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 | Poems |  |
TO Lucia D'Wolf Brownell,
The friend to whose example and society anything good in these writings should be mainly attributed, and whose indulgence is solicited for whatever may be otherwise, this book is most respectfully inscribed by her affectionate son,
THE AUTHOR.
13
INVOCATION.
Give up thy Dead, O Sea of Time!
Thy long-forgotten Dead!
The noble thoughts—the hopes sublime—
The dreams of glory fled.
Thy long-forgotten Dead!
The noble thoughts—the hopes sublime—
The dreams of glory fled.
Give back each high and holy Truth,
Once all on earth above—
Give back the beaming eye of Youth,
And the sweet lips of Love.
Once all on earth above—
Give back the beaming eye of Youth,
And the sweet lips of Love.
14
The tears, that once in sorrow stole
As soft as summer rain—
The smiles, whose sunshine o'er the soul
Shall never come again.
As soft as summer rain—
The smiles, whose sunshine o'er the soul
Shall never come again.
Oh God! what long-lost treasures
Could that abyss resign!
Pure thoughts, and innocent pleasures,
And gentle hopes are thine.
Could that abyss resign!
Pure thoughts, and innocent pleasures,
And gentle hopes are thine.
How, as they faded, one by one,
Like withered leaves that fall,
The quicksands of oblivion
Closed slowly o'er them all!
Like withered leaves that fall,
The quicksands of oblivion
Closed slowly o'er them all!
And thou hast much of mine—yet oh!
What is that little store,
Loved—lost—and once lamented so,
To all thou hadst before?
To all the mighty wrecks of old,
O'er which thy dull, dark waves have rolled?
What is that little store,
Loved—lost—and once lamented so,
To all thou hadst before?
To all the mighty wrecks of old,
O'er which thy dull, dark waves have rolled?
15
And wilt thou not, Insatiate Power!
Enriched with trophies vast,
Withhold thy claim one little hour,
Since all is thine at last?
Enriched with trophies vast,
Withhold thy claim one little hour,
Since all is thine at last?
All—all of nobleness and worth,
That mortal mould can vaunt—
All the fond witchery of earth
Can offer to enchant.
That mortal mould can vaunt—
All the fond witchery of earth
Can offer to enchant.
What vanished Ones of ancient might,
Thy mightier arms entwine!
What Forms of loveliness and light
Are now forever thine!
Thy mightier arms entwine!
What Forms of loveliness and light
Are now forever thine!
The charnel earth—the wandering air—
The wave—the restless fire—
Each element hath claimed its share
Of all that could expire.
Yet what are all their spoils to thee
And thine, oh dark and sullen sea!
The wave—the restless fire—
Each element hath claimed its share
Of all that could expire.
Yet what are all their spoils to thee
And thine, oh dark and sullen sea!
16
Thou sleepest—yet what storms have swept
Across that waveless flood!
What centuries on centuries leapt
In surges dyed with blood!
Across that waveless flood!
What centuries on centuries leapt
In surges dyed with blood!
A thousand victims lie concealed
Amid thy sunless caves—
A thousand wonders unrevealed
Have perished in thy waves.
Amid thy sunless caves—
A thousand wonders unrevealed
Have perished in thy waves.
And there the deep Historian's line
Hath many an age been cast—
In vain—to sound a depth like thine,
Unfathomable Past!
Hath many an age been cast—
In vain—to sound a depth like thine,
Unfathomable Past!
A flood, whose tide forever goes
O'er hill, and mound, and plain—
All slow and sullenly it flows,
But never ebbs again.
O'er hill, and mound, and plain—
All slow and sullenly it flows,
But never ebbs again.
17
Oh, silent, ever wandering stream!
Borne onward thus by thee,
Like some lone mariner I seem
Upon a shoreless sea.
Borne onward thus by thee,
Like some lone mariner I seem
Upon a shoreless sea.
And floating o'er thy gulf illumed
By dim tradition's ray,
On scenes—on ages long entombed
Look down a little way.
By dim tradition's ray,
On scenes—on ages long entombed
Look down a little way.
Like one who sails Italian seas,
When setting suns reveal
Old towers, and buried palaces,
Far underneath his keel.
When setting suns reveal
Old towers, and buried palaces,
Far underneath his keel.
There lie the glorious gems of old,
Lost in thy waters wide,
Whose gleam we faintly yet behold
Far down amid thy tide.
Lost in thy waters wide,
Whose gleam we faintly yet behold
Far down amid thy tide.
18
And darker, deeper yet below,
Methinks, all dimly seen,
A thousand fearful Shapes of Woe
And Horror couch between.
Methinks, all dimly seen,
A thousand fearful Shapes of Woe
And Horror couch between.
The Deeds, whose memory wakens
Stern thoughts of Nemesis;
And Crimes, that lurk like krakens
Within thy dark abyss.
Stern thoughts of Nemesis;
And Crimes, that lurk like krakens
Within thy dark abyss.
'Tis like that scene with terrors rife,
When earth and ocean held
The first chaotic throes of life—
The hideous forms of Eld.
When earth and ocean held
The first chaotic throes of life—
The hideous forms of Eld.
The monsters of old time, whose bones
Yet whiten o'er the plain—
The brood, whose giant skeletons
Are all that now remain—
Yet whiten o'er the plain—
The brood, whose giant skeletons
Are all that now remain—
19
Behemoth and Leviathan,
That roved this world of old—
Such are the Thoughts and Deeds of Man,
Which thy dark realms enfold.
That roved this world of old—
Such are the Thoughts and Deeds of Man,
Which thy dark realms enfold.
Oh! when the word is spoken
That Time shall be no more—
When the last wave hath broken
On thine eternal shore—
That Time shall be no more—
When the last wave hath broken
On thine eternal shore—
When, fleeting as a vapor,
The heavens shall pass away,
And like a dying taper
The worn-out sun decay—
The heavens shall pass away,
And like a dying taper
The worn-out sun decay—
When the moon shall fade in her place on high,
And all the Starry Host
Like sparks shall fly through a stormy sky—
And the Earth give up the ghost!
And all the Starry Host
Like sparks shall fly through a stormy sky—
And the Earth give up the ghost!
20
Amid that Universal Death
Shalt thou, poor soul, survive?
When worlds have yielded up their breath,
Canst thou remain alive?
Shalt thou, poor soul, survive?
When worlds have yielded up their breath,
Canst thou remain alive?
Thou canst—thou shalt—though stars are dim—
Though suns have quenched their fire—
The immortal flame once lit by Him
Shall never more expire.
Though suns have quenched their fire—
The immortal flame once lit by Him
Shall never more expire.
And these dark waters, tempest tost,
Shall yield their treasures then,
And all which thou hast loved and lost
Shall be restored again.
Shall yield their treasures then,
And all which thou hast loved and lost
Shall be restored again.
38
NIAGARA.
Has aught like this descended, since the fountains
Of the Great Deep broke up, in cataracts hurled,
And climbing lofty hills, eternal mountains,
Poured wave on wave above a buried world?
Of the Great Deep broke up, in cataracts hurled,
And climbing lofty hills, eternal mountains,
Poured wave on wave above a buried world?
Yon tides are raging, as when storms have striven,
And the vexed seas awaking from their sleep,
Are rough with foam, and Neptune's flocks are driven
In myriads o'er the green and azure deep.
And the vexed seas awaking from their sleep,
Are rough with foam, and Neptune's flocks are driven
In myriads o'er the green and azure deep.
Ere yet they fall, mark (where that mighty current
Comes like an army from its mountain home,)
How fiercely yon wild steeds amid the torrent,
With their dark flanks, and manes and crests of foam,
Comes like an army from its mountain home,)
How fiercely yon wild steeds amid the torrent,
With their dark flanks, and manes and crests of foam,
39
Speed to their doom—yet in the awful centre,
Where the wild waves rush madliest to the steep,
Just ere that white unfathomed gulf they enter,
Rear back in horror from the headlong leap.
Where the wild waves rush madliest to the steep,
Just ere that white unfathomed gulf they enter,
Rear back in horror from the headlong leap.
Then maddening, plunge—a thousand more succeeding
Sweep onward, troop on troop, again to urge
The same fierce flight, as rapid and unheeding—
Again to pause in terror on the verge.
Sweep onward, troop on troop, again to urge
The same fierce flight, as rapid and unheeding—
Again to pause in terror on the verge.
And near the brink, amid that ceaseless roar,
An emerald islet gleams above the surf;
No bark hath landed on its sunny shore—
No human foot hath ever pressed its turf—
An emerald islet gleams above the surf;
No bark hath landed on its sunny shore—
No human foot hath ever pressed its turf—
Like that sweet spot we seem so oft discerning,
That haunts the voyager through Life's desert plain,
To which our souls are ever fondly turning,
Forever near us—and forever vain.
That haunts the voyager through Life's desert plain,
40
Forever near us—and forever vain.
What tongue hath told—what page hath kept thy history,
Dark flood that hurriest Ocean's tide to meet!
What eye hath dared to penetrate the mystery
That shrouds thine inaccessible retreat?
Dark flood that hurriest Ocean's tide to meet!
What eye hath dared to penetrate the mystery
That shrouds thine inaccessible retreat?
To chronicle thine age, the toil severe,
The boasted scrutinies of Science fail—
Conjecture's busy tongue is silent here—
And Old Tradition hath forgot the tale.
The boasted scrutinies of Science fail—
Conjecture's busy tongue is silent here—
And Old Tradition hath forgot the tale.
Perchance upon this wondrous ledge
(benighted
And wandering eastward through the forest brown,)
Behemoth paused—and straight drew back affrighted,
Lest his vast weight should crush the rampart down.
And wandering eastward through the forest brown,)
Behemoth paused—and straight drew back affrighted,
Lest his vast weight should crush the rampart down.
There still it stands, as in his day, save where
Yon fallen fragment lies in wrecks below;
That monotone sublime yet fills the air,
And still these waters roll in endless flow.
Yon fallen fragment lies in wrecks below;
41
And still these waters roll in endless flow.
Oft to an eye half closed, as if in solving
Some mighty, mystic problem—half it seems
Like some vast crystal wheel, ever revolving,
Whose motion, earth's—whose axle, earth's extremes.
Some mighty, mystic problem—half it seems
Like some vast crystal wheel, ever revolving,
Whose motion, earth's—whose axle, earth's extremes.
We gaze and gaze, half lost in dreamy pleasure,
On all that slow majestic wave reveals,
While Fancy idly, vainly strives to measure
How vast the cavern which its veil conceals.
On all that slow majestic wave reveals,
While Fancy idly, vainly strives to measure
How vast the cavern which its veil conceals.
The Sea-Kings never revelled in a Hall
More gorgeous—more magnificent than this:
Earth holds the deep foundations of thy wall,
And falling oceans curtain thine abyss.
More gorgeous—more magnificent than this:
Earth holds the deep foundations of thy wall,
And falling oceans curtain thine abyss.
Beneath its vaulted roof and architrave,
The spirit of each Element might reign
Enthroned—or wandering through the sullen cave,
Roam o'er thy drear and Chaos-like domain.
The spirit of each Element might reign
Enthroned—or wandering through the sullen cave,
Roam o'er thy drear and Chaos-like domain.
42
The Sea-nymphs there might make their loneliest dwelling,
Or the fierce brethren of the troubled Air,
Whose blasts around thy vestibule are swelling —
And the mine-haunting gnomes might revel there.
Or the fierce brethren of the troubled Air,
Whose blasts around thy vestibule are swelling —
And the mine-haunting gnomes might revel there.
All, save the Demon throned on caverned fires,
In the volcano's arched and lurid hall,
Who from thee far and sullenly retires—
Lest his bright realms to sudden ruin fall:
In the volcano's arched and lurid hall,
Who from thee far and sullenly retires—
Lest his bright realms to sudden ruin fall:
Lest all should perish—even his proudest palace
'Neath red Stromboli—Etna's glowing veins—
One icy wave from thine o'erflowing chalice,
And but a cold and blackened wreck remains.
'Neath red Stromboli—Etna's glowing veins—
One icy wave from thine o'erflowing chalice,
And but a cold and blackened wreck remains.
43
Whence come ye, oh wild waters? by what scenes
Of Majesty and Beauty have ye flowed,
In the wide continent that intervenes,
Ere yet ye mingle in this common road?
Of Majesty and Beauty have ye flowed,
In the wide continent that intervenes,
Ere yet ye mingle in this common road?
The Mountain King, upon his Rocky throne,
Laves his broad feet amid your rushing streams,
And many a vale of loveliness unknown
Is softly mirrored in their crystal gleams.
Laves his broad feet amid your rushing streams,
And many a vale of loveliness unknown
Is softly mirrored in their crystal gleams.
They come—from haunts a thousand leagues away,
From ancient mounds, with deserts wide between,
Cliffs, whose tall summits catch the parting day,
And prairies blooming in eternal green;
From ancient mounds, with deserts wide between,
Cliffs, whose tall summits catch the parting day,
And prairies blooming in eternal green;
Yet, the bright valley, and the flower-lit meadow,
And the drear waste of wilderness, all past—
Like that strange Life, of which thou art the shadow,
Must take the inevitable plunge at last.
And the drear waste of wilderness, all past—
44
Must take the inevitable plunge at last.
