Cabiro :: :: University of Virginia Library

Cabiro

a poem

Calvert, George Henry (1803-1889)

[section]

CABIRO.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

CABIRO.

TO JAMES M. CAMPBELL, THIS POEM IS DEDICATED, BY HIS FRIEND, THE AUTHOR.

Baltimore, April, 1840.

CANTO FIRST.

I.

Choose well your hero, and he'll make a tale.
Mine is as free and pliant as the wind,
And takes an impress quickly as the sail,
That swell'd obedient, when he left behind
His fatherland. Now, reader, you'll not fail,
If apt, to learn more of my hero's mind
From those three lines, than from as many pages
Of prose, whose words are mostly empty cages.

II.

I like this gay Italian verse. The pen
Nimbly can shift from point to point, and flit
Where'ere one's thought or humor wills; and then,
When humorless or thoughtless, one can sit
At ease on the wing'd Pegasus, whose ken
So far out-stretches a mere mortal wit.
Him I let trot or canter where he list,
And thus get views I otherwise had miss'd.

III.

Did'st ever back a springy mettled steed?
One from whose bounding gallop your own veins
Catch fire, the spirit mounting with his speed,
While he,—like a swoln flood made glad with rains,—
As if your joy he knew, and were enfreed
From all corporeal cumbrance, and the pains
Of muscles task'd, courses o'er plain or hill;
And earth, air, Heav'n and life your senses fill.

IV.

If this delight you've had, 'twill give some notion
Of the poetic gladness, when the wings
Of bold imagination,—like the ocean
Speeding a fleet,—bear thought aloft, that clings
At first, as half in fear, with quivering motion
To its wild mate, and then all terror flings,
In extacy at world's before conceal'd,
Now by imagination's power reveal'd.

V.

I said, a hero choice will make a tale;
Meaning thereby, that one in whom are blent
The qualities that in this life prevail,
Passion and thought and beauty's lineament,
Will from his soul evolve, of bliss or bale,
Enough to fill a volume would indent
The gentle reader's face with smiles or tears,
And still or stir the heart with hopes or fears.

VI.

With one so well compounded (but to get one,
Ah! there's the rub,) you can with little art
Spin a most moving story, that will set one
To read in such a hurry, that t' impart
Thoughts, truths or beauties, or escape to let one,
Were but time wasted on the writer's part.
'Tis th' easiest way; but I dont write for pelf:
Plot-loving reader, lay me on the shelf.

VII.

For I will build no story, have no plot.
I tell this early thus, that all may know,
What they're not to expect. If't be my lot
Still to be read, thus wanting, why, 't will show
I've gain'd my end: what that is, is a knot
The reader must untie, or quick or slow.
Of authors' ills the worst the grim fates hand us,
Is to be read by those can't understand us.

VIII.

Cervantes, Rabelais and Sterne are plotless;
Byron in ‘Juan,’ Wordsworth in th' ‘Excursion,’—
The one so stain'd and witty, th' other spotless
And deep,—and surely 't were a wild perversion
Of phrase, to say that any is a jot less
Renown'd or great, as 't were a strange assertion
A plot (it has a mighty plan) to claim
For Milton's Epic, or, being none to blame.

IX.

And he who rules beyond the Rhine supreme,
The sage, philosopher, naturalist and bard;
Whose beautiful proportions, port serene,
Disguise more fire and strength that oft have marr'd
Less perfect natures; who, with vision keen
And culture wide, knew best how to enguard
The brain-built structure with a thoughtful art,
And unto each the fittest form impart,—

X.

Goethe the prepotent, to that vast whole
The Faust, has lent no help of puzzling plot
To vex the surface of the reader's soul,
Whose depths are heav'd in viewing there the lot
Of frail humanity, stampt on a scroll
In magic characters time shall not blot.
And Wilhelm Meister too has been attack'd,
That with its story brains are little rack'd.

XI.

