 | [Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West |  |
143
THE LAND OF LIFE.
I wander ever in a land of dreams,
Where flowers perpetual bloom about my way,
And where faint murmurs of meandering streams
Open and close the glory of each day:—
Cool, spicy airs upon my temples play;
Wild, ravishing songs of birds enchant my ears;
Odors and exhalations, where I stray,
Sweeten and beautify the lapsing years;
And through whatever is, what is to be appears.
Where flowers perpetual bloom about my way,
And where faint murmurs of meandering streams
Open and close the glory of each day:—
Cool, spicy airs upon my temples play;
Wild, ravishing songs of birds enchant my ears;
Odors and exhalations, where I stray,
Sweeten and beautify the lapsing years;
And through whatever is, what is to be appears.
Some deem this land of dreams the Land of Life,—
And, moved by high ambitions, build them here
Mansions of pride, that fill erewhile with strife,
And palaces of hope, that disappear
Ere well completed; still, through many a year,
Vain repetitions of this toil and sweat
Go on, until the heart is lone and sere,
And weary, and oppressed; and even yet
Men plod and plant, and reap earth's fever and its fret.
And, moved by high ambitions, build them here
Mansions of pride, that fill erewhile with strife,
And palaces of hope, that disappear
Ere well completed; still, through many a year,
Vain repetitions of this toil and sweat
Go on, until the heart is lone and sere,
And weary, and oppressed; and even yet
Men plod and plant, and reap earth's fever and its fret.
And others deem this land the land of woe,—
And fill it with vague shapes, chimeras dire,
Sights, sounds, portents, that hither come and go,
Melting midst ice, and freezing amid fire—
Each feeling its own hate, and either's ire—
Seething and bubbling like a storm-tossed sea—
With wailings ever born, that ne'er expire—
Primeval ills, from which in vain they flee—
All horrors man can taste, or touch, or hear, or see.
And fill it with vague shapes, chimeras dire,
Sights, sounds, portents, that hither come and go,
Melting midst ice, and freezing amid fire—
Each feeling its own hate, and either's ire—
Seething and bubbling like a storm-tossed sea—
With wailings ever born, that ne'er expire—
Primeval ills, from which in vain they flee—
All horrors man can taste, or touch, or hear, or see.
But, ne'ertheless, this is the land of dreams:
Unto the Land of Life, through this we go,
From out the land of darkness, wherefrom streams
No ray, that thence we might its secret know:
Unto the Land of Life, through this we go—
Through this, the land of dreams; and dimly here
Perceive, while wandering trustful to and fro,
Things that in full-robed glory there appear,
Around the Eternal One, throughout the Eternal Year.
Unto the Land of Life, through this we go,
From out the land of darkness, wherefrom streams
No ray, that thence we might its secret know:
Unto the Land of Life, through this we go—
Through this, the land of dreams; and dimly here
Perceive, while wandering trustful to and fro,
Things that in full-robed glory there appear,
Around the Eternal One, throughout the Eternal Year.
144
THE SPOTTED FAWN.
On Mahketewa's flowery marge
The Red Chief's wigwam stood,
When first the white man's rifle rang
Loud through the echoing wood.
The tomahawk and scalping-knife
Together lay at rest;
For peace was in the forest shades,
And in the red man's breast.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
The light and life of the forest shades
With the Red Chief's child is gone.
The Red Chief's wigwam stood,
When first the white man's rifle rang
Loud through the echoing wood.
The tomahawk and scalping-knife
Together lay at rest;
For peace was in the forest shades,
And in the red man's breast.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
The light and life of the forest shades
With the Red Chief's child is gone.
By Mahketewa's flowery marge
The Spotted Fawn had birth,
And grew, as fair an Indian girl
As ever blest the earth.
She was the Red Chief's only child,
And sought by many a brave;
But to the gallant young White Cloud,
Her plighted troth she gave.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
The light and life of the forest shades
With the Red Chief's child is gone.