Whither we know not
—but above the wave
A gentle, white-robed spirit sorrowing stands,
Type of the rising from that darker grave,
Which waits the wanderer from Life's weary lands.
A gentle, white-robed spirit sorrowing stands,
Type of the rising from that darker grave,
Which waits the wanderer from Life's weary lands.
How long these wondrous forms—these colors splendid,
Their glory o'er the wilderness have thrown!
How long that mighty anthem has ascended
To him who wakened its eternal tone!
Their glory o'er the wilderness have thrown!
How long that mighty anthem has ascended
To him who wakened its eternal tone!
That everlasting utterance thou shalt raise,
A thousand ages ended, still the same—
When this poor heart, that fain would add its praise,
Has mouldered to the nothing whence it came:
A thousand ages ended, still the same—
When this poor heart, that fain would add its praise,
Has mouldered to the nothing whence it came:
45
When the white dwellings of man's busy brood
Now reared in myriads o'er the peopled plain,
Like snows have vanished, and the ancient wood
Shall echo to the eagle's shriek again.
Now reared in myriads o'er the peopled plain,
Like snows have vanished, and the ancient wood
Shall echo to the eagle's shriek again.
And all the restless crowds that now rejoice,
And toil, and traffic, in their eager moods,
Shall pass—and nothing save thine awful voice
Shall break the hush of these vast solitudes.
And toil, and traffic, in their eager moods,
Shall pass—and nothing save thine awful voice
Shall break the hush of these vast solitudes.
June, 1842.
Any one acquainted with the Falls, can hardly have failed to observe, that in the midst of the Great Cataract, from a peculiar formation of the rock, the stream appears to raise itself and recoil at the brink, as if shrinking from the untried and perilous descent into the chasm below.
The traveller seldom encounters a more perfect “tourbillon” of spray and wind, than that which salutes him in passing behind the edge of the sheet, where the fall of water is comparatively light. Owing to the difficulty of the path, and the torrents of air and water which impede his steps, he can penetrate but a short distance—about 100 yards—and the Grand Cavern, which probably extends behind the Central Fall, seems wholly inaccessible.
A stranger may form some idea of the volume of water precipitated over Niagara, by observing that it drains a surface exceeding 400,000 square miles, including the accumulations of four great inland seas.
By reason of the cloud of vapor which always shrouds the lower part of the Cataract,it is impossible to perceive the manner in which the falling waters “meet and mingle” with those below.
46
THE FAMINE.
Be proud, my lord! few men can ride upon a course like thine,
Drive where thou wilt—to East or West—from London to the Tyne.
Your chariot-wheels are rolling o'er famished heart and head—
Your horses' hoofs are trampling down a life at every tread.
And proud be thou, fair Lady! so royally arrayed
In robes for which the nakedness of half a realm hath paid.
Thy train hath stripped the shivering limbs of daughters and of wives—
The jewel beaming on thy brow hath cost a hundred lives.
Drive where thou wilt—to East or West—from London to the Tyne.
Your chariot-wheels are rolling o'er famished heart and head—
Your horses' hoofs are trampling down a life at every tread.
47
In robes for which the nakedness of half a realm hath paid.
Thy train hath stripped the shivering limbs of daughters and of wives—
The jewel beaming on thy brow hath cost a hundred lives.
And prouder yet, oh Holy Church! thy favored sons may be,
O'er every wealthy “living” the dying yield for thee.
Still portion each fat benefice—still pile thee stones on stones —
And rear the fane that mocks at God, o'er famine-buried bones.
Let stoles be donned—let prayers be conned—let solemn anthems flow—
And whiten each sepulchral soul with all of outward show.
O'er every wealthy “living” the dying yield for thee.
Still portion each fat benefice—still pile thee stones on stones —
And rear the fane that mocks at God, o'er famine-buried bones.
Let stoles be donned—let prayers be conned—let solemn anthems flow—
And whiten each sepulchral soul with all of outward show.
And proudest, happiest far of all, America, be thou!
Whose barns are filled to bursting—whose granaries o'erflow.
Who, while the nations stand aghast, in wonder and in fear,
Art fattening on the famine that brings thee gold and gear.
Hurra! their gold, like drops of blood, is coming thick and fast!
Each mite their wasted hands can earn shall be thine own at last.
Whose barns are filled to bursting—whose granaries o'erflow.
48
Art fattening on the famine that brings thee gold and gear.
Hurra! their gold, like drops of blood, is coming thick and fast!
Each mite their wasted hands can earn shall be thine own at last.
Ho, portly alderman! dost think, amid thy money-bags,
Of men who feed on offal? of women clad in rags?
Ho, gentle maiden! that in warm and lighted rooms displayst
The naked arm, the naked throat, the almost naked breast!
Hast thou no angel-charity, no kindness to fulfil
For those on whom this winter storm beats down more naked still?
Of men who feed on offal? of women clad in rags?
Ho, gentle maiden! that in warm and lighted rooms displayst
The naked arm, the naked throat, the almost naked breast!
Hast thou no angel-charity, no kindness to fulfil
For those on whom this winter storm beats down more naked still?
Ho, thou that revellest at ease, on goodly sinecure!
Whose hounds are mumbling over bread snatched from the starving poor!
Canst thou remember thee of him, whose fate was fixed of old,
Whose dogs did lick the beggar's sores—in ancient story told?
A day shall come ye little know—an hour ye little heed—
When He, whom ye forsake on earth, shall leave ye at your need.
“Depart, I never knew ye! in mine abandoned lot,
Hungered, ye gave me nought to eat—naked, ye clothed me not.”
Whose hounds are mumbling over bread snatched from the starving poor!
Canst thou remember thee of him, whose fate was fixed of old,
Whose dogs did lick the beggar's sores—in ancient story told?
49
When He, whom ye forsake on earth, shall leave ye at your need.
“Depart, I never knew ye! in mine abandoned lot,
Hungered, ye gave me nought to eat—naked, ye clothed me not.”
Dost marvel at this picture? proud citizen, 'tis thine!
And thine, oh priest! whose pompous tone goes up before the shrine.
'Tis thine, sleek man of office! thine, lawyer rich and keen!
'Tis thine, fair dame! 'tis thine, proud peer! 'tis thine—anointed Queen!
Ye, who can call right loudly upon his Holy Name,
Yet never know your suppliant Lord in anguish and in shame.
And thine, oh priest! whose pompous tone goes up before the shrine.
'Tis thine, sleek man of office! thine, lawyer rich and keen!
'Tis thine, fair dame! 'tis thine, proud peer! 'tis thine—anointed Queen!
Ye, who can call right loudly upon his Holy Name,
Yet never know your suppliant Lord in anguish and in shame.
Oh, thou that sittest by the hearth, thy fireside filled with light,
Thy children all around thee, their faces beaming bright!
Hast thou ever thought, while gazing upon its pleasant glow,
Of the naked feet—of the wasted forms—that wander in frost and snow?
Thy children all around thee, their faces beaming bright!
50
Of the naked feet—of the wasted forms—that wander in frost and snow?
And thou that in thy cheerful hall art sitting down to dine!
Thy table heaped with costly cates, and bright with sunny wine—
Hast thou remembered thee of those, to whom the coarsest fare
Were food bestowed from heaven? if not, how canst thou dare
To ask a blessing on thy board, while Famine, even now,
Is gnawing at a million hearts—each dear to God as thou!
Thy table heaped with costly cates, and bright with sunny wine—
Hast thou remembered thee of those, to whom the coarsest fare
Were food bestowed from heaven? if not, how canst thou dare
To ask a blessing on thy board, while Famine, even now,
Is gnawing at a million hearts—each dear to God as thou!
February 9th, 1847.
Some very good people, (in their way,) have objected to the ideas advanced in this piece that they are too strongly worded. I only regret that the insufficiency of our language, or my own insufficiency in using it, has prevented me from expressing them more forcibly. The denunciation which these lines convey, is intended for no one, who does not deserve it. In almost every class of persons to which allusion is here made, there are numberless bright examples of goodness and beneficence—there are also many, very many, whose demeanor, whether active or passive, has been atrocious, and it is to awaken the shame and alarm the conscience of these that the verses have been written.
St. Paul's was last rebuilt at an expense of £736,000, which amount, says some author, with much naïveté, “was easily raised by a small tax on coals.”
51
THE VILLAGE GRAVE-YARD.
It is a lone and sunny hill,
Where all is calm, and sweet, and still.
The spirit of the wandering air
Breathes lightly as he passes there,
And bids the wild-grass gently wave
Above each long-forgotten grave.
While yon grey elms, that many a year,
Have cast their evening shadows here,
And murmured o'er each clay-cold head,
Seem watchers of the quiet dead;
And mourn, the same as long ago,
O'er these still sepulchres below.
Where all is calm, and sweet, and still.
The spirit of the wandering air
Breathes lightly as he passes there,
And bids the wild-grass gently wave
Above each long-forgotten grave.
While yon grey elms, that many a year,
Have cast their evening shadows here,
And murmured o'er each clay-cold head,
Seem watchers of the quiet dead;
And mourn, the same as long ago,
O'er these still sepulchres below.
At summer noon-tide, trimly drest,
On a Sunday, in their best,
Oft the village maids are seen,
Walking in the churchyard green—
Or with curious vision bent
O'er some mouldering monument;
Where the quaint old epitaph,
By rude Time diminished half,
May wean their simple thoughts away
From the vanities of clay.
On a Sunday, in their best,
Oft the village maids are seen,
Walking in the churchyard green—
52
O'er some mouldering monument;
Where the quaint old epitaph,
By rude Time diminished half,
May wean their simple thoughts away
From the vanities of clay.
And here, beneath a mournful shade,
Two beloved forms are laid—
Two kind hearts have ceased to beat—
Hushed two voices, sad and sweet,
“Spirits twain” from earth have flown,
Such as earth has seldom known.
Oft in childhood had we played
'Neath that green and quivering shade—
Oft our feet together prest
On the turf where now they rest.
And one, the gentlest of our band,
Kind of heart and free of hand,
Said, while sitting at my side,
In those pleasant tones and dear,
'Twas his hope, whene'er he died,
That he might be buried here.
'Twas summer, and we decked his tomb,
The next, with wild flowers in their bloom.
There reared the violet, drooping low,
And taught the forest moss to grow.
And the same gentle task, each year,
Would call our lessened number here,
Until that ne'er forgotten hour,
When, in her blooming pride,
Our dearest and our loveliest flower
Was gathered to his side.
And left these hearts of sin and care,
To join her brother angel there.
Two beloved forms are laid—
Two kind hearts have ceased to beat—
Hushed two voices, sad and sweet,
“Spirits twain” from earth have flown,
Such as earth has seldom known.
Oft in childhood had we played
'Neath that green and quivering shade—
Oft our feet together prest
On the turf where now they rest.
And one, the gentlest of our band,
Kind of heart and free of hand,
Said, while sitting at my side,
In those pleasant tones and dear,
'Twas his hope, whene'er he died,
That he might be buried here.
53
The next, with wild flowers in their bloom.
There reared the violet, drooping low,
And taught the forest moss to grow.
And the same gentle task, each year,
Would call our lessened number here,
Until that ne'er forgotten hour,
When, in her blooming pride,
Our dearest and our loveliest flower
Was gathered to his side.
And left these hearts of sin and care,
To join her brother angel there.
But from that hour, the rest no more
Could meet in spring-time as before.
And these poor graves, for many a day,
All mournfully deserted lay;
Save that, when autumn hours began,
One led by saddest thought,
A friendless and unhappy man
These silent dwellings sought—
And kneeled, to lay on each in turn,
A few half-withered leaves of fern.
Many a weary hour has flown,
And here at last I am, alone.
The pilgrim of a distant land,
Once more by these lone graves I stand.
Yet not so lonely now, for there,
Methinks with sculpture smooth and fair,
With fresh-heaped turf and marble new,
Another resting-place I view.
It fades—'twas nothing—yet its span
Seemed just the measure of a man.
Could meet in spring-time as before.
And these poor graves, for many a day,
All mournfully deserted lay;
Save that, when autumn hours began,
One led by saddest thought,
A friendless and unhappy man
These silent dwellings sought—
And kneeled, to lay on each in turn,
A few half-withered leaves of fern.
54
And here at last I am, alone.
The pilgrim of a distant land,
Once more by these lone graves I stand.
Yet not so lonely now, for there,
Methinks with sculpture smooth and fair,
With fresh-heaped turf and marble new,
Another resting-place I view.
It fades—'twas nothing—yet its span
Seemed just the measure of a man.
What frame shall fill this narrow mound?
Oh! say, ye sleeping ones around!
Ye, that in centuries past have died!
Who next shall slumber by your side?
What cherished heart? what bosom fond?
And oh! far more—what lies beyond?
Oh! say, ye sleeping ones around!
Ye, that in centuries past have died!
Who next shall slumber by your side?
What cherished heart? what bosom fond?
And oh! far more—what lies beyond?
They may not tell—in vain the prayer,
That fain would seek its answer there.
These mouldering tenants of the dust
Are ever faithful to their trust.
And they, who from that dread sojourn
Have found, by miracle, return,
To mortal eye have never showed
The secrets of their dark abode;
Have never breathed to mortal ear
The tale of Wonder and of Fear.
But carried all the lore it gave,
Down to their second, final grave.
That fain would seek its answer there.
These mouldering tenants of the dust
Are ever faithful to their trust.
