The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark

“Je crois que le monde est gouverné par une volonté puissante et sage; ... mais ce même monde—est-il eternel ou créé? Y a-t-il un principe unique des choses?”

Rousseau, Emile, liv. iv.

There is a Spirit, whose reviving power
Dwells through the changes of each earthly hour:
Where the sere blooms of man's decline are shed,
And sterile snows the brow of age o'erspread;
Or while each impulse of the heart is young,
And the light laugh falls sweet from childhood's tongue:
There lurks that moving spirit, bound to all—
O'er which nor chance nor time can fling a thrall;
Through lengthened years its force unbroken moves,
Guiding the hopes of earth, the cares, the loves;
Where'er the land outspreads, or sunshine lies,
Poured on old ocean from the boundless skies;
In calm or storm, in light or shade, it springs,
And broods o'er nature with perpetual wings.

Its name is Life—and glorious is its sway,
Which seas, and worlds on worlds, and stars, obey;
Born from the exhaustless might of God alone,
The extended universe is but its throne;
In liberal measure, through the waste of years,
Its quenchless power, or principle, appears;
Fadeless and unrepressed its lustres move,
Won from the fountains of Eternal Love!

Mysterious Life! how wide is thy domain!
In nature's scope how absolute thy reign!
In moving force thy kindling gleams appear,
When dewy blooms bedeck the opening year;
When, robed in laughing guise, the Spring comes on,
And waves her odorous garlands in the sun:
When the soft air comes balmy from the West,
And tenderest verdure cheers the meadow's breast:
How teem the gifts of life at such an hour!—
How sighs the zephyr—how expands the flower!
High from the forest's nodding tops arise
Rich clouds of hidden fragrance through the skies—
Their viewless wings the abyss of ether fan,
While dreams, exalting, fire the breast of man.
Awakening life in every thought prevails;
He draws rapt inspiration from the gales:
To the charmed eye above, the golden sun
Doth his perpetual journeys brightly run;

Around his course, in solemn pomp, repose
Gay clouds that drink his glory as he goes;
He bathes the desert waste, the city's fanes;
He pours clear radiance on the hills and plains;
Till restless life, still travelling with his rays,
O'er earth and heaven, in trembling lustre plays.

Who, when the summer laughs in light around,
But feels that spirit's glowing power abound?
Warmed from the south, the gladsome hours are shed,
Lending new verdure to each mountain-head;
Luxuriant blessings crown the pleasant scene,
And the broad landscape glows in sunny green;
While leaves and birds and streams their songs attune,
And, steeped in music, smiles the rose of June;
Making the freighted bliss it scatters there,
Seem like the breathings of ambrosial air;
While, o'er the tall old hills and vales between,
In peerless glory, swells the blue serene:
Unbounded skies!—where life triumphant dwells,
And light resistless from its fountain-wells;
Where beauty unapproached—alone—sublime,
Mocks at the restless change of earth and time;
And clothed in radiance from the Eternal's throne,
Bends its unpillared arch from zone to zone!

Who that hath stood, where summer brightly lay
On some broad city, by a spreading bay,
And from a rural height the scene surveyed,
While on the distant strand the billows played,
But felt the vital spirit of the scene,
What time the south wind strayed through foliage green,
And freshened from the dancing waves, went on,
By the gay groves, and fields, and gardens won?
Oh, who that listens to the inspiring sound
Which the wide Ocean wakes against his bound,
While, like some fading hope, the distant sail
Flits o'er the dim blue waters, in the gale;
When the tired sea-bird dips his wings in foam,
And hies him to his beetling eyry home;
When sun-gilt ships are parting from the strand,
And glittering steamers by the breeze are fanned;
When the wide city's domes and piles aspire,
And rivers broad seemed touched with golden fire—
Save where some gliding boat their lustre breaks,
And volumed smoke its murky tower forsakes,
And surging in dark masses, soars to lie,
And stain the glory of the uplifted sky;
Oh, who at such a scene unmoved hath stood,
And gazed on town, and plain, and field, and flood,
Nor felt that life's keen spirit lingered there,
Through earth, and ocean, and the genial air?

‘Change is the life of Nature;’ and the hour
When storm and blight reveal lone autumn's power;
When damask leaves to swollen streams are cast,
Borne on the funeral anthems of the blast;
When smit with pestilence the woodlands seem,
Yet gorgeous as a Persian poet's dream;
That hour the seeds of life within it bears,
Though fraught with perished blooms and sobbing airs;
Though solemn companies of clouds may rest
Along the uncheered and melancholy west;
Though there no more the enthusiast may behold
Effulgent troops, arrayed in purple and gold;
Or mark the quivering lines of light aspire,
Where crimson shapes are bathed in living fire—
Though Nature's withered breast no more be fair,
Nor happy voices fluctuate in the air;
Yet is there life in Autumn's sad domains—
Life, strong and quenchless, through his kingdom reigns.
To kindred dust the leaves and flowers return,
Yet briefly sleep in winter's icy urn;
Though o'er their graves, in blended wreaths, repose
Dim wastes of dreary and untrodden snows,
Though the aspiring hills, rise cold and pale
To breast the murmurs of the northern gale,

Yet, when the jocund spring again comes on,
Their trance is broken, and their slumber done;
Awakening Nature reässerts her reign.
And her kind bosom throbs with life again!

‘'T is thus with man. He cometh, like the flower,
To feel the changes of each earthly hour;
To enjoy the sunshine, or endure the shade,
By hopes deluded, or by reason swayed;
Yet haply, if to Virtue's path he turn,
And feel her hallowed fires within him burn,
He passeth calmly from that sunny morn,
Where all the buds of youth are ‘newly born,’
Through varying intervals of onward years,
Until the eve of his decline appears:
And while the shadows round his path descend,
As down the vale of age his footsteps tend,
Peace o'er his bosom sheds her soft control,
And throngs of gentlest memories charm the soul;
Then, weaned from earth, he turns his steadfast eye
Beyond the grave, whose verge he falters nigh,
Surveys the brightening regions of the blest,
And, like a wearied pilgrim, sinks to rest.

The just man dies not, though within the tomb
His wasting form be laid, mid tears and gloom:
Though many a heart beats sadly when repose
His silvery locks in earth, like buried snows;

Yet love, and hope, and faith, with heavenward trust,
Tell that his spirit sinks not in the dust:
Above, entranced and glorious, it hath soared,
Where all its primal freshness is restored;
And from all sin released, and doubt, and pain,
Renews the morning of its youth again.

Yes! while the mourner stands beside the bier,
O'er a lost friend to shed the frequent tear—
To pour the tender and regretful sigh,
And feel the heart pulse fill the languid eye—
Even at that hour the thoughtful wo is vain,
Since change, not death, invokes affection's pain.
Naught but a tranquil slumberer resteth there,
Whose spirit's plumes have swept the upper air,
And caught the radiance borne from heaven along,
Fraught with rich incense and immortal song;
And passed the glittering gates which angels keep:
Oh, wherefore for the just should mourners weep?

And why should grief be moved for those who die,
When life is opening to the youthful eye;
When freshening love springs buoyant in the breast,
And hope's gay wings are fluttering undepressed:

While like the morning dews that gem the rose,
In the pure soul the dreams of joy repose;
When on the land and wave a light is thrown,
Which to the morn of life alone is known;
When every scene brings gladness to the view,
And every rapture of the heart is new;
Oh, who shall mourn that then the silver cord
Is loosed, and to its home the soul restored?
Oh, who should weep that thus, at such an hour,
Celestial light should burst upon the flower—
The human flower, that but began to glow
And brighten in this changeful world below;
Then, still unstained, was borne, to bloom on high,
And drink the lustre of a fadeless sky?

No! let the mother, when her infant's breath
Faints on her bosom, in the trance of death;
Then let her yearning heart obey the call
Of that high God who loves and cares for all;
Resign the untainted blossom to that shore
Where sicknesses and blight have power no more;
Where poisonous mildew comes not from the air,
To check the undying blooms and verdure there;
But where the gifts of life profuse are shed,
And funeral wailings rise not o'er the dead:
Where cherub-throngs in joy triumphant move,
And Faith lies slumbering on the breast of Love.

Change wears the name of death, the heart to bow,
And bid its rising shadows cloud the brow;

To teach the wandering soul, with truth severe,
That man hath no continual city here;
That all his hopes, unfixed on God and heaven,
Like pure aroma to the whirlwinds given,
Are raptures, wasted from a precious store,
They leave the bosom to return no more.

Could man's impressive reason bear the sway,
And guide his footsteps through life's little day;
Could every pulse that riots but to stain
His soul, move calmly in reflection's reign;
Could gentle Conscience whisper peace within,
And from his spirit sweep the darling sin;
Between his birth-hour and his final rest,
What high philosophy would fire his breast?
Time's glittering charms would then no more delude,
Its phantom train would all be unpursued;
No scars of sorrow's war the cheek would wear,
Ploughed by corroding thoughts too deeply there;
No gusts of passion would the brow deform,
Or lash the kindling bosom into storm;
But each pure wish, inspired, to heaven would soar,
And earth's dull fevers burn the heart no more.

And since the changes which in time are rife,
No real death contain, but teem with life;
Since blooming nature from decay can spring
With buds, and happy birds upon the wing;

Since year to year succeeds, and all renew
The scenes that glowed to childhood's wondering view,
Since lavish beauty riseth from the dust,
Shall man's cold heart withdraw from heaven its trust?
No! while the unblemished sun careers on high,
And gilds, with glorious smile, the earth and sky;
While tides, mysteriously-obedient, roll
From orient Indus to the frozen pole;
While chaste and free above, serenely bright,
The moon sails onward through a sea of light;
While verdant leaves in summer's air can play,
Or torrents thunder midst their rainbow spray:
Long as the unnumbered stars can flash and burn,
Or journeying winds upon their circuits turn;
There shall the exhaustless life of God be found,
And his kind love diffuse its gifts around.

Man to his rest may fall—but who should mourn,
Or plant the cypress by the marble urn?
In dust his wan, cold ashes may remain,
But no dark shade of death the soul can stain;
Beyond destruction's power 'tis formed to rise,
And bide the judgment-audit in the skies.
Then who the dirge would breathe, or pour the tear,
Since life is strong, and death is feeble here?
Gorged by the past, in dreamless slumber laid,
Rest the fond lover and the rosy maid;

Friends, parents, brothers, sisters, linger there,
Shut from the sunshine and the blessed air;
But change alone hath touched each earthly form,
Each faded banquet of the noisome worm:
Death o'er the ransomed spirit hath no power—
It waits the final and triumphant hour,
When sundering cerements shall their prey release,
Renewed and radiant, to the realms of Peace.

All-quenchless Life! bright effluence from God!
Whose impulse fills the universe abroad!
From thee the restless heart its movement draws—
In thee, revolving seasons find their laws;
Thine is the pulse that heaves the ocean wave,
Or bids the evening sunlight gild the grave;
That paints the gorgeous skies at night or morn,
When dawn is blushing, or when stars are born;
Which drives the unquiet storm along its way,
When broken ships are whelmed in surge and spray;
While inland hills are echoing wildly-loud.
As the mad thunders roll from cloud to cloud,
When giant trees, with arms uplifted high,
Creak, as the sheeted lightnings hurtle by;
While lengthened swells chastise the groaning strand,
And bid their deep-toned murmurs thrill the land!

Life, unsubdued, through all the world prevails;
Howls on the midnight waters, or in vales
Where gentlest Summer spreads her waving grain,
Smiles o'er the golden harvest, on the plain;
Bathes through the tranquil eve, the lake and stream,
In silvery lustre, and unbroken gleam;
Bids the rich sunset all its splendors form,
And braids the rainbow on the passing storm:
These are the gifts of Life—sublime and high—
They teach the soul its immortality!

Then let obedient man the lesson heed—
Let his observant eye its precepts read;
On earth, and ocean, and in heaven above,
Writ with the principle of life and love;
So, when the mockeries of this world shall cease,
His spotless soul may don the robes of peace:
Its tireless pinions shall in rapture wave.
Far through the bended skies, above the grave;
Where no sad care the soaring thought can bind,
Or vex the holy and eternal mind.

