 | The writings of Robert C. Sands |  |
2. VOL. II.
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
283
LAY OF THE LAST FISHERMAN.
The sun was sinking in his glory
Behind the dark bluff's shaggy brow,
His ruddy rays stream'd thro' its verdure,
And streak'd with fire the wave below.
Lit by his sad and parting radiance
Was every tint of varying green;
The distant spires of yon proud city
Bright flaming in the ray were seen.
Behind the dark bluff's shaggy brow,
His ruddy rays stream'd thro' its verdure,
And streak'd with fire the wave below.
Lit by his sad and parting radiance
Was every tint of varying green;
The distant spires of yon proud city
Bright flaming in the ray were seen.
Fill'd by the mournful gale of even
The white sails o'er the water mov'd,
When came a mariner all lonely,
To bid adieu to scenes he loved.
His locks hung scattered on the breezes,
Like sea-weeds wild dishevell'd spread;
Ruddy his visage, weather-beaten,
Like coral nurs'd in ocean's bed.
The white sails o'er the water mov'd,
When came a mariner all lonely,
To bid adieu to scenes he loved.
284
Like sea-weeds wild dishevell'd spread;
Ruddy his visage, weather-beaten,
Like coral nurs'd in ocean's bed.
The waters blue lay calm and stilly,
As if to tempt him back again,
When stretching out his arms to heaven,
Thus spoke the LATEST Fisherman:
“The hour is come, and I must leave ye,
To wend where tempests furious blow;
Last of my race I fondly linger'd,
Till hope hath fled—and I must go.
As if to tempt him back again,
When stretching out his arms to heaven,
Thus spoke the LATEST Fisherman:
“The hour is come, and I must leave ye,
To wend where tempests furious blow;
Last of my race I fondly linger'd,
Till hope hath fled—and I must go.
“Deserted now, too lovely river!
The bare poles o'er thy waters stand,
And soon the winds and waves careering,
Shall root them from the treacherous sand.
Moor'd in yon gentle creek securely,
My little bark? how wilt thou bide?
Will thine own element destroy thee?
Will strangers bear thee o'er the tide?
The bare poles o'er thy waters stand,
And soon the winds and waves careering,
Shall root them from the treacherous sand.
Moor'd in yon gentle creek securely,
My little bark? how wilt thou bide?
Will thine own element destroy thee?
Will strangers bear thee o'er the tide?
“O! if their grasp with hands unhallow'd
Should bear thee from that lov'd retreat,
Gape all thy wounds, and break thy rudder,
And midway let them ruin meet!—
I go where ocean darkly rages—
I go to ride the billowy wave—
Farewell! farewell! I must not linger,
If I the ocean storms would brave.
Should bear thee from that lov'd retreat,
Gape all thy wounds, and break thy rudder,
And midway let them ruin meet!—
I go where ocean darkly rages—
I go to ride the billowy wave—
Farewell! farewell! I must not linger,
If I the ocean storms would brave.
“Fare thee well, thou gallant Hudson,
If for ever, fare thee well!
Waft my last sigh, evening breezes,
Bear it on thy murmuring swell!
Fare thee well, thou fir-clad Weehawk!
Bend thy dark leaves in the gale;
Wave thy cedars now, all mournful
As they seem, to bid farewell!
If for ever, fare thee well!
Waft my last sigh, evening breezes,
Bear it on thy murmuring swell!
Fare thee well, thou fir-clad Weehawk!
Bend thy dark leaves in the gale;
Wave thy cedars now, all mournful
As they seem, to bid farewell!
“Fare thee well, my host, who kindly
Still for me bid cheerers foam,
I will bless thee, when, all dripping,
Driving on the deep I roam.
Fare thee well, too fair Maraunche—
Oh! my heart is failing now—”
Wild he look'd—put on his old hat,
As he rush'd from Weehawk's brow!
Still for me bid cheerers foam,
I will bless thee, when, all dripping,
Driving on the deep I roam.
285
Oh! my heart is failing now—”
Wild he look'd—put on his old hat,
As he rush'd from Weehawk's brow!
Then methought that by the river
Bless'd Saint Anthony had stood,
Calling to a second sermon
All the fishes of the flood!
For the wave was hid, where swarming,
Wild with joy's delicious power,
Big and little, porpoise, killie,
Tumbled on its top that hour!
Sport awhile, ye gentle fishes,
While ye may, for soon ye'll mourn—
One destroyer now hath left ye,
But a thousand will return!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Bless'd Saint Anthony had stood,
Calling to a second sermon
All the fishes of the flood!
For the wave was hid, where swarming,
Wild with joy's delicious power,
Big and little, porpoise, killie,
Tumbled on its top that hour!
Sport awhile, ye gentle fishes,
While ye may, for soon ye'll mourn—
One destroyer now hath left ye,
But a thousand will return!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[Hiatus valde deflendus.]
322
DREAM OF THE PRINCESS PAPANTZIN.
Mexitlis' power was at its topmost pride;
The name was terrible from sea to sea;
From mountains, where the tameless Ottomite
Maintained his savage freedom, to the shores
Of wild Higueras. Through the nations passed,
As stalks the angel of the pestilence,
The great king's messengers. They marked the young,
The brave and beautiful, and bore them on
For their foul sacrifices. Terror went
Before the tyrant's heralds. Grief and wrath
Remained behind their steps; but they were dumb.
The name was terrible from sea to sea;
From mountains, where the tameless Ottomite
Maintained his savage freedom, to the shores
Of wild Higueras. Through the nations passed,
As stalks the angel of the pestilence,
The great king's messengers. They marked the young,
The brave and beautiful, and bore them on
323
Before the tyrant's heralds. Grief and wrath
Remained behind their steps; but they were dumb.
He was as God. Yet in his capital
Sat Moteuezoma, second of that name,
Trembling with fear of dangers long foretold
In ancient prophecies, and now announced
By signs in heaven and portents upon earth;
By the reluctant voices of pale priests;
By the grave looks of solemn counsellors;
But chief, by sickening heaviness of heart
That told of evil, dimly understood,
But evil which must come. With face obscured,
And robed in night the giant phantom rose,
Of his great empire's ruin, and his own.
Happier, though guiltier, he, before whose glance
Of reckless triumph, moved the spectral Hand,
That traced the unearthly characters of fate.
Sat Moteuezoma, second of that name,
Trembling with fear of dangers long foretold
In ancient prophecies, and now announced
By signs in heaven and portents upon earth;
By the reluctant voices of pale priests;
By the grave looks of solemn counsellors;
But chief, by sickening heaviness of heart
That told of evil, dimly understood,
But evil which must come. With face obscured,
And robed in night the giant phantom rose,
Of his great empire's ruin, and his own.
Happier, though guiltier, he, before whose glance
Of reckless triumph, moved the spectral Hand,
That traced the unearthly characters of fate.
'Twas then, one eve, when o'er the imperial lake
And all its cities, glittering in their pomp,
The lord of glory threw his parting smiles,
In Tlatelolco's palace, in her bower,
Papantzin lay reclined; sister of him
At whose name monarchs trembled. Yielding there
To musings various, o'er her senses crept
Or sleep, or kindred death.
And all its cities, glittering in their pomp,
The lord of glory threw his parting smiles,
In Tlatelolco's palace, in her bower,
Papantzin lay reclined; sister of him
At whose name monarchs trembled. Yielding there
To musings various, o'er her senses crept
Or sleep, or kindred death.
It seemed she stood
In an illimitable plain, that stretched
Its desert continuity around,
Upon the o'erwearied sight; in contrast strange
With that rich vale, where only she had dwelt,
Whose everlasting mountains, girdling it,
As in a chalice held a kingdom's wealth;
Their summits freezing, where the eagle tired,
But found no resting-place. Papantzin looked
On endless barrenness, and walked perplexed
Through the dull haze, along the boundless heath,
Like some lone ghost in Mictlan's cheerless gloom
Debarred from light and glory.
In an illimitable plain, that stretched
Its desert continuity around,
Upon the o'erwearied sight; in contrast strange
With that rich vale, where only she had dwelt,
Whose everlasting mountains, girdling it,
As in a chalice held a kingdom's wealth;
324
But found no resting-place. Papantzin looked
On endless barrenness, and walked perplexed
Through the dull haze, along the boundless heath,
Like some lone ghost in Mictlan's cheerless gloom
Debarred from light and glory.
Wandering thus
She came where a great sullen river poured
Its turbid waters with a rushing sound
Of painful moans; as if the inky waves
Were hastening still on their complaining course
To escape the horrid solitudes. Beyond
What seemed a highway ran, with branching paths
Innumerous. This to gain, she sought to plunge
Straight in the troubled stream. For well she knew
To shun with agile limbs the current's force,
Nor feared the noise of waters. She had played
From infancy in her fair native lake,
Amid the gay plumed creatures floating round,
Wheeling or diving, with their changeful hues,
As fearless and as innocent as they.
She came where a great sullen river poured
Its turbid waters with a rushing sound
Of painful moans; as if the inky waves
Were hastening still on their complaining course
To escape the horrid solitudes. Beyond
What seemed a highway ran, with branching paths
Innumerous. This to gain, she sought to plunge
Straight in the troubled stream. For well she knew
To shun with agile limbs the current's force,
Nor feared the noise of waters. She had played
From infancy in her fair native lake,
Amid the gay plumed creatures floating round,
Wheeling or diving, with their changeful hues,
As fearless and as innocent as they.
A vision stayed her purpose. By her side
Stood a bright youth; and startling, as she gazed
On his effulgence, every sense was bound
In pleasing awe and in fond reverence.
For not Tezcatlipoca, as he shone
Upon her priest-led fancy, when from heaven
By filmy thread sustained he came to earth,
In his resplendent mail reflecting all
Its images, with dazzling portraiture,
Was, in his radiance and immortal youth
A peer to this new god.—His stature was
Like that of men; but matched with his, the port
Of kings all dreaded was the crouching mien
Of suppliants at their feet. Serene the light
That floated round him, as the lineaments
It cased with its mild glory. Gravely sweet
The impression of his features, which to scan
Their lofty loveliness forbade: His eyes
She felt, but saw not: only, on his brow—
From over which, encircled by what seemed
A ring of liquid diamond, in pure light
Revolving ever, backward flowed his locks
In buoyant, waving clusters—on his brow
She marked a Cross described; and lowly bent
She knew not wherefore, to the sacred sign.
From either shoulder mantled o'er his front
Wings dropping feathery silver; and his robe
Snow-white in the still air was motionless,
As that of chiselled god, or the pale shroud
Of some fear-conjured ghost.
Stood a bright youth; and startling, as she gazed
On his effulgence, every sense was bound
In pleasing awe and in fond reverence.
For not Tezcatlipoca, as he shone
Upon her priest-led fancy, when from heaven
By filmy thread sustained he came to earth,
In his resplendent mail reflecting all
Its images, with dazzling portraiture,
Was, in his radiance and immortal youth
A peer to this new god.—His stature was
Like that of men; but matched with his, the port
Of kings all dreaded was the crouching mien
325
That floated round him, as the lineaments
It cased with its mild glory. Gravely sweet
The impression of his features, which to scan
Their lofty loveliness forbade: His eyes
She felt, but saw not: only, on his brow—
From over which, encircled by what seemed
A ring of liquid diamond, in pure light
Revolving ever, backward flowed his locks
In buoyant, waving clusters—on his brow
She marked a Cross described; and lowly bent
She knew not wherefore, to the sacred sign.
From either shoulder mantled o'er his front
Wings dropping feathery silver; and his robe
Snow-white in the still air was motionless,
As that of chiselled god, or the pale shroud
Of some fear-conjured ghost.
Her hand he took
And led her passive o'er the naked banks
Of that black stream, still murmuring angrily.
But, as he spoke, she heard its moans no more;
His voice seemed sweeter than the hymnings raised
By brave and gentle souls in Paradise,
To celebrate the outgoing of the sun,
On his majestic progress over heaven.
“Stay, princess,” thus he spoke, “thou mayest not yet
O'erpass these waters. Though thou knowest it not,
Nor Him, God loves thee.” So he led her on,
Unfainting, amid hideous sights and sounds;
For now, o'er scattered sculls and grisly bones
They walked; while underneath, before, behind,
Rise dolorous wails and groans protracted long,
Sobs of deep anguish, screams of agony,
And melancholy sighs, and the fierce yell
Of hopeless and intolerable pain.
And led her passive o'er the naked banks
Of that black stream, still murmuring angrily.
But, as he spoke, she heard its moans no more;
His voice seemed sweeter than the hymnings raised
By brave and gentle souls in Paradise,
To celebrate the outgoing of the sun,
On his majestic progress over heaven.
“Stay, princess,” thus he spoke, “thou mayest not yet
O'erpass these waters. Though thou knowest it not,
Nor Him, God loves thee.” So he led her on,
Unfainting, amid hideous sights and sounds;
For now, o'er scattered sculls and grisly bones
They walked; while underneath, before, behind,
Rise dolorous wails and groans protracted long,
Sobs of deep anguish, screams of agony,
And melancholy sighs, and the fierce yell
Of hopeless and intolerable pain.
326
Shuddering, as, in the gloomy whirlwind's pause,
Through the malign, distempered atmosphere,
The second circle's purple blackness, passed
The pitying Florentine, who saw the shades
Of poor Francesca and her paramour,—
The princess o'er the ghastly relics stepped,
Listening the frightful clamour; till a gleam,
Whose sickly and phosphoric lustre seemed
Kindled from these decaying bones, lit up
The sable river. Then a pageant came
Over its obscure tides, of stately barks,
Gigantic, with their prows of quaint device,
Tall masts, and ghostly canvass, huge and high,
Hung in the unnatural light and lifeless air.
Grim bearded men, with stern and angry looks
Strange robes, and uncouth armour, stood behind
Their galleries and bulwarks. One ship bore
A broad sheet pendant, where inwrought with gold
She marked the symbol that adorned the brow
Of her mysterious guide. Down the dark stream
Swept on the spectral fleet, in the false light
Flickering and fading. Louder then uprose
The roar of voices from the accursed strand,
Until in tones, solemn and sweet, again
Her angel-leader spoke.
Through the malign, distempered atmosphere,
The second circle's purple blackness, passed
The pitying Florentine, who saw the shades
Of poor Francesca and her paramour,—
The princess o'er the ghastly relics stepped,
Listening the frightful clamour; till a gleam,
Whose sickly and phosphoric lustre seemed
Kindled from these decaying bones, lit up
The sable river. Then a pageant came
Over its obscure tides, of stately barks,
Gigantic, with their prows of quaint device,
Tall masts, and ghostly canvass, huge and high,
Hung in the unnatural light and lifeless air.
Grim bearded men, with stern and angry looks
Strange robes, and uncouth armour, stood behind
Their galleries and bulwarks. One ship bore
A broad sheet pendant, where inwrought with gold
She marked the symbol that adorned the brow
Of her mysterious guide. Down the dark stream
Swept on the spectral fleet, in the false light
Flickering and fading. Louder then uprose
The roar of voices from the accursed strand,
Until in tones, solemn and sweet, again
Her angel-leader spoke.
“Princess, God wills
That thou shouldst live, to testify on earth
What changes are to come; and in the world
Where change comes never, live, when earth and all
Its changes shall have passed like earth away.
That thou shouldst live, to testify on earth
What changes are to come; and in the world
Where change comes never, live, when earth and all
Its changes shall have passed like earth away.
“The cries that pierced thy soul and chilled thy veins
Are those of thy tormented ancestors.
Nor shall their torment cease; for God is just.
Foredoomed,—since first from Atzlan led to rove,
Following in quest of change, their kindred tribes,—
Where'er they rested, with foul sacrifice
They stained the shuddering earth. Their monuments
By blood cemented, after ages passed
With idle wonder or fantastic guess,
The traveller shall behold. For broken, then,
Like their own ugly idols, buried, burnt,
Their fragments spurned for every servile use,
Trampled and scattered to the reckless winds,
The records of their origin shall be.
Still in their cruelty and untamed pride,
They lived and died condemned; whether they dwelt
Outcasts, upon a soil that was not theirs,
All steril as it was, and won by stealth
Food from the slimy margent of the lake,
And digged the earth for roots and unclean worms;
Or served in bondage to another race,
Who loved them not. Driven forth, they wandered then
In miserable want, until they came
Where from the thriftless rock the nopal grew,
On which the hungry eagle perched and screamed,
And founded Tenochtitlan; rearing first
With impious care, a cabin for their god
Huitzilopochtli, and with murderous rites
Devoting to his guardianship themselves
And all their issue. Quick the nopal climbed,
Its harsh and bristly growth towering o'er all
The vale of Anahuac. Far for his prey,
And farther still the ravenous eagle flew;
And still with dripping beak but thirst unslaked
With savage cries wheeled home. Nine kings have reigned,
Their records blotted and besmeared with blood
So thick that none may read them. Down the stairs
And o'er the courts and winding corridors
Of their abominable piles, upreared
In the face of heaven, and naked to the sun,
More blood has flowed than would have filled the lakes
O'er which, enthroned midst carnage, they have sat,
Heaping their treasures for the stranger's spoil.
