 | [Poems by Drake in] The life and works of Joseph Rodman Drake (1795-1820) |  |
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SECTION III
UNCOLLECTED AND UNPUBLISHED POEMS
To Mrs. Abbe Allen
ON HER REQUESTING A MONODY ON GEORGE CLINTON, FEBRUARY, 1812
Nay, lady, lady, do not ask
My joyous harp to breathe the sigh,
As yet it only knows to bask
In sunny beams from beauty's eye;
Should solemn dirge, or plaintive air,
Be rung on chord so blithe as mine,
Its notes would fly to bosoms fair,
To blushing lips and rosy wine.
My joyous harp to breathe the sigh,
As yet it only knows to bask
In sunny beams from beauty's eye;
Should solemn dirge, or plaintive air,
Be rung on chord so blithe as mine,
Its notes would fly to bosoms fair,
To blushing lips and rosy wine.
As thus in careless mood I sung,
Its merry strains so sweetly rung,
Of playful glance, and witching smile,
And melting kiss, and wanton wile,
That, listening to the frolic lay,
I heeded not the dying day.
The setting sun was sinking low,
And fading fast the vivid glow,
That with such beauties decks the sky,
As passion gives to woman's eye;
One beam, that lingered in the west,
Danced on the billow's dimpled breast,
While eddies whirled in circling play,
And glinted back the golden ray.
It gave its line of emerald green
A flowing tint of crimson sheen,
And back reflected to the sky
The Tyrian purple's darker dye.
Its merry strains so sweetly rung,
Of playful glance, and witching smile,
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That, listening to the frolic lay,
I heeded not the dying day.
The setting sun was sinking low,
And fading fast the vivid glow,
That with such beauties decks the sky,
As passion gives to woman's eye;
One beam, that lingered in the west,
Danced on the billow's dimpled breast,
While eddies whirled in circling play,
And glinted back the golden ray.
It gave its line of emerald green
A flowing tint of crimson sheen,
And back reflected to the sky
The Tyrian purple's darker dye.
Now died that ray of western light
In deepening shades of sable night;
The starry dew was falling fast,
And hoarsely moaned the evening blast,
When, sad and slow I turned me back
To seek the beaten village track,
And soon I reached the holy ground
Where sculptured stone and grassy mound
Proclaimed the calm for those who weep
In peaceful bed where all must sleep.
In deepening shades of sable night;
The starry dew was falling fast,
And hoarsely moaned the evening blast,
When, sad and slow I turned me back
To seek the beaten village track,
And soon I reached the holy ground
Where sculptured stone and grassy mound
Proclaimed the calm for those who weep
In peaceful bed where all must sleep.
The moon no longer sweetly smiled,
And all was drear, and dark, and wild,
Save, now and then, a little beam
Between the passing clouds would stream,
And for a moment gild the dark,
Like meteor glow-worms' transient spark,
Whose silver rays are lightly thrown
On azure wave of mossy stone.
And here and there a lonely star,
Like taper twinkling from afar,
Gleamed faintly on some marble tomb,
And lit but did not cheer the gloom.
A weeping-willow bending near,
In solemn silence dropped the tear
Upon the peasant's lowly bier,
And on its bough, with dew-drops hung,
The idle harp of joy I flung.
Sudden in wistful murmur low,
Grief's pensive notes began to flow;
So mournful was the melody,
So sad, and yet so rude and free,
From sorrow's muse the numbers ran,
They ne'er were breathed by mortal man.
And slowly now the evening breeze
Was sighing through the willow-trees,
And lightly from the minstrel frame
In fitful starts the death-song came.
And now the note was sad and high,
Now soft and low as lover's sigh,
And now 'twas fierce as maniac's cry.
Hushed for a moment was the wail,
Then, borne upon the hollow gale,
A rude yet plaintive prelude ran,
And, wildly sad, the dirge began.
And all was drear, and dark, and wild,
Save, now and then, a little beam
Between the passing clouds would stream,
And for a moment gild the dark,
Like meteor glow-worms' transient spark,
Whose silver rays are lightly thrown
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And here and there a lonely star,
Like taper twinkling from afar,
Gleamed faintly on some marble tomb,
And lit but did not cheer the gloom.
A weeping-willow bending near,
In solemn silence dropped the tear
Upon the peasant's lowly bier,
And on its bough, with dew-drops hung,
The idle harp of joy I flung.
Sudden in wistful murmur low,
Grief's pensive notes began to flow;
So mournful was the melody,
So sad, and yet so rude and free,
From sorrow's muse the numbers ran,
They ne'er were breathed by mortal man.
And slowly now the evening breeze
Was sighing through the willow-trees,
And lightly from the minstrel frame
In fitful starts the death-song came.
And now the note was sad and high,
Now soft and low as lover's sigh,
And now 'twas fierce as maniac's cry.
Hushed for a moment was the wail,
Then, borne upon the hollow gale,
A rude yet plaintive prelude ran,
And, wildly sad, the dirge began.
Oh, cold is the grave where the warrior sleeps,
And bitter the tears his country weeps.
Gloomy and dark doth the cypress wave,
And the chilly night-dew bespangles his grave.
The hero has gone to his lowly bed,
And patriots mourn for the mighty dead.
And bitter the tears his country weeps.
Gloomy and dark doth the cypress wave,
And the chilly night-dew bespangles his grave.
The hero has gone to his lowly bed,
And patriots mourn for the mighty dead.
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Ah, well may the tear bedim the eye,
And well may the bosom heave a sigh;
And well the sable trophies wave
O'er the hallowed tomb of the fallen brave;
For the champion of freedom has gone to his bier,
And the demons of woe are hovering near.
And well may the bosom heave a sigh;
And well the sable trophies wave
O'er the hallowed tomb of the fallen brave;
For the champion of freedom has gone to his bier,
And the demons of woe are hovering near.
For his was the arm on the battle-field
The blood-stained sabre of death to wield;
And his was the voice in council hall
That hastened the haughty tyrant's fall.
But hushed is that voice, so open and bold,
And that valiant arm is stiffened and cold.
The blood-stained sabre of death to wield;
And his was the voice in council hall
That hastened the haughty tyrant's fall.
But hushed is that voice, so open and bold,
And that valiant arm is stiffened and cold.
The standard of freedom he flung to the gale,
To float on the mountain and deck the vale;
He plucked a bright pearl from the ocean king,
And hung the gem on the eagle's wing.
But the glittering jewel is torn from its place,
And the banner is sullied with foul disgrace.
To float on the mountain and deck the vale;
He plucked a bright pearl from the ocean king,
And hung the gem on the eagle's wing.
But the glittering jewel is torn from its place,
And the banner is sullied with foul disgrace.
The gem of her rights from my country is torn,
And her banner is soiled, for wrongs are borne.
But had Clinton upreared the vengeful brand,
Had the reins been guided by Clinton's hand,
His arm had restored the jewel again,
And washed in their gore the deadly stain.
And her banner is soiled, for wrongs are borne.
But had Clinton upreared the vengeful brand,
Had the reins been guided by Clinton's hand,
His arm had restored the jewel again,
And washed in their gore the deadly stain.
And his name shall not be like the meteor ray,
That gleams a moment and dies away;
For the diamond tears of beauty shall fall
On the blooming laurel that decks his pall.
And the lordly swell of the minstrel's lays,
Shall carry his name to distant days.
That gleams a moment and dies away;
For the diamond tears of beauty shall fall
On the blooming laurel that decks his pall.
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Shall carry his name to distant days.
Sunk the high strain in whispers low,
And soon the note had ceased to flow;
But still from echo's fairy tongue,
In wandering notes a finale rung.
Its flying numbers seemed to say
“What though one star has passed away,
Yet others beam with lustre bright,
To cheer the gloom of danger's night.”
The dirge was o'er; on hill and dell
The morn's unclouded splendor fell;
And, musing on the magic lay,
I slowly winded back my way.
And soon the note had ceased to flow;
But still from echo's fairy tongue,
In wandering notes a finale rung.
Its flying numbers seemed to say
“What though one star has passed away,
Yet others beam with lustre bright,
To cheer the gloom of danger's night.”
The dirge was o'er; on hill and dell
The morn's unclouded splendor fell;
And, musing on the magic lay,
I slowly winded back my way.
The Spectre, A Fact
The night was dark, the moon was hid,
Her radiance dimmed by clouds o'erspread,
No more resplendent shone;
But now and then a transient beam,
Like the faint shadow of a dream,
Between the passing clouds would stream,
To cheer the traveller lone.