There, through unclouded leagues of fragrant air,
The walls of Heaven dispense their glories rare;
Prismatic shafts of sparkling light arise,
Pure as the thoughts that beam from angel's eyes;

There, glittering gates of massy pearl unfold,
And restless lustre streams from streets of gold;
There Life's immortal river flows abroad,
To cheer the city of the living God;
And where its liquid lapse extends serene,
By dewy pastures of undying green;
There, rich with healing leaves and fruits that glow,
The trees of life their generous wealth bestow;
There, gentle harpers cheer the shadeless day,
And balm and song are poured from every spray.

There, too, when nature's requiem-trump shall sound.
Will all the pure of earth again be found;
Long-sundered friends on that unblighted shore,
Will meet, to sorrow and to part no more;
But, calmed and blessed, in reverential love,
Through joyous bowers, and fields undimmed, will move,
A deathless king to praise—divine and just,
Beneath whose feet the burning stars are dust.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

LAST PRAYER OF MARY,

QUEEN OF SCOTS.

O Domine Deus! speravi in te;
O care mi Jesu, nunc libera me;
In dura catena, in misera pœna,
Desidero te;
Languendo, gemendo, et genuflectendo,
Adoro, imploro, ut liberes me!

It was the holy twilight hour, and clouds in crimson pride
Sailed through the golden firmament, in the calm evening-tide;
The peasant's cheerful song was hushed by every hill and glen,
The city's voice stole faintly out, and died the hum of men:
And as night's sombre shades came down o'er day's resplendent eye,
A faded face, from a prison cell, gazed out upon the sky;

For to that face the glad bright sun of earth for aye had set,
And the last time had come to mark eve's starry coronet!

Oh, who can paint the bitter thoughts that o'er her spirit stole,
As her pale lips gave utterance to feeling's deep control;
While, shadowed from life's vista back, thronged mid her falling tears
The phantasies of early hope, dreams of departed years:
When pleasure's light was sprinkled, and silver voices flung
Their rich and echoing cadences her virgin hours among;
When there came no shadow on her brow, no tear to dim her eye,
When there frowned no cloud of sorrow in her being's festal sky.

Perchance at that lone hour the thought of early visions came,
Of the trance that touched her lip with song, at love's mysterious flame;
When she listened to the low-breathed tones of him the idol One,
Who shone in her imagining, first ray of pleasure's sun:
Perchance the walk in evening hour—the impassioned kiss or vow,

The warm tear on the kindling cheek, the smile upon the brow:
But they came like flowers that wither, and the light of all had fled,
As a hue from April's pinion, o'er earth's budding bosom shed.

And thus, as star came after star, into the boundless heaven,
Were her deep thoughts, and eloquent, in pensive numbers given:
They were the offerings of a heart where grief had long held sway;
And now the night, the hour had come, to give her feelings way:
It was the last dim night of life; the sun had sunk to rest,
And the blue twilight haze had crept on the far mountain's breast;
And thus, as in her saddened heart the tide of love grew strong,
Poured her meek, quiet spirit forth, this flood of mournful song:

“The shades of evening gather now o'er the mysterious earth,
The viewless winds are whispering in wild capricious mirth;
The gentle moon hath come to shed a flood of glory round,
That through this soft and still repose sleeps richly on the ground;

And in the free, sweet gales that sweep along my prison bar,
Seem borne the pure, deep harmonies of every kindling star;
I see the blue streams glancing in the mild and chastened light,
And the gem-lit, fleecy clouds, that steal along the brow of night.

“Oh, must I leave existence now, while life should be like spring—
While joy should cheer my pilgrimage, with sunbeams from his wing?
Are the songs of hope for ever flown—the syren voice which flung
The chant of youth's warm happiness from the beguiler's tongue?
Shall I drink no more the melody of babbling stream or bird,
Or the scented gales of summer, as the leaves of June are stirred?
Shall the pulse of love wax fainter, and the spirit shrink from death,
As the bud-like thoughts that lit my heart fade in its chilling breath?

“I have passed the dreams of childhood, and my loves and hopes are gone,
And I turn to Thee, Redeemer! oh, thou blest and Holy One!
Though the rose of health has vanished, though the mandate hath been spoken,

And one by one the golden links of life's fond chain are broken,
Yet can my spirit turn to Thee, thou chastener! and can bend
In humble suppliance at thy throne, my father and my friend!
Thou, who hast crowned my youth with hope, my early days in glee,
Give me the eagle's fearless wing—the dove's, to mount to Thee!

“I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions and its tears:
How brief the yearning ecstasies of its young, careless years!
I give my heart to earth no more, the grave may clasp me now;
The winds whose tone I loved, may play in the dark cypress bough;
The birds, the streams are eloquent; yet I shall pass away,
And in the light of heaven shake off this cumbrous load of clay;
I shall join the lost, the loved of earth, and meet each kindred breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”

These lines, so melodious in the original, and susceptible of equally melodious translation, were written by the unfortunate Mary a short time before her melancholy execution.

A CONTRASTED PICTURE.

It was the morning of a day in spring—
The sun looked gladness from the eastern sky;
Birds were upon the trees and on the wing,
And all the air was rich with melody;
The heaven, the calm, pure heaven, was bright on high;
Earth laughed beneath in all its fresh'ning green,
The free blue streams sang as they wandered by,
And many a sunny glade and flowery scene
Gleamed out, like thoughts of youth, life's troubled years between.

The rose's breath upon the south wind came,
Oft as its whisperings the young branches stirred,
And flowers for which the poet hath no name;
While, midst the blossoms of the grove, were heard
The restless murmurs of the humming-bird;
Waters were dancing in the mellow light;
And joyous notes and many a cheerful word
Stole on the charméd ear with such delight
As waits on soft sweet tones of music heard at night.

The night-dews lay in the half-opened flower,
Like hopes that nestle in the youthful breast;
And ruffled by the light airs of the hour,
Awoke the pure lake from its glassy rest;
Slow blending with the blue and distant west,
Lay the dim woodlands, and the quiet gleam
Of amber clouds, like islands of the blest;
Glorious and bright, and changing like a dream,
And lessening fast away beneath the intenser beam.

Songs were amid the mountains far and wide,
Songs were upon the green slopes blooming nigh:
While, from the springing flowers on every side,
Upon his painted wings the butterfly
Roamed a sweet blossom of the sunny sky;
The visible smile of joy was on the scene;
'T was a bright vision, but too soon to die!
Spring may not linger in her robes of green;
Autumn, in storm and shade, shall quench the summer sheen.

I came again. 'Twas Autumn's stormy hour:
The wild winds murmured in the faded wood;
The sere leaves, rustling in the yellow bower,
Were hurled in eddies to the moaning flood;
Dark clouds enthralled the west; an orb of blood,

The red sun pierced the hazy atmosphere;
While torrent voices broke the solitude,
Where, straying lonely, as with steps of fear,
I marked the deepening gloom which shrouds the dying year.

The ruffled lake heaved wildly; near the shore
It bore the red leaves of the shaken tree—
Shed in the violent north wind's restless roar,
Emblems of man upon life's stormy sea!
Pale autumn leaves! once to the breezes free
They waved in Spring and Summer's golden prime,
Now, even as clouds or dew, how fast they flee!
Weak, changing like the flowers in Autumn's clime,
As man sinks down in death, chilled by the touch of time!

I marked the picture: 't was the changeful scene
Which life holds up to the observant eye:
Youth's spring, and summer, and its bowers of green,
The streaming sunlight of its morning sky,
And the dark clouds of death which linger by:
For oft, when life is fresh and hope is strong,
Shall early sorrow breathe the unbidden sigh,
While age to death moves peacefully along,
As on the singer's lip expires the finished song.

A DIRGE IN AUTUMN.

'Tis an autumnal eve—the low winds, sighing
To wet leaves, rustling as they hasten by;
The eddying gusts to tossing boughs replying,
And ebon darkness filling all the sky;
The moon, pale mistress, palled in solemn vapor,
The rack, swift-wandering through the void above,
As I, a dreamer by my lonely taper,
Send back to faded hours the plaint of love.

Blossoms of peace, once in my pathway springing,
Where have your brightness and your splendor gone?
And Thou, whose voice to me came sweet as singing,
What region holds thee in the vast Unknown?
What star far brighter than the rest contains thee,
Beloved, departed—empress of my heart!
What bond of full beatitude enchains thee,
In realms unveiled by pen, or prophet's art?

Ah! loved and lost! in these autumnal hours,
When fairy colors deck the painted tree,
When the vast woodlands seem a sea of flowers,
Oh! then my soul exulting bounds to thee!
Springs, as to clasp thee yet in this existence,
Yet to behold thee at my lonely side:
But the fond vision melts at once to distance,
And my sad heart gives echo—she has died!

Yes! when the morning of her years was brightest,
That Angel-presence into dust went down;
While yet with rosy dreams her rest was lightest,
Death for the olive wove the cypress crown;
Sleep, which no waking knows, o'ercame her bosom,
O'ercame her large, bright, spiritual eyes,
Spared in her bower connubial one fair blossom—
Then bore her spirit to the upper skies.

There let me meet her, when, life's struggles over,
The pure in love and thought their faith renew:
Where man's forgiving and redeeming Lover
Spreads out his paradise to every view.

Let the dim Autumn, with its leaves descending,
Howl on the winter's verge—yet Spring will come;
So my freed soul, no more 'gainst fate contending,
With all it loveth, shall regain its home.

AN INVITATION.

“They that seek me early shall find me.”

Come, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest,
Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze;
Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest,
And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways;
Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds unfolding,
Waken rich feelings in the careless breast;
While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding—
Come, and secure interminable rest.

Soon will the freshness of thy days be over,
And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown;
Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover
Will to the embraces of the worm have gone;

Those who now love thee will have passed for ever—
Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee:
Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever,
As thy sick heart broods over years to be.

Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing—
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die;
Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throwing,
Fade like the sunset of a summer sky;
Life hath but shadows, save a promise given,
Which lights the future with a fadeless ray;
Oh, touch the sceptre—win a hope in heaven—
Come—turn thy spirit from the world away.

Then will the crosses of this brief existence,
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul;
And shining brightly in the forward distance,
Will of thy patient race appear the goal;
Home of the weary! where in peace reposing,
The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss,
Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing—
Who would not early choose a lot like this?

A LAMENT.

“They sin, who tell us love can die;
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity:
But love is indestructible;
Its holy flame for ever burneth;
From heaven it came—to heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppressed—
It here is tried, and purified,
And hath in heaven its perfect rest.”—
Southey.

There is a voice I shall hear no more;
There are tones whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odors of spring were they—
Precious and rich—but they died away;
They came like peace to my heart and ear;
Never again will they murmur here;
They have gone, like the blush of a summer morn—
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.

There were eyes that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see:
They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouched by sorrow—untaught by art:

Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring,
When birds in the vernal branches sing;
They were filled with love that hath passed with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.

I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose;
And lips I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and blest my brain
With raptures that never may dawn again:
Amid musical accents those smiles were shed—
Alas! for the doom of the early dead!

Alas, for the clod that is resting now,
On those slumbering eyes—on that faded brow!
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom—
For the lips that are dumb in the noisome tomb!
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone—
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone:
Alas, for the hopes that with thee have died—
Oh, loved-one! would I were by thy side!

Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear:
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile of sweetness untold I see,
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm,
My arm embraceth thy yielding form:

Then I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom—thou art not here!

Oh, once the summer to me was bright—
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light;
There was bliss in existence, when thou wert nigh—
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh:
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest;
A sabbath of blessings was in my breast:
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest, of all things, to heaven above.

Now thou art laid in that voiceless hall,
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
In that tranquil and holy place of rest,
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast:
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid—
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin-lid:
All that was lovely to me is there—
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!

THE EARLY DEAD.

