gale, and the bolt of the blast,
Now bleeding and torn, from his ærie of pride,
To the doom of the vale by the whirlwind is cast—
So he in that prison doth feel a rush,
O'er his cowering spirit he cannot stay—
As the eagle's wing on the tempest-gush,
He is struggling borne to his doom away.
O'er his cowering spirit he cannot stay—
As the eagle's wing on the tempest-gush,
He is struggling borne to his doom away.
151
THE TOMB.
Beneath this verdant turf the bed is laid,
Where we must sleep when feverish life is done—
The silent couch for weary mortals made,
When toil is o'er, and darkly sets the sun.
Where we must sleep when feverish life is done—
The silent couch for weary mortals made,
When toil is o'er, and darkly sets the sun.
And deeply shrouded in its dim repose,
This throbbing soul, forgetting and forgot,
On some sweet pillow of the mind shall close
Its lid—and earth shall be as it were not.
This throbbing soul, forgetting and forgot,
On some sweet pillow of the mind shall close
Its lid—and earth shall be as it were not.
Hope then may call, and bustling care may come,
Ambition's clarion peal may ring aloud,
But yet in vain, for all is hushed and dumb,
In the chill mansion of the sod and shroud.
Ambition's clarion peal may ring aloud,
But yet in vain, for all is hushed and dumb,
In the chill mansion of the sod and shroud.
Earth here hath lost its voice—the listening soul
Waits for another call its sleep to break—
It will not hear though rattling thunders roll,
And the torn rocks like trembling aspens quake.
Waits for another call its sleep to break—
It will not hear though rattling thunders roll,
And the torn rocks like trembling aspens quake.
152
Nay, o'er the tomb, the trampling steed of war
May rend the grassy sod with flying heel;
The thrilling drum, the cannon's thundering jar,
May shake the hollow mansion with its peal—
May rend the grassy sod with flying heel;
The thrilling drum, the cannon's thundering jar,
May shake the hollow mansion with its peal—
The clash of arms, the muttered groan of strife,
The shout of victory, the wail of woe,
The parting cries of those who part with life—
These cannot mar the sleeper's dream below.
The shout of victory, the wail of woe,
The parting cries of those who part with life—
These cannot mar the sleeper's dream below.
Nor will he lift his head the tale to hear,
Though wondering echoes to his pillow come;
A seal is on the soul, and on the ear,
And the once beating heart, and all is dumb.
Though wondering echoes to his pillow come;
A seal is on the soul, and on the ear,
And the once beating heart, and all is dumb.
Aye, and that fearful seal Man cannot break—
He cannot burst the thraldom of the tomb—
God, God alone the slumbering soul can wake,
And rouse the spirit from its shadowy doom!
He cannot burst the thraldom of the tomb—
God, God alone the slumbering soul can wake,
And rouse the spirit from its shadowy doom!
And if he wake it not, that sleep will be
A long chill night, without a dawning beam—
Time's sun shall set, and dread eternity
Shall pass the sleeper by in death's cold dream!
A long chill night, without a dawning beam—
Time's sun shall set, and dread eternity
Shall pass the sleeper by in death's cold dream!
160
TO A LADY
ON HER MARRIAGE.
Farewell! thy last adieu is ta'en,
And thou goest forth on the doubtful sea—
Yet fear thee not, for the crystal main
And the placid sky seem bent for thee.
And thou goest forth on the doubtful sea—
Yet fear thee not, for the crystal main
And the placid sky seem bent for thee.
There's many a prayer and many a sigh,
On the gentle breeze that sweeps thee o'er—
Yet fear thee not, for Heaven is nigh
To the trembling wave, as the anchored shore!
On the gentle breeze that sweeps thee o'er—
Yet fear thee not, for Heaven is nigh
To the trembling wave, as the anchored shore!
161
THE BLIND GIRL
TO HER MOTHER.
Mother, they say the stars are bright,And the broad Heavens are blue—
I dream of them by day and night,
And think them all like you.
I cannot touch the distant skies,
The stars ne'er speak to me—
Yet their sweet images arise,
And blend with thoughts of thee.
I know not why, but oft I dream,
Of the far land of bliss;
And when I hear thy voice, I deem,
That Heaven is like to this.
When my sad heart to thine is pressed,
My follies all forgiven,
Sweet pleasure warms my beating breast,
And this I say is Heaven.
O mother, will the God above,
Forgive my faults like thee?
