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 | Prose sketches and poems, Written in the Western Country |  |
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THE ROBIN.
Hush! where art thou clinging,
And what art thou singing,
Bird of my own native land?
Thy song is as sweet
As a fairy's feet
Stepping on silver sand—
And thou
Art now
As merry as though thou wast singing at home,
Away
In the spray
Of a shower, that tumbles through odorous gloom;
Or as if thou wast hid,
To the tip of thy wing,
By a broad oaken leaf
In its greenness of spring,
And thy nest lurked amid a gray heaven of shade,
Where thy young and thyself from the sunshine were laid.
And what art thou singing,
Bird of my own native land?
Thy song is as sweet
As a fairy's feet
Stepping on silver sand—
And thou
Art now
As merry as though thou wast singing at home,
Away
In the spray
Of a shower, that tumbles through odorous gloom;
Or as if thou wast hid,
To the tip of thy wing,
By a broad oaken leaf
In its greenness of spring,
And thy nest lurked amid a gray heaven of shade,
Where thy young and thyself from the sunshine were laid.
Hush! hush!—Look around thee!
Lo! bleak mountains bound thee,
All barren and gloomy and red;
And a desolate pine
Doth above thee incline,
And gives not a leaf to thy bed—
And lo!
Below
No flowers of beauty and brilliancy blow,
But weeds,
Gray heads,
That mutter and moan when the wind-waves flow:
And the rain never falls
In the season of spring,
To freshen thy heart
And to lighten thy wing;
But thou livest a hermit these deserts among,
And echo alone makes reply to thy song.
Lo! bleak mountains bound thee,
All barren and gloomy and red;
And a desolate pine
Doth above thee incline,
And gives not a leaf to thy bed—
And lo!
Below
No flowers of beauty and brilliancy blow,
But weeds,
Gray heads,
That mutter and moan when the wind-waves flow:
And the rain never falls
In the season of spring,
To freshen thy heart
And to lighten thy wing;
But thou livest a hermit these deserts among,
And echo alone makes reply to thy song.
And while thou art chanting,
With head thus upslanting,
Thou seemest a thought or a vision,
Which flits in its haste
O'er the heart's dreary waste,
With an influence soothing, Elysian—
Or a lone
Sweet tone,
That sounds for a time in the ear of Sorrow;
And soon,
Too soon,
I must leave thee, and bid thee a long good morrow.
But if thou wilt turn
To the South thy wing,
I will meet thee again
E'er the end of spring;
And thy nest can be made where the peach and the vine
Shall shade thee, and leaf and tendril entwine.
With head thus upslanting,
Thou seemest a thought or a vision,
Which flits in its haste
O'er the heart's dreary waste,
82
Or a lone
Sweet tone,
That sounds for a time in the ear of Sorrow;
And soon,
Too soon,
I must leave thee, and bid thee a long good morrow.
But if thou wilt turn
To the South thy wing,
I will meet thee again
E'er the end of spring;
And thy nest can be made where the peach and the vine
Shall shade thee, and leaf and tendril entwine.
Oh! thou art a stranger,
And darer of danger,
That over these mountains hast flown,
And the land of the North
Is the clime of thy birth,
And here thou, like me, art alone.
Go back
On thy track;
It were wiser and better for thee and me,
Than to moan
Alone,
So far from the waves of our own bright sea:
And the eyes that we left
To grow dim months ago,
Will greet us again
With their idolized glow.
Let us go—let us go—and revisit our home,
Where the oak leaves are green and the sea-waters foam.
And darer of danger,
That over these mountains hast flown,
And the land of the North
Is the clime of thy birth,
And here thou, like me, art alone.
Go back
On thy track;
It were wiser and better for thee and me,
Than to moan
Alone,
So far from the waves of our own bright sea:
And the eyes that we left
To grow dim months ago,
Will greet us again
With their idolized glow.
Let us go—let us go—and revisit our home,
Where the oak leaves are green and the sea-waters foam.
Valley of Tisuqui, March 20, 1832.
LINES
The sun is dull, the mist amid,
That like a grief is shading him;
And though the mountain be not hid,
His distant blue is shining dim,
And marking with its outline deep
The paler blue that bends above.
The winds have fanned themselves to sleep,
And scarcely now their soft wings move,
With an unquiet slumberous motion,
Watched by the pale and flitting noon,
The wanderer of earth and ocean,
Whose stay all men desire, but none obtain the boon.
That like a grief is shading him;
And though the mountain be not hid,
His distant blue is shining dim,
And marking with its outline deep
The paler blue that bends above.
The winds have fanned themselves to sleep,
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With an unquiet slumberous motion,
Watched by the pale and flitting noon,
The wanderer of earth and ocean,
Whose stay all men desire, but none obtain the boon.
It is the hour of deepest thought,
When noise hath all a slumberous tone,
A dream-like indistinctness, fraught
With all which makes man feel alone.
It may be in the hour and time—
It may be only in the heart—
The cause that from the soul's abyme
Makes Time's old images to start;
When all that we have lost, or left,
Or loved, or worshipped, at our youth,
Comes up like an unwelcome gift,
With all the sad and stern reality of truth.
When noise hath all a slumberous tone,
A dream-like indistinctness, fraught
With all which makes man feel alone.
It may be in the hour and time—
It may be only in the heart—
The cause that from the soul's abyme
Makes Time's old images to start;
When all that we have lost, or left,
Or loved, or worshipped, at our youth,
Comes up like an unwelcome gift,
With all the sad and stern reality of truth.
The stormy image of the past
Upon me at this time doth rise;
And, gazing in the distant vast,
Dim shapes I see with saddened eyes,
Like those that I have known before,
Yet altered, as I too have changed,
And some that near my heart I wore,
And some whose insults I avenged.
Ah yes! I know that sad, fair face—
Thy matchless form—thy witchery—
Thy step of air—thy winning grace!
Ah yes! I see thee in the dim obscurity.
Upon me at this time doth rise;
And, gazing in the distant vast,
Dim shapes I see with saddened eyes,
Like those that I have known before,
Yet altered, as I too have changed,
And some that near my heart I wore,
And some whose insults I avenged.
Ah yes! I know that sad, fair face—
Thy matchless form—thy witchery—
Thy step of air—thy winning grace!
Ah yes! I see thee in the dim obscurity.
My grief has now become as still
As is the sunlight or this wind;
And yet it knoweth well to fill,
With shapes like these, the gazing mind:
And Memory yields not yet her power—
Not yet her serpent sting will die;
Life is compressed into one hour—
A moment—by her searching eye:
And then a little fiend sits near,
And chatters of the lost and dead,
And hearts for woe grown chill and sere,
And points to Friendship's grave, as I his blood had shed.
As is the sunlight or this wind;
And yet it knoweth well to fill,
With shapes like these, the gazing mind:
And Memory yields not yet her power—
Not yet her serpent sting will die;
Life is compressed into one hour—
A moment—by her searching eye:
And then a little fiend sits near,
And chatters of the lost and dead,
And hearts for woe grown chill and sere,
And points to Friendship's grave, as I his blood had shed.
And Fancy—Memory's sister—weaves
No golden web of hope for me;
Or if she smile, she still deceives
With all a wanton's mockery.
She paints to me a fireless hearth,
Or, worse than any other sting
We feel upon the lonely earth,
Cold hearts, and colder welcoming;
Friends wasted by life's ebbing tide,
Like sands along the shifting coasts;
The soul's best love another's bride;
And other worldless thoughts that haunt like unformed ghosts.
No golden web of hope for me;
Or if she smile, she still deceives
With all a wanton's mockery.
She paints to me a fireless hearth,
84
We feel upon the lonely earth,
Cold hearts, and colder welcoming;
Friends wasted by life's ebbing tide,
Like sands along the shifting coasts;
The soul's best love another's bride;
And other worldless thoughts that haunt like unformed ghosts.
Well, I have chosen my own long path,
And I will walk it to the death,
Though Love's lone grief, or Hatred's wrath,
My way and purpose hindereth.
It may be, when this heart is cold,
And it were vain to love or hate—
When all that malice knows is told,
Some better name may on me wait;
And as the misty mountain mane
Doth not forever shade its blue,
The gloom on me may not remain,
When life, and love, and hope, have nought with me to do.
And I will walk it to the death,
Though Love's lone grief, or Hatred's wrath,
My way and purpose hindereth.
It may be, when this heart is cold,
And it were vain to love or hate—
When all that malice knows is told,
Some better name may on me wait;
And as the misty mountain mane
Doth not forever shade its blue,
The gloom on me may not remain,
When life, and love, and hope, have nought with me to do.
AGAPOU PNEUMA.
Thou must have altered in the two long years
Which thou hast passed since I beheld thee, Ann!
For then thou wast just budding into life,
And Hopes, with fiery eyes, thy heart did fan,
And gray Grief's tears
Had not assailed thee. Thou wast very rife
With budding beauty, which is now full blown
In all the sunny spring of womanhood.
Thy spirit shone
Like an etherial angel's in thy face:
There was a proud and an impassioned tone
Within thy voice, that breathed from off the soul
A strong enchantment on a heart like mine.
Thou wast a glorious being in thy bud;
But in thy blossom, thou must be divine.
Oh! I can fancy thee in all thy power,
In all thy beauty and magnificence;
Thine eyes so beautiful, and so intense,
Raining into the heart their starry shower;
Thy raven hair shining above a brow
Replete with Italy and with divinity;
Thy form so slight, so very delicate,
Yet swelling proudly with thy uncontrolled
And uncontrollable spirit. Oh! how cold
Seems beauty to me, when I think on thee,
Thou beautiful and bright and fiery star!
And I afar
Bow down before thee, though I have no hope
To win or wear thee near my withered heart.
Which thou hast passed since I beheld thee, Ann!
For then thou wast just budding into life,
And Hopes, with fiery eyes, thy heart did fan,
And gray Grief's tears
Had not assailed thee. Thou wast very rife
With budding beauty, which is now full blown
In all the sunny spring of womanhood.
Thy spirit shone
Like an etherial angel's in thy face:
There was a proud and an impassioned tone
Within thy voice, that breathed from off the soul
A strong enchantment on a heart like mine.
Thou wast a glorious being in thy bud;
But in thy blossom, thou must be divine.
Oh! I can fancy thee in all thy power,
In all thy beauty and magnificence;
Thine eyes so beautiful, and so intense,
Raining into the heart their starry shower;
Thy raven hair shining above a brow
Replete with Italy and with divinity;
Thy form so slight, so very delicate,
Yet swelling proudly with thy uncontrolled
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Seems beauty to me, when I think on thee,
Thou beautiful and bright and fiery star!
And I afar
Bow down before thee, though I have no hope
To win or wear thee near my withered heart.
Thou wast too full of uncontrolled romance,
Too full of Poetry's impassioned trance,
Too full of soul, to live amid the world.
Thy body to thy soul was like a cloud,
In which the silver arrows of the sun
Stay not, but pass wherever they are hurled;
'T was like the clear transparent element,
That shows the emerald beneath it pent,
Nor robs one ray. Thy soul breathed in thy face,
And lay upon it like a visible mist.
Thou wast not fit for life's realities;
The world all seemed too fair unto thine eyes;
Thou wast too full of hope, and faith, and trust—
And art, perhaps, ere this, most undeceived.
Thy heavenly eyes, perhaps, have been, and are,
Dim with the dew which wastes away the heart—
And such a heart! Oh! it is sad to think
That all the richer feelings of the soul
Are but its torment; that the lustrous star
Which shines the brightest, soonest wastes away;
Yea—that the gifted soul, that will, must drink
Of poetry, romance, and glowing love,
Kindles a fire that must consume itself!
And thou wilt be unhappy. Never one
Was gifted with thy fervid, trusting soul,
And went through life unscathed and sorrowless.
And thou and I, too, soon will reach our goal.
The world, which ought thy glorious spirit to bless,
Will chill thee, Ann! and make thy heart grow cold;
And thou wilt never, save in grief, be old.
This, this it is, which makes me love thee. I
Feel that there is between my soul and thine
A sympathy of feeling and of fate,
Which binds me to thee with a deathless tie.
Time has already seen my heart decay,
Where Death has trod. Yet, though it wastes away,
Daily and nightly, still the core is left,
And burns for thee with all its former fire;
There is concentred all.
Too full of Poetry's impassioned trance,
Too full of soul, to live amid the world.
Thy body to thy soul was like a cloud,
In which the silver arrows of the sun
Stay not, but pass wherever they are hurled;
'T was like the clear transparent element,
That shows the emerald beneath it pent,
Nor robs one ray. Thy soul breathed in thy face,
And lay upon it like a visible mist.
Thou wast not fit for life's realities;
The world all seemed too fair unto thine eyes;
Thou wast too full of hope, and faith, and trust—
And art, perhaps, ere this, most undeceived.
Thy heavenly eyes, perhaps, have been, and are,
Dim with the dew which wastes away the heart—
And such a heart! Oh! it is sad to think
That all the richer feelings of the soul
Are but its torment; that the lustrous star
Which shines the brightest, soonest wastes away;
Yea—that the gifted soul, that will, must drink
Of poetry, romance, and glowing love,
Kindles a fire that must consume itself!
And thou wilt be unhappy. Never one
Was gifted with thy fervid, trusting soul,
And went through life unscathed and sorrowless.
And thou and I, too, soon will reach our goal.
The world, which ought thy glorious spirit to bless,
Will chill thee, Ann! and make thy heart grow cold;
And thou wilt never, save in grief, be old.
This, this it is, which makes me love thee. I
Feel that there is between my soul and thine
A sympathy of feeling and of fate,
Which binds me to thee with a deathless tie.
Time has already seen my heart decay,
Where Death has trod. Yet, though it wastes away,
Daily and nightly, still the core is left,
And burns for thee with all its former fire;
There is concentred all.
I would to God
Thou couldst be mine, Ann! for the few short years
Left me to live; that when my death was nigh,
Thou mights be near me with thy glorious eyes,
Shining like stars into my waning soul—
Thy arms be wreathed around my neck—thy lip
Pressed to my throbbing brow—thy voice
Hushing Despair, and that unconquered fiend,
Ambition—till it were
No pain to die, and breathe upon the wind
My last low gasp. Methinks if thou wast mine,
I might forget the world, and wo, and care,
And let them wreak their worst on me: perhaps,
My heart might be too strong for them to crush:
It may not be.
My fate is fixed. I ask the world a boon,
I cannot, will not, Ann, demand of thee:
Henceforth I pray the world that it forget
That I have lived.
Thou couldst be mine, Ann! for the few short years
Left me to live; that when my death was nigh,
Thou mights be near me with thy glorious eyes,
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Thy arms be wreathed around my neck—thy lip
Pressed to my throbbing brow—thy voice
Hushing Despair, and that unconquered fiend,
Ambition—till it were
No pain to die, and breathe upon the wind
My last low gasp. Methinks if thou wast mine,
I might forget the world, and wo, and care,
And let them wreak their worst on me: perhaps,
My heart might be too strong for them to crush:
It may not be.