Coleridge,—Ha! what a mind was there! so fine
In texture, yet in grasp so broad, so strong;
Sounding the depths of thinking with a line
Cast with a Titan's vigour, and so long
Stout brains are task'd to watch it; with benign
Forgiveness warding off malicious wrong;
Manly and tender and with poet's light
Blending the stoic's and logician's might,—

XII.

Coleridge has said, the plots of Shakspeare are
But canvass for the artist's shaping hand
To body forth his visions. And so far
Was he from prizing them, that though command
He could all forms of being, and unbar
Earth's treasuries, scarcely a plot he plann'd,
But took them from some legend, fact or tale;
Wherefore in them even he does sometimes fail.

XIII.

And Goethe,—‘Pshaw—where is your hero, man?
This talk is tedious.’—Pray, grant me a boon.
Put down the book. Ask you is all I can;
And if you are a Christian, you'd as soon
Snore in a church as read more. Rather than
You should, if I could bar it, to the moon
I'd fling, not this my poem, but your head.
O! wo, to be by such a reader read.

XIV.

I was about to tell, what Goethe thought
Of Shakspeare (such a pair!) and 't had been worth
The while to hear it. Hast thou ever sought
A tranquil shore, and seen ocean and earth
Embrace, to music by their meeting wrought;
Or hast beheld the globe's vast watery girth,
Glassing at starry hour Heav'n's fulgent night,
Its bosom still'd to hold the mystic light;

XV.

Or hast e'er seen a snow-crowned mountain's peak
Answer the sun's magnificent salute
With rosy smile; or heard earth's tongue re-speak
In echoes the loud thunder's voice; and mute,
To meditation wrought, enrapt and meek,
Drunk wisdom at beholding God depute
The mighty elements to teach the heart
Lessons of sympathy, with nature's art?—

XVI.

Akin to the soul-sweetening motion stirr'd
By these grand spectacles, is that when meet,
With mental salutation long deferr'd
Two mighty poets, and the one doth greet
With fiery speech his brother. Then are heard
Sweet utterances and wise, which to repeat
Kindles unselfish longings in the breast,
Making us loathe what's ill and love what's best.

XVII.

I would have told, how the first German man
Salutes his greater fellow bard, the vast,
The incommensurable Englishman.
But now the native mood for this is past,
Dispers'd by that rude interruption. Scan
Therefore yourselves his pregnant page, and cast
Your eyes, if they are op'd to revelations,
On Eckerman's fine Goethic ‘Conversations.’

XVIII.

'Tis time to show my hero. I will try
To introduce him, reader, to you. Yet,
I dare not promise I will now. He's shy.
Wiser th' attempt to catch whales with a net
Than a true hero's wishes to defy.
Than that comparison you'll seldom get
A better. 'Tis deep-drawn, as 't ought to be;
For now my head is running on the sea.

XIX.

The sea! the sea! What a sweet breath it has;
And what a bosom! Clasp it in your arms
On a warm June or August day, and as
You're human, you will grudge the fish its charms.
Comforts and luxuries, those even of gas,
I'd rather lose, and suffer other harms,
Than not dwell where I in a day could be
Upon or in the billows of the sea.

XX.

A ship was sailing on the sea; the air
Kept pace beside her, like a fay-born squire,
Lending invisible aid to damsel fair.
Perhaps this simile you'll more admire:—
The breeze and ship were like a loving pair,
Each beautifying each. She her desire.
To please show'd by an even port; the which
Being shown, coquettishly she'd give a pitch.

XXI.

Westward her heading was, and the glad stir
Upon her deck gave sign that land was near.
'Tis a full moment: then there's least to blur
The soul's original brightness, and chill fear
Is routed by hope's minions, which concur
At hours like this th' oft baffled heart to cheer.
'Tis a sweet morsel from time's talons snatch'd,
While she sits brooding on a nest unhatch'd.

XXII.