The Spotted Fawn had birth,
And grew, as fair an Indian girl
As ever blest the earth.
She was the Red Chief's only child,
And sought by many a brave;
But to the gallant young White Cloud,
Her plighted troth she gave.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
The light and life of the forest shades
With the Red Chief's child is gone.
From Mahketewa's flowery marge
Her bridal song arose—
None dreaming, in that festal night,
Of near encircling foes;
But through the forest, stealthily,
The white men came in wrath;
And fiery deaths before them sped,
And blood was in their path.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
The light and life of the forest shades
With the Red Chief's child is gone.
Her bridal song arose—
None dreaming, in that festal night,
Of near encircling foes;
But through the forest, stealthily,
The white men came in wrath;
And fiery deaths before them sped,
And blood was in their path.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
145
With the Red Chief's child is gone.
On Mahketewa's flowery marge,
Next morn, no strife was seen;
But a wail went up, where the young Fawn's blood
And White Cloud's dyed the green;
And burial, in their own rude way,
The Indians gave them there,
While a low and sweet-ton'd requiem
The brook sang and the air.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
The light and life of the forest shades
With the Red Chief's child is gone.
Next morn, no strife was seen;
But a wail went up, where the young Fawn's blood
And White Cloud's dyed the green;
And burial, in their own rude way,
The Indians gave them there,
While a low and sweet-ton'd requiem
The brook sang and the air.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
Oh, the Spotted Fawn!
The light and life of the forest shades
With the Red Chief's child is gone.
148
THE BETTER DAY.
Workers high, and workers low,
Weary workers every where,
For the New Age rounding to
Like a planet, now prepare!
Weary workers every where,
For the New Age rounding to
Like a planet, now prepare!
Delver in the deep dark mine,
Where no rays of sunlight shine;
Toiler in unwholesome rooms,
Foul and damp with lingering glooms—
Worker by the hot highway,
In the blinding blaze of day—
Come it cold, or come it hot,
Be of spirit: falter not;
Toil is duty, growth, and gain;
Never wasted—never vain!
Patient, pent-up man-machine,
At the loom and shuttle seen,
Weaving in with nicest art
Throbbings of thy own poor heart,
Till the subtile textures seem
With thy very life to gleam—
Hard the toil, but work away:
Yet shall dawn the Better Day!
Stitcher, by the cradle's side,Where no rays of sunlight shine;
Toiler in unwholesome rooms,
Foul and damp with lingering glooms—
Worker by the hot highway,
In the blinding blaze of day—
Come it cold, or come it hot,
Be of spirit: falter not;
Toil is duty, growth, and gain;
Never wasted—never vain!
Patient, pent-up man-machine,
At the loom and shuttle seen,
Weaving in with nicest art
Throbbings of thy own poor heart,
Till the subtile textures seem
With thy very life to gleam—
Hard the toil, but work away:
Yet shall dawn the Better Day!
Where thy fondest hopes abide,
Working with a heart of might
All the day and half the night,
Often till the east grows red
With the dawning, for thy bread;
Though thou art of feeble limb,
And thine eyes are pained and dim,
Sending off, with every piece
Which thy weary hands release,
Portions of thy life wrought in
With the garment, white and thin—
Work and wait; the end is sure;
Time his offspring will mature:
Work with will, and work away,
Doubting not the Better Day!
Workers high, and workers low,
Weary workers every where,
For the New Age rounding to
Like a planet, now prepare!
149
And the morning dawns at last.
Far behind, the shadows lie
Dark upon the western sky;
While before, the east is gray
Where the harbinger of day,
Rounding up the azure cope,
Flames, the morning-star of Hope!
Be not hasty; be not rash;
Though its beams within you flash
Calm endurance is sublime:
Falter not, but bide your time.
—Weary workers, work away;
God will lead the Better Day!
OUR CHILDREN.