Her radiance dimmed by clouds o'erspread,
No more resplendent shone;
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Like the faint shadow of a dream,
Between the passing clouds would stream,
To cheer the traveller lone.
Now swiftly on Rodolpho rode,
He saw the heaven in angry mood,
And it was dead of night;
Across his road a grave yard lay,
Within whose bounds report did say,
The spirits of the dead did play,
Around the tombstones white.
He saw the heaven in angry mood,
And it was dead of night;
Across his road a grave yard lay,
Within whose bounds report did say,
The spirits of the dead did play,
Around the tombstones white.
No superstitious fears opprest
And filled with dread Rodolpho's breast,
And onward now he sped;
Until the sullen, gloomy light
Just faintly showed the tombstones white,
The curst abode of many a sprite,
The mansions of the dead.
And filled with dread Rodolpho's breast,
And onward now he sped;
Until the sullen, gloomy light
Just faintly showed the tombstones white,
The curst abode of many a sprite,
The mansions of the dead.
He saw a sight that made him start,
'Twould have appalled the stoutest heart,
That e'er in battle stood.
A spectre form of giant height
Appeared to his astonished sight,
Its flowing robe was snowy white,
Stained with large drops of blood.
'Twould have appalled the stoutest heart,
That e'er in battle stood.
A spectre form of giant height
Appeared to his astonished sight,
Its flowing robe was snowy white,
Stained with large drops of blood.
Rodolpho breathed a silent prayer,
The spectre vanished into air,
But in its place there stood
With threatening mien and furious eye,
As if impatient of its prey,
And watching as the steed passed by,
A monster of the wood!
The spectre vanished into air,
But in its place there stood
With threatening mien and furious eye,
As if impatient of its prey,
And watching as the steed passed by,
A monster of the wood!
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The traveller paused, the monster stops,
Again the pause—cold clammy drops
Hung on Rodolpho's brow.
The moon at length her radiance threw
And gave to his astonished view
(Now Reader, mark, I tell thee true)
A d---d old spotted cow!
Again the pause—cold clammy drops
Hung on Rodolpho's brow.
The moon at length her radiance threw
And gave to his astonished view
(Now Reader, mark, I tell thee true)
A d---d old spotted cow!
J R D
The Mocking-Bird
Early on a pleasant day,
In the poet's month of May,
Field and forest looked so fair,
So refreshing was the air,
That, despite the morning dew,
Forth I walked, where, tangling grew
Many a thorn and briery bush,
Where the red-breast and the thrush,
Gaily raised their early lay,
Thankful for returning day.
In the poet's month of May,
Field and forest looked so fair,
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That, despite the morning dew,
Forth I walked, where, tangling grew
Many a thorn and briery bush,
Where the red-breast and the thrush,
Gaily raised their early lay,
Thankful for returning day.
Every thicket, bush and tree,
Swelled the grateful harmony;
As it wildly swept along,
Echo seemed to catch the song,
But the plain was wide and clear,
Echo never whispered there.
From a neighb'ring mocking-bird,
Came the answering note I heard.
Swelled the grateful harmony;
As it wildly swept along,
Echo seemed to catch the song,
But the plain was wide and clear,
Echo never whispered there.
From a neighb'ring mocking-bird,
Came the answering note I heard.
Low and soft the song began;
Scarce I caught it, as it ran
Through the melancholy trill
Of the pensive whippoorwill.
Twittering sparrow, cat-bird's cry,
Red-bird's whistle, robin's sigh,
Black-bird, blue-bird, swallow, lark,
Each his native note must mark.
Oft he tried the lesson o'er,
Each time louder than before;
Burst at length the finished song,
Loud and clear it poured along.
All the choir in silence heard,
Hushed before the wondrous bird.
Scarce I caught it, as it ran
Through the melancholy trill
Of the pensive whippoorwill.
Twittering sparrow, cat-bird's cry,
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Black-bird, blue-bird, swallow, lark,
Each his native note must mark.
Oft he tried the lesson o'er,
Each time louder than before;
Burst at length the finished song,
Loud and clear it poured along.
All the choir in silence heard,
Hushed before the wondrous bird.
All transported and amazed,
Scarcely breathing, long I gazed.
Now it reached the loudest swell;
Lower, lower, now it fell;
Lower, lower, lower still,
Scarce it sounded o'er the rill.
Now the warbler ceased to sing,
Now he spread his downy wing;
And I saw him take his flight,
Other regions to delight.
Then, in most poetic wise,
I began to moralize.
Scarcely breathing, long I gazed.
Now it reached the loudest swell;
Lower, lower, now it fell;
Lower, lower, lower still,
Scarce it sounded o'er the rill.
Now the warbler ceased to sing,
Now he spread his downy wing;
And I saw him take his flight,
Other regions to delight.
Then, in most poetic wise,
I began to moralize.
In this bird can fancy trace
An emblem of the rhyming race;
Ere with heaven's immortal fire,
Loud they strike the quivering wire;
Ere in high, majestic song,
Thundering wars the verse along;
Soft and low each note they sing,
Soft they tune each varied string;
Till each power is tried and known,
Then the kindling spark is blown.
An emblem of the rhyming race;
Ere with heaven's immortal fire,
Loud they strike the quivering wire;
Ere in high, majestic song,
Thundering wars the verse along;
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Soft they tune each varied string;
Till each power is tried and known,
Then the kindling spark is blown.
Thus perchance has Maro sung;
Thus his harp has Milton strung;
Thus immortal Avon's child;
Thus, O Scott, thy witch-notes wild;
Thus has Pope's melodious lyre,
Beamed with Homer's martial fire;
Thus did Campbell's war-blast roar
Round the cliffs of Elsinore;
Thus he dug the soldier's grave,
Iser, by thy purpled wave.
Thus his harp has Milton strung;
Thus immortal Avon's child;
Thus, O Scott, thy witch-notes wild;
Thus has Pope's melodious lyre,
Beamed with Homer's martial fire;
Thus did Campbell's war-blast roar
Round the cliffs of Elsinore;
Thus he dug the soldier's grave,
Iser, by thy purpled wave.
C. F.
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The Past and the Present
From boding dreams where visioned woes arise,Ah, where shall terror turn her waking eyes,
Where fly, when fancy leads her phantom train?
Blight the cold heart, and fire the phrenzied brain,
When slumber steeps her wand in misery's bowl,
And pours the venom on the wounded soul.
Deep wrapt in spectered gloom remembrance rears
The lonely image of departed years.
With anguished gaze my aching eyes contrast
What was and is the present and the past.
The waste wild path, where lone unblest I roam,
With all the calm delights of happy home;
Home! sacred name, at thy endearing sound
What forms of vanished pleasures hover round!
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Awakened memory gives my soul again!
Joys, now no more, yet sweeter, dearer still
Than all that wait me in this world of ill.
Friends severed long, and of that much-loved one,
Who still from heaven looks kindly on her son.
Thou gnawing canker in misfortune's breast,
Is this thy beam that soothes a wretch to rest?
No, 'tis the light that glimmers on a tomb,
To add a deeper horror to the gloom.
Sad is the homeless heart; and mine hath known
Neglect's cold blasts, unpitied and alone;
I meet no eye that, softening, rests on mine,
No hand whose heart-warm pressure says, 'tis thine!
No lip whose smile a ready welcome bears,
No heart to share my joys or soothe my cares.
Yet through the clouds that round me roll,
A brighter sunbeam lights my darkened soul.
Again around the social hearth of home,
My all of earth, friends, parent, sisters come,
With hearts unchanged by time or fortune's war;
We meet in peace to part on earth no more.
Again we feel affection's holy kiss,
And taste the dear domestic heaven of bliss.
Thus when remembrance throws her sombre dyes,
Hope bids her fairy bow of promise rise;
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And lulls with future joys our present woes.
[OMITTED]
What boots it that when nature stamps the seal,
She gave the heart to love, the soul to feel!
No dew-eyed seraph meets me on the way,
To wake its kindling pulses into play.
E'en the bright dream my fancy half believed,
Has left my heart to mourn o'er hope deceived;
To pine for life's last solace torn away,
And curse the smile that flattered to betray.
What boots it now, that toil and vigil past
On science's steep ascent I stand at last?
Lo! where around my heart won honors wait,
Dark envy, malice, pale and smiling hate,
And the fair tree which might have flourished high,
And cast its leafy glories to the sky,
Sinks by the canker's deadly touch o'erthrown,
And dies deserted, withered, and alone.