My fate is fixed. I ask the world a boon,
I cannot, will not, Ann, demand of thee:
Henceforth I pray the world that it forget
That I have lived.
All that I now have left,
Is death and my own wo; and I will die,
Unknown, unnamed. The world shall not be nigh,
To mark the quivering lip—the stopping heart—
The closing eye—the fingers clenched in Death—
The last low moan, when with the parting shiver,
I murmur, Ann.
Is death and my own wo; and I will die,
Unknown, unnamed. The world shall not be nigh,
To mark the quivering lip—the stopping heart—
The closing eye—the fingers clenched in Death—
The last low moan, when with the parting shiver,
I murmur, Ann.
Arkansas Territory, 10th March, 1832.
THE FALL OF POLAND.
She hath sunken again into Slavery's tomb,
Like a thunderbolt quenching itself in the sea;
And deeply and darkly is written her doom—
‘Her existence is done—she can never be free.’
Like a thunderbolt quenching itself in the sea;
And deeply and darkly is written her doom—
‘Her existence is done—she can never be free.’
From the darkness that shrouded her tomb she arose,
And, throwing her cerements of bondage aside,
She flung her defiance and scorn at her foes,
And her banner was spread, as of old, in its pride.
And, throwing her cerements of bondage aside,
She flung her defiance and scorn at her foes,
And her banner was spread, as of old, in its pride.
'T was the contest of right against all that was wrong;
'T was the strife of the brave for their life and their laws;
And every soul, to whose pulse did belong
One throb of nobility, prayed for her cause.
'T was the strife of the brave for their life and their laws;
And every soul, to whose pulse did belong
One throb of nobility, prayed for her cause.
It grew like a stream in the rains of the spring,
Or the clouds of the thunder that rise in the west;
And wide and more wide, as the unfolding wing
Of an eagle, that springs from the hill of his rest;
Or the clouds of the thunder that rise in the west;
87
Of an eagle, that springs from the hill of his rest;
Till there was not a heart, through which rushed the red blood
Of a Polack, that did not bound into her ranks;
Till all hands were united; till like the spring flood
Of a river she moved, overflowing its banks.
Of a Polack, that did not bound into her ranks;
Till all hands were united; till like the spring flood
Of a river she moved, overflowing its banks.
Then above her the old banner waved in the air,
Over city and plain, as had once been its wont;
And the souls of her mighty departed were there,
Like the shadows of gods leading on in the front.
Over city and plain, as had once been its wont;
And the souls of her mighty departed were there,
Like the shadows of gods leading on in the front.
But the fetters are bound on her limbs once again,
And red hot, as they clasp them, are quenched in her gore;
And down on her soul thunders misery's rain,
While the blackness of tyranny shadows her o'er.
And red hot, as they clasp them, are quenched in her gore;
And down on her soul thunders misery's rain,
While the blackness of tyranny shadows her o'er.
Oh! shame on ye, once again, sons of the Gaul!
Ye had just become free, and ye might have been great;
Yet ye suffered the noblest of nations to fall,
And lie bleeding and tortured once more at the gate
Ye had just become free, and ye might have been great;
Yet ye suffered the noblest of nations to fall,
And lie bleeding and tortured once more at the gate
Of the Wolf of the North, who, with fangs bloody red,
Yet mangles the corse of the stag he has slain;
Oh shame on your souls!—ye had better be dead,
Than defiled as ye are, by this cowardly stain:
Yet mangles the corse of the stag he has slain;
Oh shame on your souls!—ye had better be dead,
Than defiled as ye are, by this cowardly stain:
When a word from your mouth, like the thunderbolt's flame,
Would have sent back the Wolf to his haunt in the snow,
And rendered the hater of Freedom as tame
As the worst of his serfs, that lies crouching and low;
Would have sent back the Wolf to his haunt in the snow,
And rendered the hater of Freedom as tame
As the worst of his serfs, that lies crouching and low;
When you might have been held like the gods of the world,
And your memory kept in its worship and love;
When, had you the shaft of defiance but hurled,
The thunder of God would have helped from above;
And your memory kept in its worship and love;
When, had you the shaft of defiance but hurled,
The thunder of God would have helped from above;
That then ye should stand like base cowards aloof,
While the blood of the brave spouted out of their veins;
While their fabric of freedom was shattered—its roof
Tumbled into the dust by war's tempest and rains.
While the blood of the brave spouted out of their veins;
While their fabric of freedom was shattered—its roof
Tumbled into the dust by war's tempest and rains.
Live on, then, foul slaves! Let your citizen king
Bind your hearts with the chains which ye unto him flung;
But this deed shall, a halo of shame, round ye cling,
Which shall never be lost while the world has a tongue.
Bind your hearts with the chains which ye unto him flung;
But this deed shall, a halo of shame, round ye cling,
Which shall never be lost while the world has a tongue.
February 1, 1832.
88
SONNET.
She is not beautiful—but in her eyesNo common spirit shadows forth itself;
So mild, so quiet, so serenely wise,
Yet merry, as of any dainty elf
That dances on the turf by star-lit skies.
And such a friend she is—so good and true—
So free from envy, scorn, or prejudice;
She is as constant as high heaven is blue;
She seems like some most gentle, lustrous star,
Which men will love, because it dazzles not.
And though I wear away my life afar,
Still, in this mountainous and savage spot,
I think of her, as one who soothed my care,
And did her best to keep me from despair.
Valley of the Picuris, September 2, 1832.
90
ON THE LOSS OF A SISTER.
And thou, too, O my Sister! thou art dead:
And desolation once again has sped
His fiery arrow at the lonely heart.
Thus one by one from me, alas! depart
The images that, in the memory stored,
I count and view, as misers do their hoard;
They that along the wide waste of existence,
Have been, and are, the gentle spirits, whence
I gather strength to struggle on with life.
And desolation once again has sped
His fiery arrow at the lonely heart.
Thus one by one from me, alas! depart
The images that, in the memory stored,
I count and view, as misers do their hoard;
They that along the wide waste of existence,
Have been, and are, the gentle spirits, whence
I gather strength to struggle on with life.
The first fierce sudden stroke the heart that crushed—
The first wild feelings through the brain that rushed—
Are gone, and grief hath now become more mild;
And I have wept as though I were a child—
I, who had thought my heart contained no tear.
And I have but returned from deserts drear—
Prairie, and snow, and mountain eminent,
At my first step upon my father-land,
To feel the snapping of another band,
Of those that bind me slightly to the world.
And thou! whose rainbow spirit now hath furled
Its wings, and gone to quiet sleep within
The dimness of the grave—amid the din
Of calumny which rose around my name,
When I left foes the guardians of my fame—
Amid the sneer, the smile, the slander rank,
Thy love, thy confidence, thy faith ne'er shrank.
Yea, when I tore asunder the few ties
Which bound me tot he land of sunny eyes,
And broke the bands I could no longer bear,
Of poverty, enthralment, toil and care;
When love, and hope, and joy were changed to dreams
And fantasies, that, with their starry gleams,
Like things of memory, come upon the soul;
Then, then, my sister! did the big tear roll
Down thy pale cheek for me, thy only brother.
Thy love hath been like that of my dear mother;
And it hath fed my heart with gentle dew,
And on my shadowed soul its soothing hue
Lay like the sunlight on a broken flower.
Yea, in the darkness of full many an hour,
When I have climbed above surpassing mountains,
Where from the deathless snows break out cold fountains;
When storm hath beat upon me; when my head
Hath made the ground, the rock, the snow, its bed;
And I have watched cold stars career above—
Then, then my comforter hath been thy love.
When I have felt most sad and most alone;
When I have walked in multitudes unknown,
With none that I could greet for olden time,
Or in those silent solitudes sublime,
Where even echo shuns the loneliness,
And ceases with abundant voice to bless;
When I have thought that I was all forgot
By ancient friends—or if in one lone spot
Within the heart I still was kept in mind,
It was as one disgraced, deluded, blind;
Then, more than ever, then, in the intense
And overpowering wo, thy confidence,
Thy faith, and love, my comforters have been,
And weaned me from myself and from my spleen.
For friends—but I reproach them not, nor heed them now—
What there is left of life, with changeless brow,
And with unquailing heart, I can perform—
Front the world's frown, and dare its wildest storm,
Live out my day, and fall into my grave,
Nor even then the help of friendship crave,
To hide my bones.
And yet—hush, heart! tell not thy weakness; let
False friends not know that thou hast ever wet
My eyelids with a tear for their neglect.
Why do I speak here of myself? Oh! grief
Is egotistical—and finds relief
In sad reflection, even on itself.
Well, thou art dead; and thou didst for me plead,
In all the fervent spirit of thy creed;
And happily didst sink to thy last sleep,
Trusting to rise at sounding of the deep
And awful angel-trumpet. Be it so;
For me, I have yet more of life to go.
Perhaps, ere death shall close my quenched eyes,
I yet may sleep beneath my well-known skies—
Weep o'er the graves that my affections hoard,
Veiling the eyes and hearts I have adored;
And if, perchance, some one or two are left,
Sire, mother, sisters, take them to my heart,
Shield them, defend them, that when I shall die,
Some one above the wanderer's grave may sigh.
The first wild feelings through the brain that rushed—
Are gone, and grief hath now become more mild;
And I have wept as though I were a child—
I, who had thought my heart contained no tear.
And I have but returned from deserts drear—
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At my first step upon my father-land,
To feel the snapping of another band,
Of those that bind me slightly to the world.
And thou! whose rainbow spirit now hath furled
Its wings, and gone to quiet sleep within
The dimness of the grave—amid the din
Of calumny which rose around my name,
When I left foes the guardians of my fame—
Amid the sneer, the smile, the slander rank,
Thy love, thy confidence, thy faith ne'er shrank.
Yea, when I tore asunder the few ties
Which bound me tot he land of sunny eyes,
And broke the bands I could no longer bear,
Of poverty, enthralment, toil and care;
When love, and hope, and joy were changed to dreams
And fantasies, that, with their starry gleams,
Like things of memory, come upon the soul;
Then, then, my sister! did the big tear roll
Down thy pale cheek for me, thy only brother.
Thy love hath been like that of my dear mother;
And it hath fed my heart with gentle dew,
And on my shadowed soul its soothing hue
Lay like the sunlight on a broken flower.
Yea, in the darkness of full many an hour,
When I have climbed above surpassing mountains,
Where from the deathless snows break out cold fountains;
When storm hath beat upon me; when my head
Hath made the ground, the rock, the snow, its bed;
And I have watched cold stars career above—
Then, then my comforter hath been thy love.
When I have felt most sad and most alone;
When I have walked in multitudes unknown,
With none that I could greet for olden time,
Or in those silent solitudes sublime,
Where even echo shuns the loneliness,
And ceases with abundant voice to bless;
When I have thought that I was all forgot
By ancient friends—or if in one lone spot
Within the heart I still was kept in mind,
It was as one disgraced, deluded, blind;
Then, more than ever, then, in the intense
And overpowering wo, thy confidence,
Thy faith, and love, my comforters have been,
And weaned me from myself and from my spleen.
For friends—but I reproach them not, nor heed them now—
What there is left of life, with changeless brow,
And with unquailing heart, I can perform—
Front the world's frown, and dare its wildest storm,
Live out my day, and fall into my grave,
Nor even then the help of friendship crave,
To hide my bones.
92
False friends not know that thou hast ever wet
My eyelids with a tear for their neglect.
Why do I speak here of myself? Oh! grief
Is egotistical—and finds relief
In sad reflection, even on itself.
Well, thou art dead; and thou didst for me plead,
In all the fervent spirit of thy creed;
And happily didst sink to thy last sleep,
Trusting to rise at sounding of the deep
And awful angel-trumpet. Be it so;
For me, I have yet more of life to go.
Perhaps, ere death shall close my quenched eyes,
I yet may sleep beneath my well-known skies—
Weep o'er the graves that my affections hoard,
Veiling the eyes and hearts I have adored;
And if, perchance, some one or two are left,
Sire, mother, sisters, take them to my heart,
Shield them, defend them, that when I shall die,
Some one above the wanderer's grave may sigh.
Arkansas Territory, Jan. 12, 1833.
TO A---.
These lines are to thee; and they come from a heart,
Which hath never to thee spoken aught but the truth,
And which fain would, ere life from its fountains depart,
Speak to thee of the sorrows which clouded its youth.
Which hath never to thee spoken aught but the truth,
And which fain would, ere life from its fountains depart,
Speak to thee of the sorrows which clouded its youth.
And think not 't is only to show a fair rhyme,
Or a glittering thought to the eye of the world;
Oh no! 't is a motive more purely sublime;
My wings of ambition forever are furled.
Or a glittering thought to the eye of the world;
Oh no! 't is a motive more purely sublime;
My wings of ambition forever are furled.
'T is my love, my devotion, which will find a tongue,
And utter its thoughts before life and I sever;
'T is the heart which was bruised, and then wantonly flung
On the shore of life's sea, to be trampled forever.
And utter its thoughts before life and I sever;
'T is the heart which was bruised, and then wantonly flung
On the shore of life's sea, to be trampled forever.
For its words, and its thoughts, and its feelings have been
Misconceived, misconstrued, and traduced for long years;
And 't would fain, from the general calumny, win
One heart, that might water its grave-sod with tears.
Misconceived, misconstrued, and traduced for long years;
And 't would fain, from the general calumny, win
One heart, that might water its grave-sod with tears.
93
For the world, I defy it and dare it; it hath
No power, no terror, no lash, over me;
I ask not the light of its smile in my path,
And its pity or frown might as well urge the sea.
No power, no terror, no lash, over me;
I ask not the light of its smile in my path,
And its pity or frown might as well urge the sea.
I owe it, and ask it no favor; full well
I have proven its friendship, its mercy, its love;
But thou hast upon me a charm and a spell,
That through life and in death will be able to move.
I have proven its friendship, its mercy, its love;
But thou hast upon me a charm and a spell,
That through life and in death will be able to move.
I would show that the heart which the world hath reviled,
Whose passions have been like the waves of the sea,
Whate'er it hath been—how ungoverned and wild—
Hath been constantly true in devotion to thee.
Whose passions have been like the waves of the sea,
Whate'er it hath been—how ungoverned and wild—
Hath been constantly true in devotion to thee.
That devotion to thee, love, hath never been told:
Perhaps 't was unnoticed; the feeling most deep
Has the semblance of something unfeeling and cold;
The grief most o'erwhelming but seldom can weep.
Perhaps 't was unnoticed; the feeling most deep
Has the semblance of something unfeeling and cold;
The grief most o'erwhelming but seldom can weep.