But in that joyful company was one
Stood thoughtful; not that he was ill at ease,
Or discontented that the shore was won.
His thoughts were with the reaching Genoese,
He whose brave genius track'd the westward sun,
Whose mind had compass a whole world to seize.
Also he thought of Schiller's genial verse.
Thus I translate it:—you've admired worse.

XXIII.

‘Sail on, bold mariner; though witlings at thee sneer
And at the helm the sailor sinks his wearied hand:
On, onward to the west, thy goal must soon appear,
For in thy mind distinct and glowing lies the land.
Trust to the guiding God, follow the silent sea:
Were not yet there the shore, 'twould now rise from the wave;
For nature is to genius link'd eternally,
And ever will perform the promise genius gave.’

XXIV.

And he too on th' expanded Occident
Turn'd hopeful look;—when suddenly was check'd
His vision's strain'd career. As it had rent
Now for the first old ocean's wall, erect
Columbus' land its monstrous form upsent.
Nor beauty with all blandishment bedeck'd,
Nor of heap'd gold or diamond the full blaze,
Could so have chain'd that rapt beholder's gaze.

XXV.

Upon his countenance was deeply stampt:—
No, naught was stampt. 'Twas not a face to bear,
Even later, the hard look that tells of crampt
Emotions,—such as th' overselfish wear,
Whose narrow longings have been rudely dampt,—
Or they who're early tortur'd, preys to care.
In him the faculties seem'd fairly mingled,
Nor on his face could any one be singled.

XXVI.

Sensations, thoughts and fancies from within,
And the rich shows and images that press
From outward objects to the brain, and bring
Stuff for the understanding to express,
Met in his face. The surface of a spring,
Whose rise is in the earth's unscann'd recess,
That, gushing up from its dark loamy nest
To the broad day, upon its stainless breast

XXVII.

Catches so promptly each corporeal shape
That's near or passes it;—on such a fount's
Pure earth-fed bosom, that will quickly take
Each offer'd form, my eager pen doth pounce,
As the best likeness I just now can shake
Out of my brain, and found, I wont renounce.
I hope 't will please, and not be deem'd obscure:
'Tis sometimes hard a figure to procure.

XXVIII.

But stop—I'll better it; for as again
The fountain's drops return to whence they'd sprung,
Replenishing their mother earth in rain;
So th' outward images whereof we've sung,
As meeting thoughts that in the soul had lain,
Replenish too the mind whereon they're flung.
If still you don't approve it, 't is your fault:
I've made it tight 'gainst critical assault.

XXIX.

What think you of my Hero? ‘Think of him!
What can we think of one not yet describ'd?
Neither his stature, nor the shape of limb,
His nation, station, nor from whence deriv'd,
The colour of his hair, nor any thing
One looks for in the case, have you inscrib'd
Upon your motley and erratic page;
You have not even told us yet his age.’

XXX.

Motley, erratic:—I believe you're right.
The truth is, the poetic horse will prance
And rear, and even with his rider fight;
And sometimes he will lead one such a dance,
That to attempt what most one wants to write
Is vain. At other times he'll not advance
A step, whate'er your haste, but stand stock still:
No help then but to let him have his will.

XXXI.

At best he need's a curb: I've scarce a snaffle.
This octave verse, it is so weak a bridle,
The chances are as great as in a raffle,
Against your hope. The beast is sure to sidle,
Flounder or kick or run away, and baffle
Your highest schemes: to try to check him's idle.
Cut off my spurs if I dismount him. Fling me
He can't: so on, let's see where he will bring me.

XXXII.

When a young mother (with that doting hope
Mothers and authors only comprehend)
Asks how you like her infant; there's no scope
For answer. Who that thinks she did intend
To call opinion forth? She would evoke
An echo to her feeling. You offend
By saying, ‘'t is yet too young to judge aright,’
As much as if you said, ‘the child's a fright.’

XXXIII.