What boots it now that o'er my infant head,
Some blessed drops from fancy's cup were shed,
That bade my heart with nameless rapture swell
Before the master of the mighty spell,
Gave my dim eyes thy thousand charms to see,
And bowed my soul, oh matchless muse, to thee?
Cast round thy eye, and mark where'er it darts,
A mass of empty minds and icy hearts;
Vain were the hope one mental joy to steal,
From clods that will not think and cannot feel;
Vain were the hope communion sweet to find,
The flow of thought, the interchange of mind
When fairy dreams and minstrel visions high,
Burn in the cheek, and brighten in the eye;
When hidden truth, by keen-eyed reason sought,
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When wit awakes the glance of keen delight,
And humor holds his sides and laughs outright.
Yet these were once my own, and more divine,
Home, parents, sisters, friends, all, all were mine.
A home where love in every heart was shrined,
Warmed by the heart, illumined by the mind.
Oh, then I thought in sweet seclusion blest,
No fears to haunt us, and no cares molest;
Calm as the slumbering wave our life should glide
Serene and still, a mild, unruffled tide
That steals unmarked along in viewless wave,
Towards the peaceful ocean of the grave.
Oh! there were times when to my heart there came
All that my soul can feel or fancy frame;
The summer party in the open air,
When sunny eyes and cordial hearts were there;
When light came sparkling through the greenwood eaves
Like mirthful eyes that laugh upon the leaves;
Where every bush and tree in all the scene
In wind-kissed wavings shake their leaves of green,
And all the objects round about dispense
Reviving perfumes to the awakened sense;
The golden corslet of the humble-bee,
The antic kid that frolics round the lea;
Or purple lance-flies circling round the place,
On thin, light shards of green, an airy race;
Or squirrel glancing from the nut-wood shade
An arch black eye, half pleased and half afraid;
Or bird, quick-darting from the foliage dim,
Or perched and twittering on the tendril slim;
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With plumes that change and glitter in the sun
Like rainbows fading into mist—and then,
On the bright cloud renewed and changed again;
Or soaring upward, while his full, sweet throat
Pours clear and strong a pleasure-speaking note;
And sings in nature's language wild and free,
His song of praise for light and liberty.
And when within, with poetry and song,
Music and books led the glad hours along,
Worlds of the visioned minstrel, fancy wove
Tales of old time, of chivalry and love;
Or converse calm, or wit-shafts sprinkled round,
Like beams from gems too light and fine to wound;
With spirits sparkling as the morning's sun,
Light as the dancing wave he smiles upon,
Like his own course—alas! too soon to know
Bright suns may set in storms, and gay hearts sink in woe.
Look round thee, wretch, are there no joys to taste
On all the barren world's abounding waste,
Can hope, sweet solacer, no balm supply
From the rich stores of dark futurity?
She, when cold sorrow throws her sombre dyes,
Bids through the gloom her bow of promise rise,
In magic dreams ideal peace bestows,
And lulls with future joys our present woes;
Warms with her smiles, when bleak misfortune lowers
And strews life's weary way with thornless flowers.
Enchantress, no! though bright its gleamings be,
Thy heavenly lamp hath now no light for me;
Condemned like unforgiven ghost to tread
The scenes of buried joys and pleasures fled,
Through all my haunts of joyous youth to roam,
Friendless and sad, a wretch without a home.
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A home of dreamless rest—a quiet grave.
To --- [Rosa]
One lingering kiss, and then good-night,
For see, my love, yon envious beam
Must end our vigil of delight,
And break its warm empassioned dream.
For see, my love, yon envious beam
Must end our vigil of delight,
And break its warm empassioned dream.
But, Rosa dear, these kisses keep
Till day its downward course has ta'en,
And I will steal while others sleep,
To sip their rosy sweets again.
Till day its downward course has ta'en,
And I will steal while others sleep,
To sip their rosy sweets again.
For senseless ice-embosomed souls
May seek the sun's intrusive glare,
But oh, the heart that love controls,
Will never breathe its worship there.
May seek the sun's intrusive glare,
But oh, the heart that love controls,
Will never breathe its worship there.
And we have bathed in bliss too dear,
To meet the telltale eyes of light;
The day-spring must not find me here;
Once more, and now, my love, good-night.
To meet the telltale eyes of light;
The day-spring must not find me here;
Once more, and now, my love, good-night.
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To Mary
Dear Mary, pray how can I prattle
Of the charms of that eloquent eye,
When its beams, though they offer me battle,
Remain so provokingly shy?
Oh! let but their languishing fire,
With mine all voluptuously meet,
And the spirit that breathes in my lyre,
Shall pour out its soul at your feet.
Of the charms of that eloquent eye,
When its beams, though they offer me battle,
Remain so provokingly shy?
Oh! let but their languishing fire,
With mine all voluptuously meet,
And the spirit that breathes in my lyre,
Shall pour out its soul at your feet.
And how can I picture the pleasures,
That hang on those rubies divine,
While you, covetous, hoard up their treasures,
Nor e'er let them linger on mine?
From enjoyment's full bowl I must sip, love,
Emotion too warm to express,
For cold is the passionless lip, love,
That meets with no mutual caress.
That hang on those rubies divine,
While you, covetous, hoard up their treasures,
Nor e'er let them linger on mine?
From enjoyment's full bowl I must sip, love,
Emotion too warm to express,
For cold is the passionless lip, love,
That meets with no mutual caress.
Yon harp of the heavens still slumbers,
Till kissed by the breeze from above,
And the impulse that wakens my numbers,
Must come from the lips that I love.
Till kissed by the breeze from above,
And the impulse that wakens my numbers,
Must come from the lips that I love.
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Fragments
The youth impatient chides the creeping hours,And prays old Sol to speed his tardy pace,
And bid the western star arise to light
His heart's devotion to its holy shrine;
At length the course is run, and lo!
The star that “lovers love” shines in the golden west.
With kindling eye he hails its dawning beam,
And deems it brighter than the fairest sun;
His cheek blooms ruddier, while his quickened pulse
Trembles with joy's anticipated thrill,
And fancy revels in expected bliss.
[OMITTED]
... but when mild friendship adds
Her purer light to his unsteady flame,
It warms and brightens to a summer sun.
Oh! then 'tis rapture all—and nameless joy
As blest, as brilliant, and as richly fair
As that which fancy gives the poet's god,
When on his visioned eye, in dreams arise
A sweeter, dearer heaven than his own.
'Tis the heart's paradise where pleasure reigns
In perfumed bowers of ravishing delight;
The air is balm, we breathe in sighs of bliss,
Each eye expressive beams enchantment forth;
Each murmured word in melting music falls,
And all around is luxury and love.
[OMITTED]
Oh love, without thee what were mortal life,
A dreary scene where horrid shadows hang
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The darkening clouds to clear blue summer skies,
And gild the murkiest night of human woe
With the mild lustre of a peaceful moon;
Still wave thy wing of joy above my head,
Sweet solacer—and when my hour is near,
Grant in thy rapturous worship I may sink
And soar to Heaven on the wings of love!
[OMITTED]
Abelard to Eloise
Weep on, weep on, we wail the dead—
Now by those humid lids I swear,
For every tear of woe they shed,
My heart shall bleed a drop as dear.
Oh! torture's last convulsive sigh!
Oh! all the pangs that wring the brow
When souls of guilt despairing die,
Were heaven to what I suffer now.
Now by those humid lids I swear,
For every tear of woe they shed,
My heart shall bleed a drop as dear.
Oh! torture's last convulsive sigh!
Oh! all the pangs that wring the brow
When souls of guilt despairing die,
Were heaven to what I suffer now.
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Nay! look not thus—wert thou but blest,
Erect and calm my soul could bear
To prison in this aching breast
The writhings of its own despair.
The flame that bears my burning brain
Should never force one stifled groan,
So I might take thy load of pain
And bear its weary weight alone.
Erect and calm my soul could bear
To prison in this aching breast
The writhings of its own despair.
The flame that bears my burning brain
Should never force one stifled groan,
So I might take thy load of pain
And bear its weary weight alone.
Yet when on calm and sullen gloom,
Oblivion's waveless stream shall roll,
A sun shall beam beyond the tomb
To light the hope-abandoned soul.
Soon may that orb of peace arise,
That we may seek a purer sphere,
And take that bliss in yonder skies
By man and fate denied us here.
Oblivion's waveless stream shall roll,
A sun shall beam beyond the tomb
To light the hope-abandoned soul.