Prodigious cruelty and waste of life,
Unnatural riot and blaspheming pride,—
All that God hates,—and all that tumbles down
Great kingdoms and luxurious commonwealths
After long centuries waxing all corrupt,—
In their brief annals aggregated, forced,
And monstrous, are compressed. And now the cup
Of wrath is full; and now the hour has come.
Nor yet unwarned shall judgment overtake
The tribes of Aztlan, and in chief their lords
Mexitlis' blind adorers. As to one
Who feels his inward malady remain,
Howe'er health's seeming mocks his destiny,
In gay or serious mood the thought of death
Still comes obtrusive; so old prophecy
From age to age preserved, has told thy race
How strangers, from beyond the rising sun,
Should come with thunder armed, to overturn
Their idols, to possess their lands, and hold
Them and their children in long servitude.
Are those of thy tormented ancestors.
Nor shall their torment cease; for God is just.
Foredoomed,—since first from Atzlan led to rove,
327
Where'er they rested, with foul sacrifice
They stained the shuddering earth. Their monuments
By blood cemented, after ages passed
With idle wonder or fantastic guess,
The traveller shall behold. For broken, then,
Like their own ugly idols, buried, burnt,
Their fragments spurned for every servile use,
Trampled and scattered to the reckless winds,
The records of their origin shall be.
Still in their cruelty and untamed pride,
They lived and died condemned; whether they dwelt
Outcasts, upon a soil that was not theirs,
All steril as it was, and won by stealth
Food from the slimy margent of the lake,
And digged the earth for roots and unclean worms;
Or served in bondage to another race,
Who loved them not. Driven forth, they wandered then
In miserable want, until they came
Where from the thriftless rock the nopal grew,
On which the hungry eagle perched and screamed,
And founded Tenochtitlan; rearing first
With impious care, a cabin for their god
Huitzilopochtli, and with murderous rites
Devoting to his guardianship themselves
And all their issue. Quick the nopal climbed,
Its harsh and bristly growth towering o'er all
The vale of Anahuac. Far for his prey,
And farther still the ravenous eagle flew;
And still with dripping beak but thirst unslaked
With savage cries wheeled home. Nine kings have reigned,
Their records blotted and besmeared with blood
So thick that none may read them. Down the stairs
And o'er the courts and winding corridors
Of their abominable piles, upreared
328
More blood has flowed than would have filled the lakes
O'er which, enthroned midst carnage, they have sat,
Heaping their treasures for the stranger's spoil.
Prodigious cruelty and waste of life,
Unnatural riot and blaspheming pride,—
All that God hates,—and all that tumbles down
Great kingdoms and luxurious commonwealths
After long centuries waxing all corrupt,—
In their brief annals aggregated, forced,
And monstrous, are compressed. And now the cup
Of wrath is full; and now the hour has come.
Nor yet unwarned shall judgment overtake
The tribes of Aztlan, and in chief their lords
Mexitlis' blind adorers. As to one
Who feels his inward malady remain,
Howe'er health's seeming mocks his destiny,
In gay or serious mood the thought of death
Still comes obtrusive; so old prophecy
From age to age preserved, has told thy race
How strangers, from beyond the rising sun,
Should come with thunder armed, to overturn
Their idols, to possess their lands, and hold
Them and their children in long servitude.
“Thou shalt bear record that the hour is nigh.
The white and bearded men whose grim array
Swept o'er thy sight, are those who are to come,
And with strong arms and wisdom stronger far,
Strange beasts obedient to their masters' touch,
And engines hurling death, with Fate to aid,
Shall wrest the sceptre from the Azteques' line,
And lay their temples flat. Horrible war,
Rapine and murder and destruction wild
Shall hurry like the whirlwind o'er the land.
Yet with the avengers come the word of peace;
With the destroyers comes the bread of life;
And, as the wind-god in thine idle creed,
Opens a passage with his boisterous breath
Through which the genial waters over earth
Shed their reviving showers; so, when the storm
Of war has pass'd, rich dews of heavenly grace
Shall fall on flinty hearts. And thou, the flower,
Which, when huge cedars and most ancient pines
Coeval with the mountains are uptorn,
The hurricane shall leave unharmed, thou, then,
Shalt be the first to lift thy drooping head
Renewed, and cleansed from every former stain.
The white and bearded men whose grim array
Swept o'er thy sight, are those who are to come,
And with strong arms and wisdom stronger far,
Strange beasts obedient to their masters' touch,
And engines hurling death, with Fate to aid,
Shall wrest the sceptre from the Azteques' line,
And lay their temples flat. Horrible war,
Rapine and murder and destruction wild
Shall hurry like the whirlwind o'er the land.
Yet with the avengers come the word of peace;
329
And, as the wind-god in thine idle creed,
Opens a passage with his boisterous breath
Through which the genial waters over earth
Shed their reviving showers; so, when the storm
Of war has pass'd, rich dews of heavenly grace
Shall fall on flinty hearts. And thou, the flower,
Which, when huge cedars and most ancient pines
Coeval with the mountains are uptorn,
The hurricane shall leave unharmed, thou, then,
Shalt be the first to lift thy drooping head
Renewed, and cleansed from every former stain.
“The fables of thy people teach, that when
The deluge drowned mankind, and one sole pair
In fragile bark preserved, escaped and climbed
The steeps of Colhuacan, daughters and sons
Were born to them, who knew not how to frame
Their simplest thoughts in speech; till from the grove
A dove poured forth, in regulated sounds,
Each varied form of language. Then they spake,
Though neither by another understood.
But thou shalt then hear of that Holiest Dove,
Which is the Spirit of the Eternal God.
When all was void and dark, he moved above
Infinity; and from beneath his wings
Earth and the waters and the islands rose;
The air was quickened, and the world had life.
Then all the lamps of heaven began to shine,
And man was made to gaze upon their fires.
The deluge drowned mankind, and one sole pair
In fragile bark preserved, escaped and climbed
The steeps of Colhuacan, daughters and sons
Were born to them, who knew not how to frame
Their simplest thoughts in speech; till from the grove
A dove poured forth, in regulated sounds,
Each varied form of language. Then they spake,
Though neither by another understood.
But thou shalt then hear of that Holiest Dove,
Which is the Spirit of the Eternal God.
When all was void and dark, he moved above
Infinity; and from beneath his wings
Earth and the waters and the islands rose;
The air was quickened, and the world had life.
Then all the lamps of heaven began to shine,
And man was made to gaze upon their fires.
“Among thy fathers' visionary tales,
Thou'st heard, how once near ancient Tula dwelt
A woman, holy and devout, who kept
The temple pure, and to its platform saw
A globe of emerald plumes descend from heaven.
Placing it in her bosom to adorn
Her idol's sanctuary (so the tale
Runs), she conceived, and bore Mexitli. He,
When other children had assailed her life,
Sprang into being, all equipped for war;
His green plumes dancing in their circlet bright,
Like sheaf of sun-lit spray cresting the bed
Of angry torrents. Round, as Tonatiuh
Flames in mid-heaven, his golden buckler shone;
Like nimble lightning flashed his dreadful lance;
And unrelenting vengeance in his eyes
Blazed with its swarthy lustre. He, they tell,
Led on their ancestors; and him the god
Of wrath and terror, with the quivering hearts
And mangled limbs of myriads, and the stench
Of blood-washed shrines and altars they appease.
But then shall be revealed to thee the name
And vision of a virgin undefiled,
Embalmed in holy beauty, in whose eyes,
Downcast and chaste, such sacred influence lived,
That none might gaze in their pure spheres and feel
One earth-born longing. Over her the Dove
Hung, and th' Almighty power came down. She bore
In lowliness, and as a helpless babe,
Heir to man's sorrows and calamities,
His great Deliverer, Conqueror of Death;
And thou shalt learn, how when in years he grew
Perfect, and fairer than the sons of men,
And in that purifying rite partook
Which thou shalt share, as from his sacred locks
The glittering waters dropped, high over head
The azure vault was opened, and that Dove
Swiftly, serenely floating downwards, stretched
His silvery pinions o'er the anointed Lord,
Sprinkling celestial dews. And thou shalt hear
How, when the Sacrifice for man had gone
In glory home, as his chief messengers
Were met in council, on a mighty wind
The Dove was borne among them; on each brow
A forked tongue of fire unquenchable lit;
And, as the lambent points shot up and waved,
Strange speech came to them; thence to every land,
In every tongue, they, with untiring steps,
Bore the glad tidings of a world redeemed.”
Thou'st heard, how once near ancient Tula dwelt
A woman, holy and devout, who kept
The temple pure, and to its platform saw
A globe of emerald plumes descend from heaven.
330
Her idol's sanctuary (so the tale
Runs), she conceived, and bore Mexitli. He,
When other children had assailed her life,
Sprang into being, all equipped for war;
His green plumes dancing in their circlet bright,
Like sheaf of sun-lit spray cresting the bed
Of angry torrents. Round, as Tonatiuh
Flames in mid-heaven, his golden buckler shone;
Like nimble lightning flashed his dreadful lance;
And unrelenting vengeance in his eyes
Blazed with its swarthy lustre. He, they tell,
Led on their ancestors; and him the god
Of wrath and terror, with the quivering hearts
And mangled limbs of myriads, and the stench
Of blood-washed shrines and altars they appease.
But then shall be revealed to thee the name
And vision of a virgin undefiled,
Embalmed in holy beauty, in whose eyes,
Downcast and chaste, such sacred influence lived,
That none might gaze in their pure spheres and feel
One earth-born longing. Over her the Dove
Hung, and th' Almighty power came down. She bore
In lowliness, and as a helpless babe,
Heir to man's sorrows and calamities,
His great Deliverer, Conqueror of Death;
And thou shalt learn, how when in years he grew
Perfect, and fairer than the sons of men,
And in that purifying rite partook
Which thou shalt share, as from his sacred locks
The glittering waters dropped, high over head
The azure vault was opened, and that Dove
Swiftly, serenely floating downwards, stretched
His silvery pinions o'er the anointed Lord,
Sprinkling celestial dews. And thou shalt hear
How, when the Sacrifice for man had gone
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Were met in council, on a mighty wind
The Dove was borne among them; on each brow
A forked tongue of fire unquenchable lit;
And, as the lambent points shot up and waved,
Strange speech came to them; thence to every land,
In every tongue, they, with untiring steps,
Bore the glad tidings of a world redeemed.”
Much more, which now it suits not to rehearse,
The princess heard. The historic prophet told
Past, Present, Future,—things that since have been,
And things that are to come. And, as he ceased,
O'er the black river, and the desert plain,
As o'er the close of counterfeited scenes,
Shown by the buskined muse, a veil came down,
Impervious; and his figure faded swift
In the dense gloom. But then, in starlike light,
That awful symbol which adorned his brow
In size dilating showed: and up, still up,
In its clear splendour still the same, though still
Lessening, it mounted; and Papantzin woke.
The princess heard. The historic prophet told
Past, Present, Future,—things that since have been,
And things that are to come. And, as he ceased,
O'er the black river, and the desert plain,
As o'er the close of counterfeited scenes,
Shown by the buskined muse, a veil came down,
Impervious; and his figure faded swift
In the dense gloom. But then, in starlike light,
That awful symbol which adorned his brow
In size dilating showed: and up, still up,
In its clear splendour still the same, though still
Lessening, it mounted; and Papantzin woke.
She woke in darkness and in solitude.
Slow passed her lethargy away, and long
To her half dreaming eye that brilliant sign
Distinct appeared. Then damp and close she felt
The air around, and knew the poignant smell
Of spicy herbs collected and confined.
As those awakening from a troubled trance
Are wont, she would have learned by touch if yet
The spirit to the body was allied.
Strange hindrances prevented. O'er her face
A mask thick-plated lay: and round her swathed
Was many a costly and encumbering robe,
Such as she wore on some high festival,
O'erspread with precious gems, rayless and cold,
That now pressed hard and sharp against her touch.
The cumbrous collar round her slender neck,
Of gold thick studded with each valued stone
Earth and the sea-depths yield for human pride—
The bracelets and the many-twisted rings
That girt her taper limbs, coil upon coil—
What were they in this dungeon's solitude?
The plumy coronal that would have sprung
Light from her fillet in the purer air,
Waving in mockery of the rainbow tints,
Now drooping low, and steeped in clogging dews,
Oppressive hung. Groping in dubious search,
She found the household goods, the spindle, broom,
Gicalli quaintly sculptured, and the jar
That held the useless beverage for the dead.
By these, and by the jewel to her lip
Attached, the emerald symbol of the soul,
In its green life immortal, soon she knew
Her dwelling was a sepulchre.
Slow passed her lethargy away, and long
To her half dreaming eye that brilliant sign
Distinct appeared. Then damp and close she felt
The air around, and knew the poignant smell
Of spicy herbs collected and confined.
As those awakening from a troubled trance
Are wont, she would have learned by touch if yet
The spirit to the body was allied.
Strange hindrances prevented. O'er her face
A mask thick-plated lay: and round her swathed
Was many a costly and encumbering robe,
Such as she wore on some high festival,
332
That now pressed hard and sharp against her touch.
The cumbrous collar round her slender neck,
Of gold thick studded with each valued stone
Earth and the sea-depths yield for human pride—
The bracelets and the many-twisted rings
That girt her taper limbs, coil upon coil—
What were they in this dungeon's solitude?
The plumy coronal that would have sprung
Light from her fillet in the purer air,
Waving in mockery of the rainbow tints,
Now drooping low, and steeped in clogging dews,
Oppressive hung. Groping in dubious search,
She found the household goods, the spindle, broom,
Gicalli quaintly sculptured, and the jar
That held the useless beverage for the dead.
By these, and by the jewel to her lip
Attached, the emerald symbol of the soul,
In its green life immortal, soon she knew
Her dwelling was a sepulchre.
She loosed
The mask, and from her feathery bier uprose,
Casting away the robe, which like long alb
Wrapped her; and with it many an aloe leaf,
Inscribed with Azteck characters and signs,
To guide the spirit where the Serpent hissed,
Hills towered, and deserts spread, and keen winds blew,
And many a “Flower of Death;” though their frail leaves
Were yet unwithered. For the living warmth
Which in her dwelt, their freshness had preserved;
Else, if corruption had begun its work,
The emblems of quick change would have survived
Her beauty's semblance. What is beauty worth,
If the cropt flower retains its tender bloom
When foul decay has stolen the latest lines
Of loveliness in death? Yet even now
Papantzin knew that her exuberant locks—
Which, unconfined, had round her flowed to earth,
Like a stream rushing down some rocky steep,
Threading ten thousand channels—had been shorn
Of half their waving length,—and liked it not.
The mask, and from her feathery bier uprose,
Casting away the robe, which like long alb
Wrapped her; and with it many an aloe leaf,
Inscribed with Azteck characters and signs,
To guide the spirit where the Serpent hissed,
Hills towered, and deserts spread, and keen winds blew,
And many a “Flower of Death;” though their frail leaves
Were yet unwithered. For the living warmth
Which in her dwelt, their freshness had preserved;
Else, if corruption had begun its work,
The emblems of quick change would have survived
Her beauty's semblance. What is beauty worth,
If the cropt flower retains its tender bloom
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Of loveliness in death? Yet even now
Papantzin knew that her exuberant locks—
Which, unconfined, had round her flowed to earth,
Like a stream rushing down some rocky steep,
Threading ten thousand channels—had been shorn
Of half their waving length,—and liked it not.
But through a crevice soon she marked a gleam
Of rays uncertain; and, with staggering steps,
But strong in reckless dreaminess, while still
Presided o'er the chaos of her thoughts
The revelation that upon her soul
Dwelt with its power, she gained the cavern's throat
And pushed the quarried stone aside, and stood
In the free air, and in her own domain.
Of rays uncertain; and, with staggering steps,
But strong in reckless dreaminess, while still
Presided o'er the chaos of her thoughts
The revelation that upon her soul
Dwelt with its power, she gained the cavern's throat
And pushed the quarried stone aside, and stood
In the free air, and in her own domain.