The proper phrase to use in such a case
Is this,—‘It is a child of promise.’ This
One may pronounce of any infant face,
And neither truth, fitness, nor manners miss.
If you can praise its eyes, nose, mouth or grace,
Do it of course, and finish with a kiss.
But say 't is promising; for this one can
Honestly say of any little man.

XXXIV.

For the world lives on hope; and of this food
We should be liberal to one another.
My drift is obvious; 't is to show, the mood
Of authorship's the same, whether the mother
Of babes holds up, for sympathy, her brood,
Or th' author his brain-gotten offspring. Smother
All chilling comment on a pen-launch'd duckling,
As christianly as on the flesh-clad suckling.

XXXV.

And now,—this precept of politeness told,—
I'll prove, that I can stand without this crutch;
That of a hero but few stanzas old,
Exhibiting what mine does, 't were not much
To say of him, he promises t' unfold
High qualities, and that, whether he's Dutch,
Swede, Englishman or Greek; is information
Kept wisely back, as also shape and station.

XXXVI.

Art is but nature cunningly display'd.
Nature bids mind be maker of the man.
On th' Artist no severer law is laid,—
Since he with pencil, chisel, pen, began
Beauty to seize,—than this, that what's portray'd
Must have a soul; else lies it under ban,
And dies. In vain he toils, strives not to err:
No Artist he,—a manufacturer.

XXXVII.

And now the world's so full of ‘raw material,’
In words, thoughts, deeds, that he can hardly 'scape,—
(Without a spark of Genius' fire etherial)
Who has a memory and skill to shape,—
Bodies to build shall almost look aerial.
Lacking the vital spirit, in vain you scrape
Industriously from every age and clime:
The product perishes, be 't prose or rhyme.

XXXVIII.

First then in order, by the laws of Art,
(Laws that are laws because from Nature's mouth)
Be shown the fabled Hero's mental part.
Full fields wither not more from vernal drouth,
Than characters that get not a fair start;
Nor buds, untimely blown by the warm South,
More surely droop against a chilling North,
Than they, when prematurely they put forth

XXXIX.

Corporeal features, having not the mind
To fend the blows wherewith they will be rapt
In the feigned world for which they are design'd.
To carry on the figure,—which is apt,—
As but to guard their core trees have a rind,
Bodies are bark wherein the soul's enwrapt.
Books, chiefly novels, though they look so well,
Are mostly soul-less: bark them,—they're all shell.

XL.

But time I'm wasting and more precious stanzas
To prove,—what lightens from the highest pages,
From Hamlet's, Satan's, Hector's, Sancho Panza's,
From all the greatest poets, deepest sages,—
Good books are spiritual things. And now the land's as
Distinct as it had been beheld for ages.
Here as elsewhere, the genuine laws of ethics
Throw light upon the precepts of aesthetics.

XLI.

Enough of this. I trust you're satisfied.
And if you're not, go back to what I've stated
Touching my raptur'd Hero. I'll abide
Your second judgment. Read what's there related
Of his condition when he first descried
Our shore. I will consent to be berated
For a coarse bungler, if you don't admit,
(Provided you've imagination, wit,)

XLII.

That one exalted to such contemplations,
Gives hope of doings worthy a relater,
That much is to be guess'd (with inclinations
To guess) from that beginning, of what later
He'll think and act in other situations.
I could have told;—he's valiant as Decatur,
With Milo's strength, the form of Paris, bright,—
But these are words that any ass can write.

XLIII.

The beings of the brain (and there are some
So vitally endow'd, they think, speak, feel,
As vividly as men whose names are 'mong
The loud'st reported on Fame's trumpet peal;
For sooner shall the greatest kings become
Dethron'd from memory, than time shall steal
From ‘black Macbeth’ the ‘golden round.’ ‘Sweet Jack's,’
More wit than the whole drove of Charles's hacks.)

XLIV.