They are stricken, darkly stricken;
Faint and fainter grows each breath;
And the shadows round them thicken,
Of the darkness that is Death.
We are with them—bending o'er them—
And the Soul in sorrow saith,
“Would that I had passed before them,
To the darkness that is Death!”
Faint and fainter grows each breath;
And the shadows round them thicken,
Of the darkness that is Death.
We are with them—bending o'er them—
And the Soul in sorrow saith,
“Would that I had passed before them,
To the darkness that is Death!”
They are sleeping, coldly sleeping,
In the graveyard still and lone,
Where the winds, above them sweeping,
Make a melancholy moan.
Thickly round us—darkly o'er us—
Is the pall of sorrow thrown;
And our heart-beats make the chorus
Of that melancholy moan.
In the graveyard still and lone,
Where the winds, above them sweeping,
Make a melancholy moan.
Thickly round us—darkly o'er us—
Is the pall of sorrow thrown;
And our heart-beats make the chorus
Of that melancholy moan.
They are waking, brightly waking,
From the slumbers of the tomb,
And, enrobed in light, forsaking
Its impenetrable gloom.
They are rising—they have risen—
And their spirit-forms illume,
In the darkness of Death's prison,
The impenetrable gloom.
From the slumbers of the tomb,
And, enrobed in light, forsaking
Its impenetrable gloom.
They are rising—they have risen—
And their spirit-forms illume,
In the darkness of Death's prison,
The impenetrable gloom.
They are passing, upward passing,
Dearest beings of our love,
And their spirit-forms are glassing
In the beautiful Above:
There we see them—there we hear them—
Through our dreams they ever move;
And we long to be a-near them,
In the beautiful Above.
Dearest beings of our love,
And their spirit-forms are glassing
In the beautiful Above:
There we see them—there we hear them—
Through our dreams they ever move;
And we long to be a-near them,
In the beautiful Above.
They are going, gently going,
In their angel-robes to stand,
Where the river of Life is flowing
In the far-off Silent Land.
We shall mourn them—we shall miss them,
From our broken little band;
But our souls shall still caress them,
In the far-off Silent Land.
In their angel-robes to stand,
Where the river of Life is flowing
In the far-off Silent Land.
We shall mourn them—we shall miss them,
From our broken little band;
But our souls shall still caress them,
In the far-off Silent Land.
They are singing, sweetly singing,
Far beyond the vail of Night,
Where the angel-harps are ringing,
And the Day is ever bright.
We can love them—we can greet them—
From this land of dimmer light,
Till God takes us hence to meet them
Where the Day is ever bright.
Far beyond the vail of Night,
Where the angel-harps are ringing,
And the Day is ever bright.
We can love them—we can greet them—
From this land of dimmer light,
Till God takes us hence to meet them
Where the Day is ever bright.
151
NOCTES DIVINORUM.
The sky is black: the earth is cold:
The laboring moon gives little light:
Wild gusts in ghostly tones unfold
The secrets of the deep, dread night.
And glimmering round and round me, glide
Weird fancies of the midnight born,
Close-linked with shadowy sprites that ride
The dusky hours of eve and morn.
The laboring moon gives little light:
Wild gusts in ghostly tones unfold
The secrets of the deep, dread night.
And glimmering round and round me, glide
Weird fancies of the midnight born,
Close-linked with shadowy sprites that ride
The dusky hours of eve and morn.
Gaunt images, that haunt the sight,
Of sin and crime, and want and woe,
Have been my guests for hours to-night,
And still are passing to and fro.
Ah, wellaway! and so they may!
They do not tell the lie of life;
Night oft is truer than the day;
Peace often falser far than strife.
Of sin and crime, and want and woe,
Have been my guests for hours to-night,
And still are passing to and fro.
Ah, wellaway! and so they may!
They do not tell the lie of life;
Night oft is truer than the day;
Peace often falser far than strife.
A year goes out: a year comes in:
How swiftly and how still they flee!