Soon may that orb of peace arise,
That we may seek a purer sphere,
And take that bliss in yonder skies
By man and fate denied us here.
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[Poetic Epistle to Fitz-Greene Halleck, May 1, 1818]
Dumfries, May 1, 1818.
Well, Fitz, I'm here, the mair's the pity,
I'll wad ye curse the vera city
From which I write a braid Scots ditty,
Afore I learn it;
But if ye canna mak it suit ye,
Ye ken ye'll burn it.
I'll wad ye curse the vera city
From which I write a braid Scots ditty,
Afore I learn it;
But if ye canna mak it suit ye,
Ye ken ye'll burn it.
My grunzie's gat a twist intill it,
Thae damned Scots airts sae stuff and fill it,
I doubt wi' a' my doctor's skill it
'll keep the gait—
Not e'en my pen can scratch a billet
And write it straight.
Thae damned Scots airts sae stuff and fill it,
249
'll keep the gait—
Not e'en my pen can scratch a billet
And write it straight.
Ye're aiblins thinking to forgather
Wi' a hale sheet of muir and heather,
O' burns and braes and sic like blether
To you a feast—
But stop, ye will not light on either
This time at least.
Wi' a hale sheet of muir and heather,
O' burns and braes and sic like blether
To you a feast—
But stop, ye will not light on either
This time at least.
Now stir your bries a wee and ferlie,
Then drop your lip and glower surly;
Troth if you do, I'll tell ye fairly
Ye'll no' be right—
We've made our jaunt a bit too early
For sic a sight.
Then drop your lip and glower surly;
Troth if you do, I'll tell ye fairly
Ye'll no' be right—
We've made our jaunt a bit too early
For sic a sight.
What it may be when summer cleeds
Muir, shaw, and brae wi' bonnie weeds,
Sprinkling the gowan on the meads
And browsy knowes,
I dinna ken—but now the meads
Scarce keep the cows.
Muir, shaw, and brae wi' bonnie weeds,
Sprinkling the gowan on the meads
And browsy knowes,
I dinna ken—but now the meads
Scarce keep the cows.
For trees poor Scotia's sadly scanted;
A few bit pines and larches planted,
And thae wee, knurlie, blastit, stunted
As e'er thou sawest;
Row but a sma' turf fence anent it,
Heck! there's a forest.
A few bit pines and larches planted,
250
As e'er thou sawest;
Row but a sma' turf fence anent it,
Heck! there's a forest.
For streams ye'll find a puny puddle,
That would'na float a skulebairn's coble;
A cripple still might near hand-hobble
Dry bauchled over;
Some whinstone crags to make it bubble,
And there's a river!
That would'na float a skulebairn's coble;
A cripple still might near hand-hobble
Dry bauchled over;
Some whinstone crags to make it bubble,
And there's a river!
And then their cauld and reekie skies,
They look ower dull to Yankee eyes;
The sun ye'd ken na of his rise
A'maist the day,
Just a noonblink that hardly dries
The dewy brae.
They look ower dull to Yankee eyes;
The sun ye'd ken na of his rise
A'maist the day,
Just a noonblink that hardly dries
The dewy brae.
Yet leese auld Scotland on her women,
Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman,
For luver's heart or blade of foeman
O'er baith victorious;
E'en common sense, that plant uncommon,
Grows bright and glorious.
Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman,
For luver's heart or blade of foeman
O'er baith victorious;
E'en common sense, that plant uncommon,
Grows bright and glorious.
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Fecks! but my pen has skelp'd along,
I've whistled out an unco' song
'Bout folk I ha' na been amang
Twa days as yet;
But faith, the farther that I gang,
The mair ye'll get.
I've whistled out an unco' song
'Bout folk I ha' na been amang
Twa days as yet;
But faith, the farther that I gang,
The mair ye'll get.
Sae sharpen up your lugs, for soon
I'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon,
See Mungo's well, and set my shoon
Where i' the dark
Bauld Tammie keek'd the drunken loon
At cutty sark.
I'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon,
See Mungo's well, and set my shoon
Where i' the dark
Bauld Tammie keek'd the drunken loon
At cutty sark.
And I shall tread the hallowed bourne
Where Wallace blew his bugle-horn
O'er Edward's banner, stained and torn.
What Yankee bluid
But feels its free pulse leap and burn
Where Wallace stood!
Where Wallace blew his bugle-horn
O'er Edward's banner, stained and torn.
What Yankee bluid
But feels its free pulse leap and burn
Where Wallace stood!
But pouk my pen—I find I'm droppin'
My braw Scots style to English loppin';
I fear a'maist that ye'll be hoppin'
I'd quit it quite;
If so, I e'en must think of stoppin',
And sae gude-night.
My braw Scots style to English loppin';
I fear a'maist that ye'll be hoppin'
I'd quit it quite;
If so, I e'en must think of stoppin',
And sae gude-night.
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[Poetic Epistle to Fitz-Greene Halleck, May 10, 1818]
Irvine, 10th May, 1818, 10 p.m.
My muse is almost fagged with writing,
From twelve at noon I've been inditing;
Further, four sheets of jack-screw packing,
So close, they look like daubs of blacking;
Two letters in a rhyming strain
To dearest sisters o'er the main;
You're at the fag-end of the feast,
But Willy has it—“last not least.”
I wrote you late a queer hotch-potch
Of English clipped and broken Scotch
But luckily I chanced to pass
While reading it, before the glass,
And saw my grunzie on the gape,
In such a damned ungainly shape,
So twirled and twisted, full and hollow,
In such a storm of sweat and swallow,
I stopped, betwixt a laugh and curse;
I swore, e'en though my rhymes were worse,
I'd have some pity on your mouth,
And clink the language of the South,
From twelve at noon I've been inditing;
Further, four sheets of jack-screw packing,
So close, they look like daubs of blacking;
Two letters in a rhyming strain
To dearest sisters o'er the main;
You're at the fag-end of the feast,
But Willy has it—“last not least.”
I wrote you late a queer hotch-potch
Of English clipped and broken Scotch
But luckily I chanced to pass
While reading it, before the glass,
And saw my grunzie on the gape,
In such a damned ungainly shape,
So twirled and twisted, full and hollow,
In such a storm of sweat and swallow,
I stopped, betwixt a laugh and curse;
I swore, e'en though my rhymes were worse,
I'd have some pity on your mouth,
And clink the language of the South,
In all the future lines I send ye,
Which (patience to ye) will be plenty.
But, Fitz, I'll not be saying either,
I'll drop the Lowland altogether,
Only not haul it by the lugs,
As honest Swankie did his hogs,
When he advanced them from the byre
To grunt hog-Latin with the friar.
From Ribbleside to Irvine town
Each step has been on poets' groun';
Think how my rhyming soul was swelling
Within eyeshot of gray Helvelyn!
To mark from Skiddaw's mighty lap
The land of porringers and of pap,
With lakes that glittered bright between,
Like duckponds from a dunghill seen;
The varied beauties of the way,
Coal-works, gibbets, stacks of hay,
Canals and railways, freestone bridges,
Right-angled gardens, and clipped hedges;
And then to meet, how vastly pleasant,
A full-fed brute in every peasant!
And here, although across the border,
The men are of a different order;
The fient a sight your eyeball crosses
But whinstone hills and dark peat-mosses,
Braw bare-legged girls, auld smoky queans,
And filthy huts, and filthier weans.
But stop, Sir Poet, if you please,
We're o'er the Nith and past Dumfries,
And here, God bless the spot forever,
There's something like a Yankee river!
Though small and weak, its light waves swell;
My bonny Bronx, 'tis like yoursell,
And that's eno' to make me pour
A hearty blessing on your shore.
And now the misty sun's revealing
Scenes that would rouse a Dutchman's feeling.
Where'er the eye enraptured turns,
Some relique of her minstrel Burns
Shines on old Scotia's barren land,
Like the green spots on Afric's sand.
Which (patience to ye) will be plenty.
253
I'll drop the Lowland altogether,
Only not haul it by the lugs,
As honest Swankie did his hogs,
When he advanced them from the byre
To grunt hog-Latin with the friar.
From Ribbleside to Irvine town
Each step has been on poets' groun';
Think how my rhyming soul was swelling
Within eyeshot of gray Helvelyn!
To mark from Skiddaw's mighty lap
The land of porringers and of pap,
With lakes that glittered bright between,
Like duckponds from a dunghill seen;
The varied beauties of the way,
Coal-works, gibbets, stacks of hay,
Canals and railways, freestone bridges,
Right-angled gardens, and clipped hedges;
And then to meet, how vastly pleasant,
A full-fed brute in every peasant!