162
On a blind thing like me?
Dear mother, leave me not alone!
Go with me, when I die—
Lead thy blind daughter to the throne,
And stay in yonder sky!
163
WILL HE BITE?
No, boy, not one so innocent as thou,With such youth and gentleness on his brow.
He will not harm thy little hand,
Or shrink from the touch of one so bland.
He sees in thy full and speaking eye,
Only the hues of the bending sky—
He marks in thy cheek but the wild flower's glow,
He hears in thy voice but the glad rill's flow.
He sees in thy step but the joyous bound
Of the mountain lamb on the slopes around.
He will not bite, for thine image brings
But semblances of familiar things—
Things that he loves in the breezy wood,
In the leafy dell, and the shouting flood.
It was deeply told, when in youth he swung
Aloft on an oak where the loud winds sung,
164
From a look like thine that he need not start.
'Twas the wily eye, and the stealing tread,
And the knowing brow, he was taught to dread.
But thou wert safe as a mountain flower,
Where the sliding snake and gaunt wolf cower—
Aye, and the proud may learn from the lay,
That Innocence hath a surer shield than they.
165
THE ARTIST.
I met him in the shadowy glen,—
I met him in the tangled wood—
I met him, where the noise of men,
Dies on the ear of solitude.
His youthful brow was pale and dreamy,
His auburn hair was thin and curled,
His large soft eye was blue and beamy—
Yet shunned the gazing of the world.
He climbed the cliff and trod the glade,
And ranged alone o'er hill and dell,—
Along bright babbling waters strayed,
And marked each lovely aspect well.
And then these scenes he fondly drew,
And such his pencil's magic skill,
Each graceful group, each heavenly hue,
Beneath his touch grew lovelier still.
When on his living canvas set,
The moonlit lake more sweetly gleamed;
And where two gushing streamlets met,
More brightly still the bubbles beamed.
But why that look of mild despair,
That wasted form, that hollow cheek?
Go strip his blasted bosom bare,
And read the record that ye seek.
'Tis but the tale of one, who dies
A victim of the world's neglect;
A spirit born for other skies,
On this dark icy planet wrecked—
One who hath wandered from his sphere,
And finds himself alone—alone—
Who meets no sympathy—no tear—
No echo to his bosom's tone.
I met him in the tangled wood—
I met him, where the noise of men,
Dies on the ear of solitude.
His youthful brow was pale and dreamy,
His auburn hair was thin and curled,
His large soft eye was blue and beamy—
Yet shunned the gazing of the world.
He climbed the cliff and trod the glade,
And ranged alone o'er hill and dell,—
Along bright babbling waters strayed,
And marked each lovely aspect well.
And then these scenes he fondly drew,
And such his pencil's magic skill,
Each graceful group, each heavenly hue,
Beneath his touch grew lovelier still.
When on his living canvas set,
The moonlit lake more sweetly gleamed;
And where two gushing streamlets met,
166
But why that look of mild despair,
That wasted form, that hollow cheek?
Go strip his blasted bosom bare,
And read the record that ye seek.
'Tis but the tale of one, who dies
A victim of the world's neglect;
A spirit born for other skies,
On this dark icy planet wrecked—
One who hath wandered from his sphere,
And finds himself alone—alone—
Who meets no sympathy—no tear—
No echo to his bosom's tone.
Follow his fate: slow penury's tide
Creeps on with sickness in its train—
No friend sits watching at his side,
No gentle accents sooth his pain;
But bowed beneath a lowly shed,
His fevered form is idly thrown—
Stretched on a hard and scanty bed,
He meets his mournful fate alone!
But stay! the time of darkest gloom,
Is that which shrouds the breaking day;
And is the sufferer's hour of doom
But lit with hope's delusive ray?
His name hath reached the world's dull ear,
His tale is on the world's loud tongue,
And wondering listeners press to hear
His story told, his sorrow sung!
And those who passed the poor unknown
In cold indifference or scorn,
Now that his fame abroad is blown,
Recount his deeds, his tale adorn!
And now his works of matchless skill,
Are gathered up with busy care,
And, ranged along the gallery, fill
The thronging crowds with wonder rare.
And now each knowing novice traces,
Full many a touch of life and power,
And points out deep laid loves and graces,
Beneath each mimic leaf and flower.
And e'en the captious critic dwells
On the proud show with raptured gaze:
Now of some hidden blemish tells,
Now master strokes of art displays.