But now obscurely o'er her vision swam
The beauteous landscape, with its thousand tints
And changeful views; long alleys of bright trees
Bending beneath their fruits; espaliers gay
With tropic flowers and shrubs that filled the breeze
With odorous incense, basins vast, where birds
With shining plumage sported, smooth canals
Leading the glassy wave, or towering grove
Of forest veterans. On a rising bank,
Her seat accustomed, near a well hewn out
From ancient rocks into which waters gushed
From living springs, where she was wont to bathe,
She threw herself to muse. Dim on her sight
The imperial city and its causeways rose,
With the broad lake and all its floating isles
And glancing shallops, and the gilded pomp
Of princely barges, canopied with plumes
Spread fanlike, or with tufted pageantry
Waving magnificent. Unmarked around
The frequent huitzilin, with murmuring hum
Of ever-restless wing, and shrill sweet note,
Shot twinkling, with the ruby star that glowed
Over his tiny bosom, and all hues
That loveliest seem in heaven, with ceaseless change,
Flashing from his fine films. And all in vain
Untiring, from the rustling branches near,
Poured the Centzontli all his hundred strains
Of imitative melody. Not now
She heeded them. Yet pleasant was the shade
Of palms and cedars; and through twining boughs
And fluttering leaves, the subtle god of air,
The serpent armed with plumes, most welcome crept,
And fanned her cheek with kindest ministry.
The beauteous landscape, with its thousand tints
And changeful views; long alleys of bright trees
Bending beneath their fruits; espaliers gay
With tropic flowers and shrubs that filled the breeze
With odorous incense, basins vast, where birds
With shining plumage sported, smooth canals
Leading the glassy wave, or towering grove
Of forest veterans. On a rising bank,
Her seat accustomed, near a well hewn out
From ancient rocks into which waters gushed
From living springs, where she was wont to bathe,
She threw herself to muse. Dim on her sight
The imperial city and its causeways rose,
With the broad lake and all its floating isles
And glancing shallops, and the gilded pomp
Of princely barges, canopied with plumes
Spread fanlike, or with tufted pageantry
Waving magnificent. Unmarked around
334
Of ever-restless wing, and shrill sweet note,
Shot twinkling, with the ruby star that glowed
Over his tiny bosom, and all hues
That loveliest seem in heaven, with ceaseless change,
Flashing from his fine films. And all in vain
Untiring, from the rustling branches near,
Poured the Centzontli all his hundred strains
Of imitative melody. Not now
She heeded them. Yet pleasant was the shade
Of palms and cedars; and through twining boughs
And fluttering leaves, the subtle god of air,
The serpent armed with plumes, most welcome crept,
And fanned her cheek with kindest ministry.
A dull and dismal sound came booming on;
A solemn, wild, and melancholy noise,
Shaking the tranquil air; and afterward
A clash and jangling, barbarously prolonged,
Torturing the unwilling ear, rang dissonant.
Again the unnatural thunder rolled along,
Again the crash and clamour followed it.
Shuddering she heard, who knew that every peal
From the dread gong, announced a victim's heart
Torn from his breast, and each triumphant clang,
A mangled corse, down the great temple's stairs
Hurled headlong; and she knew, as lately taught,
How vengeance was ordained for cruelty;
How pride would end; and uncouth soldiers tread
Through bloody furrows o'er her pleasant groves
And gardens; and would make themselves a road
Over the dead, choking the silver lake,
And cast the battered idols down the steps
That climbed their execrable towers, and raze
Sheer from the ground Ahuitzol's mighty pile.
A solemn, wild, and melancholy noise,
Shaking the tranquil air; and afterward
A clash and jangling, barbarously prolonged,
Torturing the unwilling ear, rang dissonant.
Again the unnatural thunder rolled along,
Again the crash and clamour followed it.
Shuddering she heard, who knew that every peal
From the dread gong, announced a victim's heart
Torn from his breast, and each triumphant clang,
A mangled corse, down the great temple's stairs
Hurled headlong; and she knew, as lately taught,
How vengeance was ordained for cruelty;
How pride would end; and uncouth soldiers tread
Through bloody furrows o'er her pleasant groves
And gardens; and would make themselves a road
Over the dead, choking the silver lake,
And cast the battered idols down the steps
That climbed their execrable towers, and raze
Sheer from the ground Ahuitzol's mighty pile.
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There had been wail for her in Mexico,
And with due rites and royal obsequies,
Not without blood at devilish altars shed,
She had been numbered with her ancestry.
Here when beheld, revisiting the light,
Great marvel rose, and greater terror grew,
Until the kings came trembling, to receive
The fore-shown tidings. To his house of wo
Silent and mournful, Moteuczoma went.
And with due rites and royal obsequies,
Not without blood at devilish altars shed,
She had been numbered with her ancestry.
Here when beheld, revisiting the light,
Great marvel rose, and greater terror grew,
Until the kings came trembling, to receive
The fore-shown tidings. To his house of wo
Silent and mournful, Moteuczoma went.
Few years had passed, when by the rabble hands
Of his own subjects, in ignoble bonds
He fell; and on a hasty gibbet reared
By the road-side, with scorn and obloquy
The brave and gracious Guatemotzin hung;
While to Honduras, thirsting for revenge,
And gloomier after all his victories,
Stern Cortes stalked. Such was the will of God.
Of his own subjects, in ignoble bonds
He fell; and on a hasty gibbet reared
By the road-side, with scorn and obloquy
The brave and gracious Guatemotzin hung;
While to Honduras, thirsting for revenge,
And gloomier after all his victories,
Stern Cortes stalked. Such was the will of God.
And then with holier rites and sacred pomp,
Again committed to the peaceful grave,
Papantzin slept in consecrated earth.
Again committed to the peaceful grave,
Papantzin slept in consecrated earth.
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MONODY,
TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. J. W. EASTBURN.
Vail, Zion, vail thy mourning head,Let sacred clouds descending weep;
Mourn, holy hill, thy shepherd dead,
Whose voice no more shall charm thy sheep!
Thou, city of the Lord, deplore
A watchman vanish'd from thy walls!
While nightly tempests round thee roar,
No more thy faithful servant calls.
Temple of God! let chants of wo
Through all thy hallowed courts be borne;
A polished shaft in dust lies low,
And round the sister columns mourn.
Departed saint! how sweet the strain
The spirit taught thy lips to pour!
How dear the echoes which remain
When now the music breathes no more!
Around those lips, as in the shade
Where infant Plato lay reclin'd,
Hymettian bees prophetic play'd,
And left their choicest store behind:
But than their treasures far more sweet,
Though with them inspiration clung,
With unction of the Paraclete,
Descending seraphs tipp'd thy tongue!
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“Glad tidings to the meek in heart,
Bind up the wounds that earth has made,
And bid the enfranchis'd slave depart.
Tell the poor captive, chain'd by sin,
‘Thy bars are burst, and thou art free!
The year of glory shall begin,
The spring of beauty dawns for thee!’
Bid those who mourn on Zion's steep,
Swathed in such garb as grief should be,
As o'er the sins of men they weep,
Look through their tears to Calvary.
For them the oil of joy shall flow,
Immortal beauty shall be theirs,
And, for the livery sad of wo,
The spotless robe that angel wears.
In ancient wastes, where moss o'erspreads
The temples once devote to God,
And weeds, luxuriant, wave their heads
Above the consecrated sod;
Where ruin, scowling o'er the gloom,
For years has marked the scene her own,
Rebuild the crumbling walls, relume
The fire upon the altar stone!”
He heard the summons and obeyed;
And desolation bloom'd again,
Like nature, as old bards have said,
Obedient to the minstrel strain.
How soon his strain exultant swells
The hymn that mortals may not share!
Like music borne on summer gales,
That melts upon the distant air.
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Her note heard fainter as she flies;
Upward, still upward, she is borne,
Until in heaven her warbling dies.
But now, that cherished voice was near;
And all around yet breathes of him;—
We look, and we can only hear
“The parting wings of cherubim!”
Mourn ye, whom haply nature taught
To share the bard's communion high;
To scan the ideal world of thought,
That floats before the poet's eye;—
Ye, who with ears o'ersated long,
From native bards disgusted fly,
Expecting only, in their song,
The ribald strains of calumny;—
Mourn ye a minstrel chaste as sweet,
Who caught from heaven no doubtful fire,
But chose immortal themes as meet
Alone, for an immortal lyre.
O silent shell! thy chords are riven!
That heart lies cold before its prime!
Mute are those lips, that might have given
One deathless descant to our clime!
No laurel chaplet twines he now;
He sweeps a harp of heavenly tone,
And plucks the amaranth for his brow
That springs beside the eternal throne.
Mourn ye, whom friendship's silver chain
Link'd with his soul in bonds refin'd;
That earth had striv'n to burst in vain,—
The sacred sympathy of mind.
Still long that sympathy shall last:
Still shall each object like a spell,
Recall from fate the buried past,
Present the mind belov'd so well.
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Now is its onward progress won?
Through what new regions does it dare
Push the bold quest on earth begun?
In realms with boundless glory fraught,
Where fancy can no trophies raise—
In blissful vision, where the thought
Is whelm'd in wonder and in praise!
Till life's last pulse, O triply dear,
A loftier strain is due to thee;
But constant memory's votive tear
Thy sacred epitaph must be.
340
SLEEP.
Since too much waking hurts, O, gentle Sleep!
Even against thy will thou must be woo'd,
And forced the restless soul entranced to keep,
Till we o'ercome the deadly waking mood.
Sweet influence! yea, thou must be forced to steep
In bland oblivion thoughts that are not good
For entertainment—since they bring us pain,
And, without thee, will craze the fevered brain.
Even against thy will thou must be woo'd,
And forced the restless soul entranced to keep,
Till we o'ercome the deadly waking mood.
Sweet influence! yea, thou must be forced to steep
In bland oblivion thoughts that are not good
For entertainment—since they bring us pain,
And, without thee, will craze the fevered brain.
Shalt thou, on alpine heights, in polar cold,
The bloodless dormouse and the sullen bear
In one long night of no unrest enfold,
In frozen curtains that admit no care;
While man, as lord of breathing things, enrolled
In God's own order writ, shall have no share
Of solace, which his nature needs must claim,
Both for the mind o'erwrought and wearied frame?
The bloodless dormouse and the sullen bear
In one long night of no unrest enfold,
In frozen curtains that admit no care;
While man, as lord of breathing things, enrolled
In God's own order writ, shall have no share
Of solace, which his nature needs must claim,
Both for the mind o'erwrought and wearied frame?
Thee the old poets, in immortal lays,
Adored as universal nature's rest—
Peace of the soul, whose influence care obeys,
Sore care who listens to no other hest;
As still restoring, after anxious days,
The limbs and faculties with toil oppress'd—
Refitting man his daily race to run
Of toil, beneath the ever-travelling sun,
Adored as universal nature's rest—
Peace of the soul, whose influence care obeys,
Sore care who listens to no other hest;
As still restoring, after anxious days,
The limbs and faculties with toil oppress'd—
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Of toil, beneath the ever-travelling sun,
Thy charm the skilful as supreme confess
Above all alchymy and magic spells;
Of different modes to win thy bland caress,
The antique leech in lore black-lettered tells.
But when grim night-mare griefs the soul oppress,
Not his the craft thy presence that compels;
Dark Melancholy's patient cannot find
In foolish physic, slumber for the mind.
Above all alchymy and magic spells;
Of different modes to win thy bland caress,
The antique leech in lore black-lettered tells.
But when grim night-mare griefs the soul oppress,
Not his the craft thy presence that compels;
Dark Melancholy's patient cannot find
In foolish physic, slumber for the mind.
Nor unto him luxurious rest deny
Through a whole third of earths' diurnal phases;
But half asleep in revery to lie
While light's original fountain streams and blazes,
And nature works beneath the laughing sky,
Doating, in fond conceits, and dreamy mazes,
Sinks him below all God's own quick creations,
Nor will one muse inspire his meditations,
Through a whole third of earths' diurnal phases;
But half asleep in revery to lie
While light's original fountain streams and blazes,
And nature works beneath the laughing sky,
Doating, in fond conceits, and dreamy mazes,
Sinks him below all God's own quick creations,
Nor will one muse inspire his meditations,
For that sweet moistening sleep must fall on men
As heaven's own dew, impalpable and fine,
And unperceived, till cool, clear morning, when
On every blade and leaf impearled they shine,
So he who well has slept, new hopes again
Finds fresh and sparkling; and the god divine,
Which we call reason, prompts him through the day
To struggle with his fortune as he may.
As heaven's own dew, impalpable and fine,
And unperceived, till cool, clear morning, when
On every blade and leaf impearled they shine,
So he who well has slept, new hopes again
Finds fresh and sparkling; and the god divine,
Which we call reason, prompts him through the day
To struggle with his fortune as he may.
Oh sage philosophy! teach us how to slumber,
When the intractable brain is hot or dry,
With all the pangs and fears we cannot number,
And all the hopes that blossom, fade, and die;
With the great businesses our thoughts that cumber,
Whereat the angels laugh—with reason why!
When all that thou canst teach us, thou hast taught,
Oh sage philosophy! thy lore is naught!
When the intractable brain is hot or dry,
With all the pangs and fears we cannot number,
And all the hopes that blossom, fade, and die;
With the great businesses our thoughts that cumber,
Whereat the angels laugh—with reason why!
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Oh sage philosophy! thy lore is naught!
Hark! the loud thunder roars—thine enemy,
Sleep, even when thou art kind; and thro' the shutters
The lurid lightning sheds its blazonry;
But I am not alarmed, though the storm utters
Its threatenings; for I am at peace with thee,
My conscience. Is it so? stern conscience mutters,
I do fear God. And yet I cannot keep
Mine even reckoning with thee, oh sleep!
Sleep, even when thou art kind; and thro' the shutters
The lurid lightning sheds its blazonry;
But I am not alarmed, though the storm utters
Its threatenings; for I am at peace with thee,
My conscience. Is it so? stern conscience mutters,
I do fear God. And yet I cannot keep
Mine even reckoning with thee, oh sleep!
Sleep let the wretch who waits and dreads to-morrow,
Lose but one little gap of hurrying time;
Revive the dead, to sooth his heart's dear sorrow,
Or steep in Lethe unforgotten crime;
Or teach the flagging frame at least to borrow
Some little strength before the matin prime.
Vainly invoked, oh sleep! thou canst not give
Relief to those who, fearing evil, live.
Lose but one little gap of hurrying time;
Revive the dead, to sooth his heart's dear sorrow,
Or steep in Lethe unforgotten crime;
Or teach the flagging frame at least to borrow
Some little strength before the matin prime.
Vainly invoked, oh sleep! thou canst not give
Relief to those who, fearing evil, live.
Not to the clown, who for his rent unpaid
Must on to-morrow leave his low-roofed cot;
Not to the king, who for his sceptre swayed
Unwisely, waits a battle to be fought;
Him only canst thou with thy influence aid
Who, sentenced, for all earth cares not a jot—
Condemned to die i' the morning—who has pass'd
The bitterness of death, before life's last.
Must on to-morrow leave his low-roofed cot;
Not to the king, who for his sceptre swayed
Unwisely, waits a battle to be fought;
Him only canst thou with thy influence aid
Who, sentenced, for all earth cares not a jot—
Condemned to die i' the morning—who has pass'd
The bitterness of death, before life's last.
For he sleeps soundly, when he hath no need
Of thee, against that morrow's setting sun,
For whom irrevocably 'tis decreed
His business in this tedious world is done;
Whose hope is dead, whose fear is past remeed,
And whose eternity has now begun,
No dreams disturb his slumbers who must wake
To meet the axe, the gibbet, or the stake.
Of thee, against that morrow's setting sun,
For whom irrevocably 'tis decreed
His business in this tedious world is done;
Whose hope is dead, whose fear is past remeed,
And whose eternity has now begun,
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To meet the axe, the gibbet, or the stake.
Might I interrogate thee, thou who art
Death's younger brother, and his counterfeit,
Fain would I ask thee if, when we depart
From heaven's clear presence, and in darkness meet
The worms for our companions, in their mart
Of human food, shall visions foul or sweet
Visit our slumbers, ere the trumpet's peal
Shall summon us to endless wo or weal?
Death's younger brother, and his counterfeit,
Fain would I ask thee if, when we depart
From heaven's clear presence, and in darkness meet
The worms for our companions, in their mart
Of human food, shall visions foul or sweet
Visit our slumbers, ere the trumpet's peal
Shall summon us to endless wo or weal?
If ere the soul puts its old vesture on,
Transformed to rapturous or to burning weeds,
It shall do homage at the eternal throne,
Or penance in dread Hades for its deeds?
Ah, could thine oracle the truth make known
From those dark halls whence never voice proceeds,
It were in vain, dull god, to question thee,
What portion hast thou of eternity?