And here, although across the border,
The men are of a different order;
The fient a sight your eyeball crosses
But whinstone hills and dark peat-mosses,
Braw bare-legged girls, auld smoky queans,
And filthy huts, and filthier weans.
254
We're o'er the Nith and past Dumfries,
And here, God bless the spot forever,
There's something like a Yankee river!
Though small and weak, its light waves swell;
My bonny Bronx, 'tis like yoursell,
And that's eno' to make me pour
A hearty blessing on your shore.
And now the misty sun's revealing
Scenes that would rouse a Dutchman's feeling.
Where'er the eye enraptured turns,
Some relique of her minstrel Burns
Shines on old Scotia's barren land,
Like the green spots on Afric's sand.
The bush that heard his first love-vow,
The field where last he held the plough,
The hill whose kindling sides along
First pealed the Bruce's battle-song;
The low thatch-roof where Coila stood,
The bowl that fired the poet's blood,
To sing how wi' his parting breath
A Scotchman gi'es the grip to death!
The burnie banks he oft has trod,
And now, alas! the silent sod
Where sleeps in his untimely cell
The master of the mighty spell.
Ah, Rob! my friend, for so you've been aye,
Save Shakespeare's self, the best of any,
Blithe wad I been if ye had known
To let strong drink and priests alone,
Or only used in moderation
These two grand curses of creation;
Then had ye shone the first in glory,
Not Campbell's self a foot before ye,
Nor died, like Basil's holy pigeon,
Martyr to whiskey and religion.
Westward away we take the air,
Just stop at Irvine's holy fair,
And then for Ayr's twa clavering brigs,
And green Tarbolton's barley rigs;
We passed poor Mailie's dike, the banks
Where honest Luath eased his shanks,
And wi' his stroanin' crony sat
An hour in philosophic chat;
We took our whiskey in the cot
Where ranter Rob was born and got;
Saw the old thorn, the stump of 't rather,
That stopped the gab of Mungo's mither,
And in the kirk's bedevilled tower
Stood in the rain a good half hour.
We found where Nannie in her dances
Exposed her legs to Satan's glances,
Until his wintling clumsy bones,
In amourous fidgets ground the stones.
We passed the brig (of brigs the wale),
Where Maggie warsled for her tail,
And coming back, the last of any,
Saw the wee house of Souter Johnny.
The field where last he held the plough,
The hill whose kindling sides along
First pealed the Bruce's battle-song;
The low thatch-roof where Coila stood,
The bowl that fired the poet's blood,
To sing how wi' his parting breath
A Scotchman gi'es the grip to death!
The burnie banks he oft has trod,
And now, alas! the silent sod
Where sleeps in his untimely cell
The master of the mighty spell.
Ah, Rob! my friend, for so you've been aye,
Save Shakespeare's self, the best of any,
Blithe wad I been if ye had known
To let strong drink and priests alone,
255
These two grand curses of creation;
Then had ye shone the first in glory,
Not Campbell's self a foot before ye,
Nor died, like Basil's holy pigeon,
Martyr to whiskey and religion.
Westward away we take the air,
Just stop at Irvine's holy fair,
And then for Ayr's twa clavering brigs,
And green Tarbolton's barley rigs;
We passed poor Mailie's dike, the banks
Where honest Luath eased his shanks,
And wi' his stroanin' crony sat
An hour in philosophic chat;
We took our whiskey in the cot
Where ranter Rob was born and got;
Saw the old thorn, the stump of 't rather,
That stopped the gab of Mungo's mither,
And in the kirk's bedevilled tower
Stood in the rain a good half hour.
We found where Nannie in her dances
Exposed her legs to Satan's glances,
Until his wintling clumsy bones,
256
We passed the brig (of brigs the wale),
Where Maggie warsled for her tail,
And coming back, the last of any,
Saw the wee house of Souter Johnny.
For Wallace, Fitz, I've had a damper;
My wits were on the up-hill scamper
To see where Scotland's genius rose
In triumph o'er her prostrate foes;
But Ayr's dull brutes, to scrape a farthing,
Have turned the proud Barns to a garden.
(Blasted be every blade that springs,
Unless the angry nettle flings
Her armed and bristly branches there,
To guard the hallowed Barns of Ayr.)
The tower is there, the clock, the spire,
Whence fifty feet perhaps, or higher,
Hurled by the English imps of hell,
From off the top the hero fell,
And almost broke his gallant bones
Against the damned hard-hearted stones;
And there's the stone, a wee Scotch pebble
(Ten men to lift it were unable)
Which Wallace skelpit o'er the house
As easy as you would a mouse.
Such sweating tales we have in plenty,
But what I've written will content ye;
To-morrow, or the next day comin',
Our party's off toward Loch Lomond,
And thence, o'er water, hill, and isle,
To Erne, Katrine, and Aberfoyle.
The sky is heavy, dull, o'ercast,
And, faith, I'm fearin' it will last;
And if it should, ye may divine
We'll find the Highlands unco' fine.
Gads me! my hat, by all that's cheerly,
The moon is up and shining clearly!
Hey! for an harlequinian antic,
I've been a month across th' Atlantic,
And this the first good glimpse mine eye
Has gotten of a Yankee sky;
And there's the star! ye west winds fan her!
That shines upon my country's banner.
She loves the West—she seldom flings
Her sparkle points on eyeless kings,
But keeps them for the gallant lads
Who wear her in their black cockades.
Here, where mist, cloud, and smoke unite
To stifle up each heavenly light,
Long may we watch each wind that blows
Before that glittering eye unclose.
Thus, to my country's sore dishonor,
Old England's fog lay long upon her,
Till roused at last, each spirit proud,
Her cannon-thunders burst the cloud,
And poured o'er Europe's hills afar
The glories of the Western star!
Lord! but she's gone! and here again
Our old acquaintance, mist and rain.
Ye vapourous jades! the red plague rid ye,
If ye'd not come until I bid ye,
Ye'd still be wearing, I've a notion,
Your white foam night-caps o'er the ocean;
And I'd have time mine eyes to feast
On my bright star an hour at least.
Yet, Hesper! though ye now must darkle,
Lord bless you for that pleasant sparkle.
I think ye must have known this even
A Yankee eye was turned toward heaven,
And shoved the surly clouds askance,
To give him just a friendly glance,
Mind him of home, help on his letter,
And make him sleep to-night the better.
Ah! Fitz, my lad, I'm thinking, aye,
How blithe and happy'll be the day
When we shall meet again together
I' the land of freedom and fine weather;
How we shall talk of all that's past
Since you and me forgathered last;
And, fecks! ye'll crack a dainty kernel
When ye get hold of Wully's journal.
I'd thought by this to send a sample,
But my scrimp paper's hardly ample
Eno' to hold another line,
Except, “Yours most” or “Ever thine.”
My wits were on the up-hill scamper
To see where Scotland's genius rose
In triumph o'er her prostrate foes;
But Ayr's dull brutes, to scrape a farthing,
Have turned the proud Barns to a garden.
(Blasted be every blade that springs,
Unless the angry nettle flings
Her armed and bristly branches there,
To guard the hallowed Barns of Ayr.)
The tower is there, the clock, the spire,
Whence fifty feet perhaps, or higher,
Hurled by the English imps of hell,
From off the top the hero fell,
And almost broke his gallant bones
Against the damned hard-hearted stones;
And there's the stone, a wee Scotch pebble
(Ten men to lift it were unable)
Which Wallace skelpit o'er the house
As easy as you would a mouse.
Such sweating tales we have in plenty,
257
To-morrow, or the next day comin',
Our party's off toward Loch Lomond,
And thence, o'er water, hill, and isle,
To Erne, Katrine, and Aberfoyle.
The sky is heavy, dull, o'ercast,
And, faith, I'm fearin' it will last;
And if it should, ye may divine
We'll find the Highlands unco' fine.
Gads me! my hat, by all that's cheerly,
The moon is up and shining clearly!
Hey! for an harlequinian antic,
I've been a month across th' Atlantic,
And this the first good glimpse mine eye
Has gotten of a Yankee sky;
And there's the star! ye west winds fan her!
That shines upon my country's banner.
She loves the West—she seldom flings
Her sparkle points on eyeless kings,
But keeps them for the gallant lads
Who wear her in their black cockades.
Here, where mist, cloud, and smoke unite
To stifle up each heavenly light,
Long may we watch each wind that blows
Before that glittering eye unclose.