And now the warm appeal is made
In his behalf whose bosom bleeds;
And shall it be a vain parade,
When genius asks and pity pleads?
It cannot be—the miser gives!
The ample purse is full of gold!
Yet all too late—the spirit lives,—
But the wrung heart is crushed and cold!
Beneath a humble shed he died—
While with his praise fame filled the air,
Alone—nofriend his bed beside,
The hapless victim of despair!
Creeps on with sickness in its train—
No friend sits watching at his side,
No gentle accents sooth his pain;
But bowed beneath a lowly shed,
His fevered form is idly thrown—
Stretched on a hard and scanty bed,
He meets his mournful fate alone!
But stay! the time of darkest gloom,
167
And is the sufferer's hour of doom
But lit with hope's delusive ray?
His name hath reached the world's dull ear,
His tale is on the world's loud tongue,
And wondering listeners press to hear
His story told, his sorrow sung!
And those who passed the poor unknown
In cold indifference or scorn,
Now that his fame abroad is blown,
Recount his deeds, his tale adorn!
And now his works of matchless skill,
Are gathered up with busy care,
And, ranged along the gallery, fill
The thronging crowds with wonder rare.
And now each knowing novice traces,
Full many a touch of life and power,
And points out deep laid loves and graces,
Beneath each mimic leaf and flower.
And e'en the captious critic dwells
On the proud show with raptured gaze:
Now of some hidden blemish tells,
Now master strokes of art displays.
168
In his behalf whose bosom bleeds;
And shall it be a vain parade,
When genius asks and pity pleads?
It cannot be—the miser gives!
The ample purse is full of gold!
Yet all too late—the spirit lives,—
But the wrung heart is crushed and cold!
Beneath a humble shed he died—
While with his praise fame filled the air,
Alone—nofriend his bed beside,
The hapless victim of despair!
Thus oft some bird from tropic shores,
The summer zephyr tempts to roam,
But soon the blast of winter roars,
And drives the stricken wanderer home.
Thus oft some gentle spirit stoops,
To this chill earth from Heaven above,
But here his angel pinion droops,
And back he flies to worlds of love!
The summer zephyr tempts to roam,
But soon the blast of winter roars,
And drives the stricken wanderer home.
Thus oft some gentle spirit stoops,
To this chill earth from Heaven above,
But here his angel pinion droops,
And back he flies to worlds of love!
169
WEEP NOT FOR HIM.
Weep not for him who hath laid his head,
On a pillow of earth, in the cypress shade—
For the sweetest dews that the night winds shed,
Descend on that couch for the sleeper made.
On a pillow of earth, in the cypress shade—
For the sweetest dews that the night winds shed,
Descend on that couch for the sleeper made.
Weep not for him, though the wintry sleet
Throw its glittering folds o'er his manly breast—
That spotless robe is a covering meet,
For the shrouded soul in its home of rest.
Throw its glittering folds o'er his manly breast—
That spotless robe is a covering meet,
For the shrouded soul in its home of rest.
Weep not for him, though his heart is still,
And the soul-lit eye like a lamp grown dim—
Though the noble pulse, as an icy rill,
By the frost is chained—O weep not for him!
And the soul-lit eye like a lamp grown dim—
Though the noble pulse, as an icy rill,
By the frost is chained—O weep not for him!
The diamond gathers its purest ray,
In the hidden grot, where no sun is known—
And the sweetest voices of music play,
In the trembling ear of silence alone
In the hidden grot, where no sun is known—
And the sweetest voices of music play,
In the trembling ear of silence alone
170
And there in the frown of that starless tomb,
A lovelier light breaks in on the eye—
And wind-harps sweep through the sullen gloom,
To call the sleeper away to the sky!
A lovelier light breaks in on the eye—
And wind-harps sweep through the sullen gloom,
To call the sleeper away to the sky!
171
GRATITUDE.
TO --- ---
Go gather ye grapes of the barren thorn—
Flowers of the snow-wreath, though winter be rude—
But think not that love or friendship is born—
Or born but to perish—of gratitude!
Flowers of the snow-wreath, though winter be rude—
But think not that love or friendship is born—
Or born but to perish—of gratitude!
The maiden may love though thou dost betray,
And banded thieves to each other be true—
But the heart will never its homage pay,
Where homage, forsooth, may be claimed as due.
And banded thieves to each other be true—
But the heart will never its homage pay,
Where homage, forsooth, may be claimed as due.