What mission had the year that's been?
What mission hath the year to be?
Oh, brother man! look wisely back,
Along the far and fading days,
And closely scan the crowded track
On which the light of memory plays.
How swiftly and how still they flee!
What mission had the year that's been?
What mission hath the year to be?
Oh, brother man! look wisely back,
Along the far and fading days,
And closely scan the crowded track
On which the light of memory plays.
The friend with whom you took your wine
A year ago—where is he now?
The child you almost thought divine,
Such beauty robed its shining brow—
The wife upon whose pillowing breast
Misleading doubts and carking care
Were ever gently lulled to rest—
Where are they now, my brother, where?
A year ago—where is he now?
The child you almost thought divine,
Such beauty robed its shining brow—
The wife upon whose pillowing breast
Misleading doubts and carking care
Were ever gently lulled to rest—
Where are they now, my brother, where?
In vain you start, and look around!
In vain the involuntary call!
The graveyard has an added mound
For wife, or child, or friend—or all.
And downward to the dust with them,
How many garnered hopes have gone!
Yet they were those ye thought to stem
The tide of time with, pressing on.
In vain the involuntary call!
The graveyard has an added mound
For wife, or child, or friend—or all.
And downward to the dust with them,
How many garnered hopes have gone!
Yet they were those ye thought to stem
The tide of time with, pressing on.
Ah! Hope is such a flattering cheat,
We scarce can choose but him believe!
We see and feel his bold deceit,
Yet trust him still, to still deceive.
Despair is truer far than he!
Though dark and pitiless its form,
It never bids us look, and see
The sunshine, when it brings the storm.
We scarce can choose but him believe!
We see and feel his bold deceit,
Yet trust him still, to still deceive.
Despair is truer far than he!
Though dark and pitiless its form,
It never bids us look, and see
The sunshine, when it brings the storm.
Farewell! old year: yet by your bier
I linger, if I will or no:
For sorrow tends to link as friends
Those who had hardly else been so.
How often back, along the track
Which you and I have wearily traced,
My bleeding heart will sadly start
To view again that desert waste!
I linger, if I will or no:
For sorrow tends to link as friends
Those who had hardly else been so.
How often back, along the track
Which you and I have wearily traced,
My bleeding heart will sadly start
To view again that desert waste!
Aha! old year, you've brought the tear,
In spite of all I thought or said:
I did not know one still could flow,
So many you have made me shed.
You're stiff and stark: you're gone!” ... 'Tis dark,
Here where I sit and sigh alone.
But wipe the eye, and check the sigh:
What's he, who hath not sorrow known?
In spite of all I thought or said:
I did not know one still could flow,
So many you have made me shed.
You're stiff and stark: you're gone!” ... 'Tis dark,
Here where I sit and sigh alone.
But wipe the eye, and check the sigh:
What's he, who hath not sorrow known?
153
MY FIFTIETH YEAR.
I do complete this day my fiftieth year:
But were it not that tell-tale gray hath spread
A mantle not of youth upon my head;
And that, forsooth! about my eyes appear
A few small wrinkles; and that, likewise, here
And there a joint is not as once it was,
Springy and nimble as a deer's, but does
Impede somewhat my motions when I try
The heartier games of early manhood, I
Should count myself upon life's threshold yet:
For in my spirit live its olden fires,
And at my heart still quicken the desires
That moved me ere the fever and the fret
Of life had somewhat worn my nature down.
Sleeping or waking, oft I still dream dreams,
And still see visions; and the shadowy brown
Of evening, as the purpling morning, teems
With spirit-forms and spirit-tones, that lift
My soul from out the dismal days, that drift
Me onward, onward, like a very leaf.
I do, or think and feel I do, behold
The chart of Truth before my eyes unroll'd:
And it has been and now is my belief,
That only in their sins do men grow old.