Thus, to my country's sore dishonor,
Old England's fog lay long upon her,
Till roused at last, each spirit proud,
Her cannon-thunders burst the cloud,
And poured o'er Europe's hills afar
258
Lord! but she's gone! and here again
Our old acquaintance, mist and rain.
Ye vapourous jades! the red plague rid ye,
If ye'd not come until I bid ye,
Ye'd still be wearing, I've a notion,
Your white foam night-caps o'er the ocean;
And I'd have time mine eyes to feast
On my bright star an hour at least.
Yet, Hesper! though ye now must darkle,
Lord bless you for that pleasant sparkle.
I think ye must have known this even
A Yankee eye was turned toward heaven,
And shoved the surly clouds askance,
To give him just a friendly glance,
Mind him of home, help on his letter,
And make him sleep to-night the better.
Ah! Fitz, my lad, I'm thinking, aye,
How blithe and happy'll be the day
When we shall meet again together
I' the land of freedom and fine weather;
How we shall talk of all that's past
Since you and me forgathered last;
And, fecks! ye'll crack a dainty kernel
When ye get hold of Wully's journal.
I'd thought by this to send a sample,
But my scrimp paper's hardly ample
Eno' to hold another line,
Except, “Yours most” or “Ever thine.”
259
To Lais
Nay, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regret
That another awakened thy sigh,
Or repine that some traces remain of it yet,
In the beam of that eloquent eye.
That another awakened thy sigh,
Or repine that some traces remain of it yet,
In the beam of that eloquent eye.
Though the light of its smile on a rival had shone,
Ere it taught me the way to adore,
Shall I scorn the bright gem, now I know it my own,
Because it was polished before?
Ere it taught me the way to adore,
Shall I scorn the bright gem, now I know it my own,
Because it was polished before?
And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won,
It but fits it the better for bliss,
As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun,
Grows ripe from the warmth of its kiss.
It but fits it the better for bliss,
As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun,
Grows ripe from the warmth of its kiss.
260
As the artist enkindles the diamond's blaze,
As the grape blushes ripe in the summer sun's rays,
So joy from our soul, will each blemish remove,
And our heart be matured in the sunshine of love.
As the grape blushes ripe in the summer sun's rays,
So joy from our soul, will each blemish remove,
And our heart be matured in the sunshine of love.
But remember, dear girl, that the polisher's sway,
May wear the pure spark of the diamond away,
And the sun's burning kiss, all its blandishments o'er,
Will taint the fair fruit it has ripened before.
May wear the pure spark of the diamond away,
And the sun's burning kiss, all its blandishments o'er,
Will taint the fair fruit it has ripened before.
To ---
Yes! I swore to be true, I allow,
And I meant it—but, somehow or other,
The seal of that amorous vow
Was pressed on the lips of another.
And I meant it—but, somehow or other,
The seal of that amorous vow
Was pressed on the lips of another.
261
Yet I did but as all would have done;
For, where is the being, dear cousin,
Content with the beauties of one
When he might have the range of a dozen?
For, where is the being, dear cousin,
Content with the beauties of one
When he might have the range of a dozen?
Young Love is a changeable boy,
And the gem of the sea rock is like him;
For he gives back the beams of his joy
To each sunny eye that may strike him.
And the gem of the sea rock is like him;
For he gives back the beams of his joy
To each sunny eye that may strike him.
From the kiss of a zephyr and rose,
Love sprung in an exquisite hour;
And fleeting and sweet, heaven knows,
Is this child of a sigh and a flower.
Love sprung in an exquisite hour;
And fleeting and sweet, heaven knows,
Is this child of a sigh and a flower.
To A Lady
WHO DECLARED THAT THE SUN PREVENTED HER FROM SLEEPING
Why blame old Sol, who, all on fire,
Prints on your lips the burning kiss;
Why should he not your charms admire,
And dip his beam each morn in bliss?
Prints on your lips the burning kiss;
Why should he not your charms admire,
And dip his beam each morn in bliss?
262
Were't mine to guide o'er paths of light
The beam-haired coursers of the sky,
I'd stay their course the livelong night
To gaze upon thy sleeping eye.
The beam-haired coursers of the sky,
I'd stay their course the livelong night
To gaze upon thy sleeping eye.
Then let the dotard fondly spring,
Each rising day, to snatch the prize;
'Twill add new vigor to his wing,
And speed his journey through the skies.
Each rising day, to snatch the prize;
'Twill add new vigor to his wing,
And speed his journey through the skies.
263
Lines Addressed to the Defenders of New Orleans
THE DAY BEFORE THE BATTLE OF THE 8TH OF JANUARY, 1815
Hail! sons of generous valor!
Who now embattled stand,
To wield the brand of strife and blood,
For freedom and the land.
And hail to him, your laurelled chief,
Around whose trophied name,
A nation's gratitude has twined
The wreath of deathless fame.
Who now embattled stand,
To wield the brand of strife and blood,
For freedom and the land.
And hail to him, your laurelled chief,
Around whose trophied name,
A nation's gratitude has twined
The wreath of deathless fame.
Now round the gallant leader
Your iron phalanx form,
And throw, like ocean's barrier rocks,
Your bosoms to the storm.
Though wild as ocean's wave it rolls,
Its fury shall be low,
For Justice guides the warrior's steel,
And Vengeance strikes the blow.
Your iron phalanx form,
And throw, like ocean's barrier rocks,
Your bosoms to the storm.
Though wild as ocean's wave it rolls,
Its fury shall be low,
For Justice guides the warrior's steel,
And Vengeance strikes the blow.
High o'er the gleaming columns
The bannered star appears,
And proud amid the martial band,
His crest the eagle rears;
And long as patriot valor's arm
Shall win the battle's prize,
That star shall beam triumphantly,
That eagle seek the skies.
The bannered star appears,
And proud amid the martial band,
His crest the eagle rears;
264
Shall win the battle's prize,
That star shall beam triumphantly,
That eagle seek the skies.
Then on, ye daring spirits,
To danger's tumults now;
The bowl is filled, and wreathed the crown
To grace the victor's brow.
And they who for their country die,
Shall fill an honored grave,
For glory lights the soldier's tomb,
And beauty weeps the brave.
To danger's tumults now;
The bowl is filled, and wreathed the crown
To grace the victor's brow.
And they who for their country die,
Shall fill an honored grave,
For glory lights the soldier's tomb,
And beauty weeps the brave.
265
To the Heroes of Niagara
Oh, hail to the heroes, whose deeds have restored
Our honor unsullied once more!
And the blaze of their valor triumphantly poured
On the field that was darkened before;
For hid from our sight was fair Victory's form,
And the heavens were clouded in wrath,
Till the sons of the battle, like stars of the storm,
Arose on the desolate path.
Our honor unsullied once more!
And the blaze of their valor triumphantly poured
On the field that was darkened before;
For hid from our sight was fair Victory's form,
And the heavens were clouded in wrath,
Till the sons of the battle, like stars of the storm,
Arose on the desolate path.
Then plume thy dark pinion, proud bird of the North,
And sweep from thy home in the skies,
On the wings of the whirlwind, exultingly forth
To the plain where thy enemy dies.
And joy, O my country! thy stains are effaced,
The pride of the boaster is low;
And thy deep-sullied standard by cowards disgraced,
Is washed in the gore of the foe.
And sweep from thy home in the skies,
On the wings of the whirlwind, exultingly forth
To the plain where thy enemy dies.
And joy, O my country! thy stains are effaced,
The pride of the boaster is low;
And thy deep-sullied standard by cowards disgraced,
Is washed in the gore of the foe.
And thou, starry banner! look proudly again
On the chiefs who redeemed thee from shame,
Nor darken thy beam, though it fall on the slain
Who repose on the death-bed of fame;
For the lustre that circles the tombs of the brave,
Its splendor unfailing maintains;
The sun of their being may set in the grave,
The light of their glory remains.
On the chiefs who redeemed thee from shame,
Nor darken thy beam, though it fall on the slain
Who repose on the death-bed of fame;
For the lustre that circles the tombs of the brave,
Its splendor unfailing maintains;
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The light of their glory remains.
Yes, weep for the brave who in battle have died,
Their fall was triumphantly bright;
In our sorrows shall mingle a feeling of pride,
Like the moon through the tears of the night.
They are gone, but the fame of their glorious deeds,
Shall live in our memory yet;
And the tear-bedewed beaming of moonlight succeeds
To the blaze of the sun that has set.