And readier tongues spake their tale in thine ear,
And told thee their love with full many a sigh:
Perhaps thou wast dazzled by that and the tear,
And read not my love in the heart and the eye.
And told thee their love with full many a sigh:
Perhaps thou wast dazzled by that and the tear,
And read not my love in the heart and the eye.
I told not my love—it were cruel to ask
One like thee, with misfortune and sorrow to wed,
To wear away life as an incessant task,
And pillow on Poverty's bosom thy head—
One like thee, with misfortune and sorrow to wed,
To wear away life as an incessant task,
And pillow on Poverty's bosom thy head—
Till I turned from the green and the delicate lanes
Of home, love and joy, which were darkened with gloom,
And shivered, unflinching, the multiplied chains,
Which are woven round all when the heart is in bloom.
Of home, love and joy, which were darkened with gloom,
And shivered, unflinching, the multiplied chains,
Which are woven round all when the heart is in bloom.
Since then, day by day, my lone heart hath decayed,
With a slow, but a certain, and deadly decline;
O'er its waste and its wilderness riseth no blade,
Which may say with its greenness—‘Wo! all is not thine.’
With a slow, but a certain, and deadly decline;
O'er its waste and its wilderness riseth no blade,
Which may say with its greenness—‘Wo! all is not thine.’
And though I must die ere my deity sphere
Be revealed from the storm which holds heaven at will,
I must turn to the place where it ought to appear,
And worship its light till my pulses be still.
Be revealed from the storm which holds heaven at will,
I must turn to the place where it ought to appear,
And worship its light till my pulses be still.
It may be that I am to live till my cup
Of affliction be filled and o'erflow at the brim;
Till the mist and the blood from the heart shall rise up,
When its last hope is gone—its last vision is dim;
Of affliction be filled and o'erflow at the brim;
Till the mist and the blood from the heart shall rise up,
When its last hope is gone—its last vision is dim;
94
Till thou hast become, in thy beauty, the bride
Of some other less wild, and less passionate lover;
Then the beacon is merged in the hungering tide—
Then the heart hath been crushed, and its struggle is over.
Of some other less wild, and less passionate lover;
Then the beacon is merged in the hungering tide—
Then the heart hath been crushed, and its struggle is over.
Arkansas Territory, Feb. 12, 1833.
SIMILES, IN TWO SONNETS.
Above me are the dazzling snows; around
The mountains bend, high, rocky and eterne;
Anear the rattling rivulet doth sound,
And far below, it hath the bosom found
Of a bright lake, that seemeth not to spurn
One ray of sunlight from its gentle presence,
But doth embody all, and seemeth changed
To sheeted light by Sol's etherial essence.
O silver star! for whom doth ever burn
The altar of my soul's idolatry!
Let thy bright arrows sink into the sea
Of my sad soul, until it gently calm;
And though thou canst but people a lone dream,
Oh soothe me like an angel's silver palm.
The mountains bend, high, rocky and eterne;
Anear the rattling rivulet doth sound,
And far below, it hath the bosom found
Of a bright lake, that seemeth not to spurn
One ray of sunlight from its gentle presence,
But doth embody all, and seemeth changed
To sheeted light by Sol's etherial essence.
O silver star! for whom doth ever burn
The altar of my soul's idolatry!
Let thy bright arrows sink into the sea
Of my sad soul, until it gently calm;
And though thou canst but people a lone dream,
Oh soothe me like an angel's silver palm.
And close beyond, the mountains gray upstream,
Like cloudy shades, into the upper air.
Perpetual watchers do the giants seem
Of the lake's quiet. Lo! their heads are bare
Beneath God's presence, which is mighty there,
In the etherial, keen, thin element.
A floating cloud hath down from heaven bent,
And on the hill-side feeds the springing leaves,
And into water-drops its soul doth weave,
Feeding the streams. O lady of my love!
Be thou, though absent, like the silver cloud,
Over my soul. Oh may thy spirit move,
Feeding its dark and parched wilderness!
And once, or ere I die, touch, transport, bless!
Like cloudy shades, into the upper air.
Perpetual watchers do the giants seem
Of the lake's quiet. Lo! their heads are bare
Beneath God's presence, which is mighty there,
In the etherial, keen, thin element.
A floating cloud hath down from heaven bent,
And on the hill-side feeds the springing leaves,
And into water-drops its soul doth weave,
Feeding the streams. O lady of my love!
Be thou, though absent, like the silver cloud,
Over my soul. Oh may thy spirit move,
Feeding its dark and parched wilderness!
And once, or ere I die, touch, transport, bless!
Mountains of Xemes, April 15, 1832.
130
WAR SONG OF THE COMANCHES.
Oh, who with the sons of the plain can compete,
When from west, south and north like the torrents they meet?
And when doth the face of the white trader blanche,
Except when at moon rise he hears the Comanche?
When from west, south and north like the torrents they meet?
And when doth the face of the white trader blanche,
Except when at moon rise he hears the Comanche?
Will you speak in our lodge of a bold Caiawah?
He is brave, but it is when our braves are afar;
Will you talk of the gun of the Arapeho?
Go—first see the arrow spring off from our bow.
He is brave, but it is when our braves are afar;
Will you talk of the gun of the Arapeho?
Go—first see the arrow spring off from our bow.
The white wolf goes with us wherever we ride;
For food there is plenty on every side;
And Mexican bones he has plenty to cranch,
When he follows the troop of the flying Comanche.
For food there is plenty on every side;
And Mexican bones he has plenty to cranch,
When he follows the troop of the flying Comanche.
The Toyah exults in his spear and his shield,
And the Wequah—but both have we taught how to yield;
And the Panana horses our women now ride,
While their scalps in our lodges are hung side by side.
And the Wequah—but both have we taught how to yield;
And the Panana horses our women now ride,
While their scalps in our lodges are hung side by side.
Let the Wawsashy boast; he will run like a deer,
When afar on the prairie our women appear;
The shaven scalps hang, in each lodge three or four—
We will count then again, and ere long there'll be more.
When afar on the prairie our women appear;
The shaven scalps hang, in each lodge three or four—
We will count then again, and ere long there'll be more.
The Gromonts came down—'tis three summers ago—
To look for our scalps and to hunt buffalo;
But they turned to the mountains their faces again,
And the trace of their lodges is washed out by rain.
To look for our scalps and to hunt buffalo;
But they turned to the mountains their faces again,
And the trace of their lodges is washed out by rain.
The Spirit above never sends us his curse,
And the buffalo never gets angry with us;
We are strong as the storm—we are free as the breeze;
And we laugh at the power of the pale Ikanese.
And the buffalo never gets angry with us;
We are strong as the storm—we are free as the breeze;
And we laugh at the power of the pale Ikanese.
Let them come with the pipe; we will tread it to dust,
And the arrow of war shall ne'er moulder with rust:
Let them come with their hosts; to the desert we'll flee,
And the drought and the famine our helpers shall be.
And the arrow of war shall ne'er moulder with rust:
Let them come with their hosts; to the desert we'll flee,
And the drought and the famine our helpers shall be.
131
The mountain Shoshones have hearts big and strong;
Our brothers they are, and they speak the same tongue:
And let them in battle but stand by our side,
And we scorn Ikanese and black Spaniard allied.
Our brothers they are, and they speak the same tongue:
And let them in battle but stand by our side,
And we scorn Ikanese and black Spaniard allied.
Oo-oo-ha! Come out from the Brazos Cañon!
Let us range to the head of the salt Semaron!
For our horses are swift, and there 's hair to be won,
When the Ikanese waggons their track are upon.
Let us range to the head of the salt Semaron!
For our horses are swift, and there 's hair to be won,
When the Ikanese waggons their track are upon.
SONG OF THE NABAJO
Who rideth so fast as a fleet Nabajo?
Whose arm is so strong with the lance and the bow?
His arrow in battle as lightning is swift;
His march is the course of the mountainous drift.
Whose arm is so strong with the lance and the bow?
His arrow in battle as lightning is swift;
His march is the course of the mountainous drift.
The Eutaw can ride down the deer of the hills,
With his shield ornamented with bald-eagle quills;
Our houses are full of the skins he has drest;
We have slaves of his women, the brightest and best.
With his shield ornamented with bald-eagle quills;
Our houses are full of the skins he has drest;
We have slaves of his women, the brightest and best.
Go, talk of the strength of a valiant Paiut,
He will hide in the trees when our arrows we shoot;
And who knows the wild Coyotera to tame,
But the bold Nabajo, with his arrow of flame?
He will hide in the trees when our arrows we shoot;
And who knows the wild Coyotera to tame,
But the bold Nabajo, with his arrow of flame?
The Moqui may boast from his town of the Rock;
Can it stand when the earthquake shall come with its shock?
The Suni may laugh in his desert so dry—
He will wail to his God when our foray is nigh.
Can it stand when the earthquake shall come with its shock?
The Suni may laugh in his desert so dry—
He will wail to his God when our foray is nigh.
Oh, who is so brave as a mountain Apache?
He can come to our homes when the doors we unlatch,
And plunder our women when we are away;
When met he our braves in their battle array?
He can come to our homes when the doors we unlatch,
And plunder our women when we are away;
When met he our braves in their battle array?
Whose mouth is so big as a Spaniard's at home?
But if we rush along like the cataract foam,
And sweep off his cattle and herds from his stall,
Oh then to the saints who so loudly can call?
But if we rush along like the cataract foam,
And sweep off his cattle and herds from his stall,
Oh then to the saints who so loudly can call?
132
Up, then, and away! Let the quiver be full!
And as soon as the stars make the mountain air cool,
The fire of the harvest shall make heaven pale,
And the priesthood shall curse, and the coward shall wail.
And as soon as the stars make the mountain air cool,
The fire of the harvest shall make heaven pale,
And the priesthood shall curse, and the coward shall wail.
And there will be counting of beads then to do—
And the Pueblos shall mount and prepare to pursue;
But when could their steeds, so mule-footed and slow,
Compare with the birds of the free Nabajo?
And the Pueblos shall mount and prepare to pursue;
But when could their steeds, so mule-footed and slow,
Compare with the birds of the free Nabajo?
LINES,
[_]
Written on hearing that Wm. R. Schenck, my companion for three or four months in the prairie, had been wounded by the Comanches, and left alone to die.
The sun is waning from the sky,
The clouds are gathering round the moon,
Bank after bank, like mountains high,
And night is coming—ah! too soon.
Around me doth the prairie spread
Its limitless monotony,
And near me, in its sandy bed,
Runs rattling water, like the sea,
Salt, salt as tears of misery;
And now the keen and frosty dew
Begins to fall upon my head,
And pierces every fibre through—
By it my torturing wound with misery is fed.
The clouds are gathering round the moon,
Bank after bank, like mountains high,
And night is coming—ah! too soon.
Around me doth the prairie spread
Its limitless monotony,
And near me, in its sandy bed,
Runs rattling water, like the sea,
Salt, salt as tears of misery;
And now the keen and frosty dew
Begins to fall upon my head,
And pierces every fibre through—
By it my torturing wound with misery is fed.
And near me lies my noble horse:
I watched his last, convulsive breath,
And saw him stiffen to a corse—
And knew like his would be my death.
The cowards left me lying here
To die; and now three weary days,
I've watched the sun's light disappear;
Again I shall not see his rays—
On my dead heart they soon will blaze;
O God! it is a fearful thing,
To be alone in this wide plain,
To hear the raven's filthy wing,
And watch the quivering star of our existence wane.
I watched his last, convulsive breath,
And saw him stiffen to a corse—
And knew like his would be my death.
The cowards left me lying here
To die; and now three weary days,
I've watched the sun's light disappear;
Again I shall not see his rays—
On my dead heart they soon will blaze;
O God! it is a fearful thing,
To be alone in this wide plain,
To hear the raven's filthy wing,
And watch the quivering star of our existence wane.
133
Yes; I am left alone to die—
Alone! alone!—it is no dream;
At times I think it is—though nigh,
Already dimly sounds the stream;
And I must die—and wolves will gnaw
My corse, or ere the pulse be still,
Before my parting gasp I draw;
This doth my cup of torture fill—
This, this it is which sends a thrill
Of horror through my inmost brain,
And makes me die a thousand deaths.
I value not the passing pain,
But I would draw in peace, my last, my parting breath.
Alone! alone!—it is no dream;
At times I think it is—though nigh,
Already dimly sounds the stream;
And I must die—and wolves will gnaw
My corse, or ere the pulse be still,
Before my parting gasp I draw;
This doth my cup of torture fill—
This, this it is which sends a thrill
Of horror through my inmost brain,
And makes me die a thousand deaths.
I value not the passing pain,
But I would draw in peace, my last, my parting breath.
And here, while left, all, all alone
To die—(how strange that word will sound)—
O God! with many a torture-tone,
The fiends of memory come around.
They tell of one, untimely sent
Unto the dim and narrow grave,
By honor's laws—and friends down bent
With grief, that I, the reckless, gave;
And bending from each airy wave,
I see the shapes I loved and lost
Come round me with their deep, dim eyes,
Like drowning men to land uptost,
And here and there one mocks, and my vain rage defies.
To die—(how strange that word will sound)—
O God! with many a torture-tone,
The fiends of memory come around.
They tell of one, untimely sent
Unto the dim and narrow grave,
By honor's laws—and friends down bent
With grief, that I, the reckless, gave;
And bending from each airy wave,
I see the shapes I loved and lost
Come round me with their deep, dim eyes,
Like drowning men to land uptost,
And here and there one mocks, and my vain rage defies.
O God! my children. Spare the thought!
Bid it depart from me, lest I
At last to madness should be wrought,
And cursing thee, insanely die.
Hush! for the pulse is getting slow,
And death, chill death is near at hand.
I turn me from the sunset glow,
And looking towards my native land
Where the dim clouds like giants stand,
I strain my eyes—if I perchance,
Might see beneath the still, cold moon,
Some shape of human kind advance,
To give a dying man the last, the dearest boon.
Bid it depart from me, lest I
At last to madness should be wrought,
And cursing thee, insanely die.
Hush! for the pulse is getting slow,
And death, chill death is near at hand.
I turn me from the sunset glow,
And looking towards my native land
Where the dim clouds like giants stand,
I strain my eyes—if I perchance,
Might see beneath the still, cold moon,
Some shape of human kind advance,
To give a dying man the last, the dearest boon.
In vain!—in vain! No being comes—
And all is lone and desolate;
Deeper and darker swell the glooms,
And with them Death and eyeless Fate.
Now I am dying! Well I know
The pangs that gather round the heart;
The brow's weak throb has ceased to glow,
And life and I are near to part.
I would not ask the leech's art—
For death is not so terrible
As 't was. And now, no more I see;—
My tongue is faltering;—'t is well—
O God!—my soul!—'t is thine—take it to thee.