55
Have found, by miracle, return,
To mortal eye have never showed
The secrets of their dark abode;
Have never breathed to mortal ear
The tale of Wonder and of Fear.
But carried all the lore it gave,
Down to their second, final grave.
1842.
73
LINES WRITTEN FOR A LITTLE GIRL.
I never saw thee, little one,
I have not scanned thy face—
Yet trust thy years have well begun,
In gentleness and grace.
I have not scanned thy face—
Yet trust thy years have well begun,
In gentleness and grace.
For aught I know, thine eyes are blue,
Thy ringlets wildly bright—
Perhaps they have a hazel hue—
Perhaps are dark as night.
Thy ringlets wildly bright—
Perhaps they have a hazel hue—
Perhaps are dark as night.
Thy loving smile—thy tender voice—
Thy footstep soft and free,
That bid a mother's heart rejoice,
Are all unknown to me.
Thy footstep soft and free,
That bid a mother's heart rejoice,
Are all unknown to me.
74
I never cared for children much,
Yet there are one or two
I love right tenderly—and such,
I hope, dear child, are you.
Yet there are one or two
I love right tenderly—and such,
I hope, dear child, are you.
Like them, be kind—be meek—be just—
Be true to God and man—
Be sad and mournful, when you must—
Be cheerful, when you can.
Be true to God and man—
Be sad and mournful, when you must—
Be cheerful, when you can.
Farewell! that word how can I name
To one I never met?
No matter—it is all the same,
So farewell! little H---
To one I never met?
No matter—it is all the same,
So farewell! little H---
1839.
75
THE ARTISAN.
'Tis hard, when on the stormy main,
The wave-worn sailor tries
For weeks in vain the port to gain,
That mocks his longing eyes.
The wave-worn sailor tries
For weeks in vain the port to gain,
That mocks his longing eyes.
And hard the settler's weary lot,
When, all the livelong day,
Through rugged woods and stubborn rocks
The axe and spade make way.
When, all the livelong day,
Through rugged woods and stubborn rocks
The axe and spade make way.
76
But harder is the piteous strife,
The awful feud between
The Elements and Human Life—
The Man and the Machine.
The awful feud between
The Elements and Human Life—
The Man and the Machine.
Poor wretch, that in some low dark room,
With failing hand and sight,
Through the long day at web and loom
Dost work from morn till night!
With failing hand and sight,
Through the long day at web and loom
Dost work from morn till night!
And toil to earn thy scanty meal,
Through half the midnight dark and dreary!
Alas, poor friend! those nerves of steel—
Those iron thews are never weary!
Through half the midnight dark and dreary!
Alas, poor friend! those nerves of steel—
Those iron thews are never weary!
Thou, in thy sad, unwholesome haunt,
May'st faint with want and woe,
But cold or hunger never daunt
Thy strong and sleepless foe.
May'st faint with want and woe,
But cold or hunger never daunt
Thy strong and sleepless foe.
O Children born to Want and Care,
And nursed by Toil and Pain!
These heavy loads why will ye bear
So long—and all in vain?
And nursed by Toil and Pain!
77
So long—and all in vain?
There is a land beyond the seas,
Where, not in vain, free hands may toil—
No tyrant flag hath mocked her breeze,
No tyrant foot her soil.
Where, not in vain, free hands may toil—
No tyrant flag hath mocked her breeze,
No tyrant foot her soil.
The ocean deep that round her foams
Shall be your only thrall—
To her broad fields and harvest homes
Come freely, one and all.
Shall be your only thrall—
To her broad fields and harvest homes
Come freely, one and all.
Perhaps there is no spectacle more pitiable than a manufacturing district, into which improvements of power and machinery are, for the first time, introduced. The poor handicraftsmen, ignorant of the inevitable result, and confident in their own skill and industry, work early and late in competition, until actual starvation compels them to direct to other labors, their minds and bodies alike warped by long and unvaried servitude.
82
VATES.
The Poets! who though dead, yet live among us,
And haunt our hearths like spirits—they who dwell
Not in old letters only, nor in realms
Peopled by Phantasy—but in our souls;
Who, when the eyes are dim, and the heart heavy,
And the soul sick with anguish, till all words
Of comfort fall unmeaning on the ear,
Like parrots' prate, and all seems false and cold—
Can gently lure us to forget our woes,
And wander with them—listening to deep words,
And sharing their companionship, whose mien
Is never cold or wayward—
Oft I see them,
Not prisoned in the parchment—not on shelves
Dust-laden—but in each original form
Of beauty or calm-featured thoughtfulness,
They rest, reclined in peace—their labors done,
Or pass like shadows.
First, yet far withdrawn,
In the dim realms of Old Tradition throned,
One, who though blind, and clad in homely weeds,
Looks like a god—those sealed and sightless orbs,
(Their pale lids drooping o'er the imprisoned soul
Like the dark curtain drawn before a shrine)
Veiling unutterable majesty.
And haunt our hearths like spirits—they who dwell
Not in old letters only, nor in realms
Peopled by Phantasy—but in our souls;
Who, when the eyes are dim, and the heart heavy,
And the soul sick with anguish, till all words
Of comfort fall unmeaning on the ear,
Like parrots' prate, and all seems false and cold—
Can gently lure us to forget our woes,
And wander with them—listening to deep words,
And sharing their companionship, whose mien
Is never cold or wayward—
Oft I see them,
Not prisoned in the parchment—not on shelves
Dust-laden—but in each original form
Of beauty or calm-featured thoughtfulness,
83
Or pass like shadows.
First, yet far withdrawn,
In the dim realms of Old Tradition throned,
One, who though blind, and clad in homely weeds,
Looks like a god—those sealed and sightless orbs,
(Their pale lids drooping o'er the imprisoned soul
Like the dark curtain drawn before a shrine)
Veiling unutterable majesty.
'Tis that beloved, blind old man, dear Homer!
Who, in the morning of this clouded life,
(Its seventh summer yet not long completed)
Welcomed, as one might welcome a dear child,
My wandering footsteps to that glorious realm,
Which first he founded and shall rule for ever.
And told me wondrous tales—of Heroes, Kings—
God-dwelt Olympus—the Abyss below—
Monsters unshaped and dread—then showed me forms
More beautiful than waking dreams can image,
Helen, Briseis—such as in old time,
Sprang from the strong embrace of Demigods,
And well might set a camp—a world in arms.
Who, in the morning of this clouded life,
(Its seventh summer yet not long completed)
Welcomed, as one might welcome a dear child,
My wandering footsteps to that glorious realm,
Which first he founded and shall rule for ever.
And told me wondrous tales—of Heroes, Kings—
God-dwelt Olympus—the Abyss below—
Monsters unshaped and dread—then showed me forms
More beautiful than waking dreams can image,
Helen, Briseis—such as in old time,
84
And well might set a camp—a world in arms.
All half-forgotten—yet in after years,
When first the artist's chaste and classic limning
So statue-like, yet life-like, lay before me,
What was my wonder, what my joy to see
The very forms that once in childhood haunted
Its sleeping, waking dreams—here, here they were,
The same proud faces—thus looked Agamemnon,
And thus Ulysses—“the immortal slave,”
And her immortal master—all unchanged.
Nor marvellous—the thoughts of children are
Simple, yet vast—their clear fresh minds can image
Full many a Truth—full many a pure Ideal—
To them revealed like instinct—sought by us
With toil and failure in maturer years.
When first the artist's chaste and classic limning
So statue-like, yet life-like, lay before me,
What was my wonder, what my joy to see
The very forms that once in childhood haunted
Its sleeping, waking dreams—here, here they were,
The same proud faces—thus looked Agamemnon,
And thus Ulysses—“the immortal slave,”
And her immortal master—all unchanged.
Nor marvellous—the thoughts of children are
Simple, yet vast—their clear fresh minds can image
Full many a Truth—full many a pure Ideal—
To them revealed like instinct—sought by us
With toil and failure in maturer years.
Else wherefore those sweet trances, which could lull
The fiends Pain, Want, and Care (who even then
Their prey had scented) when, by the dim lamp,
I sat a wayward child, and pored and pondered
On the worm-eaten ancient page that told
Of those, so brave, so lovely in old days,
Who long have lain beneath Sigæan mounds.
The fiends Pain, Want, and Care (who even then
85
I sat a wayward child, and pored and pondered
On the worm-eaten ancient page that told
Of those, so brave, so lovely in old days,
Who long have lain beneath Sigæan mounds.
Or when, half-dreaming near some salt-sea pool,
Left by the tides upon a Northern strand—
Why on my truant steps, came hand in hand,
The Wonderful and Beautiful—why rose
Such visions of the unseen world?—of halls
Meet for the step of Deity to rove—
Of the sea-people in their voiceless caves,
Where never Echo came—the wealth of coral
And pearls, and sunny amber all around them?
Of bright Neptunian shores—and ancient galleys
Freighted with Demigods—each keel an Argo—
Like that old bark first on the Euxine launched,
Which steered her way untried, unpiloted,
(Save by thine oak oracular, Dodona!)
From Aulis' sea-worn strand to Colchis, laden
From helm to prow with heroes—Theseus
And the brave Twins—Ancæus, Hercules,
Apollo's gifted offspring, soon to fall
Adonis-like, in Lyncean woods—and Orpheus
On the high stern, as I have seen him pictured
In some rude, quaint design (not void of merit,
Though centuries old), his fingers on the lyre
Wandering distractedly, now half forget
To wake the strains angelic, and withal
A slight compression of the lips—the brow,
As her keel sweeps amid those fearful rocks
So soon to close—the dread Symplegades!
Himself the last!—a scene to be remembered.
Left by the tides upon a Northern strand—
Why on my truant steps, came hand in hand,
The Wonderful and Beautiful—why rose
Such visions of the unseen world?—of halls
Meet for the step of Deity to rove—
Of the sea-people in their voiceless caves,
Where never Echo came—the wealth of coral
And pearls, and sunny amber all around them?
Of bright Neptunian shores—and ancient galleys
Freighted with Demigods—each keel an Argo—
Like that old bark first on the Euxine launched,
Which steered her way untried, unpiloted,
(Save by thine oak oracular, Dodona!)
From Aulis' sea-worn strand to Colchis, laden
From helm to prow with heroes—Theseus
86
Apollo's gifted offspring, soon to fall
Adonis-like, in Lyncean woods—and Orpheus
On the high stern, as I have seen him pictured
In some rude, quaint design (not void of merit,
Though centuries old), his fingers on the lyre
Wandering distractedly, now half forget
To wake the strains angelic, and withal
A slight compression of the lips—the brow,
As her keel sweeps amid those fearful rocks
So soon to close—the dread Symplegades!
Himself the last!—a scene to be remembered.
Who should succeed the Master? what hand raise
The weighty sceptre? none—although we mark,
Long after, one who in deep-visioned trance,
Sees the Eumenides, and the stern Victim
Breathing defiance from his couch of stone:
Another (what! we youth must live!) gray-haired,
Yet crowned with roses, and deep-flushed with wine,
Trolling loose lays to no unwilling ears:
And Two, that now sit quaffing at the board
Of the world's master—then, if we may heed them,
(Credat Judæus) driving goats afield
With a green switch.
And now a dreary void.
All that is beautiful and spiritual,
All that is gentle and sublime, seem lost
In outer darkness. Yet, like holy lamps
Burning at dead midnight in some old chapel,
Stand Three, of name inseparably twined
With other three—who knows them, knowing not
Of those fair ones—two cruel, and one lost.
The weighty sceptre? none—although we mark,
Long after, one who in deep-visioned trance,
Sees the Eumenides, and the stern Victim
Breathing defiance from his couch of stone:
Another (what! we youth must live!) gray-haired,
Yet crowned with roses, and deep-flushed with wine,
87
And Two, that now sit quaffing at the board
Of the world's master—then, if we may heed them,
(Credat Judæus) driving goats afield
With a green switch.
And now a dreary void.
All that is beautiful and spiritual,
All that is gentle and sublime, seem lost
In outer darkness. Yet, like holy lamps
Burning at dead midnight in some old chapel,
Stand Three, of name inseparably twined
With other three—who knows them, knowing not
Of those fair ones—two cruel, and one lost.
They fade in turn—that night-capped, laurelled head—
Those eyes that look with deep prophetic gaze
Through Heaven and Hell—that worn, inspiréd face,
That haunts us, as it haunted Leonora.
Those eyes that look with deep prophetic gaze
Through Heaven and Hell—that worn, inspiréd face,
That haunts us, as it haunted Leonora.
Now here and there a gleam of light seems breaking,
And here and there an eager form is seen
From the deep darkness striving to emerge.
Yet none like him who went before—save One
Greater than all preceding—or to come!
Him of the pointed beard and front majestic,
The features grave yet pleasant, and the brow
Worthy of Jove—the Limner of the Soul—
The Utterer of imperishable words,
Each line a proverb on the lips of men
For centuries—what thought shall number them,
If this earth hold?—The Enchanter, at whose word,
The furies rise—Hate, Murder, Lust, Revenge
Take human forms and flit across the stage—
While, all unneeded, follow in their train
The axe, the headsman, and the draught of death.
Anon a merry laugh rings on the ear,
And Falstaff, Bardolph come—and Ancient Pistol!
And lived they not, these beings of the brain
So closely twined with all Belief and Fancy?