Thou wilt pay thy debt, be it silver and gold,—
Thou wilt give, perchance, if thy gift be free—
But whispering pride to thy bosom told
That thy gratitude is but slavery.
Thou wilt give, perchance, if thy gift be free—
But whispering pride to thy bosom told
That thy gratitude is but slavery.
It told thee to cover with seemly words,
The secrets that deep in thy bosom play—
That love is free as the fluttering birds,
And will not be given old debts to pay!
The secrets that deep in thy bosom play—
That love is free as the fluttering birds,
And will not be given old debts to pay!
172
A VISION.
'Twas midnight, and the lulling hour,
Threw o'er my heart its drowsy power.
My fire and lamp in languor vied,—
In fitful snatches blazed and died.
At length their gasping life was closed,
And all my sense in slumber dozed.
Yet still awake the winged thought,
In busy visions wildly wrought:
Now fancy's frost-work scenes were reared,
Dazzled and shone, and disappeared;
Now sable truth, by fiction led,
Alternate marched, and danced, and fled.
Threw o'er my heart its drowsy power.
My fire and lamp in languor vied,—
In fitful snatches blazed and died.
At length their gasping life was closed,
And all my sense in slumber dozed.
Yet still awake the winged thought,
In busy visions wildly wrought:
Now fancy's frost-work scenes were reared,
Dazzled and shone, and disappeared;
Now sable truth, by fiction led,
Alternate marched, and danced, and fled.
Deeper at length my slumbers grew,
And fairer visions came to view.
Borne as on beams of liquid gold,
A maiden came, of fairy mould:
Her parted locks of auburn hair,
Displayed a forehead high and fair.
Beside her cheek the rainbow's red,
The damask of the rose, were dead;
And lovelier was her flashing eye,
Than all the blue of April's sky.
A robe of mountain azure wound
Its pearly folds her form around:
And on her waist in beauty gleams,
A woven zone of morning beams.
A being of another sphere,
She stands confessed—what doth she here?
And fairer visions came to view.
Borne as on beams of liquid gold,
A maiden came, of fairy mould:
Her parted locks of auburn hair,
Displayed a forehead high and fair.
Beside her cheek the rainbow's red,
173
And lovelier was her flashing eye,
Than all the blue of April's sky.
A robe of mountain azure wound
Its pearly folds her form around:
And on her waist in beauty gleams,
A woven zone of morning beams.
A being of another sphere,
She stands confessed—what doth she here?
“Though bright and favored I may be,
I come to crave a boon of thee—
From yonder dim and distant sphere,
In search of truth I wander here.
I marked this dark and erring star,
From worlds which roll so faint and far,
And on the lightning wing of thought,
Through trackless space my journey wrought.
I've heard that o'er this varied earth
A being dwells of heavenly birth—
Condemned, a ‘mortal coil’ to wear,
Till partial death the veil shall tear.
Say, is it so? Then lead my sight
To see this heir of life and light.
Where doth he dwell? I've sought in vain
Wide east and west, o'er land and main.
I've marked the insect of a day—
The vocal bird with plumage gay,
The gazing brute, and man beside,
With all his ignorance and pride.
And these befit your balmy air,
Thy glorious sun, these landscapes fair—
But tell me, which among them all,
Aspires beyond this earthly ball?
Doth Man immortal wishes weave?
Nay, to this earth his heart-strings cleave!
E'en while he talks of holier joys,
He closer hugs his earthly toys.
In every clime I've read his race,
In every bosom folly trace.
The humble cot, the royal hall,
The hermit's roof, the noble's wall—
The city wide—which e'er I scan,
Shows the same bubble-chasing man!
Say not I feel unrighteous sway—
I do but strip disguise away.
I've seen the monk with saintly air,
On bended knee, in seeming prayer,—
While every thought was bent to win,
A holy name to shelter sin.
I've seen the man who talked of heaven,
While yet his heart to earth was given—
Who, saying all below was vain,
Strove night and day for worldly gain.
I've seen the priest, who told of hell
For drunkards made, and fiends that fell,
Go from the desk and steep his soul,
Deep in the pleasures of the bowl!
I've seen—but why these pictures rear?
Man—earth-born man, is wedded here.
Here of this clay his form is made,
Here his fond hopes, his joys, are stayed.
Born of the earth, he breathes its air,
Its pleasure seeks, partakes its care,
Drinks of its streams, devours its fruit,
And moulders like his fellow brute!”
