University of Virginia Library

I.

Flatter me not, with visions like to these—
Too well, my friend, you know the pow'r to please,
The winning accent, and the friendly tone,
Make me all yours, when I am scarce my own!
And, when desponding—trampled by some new
And stern affliction; staring on my view—
When weary even with life, this narrow life,
Where all is bitterness, and much is strife,
I fain would pause, nor battle for my breath,
But seek, and find, some peace, at last, in death—
You come with friendly smile, and gaily dress,
Some newer phantom up, of happiness;
Paint fairy prospects, green, and flush'd with light,
And hide the frost and winter from my sight;
Arouse the dying spark of hope, anew,
And dress the night, with moonlight and with dew!
You win me back to struggle, and to gain
Some newer agony, to crush my brain,
Some blight unlook'd for, and, the more severe,
As you have made me dream, that none was near.

II.

How little do they know—the crowd, the throng,
The curse, and madness, that abides with song!
That fatal destiny, which bids us turn,
To where, the altars of the Muses, burn;
Commands us, light our torches, at a flame,
From which, nor warmth, nor lustre can we claim,
And, when we dream, our fires are kindled quite,
Obscures the blaze, and tramples it from sight!
And thou, even thou, who best can'st comprehend
The Poet's nature, as thou art his friend—
Thou, who hast taught me, that, not all unknown,
My song has been, though, known to thee, alone,
Even thou, art all unmeet to learn the pain,
When the heart watches o'er the slumbering brain,
Beholds the mad, unquiet of that hour,
When Fancy's spectres own redoubled pow'r,
And rouses up her train of shadowy forms,
To shake the sleep of agony, with storms,
Or, keep the abject Muse awake, and weep,
When all the world is happy, and asleep!
What hopes are his, who dare explore the lyre—
What smoky clouds assail his wayward fire—
What dreams incite, of glory, or of gain,
To fly, at last, and leave him but to pain?
Now taught by Friendship, and now won by praise,
The laurel swells before his falcon gaze—
Glory invites him, with enticing eye,
And blue-vein'd charms, to tread her starry sky.—
Fame seeks his couch by night, and weaves the dear
Undoubted sentence, of the future year,
And thro' the mists of coming time, reveals
The bay-crown'd statue, till his vision reels,
And he awakes with raptures all his own,
To find his dream, a dream—his statue, gone!

III.

Yet, must I sing—the destiny which gave,
The pow'r of song, and made me all its slave,
Still drives me on, pursuing and pursued,
Alternate won, the wooer and the wooed.
Doom'd me to find in every change or shade,
Some fearful Tyrant that must be obey'd—
Bade me but live on sunshine, yet on high,
Hung with a pitchy mantle, all the sky—
And fill'd, with strange influences, the cloud,
And wrapt in dust, and gloom, and heat, the crowd—
And when my heart was delicate, and frail,
Ordain'd, it should depart before the gale,
Unfitted all, to combat with the breeze,
Yet doom'd to struggle with the rebel seas—
Sent it abroad, all rudderless, to strain,
For the far port, it may not reach again!
Wrought by that fatal doom, from whence, the dow'r
Of song first came, a wild, and fearful pow'r,
The unrelenting toil is still my own,
To tread the weary wilderness, alone—
To shrink, with sensitive tenderness, from life,
And find in man, the harbinger of strife;
Feel every breath, as fatal to the bloom,
Of that rich flow'r, we leave upon our tomb,
And dread with strange inquietude and bile,
The bad man's sneer, the cold man's scorn or smile.
Yet will I sing—and tho' with song, there be,
But little pride, and far less sympathy—
Tho' Fame, for which the Minstrel's heart beats high,
If seen at all, is only seen to fly—
And jealousy, and bitter malice, stand
Ready to crush, with rais'd, united hand,
And song be one dark struggle to attain,
The shallow meed, that life can seldom gain—
Yet will I sing—and tho' the day be far,
When mine, shall be the glory of a star,
Still to beam on in splendour, to the last,
When thou, and I, my friend, and all are past—
'Tis a proud destiny, that dares to die,
For the far gloom of Immortality!