And here and there an eager form is seen
From the deep darkness striving to emerge.
88
Greater than all preceding—or to come!
Him of the pointed beard and front majestic,
The features grave yet pleasant, and the brow
Worthy of Jove—the Limner of the Soul—
The Utterer of imperishable words,
Each line a proverb on the lips of men
For centuries—what thought shall number them,
If this earth hold?—The Enchanter, at whose word,
The furies rise—Hate, Murder, Lust, Revenge
Take human forms and flit across the stage—
While, all unneeded, follow in their train
The axe, the headsman, and the draught of death.
Anon a merry laugh rings on the ear,
And Falstaff, Bardolph come—and Ancient Pistol!
And lived they not, these beings of the brain
So closely twined with all Belief and Fancy?
Frown as we may, yet who can choose but feel
A strange, sad sympathy with that old knight,
(So gross, so satyr-like, yet how immortal!)
Less, haply, in his revels, cheek by jowl
With royal Hal, carousing pottle-deep,
Mid all that goodly, roystering company,
Than when, at last, abandoned, desolate,
(“Put not your trust in princes”—'tis well written)
In his simplicity, reviled, rejected
By him whose merriest hours poor Jack had made,
And dying, broken-hearted, in the tavern,
Wit, friendship, merriment, mind itself, all gone,
And talking, not too wisely, in his fits,
He “babbled o' green fields”—
A strange, sad sympathy with that old knight,
(So gross, so satyr-like, yet how immortal!)
Less, haply, in his revels, cheek by jowl
89
Mid all that goodly, roystering company,
Than when, at last, abandoned, desolate,
(“Put not your trust in princes”—'tis well written)
In his simplicity, reviled, rejected
By him whose merriest hours poor Jack had made,
And dying, broken-hearted, in the tavern,
Wit, friendship, merriment, mind itself, all gone,
And talking, not too wisely, in his fits,
He “babbled o' green fields”—
Oh, there are scenes
Might touch the coldest heart—and this is one.
It might be, at that hour, (thus fancy loves
To chase even phantoms, so they mimic life)
A shadow crossed his eyes—and he beheld
Not the dark city, nor the care-worn faces,
Nor the old haunts endeared by drunken mirth—
Which long had made his world—but the sweet sunlight
Falling once more on well-known fields and forests,
Scenes long-forgotten—and the village trees
Waving once more, as in that pleasant time,
When life and sunshine were enough for pleasure,
And little Jack, the happiest of the happy,
Could find a joy in the gay wealth of meadows,
Culling most carefully, and deftly twining
The choicest field-flowers for his little loves,
Primrose and daisy, or the violet sweet.
Might touch the coldest heart—and this is one.
It might be, at that hour, (thus fancy loves
To chase even phantoms, so they mimic life)
A shadow crossed his eyes—and he beheld
Not the dark city, nor the care-worn faces,
Nor the old haunts endeared by drunken mirth—
Which long had made his world—but the sweet sunlight
Falling once more on well-known fields and forests,
Scenes long-forgotten—and the village trees
Waving once more, as in that pleasant time,
90
And little Jack, the happiest of the happy,
Could find a joy in the gay wealth of meadows,
Culling most carefully, and deftly twining
The choicest field-flowers for his little loves,
Primrose and daisy, or the violet sweet.
These traits bespeak the Master—one who knows
That universal thought—that sympathy
Which lies at the root of all things—and hath mourned
O'er thy sad lot, O poor Humanity!
That universal thought—that sympathy
Which lies at the root of all things—and hath mourned
O'er thy sad lot, O poor Humanity!
Nor seldom, after a long life-time wasted
In strife, in fraud, in lust, or sordid gain,
(These the true dungeon of man's erring soul)
At the approach of Death, their victims seem
To loose each ancient bond—their fetters fall,
(As at the Angels' touch) no link remaining
In the long chain of slavery which had bound them.
In strife, in fraud, in lust, or sordid gain,
(These the true dungeon of man's erring soul)
91
To loose each ancient bond—their fetters fall,
(As at the Angels' touch) no link remaining
In the long chain of slavery which had bound them.
One such I can recall—a mariner
Rough as the seas he sailed, and in his youth,
When scarce an eye that scans this page had opened,
Contending, and not vainly, on the deck
With our old foes, for gain and victory.
But his last days were peaceful, and went down
Tranquilly to their grave, as he to his.
Rough as the seas he sailed, and in his youth,
When scarce an eye that scans this page had opened,
Contending, and not vainly, on the deck
With our old foes, for gain and victory.
But his last days were peaceful, and went down
Tranquilly to their grave, as he to his.
When now his hundredth year was well nigh told,
And that old frame seemed subject to a child—
Just ere the spark so long and faintly burning,
Went out forever, leaving all in darkness—
A strange intelligence once more possessed
That soul age-wearied—for he spake of men,
Children with him, and names which half a century
Had been forgotten quite, save by the idler
Who roves mid tombstones—yea, and many more,
Whereof none knew, though, doubtless, once they were,
Even as ourselves—and now he dwelt among them,
And George was king again, whose fleets he fought.
Nor wanting softer, gentler memories
Of childhood's wanderings, and the murmured name
Of brother,—not the brother of past days,
With whom he trafficked, even as strangers might—
But him who shared each boyish holiday,
And swam the flood, and launched the mimic bark,
Each all unconscious of the storms and seas
And bitter gales thereafter to be borne,
On the dark waters they should rove so long.
And that old frame seemed subject to a child—
92
Went out forever, leaving all in darkness—
A strange intelligence once more possessed
That soul age-wearied—for he spake of men,
Children with him, and names which half a century
Had been forgotten quite, save by the idler
Who roves mid tombstones—yea, and many more,
Whereof none knew, though, doubtless, once they were,
Even as ourselves—and now he dwelt among them,
And George was king again, whose fleets he fought.
Nor wanting softer, gentler memories
Of childhood's wanderings, and the murmured name
Of brother,—not the brother of past days,
With whom he trafficked, even as strangers might—
But him who shared each boyish holiday,
And swam the flood, and launched the mimic bark,
Each all unconscious of the storms and seas
And bitter gales thereafter to be borne,
On the dark waters they should rove so long.
Too long we linger by the springs that gush
From each rude rock stricken by prophet touch.
Raise but the inner lids, and we behold
Another form of mild, majestic aspect,
Long silver locks on either cheek descending,
Yet in a meagre habit, old and poor
And blind again!—does Nature hate her loveliest?
Nay, haply merciful, for they who felt
Upon their darkening lids that icy touch
More dread than Azrael's—and knew they ne'er
Again should gaze on this sun-gladdened earth—
(All things familiar, palpable, beloved
Again resolved to chaos and drear night)
Yet, with a deeper vision, looked beyond
And saw what mortal eyes had never seen.
From each rude rock stricken by prophet touch.
93
Another form of mild, majestic aspect,
Long silver locks on either cheek descending,
Yet in a meagre habit, old and poor
And blind again!—does Nature hate her loveliest?
Nay, haply merciful, for they who felt
Upon their darkening lids that icy touch
More dread than Azrael's—and knew they ne'er
Again should gaze on this sun-gladdened earth—
(All things familiar, palpable, beloved
Again resolved to chaos and drear night)
Yet, with a deeper vision, looked beyond
And saw what mortal eyes had never seen.
He fades, like those before—a train succeeds
Of lesser light and varied destiny.
Sharing like Dives' heirs, unequally,
The rich inheritance—most favored, one
Of soul and strain discordant—(though oft gracing
The noblest theme,) mingling melodious verse
With harshest thought—another of pure life
And faith full orthodox (so vouched his priest)
And conscience clear—yet haunted by a dread
Of infinite anguish—ever stumbling
Amid dark mountains—on whose soul oft fell
(As once on his, who, doubting, asked a sign)
“A horror of great darkness.” Sad he lived,
And died despairing
—yet perchance, (if that
Which Bunyan dreamed, and he believed, were true)
When waking from the phantom-haunted sleep,
Which men called life—beheld the Eternal One,
Whose loving kindness he had doubted so,
Smiling upon him—and the Heavenly Host
Welcoming, through their ever-bright array,
The brother, weary and astray so long.
Another and another—Thou the First,
Of haughty, yet of spiritual beauty,
Whom foes and bigots, conscious of thy might,
(Yelping like curs who view the huntsman's lash,
Yet crouching, whining still, and ill at ease)
Have in their impotent malice, loved to name
The lost archangel!—and indeed, if Strength
Greater than all among the Sons of Earth,
And the firm will, and the unyielding pride,
Not to be moved by obloquy or blame,
Could make thee such, thou wert—when thoughts and passions
Such as for centuries had not stirred the heart
Of hoar Humanity, thronged side by side,
Like fiends and angels mingled—in an age
So prodigal of greatness, that it seemed
As if a new race had arisen to people
The worn-out earth—amid names which for ever
Shall shine like beacons down the stream of Life,
To guide and warn the wanderer o'er its depths—
Then, like the Angel seen by him of old,
('Neath each Titanic footstep sea and land)
One Soul stood forth, the mightiest of them all
That rule the immeasurable realms of Thought.
One Light of Genius rose, unseen before,
And with strange gleam shone through the firmament,
Brilliant and vague, like some erratic star
That mocks the astronomer, and half eludes
With its new glory, all the rules of art.
Of lesser light and varied destiny.
Sharing like Dives' heirs, unequally,
The rich inheritance—most favored, one
Of soul and strain discordant—(though oft gracing
The noblest theme,) mingling melodious verse
With harshest thought—another of pure life
94
And conscience clear—yet haunted by a dread
Of infinite anguish—ever stumbling
Amid dark mountains—on whose soul oft fell
(As once on his, who, doubting, asked a sign)
“A horror of great darkness.” Sad he lived,
95
Which Bunyan dreamed, and he believed, were true)
When waking from the phantom-haunted sleep,
Which men called life—beheld the Eternal One,
Whose loving kindness he had doubted so,
Smiling upon him—and the Heavenly Host
Welcoming, through their ever-bright array,
The brother, weary and astray so long.
96
Of haughty, yet of spiritual beauty,
Whom foes and bigots, conscious of thy might,
(Yelping like curs who view the huntsman's lash,
Yet crouching, whining still, and ill at ease)
Have in their impotent malice, loved to name
The lost archangel!—and indeed, if Strength
Greater than all among the Sons of Earth,
97
Not to be moved by obloquy or blame,
Could make thee such, thou wert—when thoughts and passions
Such as for centuries had not stirred the heart
Of hoar Humanity, thronged side by side,
Like fiends and angels mingled—in an age
So prodigal of greatness, that it seemed
As if a new race had arisen to people
98
Shall shine like beacons down the stream of Life,
To guide and warn the wanderer o'er its depths—
Then, like the Angel seen by him of old,
('Neath each Titanic footstep sea and land)
One Soul stood forth, the mightiest of them all
That rule the immeasurable realms of Thought.
One Light of Genius rose, unseen before,
And with strange gleam shone through the firmament,
Brilliant and vague, like some erratic star
That mocks the astronomer, and half eludes
With its new glory, all the rules of art.
And thus mankind, still ever in th' extreme,
Feared, hated, loved, admired, and marvelled sore
How one could be so great and yet so little.
We, who can look more calmly, well may see
Somewhat to grieve at, yet how much to love,
In that strange Life, so brief, so sorrowful.
Feared, hated, loved, admired, and marvelled sore
How one could be so great and yet so little.
We, who can look more calmly, well may see
Somewhat to grieve at, yet how much to love,
In that strange Life, so brief, so sorrowful.
And cold it were to think without a sigh,
Almost a tear, upon its mournful ending:
That sullen shore, washed by the dark Ægæan—
The war-beleaguered town—the gloomy chamber,
Where like a dying lamp, that glorious spirit,
So bright, so luminous once, yet long consuming
All unperceived, the brain, the heart that fed it—
Waxed fainter, feebler—and at last shot up
One fitful gleam—then passed away for ever.
Almost a tear, upon its mournful ending:
That sullen shore, washed by the dark Ægæan—
99
Where like a dying lamp, that glorious spirit,
So bright, so luminous once, yet long consuming
All unperceived, the brain, the heart that fed it—
Waxed fainter, feebler—and at last shot up
One fitful gleam—then passed away for ever.
Oft hath that hour, that scene of sadness haunted
My lonely thoughts—and with him ever comest
Thou of the gentle form and sorrowful mien,
Who wast, among the eager sons of men,
Like some pale sojourner from other worlds—
Earth's weary lessons all as yet unlearned.
Whose soul seemed ever in dim paths astray,
And though oft mingling sadly right and wrong,
Though wandering darkly oft in doubt and error,
Still sought the Truthful—still essayed the Good.
With all that should have made thee loved, revered,
Doomed through thy life to meet with hate, reproach,
False friends, stern foes, and scarce a kindred soul.
My lonely thoughts—and with him ever comest
Thou of the gentle form and sorrowful mien,
Who wast, among the eager sons of men,
Like some pale sojourner from other worlds—
Earth's weary lessons all as yet unlearned.
Whose soul seemed ever in dim paths astray,
And though oft mingling sadly right and wrong,
Though wandering darkly oft in doubt and error,
Still sought the Truthful—still essayed the Good.
With all that should have made thee loved, revered,
Doomed through thy life to meet with hate, reproach,
False friends, stern foes, and scarce a kindred soul.