I come to crave a boon of thee—
From yonder dim and distant sphere,
In search of truth I wander here.
I marked this dark and erring star,
From worlds which roll so faint and far,
And on the lightning wing of thought,
Through trackless space my journey wrought.
I've heard that o'er this varied earth
A being dwells of heavenly birth—
Condemned, a ‘mortal coil’ to wear,
Till partial death the veil shall tear.
Say, is it so? Then lead my sight
174
Where doth he dwell? I've sought in vain
Wide east and west, o'er land and main.
I've marked the insect of a day—
The vocal bird with plumage gay,
The gazing brute, and man beside,
With all his ignorance and pride.
And these befit your balmy air,
Thy glorious sun, these landscapes fair—
But tell me, which among them all,
Aspires beyond this earthly ball?
Doth Man immortal wishes weave?
Nay, to this earth his heart-strings cleave!
E'en while he talks of holier joys,
He closer hugs his earthly toys.
In every clime I've read his race,
In every bosom folly trace.
The humble cot, the royal hall,
The hermit's roof, the noble's wall—
The city wide—which e'er I scan,
Shows the same bubble-chasing man!
Say not I feel unrighteous sway—
I do but strip disguise away.
175
On bended knee, in seeming prayer,—
While every thought was bent to win,
A holy name to shelter sin.
I've seen the man who talked of heaven,
While yet his heart to earth was given—
Who, saying all below was vain,
Strove night and day for worldly gain.
I've seen the priest, who told of hell
For drunkards made, and fiends that fell,
Go from the desk and steep his soul,
Deep in the pleasures of the bowl!
I've seen—but why these pictures rear?
Man—earth-born man, is wedded here.
Here of this clay his form is made,
Here his fond hopes, his joys, are stayed.
Born of the earth, he breathes its air,
Its pleasure seeks, partakes its care,
Drinks of its streams, devours its fruit,
And moulders like his fellow brute!”
The maiden paused—her keen, fixed eye,
And solemn air, claimed quick reply.
With trembling heart and troubled thought,
For fitting speech I anxious sought;
But e'er the ardent word was spoke,
The all truth-seeming vision broke;
The radiant spirit fled away,
And I awoke to muse and pray—
To pray, if such our seeming life,
That heaven would aid us in the strife,
To burst those cruel chains that bind,
To this poor sphere, the immortal mind;
Which link to bubbles and to toys,
Our hopes, our wishes, and our joys;
And fain would make the heart forego,
For this sad world of toil and woe,
That nobler heritage of love,
Which waits for man, with God above!
And solemn air, claimed quick reply.
With trembling heart and troubled thought,
176
But e'er the ardent word was spoke,
The all truth-seeming vision broke;
The radiant spirit fled away,
And I awoke to muse and pray—
To pray, if such our seeming life,
That heaven would aid us in the strife,
To burst those cruel chains that bind,
To this poor sphere, the immortal mind;
Which link to bubbles and to toys,
Our hopes, our wishes, and our joys;
And fain would make the heart forego,
For this sad world of toil and woe,
That nobler heritage of love,
Which waits for man, with God above!
180
THE SILVER CASCADE
IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
How beautiful yon glittering tide, as down
It leaps and clatters through its rocky path,
Seeming to smoothe the mountain's angry frown,
As a bright smile shines o'er a giant's wrath!
It leaps and clatters through its rocky path,
Seeming to smoothe the mountain's angry frown,
As a bright smile shines o'er a giant's wrath!
Or it might seem a diadem of jewels fair,
Upon a monarch's brow; a silver gushing shower
Of sunbeams gathered from the cloud and air,
Mingling with beauty, fearful signs of power!
Upon a monarch's brow; a silver gushing shower
Of sunbeams gathered from the cloud and air,
Mingling with beauty, fearful signs of power!
Oh nature, what a wizard wand is thine!
How fearful is thy work, and yet how fair!
The grand—the lovely—how their charms combine,
And to the heart their woven whispers bear!
How fearful is thy work, and yet how fair!
The grand—the lovely—how their charms combine,
And to the heart their woven whispers bear!
And as I look on yonder crystal gush,
Or listen to its mingling laugh and moan,
How many memories to my bosom rush,
Like music's sweet, but half forgotten tone.
Or listen to its mingling laugh and moan,
181
Like music's sweet, but half forgotten tone.