Transformed to rapturous or to burning weeds,
It shall do homage at the eternal throne,
Or penance in dread Hades for its deeds?
Ah, could thine oracle the truth make known
From those dark halls whence never voice proceeds,
It were in vain, dull god, to question thee,
What portion hast thou of eternity?
For in the grave, whether our dreams be fraught
With amaranths, harpings, and sweet gales of heaven,
Or demon-haunted, is to us as naught,
Who are imbued with the immortal leaven.
Time is not, if we lie devoid of thought;
And if the sure expectancy be given,
Whether we wake to glory or to shame,
'Twill at the resurrection be the same.
With amaranths, harpings, and sweet gales of heaven,
Or demon-haunted, is to us as naught,
Who are imbued with the immortal leaven.
Time is not, if we lie devoid of thought;
And if the sure expectancy be given,
Whether we wake to glory or to shame,
'Twill at the resurrection be the same.
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PARTING.
E tu chi sa se mai
Si sovverrai di me!
Si sovverrai di me!
Say, when afar from mine thy home shall be,
Still will thy soul unchanging turn to me?
When other scenes in beauty round thee lie,
Will these be present to thy mental eye?
Thy form, thy mind, when others fondly praise,
Wilt thou forget thy poet's humbler lays?
Ah me! what is there, in earth's various range,
That time and absence may not sadly change!
And can the heart, that still demands new ties,
New thoughts, for all its thousand sympathies—
The waxen heart, where every seal may set,
In turn, its stamp—remain unaltered yet,
While nature changes with each fleeting day,
And seasons dance their varying course away?
Ah! shouldst thou swerve from truth, all else must part,
That yet can feed with life this withered heart!
Whate'er its doubts, its hopes, its fears may be,
'Twere, even in madness, faithful still to thee;
And shouldst thou snap that silver chord in twain,
The golden bowl no other links sustain;
Crushed in the dust, its fragments then must sink,
And the cold earth its latest life-drops drink.
Blame not, if oft, in melancholy mood,
This theme, too far, sick fancy hath pursued;
And if the soul, which high with hope should beat,
Turns to the gloomy grave's unbless'd retreat.
Still will thy soul unchanging turn to me?
When other scenes in beauty round thee lie,
Will these be present to thy mental eye?
Thy form, thy mind, when others fondly praise,
Wilt thou forget thy poet's humbler lays?
Ah me! what is there, in earth's various range,
That time and absence may not sadly change!
And can the heart, that still demands new ties,
New thoughts, for all its thousand sympathies—
The waxen heart, where every seal may set,
In turn, its stamp—remain unaltered yet,
While nature changes with each fleeting day,
And seasons dance their varying course away?
Ah! shouldst thou swerve from truth, all else must part,
That yet can feed with life this withered heart!
Whate'er its doubts, its hopes, its fears may be,
'Twere, even in madness, faithful still to thee;
And shouldst thou snap that silver chord in twain,
The golden bowl no other links sustain;
Crushed in the dust, its fragments then must sink,
And the cold earth its latest life-drops drink.
345
This theme, too far, sick fancy hath pursued;
And if the soul, which high with hope should beat,
Turns to the gloomy grave's unbless'd retreat.
Majestic nature! since thy course began,
Thy features wear no sympathy for man;
The sun smiles loveliest on our darkest hours;
O'er the cold grave fresh spring the sweetest flowers.
And man himself, in selfish sorrows bound,
Heeds not the melancholy ruin round.
The crowd's vain roar still fills the passing breeze,
That bends above the tomb the cypress-trees.
One only heart, still true in joy or wo,
Is all the kindest fates can e'er bestow.
If frowning Heaven that heart refuse to give,
O, who would ask the ungracious boon—to live?
Then better 'twere, if longer doomed to prove
The listless load of life, unbless'd with love,
To seek midst ocean's waste some island fair,—
And dwell, the anchorite of nature, there;—
Some lonely isle, upon whose rocky shore
No sound, save curlew's scream, or billow's roar,
Hath echoed ever; in whose central woods,
With the quick spirit of its solitudes,
In converse deep, strange sympathies untried,
The soul might find, which this vain world denied.
Thy features wear no sympathy for man;
The sun smiles loveliest on our darkest hours;
O'er the cold grave fresh spring the sweetest flowers.
And man himself, in selfish sorrows bound,
Heeds not the melancholy ruin round.
The crowd's vain roar still fills the passing breeze,
That bends above the tomb the cypress-trees.
One only heart, still true in joy or wo,
Is all the kindest fates can e'er bestow.
If frowning Heaven that heart refuse to give,
O, who would ask the ungracious boon—to live?
Then better 'twere, if longer doomed to prove
The listless load of life, unbless'd with love,
To seek midst ocean's waste some island fair,—
And dwell, the anchorite of nature, there;—
Some lonely isle, upon whose rocky shore
No sound, save curlew's scream, or billow's roar,
Hath echoed ever; in whose central woods,
With the quick spirit of its solitudes,
In converse deep, strange sympathies untried,
The soul might find, which this vain world denied.
But I will trust that heart, where truth alone,
In loveliest guise, sits radiant on her throne;
And thus believing, fear not all the power
Of absence drear, or time's most tedious hour.
If e'er I sigh to win the wreaths of fame
And write on memory's scroll a deathless name,
'Tis but thy loved, approving smile to meet,
And lay the budding laurels at thy feet.
If e'er for worldly wealth I heave a sigh,
And glittering visions float on fancy's eye,
'Tis but with rosy wreaths thy path to spread,
And place the diadem on beauty's head.
Queen of my thoughts, each subject to thy sway,
Thy ruling presence lives but to obey;
And shouldst thou e'er their bless'd allegiance slight,
The mind must wander, lost in endless night.
In loveliest guise, sits radiant on her throne;
And thus believing, fear not all the power
Of absence drear, or time's most tedious hour.
If e'er I sigh to win the wreaths of fame
And write on memory's scroll a deathless name,
'Tis but thy loved, approving smile to meet,
And lay the budding laurels at thy feet.
346
And glittering visions float on fancy's eye,
'Tis but with rosy wreaths thy path to spread,
And place the diadem on beauty's head.
Queen of my thoughts, each subject to thy sway,
Thy ruling presence lives but to obey;
And shouldst thou e'er their bless'd allegiance slight,
The mind must wander, lost in endless night.
Farewell! forget me not, when others gaze,
Enamoured on thee, with the looks of praise;
When weary leagues before my view are cast,
And each dull hour seems heavier than the last,
Forget me not. May joy thy steps attend,
And mayst thou find in every form a friend;
With care unsullied be thy every thought;
And in thy dreams of home, forget me not!
Enamoured on thee, with the looks of praise;
When weary leagues before my view are cast,
And each dull hour seems heavier than the last,
Forget me not. May joy thy steps attend,
And mayst thou find in every form a friend;
With care unsullied be thy every thought;
And in thy dreams of home, forget me not!
347
A MONODY
MADE ON THE LATE MR. SAMUEL PATCH, BY AN ADMIRER OF THE BATHOS.
By water shall he die, and take his end.—
Shakspeare.
Shakspeare.
Toll for Sam Patch! Sam Patch, who jumps no more,
This or the world to come. Sam Patch is dead!
The vulgar pathway to the unknown shore
Of dark futurity, he would not tread.
No friends stood sorrowing round his dying bed;
Nor with decorous wo, sedately stepp'd
Behind his corpse, and tears by retail shed;—
The mighty river, as it onward swept,
In one great wholesale sob, his body drowned and kept.
This or the world to come. Sam Patch is dead!
The vulgar pathway to the unknown shore
Of dark futurity, he would not tread.
No friends stood sorrowing round his dying bed;
Nor with decorous wo, sedately stepp'd
Behind his corpse, and tears by retail shed;—
The mighty river, as it onward swept,
In one great wholesale sob, his body drowned and kept.
Toll for Sam Patch! he scorned the common way
That leads to fame, up heights of rough ascent,
And having heard Pope and Longinus say,
That some great men had risen to falls, he went
And jumped, where wild Passaic's waves had rent
The antique rocks;—the air free passage gave,—
And graciously the liquid element
Upbore him, like some sea-god on its wave;
And all the people said that Sam was very brave.
That leads to fame, up heights of rough ascent,
And having heard Pope and Longinus say,
That some great men had risen to falls, he went
And jumped, where wild Passaic's waves had rent
The antique rocks;—the air free passage gave,—
And graciously the liquid element
Upbore him, like some sea-god on its wave;
And all the people said that Sam was very brave.
Fame, the clear spirit that doth to heaven upraise
Led Sam to dive into what Byron calls
The hell of waters. For the sake of praise,
He wooed the bathos down great water-falls;
The dizzy precipice, which the eye appals
Of travellers for pleasure, Samuel found
Pleasant, as are to women lighted halls,
Crammed full of fools and fiddles; to the sound
Of the eternal roar, he timed his desperate bound.
Led Sam to dive into what Byron calls
The hell of waters. For the sake of praise,
He wooed the bathos down great water-falls;
348
Of travellers for pleasure, Samuel found
Pleasant, as are to women lighted halls,
Crammed full of fools and fiddles; to the sound
Of the eternal roar, he timed his desperate bound.
Sam was a fool. But the large world of such,
Has thousands—better taught, alike absurd,
And less sublime. Of fame he soon got much,
Where distant cataracts spout, of him men heard.
Alas for Sam! Had he aright preferred
The kindly element, to which he gave
Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard
That it was now his winding-sheet and grave,
Nor sung, 'twixt tears and smiles, our requiem for the brave.
Has thousands—better taught, alike absurd,
And less sublime. Of fame he soon got much,
Where distant cataracts spout, of him men heard.
Alas for Sam! Had he aright preferred
The kindly element, to which he gave
Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard
That it was now his winding-sheet and grave,
Nor sung, 'twixt tears and smiles, our requiem for the brave.
He soon got drunk, with rum and with renown,
As many others in high places do;—
Whose fall is like Sam's last—for down and down,
By one mad impulse driven, they flounder through
The gulf that keeps the future from our view,
And then are found not. May they rest in peace!
We heave the sigh to human frailty due—
And shall not Sam have his? The muse shall cease
To keep the heroic roll, which she began in Greece—
As many others in high places do;—
Whose fall is like Sam's last—for down and down,
By one mad impulse driven, they flounder through
The gulf that keeps the future from our view,
And then are found not. May they rest in peace!
We heave the sigh to human frailty due—
And shall not Sam have his? The muse shall cease
To keep the heroic roll, which she began in Greece—
With demigods, who went to the Black Sea
For wool (and if the best accounts be straight,
Came back, in negro phraseology,
With the same wool each upon his pate),
In which she chronicled the deathless fate
Of him who jumped into the perilous ditch
Left by Rome's street commissioners, in a state
Which made it dangerous, and by jumping which
He made himself renowned, and the contractors rich—
For wool (and if the best accounts be straight,
Came back, in negro phraseology,
With the same wool each upon his pate),
In which she chronicled the deathless fate
Of him who jumped into the perilous ditch
Left by Rome's street commissioners, in a state
Which made it dangerous, and by jumping which
He made himself renowned, and the contractors rich—
349
I say, the muse shall quite forget to sound
The chord whose music is undying, if
She do not strike it when Sam Patch is drowned.
Leander dived for love. Leucadia's cliff
The Lesbian Sappho leapt from in a miff,
To punish Phaon; Icarus went dead,
Because the wax did not continue stiff;
And, had he minded what his father said,
He had not given a name unto his watery bed.
The chord whose music is undying, if
She do not strike it when Sam Patch is drowned.
Leander dived for love. Leucadia's cliff
The Lesbian Sappho leapt from in a miff,
To punish Phaon; Icarus went dead,
Because the wax did not continue stiff;
And, had he minded what his father said,
He had not given a name unto his watery bed.
And Helle's case was all an accident,
As everybody knows. Why sing of these?
Nor would I rank with Sam that man who went
Down into Ætna's womb—Empedocles,
I think he called himself. Themselves to please,
Or else unwillingly, they made their springs;
For glory in the abstract, Sam made his,
To prove to all men, commons, lords, and kings,
That “some things may be done, as well as other things.”
As everybody knows. Why sing of these?
Nor would I rank with Sam that man who went
Down into Ætna's womb—Empedocles,
I think he called himself. Themselves to please,
Or else unwillingly, they made their springs;
For glory in the abstract, Sam made his,
To prove to all men, commons, lords, and kings,
That “some things may be done, as well as other things.”
I will not be fatigued, by citing more
Who jump'd of old, by hazard or design,
Nor plague the weary ghosts of boyish lore,
Vulcan, Apollo, Phaeton—in fine
All Tooke's Pantheon. Yet they grew divine
By their long tumbles; and if we can match
Their hierarchy, shall we not entwine
One wreath? Who ever came “up to the scratch,”
And for so little, jumped so bravely as Sam Patch?
Who jump'd of old, by hazard or design,
Nor plague the weary ghosts of boyish lore,
Vulcan, Apollo, Phaeton—in fine
All Tooke's Pantheon. Yet they grew divine
By their long tumbles; and if we can match
Their hierarchy, shall we not entwine
One wreath? Who ever came “up to the scratch,”
And for so little, jumped so bravely as Sam Patch?
To long conclusions many men have jumped
In logic, and the safer course they took;
By any other, they would have been stumped,
Unable to argue, or to quote a book,
And quite dumb-founded, which they cannot brook;
They break no bones, and suffer no contusion,
Hiding their woful fall, by hook and crook,
In slang and gibberish, sputtering and confusion;
But that was not the way Sam came to his conclusion.
In logic, and the safer course they took;
By any other, they would have been stumped,
Unable to argue, or to quote a book,
350
They break no bones, and suffer no contusion,
Hiding their woful fall, by hook and crook,
In slang and gibberish, sputtering and confusion;
But that was not the way Sam came to his conclusion.
He jumped in person. Death or Victory
Was his device, “and there was no mistake,”
Except his last; and then he did but die,
A blunder which the wisest men will make.
Aloft, where mighty floods the mountains break,
To stand, the target of ten thousand eyes,
And down into the coil and water-quake,
To leap, like Maia's offspring, from the skies—
For this all vulgar flights he ventured to despise.
Was his device, “and there was no mistake,”
Except his last; and then he did but die,
A blunder which the wisest men will make.
Aloft, where mighty floods the mountains break,
To stand, the target of ten thousand eyes,
And down into the coil and water-quake,
To leap, like Maia's offspring, from the skies—
For this all vulgar flights he ventured to despise.
And while Niagara prolongs its thunder,
Though still the rock primæval disappears,
And nations change their bounds—the theme of wonder
Shall Sam go down the cataract of long years;
And if there be sublimity in tears,
Those shall be precious which the adventurer shed
When his frail star gave way, and waked his fears
Lest, by the ungenerous crowd it might be said,
That he was all a hoax, or that his pluck had fled.
Though still the rock primæval disappears,
And nations change their bounds—the theme of wonder
Shall Sam go down the cataract of long years;
And if there be sublimity in tears,
Those shall be precious which the adventurer shed
When his frail star gave way, and waked his fears
Lest, by the ungenerous crowd it might be said,
That he was all a hoax, or that his pluck had fled.
Who would compare the maudlin Alexander,
Blubbering, because he had no job in hand,
Acting the hypocrite, or else the gander,
With Sam, whose grief we all can understand?
His crying was not womanish, nor plann'd
For exhibition; but his heart o'erswelled
With its own agony, when he the grand
Natural arrangements for a jump beheld,
And measuring the cascade, found not his courage quelled.
Blubbering, because he had no job in hand,
Acting the hypocrite, or else the gander,
With Sam, whose grief we all can understand?
His crying was not womanish, nor plann'd
For exhibition; but his heart o'erswelled
With its own agony, when he the grand
Natural arrangements for a jump beheld,
And measuring the cascade, found not his courage quelled.
351
His last great failure set the final seal
Unto the record Time shall never tear,
While bravery has its honour,—while men feel
The holy natural sympathies which are
First, last, and mightiest in the bosom. Where
The tortured tides of Genessee descend,
He came—his only intimate a bear,—
(We know not that he had another friend),
The martyr of renown, his wayward course to end.
Unto the record Time shall never tear,
While bravery has its honour,—while men feel
The holy natural sympathies which are
First, last, and mightiest in the bosom. Where
The tortured tides of Genessee descend,
He came—his only intimate a bear,—
(We know not that he had another friend),
The martyr of renown, his wayward course to end.