Yet, haply, there is one, whom (had he lived
But a few lustra sooner, or thou later)
Thou mightst have loved—who surely had loved thee;
And, if thou wouldst, right brotherly had shared
All thine unmerited griefs, thy simple pleasures:
Oft, as thou loved'st, friendly intercourse
Far in the night protracting, held high converse
Of all we are, and shall be—theme the dearest
(Unsicklied by the feverish breath of Cant)
To an immortal mind—at early dawn,
Climbed mountains with thee, pitying the dark world
That lay below—sailed with thee in thy boat
O'er summer seas,—nor shunned the adventurous helm,
When winds were highest on the rough Tyrrhenian,
Thy play-ground—and alas! thine early grave.
But a few lustra sooner, or thou later)
100
And, if thou wouldst, right brotherly had shared
All thine unmerited griefs, thy simple pleasures:
Oft, as thou loved'st, friendly intercourse
Far in the night protracting, held high converse
Of all we are, and shall be—theme the dearest
(Unsicklied by the feverish breath of Cant)
To an immortal mind—at early dawn,
Climbed mountains with thee, pitying the dark world
That lay below—sailed with thee in thy boat
O'er summer seas,—nor shunned the adventurous helm,
When winds were highest on the rough Tyrrhenian,
Thy play-ground—and alas! thine early grave.
Ye are all vanished from a world of care,
Which knew ye, but too late—all silently
Unto the grave ye went, no monument,
Save in the souls of men.
—Amid them, one
Who hath retracked the past to dwell among ye—
Sat with ye in your chambers—walked with ye,
Sharing high thoughts: and though tis many a year
Since last he scanned your kind familiar faces,
(Neglect half impious) and although ye need
No praise of mine, no incense to your fame—
Receive, immortal Brotherhood, the homage
Of one who erst was all your own, and when
His love was worth acceptance, (if the tribute
Of a pure heart's affection may be deemed
An offering not unworthy) loved ye well.
Which knew ye, but too late—all silently
Unto the grave ye went, no monument,
Save in the souls of men.
—Amid them, one
Who hath retracked the past to dwell among ye—
Sat with ye in your chambers—walked with ye,
Sharing high thoughts: and though tis many a year
Since last he scanned your kind familiar faces,
101
No praise of mine, no incense to your fame—
Receive, immortal Brotherhood, the homage
Of one who erst was all your own, and when
His love was worth acceptance, (if the tribute
Of a pure heart's affection may be deemed
An offering not unworthy) loved ye well.
Nor unremembered be each living bard,
Upon whose brow the laurel yet is green—
They, who, though merged in earth's too busy commerce,
Though living in this iron age—have sung
Strains not unworthy of the Great of Old.
And on each sacred hearth, by Lares guarded,
Yet keep the vestal flame of Learning bright.
Upon whose brow the laurel yet is green—
They, who, though merged in earth's too busy commerce,
Though living in this iron age—have sung
Strains not unworthy of the Great of Old.
And on each sacred hearth, by Lares guarded,
Yet keep the vestal flame of Learning bright.
Nor They, whose souls, all Harmony—all Beauty,
Have ne'er, or seldom worn the garb of verse,
Poets of prose—for many such there be,
Thou first of all, whom all delight to honour,
True-souled American! who wandering long
In old and distant lands, hast ne'er forgotten
Thine own—nor ever been forgot of Her.
For with thy name what pleasant thoughts arise,
Half nameless—thoughts of old primeval days,
The vanished Indian, and the stern, quaint race,
That came upon his happy hunting-grounds.
Of ancient Hendrick with his spectre-crew
Bound China-ward—and those long thunderous peals
Still rolling of a summer's afternoon.
While ever, (like the pleasant interlude
Of Puck or Shallow in some grand old play)
Comes each mirth-moving scene—of Ichabod,
Lank-sided—and Mynheer, with nether raiments
Innumerable—and of that goodly cloud
Which hung o'er Mannahatta, shadowing forth
Chimney, and dome, and steeple.
Now we stand
Amid old chambers, moss-grown stairs, and arches
Decayed, yet beautiful in their decay,
And ruined fountains—yet, even now, methinks,
The footsteps of Zorayda—Lindaraxa—
(Their white feet rivalling the marble floor)
Still echo lightly in Alhambra's Halls.
Then pause with thee on yon far mountain-ridge—
And lo! the Hill of Tears—the Moor's last Sigh!
One labor yet remained. One mighty Name
Yet waited the Historian. Who should equal
That Life? theme worthy of no common pen!
Meetest of all for thine, who hast, like him,
The high Adventurer of thy chronicle,
Explored and founded on these western shores
A new and noble world—the world of Letters.
Have ne'er, or seldom worn the garb of verse,
Poets of prose—for many such there be,
Thou first of all, whom all delight to honour,
True-souled American! who wandering long
In old and distant lands, hast ne'er forgotten
Thine own—nor ever been forgot of Her.
102
Half nameless—thoughts of old primeval days,
The vanished Indian, and the stern, quaint race,
That came upon his happy hunting-grounds.
Of ancient Hendrick with his spectre-crew
Bound China-ward—and those long thunderous peals
Still rolling of a summer's afternoon.
While ever, (like the pleasant interlude
Of Puck or Shallow in some grand old play)
Comes each mirth-moving scene—of Ichabod,
Lank-sided—and Mynheer, with nether raiments
Innumerable—and of that goodly cloud
Which hung o'er Mannahatta, shadowing forth
Chimney, and dome, and steeple.
Now we stand
Amid old chambers, moss-grown stairs, and arches
Decayed, yet beautiful in their decay,
And ruined fountains—yet, even now, methinks,
The footsteps of Zorayda—Lindaraxa—
(Their white feet rivalling the marble floor)
Still echo lightly in Alhambra's Halls.
Then pause with thee on yon far mountain-ridge—
And lo! the Hill of Tears—the Moor's last Sigh!
103
Yet waited the Historian. Who should equal
That Life? theme worthy of no common pen!
Meetest of all for thine, who hast, like him,
The high Adventurer of thy chronicle,
Explored and founded on these western shores
A new and noble world—the world of Letters.
And thou, who scarce art second in our hearts,
Dear Charles! (for here we hardly may inscribe
Thy less euphonious, not less cherished name)
I have not seen thee, nor thou me,—these words
May never meet thine eye—yet, if they should,
Let it not irk thee once again to hear
(What thou so oft must needs have heard before)
That one to all so kindly, save the bad,—
And those, reclaimed—hath yet another friend,
Who, though he may be nought to thee, surrounded
By kindred, countrymen, admiring hearts,
And “troops of friends”—yet cherishes esteem,
Heartfelt as theirs—and love not less sincere.
And thou,
who pondering deep and scholarly
O'er men and books, calm weighing thought and action,
Hast fathomed the deep Springs of Past and Present,
And analyzed the subtle soul itself.
Who, wizard-like, or liker some deep chemist,
From the chaotic mass of Laws and Letters,
And the confused wanderings of Art,
Hast drawn the True, the Beautiful, the Right.
Dear Charles! (for here we hardly may inscribe
Thy less euphonious, not less cherished name)
I have not seen thee, nor thou me,—these words
May never meet thine eye—yet, if they should,
Let it not irk thee once again to hear
(What thou so oft must needs have heard before)
That one to all so kindly, save the bad,—
And those, reclaimed—hath yet another friend,
Who, though he may be nought to thee, surrounded
By kindred, countrymen, admiring hearts,
And “troops of friends”—yet cherishes esteem,
Heartfelt as theirs—and love not less sincere.
104
O'er men and books, calm weighing thought and action,
Hast fathomed the deep Springs of Past and Present,
And analyzed the subtle soul itself.
Who, wizard-like, or liker some deep chemist,
From the chaotic mass of Laws and Letters,
And the confused wanderings of Art,
Hast drawn the True, the Beautiful, the Right.
Not incoherent these thy graver toils
With bright Romance and Genius—witness Ivry!
And ye, Old Lays, to which, Amphion-like,
Again Rome rises—not the Rome of now—
Nor that, where Angelo, Bramante built
Their mountainous domes—the men whose names and deeds
Seem Titan-like even yet—but that Old City,
Even at whose name throngs back upon the soul
All that is grand, and strong, and terrible.
And here once more She stands—and all along
Her crowded Forum, and her busy streets
The Forms are moving, we have seen or dreamed
In the old days—Horatius, Chaste Lucrece,
And thy Virginia—ever sacred name!
Rememb'ring truth and purity of life;
Yet saddened by their woes, who kept it well—
Martyrs to Love and Virtue—from the maid
Whose wrongs, whose innocence thou so well hast told—
To her, for whom her island-lover watched
Over the ocean tide so long—in vain.
She came at last—alas! t'was vainer still!
With bright Romance and Genius—witness Ivry!
And ye, Old Lays, to which, Amphion-like,
Again Rome rises—not the Rome of now—
Nor that, where Angelo, Bramante built
Their mountainous domes—the men whose names and deeds
Seem Titan-like even yet—but that Old City,
105
All that is grand, and strong, and terrible.
And here once more She stands—and all along
Her crowded Forum, and her busy streets
The Forms are moving, we have seen or dreamed
In the old days—Horatius, Chaste Lucrece,
And thy Virginia—ever sacred name!
Rememb'ring truth and purity of life;
Yet saddened by their woes, who kept it well—
Martyrs to Love and Virtue—from the maid
Whose wrongs, whose innocence thou so well hast told—
To her, for whom her island-lover watched
Over the ocean tide so long—in vain.
She came at last—alas! t'was vainer still!
Peace hover o'er your dwellings! yea, and all,
Dwell where ye may, who in your bosoms cherish
The spark divine, Promethean—reft of which
The world's a den—a brother's heart salutes ye,
And offers all it may, a friendly greeting.
Dwell where ye may, who in your bosoms cherish
The spark divine, Promethean—reft of which
The world's a den—a brother's heart salutes ye,
And offers all it may, a friendly greeting.
Strive as we may, it is a weary world
For those who look beyond the common ken,
The purblind glimpse that satisfies the most,
And hath been wearier—but a better dawn
Seems breaking, and our children may behold
The day—for which, how long! how wearily!
The Watchers of the Mind have looked.—
For those who look beyond the common ken,
106
And hath been wearier—but a better dawn
Seems breaking, and our children may behold
The day—for which, how long! how wearily!
The Watchers of the Mind have looked.—
Alas!
If we but glance beyond these scenes, and mark
The ghastly Shapes that haunt the fleeing night
Which for so long hath brooded o'er man's soul,
What sights we see! what tales are told by Her,
The Beldame who hath listened to its ravings
Through the long, fevered watches—now She tells
Of mightiest souls o'ercome with want and madness—
Of injured Genius pining in foul dungeons,
Of pleasant comedies, writ by starving men,
Folly in purple—wit and worth in rags—
The unhappy children of high Destiny, now
Feasting with princes—now with Chatterton
Gnawing their hearts —or Otway in his garret
When, striving in his hungered agony
To sate starvation on the wretched crust
That mocked his famine, choking the dry throat,
He died, the bitter morsel yet unswallowed.
If we but glance beyond these scenes, and mark
The ghastly Shapes that haunt the fleeing night
Which for so long hath brooded o'er man's soul,
What sights we see! what tales are told by Her,
The Beldame who hath listened to its ravings
Through the long, fevered watches—now She tells
Of mightiest souls o'ercome with want and madness—
Of injured Genius pining in foul dungeons,
Of pleasant comedies, writ by starving men,
Folly in purple—wit and worth in rags—
The unhappy children of high Destiny, now
Feasting with princes—now with Chatterton
Gnawing their hearts —or Otway in his garret
When, striving in his hungered agony
To sate starvation on the wretched crust
107
He died, the bitter morsel yet unswallowed.
Sad though the want—yet oft-times sadder yet,
The unhappy fortune, the disgraceful honor
Waiting the Sons of Genius—now they stand,
Stemming each brutal tide of popular wrong,
Or with brave mien uttering truths from which
Tyrants might shrink, and Vice retreat in shame,—
And now, forgetful of their high estate,
Fawning upon the hands that give them bread.
The unhappy fortune, the disgraceful honor
Waiting the Sons of Genius—now they stand,
Stemming each brutal tide of popular wrong,
Or with brave mien uttering truths from which
Tyrants might shrink, and Vice retreat in shame,—
And now, forgetful of their high estate,
Fawning upon the hands that give them bread.
But sights like these—(the sycophant, the beggar)
May vanish, and are vanishing fast—yet still,
Though many forms of woe are gone, that once
Held fiercest conflict in the noblest breast—
No few of their sad comrades yet remain,
Phantoms no light can scare—we still behold
The same fond hope—alas, how vainly cherished!
For Goodness, Wisdom, Loveliness united.
And the same irrepressible thirst for Love,
Too seldom quenched, save at unholy fountains,
The same wild worship of the Beautiful,
And that o'erflowing tenderness of heart
Which folds in its embrace all living things,
And is most mocked by that it most would cherish.
May vanish, and are vanishing fast—yet still,
Though many forms of woe are gone, that once
Held fiercest conflict in the noblest breast—
No few of their sad comrades yet remain,
Phantoms no light can scare—we still behold
The same fond hope—alas, how vainly cherished!
For Goodness, Wisdom, Loveliness united.