All that is good and holy—thoughts of home,
On earth—in heaven—they seem to mingle here;
Love, friendship, piety, they bubbling come,
In one new tide of passion, deep and clear.
On earth—in heaven—they seem to mingle here;
Love, friendship, piety, they bubbling come,
In one new tide of passion, deep and clear.
Mysterious nature—thou'rt a holy book,
By God laid open: mountain, rock, and knoll,
With a rapt spirit let me on thee look,
And read thy deep revealings to the soul!
By God laid open: mountain, rock, and knoll,
With a rapt spirit let me on thee look,
And read thy deep revealings to the soul!
Spirit of heaven! thy hand alone could blend,
Wood, wind, and wave in melody so sweet:
Thy hand alone, the rocky cliffs could bend,
And pour so bright a river at their feet!
Wood, wind, and wave in melody so sweet:
Thy hand alone, the rocky cliffs could bend,
And pour so bright a river at their feet!
Man with his petty arts is far away,
And no harsh echo of his deeds is heard:
Peace in her holy palace here hath sway,
And truth alone within the breast is stirred.
And no harsh echo of his deeds is heard:
Peace in her holy palace here hath sway,
And truth alone within the breast is stirred.
182
The morning comes not with a teeming sheet,
Telling of party strife, and party throes,—
No evening record of the crowded street,
Recounts the day's disasters, follies, woes.
Telling of party strife, and party throes,—
No evening record of the crowded street,
Recounts the day's disasters, follies, woes.
No fop intrudes his sickening graces now,—
The heartless miser, monarch of a bank—
The titled knave, who claims a lowly bow,
Though shame shine broadly through his gilded rank;—
The heartless miser, monarch of a bank—
The titled knave, who claims a lowly bow,
Though shame shine broadly through his gilded rank;—
These are not here: the wide o'erarching sky
Is all too pure, and seems to stoop too near—
And lifts the buoyant heart toward heaven too high,
For those whose thoughts are wedded to this sphere.
Is all too pure, and seems to stoop too near—
And lifts the buoyant heart toward heaven too high,
For those whose thoughts are wedded to this sphere.
Farewell to these! and let me climb the peak,
Where yonder current finds a cradle-cloud—
Where in the storm the lightnings love to speak,
Full in the front of heaven, God's sentence loud!
Where yonder current finds a cradle-cloud—
Where in the storm the lightnings love to speak,
Full in the front of heaven, God's sentence loud!
And on the mountain's brow, so high and clear,
I'll mingle with the sky, and deeply fill
My heart with beauty, and my charmed ear,
With the sweet cadence of the mountain rill.
I'll mingle with the sky, and deeply fill
183
With the sweet cadence of the mountain rill.
Farewell, bright waters! though my feet must turn,
No more to tread this all enchanting scene,
Yet oft my heart with deep delight shall burn,
As memory brings it back in fadeless green.
No more to tread this all enchanting scene,
Yet oft my heart with deep delight shall burn,
As memory brings it back in fadeless green.
Farewell, gray mountain, fare thee well forever!
Thanks to the joy thy rugged cliffs have given—
We part,—but when, at last, my heart strings sever,
My soul shall take thee in its way to heaven!
Thanks to the joy thy rugged cliffs have given—
We part,—but when, at last, my heart strings sever,
My soul shall take thee in its way to heaven!
184
THE WRECK.
'Twas night—upon a rock I stood—Before me rolled the troubled seas;
A groaning wreck was on the flood,
And screams came floating on the breeze.
Though home was near, and close the land,
And these had come o'er many a wave—
Yet here, no hope, no help at hand,
Despairing, they must find a grave!
I heard the last faint gurgle hushed,
I heard the whirling waters clash,
As o'er the vanished hull they rushed,
And seemed in merry mirth to flash.
I heard no more—except the dirge—
The hollow dirge that waters sing,
When o'er a wreck the boiling surge,
Its winding sheet of waves doth fling.
I heard no more—for soon the gale,
In sighing breezes died away,
185
The moon sent down its mellow ray.
The light was mingled with the tide,
Which seemed to flow a sea of gold,
And glorious in its swelling pride,
No secret of its bosom told.
'Tis past,—yet like that wreck so low,
I too shall sink into my grave,
While o'er my head, both friend and foe,
Shall dance as reckless as the wave!
186
THE INDIAN-WEED SPRITE.