That wide parenthesis so long has stopt
The current of my thoughts, that like a river
(Here's a new simile this moment dropt
By th' ‘organ of comparison,’ the giver
Of all the figures, tropes, that ever popt
Into the cranium of a scribbling liver)
Enchaf'd by opposition and delay,
It quits its lawful bed and goes astray.—

XLV.

Contemplating the fair creations, born
Of procreant genius in its active hour;
How like the balmy dew renew'd each morn,
They shed the freshness of their unspent power
From age to age, and man's scarr'd life adorn
With fragrant beauty, to his heart a dower
Which Time can't waste, a concord in our state
Of double being, where clay's the spirit's mate;

XLVI.

One's lull'd to dream,—our bodies are the strings
Of sleeping instruments, until their tones
By spirit are awak'd, which on them flings
Or sounds of gladness or of racking groans,—
And that the healthy poet's he, who brings
A cheerful waxing force, 'fore which the moans
Grow faint and fainter, till at last there be
From clay and spirit one glad harmony.—

XLVII.

But to resume. The beings of the brain
Like those whose meat-fed hands we daily clasp,—
By slow degrees grow on the mind. To drain
At one long draught their natures, is a task
Impossible, or if perform'd, is vain.
What with so little effort one can grasp,
Howe'er it look, has not the stuff to wear well:
From such, once view'd, the reader gladly takes a farewell.

XLVIII.

Brutus remains unfathom'd to this day;
And so do Gracchus, Cromwell, Buonaparte;
And many others, famous in their way.
Critics are still discussing Hamlet's heart;
There's mystery in the Promethean lay;
And Faust's a puzzle in poetic art.
Thus men of blood as well as men of ink
Have giv'n and give the world a world to think.

XLIX.

And this, I take it's not their lowest merit.
'Tis proof there's matter in them. Search it out.
You'll surely find it if you wisely ferret
If therefore in the end, you are in doubt
As to the wealth these pages may inherit;
Reflect, that they are worth doubting about.
What they're about, I'll tell to him who delves
To know, to help him:—they're about themselves.

L.

Now rest, my muse. Refresh thy glossy wing
For higher flight into the blest dominion
Of radiant poetry, whence thou would'st bring
Trophies and booty with wide-sweeping pinion.
Plume thee thy long up-treasur'd notes to sing
With power to reach the soul, and win opinion
Of those,—the generous, the strong, the free,—
Whose minds are tuned to noble sympathy.

END OF CANTO FIRST.

CANTO SECOND.

I.

The world will be amus'd. 'Tis therefore well,
That dancers, mountebanks, apes, clowns and writers,
Have scope to make ‘that idiot, laughter,’ swell.—
That false phrase is from one of Shakspeare's biters,
And wisely placed.—They who enact or tell
What quicken's laughter, are the light-arm'd fighters
Against beleaguering sorrow. And to grin,
Is man's, as much as reason or a chin.

II.

With equal truth may 't be pronounc'd of fun
As misery, that it a man acquaints
With strange companions;—just as by a dun
All doors are op'd, of sinners as of saints.
Let therefore no pen-wielder wrathful run
Afoul of mine, because it freely paints
Together, apes, clowns, mountebanks and writers.
I coupled them for common praise as lighters

III.

Of life's wo-laden vessel, in distress,
From shoal or tempest. He who takes it ill
To be consorted thus, mistakes, I guess,
His own position. If inspect he will
The case, he'll quit me. I myself confess,
I write but to amuse—myself, and fill
Some hours else spent in idling, banking, chewing,
Or in some other form of evil doing.

IV.

And if one writes for gold, 't is all the same.
Unless you please you fail to get the money;
Which is precisely the clown's case, who's tame.
To keep his stomach full, he must be funny.
Further, writing for pay I've found but lame
And dull work, bringing much more gall than honey.
I've added one to those who're pleas'd,—myself,
Since I but write to please and not for pelf.

V.