“Why mourn for the Young? Better that the light cloud should fade away in the morning's breath, than travel through the weary day, to gather in darkness, and end in storm.”

Bulwer.

If it be sad to mark the bowed with age
Sink in the halls of the remorseless tomb,
Closing the changes of life's pilgrimage
In the still darkness of its mouldering gloom;
Oh! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung,
When peals the requiem of the loved and young!

They to whose bosoms, like the dawn of spring
To the unfolding bud and scented rose,
Comes the pure freshness age can never bring,
And fills the spirit with a rich repose,
How shall we lay them in their final rest;
How pile the clods upon their wasting breast?

Life openeth brightly to their ardent gaze;
A glorious pomp sits on the gorgeous sky;
O'er the broad world Hope's smile incessant plays,
And scenes of beauty win the enchanted eye;

How sad to break the vision, and to fold
Each lifeless form in earth's embracing mould!

Yet this is Life! To mark from day to day,
Youth, in the freshness of its morning prime,
Pass, like the anthem of a breeze away;
Sinking in waves of Death, ere chilled by Time!
Ere yet dark years on the warm cheek had shed
Autumnal mildew o'er its rose-like red!

And yet what mourner, though the pensive eye
Be dimly-thoughtful in its burning tears,
But should with rapture gaze upon the sky,
Through whose far depths the spirit's wing careers?
There gleams eternal o'er their ways are flung,
Who fade from earth while yet their years are young!

WARNINGS.

There are voices of God for the careless ear—
A low-breathed whisper when none is near;
In the silent watch of the night's calm hours
When the dews are at rest in the deep-sealed flowers:
When the wings of the zephyr are folded up,
When the violet bendeth its azure cup:
'T is a breath of reproval—a murmuring tone,
Like music remembered, or ecstasies gone.

'T is a voice that sweeps through the evening sky,
When clouds o'er the pale moon are hurrying by;
While the fickle gusts, as they come and go,
Wake the forest boughs on the mountain's brow;
It speaks in the shadows that swiftly pass,
In the waves that are roused from the lake's clear glass,
Where summer shores in their verdant pride,
Were pictured but late in the stainless tide.

And that voice breaks out in the tempest's flight.
When the wild winds sweep in their fearful might;

When the lightnings go forth on the hills to play,
As they pass on their pinions of fire away;
While they fiercely smile through the dusky sky,
As the thunder-peals to their glance reply;
As the bolts leap out from the sombre cloud,
While the midnight whirlwinds sing wild and loud!

'T is a voice which comes in the early morn,
When the matin hymns of the birds are born;
It steals from the fold of the painted cloud—
From the forest's draperies, sublime and proud;
Its tones are blent with the running stream,
As it sweeps along, like a changeful dream,
In its light and shade, through the chequered vale,
While the uplands are fanned by the viewless gale.

In the twilight hour, when the weary bird
On her nest is sleeping, that voice is heard;
While mist-robes are drawn o'er the green earth's breast,
And the sun hath gone down from the faded west;
In the hush of that silence—when winds are still,
And the light wakes no smile in the quivering rill;
Through the wonderful depths of the purple air,
O'er the landscape trembling—that voice is there!

There are whispers of God in the cataract's roar—
In the Sea's rude wail, on his sounding shore;
In the waves that melt on his azure isles,
Where the sunny south on their verdure smiles:
In the oceanward wind from the orange-trees—
In the Sabean odors that load the breeze;
'Midst the incense that floats from Arabia's strand—
That tone is there with its whispers bland.

And it saith to the cold and the careless heart,
How long wilt thou turn from “the better part?”
I have called from the infinite depths of heaven,
I have called, but no answer to me was given;
From many a hallowed and glorious spot,
I have called by my spirit—and ye would not!
Thou art far from the haven, and tempest-tossed—
Hear the cry of thy Pilot, or thou art lost!

EUTHANASIA.

“What is man's history? Born—living—dying,
Leaving the still shore for the troubled wave;
'Mid clouds and storms, o'er broken shipwrecks flying,
And casting anchor in the silent grave.”

I.

Methinks, when on the languid eye
Life's varying scenes grow dim;
When evening-shadows veil the sky,
And Pleasure's syren hymn
Grows fainter on the tuneless ear,
Like echoes from another sphere,
Or dreams of seraphim—
It were not sad to cast away
This dull and cumbrous load of clay.

II.

It were not sad to feel the heart
Grow passionless and cold;
To feel those longings to depart,
That cheered the saints of old;

To clasp the faith which looks on high
Which fires the Christian's dying eye,
And makes the curtain-fold
That falls upon his wasting breast,
The door that leads to endless rest.

III.

It were not lonely thus to lie
On that triumphant bed,
Till the pure spirit mounts on high,
By white-winged seraphs led;
Where glories earth may never know.
O'er “many mansions” lingering, glow,
In peerless lustre shed;
It were not lonely thus to soar,
Where sin and grief can sting no more.

IV.

And though the way to such a goal
Lies through the cloudy tomb,
If on the free, unfettered soul
There rest no stains of gloom;
How should its aspirations rise,
Far through the blue and fretted skies,
Up—to its final home;
Beyond the journeyings of the sun,
Where streams of living waters run!

A SONG OF MAY.

The Spring's scented buds all around me are swelling,
There are songs in the stream, there is health in the gale;
A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling,
As float the pure day-beams o'er mountain and vale;
The desolate reign of Old Winter is broken,
The verdure is fresh upon every tree;
Of Nature's revival the charm—and a token
Of love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee.

The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning,
And flushes the clouds that begirt his career;
He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning
To rest on the promise and hope of the year.
He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers,
He mounts to the zenith, and laughs on the wave;
He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,
And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.

The young bird is out on his delicate pinion—
He timidly sails in the infinite sky;
A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion,
He pours, on the west wind's fragrant sigh:
Around, above, there are peace and pleasure,
The woodlands are singing, the heaven is bright;
The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,
And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.

Alas! for my weary and care-haunted bosom!
The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more;
The song in the wild wood, the sheen of the blossom,
The fresh-welling fountain, their magic is o'er!
When I list to the streams, when I look on the flowers,
They tell of the Past with so mournful a tone,
That I call up the throngs of my long-vanished hours,
And sigh that their transports are over and gone.

From the wide-spreading earth, from the limitless heaven,
There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam;
To my veiled mind no more is the influence given,
Which coloreth life with the hues of a dream:

The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth—
I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave;
But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth,
Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.

Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended,
'T is not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow;
But the newness and sweetness of Being are ended,
I feel not their love-kindling witchery now:
The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping;
There are those who have loved me debarred from the day;
The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping,
And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.

It is shut to the glow of this present existence,
It hears, from the Past, a funeral strain;
And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance,
Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again;
Where no mildew the soft damask-rose cheek shall nourish,
Where Grief bears no longer the poisonous sting;

Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish,
Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.

It is thus that the hopes which to others are given,
Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May;
I hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven,
I drink the bland airs that enliven the day;
And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping,
Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn;
O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping,
For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.

PLACE OF REST.

“Alli los impios cesaron del tumulto; y alli reposaron los de fuerzas cansadas.”

Weep not, thou heavenward pilgrim here, around whose toilsome way
The gloom of many a care is thrown, where'er thy feet may stray;
Within whose heart some tender pulse must echo unto pain,
When tried by this relentless world, where every dream is vain;
Weep not, though o'er the living glow of Pleasure's brightest wreath,
Fate's swift and frequent tempests leave the cloudy stain of death:
For endless raptures shall be thine, in mansions of the blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

Thou must bend unto the chastener here, and see the deeply loved,
The pure and beautiful of earth, by early death removed;
Thou must mark on many a blighted cheek, the hectic mildew cling,

Thou must bend beneath Time's shadowy frown, when snows are on his wing,
Till the peace which passeth knowledge is garnered in thy soul,
Till the silver cord is broken, and crushed the golden bowl;
Till the bright and glorious streets of heaven are by thy feet imprest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are rest.

How many flowers will rise and bloom, a flood of sweets to pour
Across the mazes of thy way, that earth can not restore!
How many fond eyes, full of love, will in the grave be hid—
How will the dark and heavy pall press on each folded lid!
Thou must pile the grave's remorseless clod on many a pallid brow,
And lift the serenade of death beneath the cypress bough:
Till with a pale and deluged cheek, and with a yearning breast,
Thou wilt long for pinions of a dove, to soar and be at rest.

Yet it is but for a season—and thy trials all are past,
And then! upon the empyreal air thy spirit-wings are cast;

Then the bonds of earth will sunder, and thine ear will drink the song
That floats the vernal pastures and crystal waves along:
Thou wilt join the lost and lovely that have gone before to God,
In a glad “continual city,” by the earth's redeemed ones trod;
Where each angel-plume is folded o'er a peaceful brow and breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

THE SIGNS OF GOD.

I marked the Spring as she passed along,
With her eye of light, and her lip of song;
While she stole in peace o'er the green earth's breast,
While the streams sprang out from their icy rest:
The buds bent low to the breeze's sigh,
And their breath went forth in the scented sky;
When the fields looked fresh in their sweet repose,
And the young dews slept on the new-born rose.

The scene was changed. It was Autumn's hour:
A frost had discolored the summer bower;
The blast wailed sad mid the withered leaves,
The reaper stood musing by gathered sheaves;
The mellow pomp of the rainbow woods
Was stirred by the sound of the rising floods;
And I knew by the cloud, by the wild wind's strain,
That Winter drew near with his storms again!

I stood by the ocean; its waters rolled
In their changeful beauty of sapphire and gold;
And day looked down with its radiant smiles,
Where the blue waves danced round a thousand isles:
The ships went forth on the trackless seas,
Their white wings played in the joyous breeze;
Their prows rushed on mid the parted foam,
While the wanderer was wrapped in a dream of home!

The mountain arose with its lofty brow,
While its shadow was sleeping in vales below;
The mist like a garland of glory lay,
Where its proud heights soared in the air away;
The eagle was there on his tireless wing,
And his shriek went up like an offering:
And he seemed, in his sunward flight, to raise
A chant of thanksgiving—a hymn of praise!

I looked on the arch of the midnight skies,
With its blue and unsearchable mysteries:
The moon, mid an eloquent multitude
Of unnumbered stars, her career pursued;
A charm of sleep on the city fell,
All sounds lay hushed in that brooding spell;
By babbling brooks were the buds at rest,
And the wild bird dreamed on his downy nest.

I stood where the deepening tempest passed,
The strong trees groaned in the sounding blast;

The murmuring deep with its wrecks rolled on,
The clouds o'ershadowed the mighty sun;
The low reeds bent by the streamlet's side,
And hills to the thunder-peal replied;
The lightning burst forth on its fearful way,
While the heavens were lit in its red array!

And hath MAN the power, with his pride and his skill,
To arouse all nature with storms at will?
Hath he power to color the summer-cloud—
To allay the tempest when hills are bowed?
Can he waken the Spring with her festal wreath?
Can the sun grow dim by his lightest breath?
Will he come again when death's vale is trod?
Who then shall dare murmur “There is no God!”

TO MY BOY.

Thou hast a fair unsullied cheek,
A clear and dreaming eye,
Whose bright and winning glances speak
Of life's first revelry;
And on thy brow no look of care
Comes like a cloud, to cast a shadow there.

In feeling's early freshness blest,
Thy wants and wishes few:
Rich hopes are garnered in thy breast,
As summer's morning dew
Is found, like diamonds, in the rose,
Nestling, mid folded leaves, in sweet repose.

Keep thus, in love, the heritage
Of thy ephemeral spring;
Keep its pure thoughts, till after-age
Weigh down thy spirit's wing;
Keep the warm heart, the hate of sin,
And heavenly peace will on thy soul break in.

And when the even-song of years
Brings in its shadowy train
The record of life's hopes and fears,
Let it not be in vain,
That backward on existence thou canst look,
As on a pictured page or pleasant book.

MEMORY.