And all is lone and desolate;
Deeper and darker swell the glooms,
And with them Death and eyeless Fate.
Now I am dying! Well I know
The pangs that gather round the heart;
The brow's weak throb has ceased to glow,
And life and I are near to part.
134
For death is not so terrible
As 't was. And now, no more I see;—
My tongue is faltering;—'t is well—
O God!—my soul!—'t is thine—take it to thee.
Ark. Territory, March 20, 1833.
THE LIGHTNING.
The breath of the ocean my cradle is,
Which the sun takes up from the blue abyss;
And the upper cold gives it shape and form,
And it peoples itself with living storm.
Which the sun takes up from the blue abyss;
And the upper cold gives it shape and form,
And it peoples itself with living storm.
And when it has reached the upper air,
I hold its helm while it wanders there;
And I lie in the shade of the lifted sail,
And steer my boat before the gale.
I hold its helm while it wanders there;
And I lie in the shade of the lifted sail,
And steer my boat before the gale.
I coil myself like a quivering snake,
Invisible on a chaotic lake;
And I stay unseen in the chasms of cloud,
And the vapors that even to earth are bowed.
Invisible on a chaotic lake;
And I stay unseen in the chasms of cloud,
And the vapors that even to earth are bowed.
I look on the stars with my glittering eye,
And they hide away while the clouds go by;
And while my eye and form are unseen,
The meteors down to my palace lean.
And they hide away while the clouds go by;
And while my eye and form are unseen,
The meteors down to my palace lean.
And when my cradle is shaken by wind,
And moon and stars are eyeless behind,
Oh then I quiver, and mankind see
Me lose invisibility.
And moon and stars are eyeless behind,
Oh then I quiver, and mankind see
Me lose invisibility.
I look in the eye of the winged stars,
And they wheel away their orbal cars,
And hide afar in the depths of heaven,
Like water-drops by the tempest driven.
And they wheel away their orbal cars,
And hide afar in the depths of heaven,
Like water-drops by the tempest driven.
I look on the sun—and he hideth under
The misty plume of my servant, Thunder;
And the moon shuts up her arching lid,
And the eye by which the tides are fed.
The misty plume of my servant, Thunder;
And the moon shuts up her arching lid,
And the eye by which the tides are fed.
135
I take the form of a fiery adder,
And dash myself down the heaving ladder
Of cloud, till I hiss on the ocean's breast,
And it foams and awakes from its azure rest.
And dash myself down the heaving ladder
Of cloud, till I hiss on the ocean's breast,
And it foams and awakes from its azure rest.
I take the form of an arrow of flame,
And I pierce the clouds and make darkness tame;
And the flap of night's dark, drifting sail,
Shakes down to the earth the glancing hail.
And I pierce the clouds and make darkness tame;
And the flap of night's dark, drifting sail,
Shakes down to the earth the glancing hail.
I dash myself against rifted rocks,
And the echoes awake and come in flocks;
And each with his hoarse and rattling tongue,
Throws back the challenge the thunder flung.
And the echoes awake and come in flocks;
And each with his hoarse and rattling tongue,
Throws back the challenge the thunder flung.
And often when heaven's unstained floor
Is as far from dim as the inmost core
Of an angel's heart, I am seen to glide
From the lid of the west;—thus the cheek of a bride
Is as far from dim as the inmost core
Of an angel's heart, I am seen to glide
From the lid of the west;—thus the cheek of a bride
Will blush when her lover's step is heard;—
And then, like the wing of a heavy bird,
My voice of thunder afar wakes,
And the dim sunset his pinion shakes.
And then, like the wing of a heavy bird,
My voice of thunder afar wakes,
And the dim sunset his pinion shakes.
And there all night I am seen to quiver,
Like the pulse of an adamantine river,
That out of the depth doth come and go—
And my cradle of cloud is unseen below.
Like the pulse of an adamantine river,
That out of the depth doth come and go—
And my cradle of cloud is unseen below.
I am hidden in earth, and air, and water;
I am parent of life, and king of slaughter;
I green the earth—I open the flowers,
And make then blush by the lip of showers.
I am parent of life, and king of slaughter;
I green the earth—I open the flowers,
And make then blush by the lip of showers.
I am the heart's etherial essence,
And life exists not, save in my presence;
I am the soul of the mighty earth,
And give its children their vital birth.
And life exists not, save in my presence;
I am the soul of the mighty earth,
And give its children their vital birth.
I go to the heart of the hidden rocks,
And my touch awakens the earthquake shocks;
I am the soul of the flowers and buds,
And I feed them with air and water-floods.
And my touch awakens the earthquake shocks;
I am the soul of the flowers and buds,
And I feed them with air and water-floods.
I am eternal, and change forever;
I wander always, but dissipate never;
Decay and waste no power possess
On me the deathless and fatherless.
I wander always, but dissipate never;
Decay and waste no power possess
On me the deathless and fatherless.
136
Unelemental, immaterial,
Less gross than aught that is etherial,
And next to spirit in rank am I;
While matter exists I can never die.
Less gross than aught that is etherial,
And next to spirit in rank am I;
While matter exists I can never die.
SONG.
The day hath passed, love, when I might
Have offered thee this heart of mine,
As one whose yet unclouded light
Was pure, love, pure and bright, as thine:
When, though I gazed on thee, as him
Who gazeth on a distant star,
Thy brilliant eye could not grow dim,
In shame for me, thy worshipper.
Have offered thee this heart of mine,
As one whose yet unclouded light
Was pure, love, pure and bright, as thine:
When, though I gazed on thee, as him
Who gazeth on a distant star,
Thy brilliant eye could not grow dim,
In shame for me, thy worshipper.
Yet still, although it be but shame
To be beloved by such as I,
That love will shed its saddened flame,
Knows no decay, can never die.
Its soul of fire hath no decline;
For rocks check not the swelling river;
And though thou never canst be mine,
I'm thine, love—thine alone, forever.
To be beloved by such as I,
That love will shed its saddened flame,
Knows no decay, can never die.
Its soul of fire hath no decline;
For rocks check not the swelling river;
And though thou never canst be mine,
I'm thine, love—thine alone, forever.
152
HOME.
Though the heart hath been sunken in folly and guilt—
Though its hopes and its joys on the earth have been spilt—
Though its course hath become like the cataract's foam—
Still, still it is holy, when thinking on Home.
Though its hopes and its joys on the earth have been spilt—
Though its course hath become like the cataract's foam—
Still, still it is holy, when thinking on Home.
Though its tears have been shed like the rains of the spring—
Though it may have grown loath to existence to cling—
Oh, still a sweet thought like a shadow will come,
When the eye of the mind turns again to its Home.
Though it may have grown loath to existence to cling—
Oh, still a sweet thought like a shadow will come,
When the eye of the mind turns again to its Home.
Though the fire of the heart may have withered its core
Unto ashes and dust—though the head have turned hoar
Ere its time, as the surfs o'er the breakers that foam—
Still, a tear will arise when we think upon Home.
Unto ashes and dust—though the head have turned hoar
Ere its time, as the surfs o'er the breakers that foam—
Still, a tear will arise when we think upon Home.
154
LINES
The light of morning now begins to thrill
Upon the purple mountains, and the gray
And mist-enveloped pines; and on the still,
Deep banks of snow, looks out the eye of day;
The constant stream is plashing on its way,
As molten stars might roll along the heaven—
And its white foam grows whiter, with the play
Of sunlight, that adown its bed is driven,
Like the eternal splendor from God's forehead riven.
Upon the purple mountains, and the gray
And mist-enveloped pines; and on the still,
Deep banks of snow, looks out the eye of day;
The constant stream is plashing on its way,
As molten stars might roll along the heaven—
And its white foam grows whiter, with the play
Of sunlight, that adown its bed is driven,
Like the eternal splendor from God's forehead riven.
And tree, and rock, and pine, are wreathed now
With light, as with a visible soul of love;
The breeze along the mountain sides doth blow,
And in and out each grass-enshaded cove,
Making the darkness from those dens remove,
And be dissolved within the splendor shower,
Which raineth to the depth of each dim grove,
And under all the rocks that sternly lower,
And even in the caves, and jagged grots doth pour.
With light, as with a visible soul of love;
The breeze along the mountain sides doth blow,
And in and out each grass-enshaded cove,
Making the darkness from those dens remove,
And be dissolved within the splendor shower,
Which raineth to the depth of each dim grove,
And under all the rocks that sternly lower,
And even in the caves, and jagged grots doth pour.
Yet here and there, there is a plume of mist,
Whose only care is up the hill to float,
Until the sun be broad and fair uprist;
And then the unseen angels, that take note
To steer in safety this etherial boat,
Will turn its helm to heaven's untroubled seas,
Where its white sail will glimmer, like a mote,
One moment, and then vanish: now the trees
Through it are seen, like shadows through transparencies.
Whose only care is up the hill to float,
Until the sun be broad and fair uprist;
And then the unseen angels, that take note
To steer in safety this etherial boat,
Will turn its helm to heaven's untroubled seas,
Where its white sail will glimmer, like a mote,
One moment, and then vanish: now the trees
Through it are seen, like shadows through transparencies.
And now the dew from off the flower-bells,
And from the quivering blades of bending grass,
Begins to rise invisibly, and swells
Into the air—(the valley's silent mass)—
Like to the incense which to God doth pass
From out the bruised heart; the cricket's hymn—
The anthem from bright birds of many a class—
All people with their influence, the dim
Soul's solitude, in this most brief, sweet interim.
And from the quivering blades of bending grass,
Begins to rise invisibly, and swells
Into the air—(the valley's silent mass)—
155
From out the bruised heart; the cricket's hymn—
The anthem from bright birds of many a class—
All people with their influence, the dim
Soul's solitude, in this most brief, sweet interim.
And Sorrow, though she be not wholly still,
Hath yet a certain gentle look and kind,
And mingling with all nature's joyous thrill,
Breathes a delicious feeling on the mind—
A soothing melancholy, hope-inclined—
Like the dim memory of a saddened dream,
Which made the heart once weep itself stone-blind,
And now doth like both pain and pleasure seem,
Until we know not which the feeling we should deem.
Hath yet a certain gentle look and kind,
And mingling with all nature's joyous thrill,
Breathes a delicious feeling on the mind—
A soothing melancholy, hope-inclined—
Like the dim memory of a saddened dream,
Which made the heart once weep itself stone-blind,
And now doth like both pain and pleasure seem,
Until we know not which the feeling we should deem.
But Sorrow will full soon regain her own,
Although this golden and delicious calm,
Hath made her gentle as the water-tone,
Till she doth sleep, like Peace, with open palm,
And closed eyelid, and enfolded arm;
Soon Memory beneath her eye will sting,
And like a fiend that does his best to harm,
From the dark past will gather up, and bring,
Full many a torturing, and half-forgotten thing.
Although this golden and delicious calm,
Hath made her gentle as the water-tone,
Till she doth sleep, like Peace, with open palm,
And closed eyelid, and enfolded arm;
Soon Memory beneath her eye will sting,
And like a fiend that does his best to harm,
From the dark past will gather up, and bring,
Full many a torturing, and half-forgotten thing.
And she will point to home and hope forsaken—
And friends grown old, perhaps inimical;
And Love beneath her eye again will waken,
From troublous slumber; and again will fall
Foul Poverty, that hid with icy pall
My hope and happiness and father-land;
And I once more shall stand amid them all,
Cast them aside with an unflinching hand,
Shiver my household gods, and mid the ruins stand.
And friends grown old, perhaps inimical;
And Love beneath her eye again will waken,
From troublous slumber; and again will fall
Foul Poverty, that hid with icy pall
My hope and happiness and father-land;
And I once more shall stand amid them all,
Cast them aside with an unflinching hand,
Shiver my household gods, and mid the ruins stand.
O thou, New England! whom these jagged rocks—
These chanting pines—this stream of fluid light—
These mountains, heaved at first by earthquake shocks,
And now defying them—this upper white
Of snow, which beards the sun—this vale so bright—
And all the thousand objects here in view—
Make now most present to the memory's sight
Thy hills—thy dells—thy streams—thy ocean blue—
Thy gorgeous sky, and clouds, of such surpassing hue.
These chanting pines—this stream of fluid light—
These mountains, heaved at first by earthquake shocks,
And now defying them—this upper white
Of snow, which beards the sun—this vale so bright—
And all the thousand objects here in view—
Make now most present to the memory's sight
Thy hills—thy dells—thy streams—thy ocean blue—
Thy gorgeous sky, and clouds, of such surpassing hue.
Oh! I have left thee—and perhaps forever,
Land of the free, the beautiful, the brave!
It was a mournful hour which saw me sever
The ties which bound me unto thee, and brave
The exile's woes, and seek an exile's grave.
And now my heart is all—ay, all thine own;
Again above me thy hoar forests wave;
Again I hear thy ocean's measured tone;
I live with thee, and am with all the world alone.
Land of the free, the beautiful, the brave!
It was a mournful hour which saw me sever
The ties which bound me unto thee, and brave
156
And now my heart is all—ay, all thine own;
Again above me thy hoar forests wave;
Again I hear thy ocean's measured tone;
I live with thee, and am with all the world alone.
And spite of thy unkindness, I am proud
To be thy son; yea, proud of thee and thine;
Although thy failing, prejudice, hath bowed
My highest hopes, and taught lone grief to twine
Around my heart, as doth the poison-vine
Around the oak, rotting it to its core—
Yet still I love thee, and my heart is thine.
And while my feet sound sadly, and forlore,
I pace, and think of thee, and on thy glories pore.
To be thy son; yea, proud of thee and thine;
Although thy failing, prejudice, hath bowed
My highest hopes, and taught lone grief to twine
Around my heart, as doth the poison-vine
Around the oak, rotting it to its core—
Yet still I love thee, and my heart is thine.
And while my feet sound sadly, and forlore,
I pace, and think of thee, and on thy glories pore.
And here, beneath these mossless rocks and grey,
I think of those most venerable aisles,
Where I have passed of many a holy day,
Into the sanctity of ancient piles,
To sit and hear thy faith—of those green isles
Gemming thy bays, and quiet ocean-nooks—
Of the bright eyes, and cheeks enwreathed with smiles,
Which make thee famed for beauty's starry looks—
And more than all, I think of quietude and books.
I think of those most venerable aisles,
Where I have passed of many a holy day,
Into the sanctity of ancient piles,
To sit and hear thy faith—of those green isles
Gemming thy bays, and quiet ocean-nooks—
Of the bright eyes, and cheeks enwreathed with smiles,
Which make thee famed for beauty's starry looks—
And more than all, I think of quietude and books.