And the same irrepressible thirst for Love,
Too seldom quenched, save at unholy fountains,
108
And that o'erflowing tenderness of heart
Which folds in its embrace all living things,
And is most mocked by that it most would cherish.
These, and yet others sadder far than these,
Have cast in turn their dreary shadows o'er
How many!—yet of each we still may deem
That not in vain he lived—in vain he died.
Like faded leaves they fall—yet even like them
Their being all fulfilled—their destiny
Not unaccomplished, nor its purpose void.
Hopes withered—ruined fortunes—crushed affections—
And Love laid how in dust—these are the soil
From whence the Immortal springs—bright, amaranthine.
Have cast in turn their dreary shadows o'er
How many!—yet of each we still may deem
That not in vain he lived—in vain he died.
Like faded leaves they fall—yet even like them
Their being all fulfilled—their destiny
Not unaccomplished, nor its purpose void.
Hopes withered—ruined fortunes—crushed affections—
And Love laid how in dust—these are the soil
From whence the Immortal springs—bright, amaranthine.
If any untoward reminiscences of Mistresses Page, Ford, and Quickly, or even of the unfortunate Doll Tearsheet, intrude upon this allusion, we must remember that to infuse any degree of sentiment into the nature of Falstaff has been tacitly held impossible by Shakespeare himself.—The only trace of such a feeling is found in that most truthful and moving description of his end, and in the pathetic exclamation of his poor follower, Bardolph, “Would that I were with him, whether a's in Heaven or Hell.”
During the war of the Revolution, he commanded a merchantman which was captured by a British cruiser. Being left on board with only two of his hands, by a bold and skilful manœuvre he retook the vessel, and navigated her into an American port. The prize-crew, (who had been dexterously clapped under hatches) swore that, if not immediately released, they would blow up the ship. “You may blow and be d---d,” was the emphatic response, “I have as many friends in h*ll, as you have!” It is needless to remark that the magazine was not fired.
Mr. John Newton—the original genius who studied theology in the cabin of a slave-ship, and sailed to the coast of Guinea with an assorted cargo of prayer-books and manacles. He seems to have possessed a certain heat and activity of temperament, which were supposed eminently to qualify him for a “fisher of men,” either in the long-boat, or the pulpit. It appears, however, that he met with rather more success in his latter vocation, as he naively remarks, on quitting the scene of his former exertions—“I was, upon the whole, satisfied with it, as the appointment that Providence had marked out for me; yet it was in many respects far from eligible. It is, indeed, accounted a genteel employment, and is usually very profitable, though to me it did not prove so, the Lord seeing that a large increase of wealth could not be good for me.”
That such a mind should have assumed and maintained a spiritual ascendency over that of Cowper! a perfect moral mimosa —shrinking from the touch and not safely to be approached except with the gentlest support and encouragement.
His last words indicated an utter hopelessness of future mercy or happiness.
After death, however, the expression of his countenance (says his friend and relation, Mr. Johnson) “was that of calmness and composure, mingled, as it were, with a holy surprise.”
Had Bunyan written a century later, we should certainly suppose that he had in his mind's eye the unhappy Cowper, when drawing the picture of his well-meaning, faint-hearted pilgrim, Mr. Fearing,—concerning whose misadventures, his conductor Mr. Great-heart, gives so lively a narrative.
“He was a man that had the root of the matter in him, but he was one of the most troublesome pilgrims that ever I met with in all my days.
“When he was come to the entrance of the Valley of the Shaddow of Death, I thought I should have lost my man—
“Oh! the hobgoblins will have me! the hobgoblins will have me! cried he; and I could not beat him out of it. He made such a noise and such an outcry here, that had they but heard him, it was enough to encourage them to come and fall upon us.
Upon the enchanted ground he was very wakeful. But when he was come to the river where there was no bridge, there again he was in a heavy case. Now, now, he said, he should be drowned for ever, and so never see that face with comfort that he had come so many miles to behold. And here also, I took notice of what was very remarkable; the water of that river was lower at this time than ever I saw it in all my life: so that he went over at last, not much over wet-shod.”—
Pilgrim's Progress.“No forsooth, he hath but a little wee face, with a little yellow beard—a cain-colored beard [OMITTED] but he is a tall man of his hands [OMITTED] he hath fought with a warrener.”—
Merry Wives of Windsor.It is curious to observe how many men have come down to us with a reputation in literature founded upon a title somewhat like Master Slender's to that of valor—they have “fought a warrener.”
But for Pope, who would ever have heard of Dennis? but for Voltaire, of Maupertuis? but for Milton, of Salmasius?
Had not Shakspeare been tried before his worship, Sir Thomas Lucy might have slept with his fathers. But for Horace and Virgil the names of Bavius and Mævius had been silent for ever.
We may even venture to predict that Messrs. Jeffrey and Southey, men of real and acknowledged ability, will be less known to posterity from the writings which influenced their contemporaries, than as swelling, (by their controversy with Byron) the long list of those who have attained this rather questionable kind of immortality.
It will be unnecessary to suggest to any one, who (as Lord Ch. Justice Crewe says) “hath any apprehension of gentry or nobility,” the names of Irving, Dickens, and Macaulay—men to whose prose we are indebted for more of the true spirit of poetry,than to nine tenths of those who write, or ever have written in rhyme or metre.
112
TO ANGELINE.
O'er many a hill the winds blow shrill,
The blue seas roll between—
And yet, methinks, I see you still,
Dear little Angeline!
The blue seas roll between—
And yet, methinks, I see you still,
Dear little Angeline!
And thus could almost bid you stay,
To clasp your hand in mine,
With that confiding, gentle way
You had in “auld lang syne.”
To clasp your hand in mine,
With that confiding, gentle way
You had in “auld lang syne.”
And take, once more, a pleasant walk
On old Rhode Island's shore—
We always loved to hear you talk—
So, prattle on, once more.
On old Rhode Island's shore—
We always loved to hear you talk—
So, prattle on, once more.
113
Can you recall that happy day,
When, by the salt-sea tide,
In merry sport, and careless play,
We wandered, side by side?
Your heart o'erflowing, sweet and wild,
And I, once more, a happy child.
When, by the salt-sea tide,
In merry sport, and careless play,
We wandered, side by side?
Your heart o'erflowing, sweet and wild,
And I, once more, a happy child.
Mid those lone rocks the sea-winds sigh,
The waves still toss their spray,
The calm blue sky still bends on high—
Though we are far away.
And on that dear, far distant shore,
Perchance we two shall meet no more.
The waves still toss their spray,
The calm blue sky still bends on high—
Though we are far away.
And on that dear, far distant shore,
Perchance we two shall meet no more.
Gone are the joyous days of old,
The star of youth has set,
And friendship changed, and love grown cold—
Since face to face we met.
Yet thy dear name, I scarce know why,
Brings back sweet thoughts of days gone by.
The star of youth has set,
And friendship changed, and love grown cold—
Since face to face we met.
Yet thy dear name, I scarce know why,
Brings back sweet thoughts of days gone by.
114
Of many a wild and woodland glen,
Of many a streamlet's flow—
Methought that we were happy then—
But this was long ago.
And since those pleasant moments, we
Have wandered far o'er earth and sea.
Of many a streamlet's flow—
Methought that we were happy then—
But this was long ago.
And since those pleasant moments, we
Have wandered far o'er earth and sea.
And ah! so many weary years,
May now have glided by,
That woman's cares and woman's tears,
Have dimmed that sparkling eye.
The gentle eye that once I knew
As clear and calm as heaven's own blue.
May now have glided by,
That woman's cares and woman's tears,
Have dimmed that sparkling eye.
The gentle eye that once I knew
As clear and calm as heaven's own blue.
And thou this altered form wouldst scan,
I fear, with little joy,
And shrink to find a wayward man
Too like the wayward boy.
And meet on his unquiet brow
A darker shade than ever now.
I fear, with little joy,
And shrink to find a wayward man
Too like the wayward boy.
And meet on his unquiet brow
A darker shade than ever now.
115
But we will hope for happier days,
Like those enchanted hours,
On which the light of memory plays
Like sunshine over flowers.
Like those enchanted hours,
On which the light of memory plays
Like sunshine over flowers.
For thou art not forgotten here,
And ah! how canst thou be,
While feelings, to each heart so dear,
Are twined with thoughts of thee?
And ah! how canst thou be,
While feelings, to each heart so dear,
Are twined with thoughts of thee?
And there is one, who still shall keep
Those thoughts, till memory part—
And waft across the sullen deep,
A blessing to thy heart.
Those thoughts, till memory part—
And waft across the sullen deep,
A blessing to thy heart.
124
SOLITUDE.
This narrow room—this narrow room,
Sad image of a future doom;
Silence, where all around is loud,
And loneliness amid a crowd.
On the free mountain could I stand,
Nor mark one trace of human hand,
Or steer my bark, where none might be,
Save mine old playmates of the Sea,
The winds and waves—'twould ne'er impress
This sense of utter loneliness.
Sad image of a future doom;
Silence, where all around is loud,
And loneliness amid a crowd.
On the free mountain could I stand,
Nor mark one trace of human hand,
Or steer my bark, where none might be,
Save mine old playmates of the Sea,
The winds and waves—'twould ne'er impress
This sense of utter loneliness.
And here I sit, day after day,
To watch the weary time away.
The minutes pass—how slow they creep!
The hours—how heavily they sleep!
And yet, when all at last are gone,
It seems that scarce an hour has flown.
To watch the weary time away.
The minutes pass—how slow they creep!
The hours—how heavily they sleep!
125
It seems that scarce an hour has flown.
Like one in dungeon drear confined,
On the dull dial of whose mind,
Time's shadow leaves no trace behind—
Thus o'er my soul each heavy day,
So weary in its long delay—
Each lingering hour, whose sullen strife
Seemed lengthened into half a life,
So dimmed with doubt—so chilled with care,—
Have passed—nor left a record there.
On the dull dial of whose mind,
Time's shadow leaves no trace behind—
Thus o'er my soul each heavy day,
So weary in its long delay—
Each lingering hour, whose sullen strife
Seemed lengthened into half a life,
So dimmed with doubt—so chilled with care,—
Have passed—nor left a record there.
And thus, perchance, for many a year,
Day after day will find me here;
Still toiling in this narrow lot,
Unloved—uncared for—and forgot:
Without one hope of peace at last,
Or one sweet memory of the past.
Day after day will find me here;
Still toiling in this narrow lot,
Unloved—uncared for—and forgot:
Without one hope of peace at last,
Or one sweet memory of the past.
133
TEARS.
Fall gently on my heart—
Ye silent tears that start
Unchecked, unbidden from your fountains deep—
Yes, ye may flow in peace,
I will not bid ye cease—
For nothing now is left them, but to weep.
Ye silent tears that start
Unchecked, unbidden from your fountains deep—
Yes, ye may flow in peace,
I will not bid ye cease—
For nothing now is left them, but to weep.
Long have those fountains kept
Tears, such as once they wept—
Long sealed—long hidden grief's mysterious stream—
'Tis many a weary year,
Since last they shed a tear,
And now, how calm—how passionless they seem.
Tears, such as once they wept—
Long sealed—long hidden grief's mysterious stream—
'Tis many a weary year,
Since last they shed a tear,
And now, how calm—how passionless they seem.
134
Oh! not like childhood's dews,
Whose blessed springs diffuse
Their balm o'er all our little woes and fears—
Nor such as yield relief
To quick and passionate grief—
Are the stern drops we shed in after years.
Whose blessed springs diffuse
Their balm o'er all our little woes and fears—
Nor such as yield relief
To quick and passionate grief—
Are the stern drops we shed in after years.
Burning and salt they are—
But these are milder far,
And though no ray of former hope remain,
Yet with them, memories steal,
I never thought to feel—
And forms I never deemed could rise again.
But these are milder far,
And though no ray of former hope remain,
Yet with them, memories steal,
I never thought to feel—
And forms I never deemed could rise again.
Then gently—gently fall,
And oh! perchance, from all
The tears oft shed like rain from mortal eyes,
Even as from April showers,
That bring the sweet May-flowers,
Some Good shall spring—some blessed Hope shall rise.
And oh! perchance, from all
The tears oft shed like rain from mortal eyes,
Even as from April showers,
That bring the sweet May-flowers,
Some Good shall spring—some blessed Hope shall rise.
147
“A LOCAL HABITATION AND A NAME.”
... “NESCIO QUID NUGARUM.”
[_]
Many years since, there appeared a humorous little piece of Thomas Hood's (I think) which has suggested these lines, and of which they are meant as a continuation. The gems of mirthfulness with which it was interspersed, have mostly escaped my recollection —one of them was a recommendation that infants should all be consigned
“To Lapland or to Brest.”I cannot find the verses in any recent edition of his writings, and for this reason there may be some accidental coincidence of Names —if there is, I am sure that his pleasant shade will forgive the unintentional plagiary.
How happy this ungrateful race,
Since Nature hath assigned
Some 'special and congenial place
To each of all mankind!
Since Nature hath assigned
Some 'special and congenial place
To each of all mankind!
148
In Africa ('tis told by Park
Who had explored it fully)
Our sable brethren long have held
The ancient realm of Woolli.
Who had explored it fully)
Our sable brethren long have held
The ancient realm of Woolli.