'T is sweet to remember! I would not forego
The charm which the past o'er the present can throw,
For all the gay visions that Fancy may weave
In her web of illusion, that shines to deceive.
We know not the future—the past we have felt—
Its cherished enjoyments the bosom can melt;
Its raptures anew o'er our pulses may roll,
When thoughts of the morrow fall cold on the soul.

I.

'T is sweet to remember! When storms are abroad,
To see in the rainbow the promise of God:
The day may be darkened, but far in the west,
In vermilion and gold, sinks the sun to his rest;
With smiles like the morning he passeth away:
Thus the beams of delight on the spirit can play,
When in calm reminiscence we gather the flowers
Which love scattered round us in happier hours.

'T is sweet to remember! When friends are unkind,
When their coldness and carelessness shadow the mind;
Then, to draw back the veil which envelops a land
Where delectable prospects in beauty expand;
To smell the green fields, the fresh waters to hear
Whose once fairy music enchanted the ear;
To drink in the smiles that delighted us then,
To list the fond voices of childhood again;
O, this the sad heart, like a reed that is bruised,
Binds up, when the banquet of hope is refused.

'T is sweet to remember! And naught can destroy
The balm-breathing comfort, the glory, the joy,
Which spring from that fountain to gladden our way,
When the changeful and faithless desert or betray.
I would not forget! though my thoughts should be dark,
O'er the ocean of life I look back from my bark,
And I see the lost Eden, where once I was blest,
A type and a promise of heavenly rest.

ON THE DEATH OF DR. BEDELL.

He has gone to a mansion of rest,
From a region of sorrow and pain;
To the glorious Land of the Blest,
Where he never can suffer again:
The pangs of affliction and sickness are o'er,
The cloud on his spirit will darken no more!

He has gone, like the life-waking sun,
Descending the radiant sky;
Ere the stars have their shining begun,
And are hid by the day-beams on high;
The night could not rest on the wings of his soul,
Nor the shadows of earth their uprising control.

The watchman is missed from the wall,
Where his warnings so often have rung;
No more the affectionate call,
Or remonstrance, will melt from his tongue;
There is dust on his lip, and the shroud on his breast,
And the deep seal of peace on his eyelid is prest.

How oft, when the sanctified air
Round the altar with music was filled,

Have the words of his eloquent prayer
Gone forth, like rich incense distilled;
Like the breath of Spring roses ascending the skies,
To God, an acceptable sacrifice.

His heart was a fountain of love—
It stirred in the light of his mind.
Whose glory was caught from above,
Where the pearl of great price was enshrined;
He taught the dark spirit to look to its ray,
And to feel its warm glow in life's gloomiest day.

He knew that our pilgrimage here
Was a dream: he remembered as dust
The throngs that assembled to hear,
And bade them in heaven to trust.
And armed with persuasion, and pity, and prayer,
He shunned not the counsel of God to declare.

How oft like the heart-moving Paul,
Did he beckon with wavering hand,
Till silence around him would fall,
Then, echo his Saviour's command;
Till his magical accents the hearer received,
Their soberness treasured, and hearing believed.

Who mourns that his garland is won,
That the crown on his forehead is bright?
That his trials and labors are done,
That his spirit rejoices in light?

Who weeps that our loss is his infinite gain,
Where Death may not enter, and Sin can not stain?

He walks in the smile of his God
And looks o'er those realms of the sky,
Where Mortality's foot never trod,
Unseen by Mortality's eye:
Where calm by green pastures, and dwellings of gold,
The waters of life all their splendor unfold.

And he sees in the shadowless air,
That lofty and beautiful tree,
Whose blossoms and fruits blooming fair,
Are spread for the ransomed to see;
He hears the glad harpers that linger beneath,
And feels not the fear of corruption or death.

Oh, leave him to rest with his God,
To join in that music benign
Which swells o'er his blessed abode,
Where every sight is divine,
Where flowers immortal with lustre are fed,
From the source of all glory unceasingly shed!

BOOTS:

A SLIPSHODICAL LYRIC.

The watch has brawled “elevin,” and the moon
Walks through the evening heaven like a queen.
Raining soft influences on lovers' minds,
While I, with fragrant and serene cigar
Pressed satisfactorily betwixt my lips,
Am lounging in that Traveller's Paradise,
Hight bar-room in the vulgate, looking round,
With honest speculation in mine eye
In quest of food for thought. By Jove, 't is here!
I have 't: in yonderhuge and gloomy pile
Of travellers' boots, isinspiration hid.
Come, bustle, honest Muse, and help me sing,
In fanciful disportings on the theme,
Till from this scented tube departs the fire,
And all its ashes slumber on my lyre.

Time was, when boots were not; when graceful feet
Of men and women, unrestricted, pressed
Their mother earth denuded. Then, suddenly,

The Greek and Roman sandal camein vogue:
August Athena's streets, to soles of cork,
Trod by philosophers and stoics—Jews,
Cretes and Arabians—echoed as they trode;
And e'en the solemn groves of Academe
Beheld the feet that bore a master mind
'Neath Plato's lofty and impressive brow,
Press the gay sandal on the olive leaves,
Which autumn winds had shaken to the ground.
In Rome, the tribune lictor, senator,
Proconsul, headsman, and centurion,
The graceful sandal wore. Apostles, too,
Did patronize the article. The light
Which burst on Peter's dungeon, as he lay
Hedged in by soldiers at the midnight hour,
Was scattered froman angel's odorous wing,
And on the prisoner's chains and sandals streamed:
The first fell off—the latter he did don,
And walked abroad in freedom. And in sooth,
Where'er the Greek or Roman power had sway,
The sandal, with its dainty tie, became
The fashionable thing.

—At last boots came;
But how, or when, it boots not now to tell,
Save that they did advene; and through all time
Since their first origin, have kept their state,
Circling the calves of youth, and the slim shanks
Of weak and trembling age. Of various name,
Their titles I invoke not—for I know
Their number numberless; nor eke of style,

Of Wellington, Suwarrow, tasselled, laced,
Civil, or military; seven-leagued,
Or Chinese kinds, diminished, have I time
To dwell on at this present, nor need tell
How since their date, their fabricators swarm.
St. Crispin's followers are everywhere:
In France, the cordonnier; in England, named
Knights of the enwaxed end. The race is large,
And keep their azure Mondays—festivals
Of old renown—with wassail and with song.
My present business doth not lie with these,
But rather to discourse, as in me lies,
About this pile of boots before mine eyes.
It seems to rise, as if its apex strove
To reach that constellation, Bootes y'clept,
To which Arcturus clings. But I demand
My fancy from the stars, to help me here.

There stands a scurvy pair, with tops of red,
Sore wasted at the heel, and slim at toe.
The straps are broken; and the owner's mind
And disposition, thus to me exposed,
Are clear, as if I knew him. He's a young
And hair-brained biped, hasa sprawling foot,
But fain would be “genteel,” and so has cased
His pedal adjuncts in a narrow space,
By much too small for comfort. When he draws
Those boots upon his legs at morn, he chafes,
And stamps the floor, and vents the spiteful “d---n!”

Because they will not on. When in the street,
He hath a rapid gait, and stalks abroad,
On politics or business, with an air,
As if a nation's cares were on his mind,
Heavy as Atlas' load. Be sure, that man
Loves, eats, and drinks, and all his acts performs,
In the Cambyses' vein.

Adjacent riseth, with the look of eld,
A pair of fair-tops; and to Fancy's eye,
Their owner stands beside them. He is one
Now near the turn of sixty, and his hair
Is powdered, white as snow-wreaths; and his cane
Is headed o'er with gold. Whene'er he treads,
The spotless dust on broadclothcollar falls;
And as he walks the street, full many a hat
Is touched to do him reverence. At his board
The choicest wines are found, that, quick and warm,
Ascend them to the brain. He readeth loud
The liturgy o' Sundays—while the priest
When as he glanceth toward his cushioned pew,
Bethinks him of that layman's sumptuous fare.

I like not that next pair—a clumsy mass
Of ill-conditioned leather. To a boor,
A walking porker, do I quickly trace
Their certain ownership. What sprawling heels!
And holes are cut anigh the spreading toes,
As if the ponderous feet in that wide space

Had still been “cabined, cribbed,” and wanted room;
Or else, that doleful crops of pedal maize,
Called by the vulgar corns, had flourished there.
I see the wearer plainly. Large of form,
He moves abroad like stern Rhinoceros,
Or Behemoth in the ocean; or, to rise
In metaphor, like old Sam. Johnson's form
Wending along Cheapside. In public haunts
He of his self-deportment takes no heed,
And spitteth evermore. His lips are scaled
And juicy, like wind-beparchéd mouth
Of ichthyophagous Kamschatkadale; and oft
With three sheetsin the wind, in upper tier
Midst mirthful Cyprians, he puts his feet
Over the box's front, and leaning back,
Guffaws and swears, like privateer at sea,
Until the pitlings from beneath, exclaim,
“Boots!” “Trollope!” and he straightway draws them in.

My fragrant tube is out—and objects swim
Like coming dreams before my drowsy eyes;
Yet one more pair of boots, ere I retire,
I fain,in thoughtful mood, would scrutinize,
A dapper pair, yet gaudy not, but neat,
As if they needed neither brush nor shine,
For marks of both they bear. He who inserts
His understanding in them, comes to town
A merchant, trafficking and getting gain:
He hath a wife and pleasant babes at home,

To whom the squeak of those familiar soles
Is like to heavenly music. That wife delights,
What time she sweetly “plies her evening care,”
To hear that squeak, and see the infant smile,
Tilted on parent knee. He lives and trades
In a fair village “throned by the West,”
Embowered in trees, and reached by rural roads,
All variously diverging, where in throngs,
The wealthy farmers come. He leads the choir
At church, andsets the quaint, old-fashioned tune—
The pitch-pipe blows, and is, in all respects,
The magnate of the village.
My subjects multiply—but to my gaze,
Half dimmed with sleep, fantastic boots arise,
And turn to shapes, and menace me with fear
Of kicks and damage, if I publish them.
I shrink from such a penalty. Now dreams,
And shades, and forms, and fluttering entities,
Surround my brain so fast, that I opine
My wakefulness is doubtful. Yea it is—
And all my pictures do themselves resolve
To mere oblivion.

LINES

WRITTEN AT LAUREL HILL CEMETERY, NEAR PHILADELPHIA.

Here the lamented dead in dust shall lie,
Life's lingering languors o'er—its labors done;
Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky,
Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.

Here the long concourse from the murmuring town,
With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in;
To lay the loved in tranquil silence down,
No more to suffer, and no more to sin.

And here the impressive stone, engraved with words
Which Grief sententious gives to marble pale,
Shall teach the heart, while waters, leaves, and birds,
Make cheerful music in the passing gale.

Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pour
On scented airs the unavailing sigh—
While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore,
And landscapes blooming—that the loved should die?

There is an emblem in this peaceful scene:
Soon, rainbow colors on the woods will fall;
And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green.
As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall.

Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round,
Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand;
While the chained streams are silent as the ground,
As Death had numbed them with his icy hand.

Yet, when the warm soft winds shall rise in spring,
Like struggling day-beams o'er a blasted heath,
The bird returned shall poise her golden wing,
And liberal Nature break the spell of Death.

So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end,
The blesséd Dead to endless youth shall rise;

And hear the archangel's thrilling summons blend
Its tones with anthems from the upper skies.

There shall the good of earth be found at last,
Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand;
Where Love her crown attains—her trials past—
And, filled with rapture, hails the better land!

PRAYER.

When on the sad and yearning heart
The clouds of early sorrow fall,
Oh! what shall bid their gloom depart,
And lift the spiritfrom their thrall?
When 'neath the foldings of the pall
The lost and beautiful are laid,
Oh, who shall answer to the call
By watchful love in anguish made?

When from our daily paths, like flowers,
Our kindred wither one by one,
Ah! what shall gild the weary hours,
Or bring again the unshadowed sun
His bright and golden course to run?
To chase the clouds that round him rise—
Recall again each lustre gone,
And bathe in light the uplifted skies?