And fame, keen-hunted fame, what is its measure?
Is't not in the delight of those who read?
Thus fame too's gaged by what one gives of pleasure.
The higher that, the richer is the meed
Of praise, to those who value praise a treasure,
Which 't is not for itself. The worth of deed
Or word's the gem. Much praise is won by fools,
And will be, till we're better stored with schools.

VI.

But no earth-tainted motive can unseal
The sacred fonts of poetry. The Nine
Are jealous of their deity, and deal
Indignant scorn and punishment condign
On those ignoble, who pretend to kneel
In their pure Temple, while they but design
Mouth-worship, having in their hearts some aim
Of selfishness, for lucre or for fame.

VII.

Of the Castalian fountain, one must take
Unmingled draughts, and from a craving thirst.
Then 't will, like Saratoga water, wake
The subtlest spirits that are inly nurst
By thought and contemplation. I will stake
My pen, that simile is not the worst
You've met. For Byron,—charged, mongst other faults,
With gin,—declar'd, his Hippocrene was salts.

VIII.

Goethe of his delight has somewhere spoken,
When in his early youth to friends he read,—
Longing for sympathy, the poet's token,—
The songs, the firstlings his deep bosom fed;
And how it would as much the joy have broken
Of those sweet moments, had it then been said,
‘Those things will fetch such an amount of Coins,’
As if they'd bid for children of his loins.

IX.

That fact reveals the mystery of the birth
Of Poems. But a fact 't is, which ‘the trade’
Have naught to do with. Are not diamonds worth
What they will bring? But think you were laid
As on a salesman's shelf down in the earth?
Those paragons of mineral beauty, made
To glad the body's eye, as poems the mental.
Yet both are fairly us'd t' enlarge one's rental.

X.

We left our Hero, forty stanzas back,
Gazing with open soul upon the land,
As't grew before the vessel's westward tack,
Which ‘heap'd the waters’ 'bout her bows, as, fann'd
By the fresh breeze that left no cordage slack,
She bore her like a thing that had command
O'er th' element she moved in, and her way
Pursued as though she never brook'd delay.

XI.

Steam is a revelation, a new force
Vouchsaf'd to man;—a keener scythe, to reap
With fuller swath earth's harvest in his course
Of toil;—a staff wherewith he takes a leap
In frowning Time's untrod abyss;—a source
Of active power immeasurably deep;
Whence too, through Harmony's high laws shall flow
E'en spiritual effects, as time will show.

XII.

Yet ne'ertheless, steam is mechanical
In fact as t'outward vision; nor a boat,
Steam-urg'd 'gainst tide or tempest, can ye call
An object beautiful; but one must quote
(An inward process) laws dynamical,
To grapple the phenomenon and note
Its vastness. Bodily the sound and sight
You'd scarcely deem poetically bright.

XIII.

But a fair ship, speeding so noiselessly,
Looks like a cloud-crown'd visitant new lighted
From th' air, or Venus issuing from the sea
Foam-girdled, or a ‘silver fawn’ delighted
With her own motion, or whatever ye
Can best imagine or have seen indited
Of moving beauty. I have other fish
To angle for, for my poetic dish.

XIV.

Our Hero!—(I have fears he'll give me trouble
This gazer. Forty minutes, since he caught
First sight of shore, have past,—yea, even double
That number, if you've ponder'd, as you ought,
Each stanza, each being solid, no mere bubble
Of wind-stretcht words,—yet there like one who's wrought,
He stands, by some enchanter's potent spell.
But after all, perhaps it is as well

XV.

He should give trouble. Great Achilles gave
No doubt not more to Trojans and to Greeks,
Than to his father Homer; for he'd rave,
With passion, and was full of pride-blown piques,—
A character as hard to make behave
On paper as in camp. The fiery freaks
Of Hotspur, as 't is voucht, alarm'd Shakspeare,
Who hence griev'd not when Hal stopt his career.)

XVI.