To Chippaway let woodmen wend,
Or dwell in Ashantee—
And counsel “learned i' the law” may spend
Their lives in Trikeri.
Or dwell in Ashantee—
And counsel “learned i' the law” may spend
Their lives in Trikeri.
Let wandering folk proceed to Rome,
To scan its classic features,
And view, beneath his proudest dome,
The great Nave of St. Peter's.
To scan its classic features,
And view, beneath his proudest dome,
The great Nave of St. Peter's.
The luckless tradesman's I. O. U.
May be allowed to stand over—
But they, whose bets are falling due,
Must straight proceed to Andover.
May be allowed to stand over—
149
Must straight proceed to Andover.
The beggar's state, full well we know,
Is Hungary or Chili—
And flats and fools of course should go
To Greenland or to Scilly.
Is Hungary or Chili—
And flats and fools of course should go
To Greenland or to Scilly.
The Great, (on “Fortune's cap” high stuck now
May little fear undoing—
Yet some, who deem themselves in Lucknow,
Are on the road to Rouen.
May little fear undoing—
Yet some, who deem themselves in Lucknow,
Are on the road to Rouen.
Let men of anger seek Cape Wrath,
Where they may rave and rant on—
Th' inquisitive to Pekin go
And hypocrites to Canton.
Where they may rave and rant on—
Th' inquisitive to Pekin go
And hypocrites to Canton.
1841.
A promontory of Sunderland—“against its rugged and lofty cliffs,” says Darby, “the tide bursts with an incredible fury.”
151
EFFUSIONS AMATORY AND SENTIMENTAL, MOSTLY JUVENILE.
... “perjuries,
At which Jove laughs.” ...
At which Jove laughs.” ...
“It is worth the labor, saith Plotinus, to consider well of Love, whether it be a god or a divell, or passion of the minde, or partly god, partly divell, partly passion. [OMITTED] Give me leave then (to refresh my muse a little and my weary readers) to expatiate) in this delightsome field, ‘hoc deliciarum campo,” as Fonseca terms it, to season a surly discourse with a more pleasing aspersion of love-matters. [OMITTED] And there be those, without question, that are more willing to reade such toyes, then I am to write.”—
Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy.
“Courroucé! Mais pourquoi faut-il qu'il s'en courrouce?
C'est une chose, helas! si plaisante et si douce!
J' admire quelle joie on goûte à tout cela” ...
L'Ecole des Femmes.
C'est une chose, helas! si plaisante et si douce!
J' admire quelle joie on goûte à tout cela” ...
L'Ecole des Femmes.
“I made regular approaches to her by sonnets and rebusses— sapped her pride with an elegy, and her reserve with an impromptu —proceeding to storm with Pindarics, she spared the further effusion of ink by a Capitulation.”—
Sheridan.153
TO EROS.
Cupid, graceless Wanton! thou
Wast my earliest playfellow.
Well I knew thee, roguish Elf!
When an infant like thyself.
And thou still must needs abide
Clinging wilful to my side.
Wast my earliest playfellow.
Well I knew thee, roguish Elf!
When an infant like thyself.
And thou still must needs abide
Clinging wilful to my side.
Every other frolic mate
Long has grown to man's estate—
Other childish sports have past—
Other toys aside are cast—
One alone could yet remain;
'Tis the vainest of the vain!
Long has grown to man's estate—
Other childish sports have past—
Other toys aside are cast—
One alone could yet remain;
'Tis the vainest of the vain!
Still this fond and foolish heart
Must enact a childish part,
And in Beauty's Presence still
Feel its wonted boyish thrill.
Chide thee—shun thee as I may,
Thou hast ever had thy way.
Many a subtle snare hast laid—
Many a wanton trick hast played.
E'en at Learning's council sage,
Thou hast perched upon the page;
(Latin could not mar thy glee,
Greek was never Greek to thee,)
And when Wisdom should prevail,
Told me many a roguish tale,
Many a scene of vanished Love—
Dicte's cave and Ida's grove,
And the mountain fringed with fir,
And the paths beloved of Her,
Who the sleeping hunter eyed,
Couched on Latmos' shaggy side.
Of each old enchanted spot—
Tyrian mead—Egerian grot—
Each sweet haunt, remembered yet,
Where mortal with Immortal met—
Darksome glen and sunny glade—
And all the pranks that Sylvan played.
Must enact a childish part,
And in Beauty's Presence still
Feel its wonted boyish thrill.
154
Thou hast ever had thy way.
Many a subtle snare hast laid—
Many a wanton trick hast played.
E'en at Learning's council sage,
Thou hast perched upon the page;
(Latin could not mar thy glee,
Greek was never Greek to thee,)
And when Wisdom should prevail,
Told me many a roguish tale,
Many a scene of vanished Love—
Dicte's cave and Ida's grove,
And the mountain fringed with fir,
And the paths beloved of Her,
Who the sleeping hunter eyed,
Couched on Latmos' shaggy side.
Of each old enchanted spot—
Tyrian mead—Egerian grot—
Each sweet haunt, remembered yet,
Where mortal with Immortal met—
Darksome glen and sunny glade—
And all the pranks that Sylvan played.
155
One kind turn I owe thee—one
Kindly office thou hast done.
Ne'er shall I forget the hour,
When thy soft-persuading power
Led my footsteps, roving wide,
To the Sleeping Beauty's side.
Kindly office thou hast done.
Ne'er shall I forget the hour,
When thy soft-persuading power
Led my footsteps, roving wide,
To the Sleeping Beauty's side.
Wearied, like a child with play,
Sweetly slumbering, there she lay.
Half a crime though it might seem
To disturb so sweet a dream—
Yet, with tender, reverent soul,
Softly to her side I stole,
And the only means did take,
Such a slumber e'er should wake.
Sweetly slumbering, there she lay.
Half a crime though it might seem
To disturb so sweet a dream—
Yet, with tender, reverent soul,
Softly to her side I stole,
And the only means did take,
Such a slumber e'er should wake.
Like a half-awakened child,
Gently then she moved and smiled;
With a soft and wondering glance—
Such as Gyneth wore, perchance,
When she oped her lovely eyes
From the sleep of centuries.
Gently then she moved and smiled;
With a soft and wondering glance—
Such as Gyneth wore, perchance,
When she oped her lovely eyes
From the sleep of centuries.
156
PLEASANT DELUSIONS.
Sweet Falsehoods! fare ye well!
That may not longer dwell
In this fond heart, dear paramours of Youth!
A cold, unloving bride
Is ever at my side—
Yet who so pure, so beautiful as Truth?
That may not longer dwell
In this fond heart, dear paramours of Youth!
A cold, unloving bride
Is ever at my side—
Yet who so pure, so beautiful as Truth?
Long hath she sought my side,
And would not be denied,
Till, all perforce, she won my spirit o'er—
And though her glances be
But cold and stern to me,
At every step I love her more and more.
And would not be denied,
Till, all perforce, she won my spirit o'er—
And though her glances be
But cold and stern to me,
At every step I love her more and more.
157
TO M---.
They told me thou wert beautiful—that on thy fair young face,
A poet's wish, a lover's dream might find their resting-place.
And well indeed the bud that bloomed so bright in early Spring,
Bore promise of a fairer flower, that summer suns would bring—
Yet not so sweet in form and hue, all unprofaned by art,
(Though these alone might well suffice to move the coldest heart,)
As that, in goodness—gentleness—and purity alone,
'Tis radiant as the angels' are, before the Eternal Throne.
Long have I cherished Loveliness—yet never knew till now,
How deeply this adoring heart before its shrine could bow.
A poet's wish, a lover's dream might find their resting-place.
And well indeed the bud that bloomed so bright in early Spring,
Bore promise of a fairer flower, that summer suns would bring—
Yet not so sweet in form and hue, all unprofaned by art,
(Though these alone might well suffice to move the coldest heart,)
As that, in goodness—gentleness—and purity alone,
'Tis radiant as the angels' are, before the Eternal Throne.
158
How deeply this adoring heart before its shrine could bow.
And they said thy voice was music—and that I knew full well—
Though years had passed, since on my heart its gentle accents fell!
That voice, to whose endearing tones I listened long before,
And, having heard those accents once, could never lose it more.
'Twas like some old forgotten song, yet once to memory dear—
Some long-lost strain of music, familiar to mine ear.
And as its tones were heard once more, what nameless thoughts were stirred—
What memories from their slumber awoke at every word—
What tender visions once again across Life's desert stole,
And Hopes and Fears, a countless throng, came mingling o'er the soul.
Though years had passed, since on my heart its gentle accents fell!
That voice, to whose endearing tones I listened long before,
And, having heard those accents once, could never lose it more.
'Twas like some old forgotten song, yet once to memory dear—
Some long-lost strain of music, familiar to mine ear.
And as its tones were heard once more, what nameless thoughts were stirred—
What memories from their slumber awoke at every word—
What tender visions once again across Life's desert stole,
And Hopes and Fears, a countless throng, came mingling o'er the soul.
159
And yet I cannot envy him, who ne'er hath felt the same;
Whose heart has thrilled not at the sound of one beloved Name;
Whose pulse hath never quickened at the footstep, or the tone
Of one, whose every hope and thought are dearer than his own:
Or never felt, as now I feel, that all once wildly sought
Has yielded to one gentle hope—one dear entrancing thought:
That one sweet glance of kindness from those dear eyes of light,
Could ransom all the dreary Past, and make the Future bright,
To him whose only happiness,—whose only refuge lies
In the calm soul-lit heaven of those beloved eyes.
Whose heart has thrilled not at the sound of one beloved Name;
Whose pulse hath never quickened at the footstep, or the tone
Of one, whose every hope and thought are dearer than his own:
Or never felt, as now I feel, that all once wildly sought
Has yielded to one gentle hope—one dear entrancing thought:
That one sweet glance of kindness from those dear eyes of light,
Could ransom all the dreary Past, and make the Future bright,
To him whose only happiness,—whose only refuge lies
In the calm soul-lit heaven of those beloved eyes.
160
TO S---.
A stranger came—a stranger met—
They parted, and for aye—
Yet one, perchance, remembers yet
Those moments passed away.
They woke a vision sweet and vain,
He never thought to dream again.
They parted, and for aye—
Yet one, perchance, remembers yet
Those moments passed away.
They woke a vision sweet and vain,
He never thought to dream again.
As yon lone cloud, whose passing shade
Floats on the summer wind—
Soon from the sun-lit heaven shall fade,
And leave no trace behind—
Thus, in the hour that bade them part,
His memory vanished from her heart.
Floats on the summer wind—
Soon from the sun-lit heaven shall fade,
And leave no trace behind—
Thus, in the hour that bade them part,
His memory vanished from her heart.
161
So be it still—the days are past
Of reckless, wild desire;
Yet must he cherish to the last,
And love—what all admire—
And bear, through sunshine and through storm,
That gentle heart, and lovely form.
Of reckless, wild desire;
Yet must he cherish to the last,
And love—what all admire—
And bear, through sunshine and through storm,
That gentle heart, and lovely form.
162
TO ---.
Yes, fondly I believed that Love
Had left his long-forsaken shrine—
Nor deemed that aught again could move
This cold and withered heart of mine.
Had left his long-forsaken shrine—
Nor deemed that aught again could move
This cold and withered heart of mine.
'Tis strange, yet sweet, to feel it beat,
When that light footstep echoes nigh;
Or tremble, if it chance to meet
The magic of that soft blue eye.
When that light footstep echoes nigh;
Or tremble, if it chance to meet
The magic of that soft blue eye.
Long have I searched o'er memory's scroll,
Yet there, in vain, have sought to trace
The record of a gentler soul—
A sweeter form—a lovelier face.
Yet there, in vain, have sought to trace
The record of a gentler soul—
A sweeter form—a lovelier face.
163
And thou, beloved! oft hast deigned
Those calm and radiant eyes to bend,
And those dear lips that never feigned,
To move, in converse with thy friend.
Those calm and radiant eyes to bend,
And those dear lips that never feigned,
To move, in converse with thy friend.
And when his voice to thine replied
In light retort or trifling play,
Hast thought the being at thy side,
Perchance, the gayest of the gay.
In light retort or trifling play,
Hast thought the being at thy side,
Perchance, the gayest of the gay.
Thou little knew'st what words unbreathed
Lay burning at his heart the while—
What wild, impassioned thoughts were wreathed
By the calm mockery of a smile:
Lay burning at his heart the while—
What wild, impassioned thoughts were wreathed
By the calm mockery of a smile:
How, at one look—one accent sweet,
Could thrill with transport every vein—
Or, at a glance, each drop retreat
In anguish, to its source again.
Could thrill with transport every vein—
Or, at a glance, each drop retreat
In anguish, to its source again.
164
Thanks for the kindness, which hath shed
Such hope and sunshine, in its way,
On the lone heart—the erring head,
That oft hath gone so far astray.
Such hope and sunshine, in its way,
On the lone heart—the erring head,
That oft hath gone so far astray.
Yes, oft hath sought an evil mark—
Oft dared an evil path to rove—
Yet never, in its wanderings dark,
Was false to Friendship or to Love.
Oft dared an evil path to rove—
Yet never, in its wanderings dark,
Was false to Friendship or to Love.
'Twill long retain each thought imprest,
Each token treasured up from thine;
Yet may not ask that gentle breast
To share a lot so sad as mine.