When, with a shadow o'er them flung,
Appear the sere autumnal trees;
And every blast their boughs among
Awakens mournful images;

What, on the lapse of hours like these,
Can earth, with all its phantoms, fling,
When Hope hath ceased her melodies,
And folded up her rainbow-wing?

Is it not sweet, when song and dream
Have passed, like sunset's sky of fire,
When Love's false pinion sheds no gleam
O'er Pleasure's crushed and tuneless lyre,
To raise with purified desire
The prayer, in earnest suppliance given,
Which lifts the immortal spirit higher,
And antedates the joy of Heaven?

THE HEXEN ZEE.

“How glumly sownes yon dirgy songe!
Night-ravens flappe the wing;
What bell doth slowly toll ding dong?
The psalms of death who sing?
Look up, look up! an airy crew
In roundel daunces reele:
The moon is bright, and blue the night—
Mayst see them dimly wheele.”—
Burger.

I.

'T was a sunset hour, and the waters played
Like living light on the golden sand:
The dark green trees by the gale were swayed
As their wings swept over the quiet land:
And as those wavelets kissed the shore
With a gush of delicate melody,
They seemed in a traveller's ear to pour
This marvellous tale of the Hexen Zee:

II.

“'T is a haunted place where thou art now,
And when the west hath lost the sun,

And silvery moon-beams waver slow,
Where here the chasing billows run;
When fairy mists like spirits throng
About this undulating tide,
Then sweep the witches' trains along,
And charm the air whereon they ride.

III.

“And, as between the waning moon
And Brocken's height their forms are seen,
While midnight's melancholy noon
Extend its thoughtful reign serene,
Their rustling folds are heard above,
The branches groan in every tree;
Till on the lake these spectres move,
And sing this song of the Hexen Zee:

IV.

“‘Our boat is strong, its oars are good,
Of charnel bones itsribs are made;
From coffins old we carved the wood,
Beneath the gloomy cypress shade;
An ignis-fatuus lights the prow,
It is a felon's blood-shot e'e,
And it shineth forth from his skeleton brow,
To light our way o'er the Hexen Zee.

V.

“‘There 's a scream of dreaming birds afar,
And a hollow blast in the old Hartz wood:

Our course was marked by the evening star,
By the wakeful eagle's glance pursued;
The tree-toad moaned on the mossy limb,
And plunged in the pool 'neath the dark yew-tree,
But what care we for ‘the likes of him,’
While we sing and sail on the Hexen Zee?

VI.

“‘We have come over forest, and glen, and moor,
We have ivy leaves from the castle wall;
We roved by the huts of the sleeping poor,
And we heard their faithful watch-dogs call;
Over cities and hamlets in haste we swept—
Over gardens and turrets—o'er hill and lea;
Our race now pauseth, our pledge we have kept,
And together we sail on the Hexen Zee.

VII.

“‘There 's a vapor of gray, and a crimson hue,
In the wake of our bark as we haste along;
The sails are clothed in a flame of blue,
And our voices are hoarse with this elfin song:
The finny tribes as they cross our wake,
A-floating in lifeless throngs we see:
To Hecate an offering thus we make,
Who is fond of fish from the Hexen Zee.

VIII.

“‘Look to the east! there the dawn is red,
Through the cedar branches it 'gins to glow;
Our song must be ended—our spell is dead,
Away to our cloudy homes we go:
The charm is finished; the distant chime
Of bells are echoing one—two—three;
We will mount the blast—and depart in time,
Afar from the haunted Hexen Zee.’”

The Hexen Zee, or Witches' Lake, is described by modern travellers in Germany as one of the neighboring wonders of the Brocken mountain. It is not wide, but, according to tradition, unfathomably deep.

STANZAS.

“Awake, psaltery and harp: I myself will awake early.”

Wake, when the mists of the blue mountains sleeping,
Like crowns of glory in the distance lie;
When breathing from the South, o'er blossoms sweeping,
The gale bears music through the sunny sky;
While lake and meadow, upland, grove and stream,
Smile like the glory of an Eden dream.

Wake, while unfettered thoughts, like treasures springing,
Bid the heart leap within its prison-cell;
When birds and brooks through the pure air are flinging
The mellow chant of their beguiling spell;
When earliest winds their anthems have begun,
And, incense-laden, their sweet journeys run.

Then, psaltery and harp, a tone awaken,
Whereto the echoing bosom shall reply,

100

As earth's rich scenes, by shadowy night forsaken,
Unfold their beauty to the filling eye:
When, like the restless breeze, or wild-bird's lay,
Pure thoughts, on dove-like pinions, float away.

Wake thou, too, man, when from refreshing slumber,
And thy luxurious couch, thou dost arise,
Thanks for life's golden gifts—a countless number—
Calm dreams, and soaring hopes, and summer skies:
Wake!—let thy heart's fine chords be touched in praise,
While the pure light of morn around thee plays!

101

WOMAN.

I.

Methinks there is no lovelier sight on earth,
Than gentle woman in her earlier years;
Before one cloud hath gathered o'er her mirth,
Ere her bright eye grows dim with secret tears!
When life the semblance of a dream doth wear,
And earth is basking in a joyous smile;
When rich delight breathes in the golden air,
And boundless fancies may the heart beguile!

II.

I have bowed down to woman—not as one
Who idly worships at a careless shrine,
But as the heathen bends unto the sun,
Whose rays gleam round him—eloquent, divine!
Not like a lingerer in Fashion's train,
Who smiles and flatters a believing few;
False in his heart, perchance, and cold and vain,
Whose words are fables—thoughtless and untrue.

102

III.

But I am happy, when around my way
Those flowers of being ever chance to spring;
'T is like an hour of dreams, when fairies play,
And gentle wild-birds dance on glittering wing;
Care is a shadow then; and in my heart
The well-springs of deep ecstasy arise;
I feel each sense of loneliness depart;
Like storm-clouds melting from the April skies.

IV.

Oh, if my prayer might unto heaven ascend,
'T would be that woman might be ever blest;
That flower and sunlight in her path might blend,
And tranquil visions lull her peaceful rest;
I would that Time might bear upon his wing,
Untroubled brightness for each fleeting day;
And every scene, which Hope is picturing,
Grow clearer as existence wears away.

V.

And, as a gift from Heaven to cheer us here,
I would that woman, when life's hour is done,
Might pass, like starlight when the atmosphere
Is colored faintly with the approaching sun;
Passing from earth to a more cloudless scene,
Where brighter gems in purer skies are set;
Where crystal fountains play in pastures green,
Blending, in fancy's spell, with joy and memory yet!

103

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

Thou art laid to rest in the spring-time hours,
In the freshness of early feeling;
While the dew yet lies on the newborn flowers,
And winds through the wood-paths are stealing;
While yet life was gay to thine ardent eye,
While its rich hopes filled thy bosom;
While each dream was pure as the upper sky,
And sweet as the opening blossom:
But thy promise of being, which shone so fair,
Hath passed like a summer-cloud in air;
Thy bosom is cold, which with love was warm,
And the grave embraces thy gentle form.

Thou art slumbering now in a voiceless cell,
While Nature her garland is wreathing;
While the earth seems touched with a radiant spell,
And the air of delight is breathing;
While the day looks down with a mellow beam,
Where the roses in light are blushing:
While the young leaves dance with a fitful gleam,
And the stream into song is gushing;
While bright wings play in the golden sun,
The tomb hath caressed thee, thou faded one!

104

The clod lies cold on that settled brow,
Which was beaming with pleasure and youth but now

Should we mourn that Death's Angel, on dusky wing.
O'er thy flowery path has driven?
That he crushed the buds of thy sunny spring—
That thy spirit is borne to heaven?
How soon will the visions of earth grow dim—
How soon will its hopes be faded;
And the heart that hath leaped to the syren's hymn,
With sadness and gloom be o'ershaded!
The feelings are fresh but a little while;
We can bask but an hour in affection's smile,
Ere the friend and the lover have passed away—
Ere the anthem is sung o'er their wasting clay?

Then take thy rest in that shadowy hall,
In thy mournful shroud reposing;
There is no cloud on the soul to fall,
No dust o'er its light is closing:
It will shine in glory when time is o'er,
When each phantom of earth shall wither;
When the friends who deplore thee shall sigh no more,
And lie down in the dust together:
Though sad winds wail in the cypress bough,
Thou art resting untroubled and calmly now:
With a seal of sleep on thy folded eye,
While thy spirit is glad in the courts on high.

105

THE SPIRIT'S QUESTIONINGS.

Ask of the ocean-waves that burst
In music on the strand,
Whose murmurs load the scented breeze
That fans the Summer land;
Why is their harmony abroad,
Their cadence in the sky
That glitters with the smile of God
In mystery on high?

Question the cataract's boiling tide,
Down stooping from above,
Why its proud billows, far and wide
In stormy thunders move?
It is that in their hollow voice
A tone of praise is given,
Which bids the fainting heart rejoice,
And trust THE MIGHT of Heaven?

And ask the tribes whose matin song,
Melts on the dewy air,
Why, like a stream that steals along,
Flow forth their praises there?

106

Why, when the veil of Eve comes down,
With all its starry hours,
The night-bird's melancholy lay
Rings from her solemn bowers?

It is some might of love within,
Some impulse from on high,
That bids their matin song begin,
Or fills the evening sky
With gentle echoes all its own
With sounds, that on the ear
Fall, like the voice of kindred gone,
Cut off in Youth's career!

Ask of the gales that sweep abroad,
When Sunset's fiery wall
Is crowned with many a painted cloud,
A gorgeous coronal;
Ask why their wings are trembling then
O'er Nature's sounding lyre,
While the far occidental hills
Are bathed in golden fire?

Oh! shall the wide world raise the song
Of peace, and joy, and love.
And shall man's heart not bid his tongue
In voiceful praises move?
Shall the old forest and the wave,
When summoned by the breeze,
Yield a sweet flow of solemn praise,
And man have less then these?

107

LOVE'S RIVAL.

“Trevylyan drew back, and, without another word, hurried away; he returned to the town; he sought, with methodical calmness, the owner of a piece of ground on which Gertrude had wished to be buried. He purchased it, and that very night he sought the priest of a neighboring church, and directed it should be consecrated according to the due rite and ceremonial.

“The priest, an aged and pious man, was struck by the request, and the air of him who made it.

“‘Shall it be done forthwith, sir?’ said he, hesitating. ‘Forthwith,’ answered Trevylyan, with a calm smile; ‘a bridegroom, you know, is naturally impatient.’”—

Pilgrims of the Rhine.

Oh, thou that lovest! do not deem thou hast no rival nigh,
To interrupt thy visions, or cloud thy golden sky;
And though Hope's syren voice beguile, believe not all her song,
Nor deem the joys enduring that to the lay belong.
Thou hast a rival, lover, however blest thou art,
How dear soe'er the object be, that kindles up thy heart;
There may be bloom upon her cheek, light on her forehead fair,
And balm upon her rich red lip, as sweet as roses are;

108

And kindness in her lustrous eyes on thee alone bestowed,
The stars that guide thy pilgrimage on life's uncertain road;
It may appear that all in all, thou art alone to her.
And yet, thou hast a rival, deluded worshipper!

Yes, though the kisses from her lips, when they to thine are prest,
Are like the fragrant winds of Spring that wander from the West:
Though that voice is kindest to thine ear, and though that tender eye
Is brighter when thy step is heard, and when thy form is nigh;
Though every glance be full of love, yet fate will bid thee own
Thou hast a busy rival, thou idolizing one!
A rival, horrible and grim, yet wooing unconfined,
Whom tears nor prayers can overcome, nor exorcism bind.

He walks a spectre by her side, impalpable as Night—
He wafts to her the fever-dream, and checks her young delight;
And though unseen by mortal eye, and clothed in vapors dim,
He yet will win her to his arms, to sleep in peace with him:

109

He will fold her, unresisting, to his lone and gloomy breast,
And curtains, dark as Midian's land, draw round her place of rest;
And torn from thy caressing arms, fond lover! she will be
Within a narrow mansion, enclosed away from thee.