The fiend that from the infernal rivers stole
Hell-draughts for man, too much tormented him,
With nerves unstrung, but steadfast in his soul,
He stood upon the salient current's brim;
His head was giddy, and his sight was dim;
And then he knew this leap would be his last,—
Saw air, and earth, and water wildly swim,
With eyes of many multitudes, dense and vast,
That stared in mockery; none a look of kindness cast.
Hell-draughts for man, too much tormented him,
With nerves unstrung, but steadfast in his soul,
He stood upon the salient current's brim;
His head was giddy, and his sight was dim;
And then he knew this leap would be his last,—
Saw air, and earth, and water wildly swim,
With eyes of many multitudes, dense and vast,
That stared in mockery; none a look of kindness cast.
Beat down, in the huge amphitheatre
“I see before me the gladiator lie,”
And tier on tier, the myriads waiting there
The bow of grace, without one pitying eye—
He was a slave—a captive hired to die;—
Sam was born free as Cæsar; and he might
The hopeless issue have refused to try;
No! with true leap, but soon with faltering flight,—
“Deep in the roaring gulf, he plunged to endless night.”
“I see before me the gladiator lie,”
And tier on tier, the myriads waiting there
The bow of grace, without one pitying eye—
He was a slave—a captive hired to die;—
Sam was born free as Cæsar; and he might
The hopeless issue have refused to try;
No! with true leap, but soon with faltering flight,—
“Deep in the roaring gulf, he plunged to endless night.”
But, ere he leapt, he begged of those who made
Money by his dread venture, that if he
Should perish, such collection should be paid
As might be picked up from the “company”
To his Mother. This, his last request, shall be,—
Tho' she who bore him ne'er his fate should know,—
An iris, glittering o'er his memory—
When all the streams have worn their barriers low,
And, by the sea drunk up, for ever cease to flow.
Money by his dread venture, that if he
Should perish, such collection should be paid
As might be picked up from the “company”
To his Mother. This, his last request, shall be,—
352
An iris, glittering o'er his memory—
When all the streams have worn their barriers low,
And, by the sea drunk up, for ever cease to flow.
On him who chooses to jump down cataracts,
Why should the sternest moralist be severe?
Judge not the dead by prejudice—but facts,
Such as in strictest evidence appear.
Else were the laurels of all ages sere.
Give to the brave, who have pass'd the final goal,—
The gates that ope not back,—the generous tear;
And let the muse's clerk upon her scroll,
In coarse, but honest verse, make up the judgment roll.
Why should the sternest moralist be severe?
Judge not the dead by prejudice—but facts,
Such as in strictest evidence appear.
Else were the laurels of all ages sere.
Give to the brave, who have pass'd the final goal,—
The gates that ope not back,—the generous tear;
And let the muse's clerk upon her scroll,
In coarse, but honest verse, make up the judgment roll.
Therefore it is considered, that Sam Patch
Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme;
His name shall be a portion in the batch
Of the heroic dough, which baking Time
Kneads for consuming ages—and the chime
Of Fame's old bells, long as they truly ring,
Shall tell of him; he dived for the sublime,
And found it. Thou, who with the eagle's wing
Being a goose, would'st fly,—dream not of such a thing!
Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme;
His name shall be a portion in the batch
Of the heroic dough, which baking Time
Kneads for consuming ages—and the chime
Of Fame's old bells, long as they truly ring,
Shall tell of him; he dived for the sublime,
And found it. Thou, who with the eagle's wing
Being a goose, would'st fly,—dream not of such a thing!
353
DANIEL ROOK.
To the Editor of the Literary Journal.
Sir,
The three last numbers of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine contain three cantos of an epic poem, called Daniel O'Rourke. The story, of which this is a new version, is very old, and probably familiar to a great many people. In an old Manchester Almanac, I find the version which I send you. It may have been from the pen of Mr. Words-worth, as it has much of the characteristic simplicity of Betty Foy, Goody Blake, and Harry Gill.
Would you hear of Daniel Rook,How a journey long he took?
How he travelled to the moon,
And got back again quite soon?
Daniel Rook, beside a lake,
Saw the dimples breezes make;
Saw the skies reflected shine,
And Daniel thought it very fine.
Then an eagle came along,
Very large and very strong;
Said the eagle, Daniel Rook,
Pray what is't at which you look?
354
Unto the monstrous eagle spoke;—
I am looking at the lake,
Seeing how the waters shake.
Said the eagle, no more slack,
Daniel get upon my back!
So the monstrous eagle took
On his shoulders Daniel Rook.
Never stopping to take breath;
Daniel thought he'd ne'er have done,
When above he spied the moon;
Like a cheese without a rind,
O how gloriously it shined!
Like a cheese that's cut in two,
Aha! said Daniel, how d'ye do?
Said the eagle, Daniel bold,
Of that there horn you must take hold;
So the simple Daniel did
Just as the monstrous eagle bid.
Then away the eagle flew,
Leaving Daniel looking blue;
Now I'm sure, said Daniel bold,
Hanging here I shall take cold.
Then the man in the moon came out,
Picked his teeth, and looked about;
Mr. Daniel Rook, said he,
Good morning, what do you want with me?
355
She is in a family way;
I fear we shan't have room enough,
So I beg, Daniel, you'd be off.
I can't, said Daniel—You must, said he—
I won't, said Daniel, it can't be—
Very well, said the man in the moon,
We shall see that very soon.
In he went, and out he strode,
With a crowbar died with blood;
Sure and certain aim he took,
Knocked off the horn and Daniel Rook.
Fall'n from his high estate,
Daniel went at no small rate;
Nor can he tell, so queer he feels,
Which is his head, and which his heels.
He saw a flock of wild geese nigh,
And long and loud he heard them cry—
Daniel Rook, where will you go?
Indeed, said Daniel, I don't know;
But by the course which now I take,
I guess I'm falling in the lake,
Then said the geese—why don't you look,
And fall on dry land, Daniel Rook?
Hiatus.
356
THE SUN LOOKS ON NAUGHT IN HIS CIRCUIT AS GREAT.
The sun looks on naught, in his circuit, as great
As the mind whose fixed purpose is stubborn as fate;
That in storm or in sunshine, with foe or with friend,
Unchanged and unchanging, endures to the end.
As the mind whose fixed purpose is stubborn as fate;
That in storm or in sunshine, with foe or with friend,
Unchanged and unchanging, endures to the end.
Attractions unnumbered the needle control,
And it trembles unfaithful, forsaking the pole;
But the resolute will moves sublime in its pride,
Nor will turn for affection or flattery aside.
And it trembles unfaithful, forsaking the pole;
But the resolute will moves sublime in its pride,
Nor will turn for affection or flattery aside.
The old oaks may writhe where the hurricane sweeps,
And the firm bedded rocks may be torn from the steeps—
The pine of the forest may bend to the blast,
But the strong will of man stands erect to the last.
And the firm bedded rocks may be torn from the steeps—
The pine of the forest may bend to the blast,
But the strong will of man stands erect to the last.
As the Titan, by demons in Caucasus bound,
While the war of mad elements thundered around,
Braved Jove, though the vulture had fastened his fangs,
The stout heart yields not, till it breaks mid its pangs.
While the war of mad elements thundered around,
Braved Jove, though the vulture had fastened his fangs,
The stout heart yields not, till it breaks mid its pangs.
When her last sob convulsive great nature shall heave,
And the world its foundations in ruin shall leave,
The end the last stoic shall calmly expect,
And sink proud on the bier of a universe wreck'd.
And the world its foundations in ruin shall leave,
The end the last stoic shall calmly expect,
And sink proud on the bier of a universe wreck'd.
October 13th, 1825.
357
GOOD NIGHT.
Good night to all the world! there's none,
Beneath the “over-going” sun,
To whom I feel or hate or spite,
And so to all a fair good night.
Beneath the “over-going” sun,
To whom I feel or hate or spite,
And so to all a fair good night.
Would I could say good night to pain,
Good night to conscience and her train,
To cheerless poverty, and shame
That I am yet unknown to fame!
Good night to conscience and her train,
To cheerless poverty, and shame
That I am yet unknown to fame!
Would I could say good night to dreams
That haunt me with delusive gleams,
That through the sable future's veil
Like meteors glimmer, but to fail.
That haunt me with delusive gleams,
That through the sable future's veil
Like meteors glimmer, but to fail.
Would I could say a long good night
To halting between wrong and right,
And, like a giant with new force,
Awake prepared to run my course!
To halting between wrong and right,
And, like a giant with new force,
Awake prepared to run my course!
But time o'er good and ill sweeps on,
And when few years have come and gone,
The past will be to me as naught,
Whether remembered or forgot.
And when few years have come and gone,
The past will be to me as naught,
Whether remembered or forgot.
Yet let me hope one faithful friend,
O'er my last couch shall tearful bend;
And, though no day for me was bright,
Shall bid me then a long good night.
O'er my last couch shall tearful bend;
And, though no day for me was bright,
Shall bid me then a long good night.
October 13th, 1825.
358
PSALM CXXXVII.
Where mid Babel's proud gardens and palaces glide
The waves of Euphrates, we sat by the tide;
Our harps on the willows hung mournful above,
And we wept as we thought on the land of our love!
The waves of Euphrates, we sat by the tide;
Our harps on the willows hung mournful above,
And we wept as we thought on the land of our love!
For our masters came by, and a song they desired,
And mirth from the exile the spoiler required;
With mockery they bade us awake at their nod,
To please his blasphemers, the hymns of our God.
And mirth from the exile the spoiler required;
With mockery they bade us awake at their nod,
To please his blasphemers, the hymns of our God.
Say, how in the land of the heathen, his foe,
Can the songs of his temple in melody flow.
O Salem, though torn from thine altars away,
If one wish of my heart from thy mem'ry should stray,
Can the songs of his temple in melody flow.
O Salem, though torn from thine altars away,
If one wish of my heart from thy mem'ry should stray,
Then for ever be withered my hand, nor again
May it win from the harp that I cherish a strain;
Be rigid my tongue, and be voiceless my breath,
Fast locked, for the crime, in the silence of death!
May it win from the harp that I cherish a strain;
Be rigid my tongue, and be voiceless my breath,
Fast locked, for the crime, in the silence of death!
O God of our fathers! remember the day
When the heathen exulting made Salem their prey,
While our kindred stood by, nor our altars revered,
But the spoiler to havoc unpitying cheered.
When the heathen exulting made Salem their prey,
While our kindred stood by, nor our altars revered,
But the spoiler to havoc unpitying cheered.
Yet tremble, thou city of pride and of power!
The avenger shall come, and the terrible hour;
In the blood of thy children his blade shall be died,
For the God of our fathers shall fight on his side!
The avenger shall come, and the terrible hour;
In the blood of thy children his blade shall be died,
For the God of our fathers shall fight on his side!
November 15th, 1821.
359
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A YOUNG LADY.
These pages destined to contain
Of constant friendship records sweet,
Or of the stranger, who again
The eye, perchance, shall never meet,
Or of devotion, that in vain
Sought words to utter all it felt,
Like relics left at sacred fane
That tell what pilgrims there have knelt.
Of constant friendship records sweet,
Or of the stranger, who again
The eye, perchance, shall never meet,
Or of devotion, that in vain
Sought words to utter all it felt,
Like relics left at sacred fane
That tell what pilgrims there have knelt.
What mingling scenes, in distant years,
Will these recall to memory's eye!
Of gloom and radiance, smiles and tears,
Shifting like April's changeful sky;
Of loves and feuds, of hopes and fears,
Of rapturous hours so quick that fled,
And some, like stones that grief endears,
Will stand, memorials of the dead.
Will these recall to memory's eye!
Of gloom and radiance, smiles and tears,
Shifting like April's changeful sky;
Of loves and feuds, of hopes and fears,
Of rapturous hours so quick that fled,
And some, like stones that grief endears,
Will stand, memorials of the dead.
Would that, with prophet's ken, I might
A glad and peaceful course assure,
To thy young star, whose lustre bright
Now sheds on earth its influence pure;
And say that when Time's hurrying flight
Shall steal thy cheek's vermilion glow;
Of those blue orbs obscure the light
And check that spirit's sparkling flow,
A glad and peaceful course assure,
To thy young star, whose lustre bright
Now sheds on earth its influence pure;
And say that when Time's hurrying flight
Shall steal thy cheek's vermilion glow;
Of those blue orbs obscure the light
And check that spirit's sparkling flow,
360
Still memory, when of buried days
The forms and scenes she shall restore,
Though weeping, haply she surveys
The loved and lovely then no more,
Shall shrink not with averted gaze
From troublous ghosts of wo or pain,
Of lingering hope that long betrays,
Of vows forgot or breathed in vain!
The forms and scenes she shall restore,
Though weeping, haply she surveys
The loved and lovely then no more,
Shall shrink not with averted gaze
From troublous ghosts of wo or pain,
Of lingering hope that long betrays,
Of vows forgot or breathed in vain!
Fair be thy course, as thou art fair!
Serene thy life, as thou art good!
No harrowing thoughts of days that were,
To mar thy bosom's peace obtrude!
And when thy glance, in joy or care
Cast on these lines, perchance, shall be,
Still think on one, whose constant prayer
Shall ask all heaven's best gifts for thee.
Serene thy life, as thou art good!
No harrowing thoughts of days that were,
To mar thy bosom's peace obtrude!
And when thy glance, in joy or care
Cast on these lines, perchance, shall be,
Still think on one, whose constant prayer
Shall ask all heaven's best gifts for thee.
May 5th, 1827.
363
PROLOGUE TO WALDIMAR, A TRAGEDY.
The Tragic Muse, since first her power began,
To rouse to generous warmth the soul of man,
Her scenes and actors everywhere has found,—
In savage wilds, or fable-haunted ground.
For Art may tame or mould, but cannot change
The master-passions in their varying range.
Wonder and Awe awoke, when first the eyes
Of the first patriarch saw the earth and skies;
Love, next in power and order, lit his flame,
And Fear and Grief, as Guilt's companions, came;
Hate and Revenge, as Murder's heralds scowled,
Remorse and mad Despair behind him howled;
While Pity bent above the wreck deplored,
And Hope, with rapturous wing, triumphant soared.
These, the mind's taskers with their kindred train,
In every age and clime hold equal reign.
To rouse to generous warmth the soul of man,
Her scenes and actors everywhere has found,—
In savage wilds, or fable-haunted ground.
For Art may tame or mould, but cannot change
The master-passions in their varying range.
Wonder and Awe awoke, when first the eyes
Of the first patriarch saw the earth and skies;
Love, next in power and order, lit his flame,
And Fear and Grief, as Guilt's companions, came;
Hate and Revenge, as Murder's heralds scowled,
Remorse and mad Despair behind him howled;
While Pity bent above the wreck deplored,
And Hope, with rapturous wing, triumphant soared.
These, the mind's taskers with their kindred train,
In every age and clime hold equal reign.
Our author's scene is in an ancient day,
When stormy passions had their wildest play;
When Rome's enormous mass of power, o'ergrown,
Crumbled and quaked beneath a severed throne:
Each giant fragment, parting from the pile,
Shook all the world, and left an empire's spoil:
Each soldier-chieftain, with a monarch's power,
Usurped the transient homage of the hour;
And oft, insane with delegated might,
Perished, like him whose fate we show to-night.
When stormy passions had their wildest play;
364
Crumbled and quaked beneath a severed throne:
Each giant fragment, parting from the pile,
Shook all the world, and left an empire's spoil:
Each soldier-chieftain, with a monarch's power,
Usurped the transient homage of the hour;
And oft, insane with delegated might,
Perished, like him whose fate we show to-night.
Bold is each effort now to please the age
With dramas worthy of the classic stage,
In Fame's high dome the masters sit enthroned,
Whose spells resistless every passion owned;
Who gave to each conception prosperous birth,
And with immortal music filled the earth.
While vivid still their images appear,
While still their numbers linger on the ear,
But cold attention waits the modern bard,
Who risks the crowded theatre's award.
With dramas worthy of the classic stage,
In Fame's high dome the masters sit enthroned,
Whose spells resistless every passion owned;
Who gave to each conception prosperous birth,
And with immortal music filled the earth.
While vivid still their images appear,
While still their numbers linger on the ear,
But cold attention waits the modern bard,
Who risks the crowded theatre's award.
Yet, our New World the muse's pencil needs!
What wild adventures, what heroic deeds,
Remain unsung! what forms, that in the gloom
Of the long Past magnificently loom,
Might re-enact the stories of their time,
Arouse to virtue, or affright from crime!
What wild adventures, what heroic deeds,
Remain unsung! what forms, that in the gloom
Of the long Past magnificently loom,
Might re-enact the stories of their time,
Arouse to virtue, or affright from crime!
Would ye behold the native drama rise?
To kill the pioneers were most unwise!
