 | 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!
| The Outcast, and other poems | |