Death is that rival, lover! and soon or late will rend
From thy embrace his victim, thy fond one, and thy friend!
And when he knocketh at thy door, thou canst not say him nay—
He will rob thee of thy treasure, and bear it hence away.
Then love, with fear and trembling, the idol of thy soul—
For life's bright cord is feeble, and frail its golden bowl:
And let the cloudless eye of faith the hour of rapture see,
When “raised in incorruption” ye both at last may be!

110

OCTOBER.

Solemn, yet beautiful to view
Month of my heart! thou dawnest here,
With sad and faded leaves to strew
The Summer's melancholy bier.
The moaning of thy winds I hear,
As the red sunset dies afar,
And bars of purple clouds appear,
Obscuring every western star.

Thou solemn month! I hear thy voice;
It tells my soul of other days,
When but to live was to rejoice,
When earth was lovely to my gaze!
Oh, visions bright—oh, blessed hours.
Where are their living raptures now?
I ask my spirit's wearied powers—
I ask my pale and fevered brow!

I look to Nature, and behold
My life's dim emblems, rustling round,
In hues of crimson and of gold—
The year's dead honors on the ground:

111

And sighing with the winds, I feel,
While their low pinions murmur by,
How much their sweeping tones reveal
Of life and human destiny.

When Spring's delightsome moments shone,
They came in zephyrs from the West;
They bore the wood-lark's melting tone,
They stirred the blue lake's glassy breast;
Though Summer, fainting in the heat,
They lingered in the forest shade;
But changed and strengthened now, they beat
In storm, o'er mountain, glen, and glade.

How like those transports of the breast
When life is fresh and joy is new;
Soft as the halcyon's downy nest,
And transient all as they are true!
They stir the leaves in that bright wreath,
Which Hope about her forehead twines,
Till Grief's hot sighs around it breathe,
Then Pleasure's lip its smile resigns.

Alas, for Time, and Death, and care,
What gloom about our way they fling!
Like clouds in Autumn's gusty air,
The burial-pageant of the Spring.
The dreams that each successive year
Seemed bathed in hues of brighter pride,
At last like withered leaves appear,
And sleep in darkness side by side.

112

LINES.

When the worn heart its early dream
In darkness and in vain pursues,
How shall the visionary gleam
Of joy o'er life its charm diffuse?
How shall the glowing thought aspire,
The cheek with passion's flush be warm,
Or the dim eyes resume their fire,
Their sunshine, victory of the storm?

Ah, who can tell? Not thou, whose words
Are lightest, liveliest of the throng;
Whose carol, like the summer bird's,
Pours out the winning soul of song;
Not thou, whose calm and shining brow,
The sadness of thy strain belies;
Whose spirits, like thy music, flow,
Won from the founts of Paradise!

113

HYMN

FOR THE EIGHTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE AMERICAN SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION.

We have met in peace together,
In this house of God again;
Constant friends have led us hither,
Here to chant the solemn strain:
Here to breathe our adoration,
While the balmy breeze of spring,
Like the Spirit of Salvation.
Comes with gladness on its wing!

And, while nature glows with beauty,
While the fields are rich in flowers,
Shall our hearts neglect their duty,
Shall our souls abuse their powers?
Shall not all our hopes ascending,
Point us to a home above,
Where, in glory never ending,
He who made us smiles in love?

There no autumn-tempests gather:
There no friends lament the dead;

114

And on fields that never wither,
Fadeless rays of light are shed:
There with bright immortal roses,
Angels wreath their harps of gold,
And each ransomed soul reposes
'Midst a scene of bliss untold.

We have met, and time is flying,
We shall part—and still his wing,
Sweeping o'er the dead and dying,
Will the changeful seasons bring;
Let us, while our hearts are lightest,
In our fresh and early years,
Turn to Him whose smile is brightest,
And whose grace will calm our fears.

He will aid us, though existence
With its sorrows sting the breast;
Gleaming in the onward distance,
Faith will make the Land of Rest;
There, 'mid day-beams round him playing,
We our Father's face shall see,
And shall hear Him gently saying,
“Little children, come to me.”

115

YESTERDAY.

And where are now thy sunny hours,
Fond man, which shone but yesterday?
Perchance thy path was rich with flowers,
That glittered in thy joyous way!
Perchance the Day's pure eye of light
Was one interminable smile;
And visions, eloquent and bright,
Stirred thy rapt soul with bliss the while.

And where are they?—the swelling tide
Of onward and resistless time
Is strewn with wrecks of baffled pride,
Conceptions high, and hopes sublime;
Dreams, that have shed upon the earth
The gladdening hues of Paradise;
Their charm is flown; hushed is their mirth,
And all their kinding ecstasies!

It may be that thy heart was sad
And wrapt in sorrows yesterday!
Perchance the scenes that once could glad
Thy spirit, passed like spring away;

116

That on the waste of years, was seen
Naught that might cheer thy gloomy breast
No sunny spot, of vernal green,
On which the thoughtful eye could rest.

What recks it now, that then a cloud
Was dimly brooding o'er thy head;
That to the tempest thou hast bowed,
When Joy's ephemeral beams had fled?
That day hath gone—its care is o'er;
Its shadows all have passed away;
Time's wave hath murmured by that shore;
And round thee now is but—to-day.

Then what is Yesterday?—a breath,
A whisper of the summer breeze;
A thing of silent birth and death,
Colored by man's fond sympathies!
It had its buds—they all are gone;
Its fears—but they are now no more;
Its hopes—but they were quickly flown:
Its pure delights—and they are o'er!

Look ye not back—save but to glean
From the deep memories of the past,
From the illusions of each scene,
The thought, that time is flying fast;
That vanity on things of Earth
Is by a pointed diamond writ:
Its hours of wild and transient mirth
Are midnight skies by meteors lit!

117

Oh, what is Yesterday?—a ray
Which burst on Being's troubled wave;
Which passed like a swift thought away
Unto Eternity's wide grave;
A star whose light hath left the sky—
But for a little moment given;
Scarce flickering on the gladdened eye;
Ere it hath left the vault of Heaven!

To-day!—How in its little span,
The interests of an endless state,
Beyond the feverish life of man,
Are crowded with their awful weight!
Prayers may ascend; the soul may pour
Its trembling supplications here,
That when Time's fitful hour is o'er
Its hopes of heaven may blossom there!

118

THE NAMELESS GRAVE.

'T is a calm spot in Summer's hour and in the dawn of Spring,
While buds come up, like freshening thoughts when Youth is on the wing:
Here, while the unfolding gates of Day, are opening free and wide,
And glory robes the landscape round, in an unsullied pride;
While the amber clouds that gem the West are melting in the sun;
And, lessening in his radiant smile, through the far ether run:
Here, where beneath the sanctity of the bright azure sky,
The new-born birds are dancing on the south wind's fragrant sigh;
Where the sun-lit brook sends on the ear the prattle of its wave,
And melts upon the vernal shore, is placed a nameless Grave!

A haunt for monitory thought on life's dull scene is this.
A lesson on its fleeting hour, its little day of bliss:

119

No sculptured marble marks the spot where this dull clay is laid;
No sigh is breathed, save of the gale, in the dim cypress shade!
And who this wasting breast hath loved, the still grave answers not;
'T is only known its throbs are hushed its weariness forgot:
The clod hath sent its hollow sound up from the coffin-lid:
The farewell hath been spoken—the familiar face been hid!

And where are they, who once did stand beside this nameless mound,
And felt the unhealed pang of Grief—the bosom's secret wound?
The love they bore, the tears they shed? oh, who the tale may tell!
The fitful winds no record keep, what sorrows then befell;
The sunny brook goes babbling on; the Spring leaves come and go,
Yet they waken not the heart that here lies mouldering and low;
These ashes will not live again till the dim skies abroad
Are as a scroll, and Earth and Sea heave in the breath of God!

120

THE LIFE OF YOUTH.

There is a time when light, and air, and flowers,
Are shining brightly wheresoe'er we tread;
When, from the passing of the swift-winged hours,
An atmosphere of love and peace is shed;
When Hope flits near us, on her angel wings,
And sweetly to the heart her anthem sings.

Then pleasant transports overcome the bosom,
And days in pictured guise go beaming by;
A softer breath exhaleth from the blossom—
A purer radiance gilds the open sky:
The hues of heaven are poured on every scene—
On the glad waters, and the fields of green.

All then is beauty; from the gay clouds, waving
Whene'er the breeze their golden skirts may stir,
To the blue streams their bloomy borders laving—
The budding orchard, or the vernal fir:
A look of gladness beams where'er we move,
And fills the dancing heart with holy love.

121

With love for Nature, and for Him whose power
Glows in the noontide, or the blush of morn;
Whose smile the waves receive—the tree, the flower—
The vine's rich tendrils, and the ripening corn;
It wakes a Sabbath feeling in the breast—
A tranquil sense of harmony and rest.

This is the Life of Youth!—and oh, how fleeting
The glorious splendors of its morning be!
With changeful hues the wildered fancy cheating,
As moonlight smiles imprint the evening sea;
While the fair sails sweep onward in their pride,
O'er treacherous waves that to dim whirlpools glide.

122

MRS. HEMANS.

We weep not, when the yellow leaves are gathered,
While Autumn's peace and plenteousness abound;
When from the tinted boughs, like rainbows withered,
The golden fruit drops richly to the ground;
When solemn Nature round her sadness throws
A mellow glory and a warm repose.

We weep not then, amid the fruitage falling,
Whose affluent incense rises to the sky;
Though then we hear soft spirit-voices calling,
That tell how loved and cherished things must die;
For to the fairest blooms a change must come,
That the ripe treasures may be garnered home.

'T was thus with thee, Beloved! their holy mission
Thy heart and soaring lays at last fulfilled;

123

Then rolled the cloud beyond the spirit's vision,
Till all the music of thy lyre was stilled;
And like a melting wave, or waning sun,
Passed from this vale of ill the Gifted One!

'T is well, divinest Soul, with thee! for Heaven
Had filled thine inmost thoughts with sacred dreams;
And to thy revery and song was given
A world of radiant and immortal gleams;
Yea, gorgeous pictures of a better land
Did ever to thy view their scene expand.

Now, all their fadeless pomp and glow perceiving,
Thou breathest freely, in celestial air;
Thy tender heart hath ceased its weary grieving,
And the pure mind is bathed in rapture there;
While, mid fair ways no earthly foot hath trod,
In white thou walkest, present with thy God!

Thou hearest melody, whose flowing numbers
Once came but faintly to thy mortal ear;
When ills of time were lost in evening slumbers,
And magic Fancy brought her Eden near;
Thou hast thy yearning hopes' fruition now—
The wreath of Paradise surrounds thy brow!

Thou hearest harps delicious, sweetly ringing,
And sister Spirits fan thee with their wings;

124

With them thou minglest, and with them art singing,
Where, named of Life, the crystal river springs,
Where, like some changing prism, expand the skies,
And purple hills from vernal vales arise.

Thou art in glory, oh, rejoicing Spirit!
Thou look'st on flowers that no pale frost may stain;
And from a changeless Friend thou dost inherit
A lyre triumphant, breathing not of pain;
Thou hast thy Home at last, from sorrow free,
And all is blessedness and peace with thee!

125

THE ALPS.

Proud monuments of God! sublime ye stand,
Among the wonders of his mighty hand:
With summits soaring in the upper sky,
Where the broad day looks down with burning eye;
Where gorgeous clouds in solemn pomp repose,
Flinging rich shadows on eternal snows:
Piles of triumphant dust, ye stand alone,
And hold in kingly state a peerless throne.

Like olden conquerors, on high ye rear
The regal ensign and the shining spear;
Round icy peaks the mists, in wreaths unrolled,
Float ever near, in purple or in gold:
And voiceful torrents, sternly rolling there,
Fill with wild music the unpillared air:
What garden, or what hall on earth beneath,
Thrills to such tones as o'er the mountains breathe?