All is not gained at once. The Genoese,
Who first explored our now familiar seas,
Bursting all barriers in his firm intent,
Found but the isles, and not the continent!
A hundred stars had shed prophetic rays,
Ere Shakspeare's sun obscured them in its blaze!
To kill the pioneers were most unwise!
All is not gained at once. The Genoese,
Who first explored our now familiar seas,
Bursting all barriers in his firm intent,
Found but the isles, and not the continent!
A hundred stars had shed prophetic rays,
Ere Shakspeare's sun obscured them in its blaze!
365
Try, then, our Author's argument and cause,
By patriot feeling, not by tyrant laws;
And let not Justice hold the balance, blind,
But poise the scales, determined—TO BE KIND!
By patriot feeling, not by tyrant laws;
And let not Justice hold the balance, blind,
But poise the scales, determined—TO BE KIND!
373
ELEGY ON HENRY SLENDER.
And thou art dead! as thin and spare
As mortal form could be;
And frame so lean, and bones so bare
We never more shall see.
Though finished are thine earthly days,
And o'er thy tomb the cow may graze
In rude simplicity—
Still busy memory lingers yet,
Thy well-loved face she can't forget.
As mortal form could be;
And frame so lean, and bones so bare
We never more shall see.
Though finished are thine earthly days,
And o'er thy tomb the cow may graze
In rude simplicity—
Still busy memory lingers yet,
Thy well-loved face she can't forget.
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Because I know full well—
I saw thee to the churchyard go,
I heard thy funeral knell.
They brought thee in thine own wheelbarrow,
And laid thee in thy grave so narrow,
Without a stone to tell
Thy name, thy birth-place, or thy station,
Thy virtues, or thy occupation.
Because I know full well—
I saw thee to the churchyard go,
I heard thy funeral knell.
They brought thee in thine own wheelbarrow,
And laid thee in thy grave so narrow,
Without a stone to tell
Thy name, thy birth-place, or thy station,
Thy virtues, or thy occupation.
I will not ask of what thou died,
Of dropsy or of fever;
Whether thy leg was mortified,
Or out of place thy liver.
It was enough for me to know,
That thou hast gone where all must go,
Must go, alas! for ever—
The when—the how—the why, or wherefore,
I never knew, nor do I care for.
Of dropsy or of fever;
Whether thy leg was mortified,
Or out of place thy liver.
374
That thou hast gone where all must go,
Must go, alas! for ever—
The when—the how—the why, or wherefore,
I never knew, nor do I care for.
And life's short day of joy and sorrow,
Shall never more be thine,
Its stormy nights, its cloudy morrow,
Its darkness or sunshine—
But yet thy name abroad shall ring,
And far and wide shall poets sing
Thy praise in strains divine;
And matrons old, and maidens tender,
Long sigh for thee, young Harry Slender.
Shall never more be thine,
Its stormy nights, its cloudy morrow,
Its darkness or sunshine—
But yet thy name abroad shall ring,
And far and wide shall poets sing
Thy praise in strains divine;
And matrons old, and maidens tender,
Long sigh for thee, young Harry Slender.
380
WEEHAWKEN.
Eve o'er our path is stealing fast;
Yon quivering splendours are the last
The sun will fling, to tremble o'er
The waves that kiss the opposing shore;
His latest glories fringe the height
Behind us, with their golden light.
Yon quivering splendours are the last
The sun will fling, to tremble o'er
The waves that kiss the opposing shore;
His latest glories fringe the height
Behind us, with their golden light.
The mountain's mirror'd outline fades
Amid the fast extending shades;
Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride,
Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide;
For the great stream a bulwark meet
That leaves its rock-encumbered feet.
Amid the fast extending shades;
Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride,
Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide;
For the great stream a bulwark meet
That leaves its rock-encumbered feet.
River and Mountain! though to song
Not yet, perchance, your names belong;
Those who have loved your evening hues,
Will ask not the recording Muse,
What antique tales she can relate,
Your banks and steeps to consecrate.
Not yet, perchance, your names belong;
Those who have loved your evening hues,
Will ask not the recording Muse,
What antique tales she can relate,
Your banks and steeps to consecrate.
Yet should the stranger ask, what lore
Of by-gone days, this winding shore,
Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell,
If vocal made by Fancy's spell,—
The varying legend might rehearse
Fit themes for high, romantic verse.
Of by-gone days, this winding shore,
Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell,
If vocal made by Fancy's spell,—
381
Fit themes for high, romantic verse.
O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod
Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod;
Or peered, with hunter's gaze, to mark
The progress of the glancing bark.
Spoils, strangely won on distant waves,
Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.
Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod;
Or peered, with hunter's gaze, to mark
The progress of the glancing bark.
Spoils, strangely won on distant waves,
Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.
When the great strife for Freedom rose
Here scouted oft her friends and foes,
Alternate, through the changeful war,
And beacon-fires flashed bright and far;
And here, when Freedom's strife was won,
Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son;—
Here scouted oft her friends and foes,
Alternate, through the changeful war,
And beacon-fires flashed bright and far;
And here, when Freedom's strife was won,
Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son;—
Her son,—the second of the band,
The Romans of the rescued land.
Where round yon cape the banks ascend,
Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend;
There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh,
There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.
The Romans of the rescued land.
Where round yon cape the banks ascend,
Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend;
There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh,
There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.
There last he stood. Before his sight
Flowed the fair river, free and bright;
The rising Mart and Isles and Bay,
Before him in their glory lay,—
Scenes of his love and of his fame,—
The instant ere the death-shot came.
Flowed the fair river, free and bright;
The rising Mart and Isles and Bay,
Before him in their glory lay,—
Scenes of his love and of his fame,—
The instant ere the death-shot came.
382
PREFACE TO AN ALBUM.
An Album, while an Album, is a thing
(If clean the paper, and the binding fair),
Pretty to look at; and the poets sing
Of many similes that appropriate are;
And which 'tis easy to our mind to bring
As none of them are new, or strange, or rare;
Such as—a maiden's heart—a baby's mind—
Or the first state of those two parents of mankind.
(If clean the paper, and the binding fair),
Pretty to look at; and the poets sing
Of many similes that appropriate are;
And which 'tis easy to our mind to bring
As none of them are new, or strange, or rare;
Such as—a maiden's heart—a baby's mind—
Or the first state of those two parents of mankind.
But ah! upon the simple maiden's heart,
Will Love, too soon, some guileful image trace;
And Sin and Satan soon will play their part,
And alter much the helpless infant's case.
Adam and Eve were soon seduced to start
From Paradise, awhile their resting place;
And so, an Album, in the course of time,
Is soiled by hands and feet, fingers and rhyme.
Will Love, too soon, some guileful image trace;
And Sin and Satan soon will play their part,
And alter much the helpless infant's case.
Adam and Eve were soon seduced to start
From Paradise, awhile their resting place;
And so, an Album, in the course of time,
Is soiled by hands and feet, fingers and rhyme.
Oh! and alas! while on this volume's brink,
Still a white sea, I stand, and meditate
Upon the many coloured kinds of ink,
Whose tortuous currents here must permeate,—
When on the torture of those brains I think,
Whose oozings here must be incorporate,—
Upon the geese that must the quills supply,
And those that must commit the poetry,—
Still a white sea, I stand, and meditate
Upon the many coloured kinds of ink,
Whose tortuous currents here must permeate,—
When on the torture of those brains I think,
Whose oozings here must be incorporate,—
Upon the geese that must the quills supply,
And those that must commit the poetry,—
383
I sorrow, that all fair things must decay,
While time, and accident, and mischief last;
That the red rose so soon must fade away,
The white be sullied by the ruthless blast;
The pure snow turned to mud, in half a day;
Even heaven's own glorious azure be o'ercast;
Imperial ermine be with dust defiled,
And China's finest crockery cracked and spoiled.
While time, and accident, and mischief last;
That the red rose so soon must fade away,
The white be sullied by the ruthless blast;
The pure snow turned to mud, in half a day;
Even heaven's own glorious azure be o'ercast;
Imperial ermine be with dust defiled,
And China's finest crockery cracked and spoiled.
Thou snow-white altar! which to friendship rear'd,
With freshest garlands should alone be hung,
And with no dull and smoky incense smear'd,
But such as perfume-laden Zephyr flung;
Strange hieroglyphics, soon, I am afeard,
Thy graceful sculpture will appear among;
The vulgar love their names to cut or write
On every post that's new, or tablet that is white!
With freshest garlands should alone be hung,
And with no dull and smoky incense smear'd,
But such as perfume-laden Zephyr flung;
Strange hieroglyphics, soon, I am afeard,
Thy graceful sculpture will appear among;
The vulgar love their names to cut or write
On every post that's new, or tablet that is white!
Of what an Album's like, before 'tis used,
I thus have chanted in my homely phrase;
But what it's like, by fate when long abused,
To tell, perplexes me in various ways;
Fancy invoked assistance has refused
To yield resemblances; because, she says,
It were to Love and Friendship treason vile,
To comment coarsely on their honest toil.
I thus have chanted in my homely phrase;
But what it's like, by fate when long abused,
To tell, perplexes me in various ways;
Fancy invoked assistance has refused
To yield resemblances; because, she says,
It were to Love and Friendship treason vile,
To comment coarsely on their honest toil.
Then, without thee, O Nymph! so often pray'd,
So rarely won, to listen to our cry!
Whose image floats in heavenly tints portray'd,
Of roseate morn, or eve's empurpled sky;—
In later poets' pictures much decay'd
And patched, and tattered in thy drapery;—
Without the Fancy! I must strive to find
Such similes as suit the common mind.
So rarely won, to listen to our cry!
Whose image floats in heavenly tints portray'd,
Of roseate morn, or eve's empurpled sky;—
In later poets' pictures much decay'd
And patched, and tattered in thy drapery;—
Without the Fancy! I must strive to find
Such similes as suit the common mind.
384
'Tis like a trunk, with ancient clothes replete,
Of every colour, fashion, age, and shape;
'Tis like a virtuoso's cabinet,
Thro' which with listless eye we talk and gape;
Where beauty and deformity we meet,
Birds of bright plumes and bats, the deer and ape:
'Tis like the legislature,—whereunto
Few swans, some hawks, and many goslings go.
Of every colour, fashion, age, and shape;
'Tis like a virtuoso's cabinet,
Thro' which with listless eye we talk and gape;
Where beauty and deformity we meet,
Birds of bright plumes and bats, the deer and ape:
'Tis like the legislature,—whereunto
Few swans, some hawks, and many goslings go.
'Tis like an ancient single lady's chest,
Where rummaging, the curious heir discovers
Old patterns, worn-out thimbles, and the rest
Of antique trumpery; fans, and flowers, and covers
Of pincushions; a petrified wasp's nest;
Letters from long defunct or married lovers;
Work-boxes, ten-pences that once were new,
And murder'd metre, if she was a blue.
Where rummaging, the curious heir discovers
Old patterns, worn-out thimbles, and the rest
Of antique trumpery; fans, and flowers, and covers
Of pincushions; a petrified wasp's nest;
Letters from long defunct or married lovers;
Work-boxes, ten-pences that once were new,
And murder'd metre, if she was a blue.
'Tis like a doomsday-book, wherein is writ
Of every man's capacity the measure,—
The length, and breadth, and boundaries of his wit,
And value of his intellectual treasure:—
'Tis like a party, when you ask to it
Clowns, who derive from such soirées no pleasure,
But are compelled in company to go,
Their awkwardness and ignorance to show.
Of every man's capacity the measure,—
The length, and breadth, and boundaries of his wit,
And value of his intellectual treasure:—
'Tis like a party, when you ask to it
Clowns, who derive from such soirées no pleasure,
But are compelled in company to go,
Their awkwardness and ignorance to show.
'Tis like a churchyard—where, in crooked rows,
Tomb-stones, and urns, and crosses are arrayed,
Memorials of the persons that repose
Beneath, whose virtues are thereon displayed;
Where every kind and colour, friends and foes,
Together sleep, beneath the cypress shade;
I wish I had let this simile alone—
It is a sad, though an important one.
Tomb-stones, and urns, and crosses are arrayed,
Memorials of the persons that repose
Beneath, whose virtues are thereon displayed;
Where every kind and colour, friends and foes,
Together sleep, beneath the cypress shade;
I wish I had let this simile alone—
It is a sad, though an important one.
385
For, as those pale memorials to the eye
Of unforgetful friendship, can restore
The loved and lovely in the days gone by,
The forms once dear, that we behold no more,
So can these pages bring the absent nigh,
And summon back the ghost from Lethe's shore:
Therefore, they are sacred; and I am ashamed
In any wise their uses to have blamed.
Of unforgetful friendship, can restore
The loved and lovely in the days gone by,
The forms once dear, that we behold no more,
So can these pages bring the absent nigh,
And summon back the ghost from Lethe's shore:
Therefore, they are sacred; and I am ashamed
In any wise their uses to have blamed.
'Tis like a Talisman, by magic hands
Framed with quaint spells, and graved with figures strange,
That, by the instructed finger touched, commands
All images that float in nature's range;
Recalls each well-known form from distant lands,
And shows the shrouded dead without a change:
And long-forgotten scenes, a shadowy train,
And long-forgotten faces smile again.
Framed with quaint spells, and graved with figures strange,
That, by the instructed finger touched, commands
All images that float in nature's range;
Recalls each well-known form from distant lands,
And shows the shrouded dead without a change:
And long-forgotten scenes, a shadowy train,
And long-forgotten faces smile again.
386
INVOCATION.
It is not now as it has been of yore;—
The things which I have seen, I now can see no more.
Wordsworth.
The things which I have seen, I now can see no more.
Wordsworth.
O quick for me the goblet fill,
From bright Castalia's sparkling rill;
Pluck the young laurel's flexile bough,
And let its foliage wreathe my brow;
And bring the lyre with sounding shell,
The four-stringed lyre I loved so well!
From bright Castalia's sparkling rill;
Pluck the young laurel's flexile bough,
And let its foliage wreathe my brow;
And bring the lyre with sounding shell,
The four-stringed lyre I loved so well!
Lo! as I gaze, the picture flies
Of weary life's realities;
Behold the shade, the wild wood shade,
The mountain steeps, the checkered glade;
And hoary rocks and bubbling rills,
And painted waves and distant hills.
Of weary life's realities;
Behold the shade, the wild wood shade,
The mountain steeps, the checkered glade;
And hoary rocks and bubbling rills,
And painted waves and distant hills.
O! for an hour, let me forget
How much of life is left me yet;
Recall the visions of the past,
Fair as these tints that cannot last,
That all the heavens and waters o'er
Their gorgeous, transient glories pour.
How much of life is left me yet;
Recall the visions of the past,
Fair as these tints that cannot last,
That all the heavens and waters o'er
Their gorgeous, transient glories pour.
387
Ye pastoral scenes by fancy wrought!
Ye pageants of the loftier thought!
Creations proud! majestic things!
Heroes, and demigods, and kings!
Return, with all of shepherds' lore,
Or old romance that pleased before!
Ye pageants of the loftier thought!
Creations proud! majestic things!
Heroes, and demigods, and kings!
Return, with all of shepherds' lore,
Or old romance that pleased before!
Ye forms that are not of the earth,
Of grace, of valour, and of worth!
Ye bright abstractions, by the thought
Like the great master's pictures, wrought
To the ideal's shadowy mien,
From beauties fancied, dreamt or seen!
Of grace, of valour, and of worth!
Ye bright abstractions, by the thought
Like the great master's pictures, wrought
To the ideal's shadowy mien,
From beauties fancied, dreamt or seen!
Ye speaking sounds, that poet's ear
Alone in nature's voice can hear!
Thou full conception, vast and wide,
Hour of the lonely minstrel's pride,
As when projection gave of old
Alchymy's visionary gold!
Alone in nature's voice can hear!
Thou full conception, vast and wide,
Hour of the lonely minstrel's pride,
As when projection gave of old
Alchymy's visionary gold!
Return! return! oblivion bring
Of cares that vex, and thoughts that sting!
The hour of gloom is o'er my soul;
Disperse the shades, the fiends control,
As David's harp had power to do,
If sacred chronicles be true.
Of cares that vex, and thoughts that sting!
The hour of gloom is o'er my soul;
Disperse the shades, the fiends control,
As David's harp had power to do,
If sacred chronicles be true.
Oh come! by every classic spell,
By old Pieria's haunted well;
By revels on the Olmeian height
Held in the moon's religious light;
By virgin forms that wont to lave
Permessus! in thy lucid wave!
By old Pieria's haunted well;
By revels on the Olmeian height
Held in the moon's religious light;
By virgin forms that wont to lave
Permessus! in thy lucid wave!