Virtues are like perpetual springs, that keep
Greenness and bloom about them evermore:
But vices, like destroying gales that sweep
O'er ocean, and lay waste from shore to shore.
Faith grows not feeble: Hope is ever young:
And Charity is gifted like a god
With comeliness and ardor. Valor sprung
An Athlete from his birth, and went abroad
For high emprises, and is Athlete still:
Endurance is another name for will,
Which time o'ercomes not: patience, meekness, love,
That came from and shall yet return above,
Weary not in the ceaseless march of years.
Nothing man knows or is, but Sin, grows old;
And she a wrinkled, loathsome hag appears,
Ere half a life hath half its seasons told.
But were it not that tell-tale gray hath spread
A mantle not of youth upon my head;
And that, forsooth! about my eyes appear
A few small wrinkles; and that, likewise, here
And there a joint is not as once it was,
Springy and nimble as a deer's, but does
Impede somewhat my motions when I try
The heartier games of early manhood, I
Should count myself upon life's threshold yet:
For in my spirit live its olden fires,
And at my heart still quicken the desires
That moved me ere the fever and the fret
Of life had somewhat worn my nature down.
Sleeping or waking, oft I still dream dreams,
And still see visions; and the shadowy brown
Of evening, as the purpling morning, teems
With spirit-forms and spirit-tones, that lift
My soul from out the dismal days, that drift
Me onward, onward, like a very leaf.
I do, or think and feel I do, behold
The chart of Truth before my eyes unroll'd:
And it has been and now is my belief,
That only in their sins do men grow old.
Virtues are like perpetual springs, that keep
Greenness and bloom about them evermore:
But vices, like destroying gales that sweep
O'er ocean, and lay waste from shore to shore.
Faith grows not feeble: Hope is ever young:
And Charity is gifted like a god
With comeliness and ardor. Valor sprung
An Athlete from his birth, and went abroad
For high emprises, and is Athlete still:
Endurance is another name for will,
Which time o'ercomes not: patience, meekness, love,
That came from and shall yet return above,
Weary not in the ceaseless march of years.
Nothing man knows or is, but Sin, grows old;
And she a wrinkled, loathsome hag appears,
Ere half a life hath half its seasons told.
Beautiful, beautiful Youth! that in the soul
Liveth forever, where sin liveth not.
How fresh Creation's chart doth still unroll
Before our eyes, although the little spot
That knows us now, shall know us soon no more
Forever! We look backward, and before,
And inward, and we feel there is a life
Impelling us, that need not with this frame
Or flesh grow feeble, but for aye the same
May live on, e'en amid this worldly strife,
Clothed with the beauty and the freshness still
It brought with it at first; and that it will
Glide almost imperceptibly away,
Taking no taint of this dissolving clay;
And, joining with the incorruptible
And spiritual body that awaits
Its coming at the starr'd and golden gates
Of Heaven, move on with the celestial train
Whose shining vestments, as along they stray,
Flash with the splendors of eternal day;
And mingle with its Primal Source again,
Where Faith, Hope, Charity, and Love and Truth,
Dwell with the Godhead in immortal youth.
Liveth forever, where sin liveth not.
How fresh Creation's chart doth still unroll
Before our eyes, although the little spot
That knows us now, shall know us soon no more
Forever! We look backward, and before,
And inward, and we feel there is a life
Impelling us, that need not with this frame
Or flesh grow feeble, but for aye the same
May live on, e'en amid this worldly strife,
Clothed with the beauty and the freshness still
It brought with it at first; and that it will
Glide almost imperceptibly away,
Taking no taint of this dissolving clay;
And, joining with the incorruptible
And spiritual body that awaits
Its coming at the starr'd and golden gates
Of Heaven, move on with the celestial train
Whose shining vestments, as along they stray,
Flash with the splendors of eternal day;
And mingle with its Primal Source again,
Where Faith, Hope, Charity, and Love and Truth,
Dwell with the Godhead in immortal youth.
| [Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West | |