In the golden zones of the laughing earth—
In the land of zephyrs—I have my birth;
Rolled up in the bud of the Indian-weed,
Till spring unbinds the winter's spell,
I live, and then with the lightning's speed,
I spring to light from my prison cell—
In the land of zephyrs—I have my birth;
Rolled up in the bud of the Indian-weed,
Till spring unbinds the winter's spell,
I live, and then with the lightning's speed,
I spring to light from my prison cell—
I spring to light, and the mustard flower
I woo perchance for an idle hour;
With a fairy wing to the far-off isles
Of pepper and spice unseen I speed,
And over them breathe, but my choicest smiles—
I bring them back to my chosen weed—
I woo perchance for an idle hour;
With a fairy wing to the far-off isles
Of pepper and spice unseen I speed,
And over them breathe, but my choicest smiles—
I bring them back to my chosen weed—
I bring them back, and a hidden sprite
I leave to watch o'er each tiny mite—
And though the winds may scatter the leaf,
And the shears of fate the threads may sever,
Yet snug in their shell, in frolic or grief,
The elves watch o'er them in faith forever.
I leave to watch o'er each tiny mite—
And though the winds may scatter the leaf,
And the shears of fate the threads may sever,
Yet snug in their shell, in frolic or grief,
The elves watch o'er them in faith forever.
187
And though in dust this weed be ground,
An imp in each mite may still be found—
In the hidden folds of the ample quid,
In the bowl of the pipe mid smoke and fire,
The little elves—they do as I bid,
And shedding their fragrance, at last expire!
An imp in each mite may still be found—
In the hidden folds of the ample quid,
In the bowl of the pipe mid smoke and fire,
The little elves—they do as I bid,
And shedding their fragrance, at last expire!
188
SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION.
The oak that long defies the blast
Must feel Times's hungry tooth at last—
Though gnarled and knit with giant strength,
Though deep its root, it fails at length.
Its bark is to the earth resigned,
Its leaves are scattered on the wind,
And ne'er can vernal sun or rain
Restore those palsied limbs again.
Yet there it stands—that noble oak,
Scarred with full many a thunder-stroke,
The remnant of a mighty race,
Now passed and in their resting-place!
Yet gath'ring round their aged sire
The sapling woods to heaven aspire,
While close and clinging to its root
There springs a fair and favorite shoot,
Which seems in youthful strength to be
The semblance of that grandsire tree.
The winter winds that rustle by
That tall stern oak with hollow sigh,
Seem to the listening trees beneath,
Some legends of the past to breathe,
Telling of days when round it stood,
Trees like itself, a sturdy wood,
That side by side, received the shock
Of storm and whirlwind like a rock—
Staying the rough blast in its wrath,
As if a mountain crossed its path—
And back the refluent tempest bore—
Must feel Times's hungry tooth at last—
Though gnarled and knit with giant strength,
Though deep its root, it fails at length.
Its bark is to the earth resigned,
Its leaves are scattered on the wind,
And ne'er can vernal sun or rain
Restore those palsied limbs again.
Yet there it stands—that noble oak,
Scarred with full many a thunder-stroke,
The remnant of a mighty race,
Now passed and in their resting-place!
Yet gath'ring round their aged sire
The sapling woods to heaven aspire,
While close and clinging to its root
There springs a fair and favorite shoot,
Which seems in youthful strength to be
The semblance of that grandsire tree.
The winter winds that rustle by
189
Seem to the listening trees beneath,
Some legends of the past to breathe,
Telling of days when round it stood,
Trees like itself, a sturdy wood,
That side by side, received the shock
Of storm and whirlwind like a rock—
Staying the rough blast in its wrath,
As if a mountain crossed its path—
And back the refluent tempest bore—
Such is yon veteran of fourscore!
190
DANTE'S BEATRICE,
AS PAINTED BY ALLSTON, AND ENGRAVED BY CHENEY.
The hand of God may mar the outward form,And leave the spirit noble, generous, true—
As a rich diamond in a setting rude,
Gleaming with heaven-lit lustre, deep and pure.
And thus, the hunchback I perchance might choose
To be my friend: but the poor cripple—who
Hath grimed the soul with love of falsehood; who
Hath soiled the immortal gem forever—
Alas! the form, dishonored, still doth hold
A thing more truly worthless than itself!
Unholy vision of unwelcome dreams!