IV.

Lo! from the horizon's verge, declining day,
Casts his red shadow o'er the rippling bay;
On high, the dark wave leaps, ere light be gone,
To hail one smile from the departing sun;
While in the dark blue vault, the fleecy rack,
Of thronging clouds, attending on his track,
Form, in a gorgeous canopy of light,
Each hue that's lovely, and each ray that's bright!
Blandishing ministers, more sweetly pure,
As we, their lustre better can endure,
Than him, their monarch—whence alone, they claim
Their heav'n of hue, and more than world of flame—
Still to the last, though lost to mortal eyes,
He leaves behind, his garniture of dyes;
And the stars glow, and the pale moon appears
In the blue vault, and all his light, is theirs.

V.

Here, as the day declines, the lonely heart,
May sigh to lose its being's richest part—
Those glories of the aerial world, which seem
To wild-eyed Fancy, Heav'n's own op'ning gleam;
While, from the silvery vestment of the sky,
Eternal splendours burst upon the eye,
Revealing, shaded by a mystic veil.
The wonders, dreampt of, in enthusiast's tale—
Those transient glimmerings, where, devotion sees
The long-lost garden, and the living trees—
Rich bow'rs, whose maidens, wooing to their arms,
Soft as their homes, eternal as their charms,
Sing those enticing airs, which, like the tree,
That blooms forever, in fair Araby,
Tempts the young Pilgrim, slumbering 'neath its boughs,
To leave his duties, and forget his vows;
Discard the affections of his native shore,
And deem his journey done, his labours, o'er.

VI.

Yes—wrapt in mists of darkness, which pervade
Even Fancy's own domain of light and shade,
Even now, these glories vanish from the sky,
And leave the soul of Solitude, to sigh!
Sigh, that even these, the last on earth to cheer,
So brightly dark, so languishingly clear—
Whose mellow'd tints, disposed in tasteful pride,
The deep and light, with equal pow'r, divide;
So well arranged to soothe the soul of grief,
And lend it sympathy, if not relief,
Should thus so soon depart, and leave no trace
Of morning glory, or of ev'ning grace.
Beautiful Ashley! when I first essay'd,
The lyre's rude song, as on thy banks, I stray'd,
How came young Hope, with gentle smiles supplied,
To bless my dreams, and wander by my side!
How, o'er the past, did playful Memory run,
And sweet the joys, from recollection, won!
The swift ascent to manhood's warmer glow,
That youth, repining, ever deems too slow—
The flow'rs that deck'd the wayside, as I came,
And, as a first discoverer, dar'd to name—
The kindred heart, that smil'd, when others frown'd,
And she, the loveliest of the circle round,
Whose sudden glance, like stars of shooting flame,
Brought melancholy gladness, where they came—
These, when the ascent was gain'd, young Memory brought,
As fadeless records, to the book of thought—
To these, gay Hope, a winged wanderer, threw
A future world—more bright—but not so true!

VII.

Here on these banks, my roving thought portrays,
A new, the scenes of long-forgotten days;
Not those, forsooth, wherein I bore a part,
What's dear to Fancy's foreign to the heart—
But where my young Imagination roves,
To those glad walks and brave and arching groves,
Where Nature, wild, and stag-eyed, as at first,
Upon the tenant of the forest burst;
Reveal'd the shady tract, and fertile lawn,
Where kept the hill-fox, or reposed the fawn—
Taught him the neighbouring forest-depths to scan
Its wildest labyrinth and maziest plan,
Untrod by any lord, save him, who gave
Freedom to all, nor made the brute his slave;
Nor slew with wanton hand—nor idly bent,
His springy yew in careless lavishment,
But moderate still in want, that slew no prey,
Save, what that want, instructed him to slay!
There, where the savage dwelt in native pride,
And scorn'd the world, or knew no world beside
The wild and desert loneliness of place,
At once the grave, and dwelling of his race,
In simple, rude, ungraciousness of life,
Yet full of hospitality and strife;
Ready to war, as ready to obey,
The dictate of the prophet and his sway—
Slave to the passion, which, himself, he made,
And wrought the Tyranny, himself obey'd—
Practis'd to draw the bow, and spring at dawn
To meet the grey-eyed Day upon the lawn,
Begin his journey, ere the blush of day,
Nor, for the gloom of ev'ning's shade, delay—
Assiduous to explore, intent to view,
The march of earth, and prove its courses true,
From the grey bark, depict his journey's track,
Nor find a need to pause or turn him back—
Careless of danger, ready to endure,
Rich in the employ, which keeps him ever poor,
Too much in love with Heav'n's fresh airs, to creep
Beneath a cell, when the broad tempests sweep
Their mighty wings across the wide expanse,
At once their own, and mind's inheritance—
Taught from his cradle, bravely to resign
The life, which pain forbids him to repine;
Bound to the stake, to emulate his sire,
Triumph thro' life, and triumphing, expire:
With a proud song of vengeance satisfied,
Deem his life nobly spent, who bravely died.