And still, all this is like the lightning, shot
Athwart the visage of the midnight gloom;
One moment dazzling—the succeeding, not:
And when I think of one of thine, with whom
The hours seemed winged with joy's all sunny plume,
Then, then the torturing fiends again have power—
Then from the darkness of my mental tomb
Thy star doth wane, the clouds about me lower—
And on me comes anew, the dark and fearful hour.
Athwart the visage of the midnight gloom;
One moment dazzling—the succeeding, not:
And when I think of one of thine, with whom
The hours seemed winged with joy's all sunny plume,
Then, then the torturing fiends again have power—
Then from the darkness of my mental tomb
Thy star doth wane, the clouds about me lower—
And on me comes anew, the dark and fearful hour.
What is there left that I should cling to life?
High hopes made desolate, while scarce expanded—
A broken censer, still with odor rife—
A waning sun—a vessel half ensanded—
Life's prospects on grey rocks and shallows stranded—
A star just setting in a midnight ocean—
A smoking altar broken and unbanded,
Lit with the flame of poetry's devotion—
A bosom shattered with its own disturbed emotion.
High hopes made desolate, while scarce expanded—
A broken censer, still with odor rife—
A waning sun—a vessel half ensanded—
Life's prospects on grey rocks and shallows stranded—
A star just setting in a midnight ocean—
A smoking altar broken and unbanded,
Lit with the flame of poetry's devotion—
A bosom shattered with its own disturbed emotion.
This scene, for once, has made my sorrow calm;
And I do thank it—though old Time may mar
Full soon his work. And Hope has held her palm
Like an old friend to me, and set her star
Once more upon the waves of life afar;
And though it sink full soon, nor ever lift
Again its eye above the stormy bar,
Yet still I thank her for the passing gift,
Though henceforth eyeless, on life's stormy waves I drift.
And I do thank it—though old Time may mar
Full soon his work. And Hope has held her palm
Like an old friend to me, and set her star
157
And though it sink full soon, nor ever lift
Again its eye above the stormy bar,
Yet still I thank her for the passing gift,
Though henceforth eyeless, on life's stormy waves I drift.
Farewell to thee, New England! Once again
The echo of thy name has touched my soul,
And it has vibrated—oh! not in vain,
If thou and thine shall hear it. Now the goal
Is nearly reached—the last expiring coal
Is trampled. Lo! ere all of life be done,
And ere the wind doth o'er my dead brain roll,
Thou hast the last monotony of one,
Who has been—is—will be—and that for aye, thy son.
The echo of thy name has touched my soul,
And it has vibrated—oh! not in vain,
If thou and thine shall hear it. Now the goal
Is nearly reached—the last expiring coal
Is trampled. Lo! ere all of life be done,
And ere the wind doth o'er my dead brain roll,
Thou hast the last monotony of one,
Who has been—is—will be—and that for aye, thy son.
HOME.
Full many a tongue,
Liquid as may be, hath its praises sung;
From his around whose lips the fond bees clung,
Unto the wood-thrush wild—of ‘Home, sweet Home.’
'T is an old theme; yet if it can impart
Some new, fresh feelings, ever to the heart,
It may be thought of, when that heart is rife;
Words are but feelings, and so home is life.
Why is it that whate'er we hear or see,
'Minds us of home, with a strange witchery?
Because the heart is to the harp most like—
The simple Jewish harp—which, though you strike
A thousand notes, hath still its undertone,
The key-note of them all; and long and lone
That tone is heard, after they all are dead.
The sound of rain upon the humble roof—
('T is an old thought, I know, that needs no proof,
But I do use it, since its force I feel,)—
The sound of music, following on the heel
Of priests, as worthless as the music is—
The fairy foot that glances past the door,
The eye, that nothing seems but love to pour
From all its deep, black, keen intensity;—
One brings to memory
The rains, that oft have lulled me unto rest,
In the old mansion, after, from the west,
Them rising slowly up, I had beholden,
And covering with their frown the bright and golden,
But dying smile of the chill-hearted sun—
Of the small stream, that near the old house run,
As if a smile of friendship there had fallen,
And coursed along—the fields with gray rocks wallen,
And every old and much familiar thing,
That seemed to watch and love me, slumbering;
The other seems the breathing of the flute
Of my old friend, so rich, so round and clear—
(Yet sweet as 't was, when all its tones were mute,
His voice was still more pleasant to my ear);
The last—but that's a dream—
Yet it may seem,
That one may keep alive a sunny dream
Within the few green places of his heart,
Where Want and Wo long since have wiled themselves,
Like the ice-worm of Taurus.
Liquid as may be, hath its praises sung;
From his around whose lips the fond bees clung,
Unto the wood-thrush wild—of ‘Home, sweet Home.’
'T is an old theme; yet if it can impart
Some new, fresh feelings, ever to the heart,
It may be thought of, when that heart is rife;
Words are but feelings, and so home is life.
Why is it that whate'er we hear or see,
'Minds us of home, with a strange witchery?
Because the heart is to the harp most like—
The simple Jewish harp—which, though you strike
A thousand notes, hath still its undertone,
The key-note of them all; and long and lone
That tone is heard, after they all are dead.
The sound of rain upon the humble roof—
('T is an old thought, I know, that needs no proof,
But I do use it, since its force I feel,)—
The sound of music, following on the heel
Of priests, as worthless as the music is—
The fairy foot that glances past the door,
The eye, that nothing seems but love to pour
158
One brings to memory
The rains, that oft have lulled me unto rest,
In the old mansion, after, from the west,
Them rising slowly up, I had beholden,
And covering with their frown the bright and golden,
But dying smile of the chill-hearted sun—
Of the small stream, that near the old house run,
As if a smile of friendship there had fallen,
And coursed along—the fields with gray rocks wallen,
And every old and much familiar thing,
That seemed to watch and love me, slumbering;
The other seems the breathing of the flute
Of my old friend, so rich, so round and clear—
(Yet sweet as 't was, when all its tones were mute,
His voice was still more pleasant to my ear);
The last—but that's a dream—
Yet it may seem,
That one may keep alive a sunny dream
Within the few green places of his heart,
Where Want and Wo long since have wiled themselves,
Like the ice-worm of Taurus.
God of heaven!
Never from me let that fond dream be riven:
The dream of hope, love, joy and home, again,
As to the dry grass doth a summer rain,
Doth unto me a new existence prove.
It is like some lone, silver, sad-eyed dove,
Sitting amid the elements' commotion,
And fanning with her wings the angry ocean,
Until she make herself a quiet nook,
Quiet as heaven. It is like some sad book,
Of beautiful words, in which the angry reads
Until, within his heart, new thoughts it feeds,
Till, as the book is, he is quiet too.
It is like anything most sweet and strange,
Which can our angry, tortured passions change
Unto more mildness, in its soothing way.
It is the theme which keeps me from despair;
That, be my grief or sorrows what they may,
Their sepulchre, their burial clothes are there.
Never from me let that fond dream be riven:
The dream of hope, love, joy and home, again,
As to the dry grass doth a summer rain,
Doth unto me a new existence prove.
It is like some lone, silver, sad-eyed dove,
Sitting amid the elements' commotion,
And fanning with her wings the angry ocean,
Until she make herself a quiet nook,
Quiet as heaven. It is like some sad book,
Of beautiful words, in which the angry reads
Until, within his heart, new thoughts it feeds,
Till, as the book is, he is quiet too.
It is like anything most sweet and strange,
Which can our angry, tortured passions change
Unto more mildness, in its soothing way.
It is the theme which keeps me from despair;
That, be my grief or sorrows what they may,
Their sepulchre, their burial clothes are there.
Santa Fe, Jan. 5, 1832.
159
TO THE PLANET JUPITER.
Thou art, in truth, a fair and kingly star,
Planet! whose silver crest now gleams afar
Upon the edge of yonder eastern hill,
That, night-like, seems a third of heaven to fill.
Thou art most worthy of a poet's lore,
His worship—as a thing to bend before;
And yet thou smilest as if I might sing,
Weak as I am—my lyre unused to ring
Among the thousand harps which fill the world.
The sun's last fire upon the sky has curled,
And on the clouds, and now thou hast arisen,
And in the east thine eye of love doth glisten—
Thou, whom the ancients took to be a king,
And that of gods; and, as thou wert a spring
Of inspiration, I would soar and drink,
While yet thou art upon the mountain's brink.
Who bid men say that thou, O silver peer,
Wast to the moon a servitor, anear
To sit, and watch her eye for messages,
Like to the other fair and silver bees
That swarm around her when she sits her throne?
What of the moon? She bringeth storm alone,
At new, and full, and every other time;
She turns men's brains, and so she makes them rhyme,
And rave, and sigh away their weary life;
And shall she be of young adorers rife,
And thou have none? Nay, one will sing to thee,
And turn his eye to thee, and bend the knee.
Lo! on the marge of the dim western plain,
The star of love doth even yet remain—
She of the ocean-foam—and watch thy look,
As one might gaze upon an antique book,
When he doth sit and read, at deep dead night,
Stealing from Time his hours. Ah, sweet delay!
And now she sinks to follow fleeting day,
Contended with thy glance of answering love:
And where she worships can I thoughtless prove?
Now as thou risest higher into sight,
Marking the water with a line of light,
On wave and ripple quietly aslant,
Thy influences steal upon the heart,
With a sweet force and unresisted art,
Like the still growth of some unceasing plant.
The mother, watching by her sleeping child,
Blesses thee, when thy light, so still and mild,
Falls through the casement on her babe's pale face,
And tinges it with a benignant grace,
Like the white shadow of an angel's wing.
The sick man, who has lain for many a day,
And wasted like a lightless flower away,
He blesses thee, O Jove! when thou dost shine
Upon his face, with influence divine,
Soothing his thin, blue eyelids into sleep.
The child its constant murmuring will keep,
Within the nurse's arms, till thou dost glad
His eyes, and then he sleeps. The thin, and sad,
And patient student, closes up his books
A space or so, to gain from thy kind looks
Refreshment. Men, in dungeons pent,
Climb to the window, and, with head upbent,
Gaze they at thee. The timid deer awake,
And, 'neath thine eye, their nightly rambles make,
Whistling their joy to thee. The speckled trout,
From underneath his rock comes shooting out,
And turns his eye to thee, and loves thy light,
And sleeps within it. The gray water plant
Looks up to thee beseechingly aslant,
And thou dost feed it there, beneath the wave.
Even the tortoise crawls from out his cave,
And feeds wherever, on the dewy grass,
Thy light hath lingered. Thou canst even pass
To water-depths, and make the coral-fly
Work happier, when flattered by thine eye.
Thou touchest not the roughest heart in vain;
Even the sturdy sailor, and the swain,
Bless thee, whene'er they see thy lustrous eye
Open amid the clouds, stilling the sky.
The lover praises thee, and to thy light
Compares his love, thus tender and thus bright;
And tells his mistress thou dost kindly mock
Her gentle eye. Thou dost the heart unlock
Which Care and Wo have rendered comfortless,
And teachest it thy influence to bless,
And even for a time its grief to brave.
The madman, that beneath the moon doth rave,
Looks to thy orb, and is again himself.
The miser stops from counting out his pelf,
When, through the barred windows comes thy lull—
And even he, he thinks thee beautiful.
Oh! while thy silver arrows pierce the air,
And while beneath thee, the dim forests, where
The wind sleeps, and the snowy mountains tall
Are still as death—oh! bring me back again
The bold and happy heart that blessed me, when
My youth was green; ere home and hope were vailed
In desolation! Then my cheek was paled,
But not with care. For, late at night, and long,
I toiled, that I might gain myself among
Old tomes, a knowledge; and in truth I did:
I studied long, and things the wise had hid
In their quaint books, I learned; and then I thought
The poet's art was mine; and so I wrought
My boyish feelings into words, and spread
Them out before the world—and I was fed
With praise, and with a name. Alas! to him,
Whose eye and heart must soon or late grow dim,
Toiling with poverty, or evils worse,
This gift of poetry is but a curse,
Unfitting it amid the world to brood,
And toil and jostle for a livelihood.
The feverish passion of the soul hath been
My bane. O Jove! couldst thou but wean
Me back to boyhood for a space, it were
Indeed a gift.
Planet! whose silver crest now gleams afar
Upon the edge of yonder eastern hill,
That, night-like, seems a third of heaven to fill.
Thou art most worthy of a poet's lore,
His worship—as a thing to bend before;
And yet thou smilest as if I might sing,
Weak as I am—my lyre unused to ring
Among the thousand harps which fill the world.
The sun's last fire upon the sky has curled,
And on the clouds, and now thou hast arisen,
And in the east thine eye of love doth glisten—
Thou, whom the ancients took to be a king,
And that of gods; and, as thou wert a spring
Of inspiration, I would soar and drink,
While yet thou art upon the mountain's brink.
Who bid men say that thou, O silver peer,
Wast to the moon a servitor, anear
To sit, and watch her eye for messages,
Like to the other fair and silver bees
That swarm around her when she sits her throne?
What of the moon? She bringeth storm alone,
At new, and full, and every other time;
She turns men's brains, and so she makes them rhyme,
And rave, and sigh away their weary life;
And shall she be of young adorers rife,
And thou have none? Nay, one will sing to thee,
And turn his eye to thee, and bend the knee.
Lo! on the marge of the dim western plain,
The star of love doth even yet remain—
She of the ocean-foam—and watch thy look,
As one might gaze upon an antique book,
When he doth sit and read, at deep dead night,
Stealing from Time his hours. Ah, sweet delay!
And now she sinks to follow fleeting day,
Contended with thy glance of answering love:
And where she worships can I thoughtless prove?
Now as thou risest higher into sight,
Marking the water with a line of light,
On wave and ripple quietly aslant,
Thy influences steal upon the heart,
With a sweet force and unresisted art,
Like the still growth of some unceasing plant.
The mother, watching by her sleeping child,
Blesses thee, when thy light, so still and mild,
160
And tinges it with a benignant grace,
Like the white shadow of an angel's wing.
The sick man, who has lain for many a day,
And wasted like a lightless flower away,
He blesses thee, O Jove! when thou dost shine
Upon his face, with influence divine,
Soothing his thin, blue eyelids into sleep.
The child its constant murmuring will keep,
Within the nurse's arms, till thou dost glad
His eyes, and then he sleeps. The thin, and sad,
And patient student, closes up his books
A space or so, to gain from thy kind looks
Refreshment. Men, in dungeons pent,
Climb to the window, and, with head upbent,
Gaze they at thee. The timid deer awake,
And, 'neath thine eye, their nightly rambles make,
Whistling their joy to thee. The speckled trout,
From underneath his rock comes shooting out,
And turns his eye to thee, and loves thy light,
And sleeps within it. The gray water plant
Looks up to thee beseechingly aslant,
And thou dost feed it there, beneath the wave.