Their fall was triumphantly bright;
In our sorrows shall mingle a feeling of pride,
Like the moon through the tears of the night.
They are gone, but the fame of their glorious deeds,
Shall live in our memory yet;
And the tear-bedewed beaming of moonlight succeeds
To the blaze of the sun that has set.
[The Kiss]
I chased from the dew-moistened breast of a rose
A fly that attempted its nectar to sip,
And I thought, as I gazed on its delicate glows,
That the bloom of its leaf was the blush of thy lip.
A fly that attempted its nectar to sip,
And I thought, as I gazed on its delicate glows,
That the bloom of its leaf was the blush of thy lip.
In a moment of fancy I gave to its breast
A kiss like the one I bestowed upon thee,
And I felt, as my lip to its bosom was prest,
That the fly and the snail had enjoyed it like me.
A kiss like the one I bestowed upon thee,
And I felt, as my lip to its bosom was prest,
That the fly and the snail had enjoyed it like me.
267
To My Sister Caroline
I've meant it, believe me, many a time,
Dear Sis, to take the poet's quill,
And waft upon the wings of rhyme
A line to say I love thee still.
But habit, that compelling king,
Stern tyrant of the wills of men,
Had frozen each poetic spring
And struck a palsy in my pen.
My lips were mute; but think not; Sis,
That time could blot a trace, a tone
Of her who was my light, my bliss
When all but hope and her were gone.
Dear Sis, to take the poet's quill,
And waft upon the wings of rhyme
A line to say I love thee still.
But habit, that compelling king,
Stern tyrant of the wills of men,
Had frozen each poetic spring
And struck a palsy in my pen.
My lips were mute; but think not; Sis,
That time could blot a trace, a tone
Of her who was my light, my bliss
When all but hope and her were gone.
Oh! true hearts feel in absence's night,
Affection's pulse more freely play,
Like flowers that, though they love the light,
Bloom brightest when the sun's away.
In days when misery and pain
Had chained me in their icy band,
It was my sweetest pastime then
To wander in the dreamy land,
To mount the rainbow-curtained car
By Fancy to her children given,
And in the twinkling of a star
Shut out dull earth, and welcome Heaven.
Affection's pulse more freely play,
Like flowers that, though they love the light,
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In days when misery and pain
Had chained me in their icy band,
It was my sweetest pastime then
To wander in the dreamy land,
To mount the rainbow-curtained car
By Fancy to her children given,
And in the twinkling of a star
Shut out dull earth, and welcome Heaven.
Well may you guess my resting-place,
My land of bliss, my fairy ground;
Well may a sister's fancy trace
The hearts, the forms that girt me round.
And in that ideal land I dwelt
So long that I had gained the art
To wander at my will, and melt
The ice that gathered round my heart
In the kind looks that blessed me there;
For they had power to drown the past,
And point to prospects bright and fair,
To bless the longing heart at last.
And sometimes when an earthly pain
Would wake me from my dream of bliss,
I'd call my pleasures back again
In some such idle rhyme as this.
My land of bliss, my fairy ground;
Well may a sister's fancy trace
The hearts, the forms that girt me round.
And in that ideal land I dwelt
So long that I had gained the art
To wander at my will, and melt
The ice that gathered round my heart
In the kind looks that blessed me there;
For they had power to drown the past,
And point to prospects bright and fair,
To bless the longing heart at last.
And sometimes when an earthly pain
Would wake me from my dream of bliss,
I'd call my pleasures back again
In some such idle rhyme as this.
269
To My Sister Carry
The sun has abandoned his home in the heaven,
But still from his billowy urn,
To yon moon a few beams of his lustre are given,
To cheer us till morn shall return.
But still from his billowy urn,
To yon moon a few beams of his lustre are given,
To cheer us till morn shall return.
So Sis, when we sever in darkness and sorrow,
May hope, like the heavenly ray,
A beam from the light of futurity borrow,
To lighten the gloom of to-day.
May hope, like the heavenly ray,
A beam from the light of futurity borrow,
To lighten the gloom of to-day.
Sonnet
Is thy heart weary of unfeeling men,And chilled with the world's ice? Then come with me,
And I will bring thee to a pleasant glen
Lovely and lonely. There we'll sit, unviewed
By scoffing eye; and let our hearts beat free
With their own mutual throb; for wild and rude
The access is, and none will there intrude
To poison our free thoughts and mar our solitude.
Such scenes move not their feelings—for they hold
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The frozen wave reflects not back the gold
And crimson flushes of the sunset hour;
The rock lies cold in sunshine—not the power
Of heaven's bright orb can clothe its barrenness.
Song at Sea
Sleep, lady, sleep, the planets weep
Their star-dew on the midnight deep;
The moonlight beam, shines on the stream,
To light the water-spirits dream;
Oh, softly thus shall slumber shed
Her lulling dews around thy head;
And fancy's beamings sparkle nigh,
As brightly as on thy dreaming eye.
Their star-dew on the midnight deep;
The moonlight beam, shines on the stream,
To light the water-spirits dream;
Oh, softly thus shall slumber shed
Her lulling dews around thy head;
And fancy's beamings sparkle nigh,
As brightly as on thy dreaming eye.
On favoring tides, the vessel glides,
The sea-fire sparkles round her sides,
And in the sail the evening gale
Is whispering low a soothing tale.
Yet, lady, sleep, in visions sweet
A dream scene thy gaze shall meet,
And while the tall ship slowly moves,
Thy heart shall fly to friends it loves.
The sea-fire sparkles round her sides,
And in the sail the evening gale
Is whispering low a soothing tale.
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A dream scene thy gaze shall meet,
And while the tall ship slowly moves,
Thy heart shall fly to friends it loves.
But hark! the cry from topmast high
Its accents tell that land is nigh,
And dimly seen the headland green,
Is breaking through the midnight screen;
Then, lady, wake, our home is nigh,
Ah! ne'er can rise on fancy's eye
A spot beneath yon azure dome
So lovely as the land of home.
Its accents tell that land is nigh,
And dimly seen the headland green,
Is breaking through the midnight screen;
Then, lady, wake, our home is nigh,
Ah! ne'er can rise on fancy's eye
A spot beneath yon azure dome
So lovely as the land of home.
J. Rodman Drake
April 20, 1820
272
Stanzas
Yes, we must sever, Eva dear,
But though our sorrows flow,
Thy semblance still shall bless me here,
In solitude and woe.
But though our sorrows flow,
Thy semblance still shall bless me here,
In solitude and woe.
Though Fate, dear Eva, bids us part,
I'll live as warmly true,
As when in thy enamored heart
Thine image, dearest, grew.
I'll live as warmly true,
As when in thy enamored heart
Thine image, dearest, grew.
With thee were all my loves of youth,
My childhood's dreams were thine,
Thy name in fond, devoted truth,
Was mingled then with mine.
My childhood's dreams were thine,
Thy name in fond, devoted truth,
Was mingled then with mine.
When age that shades our bosom's light,
Each cherished trace shall wear,
That name shall live as pure and bright
As when 'twas written there.
Each cherished trace shall wear,
That name shall live as pure and bright
As when 'twas written there.
To Eva
Hast thou seen a sunbeam bright
Through the ether streaming?
Hast thou seen the orb of night
On a wave of azure gleaming?
Like Luna's glow in Eva's eye,
When love and rapture wake the sigh;
Like solar beams on summer day,
When wit emits a brighter ray.
Through the ether streaming?
Hast thou seen the orb of night
On a wave of azure gleaming?
Like Luna's glow in Eva's eye,
When love and rapture wake the sigh;
Like solar beams on summer day,
When wit emits a brighter ray.
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Saw'st thou bathed in pearly dew
A rose with crimson blushes glowing?
Hast thou seen a violet blue—
A bee that sipped the nectar flowing?
The honied dews, the wild bee's sip,
Is like the balm on Eva's lip;
Those ruby bulbs of bliss disclose
The richest tints of Cupid's rose.
A rose with crimson blushes glowing?
Hast thou seen a violet blue—
A bee that sipped the nectar flowing?
The honied dews, the wild bee's sip,
Is like the balm on Eva's lip;
Those ruby bulbs of bliss disclose
The richest tints of Cupid's rose.
Hast thou heard the Lesbian lyre,
Heavenly strains of rapture breathing?
Didst thou see around the wire
Blooming garlands love was wreathing?
Fragrant as love's flowing wreathes,
Is the air that Eva breathes;
Lesbian Sappho never sung,
The music of my Eva's tongue.
