Areytos or songs and ballads of the South

Here, where the silent grave-stones rise,
Beneath the stars, in dusky white,
And, from the grass, great mournful eyes
Look upward through the ghastly light.

Here, where they sleep, the noble dead,
To whom thou ow'st thy name and blood;
Thy mother's heart, thy father's head,
The brave, the generous, great, and good!

211

Their bones, for quite an hundred years,
Are shrined where loving hearts may seek,
Fit altar-place for anguish'd prayers
Of him whom vice hath rendered weak!

II.

Here should thy heart recall the hours
When life had nobler aims than now:
When, if thy fingers toy'd with flowers,
Great thoughts were struggling in thy brow!—

And thou could'st shape in will the deed,
And well conceive, and high aspire,
Thy spirit bounding to be freed,
And all thy youthful soul on fire!

When she, thy inspiration then,
Blest to behold thy eager aim,
Look'd proudly for the hour when men
Should hail thee with the shouts of fame!

And thou, responsive to her prayer,
Had but the single thought, to stand,
A Hero-worker, bold to dare,
And strong to save thy native land.

With noble passions moved, and cheer'd
By voice that never idly taught;
Anguish'd by very hopes, that dared
Beyond the flight of youthful thought:

And sending up the famishing shriek,
Such as the eagle pours, who lies,
Struck down beneath some mountain peak,
And struggling for her native skies!—

212

Mixed pride and pain in every scream:
Now Doubt that shudders with despair;
Now Hope, exulting in the dream,
To stretch again her wings in air;

Conscious of one great want alone,
And burning with the will that brings
But wo to him that can but moan
The brave desire without the wings.

III.

Thou had'st th' ambitious aim to rise;
Chafed with the eager will that strove
To break from earth, to break through skies,
Range o'er all realms, and rise above!

Nor did the sinews lack—thy youth
Gave earnest of a strength to soar—
Well found in wisdom, bright in truth—
Where youth had never risen before.

And, with the yearning—in the sight
Of her who watch'd thee then, there grew,
Even from her watch, the wing for flight,
And all the pride and purpose too!

And Love grew happy to behold,
As proudly darting up from earth,
Thy vans, when first they did unfold,
Declared the mountain eaglet's birth!—

No feeble flight—no doubtful aim—
But straight, with joyous pride, they took
Their upward course, through fields of flame,
While every plume with rapture shook!

213

IV.

How glorious in that mother's sight—
An eagle she, without a mate—
The fearless aim, the brilliant flight
Of the sole offspring of her state!

And all the secret fear was gone,
That long had vext her heart—the thought
That ere thy flight was fully flown,
Her eye and heart should both be nought!

For dim already grew that eye,
And death was in her heart; her prayer
But asked to see thee, mounting high,
Endow'd to do—resolved to dare!

And all the bitterness of death
Was soothed and sweeten'd, as it grew,
That hope, within her soul, to faith
In what thou could'st, and yet would'st do!

V.

Fond dream!—How well do I recall
Her parting words: “For him, my son,
I have no fear! He can not fall,
With such a flight so well begun!”

VI.

He can not fall!—Alas! we stand,
Even as our rise is swift and high,
Upon a beetling, shelving strand,
A trembling, steep acclivity!—

214

A precipice!—a gulf beneath!
We hang between two worlds; and Fear
Shrinks trembling though upheld by Faith,
While Hope is mute beside Despair!

A breath will shake the mountain down—
A silent Terror work beneath;
And we who deem the world our own,
Will sudden sink in jaws of death!

Of death?—perchance a darker fate!—
Of hate, and shame, and sore disgrace;
And curse the pride—alas, too late!—
That sought such treach'rous resting-place.

And thus thou stood'st that very hour
When she, within her hopeful heart,
Beheld thy strength, thy promised power,
And calmly heard the word: “Depart!”

No doubt of Heaven—no doubt of thee;
How beautiful her life in death,
The spirit wing'd for liberty,
Through worlds of doubt, to skies of faith!

VII.

If from itself thy heart may pass,
And o'er the griefs of virtue brood,
Here shalt thou see, as in a glass,
How precious was the heart that woo'd:

How fond the love that pray'd in vain,
To crown thy soul with strength and will,
And free thy spirit from the chain
That pleasure winds round weakness still!