There, through long ages past, those summits shone,
When morning radiance on their state was thrown:

126

There, when the summer day's career was done,
Played the last glory of the sinking sun:
There, sprinkling beauty o'er the torrent's shade,
The chastened moon her glittering rainbow made:
And, blent with pictured stars her lustre lay,
Where to still vales the free streams leaped away.

Where are the thronging hosts of other days,
Whose banners floated o'er the Alpine ways?
Who through their high defiles to battle wound,
While deadly ordnance stirred the heights around?
Gone like a dream which melts at early morn,
When the lark's anthem through the sky is borne;
Gone like the hues that melt in ocean's spray,
And chill Oblivion murmurs—where are they?

Yet “Alps on Alps” still rise—the lofty home
Of storms and eagles, where their pinions roam:
Still round their peaks the magic colors lie
Of morn or eve, imprinted on the sky;
And still, when kings and thrones shall fade and fall,
And empty crowns lie dim upon the pall;
Still shall their glaciers flash—their waters roar
Till nations fail, and kingdoms rise no more.

127

DEATH OF THE YOUNG.

“Weep not for the Youthful Dead,
Sleeping in their lowly bed:
They are happier than we,
Howsoever blest we be!”

I.

Can the sigh be poured for the Early Dead,
On their pillows of dust reposing?
Should the tear of Pain, in that hour be shed,
When the earth o'er their slumber is closing?
Should the winds of heaven in Evening's hour
Bear the sighs of the laden bosom;
When the Young are borne from Affliction's power,
Like the Spring's unsullied blossom?
Ere the blight of crime on the spirit came—
Ere passion awakened its inward flame:
While the heart was pure, while the brow was fair,
Ere the records of Evil had gathered there?

II.

They have passed from the shadows that haunt us round,
From the clouds that enthral existence,

128

When we look at Youth in the backward ground,
And at Death in the forward distance!
No more will the sombre pall of Fate,
Like a mantle around them gather;
They have gone, ere Affection grew desolate,
Or Hope's garland began to wither:
And they sleep like stars in the upper air,
When the skies of evening are deep and fair;
There's a halo of peace where their ashes lie,
As the ambient night-winds are hurrying by.

III.

They are blest in death!—for no bitter care
Will the fevered brow be flushing:
They departed while Being was bright and fair,
While the fountains of Feeling were gushing;
Then let them sleep “in their lowly bed;”
Let Hope be amidst our sorrow;
There is peace in the Night of the Early Dead—
It will yield to a glorious morrow!
They will rise like buds from the glebe of spring,
When the young birds play on the changeful wing;
They faded ere sin could beguile the breast;
They will wake in the regions of Endless Rest!

129

OLD SONGS.

Give me the songs I loved to hear,
In sweet and sunny days of yore;
Which came in gushes to my ear
From lips that breathe them now no more;
From lips, alas! on which the worm,
In coiled and dusty silence lies,
Where many a loved, lamented form
Is hid from Sorrow's filling eyes!

Yes! when those unforgotten lays,
Come trembling with a spirit-voice,
I mind me of those early days,
When to respire was to rejoice:
When gladsome flowers and fruitage shone
Where'er my willing footstep fell;
When Hope's bright realm was all mine own,
And Fancy whispered, “All is well.”

Give me old songs! They stir my heart
As with some glorious trumpet-tone:
Beyond the reach of modern art,
They rule its thrilling cords alone,

130

Till, on the wings of thought, I fly
Back to that boundary of bliss,
Which once beneath my childhood's sky
Embraced a scene of loveliness!

Thus, when the portals of mine ear
Those long-remembered lays receive,
They seem like guests, whose voices cheer
My breast, and bid it not to grieve:
They ring in cadences of love,
They tell of dreams now vanished all;
Dreams, that descended from above—
Visions, 't is rapture to recall!

Give me old songs! I know not why,
But every tone they breathe to me
Is fraught with pleasures pure and high,
With honest love or honest glee:
They move me, when by chance I hear,
They rouse each slumbering pulse anew
Till every scene to memory dear
Is pictured brightly to my view.

I do not ask those sickly lays
O'er which affected maidens bend;
Which scented fops are bound to praise,
To which dull crowds their homage lend:
Give me some simple Scottish song,
Or lays, from Erin's distant isle:
Lays that to love and truth belong,
And cause the saddest lip to smile!

131

DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

“Ah! weladay! most angelike of face,
A childe, young in his pure innocence,
Tender of limbes, God wote full guiltilesse,
The goodly faire that lieth here speechelesse.
A mouth he has, but wordis hath he none;
Can not complain, alas! for none outrage,
Ne grutcheth not, but lies here all alone,
Still as a lambe, most meke of his visage:
What heart of steele could do to him damage,
Or suffer him die, beholding the manere,
And look benign of his twin eyen clere?”
Lydgate.

Young mother, he is gone!
His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast;
No more the music tone
Float from his lips, to thine all fondly pressed;
His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee:
Earth must his mother and his pillow be.

His was the morning hour,
And he had passed in beauty from the day,
A bud, not yet a flower,
Torn, in its sweetness, from the parent spray;
The death-wind swept him to his soft repose.
As frost, in spring-time blights the early rose.

Never on earth again
Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear,
Like some Æolian strain,
Breathing at eventide serene and clear;

132

His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyes
The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies.

And from thy yearning heart,
Whose inmost core was warm with love for him,
A gladness must depart,
And those kind eyes with many tears be dim;
While lonely memories, an unceasing train,
Will turn the raptures of the past to pain.

Yet, mourner, while the day
Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by,
And hope forbids one ray
To stream athwart the grief-discolored sky;
There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloom
A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb.

'T is from the better land;
There, bathed in radiance that around them springs,
Thy loved one's wings expand;
As with the choiring cherubim he sings,
And all the glory of that God can see,
Who said, on earth, to children, “Come to me.”

Mother, thy child is blessed:
And though his presence may be lost to thee,
And vacant leave thy breast,
And missed, a sweet load from thy parent knee:
Though tones familiar from thine ear have passed,
Thou'lt meet thy first-born with his Lord at last.

133

EARLIER POEMS.

135

THE REQUIEM.

TO THE MEMORY OF MISS ELIZA SUYDAM, who lost her life at Trenton Falls, July, 1827.

“Ah! thy brow of gladness, which once was fair—
The settled calmness of Death is there!
Thy bosom is cold, which with life was warm,
And the shroud encloses thy gentle form!”
Sutermeister.

Deep in thy dreamless sleep thou gentle one!
Ah, when may beam the glory of thy waking?
How thy brief, sinless race of life was won,
When Death the glittering spell of joy was breaking.
Hope's siren voice was in thy raptured ear:
Oh! thus hath faded all her bursting flowers;
Passed is the gladness of her visions dear,
The morning splendor of her sunny hours:
Life hath its holy morn, and thou hast flown
Ere its brief ecstasies and dreams had gone!

Tears have been wept for thee, thou faded rose,
Nipt in the joy of thy luxuriant morning,
As a sweet bird which sinks to its repose
In the pure spring, 'mid flowers and balm returning:

136

Lone hearts have o'er thee poured the voice of wail.
In the sad watches of the starlit even,
Deep sighs have breathed upon the passing gale.
And mournful glances have been cast to heaven.
Oh! what were they? for thou from earth had past,
Even as the dawn's calm light, too pure to last.

Oh! life hath darkening hours when youth has flown:
Vain yearning hopes and flowers whose bloom is withered;
Deep tones of sorrow for our loved one gone,
Pearls in life's cup to the grave's bosom gathered.
Joy pours its sunlight o'er youth's rich domain,
The path of life looks bright with hopes revealing:
Pass but a transient hour—oh! look again:
The cankering mildew o'er love's wreath is stealing;
The siren's song, alas! its tones have fled.
And night-winds murmur o'er the fated dead.

Youth! now thy morning hour is glad and bright,
Birds, joyous birds, are on each opening blossom,
Earth laughs in beauty, heaven is clothed in light,
And hopes, like flowers, spring in the cheerful bosom:

137

How die in Time's dim lapse its buds of bliss!
How the dark storms o'ersweep its tranquil heaven,
Joy's shining wreath, rich in its loveliness.
How soon its honors to the grave are given:
Mourn not when innocence to rest hath gone,
When the pure spirit in its light hath flown.

138

SPAIN.

Land of romance and love! such once wert thou,
When peaceful songs within thy valleys rung;
The wild wind whispered on the olive-bough,
The gentle maiden o'er the soft lute hung,
Charmed with the music flowing from her tongue;
Joy dwelt amid thy valleys far and wide,
And tranquil visions blessed the old and young:
Now in the dust is thy forgotten pride,
And Lethe's mournful waves above thy splendor glide.

Once were thy desolate plains a golden land.
Where incense wandered on the gales of spring,
Where Plenty waved her rich, voluptuous wand
O'er breezy hills and valleys blossoming:
Where Victory shouted on her purple wing!
(These were the honors of thy days gone by!)
The mantling vine its sunny wreaths would fling,

139

It laughed in light, beneath thy summer sky,
And tranquil loveliness bathed the blue heav'ns on high.

Where hath thine eloquence and beauty flown?
Proud honor's wreath! its leaves are pale and sere;
The valiant hearts which blessed thy vales are gone,
And cringing serfs are in their places there!
The castles dark upon thy far hills rear
Their crested walls, but the brave souls have fled
Who barred their gates to stay the Moors' career:
Oh, wasted cities! ye can tell how dead
Are the faint hearts that reign those valiant souls instead!

But the sea changes not, the deep blue sea!
It smiles in light as when it laved thy shore,
While thy fair fields were clothed in luxury,
And Moorish bugles mingled with its roar:
Oh! yet it smiles on thee! but thou no more
Lifts up thy purple vines its shore along;
No conquering banner in thy sky may soar,
The sweet guitar has ceased thy vales among,
Where saffron-fields spread out and waving bowers up-sprung.

Comes there not sadness in the scentless breeze,
Where wandered once on sweet and viewless wing

140

The gladdening incense of the myrtle-trees,
With the sweet basil's fragrance lingering,
When the pure lavender on air of spring,
Breathed out its offering to the laughing sky,
'Mid the sweet vales and hedges blossoming?
Such were the airs that swept thine arch on high,
Mingled with trumpet-tones of echoing victory!

But chance and change have passed o'er thy fair clime:
No gentle strains amid thy bowers are heard,
No voice is murmuring in the flowery lime,
The rich, soft music of some gentle bird;
No opening blossoms by thy winds are stirred:
Thy eloquent days are past, thy lights are fled,
And if some warning voice, some prophet word,
Should bid thee wake, thy sons would choose, instead,
To sleep in glorious dust, slaves amid glorious dead!

141

THE STARS

“Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven.”
Byron.

Oh! who hath gazed in bliss abroad upon the evening sky,
Nor felt the presence of his God—the searching of his eye:
When twinkling in the soft, blue air the gentle starlight fell.
While in the green shades sung the brook in wild and pensive dell;
When the night bird's strain went up to heaven, like fragrance from the earth,
With many a tone of music given, sweet twilight's blended mirth?
Who hath not bowed his heart to Him who spread the joyous scene,
While filled with holy musings his raptured soul hath been;
When the moon looked out in loveliness, arrayed like gorgeous bride,
While all her bright attendants were smiling at her side;
When, like an angel's spotless robe, some pure cloud of the sky
Passed a brief instant o'er her face, and dipt in light, passed by;

142

While on the green earth's joyous breast the pearls of evening slept—
Those pure, bright tears the heavens give, as if the blue skies wept:
When the soft winds chant their soothing strains the violet bed beside:
When in the evening air the tones of many waters glide:
Sweet brooks! whose blue veins render back the image of the sky,
As prattling on their moonlit way their bright waves glitter by:
Those are the hours which to the heart like gush of music come.
Heard in the midnight's voiceless hour amid its startled gloom!
But when the shroud of gathered clouds in autumn's pensive reign
Comes o'er the sad and chastened hills, and on the cheerless plain:
When the flowers in garden-walks lie dead, and the vine yields up its leaf,
And the gleaner to the storehouse brings his white and gathered sheaf:
Then we muse, while stars are hidden from the dark and mournful sky,
And o'er the faded breast of earth the night-wind murmurs by;
Of Hope, with all her thousand songs, her visions, and her flowers,
Which passed like starlight from the sky on swift and rosy hours!