Heavenly strains of rapture breathing?
Didst thou see around the wire
Blooming garlands love was wreathing?
Fragrant as love's flowing wreathes,
Is the air that Eva breathes;
Lesbian Sappho never sung,
The music of my Eva's tongue.
Hast thou seen a lily fair,
Ope its leaves on summer morning?
Didst thou see a dewdrop there,
Its heart of virgin snow adorning?
That lily, opening to the air,
Is like my Eva's bosom fair;
That pearly gem, so sparkling clear,
An emblem meet of Eva's tear.
Ope its leaves on summer morning?
Didst thou see a dewdrop there,
Its heart of virgin snow adorning?
That lily, opening to the air,
Is like my Eva's bosom fair;
That pearly gem, so sparkling clear,
An emblem meet of Eva's tear.
274
[Stanzas]
Trust not the wile of a woman's eye,
Though thy dawn of love be bright;
Clear is the blue of the morning sky,
But it sets in an endless night.
Though thy dawn of love be bright;
Clear is the blue of the morning sky,
But it sets in an endless night.
The heart that revels in passion's dream,
But feasts on its own decay,
As the snow-wreath welcomes the sun's warm beam,
And smiles as it melts away.
But feasts on its own decay,
As the snow-wreath welcomes the sun's warm beam,
And smiles as it melts away.
To ---
Look not so, the beams that fall
From that eye of smiles,
Cannot now my heart recall
To its hollow wiles;
Many a lonely, bitter tear,
I have shed in vain,
Lady, all thy arts shall ne'er
Bid them flow again.
From that eye of smiles,
Cannot now my heart recall
To its hollow wiles;
Many a lonely, bitter tear,
I have shed in vain,
Lady, all thy arts shall ne'er
Bid them flow again.
275
Yet those beaming orbs are bright,
Still that cheek is fair,
And mine eye with strange delight,
Loves to linger there;
But the heart that falsehood fled,
Will not welcome woe,
Smiles awaken not the dead,
Then lady, look not so.
Still that cheek is fair,
And mine eye with strange delight,
Loves to linger there;
But the heart that falsehood fled,
Will not welcome woe,
Smiles awaken not the dead,
Then lady, look not so.
To --- [Eva]
Come, love, let thine eye be bright,
Thou hast no cause for sorrow,
The lip that melts on thine to-night,
Shall blush for thee to-morrow.
You think that rosy smile mine own,
Ah, fain would I believe it,
But faith, I know its lustre shone,
For all that would receive it.
Thou hast no cause for sorrow,
The lip that melts on thine to-night,
Shall blush for thee to-morrow.
You think that rosy smile mine own,
Ah, fain would I believe it,
But faith, I know its lustre shone,
For all that would receive it.
And should I chance to change my seat,
I'm sure, for I have tried her,
The smile and kiss that now I meet,
She'd give the next beside her.
For would you know to Eva's breast,
What object is the dearest,
'Tis not the man she loves the best,
But the one who sits the nearest.
I'm sure, for I have tried her,
The smile and kiss that now I meet,
She'd give the next beside her.
For would you know to Eva's breast,
What object is the dearest,
'Tis not the man she loves the best,
But the one who sits the nearest.
276
Come, come, you'll find her kind enough,
Whate'er her form or feature,
She ne'er was known to give rebuff,
To any two-legged creature.
Whate'er his stature, mind, or name,
In poverty or riches,
Dark, Christian, Jew, 'tis all the same,
So he but wear the breeches.
Whate'er her form or feature,
She ne'er was known to give rebuff,
To any two-legged creature.
Whate'er his stature, mind, or name,
In poverty or riches,
Dark, Christian, Jew, 'tis all the same,
So he but wear the breeches.
[Life and Love]
Oh! life is cold and dark,
A waste of tears and sighs,
Where pleasure's fleeting spark,
But beams and dies.
Love is an empty name,
That leads to pain and woe,
And friendship's holy flame,
Hath ceased to glow.
A waste of tears and sighs,
Where pleasure's fleeting spark,
But beams and dies.
Love is an empty name,
That leads to pain and woe,
And friendship's holy flame,
Hath ceased to glow.
Yet, oh, if any lie,
Wrapt in delusive sleep,
Ne'er may his visioned eye,
Awake to weep.
Oh, still may rapture's beam,
In sweet illusions shine,
Ne'er may his fairy dream,
Vanish like mine.
Wrapt in delusive sleep,
Ne'er may his visioned eye,
Awake to weep.
Oh, still may rapture's beam,
In sweet illusions shine,
Ne'er may his fairy dream,
Vanish like mine.
277
Lines to A Lady
'Twas like the poet's dreaming land,
Where fairies tread the moonlight lea,
Where sea-nymphs deck the silvery strand,
And spirits breathe in melody.
Where fairies tread the moonlight lea,
Where sea-nymphs deck the silvery strand,
And spirits breathe in melody.
The vesper dews were on the wold,
The western planet of the day
Had lit his glittering lamp of gold
In twilight's dim departing ray.
The western planet of the day
Had lit his glittering lamp of gold
In twilight's dim departing ray.
'Twas sweet to see the pale moon weep,
O'er the blue wave her tears of light,
And list across the swelling deep,
The whisper of the winds of night.
O'er the blue wave her tears of light,
And list across the swelling deep,
The whisper of the winds of night.
Borne on the gale of evening mild,
The soul of music floating came,
Notes that might sooth despair's lorn child,
Or light devotion's hallowed dream.
The soul of music floating came,
278
Or light devotion's hallowed dream.
Now swelling high in choral song,
It seemed the seraph's hymn of praise;
Now in swift accents swept along,
The green-haired mermaids' thrilling lays.
It seemed the seraph's hymn of praise;
Now in swift accents swept along,
The green-haired mermaids' thrilling lays.
Now murmuring low it sunk remote,
Soft as the dying cygnet's wail,
Or songs of moonlight fays that float
On wings of woven air through some enchanted vale.
Soft as the dying cygnet's wail,
Or songs of moonlight fays that float
On wings of woven air through some enchanted vale.
Such was the night! Dost thou, like me
Recall the scene with fond regret?
Lives in thine ear that minstrelsy,
And on thine eye that moonbeam yet?
Recall the scene with fond regret?
Lives in thine ear that minstrelsy,
And on thine eye that moonbeam yet?
Additional Verse
TO “'TIS NOT THE TEAR,” OF THOMAS MOORE
'Tis the eye where o'er the shade of woe,A wintry smile is gleaming,
'Tis the stifled sigh, suppressed and low,
From a heart all torn and streaming;
279
Its bitter pang can borrow;
'Tis the sob that bursts when no ear is nigh,
To catch its voice of sorrow.
[Poetical Fragment]
Oh! then in all a poet's dream,Away my cares of earth were hurled;
And bright in fancy's fairest beam,
Appeared my little fairy world.
[Poetical Fragment]
In a fair lady's heart once a secret was lurking;It tossed and it tumbled, it longed to get out;
The lips half betrayed it, by smiling and smirking,
And tongue was impatient to blab it no doubt.
280
Song
(AIR, “MUSETTE DE NINA”)
When the silken bands that fettered our youth
Are sundered by fate's imperious decree,
And the fondest hope of our young heart's truth
Shall wither away as a leaf on the tree,
Ah! where shall we seek all desolate then,
The magical form our bliss to restore?
Alas! 'tis in vain—the heart injured once
May throb 'till it break, but never feel more.
Are sundered by fate's imperious decree,
And the fondest hope of our young heart's truth
Shall wither away as a leaf on the tree,
Ah! where shall we seek all desolate then,
The magical form our bliss to restore?
Alas! 'tis in vain—the heart injured once
May throb 'till it break, but never feel more.
The wild rose may spring from a desolate rock,
And shed o'er its barrenness sweetest perfume;
The oak, that hath felt the lightning's shock,
May stand, and the ivy around it will bloom.
And when it is withered, another will spring,
Its tendrils entwine 'round the oak as before,
Yet the heart injured once, like the trunk may remain,
But the flowers of life will never bloom more.
And shed o'er its barrenness sweetest perfume;
The oak, that hath felt the lightning's shock,
May stand, and the ivy around it will bloom.
And when it is withered, another will spring,
Its tendrils entwine 'round the oak as before,
Yet the heart injured once, like the trunk may remain,
But the flowers of life will never bloom more.
J. R. Drake
| [Poems by Drake in] The life and works of Joseph Rodman Drake (1795-1820) | |