VIII.

The day is past—the glories of their prime,
The morning freshness of the infant time,
Is gone with the proud Savage, and no trace
Remains of forest shade and simple race.
How dark the destiny, that swept away,
Men wild, but gentle, innocent as they,
'Till not the slightest trophy do we claim,
But that, which tells their fortune, in our shame.
And this broad stream, this Poet-stream, no more
Rolls back their tones of vigor to the shore,
Where, by the hamlet side, the Indian maid,
At ev'ning stood beneath the old tree's shade.
Surveying her boy-lover, as in view,
He urged the arrowy prow of his canoe,
Across the leaping waters, that between,
His heart and idol, rear'd their living green
How dark to Fancy seems the picture left
To him, of the old solitude bereft—
The silent, solemn sweetness of the waste,
With the rude birch canoe upon its breast,
And the slant sunbeam gilding all the way,
Mark'd by his prow upon the parting spray,
That, now in jagged, dull confusion falls,
On dens of brick, and miserable walls,
Dimming with gloomy shadows the pure stream,
That once was rich and redolent with the beam—
Sent from the sunlit forest, where the breeze
At ev'ning, threw his weary limbs at ease,
Or, with light pinion, curl'd the streaming sea.
With a strange music of festivity.

IX.

Now what is here to meet the gazer's eye,
Let science, and the ‘march of mind,’ reply—
Why Lucas' mills, the team boat and the quay,
Where cockney sportsmen crowd, at break of day,
With double-barrell'd gun, perchance to shoot,
In case they meet with some unlicenc'd brute.
Thus nothing wild escapes the modern rage.
A hundred years before the bygone age—
Our fathers shot the wild-men, and their sons,
A more improv'd and better race of Huns,
Shoot down the wild-fowl, with percussion guns.
And lo! the dirty wood boat, with a crew
Of fowls for market—eggs and butter too—
With, now and then, a something to retrieve,
The loss of that, I must confess I grieve—
In the rough negro boat-horn, heard by night,
When the wind's wanton, and the moon is bright,
And the stars watch above the sleeping sea,
Winding, alone, upon the Congaree.

X.