Each token treasured up from thine;
Yet may not ask that gentle breast
To share a lot so sad as mine.
165
TO L---.
Those pleasant hours—how quick they fled!
But 'twas a happy day,
And on my soul a light hath shed,
That may not pass away.
But 'twas a happy day,
And on my soul a light hath shed,
That may not pass away.
'Twas sweet to feel the autumn breeze,
That cooled each burning brow—
And hear its music in the trees,
From every murmuring bough.
That cooled each burning brow—
And hear its music in the trees,
From every murmuring bough.
'Twas sweet to hear the wild-birds' lay,
The merry laugh that rung
From hearts as innocent as they—
Those dark old woods among.
The merry laugh that rung
From hearts as innocent as they—
Those dark old woods among.
166
And sweet to see the sunlight warm—
Yet sweeter far to see
The gentle and beloved form
That wandered there with me.
Yet sweeter far to see
The gentle and beloved form
That wandered there with me.
167
TO A---.
Thou art very lovely, thou
Of the calm unshadowed brow,
Soul serene;
In whose happy look I read
Gentle thought and gentle deed—
Angeline.
Of the calm unshadowed brow,
Soul serene;
In whose happy look I read
Gentle thought and gentle deed—
Angeline.
In that merry eye half hid
'Neath its darkly fringéd lid—
Softly seen.
Oh, the witchery that lies
In those sweet and sunny eyes,
Angel een!
'Neath its darkly fringéd lid—
Softly seen.
Oh, the witchery that lies
In those sweet and sunny eyes,
Angel een!
168
With thine image cometh still
Sunny meadow—shady hill—
Forest green—
Where in pleasant task or play,
We might dream our life away,
Angeline.
Sunny meadow—shady hill—
Forest green—
Where in pleasant task or play,
We might dream our life away,
Angeline.
169
TO ---.
Now, by each sunny-flowing curl!
This heart thou deemest cold,
Is thine too truly, little girl!
To let its truth be told.
This heart thou deemest cold,
Is thine too truly, little girl!
To let its truth be told.
For thou would'st crimson like the Dawn,
To hear its fond confessing,
And tremble like a timid fawn,
At Love, and Love's caressing.
To hear its fond confessing,
And tremble like a timid fawn,
At Love, and Love's caressing.
A few short moons will quickly move,
And thou mayst witness then,
How sweet a thing it is to love—
And to be loved again.
And thou mayst witness then,
How sweet a thing it is to love—
And to be loved again.
170
And Alma Venus over thee
Her gentle watch is keeping—
For, nestled in thine eyes, I see
The Baby Cupid sleeping.
Her gentle watch is keeping—
For, nestled in thine eyes, I see
The Baby Cupid sleeping.
171
TO ---.
Ah! cruel-hearted maiden! provoking pretty one!
You little know, (like “Diamond,”) the mischief you have done!
How many hearts you've broken, is more than I can tell,
But that you've played the deuce with one, alas! is known too well.
To every homage Love can pay, insensible you seem—
How can the dark-eyed one “keep dark” on such a tender theme?
Why not consent humanely and graciously to spare
(To ease the poor subscriber's mind) a ringlet of her hair?
You little know, (like “Diamond,”) the mischief you have done!
How many hearts you've broken, is more than I can tell,
But that you've played the deuce with one, alas! is known too well.
To every homage Love can pay, insensible you seem—
How can the dark-eyed one “keep dark” on such a tender theme?
Why not consent humanely and graciously to spare
(To ease the poor subscriber's mind) a ringlet of her hair?
I've many treasures of the sort—aye, something like a score
(As near as I can reckon—perhaps there may be more.)
And some are very beautiful—there's one as black as ink,
Which I have kept on hand at least a dozen years, I think.
There's one as pale as amber, and one as white as snow,
And one that's soft and flaxen—another more like tow.
And one as golden as the crown upon Victoria's head;
Another auburn—or perchance, the least inclined to red.
And here is one—a splendid one—this curl of wavy brown!
'Tis from a head that might have turned the heads of half the town.
(As near as I can reckon—perhaps there may be more.)
172
Which I have kept on hand at least a dozen years, I think.
There's one as pale as amber, and one as white as snow,
And one that's soft and flaxen—another more like tow.
And one as golden as the crown upon Victoria's head;
Another auburn—or perchance, the least inclined to red.
And here is one—a splendid one—this curl of wavy brown!
'Tis from a head that might have turned the heads of half the town.
And thou mayst have them all for one of those dark locks of thine,
That over snowy neck and brow so lovingly entwine.
That over snowy neck and brow so lovingly entwine.
173
TO ---.
Like a fragrant Havana,
Long kept from the light—
Like a cask of choice vintage,
Brought seldom to sight—
Long kept from the light—
Like a cask of choice vintage,
Brought seldom to sight—
Like a monk in his cloister,
A saint in his cell—
Like a York-river oyster
Shut tight in his shell—
A saint in his cell—
Like a York-river oyster
Shut tight in his shell—
Like a toad in a grindstone—
A clam in the sea—
This heart is imprisoned,
Fair maiden, in thee.
A clam in the sea—
This heart is imprisoned,
Fair maiden, in thee.
1838.
176
“WE SHALL NEVER MEET AGAIN.”
We shall never meet again—
From this moment we are twain.
'Tis thy lip the word hath spoken,
'Tis thy hand the chain hath broken.
While the floods of passion rest
Deep within the human breast—
While or Love or Hate remain—
We shall never meet again.
From this moment we are twain.
'Tis thy lip the word hath spoken,
'Tis thy hand the chain hath broken.
While the floods of passion rest
Deep within the human breast—
While or Love or Hate remain—
We shall never meet again.
Shall we meet where yonder sphere
Shines unsullied by a tear:
Where forgetful fountains flow
O'er the depths of mortal woe:
Heart to heart, and hand to hand
In the distant spirit-land?
Something whispers to my brain,
We shall never meet again.
Shines unsullied by a tear:
Where forgetful fountains flow
O'er the depths of mortal woe:
Heart to heart, and hand to hand
In the distant spirit-land?
177
We shall never meet again.
On the mountain dark and rude,
In the desert's solitude,
By the ocean's restless shore,
We are doomed to meet no more.
In the pleasant homes of earth,
By the happy-circled hearth,
Mid the crowded haunts of men,
We shall never meet again.
In the desert's solitude,
By the ocean's restless shore,
We are doomed to meet no more.
In the pleasant homes of earth,
By the happy-circled hearth,
Mid the crowded haunts of men,
We shall never meet again.
In the morn's reviving light—
In the watches of the night—
In the twilight calm and pure—
Weary absence shall endure.
Never in communion sweet,
Shall our parted spirits meet.
And in sadness or in pain,
We shall never meet again.
In the watches of the night—
In the twilight calm and pure—
Weary absence shall endure.
Never in communion sweet,
Shall our parted spirits meet.
And in sadness or in pain,
We shall never meet again.
178
Day on day may heedless roll
O'er the desert of my soul.
And with every joyless year,
Greyer, whiter locks appear.
Yet the memory of the Past
Through each saddened hour shall last.
Hope and grief alike are vain—
We shall never meet again.
O'er the desert of my soul.
And with every joyless year,
Greyer, whiter locks appear.
Yet the memory of the Past
Through each saddened hour shall last.
Hope and grief alike are vain—
We shall never meet again.
1838.
181
FAREWELL TO THE ANTILLES.
One long last look!—the sunset clouds yon lonely island shade,
And from the high and rolling mast I watch it slowly fade.
Soon like a dream 'twill vanish—and ah! what dreams have fled!
What feelings born in olden time are numbered with the dead!
What hopes have shed their sunshine that never more can be!
Since first that bright and sunny shore rose o'er the tropic sea.
And from the high and rolling mast I watch it slowly fade.
Soon like a dream 'twill vanish—and ah! what dreams have fled!
What feelings born in olden time are numbered with the dead!
What hopes have shed their sunshine that never more can be!
Since first that bright and sunny shore rose o'er the tropic sea.
A thousand thoughts are thronging o'er memory's faded track,
A thousand voices of the Past still seem to call me back,
Still dreams are clinging 'round me that now 'twere vain to tell—
Farewell, ye green savannahs!—ye waving palms, farewell!
A thousand voices of the Past still seem to call me back,
182
Farewell, ye green savannahs!—ye waving palms, farewell!
Ye humble hearts and willing hands, that served me long, adieu!
And fare thee well, my bonny steed, so trusty and so true.
Farewell the merry moonlight, that once so sweetly played
On those who roved together 'neath the Faurestina's shade.
Farewell, each kind familiar face—each comrade true and tried!
And thou!—once dearer to my heart than all the world beside!
And fare thee well, my bonny steed, so trusty and so true.
Farewell the merry moonlight, that once so sweetly played
On those who roved together 'neath the Faurestina's shade.
Farewell, each kind familiar face—each comrade true and tried!
And thou!—once dearer to my heart than all the world beside!
How well I loved thou knowest not—and thou wilt never know—
For words are idle when we feel the very heart o'erflow:
And mine henceforth will never be the blessed lot to prove
By truth and tenderness untold, how deeply it could love—
To shield thee, as it fain had done, from every care and strife,
And bear thee like an infant through the troubled paths of Life—
To heighten every joy—to keep each sorrow far away,
And make thy dwelling here one long and happy summer's day.
For words are idle when we feel the very heart o'erflow:
And mine henceforth will never be the blessed lot to prove
By truth and tenderness untold, how deeply it could love—
183
And bear thee like an infant through the troubled paths of Life—
To heighten every joy—to keep each sorrow far away,
And make thy dwelling here one long and happy summer's day.
And hast thou all forgotten those old and pleasant hours,
When hand in hand, and heart to heart, we wandered mid the flowers?
Each look so softly eloquent, though all in silence given,
When thou and I together stood beneath the moon-lit heaven?
But mine was never sought beyond those dark angelic eyes—
Whose radiance would not let me mark the starry Indian skies.
And when their gentle glances met and answered mine again,
What words couldst thou have spoken to make me happier then?
And can it be those happy days, whose memories still entwine
So closely round my heart of hearts, could fade so soon from thine?
The words so fondly spoken were uttered all in vain!
The hands once twined so tenderly shall ne'er be clasped again!
And one who seemed too pure of heart on this cold earth to live,
Has yielded to the common hopes and fears that earth can give!
That thou couldst lay one thought, one wish upon its sordid shrine,
Or the poor offerings of the world could move a soul like thine!
And once I had as soon believed that one of heavenly birth,
Fresh from its native paradise, could thus descend to earth.
When hand in hand, and heart to heart, we wandered mid the flowers?
Each look so softly eloquent, though all in silence given,
When thou and I together stood beneath the moon-lit heaven?
But mine was never sought beyond those dark angelic eyes—
Whose radiance would not let me mark the starry Indian skies.
And when their gentle glances met and answered mine again,
What words couldst thou have spoken to make me happier then?
184
So closely round my heart of hearts, could fade so soon from thine?
The words so fondly spoken were uttered all in vain!
The hands once twined so tenderly shall ne'er be clasped again!
And one who seemed too pure of heart on this cold earth to live,
Has yielded to the common hopes and fears that earth can give!
That thou couldst lay one thought, one wish upon its sordid shrine,
Or the poor offerings of the world could move a soul like thine!
And once I had as soon believed that one of heavenly birth,
Fresh from its native paradise, could thus descend to earth.
[OMITTED]
185
Yet e'en wert thou less pure of soul—less true than once I thought,
(As who can hope to dwell below, and yet offend in nought?)
'Twere sweet, yet sad to know that thou wert not so far above
The being who so wildly sought, though ne'er deserved thy love—
Who still would cheer and soothe thee, alike through good and ill,
And for the sake of her thou wast, would love and trust thee still.
(As who can hope to dwell below, and yet offend in nought?)
'Twere sweet, yet sad to know that thou wert not so far above
The being who so wildly sought, though ne'er deserved thy love—
Who still would cheer and soothe thee, alike through good and ill,
And for the sake of her thou wast, would love and trust thee still.
Farewell! perchance forever—thou wilt be happy yet,—
And I—if aught can ever teach the lesson—to forget.
A task thou hast so lightly learned, that now it well may be
Thou hast forgotten that he lives, who only lived for thee.
And I—if aught can ever teach the lesson—to forget.
A task thou hast so lightly learned, that now it well may be
Thou hast forgotten that he lives, who only lived for thee.
And thou wilt smile as softly, to hear another's tone,
And other hands may clasp the form, that once was all my own.
Another and another heart, in turn, may wear thy chain,—
Yet know!—thou hast been loved as thou wilt ne'er be loved again.
And other hands may clasp the form, that once was all my own.
186
Yet know!—thou hast been loved as thou wilt ne'er be loved again.
'Tis idle, idle parting—yet, fare thee well once more!
Farewell, ye calm unclouded skies! thou ever sunny shore!
The night is darkly closing—the winds are rising free—
And slowly, sadly sinks the sun beneath the western sea.
His last faint beams yet linger—then one by one depart.
A darker and a deeper gloom is gathering o'er my heart.
Farewell, ye calm unclouded skies! thou ever sunny shore!
The night is darkly closing—the winds are rising free—
And slowly, sadly sinks the sun beneath the western sea.
His last faint beams yet linger—then one by one depart.
A darker and a deeper gloom is gathering o'er my heart.
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