Even the tortoise crawls from out his cave,
And feeds wherever, on the dewy grass,
Thy light hath lingered. Thou canst even pass
To water-depths, and make the coral-fly
Work happier, when flattered by thine eye.
Thou touchest not the roughest heart in vain;
Even the sturdy sailor, and the swain,
Bless thee, whene'er they see thy lustrous eye
Open amid the clouds, stilling the sky.
The lover praises thee, and to thy light
Compares his love, thus tender and thus bright;
And tells his mistress thou dost kindly mock
Her gentle eye. Thou dost the heart unlock
Which Care and Wo have rendered comfortless,
And teachest it thy influence to bless,
And even for a time its grief to brave.
The madman, that beneath the moon doth rave,
Looks to thy orb, and is again himself.
The miser stops from counting out his pelf,
When, through the barred windows comes thy lull—
And even he, he thinks thee beautiful.
Oh! while thy silver arrows pierce the air,
And while beneath thee, the dim forests, where
The wind sleeps, and the snowy mountains tall
Are still as death—oh! bring me back again
The bold and happy heart that blessed me, when
My youth was green; ere home and hope were vailed
In desolation! Then my cheek was paled,
161
I toiled, that I might gain myself among
Old tomes, a knowledge; and in truth I did:
I studied long, and things the wise had hid
In their quaint books, I learned; and then I thought
The poet's art was mine; and so I wrought
My boyish feelings into words, and spread
Them out before the world—and I was fed
With praise, and with a name. Alas! to him,
Whose eye and heart must soon or late grow dim,
Toiling with poverty, or evils worse,
This gift of poetry is but a curse,
Unfitting it amid the world to brood,
And toil and jostle for a livelihood.
The feverish passion of the soul hath been
My bane. O Jove! couldst thou but wean
Me back to boyhood for a space, it were
Indeed a gift.
There was a sudden stir,
Thousands of years ago, upon the sea;
The waters foamed, and parted hastily,
As though a giant left his azure home,
And Delos woke, and did to light up come
Within that Grecian sea. Latona had,
Till then, been wandering, listlessly and sad,
About the earth, and through the hollow vast
Of water, followed by the angry haste
Of furious Juno. Many a weary day,
Above the shaggy hills where, groaning, lay
Enceladus and Typhon, she had roamed,
And over volcanoes, where fire upfoamed;
And sometimes in the forests she had lurked,
Where the fierce serpent through the herbage worked,
Over gray weeds, and tiger-trampled flowers,
And where the lion hid in tangled bowers,
And where the panther, with his dappled skin,
Made day like night with his deep moaning din:
All things were there to fright the gentle soul—
The hedgehog, that across the path did roll,
Gray eagles, fanged like cats, old vultures, bald,
Wild hawks and restless owls, whose cry appalled,
Black bats and speckled tortoises, that snap,
And scorpions, hiding underneath gray stones,
With here and there old piles of human bones
Of the first men that found out what was war,
Brass heads of arrows, rusted scimetar,
Old crescent, shield and edgeless battle-axe,
And near them skulls, with wide and gaping cracks,
Too old and dry for worms to dwell within;
Only the restless spider there did spin,
And made his house.
Thousands of years ago, upon the sea;
The waters foamed, and parted hastily,
As though a giant left his azure home,
And Delos woke, and did to light up come
Within that Grecian sea. Latona had,
Till then, been wandering, listlessly and sad,
About the earth, and through the hollow vast
Of water, followed by the angry haste
Of furious Juno. Many a weary day,
Above the shaggy hills where, groaning, lay
Enceladus and Typhon, she had roamed,
And over volcanoes, where fire upfoamed;
And sometimes in the forests she had lurked,
Where the fierce serpent through the herbage worked,
Over gray weeds, and tiger-trampled flowers,
And where the lion hid in tangled bowers,
And where the panther, with his dappled skin,
Made day like night with his deep moaning din:
All things were there to fright the gentle soul—
The hedgehog, that across the path did roll,
Gray eagles, fanged like cats, old vultures, bald,
Wild hawks and restless owls, whose cry appalled,
Black bats and speckled tortoises, that snap,
And scorpions, hiding underneath gray stones,
With here and there old piles of human bones
Of the first men that found out what was war,
Brass heads of arrows, rusted scimetar,
Old crescent, shield and edgeless battle-axe,
And near them skulls, with wide and gaping cracks,
Too old and dry for worms to dwell within;
Only the restless spider there did spin,
And made his house.
162
And then she down would lay
Her restless head, among dry leaves, and faint,
And close her eyes, till thou wouldst come and paint
Her visage with thy light; and then the blood
Would stir again about her heart, endued,
By thy kind look, with life again, and speed;
And then wouldst thou her gentle spirit feed
With new-winged hopes, and sunny fantasies,
And, looking piercingly amid the trees,
Drive from her path all those unwelcome sights—
Then would she rise, and o'er the flower-blights,
And through the tiger-peopled solitudes,
And odorous brakes, and panther-guarded woods,
Would keep her way until she reached the edge
Of the blue sea, and then on some high ledge
Of thunder-blackened rocks, would sit and look
Into thine eye, nor fear lest, from some nook,
Should rise the hideous shapes that Juno ruled,
And persecute her.
Her restless head, among dry leaves, and faint,
And close her eyes, till thou wouldst come and paint
Her visage with thy light; and then the blood
Would stir again about her heart, endued,
By thy kind look, with life again, and speed;
And then wouldst thou her gentle spirit feed
With new-winged hopes, and sunny fantasies,
And, looking piercingly amid the trees,
Drive from her path all those unwelcome sights—
Then would she rise, and o'er the flower-blights,
And through the tiger-peopled solitudes,
And odorous brakes, and panther-guarded woods,
Would keep her way until she reached the edge
Of the blue sea, and then on some high ledge
Of thunder-blackened rocks, would sit and look
Into thine eye, nor fear lest, from some nook,
Should rise the hideous shapes that Juno ruled,
And persecute her.
Once her feet she cooled
Upon a long and narrow beach. The brine
Had marked, as with an endless serpent spine,
The sanded shore with a long line of shells,
Like those the Nereids weave, within the cells
Of their queen Thetis—such they pile around
The feet of cross old Nereus, having found
That this will gain his grace, and such they bring
To the quaint Proteus, as an offering,
When they would have him tell their fate, and who
Shall first embrace them with a lover's glow.
And there Latona stepped along the marge
Of the slow waves, and when one came more large,
And wet her feet, she tingled, as when Jove
Gave her the first, all-burning kiss of love.
Still on she kept, pacing along the sand,
And on the shells, and now and then would stand,
And let her long and golden hair outfloat
Upon the waves—when lo! the sudden note
Of the fierce hissing dragon met her ear.
She shuddered then, and, all-possessed with fear,
Rushed wildly through the hollow-sounding vast
Into the deep, deep sea; and then she passed
Through many wonders—coral-raftered caves,
Deep, far below the noise of upper waves—
Sea-flowers, that floated into golden hair,
Like misty silk—fishes, whose eyes did glare,
And some surpassing lovely—fleshless spine
Of old behemoths—flasks of hoarded wine
Among the timbers of old shattered ships—
Goblets of gold, that had not touched the lips
Of men a thousand years.
Upon a long and narrow beach. The brine
Had marked, as with an endless serpent spine,
The sanded shore with a long line of shells,
Like those the Nereids weave, within the cells
Of their queen Thetis—such they pile around
The feet of cross old Nereus, having found
That this will gain his grace, and such they bring
To the quaint Proteus, as an offering,
When they would have him tell their fate, and who
Shall first embrace them with a lover's glow.
And there Latona stepped along the marge
Of the slow waves, and when one came more large,
And wet her feet, she tingled, as when Jove
Gave her the first, all-burning kiss of love.
Still on she kept, pacing along the sand,
And on the shells, and now and then would stand,
And let her long and golden hair outfloat
Upon the waves—when lo! the sudden note
Of the fierce hissing dragon met her ear.
She shuddered then, and, all-possessed with fear,
Rushed wildly through the hollow-sounding vast
Into the deep, deep sea; and then she passed
Through many wonders—coral-raftered caves,
Deep, far below the noise of upper waves—
Sea-flowers, that floated into golden hair,
Like misty silk—fishes, whose eyes did glare,
And some surpassing lovely—fleshless spine
Of old behemoths—flasks of hoarded wine
Among the timbers of old shattered ships—
Goblets of gold, that had not touched the lips
Of men a thousand years.
163
And then she lay
Her down, amid the ever-changing spray,
And wished, and begged to die; and then it was,
That voice of thine the deities that awes,
Lifted to light beneath the Grecian skies,
That rich and lustrous Delian paradise,
And placed Latona there, while yet asleep,
With parted lip, and respiration deep,
And open palm; and when at length she woke,
She found herself beneath a shadowy oak,
Huge and majestic; from its boughs looked out
All birds, whose timid nature 't is to doubt
And fear mankind. The dove, with patient eyes,
Earnestly did his artful nest devise,
And was most busy under sheltering leaves;
The thrush, that loves to sit upon gray eaves
Amid old ivy, she too sang, and built;
And mock-bird songs rang out like hail-showers spilt
Among the leaves, or on the velvet grass;
The bees did all around their store amass,
Or down depended from a swinging bough,
In tangled swarms. Above her dazzling brow
The lustrous humming-bird was whirling; and,
So near, that she might reach it with her hand,
Lay a gray lizard—such do notice give
When a foul serpent comes, and they do live
By the permission of the roughest hind;
Just at her feet, with mild eyes up-inclined,
A snowy antelope cropped off the buds
From hanging limbs; and in the solitudes
No noise disturbed the birds, except the dim
Voice of a fount, that, from the grassy brim,
Rained upon violets its liquid light,
And visible love; also, the murmur slight
Of waves, that softly sang their anthem, and
Trode gently on the soft and noiseless sand,
As gentle children in sick chambers grieve,
And go on tiptoe.
Her down, amid the ever-changing spray,
And wished, and begged to die; and then it was,
That voice of thine the deities that awes,
Lifted to light beneath the Grecian skies,
That rich and lustrous Delian paradise,
And placed Latona there, while yet asleep,
With parted lip, and respiration deep,
And open palm; and when at length she woke,
She found herself beneath a shadowy oak,
Huge and majestic; from its boughs looked out
All birds, whose timid nature 't is to doubt
And fear mankind. The dove, with patient eyes,
Earnestly did his artful nest devise,
And was most busy under sheltering leaves;
The thrush, that loves to sit upon gray eaves
Amid old ivy, she too sang, and built;
And mock-bird songs rang out like hail-showers spilt
Among the leaves, or on the velvet grass;
The bees did all around their store amass,
Or down depended from a swinging bough,
In tangled swarms. Above her dazzling brow
The lustrous humming-bird was whirling; and,
So near, that she might reach it with her hand,
Lay a gray lizard—such do notice give
When a foul serpent comes, and they do live
By the permission of the roughest hind;
Just at her feet, with mild eyes up-inclined,
A snowy antelope cropped off the buds
From hanging limbs; and in the solitudes
No noise disturbed the birds, except the dim
Voice of a fount, that, from the grassy brim,
Rained upon violets its liquid light,
And visible love; also, the murmur slight
Of waves, that softly sang their anthem, and
Trode gently on the soft and noiseless sand,
As gentle children in sick chambers grieve,
And go on tiptoe.
Here, at call of eve,
When thou didst rise above the barred east,
Touching with light Latona's snowy breast
And gentler eyes, and when the happy earth
Sent up its dews to thee—then she gave birth
Unto Apollo and the lustrous Dian;
And when the wings of morn commenced to fan
The darkness from the east, afar there rose,
Within the thick and odor-dropping forests,
Where moss was grayest and dim caves were hoarest,
Afar there rose the known and dreadful hiss
Of the pursuing dragon. Agonies
Grew on Latona's soul; and she had fled,
And tried again the ocean's pervious bed,
Had not Apollo, young and bright Apollo,
Restrained from the dim and perilous hollow,
And asked what meant the noise. ‘It is, O child!
The hideous dragon, that hath aye defiled
My peace and quiet, sent by heaven's queen
To slay her rival, me.’
When thou didst rise above the barred east,
Touching with light Latona's snowy breast
And gentler eyes, and when the happy earth
Sent up its dews to thee—then she gave birth
Unto Apollo and the lustrous Dian;
And when the wings of morn commenced to fan
The darkness from the east, afar there rose,
Within the thick and odor-dropping forests,
Where moss was grayest and dim caves were hoarest,
Afar there rose the known and dreadful hiss
Of the pursuing dragon. Agonies
164
And tried again the ocean's pervious bed,
Had not Apollo, young and bright Apollo,
Restrained from the dim and perilous hollow,
And asked what meant the noise. ‘It is, O child!
The hideous dragon, that hath aye defiled
My peace and quiet, sent by heaven's queen
To slay her rival, me.’
Upon the green
And mossy grass there lay a nervous bow,
And heavy arrows, eagle-winged, which thou,
O Jove! hadst placed within Apollo's reach.
These grasping, the young god stood in the breach
Of circling trees, with eye that fiercely glanced,
Nostril expanded, lip pressed, foot advanced,
And arrow at the string; when lo! the coil
Of the fierce snake came on with winding toil,
And vast gyrations, crushing down the branches,
With noise as when a hungry tiger cranches
Huge bones: and then Apollo drew his bow
Full at the eye—nor ended with one blow:
Dart after dart he hurled from off the string—
All at the eye—until a lifeless thing
The dragon lay. Thus the young sun-god slew
Old Juno's scaly snake; and then he threw
(So strong was he) the monster in the sea;
And sharks came round and ate voraciously,
Lashing the waters into bloody foam,
By their fierce fights.
And mossy grass there lay a nervous bow,
And heavy arrows, eagle-winged, which thou,
O Jove! hadst placed within Apollo's reach.
These grasping, the young god stood in the breach
Of circling trees, with eye that fiercely glanced,
Nostril expanded, lip pressed, foot advanced,
And arrow at the string; when lo! the coil
Of the fierce snake came on with winding toil,
And vast gyrations, crushing down the branches,
With noise as when a hungry tiger cranches
Huge bones: and then Apollo drew his bow
Full at the eye—nor ended with one blow:
Dart after dart he hurled from off the string—
All at the eye—until a lifeless thing
The dragon lay. Thus the young sun-god slew
Old Juno's scaly snake; and then he threw
(So strong was he) the monster in the sea;
And sharks came round and ate voraciously,
Lashing the waters into bloody foam,
By their fierce fights.
Latona, then, might roam
In earth, air, sea, or heaven, void of dread;
For even Juno badly might have sped
With her bright children, whom thou soon didst set
To rule the sun and moon, as they do yet.