Few years have pass'd, sweet river—and no more,
The playful boy that wander'd by thy shore,
In many a prank and gambol, once again,
I watch thy waters leaping to the main!
Time hath brought change upon his rapid wing,
And life's dull seasons, are no longer spring—
The young associates of my early day,
Are dead, or scatter'd widely, far away—
Some are in foreign lands, ordain'd to toil,
For life or wealth, upon a niggard soil;
The Sea hath one I loved, and wild storms sweep
O'er a proud form now bleaching in the deep,
That in the athletic game has link'd with mine—
The first I loved, the last I shall repine,
For no affection like that first strong yoke,
Shall life have pow'r to knit, as death has broke!
And I, the last, less lov'd, and youngest—one,
Doom'd from the first, in life, to move alone;
Scorn'd for the weakness, which became, at length,
More than the pride, and all the pow'r of strength;
Whose passions ever roused, untaught to bend,
Confirm'd the doubtful shook the steadiest friend—
Unused to kindness, so, that, when it spoke,
A world I knew not, o'er my bosom broke,
And all the tears that pride had stay'd so long,
Frozen by bitterness, restrain'd by wrong,
With cataract might' thro' their dark prisons swept,
Each rock o'erborne that held them, and—I wept.
I had not wept in sorrow—had not shed
One tear of anguish, when I watch'd the bed,
Where, lay affection's earliest idol, dead!
Coldness but steel'd me, firmer to despise,
Unkindness loosed, still more, all human ties,
And taught me, tho' the child of nature, still,
That I was free to love or hate, at will!
That Nature was the kindest—but beguil'd,
Too long, by man—believing, when he smil'd.
That truth was in the blandishment, I gave
My heart, to each deceit, still more, a slave,
'Till torn at length, by frequent wrong, I grew,
Tho' born to love, a stern, proud hater too,
And every stream of nature, in my soul,
Seal'd with eternal snows, refused to roll!
Love burst the fountain—Love, whose magic breath,
Can cheer the shade, and soothe the pain of death—
Whose rosy hand, pervading earth's wide gloom,
Plants the young flow'r of rapture on the tomb—
To the far pole, where endless winters sway,
Imparts a sun, that compensates the day;
And thro' the night, whose matchless beams appear,
Warming, o'er snowy peaks, the polar year—
Love broke the ice-bound regions of my heart,
And bade his day appear, his night depart!

XI.

Sweet waters of my youth! I've tried the song,
With early themes, but used to sorrow long,
They mingle with strange discords, and repeat
Aught but the notes, my lonely heart deems sweet.
Fond recollections, swelling with thy wave,
How different now, from what my boyhood gave—
Tears have embitter'd the pure streams of truth,
And robb'd the bloom and promises of youth!
Lo! in dim visions, on the wat'ry wild,
Now dark with clouds, where nought but sunbeam smil'd
Behold the Past, with all its innocent wealth,
Its grateful store of luxury and health;
Rapture wild bounding, whose delirious dreams.
Warm, from the Persian's land of flow'rs and beams.
In fairy pictured hues, o'er boyhood throng,
Waking him up to luxury and song—
Bright skies appear in sunniness and glow,
With fairy radiance, o'er the world below,
And all that's rich in nature, strong in joy,
Shines without tarnish, beams without alloy.
There comes a darker picturing, with these,
Like hell-born monster's over sunlit seas,
Where halcyon quiet broods, on gossamer wing,
And mermaids wake, in coral groves, to sing.
'Tis the dark features of the present, east,
To cloud the future and destroy the past;
Obscure each glory of my early day,
And blight my soul, and tear its hope away!
Tinge over waters, wild and fresh before—
Skies whose rich brightness, won me to adore—
Scenes whose extremest loneliness was dear,
With gloom and sorrow, blackness and despair!

XII.

Image of sadness—sadness of the heart,
I weep to watch, yet tremble to depart,
Sadden the more I see thy leaping swell,
Yet feel my sadness, when I say, farewell—
I weep not in thy change—thou art the same,
As when at first, I learn'd to lisp thy name.
And thy full waters roll'd, as now, along,
All purely, deeply, vigorously strong,
And not, that bursting full upon my view,
I've found that false, which Fancy swore was true;
Not that the athlete died at sea, and lay,
Where Mexico still rolls his tideless bay,
And sea-birds spread, and sea-nymphs watch his grave,
And the cold, midnight winds, his requiem rave;
Nor, that in distant regions, there are some,
Whom Hope oft brings, and Truth delays to come,
To bless the weary eyes that wake at home—
Not these, not all—tho man to Fortune bear,
Each human engine, that may claim a tear—
Tho' blear-eyed Hatred, ready to devise
The rack for that, it never can despise—
Tho' Malice slander, and tho' Folly bring,
And lend to higher agony, its sting—
'Till now, I wept not—nor could these impart,
That woman softness to the bursting heart,
Demanding tears, from eyes, that could not weep,
Whose streams were silent, as their tides were deep.