215

That woman was thy genius! She,
From Love the sweet persuasion caught,
That thou a chief of men might be,
The sov'reign in the popular thought.

She knew thy native strength—the powers,
That, in her training, had been true;
Nor in yon false and sensual bowers
Forgot her love and lessons too.

She knew thy powers, but did not know
The lurking weakness in thy soul,
That secret lay, to work thee wo,
When she no longer might control:

To watch the hour—the fearful hour,
When guardian love and guide were gone,
To blossom with pernicious flower,
When first in life thou stood'st alone!

VIII.

Ah! had'st thou heard her secret prayers,
With Love pursuing still thy quest—
Thy triumphs nurtured by her tears,
And all thy virtues in her breast!

Here, by her grave!—How still she lies,
Whose voice was such a charmer!—still
As those wan lights that haunt the skies,
Looking out with neither love nor will:

Stars, as we call them—and admire,
Unwitting how brighter far were they,
That sought us with affection's fire,
Warm in all seasons, night and day!

216

She was the star of all thy host—
Thy guardian star, whose loving art,
Unseen by thee, was ever most
The impulse to thy mind and heart:

So wast thou loving—loved, and brave—
And daring in thy aim to rise,
Till that dark hour, when in her grave
The light went out that spell'd thine eyes!

'Twas she who fram'd for thine the thought,
And, by a word, a look, a tone,
Th' unshaped ambition within thee wrought,
Till, through her love, it grew thine own.

IX.

And she is gone!—and thou!—look back
Upon the past; if there be heart
Within thee, bold enough to track
That past, while conscious what thou art!

'Twill task thy best of strength—the all
Of soul that's left thee now, to gaze
On what thou wast before thy fall,
In those best, bright, ambitious days!

How bold thy heart! how strong thy flight!
What noble purpose made thy aim,
While she, with eyes, tears dropping light,
Sang in thine ears a song of Fame!

X.

Think'st thou those eyes no longer see,
Those ears no longer hear—while thou,
In halls of wretched'st revelry,
Shout'st high in chorus with the low?—

217

Each noble purpose dead!—Design
That struck out pathways to the skies,
And strove with consummation fine,
In labors worthy of the wise!—

And now, o'er rudest wassail bowl,
With fever'd veins and flushing face—
No longer conscious of a soul,
Or purpose—herding with the base!—

Well pleased, with wanton jest and jibe,
The lecherous tale, the ribald song—
Dregs of thy better powers—to bribe
The applausive shout from rascal tongue!

XI.

Think'st thou she hears not—does not see?
That, lock'd within these walls of stone,
That noble spirit walks not free,
Beside thee ever, making moan?

I tell thee that before us now,
With folded hands that stretch to Heaven,
And weeping eyes, and pale white brow,
She prays that thou be saved and shriven.

That, for her love, surpassing show,
A sudden light from heaven may break,
A seraph gleam, a meteor glow,
A voice, thy better self to wake:

To tear thee from the thrall which binds
Thy heart and will in basest bond;
Unseal the eyes which glamour blinds,
And show the nobler heights beyond!

218

Oh! could'st thou see—nay, could'st thou feel,
Thou 'd'st win from love the needful power,
And woo the angel of thy weal
Beside thee, as in boyhood's hour.

XII.

Hast thou a thought, the revel o'er,
Of all its gross and wanton shame?
Doth conscience never once restore
The moments, peaceful, free of blame?

Dost never feel the bitter wo,
In calmer hours—if such there be—
At sight of these, thy comrades low?—
To hark their foul and foolish glee?

She prompts thy conscience—wakes the pain;
Her secret soul to thine reveals;
Sends subtlest whispers to thy brain,
And through thy dream of midnight steals:

Would rouse thee yet to noblest aim;
Thy heart make pure, and strengthen will,
And teach thee that the paths to fame,
Spite of the past, lie open still!

But hast thou manhood? Can'st thou brave
The scorn of fools—the wretched sneer
That's only potent o'er the slave,
Who dare not walk alone with Fear:

To whom th' applause of vulgar tongue
Suffices for those baffled powers,
Which, when thy soul was pure and young,
Scaled heights of hope on mountain towers?

219

Oh, grief! Oh, shame! Oh, bitter wo!
To think how such a flight was check'd!
By lure so foul, by spell so low,
Such wing of fame forever wreck'd!

University of Virginia Library

THE FAMILY VAULT.

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