388
In vain! in vain! the strain has pass'd;
The laurel leaves upon the blast
Float, withered, ne'er again to bloom,
The cup is drained—the song is dumb—
And spell and rhyme alike in vain
Would woo the genial muse again.
The laurel leaves upon the blast
Float, withered, ne'er again to bloom,
The cup is drained—the song is dumb—
And spell and rhyme alike in vain
Would woo the genial muse again.
389
TO A LADY,
ON THE DEATH OF HER DAUGHTER WHO HAD JUST TAKEN THE VEIL.
Shall grief perverse, with midnight gloom,
Thy fairest days o'ercast,
While prostrate by a daughter's tomb,
Thy ceaseless sorrows last?
Ere the glad morn her gates unfolds,
They wake thee with a sigh,
And evening's pensive shade beholds
Tears dim thy lucid eye.
Thy fairest days o'ercast,
While prostrate by a daughter's tomb,
Thy ceaseless sorrows last?
Ere the glad morn her gates unfolds,
They wake thee with a sigh,
And evening's pensive shade beholds
Tears dim thy lucid eye.
Just was the debt to sacred grief
For her whose fate I sing,
Whose bloom was lovely, as 'twas brief,
And perished in its spring.
The earlier hours of passionate wo
A secret joy mysterious know,
To jealous sorrow dear;
I did not then forbid their flow,
But gave thee tear for tear.
For her whose fate I sing,
Whose bloom was lovely, as 'twas brief,
And perished in its spring.
The earlier hours of passionate wo
A secret joy mysterious know,
To jealous sorrow dear;
I did not then forbid their flow,
But gave thee tear for tear.
But short the term that nature gives
To unavailing sighs;
The constant grief that longer lives,
Seems morbid to the wise.
Thy dear remains, oh shade beloved!
In their dark prison pent,
Sleep on by all our moans unmoved,
Nor hear our sad lament.
To unavailing sighs;
The constant grief that longer lives,
Seems morbid to the wise.
390
In their dark prison pent,
Sleep on by all our moans unmoved,
Nor hear our sad lament.
Nor funeral dirge, nor anguish wild
Relentless fate can stay;
The mother mourns in vain her child,
For death retains his prey.
Still, still, the heartless monster calls
For victims, still he waves
The sickly torch that man appals
Still howls around our frighted walls,
And covers earth with graves.
Relentless fate can stay;
The mother mourns in vain her child,
For death retains his prey.
Still, still, the heartless monster calls
For victims, still he waves
The sickly torch that man appals
Still howls around our frighted walls,
And covers earth with graves.
Still under the same cypress shade,
A common urn beneath,
Sees parents with their children laid,
Who followed them in death.
Down to that grave, by anguish worn,
Despairing should'st thou go,
Friendship a double loss must mourn,
Our tears anew must flow.
A common urn beneath,
Sees parents with their children laid,
Who followed them in death.
Down to that grave, by anguish worn,
Despairing should'st thou go,
Friendship a double loss must mourn,
Our tears anew must flow.
Or dost thou, with enforced sighs,
Mourn like the common train,
Who in their solemn liveries
Decorous sadness feign?
That it was sweet to weep, a school
Of yore maintained; but false their rule,
And false their poets sing;
From grief so lingering and so dull,
No joy can ever spring.
Mourn like the common train,
Who in their solemn liveries
Decorous sadness feign?
That it was sweet to weep, a school
Of yore maintained; but false their rule,
And false their poets sing;
From grief so lingering and so dull,
No joy can ever spring.
Deep in the glooms of savage wood,
The turtle wails her mate,
But reconciled to widowhood,
Forgets at length her state.
So faithful grief will strive in vain
Its cherished misery to retain
Nor lift its funeral pall;
Time will at last a triumph gain,
Who triumphs over all.
The turtle wails her mate,
391
Forgets at length her state.
So faithful grief will strive in vain
Its cherished misery to retain
Nor lift its funeral pall;
Time will at last a triumph gain,
Who triumphs over all.
See by the smoking altar, where
Her Iphigénia bled,
The mother stand in wild despair,
And ask to join the dead.
But other cares her bosom knew,
The wings of time as swift they flew,
Brushed off the parent's tears;
Our Iphigénia's memory, too,
Must yield to fleeting years.
Her Iphigénia bled,
The mother stand in wild despair,
And ask to join the dead.
But other cares her bosom knew,
The wings of time as swift they flew,
Brushed off the parent's tears;
Our Iphigénia's memory, too,
Must yield to fleeting years.
Since then those pinions, broad and strong,
Must bear, perforce, away
Thy melancholy, nurs'd so long,
Why wail the dull delay?
Chase the black poison from thy soul,
And time anticipate,
Thine altered mood let use control,
And reason vindicate.
Must bear, perforce, away
Thy melancholy, nurs'd so long,
Why wail the dull delay?
Chase the black poison from thy soul,
And time anticipate,
Thine altered mood let use control,
And reason vindicate.
Not so complained the Grecian dame,
But armed her noble breast;
Her nature's weakness she o'ercame,
Her natural sighs repress'd.
“For why should I consume,” she said,
With vain regrets my heart?
When smiling in its infant bed,
I knew one day its fragile thread
The fatal shears must part.”
But armed her noble breast;
Her nature's weakness she o'ercame,
Her natural sighs repress'd.
“For why should I consume,” she said,
With vain regrets my heart?
When smiling in its infant bed,
I knew one day its fragile thread
The fatal shears must part.”
392
Ah no! your rules, ye stoics cold,
In vain would I enforce—
Great God! thy temple's gates unfold,
And show our sole resource.
A hand divine alone can heal
The wounds the bleeding heart must feel,
Vain human counsels were;
Beside the sacred altar kneel,
The comforter is there.
In vain would I enforce—
Great God! thy temple's gates unfold,
And show our sole resource.
A hand divine alone can heal
The wounds the bleeding heart must feel,
Vain human counsels were;
Beside the sacred altar kneel,
The comforter is there.
Go, Christian mother, to the shrine,
And wing thy griefs above,
Submissive to the power divine,
That chastens in its love.
Tho' rankles yet thy recent smart,
Eternal wisdom own,
That breaks the tenderest ties apart,
To fix the undivided heart
Upon itself alone.
And wing thy griefs above,
Submissive to the power divine,
That chastens in its love.
Tho' rankles yet thy recent smart,
Eternal wisdom own,
That breaks the tenderest ties apart,
To fix the undivided heart
Upon itself alone.
Ere the decree of fate went forth,
Already she had died;
Snatched from the dangerous snares of earth,
Heaven claimed her as its bride.
From that vain world its votaries paint
With each delusive die,
Shut out by every firm restraint,
Lived, for her God alone, the saint,
And knew no other tie.
Already she had died;
Snatched from the dangerous snares of earth,
Heaven claimed her as its bride.
From that vain world its votaries paint
With each delusive die,
Shut out by every firm restraint,
Lived, for her God alone, the saint,
And knew no other tie.
Self-dedicated to the rite
Behold the victim move,
When stands prepared the altar bright
Of everlasting love.
The incense mounts, the wreaths are hung;
Attends the sacrifice;
But whence those shrieks the crowd among!
Her bridal hymn I should have sung,—
I chant her obsequies.
Behold the victim move,
When stands prepared the altar bright
Of everlasting love.
393
Attends the sacrifice;
But whence those shrieks the crowd among!
Her bridal hymn I should have sung,—
I chant her obsequies.
So fades a rose untimely strown,
Of all its petals shorn;
Plucked, with its budding charms half blown,
An altar to adorn.
Its perfumes sweet, at morning light,
Through all the fane it shed;
Eve came, and dark descending night
Saw all its glories fled.
Of all its petals shorn;
Plucked, with its budding charms half blown,
An altar to adorn.
Its perfumes sweet, at morning light,
Through all the fane it shed;
Eve came, and dark descending night
Saw all its glories fled.
Just Heaven! we mourn her young career
Cut short by sudden blight;
But own thy wisdom; every year
Was numbered in thy sight.
We should not mete by length of days
The term the saintly spirit stays,
Its trials to endure;
Death to the wretch whom none can praise,
Alone is premature.
Cut short by sudden blight;
But own thy wisdom; every year
Was numbered in thy sight.
We should not mete by length of days
The term the saintly spirit stays,
Its trials to endure;
Death to the wretch whom none can praise,
Alone is premature.
VOL. II.—D D D
394
THE OCEAN OF NONSENSE.
A misty dream—and a flashy maze—
Of a sunshiny flush—and a moonshiny haze!
I lay asleep with my eyes open wide,
When a donkey came to my bedside,
And bade me forth to take a ride.
It was not a donkey of vulgar breed,
But a cloudy vision—a night-mare steed!
His ears were abroad like a warrior's plume,—
From the bosom of darkness was borrowed the gloom
Of his dark, dark hide, and his coal black hair,
But his eyes like no earthly eyes they were!
Like the fields of heaven where none can see
The depths of their blue eternity!
Like the crest of a helmet taught proudly to nod
And wave like a meteor's train abroad,
Was the long, long tail, that glorified
The glorious donkey's hinder side!
And his gait description's power surpasses—
'Twas the beau ideal of all jack asses.
Of a sunshiny flush—and a moonshiny haze!
I lay asleep with my eyes open wide,
When a donkey came to my bedside,
And bade me forth to take a ride.
It was not a donkey of vulgar breed,
But a cloudy vision—a night-mare steed!
His ears were abroad like a warrior's plume,—
From the bosom of darkness was borrowed the gloom
Of his dark, dark hide, and his coal black hair,
But his eyes like no earthly eyes they were!
Like the fields of heaven where none can see
The depths of their blue eternity!
Like the crest of a helmet taught proudly to nod
And wave like a meteor's train abroad,
Was the long, long tail, that glorified
The glorious donkey's hinder side!
And his gait description's power surpasses—
'Twas the beau ideal of all jack asses.
I strode o'er his back, and he took in his wind—
And he pranced before—and he kicked behind—
And he gave a snort, as when mutterings roll
Abroad from pole to answering pole—
While the storm-king sits on the hail-cloud's back—
And amuses himself with the thunder-crack!
Then off he went, like a bird with red wings
That builds her nest where the cliff-flower springs—
Like a cloudy steed by the light of the moon,
When the night's muffled horn plays a windy tune;
And away I went, while my garment flew
Forth on the night breeze, with a snow-shiny hue—
Like a streak of white foam on a sea of blue.
Up-bristled then the night-charger's hair too,
Like a bayonet grove, at a shoulder-hoo!
And he pranced before—and he kicked behind—
And he gave a snort, as when mutterings roll
Abroad from pole to answering pole—
While the storm-king sits on the hail-cloud's back—
And amuses himself with the thunder-crack!
395
That builds her nest where the cliff-flower springs—
Like a cloudy steed by the light of the moon,
When the night's muffled horn plays a windy tune;
And away I went, while my garment flew
Forth on the night breeze, with a snow-shiny hue—
Like a streak of white foam on a sea of blue.
Up-bristled then the night-charger's hair too,
Like a bayonet grove, at a shoulder-hoo!
Hurra! hurra! what a hurry we made!
My hairs rose too, but I was not afraid;
Like a stand of pikes they stood up all,
Each eye stood out like a cannon ball;
So rapt I looked, like the god of song,
As I shot and whizzed like a rocket along.
Thus thro' the trough of the air as we dash'd,
Goodly and glorious visions flash'd
Before my sight with a flashing and sparkling,
In whose blaze all earthly gems are darkling.
As the gushes of morning, the trappings of eve,
Or the myriad lights that will dance when you give
Yourself a clout on the orb of sight,
And see long ribands of rainbow light;
Such were the splendours, and so divine,
So rosy and starry, and fiery and fine.
My hairs rose too, but I was not afraid;
Like a stand of pikes they stood up all,
Each eye stood out like a cannon ball;
So rapt I looked, like the god of song,
As I shot and whizzed like a rocket along.
Thus thro' the trough of the air as we dash'd,
Goodly and glorious visions flash'd
Before my sight with a flashing and sparkling,
In whose blaze all earthly gems are darkling.
As the gushes of morning, the trappings of eve,
Or the myriad lights that will dance when you give
Yourself a clout on the orb of sight,
And see long ribands of rainbow light;
Such were the splendours, and so divine,
So rosy and starry, and fiery and fine.
Then eagle! then stars! and then rainbows! and all
That I saw at Niagara's tumbling fall,
Where I sung so divinely of them and their glories,
While mewed in vile durance, and kept by the tories.
Where the red cross flag was abroad on the blast
I sat very mournful, but not downcast.
My harp on the willows I did not hang up,
Nor the winglets of fancy were suffered to droop,—
But I soared, and I swooped, like a bird with red wings,
Who mounts to the cloud-god, and soaringly sings.
That I saw at Niagara's tumbling fall,
Where I sung so divinely of them and their glories,
While mewed in vile durance, and kept by the tories.
Where the red cross flag was abroad on the blast
I sat very mournful, but not downcast.
My harp on the willows I did not hang up,
Nor the winglets of fancy were suffered to droop,—
396
Who mounts to the cloud-god, and soaringly sings.
But the phantom steed in his whirlwind course,
Galloped along like Belzebub's horse,
Till we came to a bank, dark, craggy, and wild,
Where no rock-flowers blushed, no verdure smiled—
But sparse from the thunder cliffs bleak and bare,—
Like the plumage of ravens that warrior helms wear.
And below very far was a gulf profound,
Where tumbling and rumbling, at distance resound
Billowy clouds—o'er whose bottomless bed
The curtain of night its volumes spread—
But a rushing of fire was revealing the gloom,
Where convulsions had birth, and the thunders a home.
Galloped along like Belzebub's horse,
Till we came to a bank, dark, craggy, and wild,
Where no rock-flowers blushed, no verdure smiled—
But sparse from the thunder cliffs bleak and bare,—
Like the plumage of ravens that warrior helms wear.
And below very far was a gulf profound,
Where tumbling and rumbling, at distance resound
Billowy clouds—o'er whose bottomless bed
The curtain of night its volumes spread—
But a rushing of fire was revealing the gloom,
Where convulsions had birth, and the thunders a home.
You may put out the eyes of the sun at mid-day—
You may hold a young cherubim fast by the tail—
You may steal from night's angel his blanket away—
Or the song of the bard at its flood-tide may stay,
But that cloud-phantom donkey to stop you would fail!
You may hold a young cherubim fast by the tail—
You may steal from night's angel his blanket away—
Or the song of the bard at its flood-tide may stay,
But that cloud-phantom donkey to stop you would fail!
He plunged in the gulf—'twas a great way to go,
E'er we lit mid the darkness and flashings below;
And I looked—as I hung o'er that sulphurous light—
Like a warrior of flame!—on a courser of night!
But what I beheld in that dark ocean's roar,
I have partly described in a poem before,
And the rest I reserve for a measure more strong,
When my heart shall be heaving and bursting with song!
E'er we lit mid the darkness and flashings below;
And I looked—as I hung o'er that sulphurous light—
Like a warrior of flame!—on a courser of night!
But what I beheld in that dark ocean's roar,
I have partly described in a poem before,
And the rest I reserve for a measure more strong,
When my heart shall be heaving and bursting with song!
But I saw as he sailed 'mid the dusky air,
A bird that I thought I knew everywhere,
A fierce gray bird with a terrible beak,
With a glittering eye, and peculiar shriek,
“Proud Bird of the Cliff!” I addressed him then—
“How my heart swells high thus to meet thee again!
Thou whose bare bosom for rest is laid
On pillows of night by the thunder-cloud made!
With a rushing of wings and a screaming of praise
Who in ecstasy soar'st in the red-hot blaze!
Who dancest in heaven to the song of the trump,
To the fife's acclaim, and bass-drum's thump!
Whence com'st thou,” I cried, “and goest whither?”
As I gently detained him by his tail-feather.
He replied, “Mr. N---! Mr. N---, let me loose!
I am not an eagle, but only a goose!—
Your optics are weak, and the weather is hazy—
And excuse the remark, but I think you are crazy.”
A bird that I thought I knew everywhere,
A fierce gray bird with a terrible beak,
With a glittering eye, and peculiar shriek,
397
“How my heart swells high thus to meet thee again!
Thou whose bare bosom for rest is laid
On pillows of night by the thunder-cloud made!
With a rushing of wings and a screaming of praise
Who in ecstasy soar'st in the red-hot blaze!
Who dancest in heaven to the song of the trump,
To the fife's acclaim, and bass-drum's thump!
Whence com'st thou,” I cried, “and goest whither?”
As I gently detained him by his tail-feather.
He replied, “Mr. N---! Mr. N---, let me loose!