Thou! who didst then their destiny control,
I here would woo thee, till into my soul
Thy light might sink. O Jove! I am full sure
None bear unto thy star a love more pure
Than I; thou hast been, everywhere, to me
A source of inspiration. I should be
Sleepless, could I not first behold thine orb
Rise in the west; then doth my heart absorb,
Like other withering flowers, thy light and life;
For that neglect, which cutteth like a knife,
I never have from thee, unless the lake
Of heaven be clouded. Planet! thou wouldst make
Me, as thou didst thine ancient worshippers,
A poet; but, alas! whatever stirs
My tongue and pen, they both are faint and weak:
Apollo hath not, in some gracious freak,
Given to me the spirit of his lyre,
Or touched my heart with his etherial fire
And glorious essence: thus, whate'er I sing
Is weak and poor, and may but humbly ring
Above the waves of Time's far-booming sea.
All I can give is small; thou wilt not scorn
A heart: I give no golden sheaves of corn;
I burn to thee no rich and odorous gums;
I offer up to thee no hecatombs,
And build no altars: 't is a heart alone;
Such as it is, I give it—'t is thy own.
In earth, air, sea, or heaven, void of dread;
For even Juno badly might have sped
With her bright children, whom thou soon didst set
To rule the sun and moon, as they do yet.
Thou! who didst then their destiny control,
I here would woo thee, till into my soul
Thy light might sink. O Jove! I am full sure
None bear unto thy star a love more pure
Than I; thou hast been, everywhere, to me
A source of inspiration. I should be
Sleepless, could I not first behold thine orb
Rise in the west; then doth my heart absorb,
Like other withering flowers, thy light and life;
For that neglect, which cutteth like a knife,
I never have from thee, unless the lake
Of heaven be clouded. Planet! thou wouldst make
Me, as thou didst thine ancient worshippers,
A poet; but, alas! whatever stirs
165
Apollo hath not, in some gracious freak,
Given to me the spirit of his lyre,
Or touched my heart with his etherial fire
And glorious essence: thus, whate'er I sing
Is weak and poor, and may but humbly ring
Above the waves of Time's far-booming sea.
All I can give is small; thou wilt not scorn
A heart: I give no golden sheaves of corn;
I burn to thee no rich and odorous gums;
I offer up to thee no hecatombs,
And build no altars: 't is a heart alone;
Such as it is, I give it—'t is thy own.
185
STANZAS TO ANN.
The spirit in my soul hath woken,
And bids me speak to thee again;
And silence, many a day unbroken,
Must cease, although it cease in vain.
As life approaches to its goal,
And other passions seem to die,
The thoughts of thee that haunt the soul
Decay not, sleep not, death defy.
And bids me speak to thee again;
And silence, many a day unbroken,
Must cease, although it cease in vain.
As life approaches to its goal,
And other passions seem to die,
The thoughts of thee that haunt the soul
Decay not, sleep not, death defy.
Love's busy wings delight to fan
A heart that hath been worn to ashes,
And, aided by thy spirit, Ann,
Beneath his eye that heart still flashes.
Oh! why doth Love build up his nest
A ruined palace aye within,
Hiding within the poet's breast—
Why seeks he not a home more green?
A heart that hath been worn to ashes,
And, aided by thy spirit, Ann,
Beneath his eye that heart still flashes.
Oh! why doth Love build up his nest
A ruined palace aye within,
Hiding within the poet's breast—
Why seeks he not a home more green?
He hath no alcyon power, to still
The passions of the trampled heart,
Rob of its pain the torture-thrill,
Bid sorrow, want, and pain depart:
Oh no! he adds a fiercer pang
To every wo which rankles there,
Sharpens the scorpion's fiery fang,
Adds wildness unto terror's glare.
The passions of the trampled heart,
Rob of its pain the torture-thrill,
Bid sorrow, want, and pain depart:
Oh no! he adds a fiercer pang
To every wo which rankles there,
Sharpens the scorpion's fiery fang,
Adds wildness unto terror's glare.
Yet still, I love thee, and forever—
No matter what or where I be;
The blow which shall existence sever,
Alone can end my love for thee.
I love thee as men love but once—
As few have loved, can love a woman;
It seemeth strange, this perfect trance
Of love, for one that is but human.
No matter what or where I be;
The blow which shall existence sever,
Alone can end my love for thee.
I love thee as men love but once—
As few have loved, can love a woman;
It seemeth strange, this perfect trance
Of love, for one that is but human.
186
But thou wast rich, and I was poor;
I never spake my love to thee;
And I could all my wo endure,
Nor ask thee, Ann, to wed with me.
To wed with me!—it were to wed
With Poverty, and Want, and Wo:
Rather than this, from thee I fled,
And still a lonely outcast go.
I never spake my love to thee;
And I could all my wo endure,
Nor ask thee, Ann, to wed with me.
To wed with me!—it were to wed
With Poverty, and Want, and Wo:
Rather than this, from thee I fled,
And still a lonely outcast go.
But day by day my love hath grown
For thee, as all things else decline;
And when I seem the most alone,
Thy spirit doth commune with mine.
I have no portion with the world,
Nor hath the world a part with me;
But the lone wave, now shoreward hurled,
Will turn, yea, dying, turn to thee.
For thee, as all things else decline;
And when I seem the most alone,
Thy spirit doth commune with mine.
I have no portion with the world,
Nor hath the world a part with me;
But the lone wave, now shoreward hurled,
Will turn, yea, dying, turn to thee.
I make to thee, thy love, no claim;
I ask thee but, when I shall die,
To lay the world-forgotten name
Within thy heart, and o'er it sigh.
Think that the love which I have felt,
To which existence hath been given,
Has been as pure as stars that melt
And die within the depths of heaven.
I ask thee but, when I shall die,
To lay the world-forgotten name
Within thy heart, and o'er it sigh.
Think that the love which I have felt,
To which existence hath been given,
Has been as pure as stars that melt
And die within the depths of heaven.
Fare thee well—it is for ever!
Thou hast heard my dying words;
Till the cords of life shall sever,
Till the serpent Wo, that girds
The exile heart, its strings have broken,
Bruised and crushed and shattered it;
Until this, to thee are spoken
All my words—my dirge is writ.
Thou hast heard my dying words;
Till the cords of life shall sever,
Till the serpent Wo, that girds
The exile heart, its strings have broken,
Bruised and crushed and shattered it;
Until this, to thee are spoken
All my words—my dirge is writ.
Ark. Territory, April 20, 1833.
FANTASMA.
I sit, unconscious of all things around,
Gazing into my heart. Within its void
There is an image, dim and indistinct,
Of something which hath been—I know not which,
A dream, or a reality. In vain
I seek to force it take a visible form,
And be condensed to thought and memory.
At times I catch a glimpse of it, behind
The clouds and shadows, which fill up the chasm
Of the dim soul. And when I seem to grasp
The half-embodied echo of the dream,
When it hath almost grown an audible sound,
Then it retreats, hunting the inner caverns
And undisturbed recesses of the mind—
Recesses yet unpeopled by quick thought,
Or conscience, hope, live fear, or memory—
And there they hide. Now, while I separate
Myself yet more from my external life,
And turn within, I see those floating thoughts
Quiver amid the chaos of the heart;
And slowly they assume a more distinct
And palpable appearance. One by one,
Dimly, like shadows upon ocean-waves,
For a brief moment they are memory.
Gazing into my heart. Within its void
There is an image, dim and indistinct,
Of something which hath been—I know not which,
187
I seek to force it take a visible form,
And be condensed to thought and memory.
At times I catch a glimpse of it, behind
The clouds and shadows, which fill up the chasm
Of the dim soul. And when I seem to grasp
The half-embodied echo of the dream,
When it hath almost grown an audible sound,
Then it retreats, hunting the inner caverns
And undisturbed recesses of the mind—
Recesses yet unpeopled by quick thought,
Or conscience, hope, live fear, or memory—
And there they hide. Now, while I separate
Myself yet more from my external life,
And turn within, I see those floating thoughts
Quiver amid the chaos of the heart;
And slowly they assume a more distinct
And palpable appearance. One by one,
Dimly, like shadows upon ocean-waves,
For a brief moment they are memory.
I see a boy, reading at deep, dead night;
The lamp illuminates his pallid face,
Through the thin hand which shades his deep, black eyes,
Half bedded in the clustering, damp, dark hair.
He closes up the book, and rising, takes
A step, a tottering step, or two, and speaks
In low and murmuring tones unto himself:—
‘The fountain is unsealed; this “annciente rime”
Hath shown my powers to me—hath waked the tide
Of poetry, which lay within the soul.
Henceforth I know my fate; the latent love,
Now well revealed, of wild and burning song,
Will render me unhappy: until now
I have not known the bent of my own mind.
And now I look into it, as a new
And unexhausted treasure. Burning words,
Wild feelings, broken hopes, await me now.
Oh! what a curse this gift of song will be!
'T will quicken the quick feelings, make still less
The power of grasping happiness, give strength
To every disappointment, wo and pain.
If I win fame, ever unsatisfied;
If not—but I shall win it—and in vain.
Oh! what a curse, indeed, were prophecy,
And knowledge of the future. Could the soul
Exist, and know what waits it, with no wing
Of hope to shade it from the blasting eye
Of hot despair? Well, be it so; the gift
Must be received. Passion will have its way,
Although the heart be shivered by its wild
And stormy course. Although the eyes grow dim—
Dimmer than mine; although the unripe buds
Of happiness are shaken from the stems
Fed by the heart, and choak its fountains up
With their decaying blights; yea, though that heart
Be like a house deserted—with the doors
And windows open to the winter wind—
The lamps extinct, the moonlight shining in
Through barred casements and wind-moven blinds,
With ghastly eye,—passion will have its way.’
I seem him hide his face within his hand.
Was it to weep? It might be. He was young,
And tears flow freely at the spring of life.
In after years the desert is less moist,
The fountains of the heart are deeper, or
More choked and more obstructed. He was young,
And had not known the bent of his own mind,
Until the mighty spell of Coleridge woke
Its hidden powers, as did the wondrous wand
Of God's own prophet the sealed desert-rock.
He saw his fate; he knew, that to a mind
Enthusiastic, wayward, shy as his,
It is a curse, this love of poetry;
It is a thing which on the heart doth brood,
Unfitting it for aught but solitude;
Unfitting it to toil and jostle with
The busy world, and gain amid its crowd
The scanty pittance of a livelihood.
He knew all this, and wept—who would not weep?
The lamp illuminates his pallid face,
Through the thin hand which shades his deep, black eyes,
Half bedded in the clustering, damp, dark hair.
He closes up the book, and rising, takes
A step, a tottering step, or two, and speaks
In low and murmuring tones unto himself:—
‘The fountain is unsealed; this “annciente rime”
Hath shown my powers to me—hath waked the tide
Of poetry, which lay within the soul.
Henceforth I know my fate; the latent love,
Now well revealed, of wild and burning song,
Will render me unhappy: until now
I have not known the bent of my own mind.
And now I look into it, as a new
And unexhausted treasure. Burning words,
Wild feelings, broken hopes, await me now.
Oh! what a curse this gift of song will be!
'T will quicken the quick feelings, make still less
The power of grasping happiness, give strength
To every disappointment, wo and pain.
If I win fame, ever unsatisfied;
If not—but I shall win it—and in vain.
Oh! what a curse, indeed, were prophecy,
And knowledge of the future. Could the soul
Exist, and know what waits it, with no wing
Of hope to shade it from the blasting eye
Of hot despair? Well, be it so; the gift
Must be received. Passion will have its way,
Although the heart be shivered by its wild
188
Dimmer than mine; although the unripe buds
Of happiness are shaken from the stems
Fed by the heart, and choak its fountains up
With their decaying blights; yea, though that heart
Be like a house deserted—with the doors
And windows open to the winter wind—
The lamps extinct, the moonlight shining in
Through barred casements and wind-moven blinds,
With ghastly eye,—passion will have its way.’
I seem him hide his face within his hand.
Was it to weep? It might be. He was young,
And tears flow freely at the spring of life.
In after years the desert is less moist,
The fountains of the heart are deeper, or
More choked and more obstructed. He was young,
And had not known the bent of his own mind,
Until the mighty spell of Coleridge woke
Its hidden powers, as did the wondrous wand
Of God's own prophet the sealed desert-rock.
He saw his fate; he knew, that to a mind
Enthusiastic, wayward, shy as his,
It is a curse, this love of poetry;
It is a thing which on the heart doth brood,
Unfitting it for aught but solitude;
Unfitting it to toil and jostle with
The busy world, and gain amid its crowd
The scanty pittance of a livelihood.
He knew all this, and wept—who would not weep?
That shadow vanishes, and like a man
Standing anear one broad monotonous sea,
And gazing to its distant space, and void,
And chasmal indistinctness, I behold
Another shadow, gathering in the vast,
Wherein are stored old dreams and antenatal echoes.
And now its images and thoughts take shape.
I see the boy sit in a crowded room.
His eyes have still that look of wasting gloom
And lustrous deepness; still his cheek is pale,
His lips are thin and bloodless, and his form
Is wan and wasted; bright eyes bend on him,
(That might make summer in the wintry heart;)
Transparent cheeks are flushed, whene'er his voice,
With its low murmuring, is heard, as 't were,
In lone communion with himself—for praise
Has fed his eager spirit with her rain
Of dangerous sweetness. Songs of wild and fierce
And energetic things, or low and sweet
Eolic tones, but unconnected with
Himself, unegotistical, had won
Praise and a name for the enthusiast boy.
But, with the same intense and constant look
With which men gaze within upon their soul,
And with a deep expression of devotion,
He gazed continually there on one—
One that knew not his love, but stealthily
Uplooked at him, and seemed to him more cold
Because she loved him. Oh! the power of love
Is terrible upon the poet's heart.
The quick and fiery passions there that dwell,
And quiver, serpent-like, make too his love
As wild, intense, unmingled as themselves.
The boy tells not his love—
Not even when from out his wasting heart
The passions will have vent, and he doth breathe
His feelings to the world—this one remains
To feed that heart with its destroying dew.
'T is only when the passions of the soul
Have lost some fierceness, and become more tame,
Not in the first intense, enthralling gush,
That men write down their soul in measured rhyme.
After a space, it is some sad relief,
To weigh and ponder it in different ways—
To view it in all lights—in short, to make
Poetry of our feelings and our heart.
Standing anear one broad monotonous sea,
And gazing to its distant space, and void,
And chasmal indistinctness, I behold
Another shadow, gathering in the vast,
Wherein are stored old dreams and antenatal echoes.
And now its images and thoughts take shape.
I see the boy sit in a crowded room.