143

VALENCIA.

Voluptuous clime! above whose joyous hills
Laughs the blue arch of a sweet southern sky,
Where sunlight streams on the free dancing rills,
And Evening wakes her pensive melody:
How oft on fragrant airs borne out on high,
Hath thrilled the sweet lute's soul-entrancing tone,
While gentle maid from Moorish balcony,
As the night-breezes murmured soft and lone,
Waved her pure lily hand to her own chosen one!

Soft breezy whispers in the myrtle-grove,
Strains rich and gladsome as the scene around,
Where countless warbles lift the voice of love,
And breathing flowers enthral the verdant ground:
Oh, in thy peerless beauty there is found
A dream of gladness, like a lay of spring,
When sparkling streams to the far ocean bound:

144

Where gentle wild-birds dance on golden wing,
And on the dim-seen hills fresh woods are blossoming!

Now leaps the sailor's heart, where from thy bowers
Sweet floods of fragrance o'er the dancing wave
Come like the dream of Youth's remembered hours,
When Hope her visions to his spirit gave;
E'en the blue waters thy fresh shores that lave,
A voice of living gladness raised on high:
Oh! could those shores but nurse the free and brave,
That Freedom's shout might thrill beneath thy sky,
Trembling amid those hills whose beauty ne'er may die!

The founts still murmur in the citron grove,
The whispering almond charms the listening ear;
The orange-bowers breathe of the haunts of love,
And seem to murmur, “Paradise is here!”
All to the eye is beautiful! draw near:
Hark to the echoes of the convent bell:
Here Superstition holds her reign of fear,
That clanging peal is Freedom's mournful knell!
Gone is the sunny past: its glories, who may tell?

145

Thus hath Time come upon his dusky wing,
The joys that bloomed where flowers are blooming still,
Passed as rich sunlight from the bowers of spring,
As a sweet blossom which the night-winds chill!
There is a tale in every chanting rill,
For nature smiles as when in days gone by
The shouts of triumph rang on breezy hill,
And gorgeous banners trembled in the sky,
Floating like spotless fame o'er the dim turrets high!

But the true hearts are dead which once were thine:
The mournful cypress o'er the marble urn
Shakes down its faded glories—the green vine
Roams where the festal beacon-lamp should burn
On the dusk battlement: oh, may ne'er return
The mighty splendors which were once thine own?
A mournful truth it has been thine to learn:
That false religion rears its hated throne
Among the verdant groves above thy buried gone!

146

TO THE MISSISSIPPI.

Thine is a troubled stream!
Born in the darkness of the lonely woods,
Where scarce from the bright sun a transient gleam
Streams through their arcades on thy solitudes;
But thy deep waves rush onward to the sea,
Meeting at intervals the day's broad light,
Save where the cypress-boughs o'ershadow thee,
And thy dim course is through their cloudy night.

Such is the tide of life:
Shadows and sunlight tremble on its wave;
Soft gleams of pleasure and a cloud of strife
Mark our dim pathway to the silent grave;
Joy is our lot in youth, and Hope's blithe voice
Pours its sweet song where'er our footsteps be;
Flowers that soon wither bid the heart rejoice,
Then Time's wave mingles with Eternity!

147

LINES,

WRITTEN AT AN UNKNOWN GRAVE.

“I know not how, but standing thus by thee,
It seems as if I had thine inmate known,
Thou tomb! and other days come back on me
With recollected music, though the tone
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan
Of dying thunder on the distant wind!”
Byron.

A mournful tone the night-air brings above this lonely tomb,
Like thoughts of fair and faded things amid life's changeful gloom;
Deep shadows of the past are here! and Fancy wanders back
When joy woke in this mould'ring breast, now passed from life's dim track:
When hopes made glad his spirit here, as the pure summer-rain
Pours its sweet influence on the earth, with all her flowery train,

148

While buds are tossing in the breeze beneath a deep-blue sky,
And Pleasure's chant was in his ear, ere he had gone to die!

Youth, too, was his, its morning time, its sunlight for his brow,
Its phantoms shone for him to chase in giddy round, but now;
Perchance, the glee of his young heart, the glancing of his eye,
Hath been upon another shore, beneath a brighter sky;
The night-tones have no tale to tell, no history to unfold;
The tall, sere grass that waves alone in sadness o'er his mould:
These speak not—deep in dreamless rest the peaceful sleeper lies,
There is no pang to rend his heart, no grief to dim his eyes.

Perchance in halcyon hours of youth a transient dream of love
Came to his breast, while earth was joy and heaven was light above,
When his soul was filled with gladsome thought, and in idolatry
He bowed him to that holy shrine which in our youth we see:

149

A star above life's troubled scene, a gleam upon its wave,
A ray whose light is soon eclipsed in the darkness of the grave;
A song which, like the mirthful tone of wild-birds on the wing,
Dies when the dewy eventide enshrouds a sky of spring!

I know but this, Death's shadow dwells upon his deep sealed eye;
Vainly earth laughs in joy for him, or the blue summer-sky;
The gales may tell where flowers repose, or where the young buds swell:
Their soft chant may not enter here within this voiceless cell;
Flowers, dreams, and grief, alike are past, and why should man reply,
When life is but a wilderness whose promise soon may die?
'T is but a home where all must rest—change which to all must come—
A curtain which o'er ALL must spread its deep, o'ershadowing gloom!

The wail of the expiring year is in the deep brown woods,
The leaf is borne upon the stream in its dark solitudes;

150

The clouds are on the chastened hills, and floods are wild and high;
The mournful pall is lingering where faded blossoms lie!
Then here should monitory thoughts be treasured in the breast,
That life is but a changeful hour, and death a holy rest,
Where grief's loud wail or bursting tears ne'er to its stillness come,
But calmness reigns within its hall, wrapt in its shrouded home!

151

ANCIENT UTICA.

TUA GLORIA EST PROFECTA.

Thou of the things that were! a solemn voice
Seems from thy ruin to be stealing deep,
From thy clear fountains, wont but to rejoice,
In days of old, in pure and glassy sleep!
Oh! might thy broken walls the spirits keep,
Which gave thee glory in the days gone by,
As a brief ray when thronging tempests sweep
On the thick darkness of the clouded sky,
That fears the searching glance of the sun's burning eye.

Where are the hosts that shouted by thy wave,
Thou dark Bograda, with thy murmuring tone?
Is there no sound to answer from the grave,
Where the high hearts of other years have gone?
Hath troubled Lethe to her cold wave won
The mighty of the past—the faded dead?
Is the bright race of their existence run,

152

Like the last hues of day, when softly shed
From a deep, mournful sky o'er land and ocean spread.

Where are the senates in thy proud domain?
Their halls are ashes: Cæsar's marble now
Gleams from the dust, awaked to life again
With the green leaves upon his lofty brow!
Oh, may thy crumbled temples tell us how
The shout of triumph thrilled, when Cato spoke
Deep tones, and fearless as a harp's sweet flow:
Alas! his voice is hushed! life's chain is broke!
Who may relume his eye, which once to glory woke?

Ask of the traveller where thy might hath fled—
He who looks on thee while the soft winds sighing,
Breathe in the olives waving o'er the dead:
Of mouldering arches to man's step replying,
And columns, where the night bird's lays are dying!
These are the records of thy dull decay—
Of Time's swift footsteps o'er earth's glory flying,
Blending with dust the might and the array
Of pride, and joy, and hope—earth's dreams that pass away!

153

Yet, when the day-beams light the lengthening plain,
Thine is a scene of peace: the citron-grove
Waves in its soft, green light; the distant main
Sends on the summer-breeze a hymn of love
From the glad sailor's heart; the sky above
Wears hues all glorious, and the earth is drest
In joy and beauty, while the sweet winds rove,
Making soft music o'er a city's rest,
Chanting a plaintive song o'er valor's mouldering breast!

Nature is with thee in luxuriant spring,
Though dust is blending with thy colonnades,
Still summer all her revelry doth bring:
The deep recesses of her tuneful shades,
And birds' sweet voices in the fragrant glades:
These cling around thee, when the moss of age
Sleeps on thy pillars as their grandeur fades—
A trace of ruin on Time's changing page—
A picture of the past—of man's brief pilgrimage!

Nature is with thee!—spring, with smile and sigh,
And lulling founts in the pure sunlight leaping;
Bright wings are glancing in the purple sky,

154

The early leaves and open buds o'er sweeping—
A scene of joy o'er faded glory keeping—
Breathing calm freshness o'er the fair earth's breast:
On the green spot where glorious dust is sleeping,
Where the high heart its kindred earth has pressed,
Nature is lovely still, above MAN'S silent rest!

155

THE DYING POET.

“I could lie down, like a tried child,
And weep away this life of care,
Which I have borne and still must bear,
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me,
And I might feel, in the warm air,
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.”
Shelley.

'T is a spring hour: the silvery green
Of new-leaved woods delight my breast;
Yet must I leave this joyous scene,
Close my dim eyes, and be at rest;
The dews of death are on my brow,
And saddened Memory turns to trace
Scenes of pure thought which shone but now,
Ere yet I close life's fitful race!

The melody of early birds
Comes softly to my dying ear:
How like the sweet and gentle words
Which early love rejoiced to hear!
The last red light is on the flowers,
Their tints upon the green earth lie:
Oh! must I turn from life's warm hours,
From this bright scene of joy—to die?

156

Chant on, ye wanderers of the sky!
Ye light of heart and gay of wing;
The early buds are opening by,
From the fresh earth the violets spring!
The rills are babbling through the grove,
Their gentle voices mingling swell:
They chant to trees whose shade I love,
Which I must leave! Oh, then, farewell!

Farewell to life! its morning hour
Was like a golden paradise;
Hope sprang like some luxuriant flower,
Where youth's enchanted visions rise!
I have had peace—its hour was brief:
I have had care—it lingered long!
Joy's tree sent down its faded leaf,
On Pleasure's lip expired the song!

I, too, have loved: a holy dream
Rejoiced my warm and cheerful heart:
Thus have I marked the rainbow's gleam
On April clouds, and then depart!
Its smile was brief: deep hours of love
Came o'er my soul, intensely pure:
Why should the cloud o'er sunlight move?
Why may not heaven on earth endure?

THE END.

University of Virginia Library

THE SPIRIT OF LIFE.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

LAST PRAYER OF MARY,

QUEEN OF SCOTS.

A CONTRASTED PICTURE.

A DIRGE IN AUTUMN.

AN INVITATION.

A LAMENT.

THE EARLY DEAD.

WARNINGS.

EUTHANASIA.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

A SONG OF MAY.

PLACE OF REST.

THE SIGNS OF GOD.

TO MY BOY.

MEMORY.

I.

ON THE DEATH OF DR. BEDELL.

BOOTS:

A SLIPSHODICAL LYRIC.

LINES

WRITTEN AT LAUREL HILL CEMETERY, NEAR PHILADELPHIA.

PRAYER.

THE HEXEN ZEE.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

STANZAS.

WOMAN.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

THE SPIRIT'S QUESTIONINGS.

LOVE'S RIVAL.

OCTOBER.

LINES.

HYMN

FOR THE EIGHTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE AMERICAN SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION.

YESTERDAY.

THE NAMELESS GRAVE.

THE LIFE OF YOUTH.

MRS. HEMANS.

THE ALPS.

DEATH OF THE YOUNG.

I.

II.

III.

OLD SONGS.

DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

EARLIER POEMS.

THE REQUIEM.

TO THE MEMORY OF MISS ELIZA SUYDAM, who lost her life at Trenton Falls, July, 1827.

SPAIN.

THE STARS

VALENCIA.

TO THE MISSISSIPPI.

LINES,

WRITTEN AT AN UNKNOWN GRAVE.

ANCIENT UTICA.

TUA GLORIA EST PROFECTA.

THE DYING POET.