I am not an eagle, but only a goose!—
Your optics are weak, and the weather is hazy—
And excuse the remark, but I think you are crazy.”
398
THE DELUGE.
SUPPOSED TO BE BY THE AUTHOR OF “JUDGMENT, A VISION.”
Methought I stood within a palm-tree grove,
Held in a sleep-like spell—the cooling shades,
Verdure o'er-canopying, voice of birds,
Green hues of nature, perfumes exquisite,
And heaven's fair front with all its glory tricked,
With dazzling argentry and golden waves,
Clouds roseate-wreathed, and broad pavilion spread
High in the west, with crimson tapestry
And Tyrian purple hung—these o'er my senses
Came like a dreamy trance. In that fair grove,
The level beams of the retiring sun
Streamed mottled, multiform, with magic tints,
'Mid the long spiry leaves and tall straight columns,
Where glorious birds, with plumage many-colour'd,
Sat motionless. In their declining trains,
Shone 'mid the foliage from aloft, the glow
Of ruby, emerald, topaz, sardonyx,
All hues that sparkled in the diadems
Of Babylon's or India's monarchs old,
Irradiant.
As I gazed, beside the grove,
A green vale gently sloping I beheld.
There grew the date, the fig-tree and the plane,
And in the midst a whispering brook, that kiss'd
Pebbles to modern mineralogists
Unknown, made music breathing equally of life
And calm repose—Its margin many-tufted
With peerless flow'rets, such as blushed of yore
In Nebuchadnezzar's yard, or the parterre
Of Solomon, or in the regal bower
Of great Semiramis.
An easy swell
Rose from the vale: reposing on its summit
A bulky structure lay; most like two barks,
Joined latitudinally, covered with a platform,
Whereon a dome is reared, o'er-canopied
With shelving roofs. Mechanic specimens
Drawn by exertions of equestrian strength,
Like this, on Hudson's waves are visible;—
From such, when Tyre defied the child of Ammon,
Its massive freight the huge balista hurled—
Held in a sleep-like spell—the cooling shades,
Verdure o'er-canopying, voice of birds,
Green hues of nature, perfumes exquisite,
And heaven's fair front with all its glory tricked,
With dazzling argentry and golden waves,
Clouds roseate-wreathed, and broad pavilion spread
High in the west, with crimson tapestry
And Tyrian purple hung—these o'er my senses
Came like a dreamy trance. In that fair grove,
The level beams of the retiring sun
Streamed mottled, multiform, with magic tints,
'Mid the long spiry leaves and tall straight columns,
Where glorious birds, with plumage many-colour'd,
Sat motionless. In their declining trains,
Shone 'mid the foliage from aloft, the glow
Of ruby, emerald, topaz, sardonyx,
All hues that sparkled in the diadems
Of Babylon's or India's monarchs old,
Irradiant.
As I gazed, beside the grove,
A green vale gently sloping I beheld.
There grew the date, the fig-tree and the plane,
399
Pebbles to modern mineralogists
Unknown, made music breathing equally of life
And calm repose—Its margin many-tufted
With peerless flow'rets, such as blushed of yore
In Nebuchadnezzar's yard, or the parterre
Of Solomon, or in the regal bower
Of great Semiramis.
An easy swell
Rose from the vale: reposing on its summit
A bulky structure lay; most like two barks,
Joined latitudinally, covered with a platform,
Whereon a dome is reared, o'er-canopied
With shelving roofs. Mechanic specimens
Drawn by exertions of equestrian strength,
Like this, on Hudson's waves are visible;—
From such, when Tyre defied the child of Ammon,
Its massive freight the huge balista hurled—
Methought a stair clomb high the green hill side,
To where in that vast edifice expanded
A portal stood. Then came a mingled train,
With weary steps and sad reverted eyes,
Of size like Amalek, or him of Gath,
Or his surpassing stature, who maintained
His royal throne in forest-girdled Bashan,
And stretched his ponderous limbs on couch of iron.
First, touched with earliest frosts of sacred eld,
Yet upright, with majestic port elate,
The undeluged world's great patriarch went. In vain
My quest (so strange the pageantry of dreams!)
Sought to behold his venerable spouse.
Then passed into the ark, three goodly men,
Following the sage, each with encircling arm
Supporting a fair form of peerless mould;
And a long train behind went mounting still;
As prisoners upon whom the massive portal
Shuts, grating dolorous requiem to the joys
Of liberty and daylight—so they went,
And darkness hid them from. But anon,
Soft on the breeze came notes of minstrelsy;
A bridal train along the vale advanced,
In quaint attire and jewels sheen arrayed;
With step elastic, bounding to the change
Of quick delightful music. There the sons
Of Tubal touched with fingers light the chords,
Which quivered with ecstatic harmony;
And Tubal's offspring bade the sounding brass
Wake its bold clangors. Others through the coil
Of serpent tubes the winding sound prolonged;
While some on pastoral flutes and sweet recorders,
Breathed tones like those, which o'er Italian seas,
Heard in the stillness of the radiant night,
Imbodying passion's soul in melody,
Feed love and young desire.
As when a stranger,
Lingering amid the gardens of the deep,
That stud the glittering Caribbean waves,
In some Antillian grove, beneath the shade
Of tall palmettos, and the embowering wood
Of fig-tree huge, self-multiplied, beholds
Dark Afric's children, on a festal day,
In rainbow colours dight, their dance uncouth,
Albeit not void of grace with vigorous limbs,
Prolong to rustic banja's tinkling twang,—
While on the lively green, the blushing grape,
The golden orange, and the shapely pear,
And ripe ananas with its scaly coat
And virent tuft, in rich confusion lie;—
The stranger looks delighted on the scene
Novel and gay;—so looked I on the rout
Who came with joyance and with minstrelsy.
To where in that vast edifice expanded
A portal stood. Then came a mingled train,
With weary steps and sad reverted eyes,
Of size like Amalek, or him of Gath,
Or his surpassing stature, who maintained
His royal throne in forest-girdled Bashan,
And stretched his ponderous limbs on couch of iron.
First, touched with earliest frosts of sacred eld,
Yet upright, with majestic port elate,
The undeluged world's great patriarch went. In vain
My quest (so strange the pageantry of dreams!)
Sought to behold his venerable spouse.
Then passed into the ark, three goodly men,
Following the sage, each with encircling arm
Supporting a fair form of peerless mould;
And a long train behind went mounting still;
As prisoners upon whom the massive portal
400
Of liberty and daylight—so they went,
And darkness hid them from. But anon,
Soft on the breeze came notes of minstrelsy;
A bridal train along the vale advanced,
In quaint attire and jewels sheen arrayed;
With step elastic, bounding to the change
Of quick delightful music. There the sons
Of Tubal touched with fingers light the chords,
Which quivered with ecstatic harmony;
And Tubal's offspring bade the sounding brass
Wake its bold clangors. Others through the coil
Of serpent tubes the winding sound prolonged;
While some on pastoral flutes and sweet recorders,
Breathed tones like those, which o'er Italian seas,
Heard in the stillness of the radiant night,
Imbodying passion's soul in melody,
Feed love and young desire.
As when a stranger,
Lingering amid the gardens of the deep,
That stud the glittering Caribbean waves,
In some Antillian grove, beneath the shade
Of tall palmettos, and the embowering wood
Of fig-tree huge, self-multiplied, beholds
Dark Afric's children, on a festal day,
In rainbow colours dight, their dance uncouth,
Albeit not void of grace with vigorous limbs,
Prolong to rustic banja's tinkling twang,—
While on the lively green, the blushing grape,
The golden orange, and the shapely pear,
And ripe ananas with its scaly coat
And virent tuft, in rich confusion lie;—
The stranger looks delighted on the scene
Novel and gay;—so looked I on the rout
Who came with joyance and with minstrelsy.
401
Then in the porch the hoary patriarch stood
With aspect tristful yet severe—“Avaunt!”
He cried, “repent, repent! the hour is come,
Even now the deluge comes!”
With slight respect,
I trow, to his gray hairs, that sportive band
Sent forth, responsive to the warning voice,
Their heart's gay laugh exuberant, that shook
Their diaphragms, as to the glorious west
They pointed. As in Bagdad's ancient pomp,
Or Ispahan, when the last night is o'er
Of Ramadan's long fast, a flood of light
Pours from the bazars, on the sequent eve,
Resplendent, and the orient waves therein,
Burnished with brilliant blazonry, along
The streets and crowded marts, in splendid glow
Beam like the array of some enchanter's home;
So far and wide the kindling occident
Caught from the eternal fire one blaze of pomp,
Flashing with all its multitudinous tints,
From molten gold that swam in opal fields
To fierce intolerable glory. Thus
The sun went down, upon that fatal eve—
The portal closed. The man of God withdrew.
The mirth, the dance, the minstrelsy went on.
But where the glory of the west? As when
On Jersey's shore, the kindled meadows throw
A pale dull hue of red along the welkin,
So faint, so dim, was now the verge of heaven.
Untimely twilight came. A volumed mist
Rose suddenly, and far unrolling hung
Its sombrous drapery o'er the vaulted cope,
Darkening and deepening.—Whirlwinds pass'd along
On pinions terrible; the forest trees
Bowed their tall heads, and writhed in agony,
Like masts upon the ocean tempest-lashed—
The bridal train swift scattering, from my sight
Vanished—The birds flew screaming in wild circuits,
Mazed and in terror lost—And blackening still
The clouds went up. Sullenly, heavily,
Huge drops came pattering down. A hollow groan,
Even from the bowels of the monstrous world,
Was heard presaging wo. And then a roar,
As of a thousand chariots, or the voice
Of all the ram's horns when the embattled towers
Of Jericho in whelming ruin fell,
At distance came. The solid frame of earth
Shuddered beneath me;—when above, at once,
From tenfold darkness, burst the livid sheet
Of lightning, that revealed the horrid depths
Of blackness round; and on the distant brow
Of the horizon, as it fell, I marked
The ocean, piling wave on wave, advance,
A wall of waters, beetling over-head,
And climbing still, till its impending height
Threatened whole continents; as when it closed
On car-borne Ammon's chivalry and power;
With murmurs wrathful, like the eternal roar
On Lapland's sounding coast. While overhead
The dreadful thunder spoke; and with the peal,
I woke—Right gladly through the casement then,
I marked the dew-drops on the pendant spray,
Glittering with early morning's roseate beam,
And bless'd my stars that I had not been drowned.
With aspect tristful yet severe—“Avaunt!”
He cried, “repent, repent! the hour is come,
Even now the deluge comes!”
With slight respect,
I trow, to his gray hairs, that sportive band
Sent forth, responsive to the warning voice,
Their heart's gay laugh exuberant, that shook
Their diaphragms, as to the glorious west
They pointed. As in Bagdad's ancient pomp,
Or Ispahan, when the last night is o'er
Of Ramadan's long fast, a flood of light
Pours from the bazars, on the sequent eve,
Resplendent, and the orient waves therein,
Burnished with brilliant blazonry, along
The streets and crowded marts, in splendid glow
Beam like the array of some enchanter's home;
So far and wide the kindling occident
Caught from the eternal fire one blaze of pomp,
Flashing with all its multitudinous tints,
From molten gold that swam in opal fields
To fierce intolerable glory. Thus
The sun went down, upon that fatal eve—
The portal closed. The man of God withdrew.
The mirth, the dance, the minstrelsy went on.
But where the glory of the west? As when
On Jersey's shore, the kindled meadows throw
A pale dull hue of red along the welkin,
So faint, so dim, was now the verge of heaven.
Untimely twilight came. A volumed mist
Rose suddenly, and far unrolling hung
Its sombrous drapery o'er the vaulted cope,
Darkening and deepening.—Whirlwinds pass'd along
On pinions terrible; the forest trees
Bowed their tall heads, and writhed in agony,
Like masts upon the ocean tempest-lashed—
402
Vanished—The birds flew screaming in wild circuits,
Mazed and in terror lost—And blackening still
The clouds went up. Sullenly, heavily,
Huge drops came pattering down. A hollow groan,
Even from the bowels of the monstrous world,
Was heard presaging wo. And then a roar,
As of a thousand chariots, or the voice
Of all the ram's horns when the embattled towers
Of Jericho in whelming ruin fell,
At distance came. The solid frame of earth
Shuddered beneath me;—when above, at once,
From tenfold darkness, burst the livid sheet
Of lightning, that revealed the horrid depths
Of blackness round; and on the distant brow
Of the horizon, as it fell, I marked
The ocean, piling wave on wave, advance,
A wall of waters, beetling over-head,
And climbing still, till its impending height
Threatened whole continents; as when it closed
On car-borne Ammon's chivalry and power;
With murmurs wrathful, like the eternal roar
On Lapland's sounding coast. While overhead
The dreadful thunder spoke; and with the peal,
I woke—Right gladly through the casement then,
I marked the dew-drops on the pendant spray,
Glittering with early morning's roseate beam,
And bless'd my stars that I had not been drowned.
406
THE DEAD OF 1832.
Oh Time and Death! with certain pace,
Though still unequal, hurrying on,
O'erturning in your awful race,
The cot, the palace, and the throne!
Though still unequal, hurrying on,
O'erturning in your awful race,
The cot, the palace, and the throne!
Not always in the storm of war,
Nor by the pestilence that sweeps
From the plague-smitten realms afar,
Beyond the old and solemn deeps:
Nor by the pestilence that sweeps
From the plague-smitten realms afar,
Beyond the old and solemn deeps:
In crowds the good and mighty go,
And to those vast dim chambers hie:—
Where mingled with the high and low,
Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie!
And to those vast dim chambers hie:—
Where mingled with the high and low,
Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie!
Dread Ministers of God! sometimes
Ye smite at once, to do His will,
In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes,
Those—whose renown ye cannot kill!
Ye smite at once, to do His will,
In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes,
Those—whose renown ye cannot kill!
When all the brightest stars that burn
At once are banished from their spheres,
Men sadly ask, when shall return
Such lustre to the coming years?
At once are banished from their spheres,
Men sadly ask, when shall return
Such lustre to the coming years?
407
For where is he
—who lived so long—
Who raised the modern Titan's ghost,
And showed his fate, in powerful song,
Whose soul for learning's sake was lost?
Who raised the modern Titan's ghost,
And showed his fate, in powerful song,
Whose soul for learning's sake was lost?
Where he—who backwards to the birth
Of Time itself, adventurous trod,
And in the mingled mass of earth
Found out the handiwork of God?
Of Time itself, adventurous trod,
And in the mingled mass of earth
Found out the handiwork of God?
Where he—who in the mortal head,
Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace
The soul's vast features, that shall tread
The stars, when earth is nothingness?
Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace
The soul's vast features, that shall tread
The stars, when earth is nothingness?
Where he—who struck old Albyn's lyre,
Till round the world its echoes roll,
And swept, with all a prophet's fire,
The diapason of the soul?
Till round the world its echoes roll,
And swept, with all a prophet's fire,
The diapason of the soul?
Where he—who read the mystic lore,
Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep;
And dared presumptuous to explore
Secrets four thousand years could keep?
Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep;
And dared presumptuous to explore
Secrets four thousand years could keep?
Where he—who with a poet's eye
Of truth, on lowly nature gazed,
And made even sordid Poverty
Classic, when in HIS numbers glazed?
Of truth, on lowly nature gazed,
And made even sordid Poverty
Classic, when in HIS numbers glazed?
Where—that old sage so hale and staid,
The “greatest good” who sought to find;
Who in his garden mused, and made
All forms of rule, for all mankind?
The “greatest good” who sought to find;
Who in his garden mused, and made
All forms of rule, for all mankind?
408
And thou—whom millions far removed
Revered—the hierarch meek and wise,
Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved,
Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.
Revered—the hierarch meek and wise,
Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved,
Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.
He too—the heir of glory—where
Hath great Napoleon's scion fled?
Ah! glory goes not to an heir!
Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!
Hath great Napoleon's scion fled?
Ah! glory goes not to an heir!
Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!
But hark! a nation sighs! for he,
Last of the brave who perilled all
To make an infant empire free,
Obeys the inevitable call!
Last of the brave who perilled all
To make an infant empire free,
Obeys the inevitable call!
They go—and with them is a crowd,
For human rights who THOUGHT and DID,
We rear to them no temples proud,
Each hath his mental pyramid.
For human rights who THOUGHT and DID,
We rear to them no temples proud,
Each hath his mental pyramid.
All earth is now their sepulchre,
The MIND, their monument sublime—
Young in eternal fame they are—
Such are YOUR triumphs, Death and Time.
The MIND, their monument sublime—
Young in eternal fame they are—
Such are YOUR triumphs, Death and Time.
THE END.
| The writings of Robert C. Sands | |