From such I turn as from a viper crushed,
That, writhing, strikes the air with aimless spite—
And wipe the sullying image from my breast,
By gazing on this fair creation; a soul
Pure as a gem, within a form as pure!
Fair Beatrice, whom Dante loved! whose soul
Could stir his deep-toned lyre, and bid its voice
Undying linger in the ear of ages—
To thee I bow! for on thy holy brow,
There is a light as from a diamond,
By God's own finger set! ---.
193
EMBLEMS OF LIFE.
Life is a darkling river, freaked with light—
Its source in mist, its seeming end in night:
Yet rolling on, it finds a glorious morrow,
And flows a joyous tide, undimmed by sorrow.
Its source in mist, its seeming end in night:
Yet rolling on, it finds a glorious morrow,
And flows a joyous tide, undimmed by sorrow.
Life is a flower that hath its bud and bloom—
Its day of sunshine, and its hour of doom;
Yet as the stalk lies withering in the vale,
The heaven-bent fragrance fills the passing gale.
Its day of sunshine, and its hour of doom;
Yet as the stalk lies withering in the vale,
The heaven-bent fragrance fills the passing gale.
Life is a wave, by tempests often torn,
Giving its voice with other waves to mourn—
Yet the warm sunbeam comes with sparkling dies,
And woos that wave in vapor to the skies.
Giving its voice with other waves to mourn—
Yet the warm sunbeam comes with sparkling dies,
And woos that wave in vapor to the skies.
Life is a rill—its birth in yonder mountain—
Its destiny, yon ocean's shoreless fountain—
Yet the bright drops, untainted in the brine,
Blend with the billows, and undying shine.
Its destiny, yon ocean's shoreless fountain—
Yet the bright drops, untainted in the brine,
Blend with the billows, and undying shine.
194
THE BEE AND BEETLE.
A bee and beetle chanced to meet,One sunny day upon a rose—
His neighbor thus the bee did greet,
Although meanwhile, he held his nose—
‘I wonder much to meet you here,
For surely you don't feast on roses?’
The beetle answered with a sneer—
‘I know the idle fool supposes,
That in a rose there 's nought but honey.
You think a flower, so fair to view,
With breath so sweet, and cheek so sunny,
Is only made for things like you!
But prithee, do not look so sour—
A thing that hath a nose like mine
May turn the breath of sweetest flower—
Of rose, carnation, columbine—
To odors fetid as the air,
Where beetles love to delve and dine:
Each has his gift, for foul or fair—
You, sir, have yours, and I have mine.’
195
SONGS OF NATURE.
I hear the ocean bursting on the shore—
What melancholy music in that roar!
What wailing voices swell upon the breeze,
What phantoms come and whisper of the seas!
Wild tales they tell of misty ages flown,
Of depths unfathomed, and of shores unknown;
Of ever toiling tides, where tempests frown,
Of trackless deeps, where God alone looks down.
And these, the legends of the speeding wave,
Come to the heart like music from the grave.
Sad is their tone, and answering deep to deep,
The soul gives back an echo to its sweep!
What melancholy music in that roar!
What wailing voices swell upon the breeze,
What phantoms come and whisper of the seas!
Wild tales they tell of misty ages flown,
Of depths unfathomed, and of shores unknown;
Of ever toiling tides, where tempests frown,
Of trackless deeps, where God alone looks down.
And these, the legends of the speeding wave,
Come to the heart like music from the grave.
Sad is their tone, and answering deep to deep,
The soul gives back an echo to its sweep!
The forest tosses in the autumn gale,
The leaves are scattered and they shroud the vale.
Voices are on the breeze—and in its breath
Spirits are singing, but they sing of death.
The leaves are scattered and they shroud the vale.
Voices are on the breeze—and in its breath
Spirits are singing, but they sing of death.
And who hath tuned these harps of nature? who
Makes the deep bosom feel their music true?
Oh, God! we hear the anthem of the sea
And land—and listen, for they speak of Thee!
They speak of Thee, and man's predestined doom,
Yet lift the shroud that shadows o'er the tomb:
They sadden, but they soothe the troubled soul,
And strike hope's anchor strong, though billows roll.
196
Oh, God! we hear the anthem of the sea
And land—and listen, for they speak of Thee!
They speak of Thee, and man's predestined doom,
Yet lift the shroud that shadows o'er the tomb:
They sadden, but they soothe the troubled soul,
And strike hope's anchor strong, though billows roll.
| The Outcast, and other poems | |