His eyes have still that look of wasting gloom
And lustrous deepness; still his cheek is pale,
His lips are thin and bloodless, and his form
Is wan and wasted; bright eyes bend on him,
(That might make summer in the wintry heart;)
Transparent cheeks are flushed, whene'er his voice,
With its low murmuring, is heard, as 't were,
In lone communion with himself—for praise
Has fed his eager spirit with her rain
Of dangerous sweetness. Songs of wild and fierce
And energetic things, or low and sweet
Eolic tones, but unconnected with
Himself, unegotistical, had won
189
But, with the same intense and constant look
With which men gaze within upon their soul,
And with a deep expression of devotion,
He gazed continually there on one—
One that knew not his love, but stealthily
Uplooked at him, and seemed to him more cold
Because she loved him. Oh! the power of love
Is terrible upon the poet's heart.
The quick and fiery passions there that dwell,
And quiver, serpent-like, make too his love
As wild, intense, unmingled as themselves.
The boy tells not his love—
Not even when from out his wasting heart
The passions will have vent, and he doth breathe
His feelings to the world—this one remains
To feed that heart with its destroying dew.
'T is only when the passions of the soul
Have lost some fierceness, and become more tame,
Not in the first intense, enthralling gush,
That men write down their soul in measured rhyme.
After a space, it is some sad relief,
To weigh and ponder it in different ways—
To view it in all lights—in short, to make
Poetry of our feelings and our heart.
I lose the shadow:—will its place be filled?
Darker and darker the chaotic vast;
And now upon its eyeless surface, moves
The half-embodied spirit of a dream,
Like an unshapen dread upon the soul,
A heaviness which hath no visible cause.
When will the dream arise from out the chasm,
And be revealed?—oh when? I cannot yet
Express it to myself. Again the vast
Quivers like clouds that are by lightning shaken.
And now more clearly I behold the dream—
The shadow comes distinctly to mine eyes.
I see the boy stand in a crowded street:
The shade of manhood is upon his lip;
His thin form has grown thinner, his dark eyes
More deep, more melancholy, more intense.
No muscle moves upon his pallid face;
His brow contracts not, though its swollen veins
Show that the stream of passion or of wo
Beats fastly there. Full listlessly he leans
Against the pillar of a noble dome,
Holding no converse with the crowd; his eyes
Look inward, there communing with his spirit.
Another shadow rises. Ah! it is
That lady of his love; I see her pass
By the enthusiast boy: and now I see
Him, by the sympathy which doth connect
His soul with hers, raise up his dark, sad eyes.
They meet his idol. Now his pallid face
Is flushed, his frame is shaken, as it were,
With a quick agony; the gouts of sweat
Stand on his brow. Like one who talks to spirits,
His lips part and emit a stifled sound.
One sad, mute gesture is his last farewell.
The hand of poverty has chilled his hopes,
Closed up their rainbow wings, and bid them brood
No more upon his heart, to comfort it.
Weary of toil and care, he leaves his home,
To seek in other climes a fairer lot,
And friends less faithless, and a world less cold.
He hath not told his love; he hath not asked
The idol of his soul to wed with want,
And poverty, and pain—perhaps remorse.
He leaves his home, henceforth to be a leaf,
Wandering amid the currents of the air,
Or of the trackless sea—a fallen blight—
An aimless wave, that tosses on the ocean,
Bearing a star within its heart of love.
Darker and darker the chaotic vast;
And now upon its eyeless surface, moves
The half-embodied spirit of a dream,
Like an unshapen dread upon the soul,
A heaviness which hath no visible cause.
When will the dream arise from out the chasm,
And be revealed?—oh when? I cannot yet
Express it to myself. Again the vast
Quivers like clouds that are by lightning shaken.
And now more clearly I behold the dream—
The shadow comes distinctly to mine eyes.
I see the boy stand in a crowded street:
The shade of manhood is upon his lip;
His thin form has grown thinner, his dark eyes
More deep, more melancholy, more intense.
No muscle moves upon his pallid face;
His brow contracts not, though its swollen veins
Show that the stream of passion or of wo
Beats fastly there. Full listlessly he leans
Against the pillar of a noble dome,
Holding no converse with the crowd; his eyes
Look inward, there communing with his spirit.
Another shadow rises. Ah! it is
That lady of his love; I see her pass
190
Him, by the sympathy which doth connect
His soul with hers, raise up his dark, sad eyes.
They meet his idol. Now his pallid face
Is flushed, his frame is shaken, as it were,
With a quick agony; the gouts of sweat
Stand on his brow. Like one who talks to spirits,
His lips part and emit a stifled sound.
One sad, mute gesture is his last farewell.
The hand of poverty has chilled his hopes,
Closed up their rainbow wings, and bid them brood
No more upon his heart, to comfort it.
Weary of toil and care, he leaves his home,
To seek in other climes a fairer lot,
And friends less faithless, and a world less cold.
He hath not told his love; he hath not asked
The idol of his soul to wed with want,
And poverty, and pain—perhaps remorse.
He leaves his home, henceforth to be a leaf,
Wandering amid the currents of the air,
Or of the trackless sea—a fallen blight—
An aimless wave, that tosses on the ocean,
Bearing a star within its heart of love.
Gone like the spirit of an echo;—gone
Into the shapeless chasm of the soul.
But still the cone of one white, glittering star
Lightens the dim abyss of memory.
Another shadow rises, and behind
The wild chaotic darkness waits to whelm
That shadow like the rest. I see a desert;
And in it is that boy, now grown a man:
Strange alterations have been on his soul;
His sorrows still are there, but kindly now,
Like ancient friends, they people his lone heart.
Like shadows round the roots of wasting trees,
Feeding them with an influence of love,
The sorrows feed his soul, and make it calm.
He has communed with nature, in her moods
Of stern and silent grandeur, and of sweet
And calm contentment, and of bold
And barren loneliness—conversed
Most intimately with his wasted heart,
And tracked its hidden fountains to their head;
And like sick men, that watch their frame decay
With strange and silent quietude, so he
Has watched those fountains, choked with blighted hopes,
Or sublimated unto unseen dew,
By passion's constant and devouring fire;
Has watched that heart, once verdurous, waste away,
Shedding no tear, nor feared to meet with death.
Henceforth he hath no hope;—a still despair,
A quiet, lone monotony of heart,
A strong, unsatiated wish of change,
A carelessness and scorn of all mankind,
But not a hate, and deep within his heart
A love of beauty and of poetry—
This is his nature.
I lose the shadow, and the chasmal shades
Throng from the void, filling the inner heart.
The quivering star of memory is extinct;
The echo rings no longer on the sea
Of dreams and past realities. So be it—
It is a lesson of another boy,
Whom not his crimes or follies, but the tide
Of his quick passions ruined. Let, henceforth,
None be like him. If ye are born to toil,
Wear out your hearts, and let not poetry
Enter and nestle there:—it is a curse.
Into the shapeless chasm of the soul.
But still the cone of one white, glittering star
Lightens the dim abyss of memory.
Another shadow rises, and behind
The wild chaotic darkness waits to whelm
That shadow like the rest. I see a desert;
And in it is that boy, now grown a man:
Strange alterations have been on his soul;
His sorrows still are there, but kindly now,
Like ancient friends, they people his lone heart.
Like shadows round the roots of wasting trees,
Feeding them with an influence of love,
The sorrows feed his soul, and make it calm.
He has communed with nature, in her moods
Of stern and silent grandeur, and of sweet
And calm contentment, and of bold
And barren loneliness—conversed
Most intimately with his wasted heart,
And tracked its hidden fountains to their head;
And like sick men, that watch their frame decay
With strange and silent quietude, so he
Has watched those fountains, choked with blighted hopes,
Or sublimated unto unseen dew,
By passion's constant and devouring fire;
Has watched that heart, once verdurous, waste away,
Shedding no tear, nor feared to meet with death.
191
A quiet, lone monotony of heart,
A strong, unsatiated wish of change,
A carelessness and scorn of all mankind,
But not a hate, and deep within his heart
A love of beauty and of poetry—
This is his nature.
I lose the shadow, and the chasmal shades
Throng from the void, filling the inner heart.
The quivering star of memory is extinct;
The echo rings no longer on the sea
Of dreams and past realities. So be it—
It is a lesson of another boy,
Whom not his crimes or follies, but the tide
Of his quick passions ruined. Let, henceforth,
None be like him. If ye are born to toil,
Wear out your hearts, and let not poetry
Enter and nestle there:—it is a curse.
Ark. Territory, May 10, 1833.
BALLAD,
Farewell to thee, New England,
Farewell to thee and thine;
Farewell to leafy Newbury,
And Rowley's woods of pine.
Farewell to thee and thine;
Farewell to leafy Newbury,
And Rowley's woods of pine.
Farewell to thee, old Merrimack,
Thou deep, deep heart of blue;
Oh! could I say, while looking back,
That all, like thee, are true!
Thou deep, deep heart of blue;
Oh! could I say, while looking back,
That all, like thee, are true!
Farewell to thee, old Ocean,
Gray father of the waves;
Thou, whose incessant motion
The wing of ruin braves.
Gray father of the waves;
Thou, whose incessant motion
The wing of ruin braves.
Farewell to thee, old Ocean;
I'll see thee yet once more,
Perhaps, or ere I die, but not
Along my own bright shore.
I'll see thee yet once more,
Perhaps, or ere I die, but not
Along my own bright shore.
192
Farewell, the White Hills' summer snow,
Ascutney's cone of green;
Farewell Monadnoc's regal glow,
Old Holyoke's emerald sheen.
Ascutney's cone of green;
Farewell Monadnoc's regal glow,
Old Holyoke's emerald sheen.
Farewell to hill, and lake, and dell,
And each trout-peopled stream,
That out of granite rocks doth swell,
And ocean-ward doth stream.
And each trout-peopled stream,
That out of granite rocks doth swell,
And ocean-ward doth stream.
Farewell to all—both friends and foes—
To all I leave behind;
I think not now of wrong and woes:
A long farewell, and kind.
To all I leave behind;
I think not now of wrong and woes:
A long farewell, and kind.
I go to live—perchance to die—
Unknown, in other climes;
A man of many follies I,
Perhaps, but not of crimes.
Unknown, in other climes;
A man of many follies I,
Perhaps, but not of crimes.
I have a pride in thee, my land,
Home of the free and brave;
Still to thy ancient motto stand,
Of ‘Honor or a grave.’
Home of the free and brave;
Still to thy ancient motto stand,
Of ‘Honor or a grave.’
And if I be on ocean tost,
Or scorched by burning sun,
It still shall be my proudest boast,
I am New England's son.
Or scorched by burning sun,
It still shall be my proudest boast,
I am New England's son.
So a health to thee, New England,
In a parting cup of wine;
Farewell to leafy Newbury
And Rowley's woods of pine.
In a parting cup of wine;
Farewell to leafy Newbury
And Rowley's woods of pine.
LINES.
Once more unto the desert! who
Would live a slave, when he can free
His heart from thraldom thus? O who?
Slave let him be.
Would live a slave, when he can free
His heart from thraldom thus? O who?
Slave let him be.
Once more unto the desert! now
The world's hard bonds have grown too hard.
No more, oh heart! in dungeons bow,
And caves unstarred.
The world's hard bonds have grown too hard.
No more, oh heart! in dungeons bow,
And caves unstarred.
Heart! bid the world farewell: thy task
Is done;—perhaps thy words may live;—
Thou hast no favor now to ask,
And few to give.
Is done;—perhaps thy words may live;—
Thou hast no favor now to ask,
And few to give.
Thou hast writ down thy thoughts of fire,
And deep communion with thine own
Sad spirit; now thy broken lyre
Makes its last moan.
And deep communion with thine own
Sad spirit; now thy broken lyre
Makes its last moan.
Thou hast laid out thy secrecy
Before the world, and traced each wave
Of feeling, from thy troubled sea
Unto its cave,
Before the world, and traced each wave
Of feeling, from thy troubled sea
Unto its cave,
195
Within thy dim recesses, where
The feelings most intense are hidden;
Thou hast outborne thence to the air
Thy thoughts, unbidden.
The feelings most intense are hidden;
Thou hast outborne thence to the air
Thy thoughts, unbidden.
And now unto the desert. Why!
Am I to be a slave forever?
To stay amid mankind, and die
Like a scorched river,
Am I to be a slave forever?
To stay amid mankind, and die
Like a scorched river,
Wasting in burning sands away?
Am I to toil, and watch my heart
And spirit, hour by hour decay,
Still not depart?—
Am I to toil, and watch my heart
And spirit, hour by hour decay,
Still not depart?—
To pour the treasures of my soul
Upon the world's parched wilderness,
And feel no answering echo roll
My ear to bless?
Upon the world's parched wilderness,
And feel no answering echo roll
My ear to bless?
Once more unto the desert! There
I ask nor wealth, nor hope, nor praise,
Nor gentle ease, nor want of care
On my dark ways;
I ask nor wealth, nor hope, nor praise,
Nor gentle ease, nor want of care
On my dark ways;
Nor fame, nor friends, nor joy, nor leisure—
Here I must have them all, or die,
Or lead a life devoid of pleasure—
Such now lead I.
Here I must have them all, or die,
Or lead a life devoid of pleasure—
Such now lead I.
No life of pain and toil for me!
Of home unhoped for—friends unkind!
Better the desert's waveless sea,
And stormy wind.
Of home unhoped for—friends unkind!
Better the desert's waveless sea,
And stormy wind.
Better a life amid the wild
Storm-hearted children of the plain,
Than this, with heart and soul defiled
By sorrow's rain.
Storm-hearted children of the plain,
Than this, with heart and soul defiled
By sorrow's rain.
Out to the desert! from this mart
Of bloodless cheeks, and lightless eyes,
And broken hopes, and shattered hearts,
And miseries.
Of bloodless cheeks, and lightless eyes,
And broken hopes, and shattered hearts,
And miseries.
Out to the desert! from the sway
Of falsehood, crime, and heartlessness;
Better a free life for a day
Than years like this.
Of falsehood, crime, and heartlessness;
Better a free life for a day
Than years like this.
196
Once more unto the desert, where
My gun and steed shall be my friends:
And I shall ask no aidance there—
As little lend.
My gun and steed shall be my friends:
And I shall ask no aidance there—
As little lend.
Farewell, my father-land! Afar
I make my last and kind farewell.
I did think to have seen thee—ah!
How hopes will swell!
I make my last and kind farewell.
I did think to have seen thee—ah!
How hopes will swell!
Farewell forever! Take the last
Sad gift, my father-land, of one
Struck by misfortune's chilling blast,
Yet still thy son.
Sad gift, my father-land, of one
Struck by misfortune's chilling blast,
Yet still thy son.
Farewell, my land! Farewell my pen!
Farewell, hard world—thy harder life!
Now to the desert once again!
The gun and knife!
Farewell, hard world—thy harder life!
Now to the desert once again!
The gun and knife!
Ark. Territory May 25, 1833.
| Prose sketches and poems, Written in the Western Country | |