But now he's rous'd; and from the deck he view'd
The gathering land, as forward came, mead, hill,
Valley and grove, with morning freshness dew'd,
To greet the voyagers, and to re-fill
Their sea-drain'd hearts, who have for weeks been mew'd
Shipboard; where even they can hardly ‘kill
The enemy,’ who 're furnished for the fight.
His trailing wings Time shakes for swifter flight.

XVII.

The greeting quickly warms to an embrace.
The land encloses them: they 're in the ‘Narrows.’
No jot the good ship bates of her swift pace,
But through the ruffled billows stoutly harrows
Her way, as fresh as when she 'gan the race.
The parted waves flash past her side like arrows.
The broad bay opens to her lusty prow.
Life thickens on the wave and shore, and now

XVIII.

The mitred head of the great city shines
Afar, as if suspended from a vault
Of azure. Gradually in clearer lines
The tapering steeples cheer the sight, nor halt
In downward growth, until each spire combines
With grosser bulk beneath it. Through the salt
And quivering bay the stout ship ploughs her road,
And soon the close-rank'd houses full she show'd.

XIX.

Like a huge giant, yet to vision dim
The city lay, couch'd on its sea-girt bed
As if it were asleep, while 'bout it skim
Its ministering servants on blithe errands sped,
Boats, schooners, sloops, and craft of various trim,
A countless brood by lavish commerce fed.
Distance has vanish'd to the left and right
Upon the water's edge, that pours its might

XX.

On either side for inland, and all eyes
Are prying eager on the teeming mart,
So close in view, that from its bosom rise
The first dear sounds from land, that on the heart
Of sea-worn voyagers, strike like the cries
Of chirping nestlings to returning dams, that dart
Caressing looks in answer. One hour more—
The ship's at rest, her inmates all on shore.

XXI.

Although not quite so certain as a stork
In her departure and arrival; yet
A well appointed packet from New York,
Has regularity enough to let
One order at departing knife and fork
To be in readiness and table set
On Ocean's other side, and find on landing
Prepar'd each article of his commanding.

XXII.

An ocean appetite! who that has carried
That treasure from the wharf up to a neat
Well-stored Hotel, where cleanliness is married
To thrift and a full larder, and one's seat
At dinner's firm, after you have been harried
By salt waves rolling 'neath your salter meat,—
Who has possess'd will well know how to prize
This wealth, and with my Hero sympathize.

XXIII.

If any gourmand's gross imagination
Shall from that stanza conjure up a feast
For him to gloat on, I make protestation
'Gainst the abuse. I wish my words releas'd
From such unnatural interpretation.
(A poet who's a pander is a beast.)
All that I meant thereby was, to have hinted
My hero has not been in stomach stinted.

XXIV.

I wish to show him arm'd for each event.
And oft it haps in ‘good society,’
At ‘entertainments’ giv'n with best intent,
There is of dishes more variety
Than of ideas, and where more vigour's spent
By stomachs than by heads. Sobriety
In meat and drink you cannot well expect
Where purse, not brains, is badge of the ‘select.’

XXV.

With letters introductory well stock'd,
And having to regard some other claims,
My hero then is landed. ‘Be not shock'd
At this my speech,’ some foreigner exclaims.
‘I swear the muse will think herself bemock'd.
Good sir, this is no clime for poet's aims.
A drudging, huckstering land, to bring a man to!
You'll not find stuff to end this second Canto.’—

XXVI.

Float we not on the shoreless sea of wonder,
Struggling to know, with daring sophistry
Or humble faith, what surely is, and sunder
The false from true in life's deep mystery,—
Harkening to Nature's whispers or her thunder,
To catch the secret of her history,—
Striving to pierce what's 'neath us or above,
Urg'd on by terror or upborne by love?

XXVII.

Are we not men? Amenable to fears,—
Subject to passion's driving storms, that drench
Mortality in woes and sighs and tears,
Or scath with burning lightning, which to quench,
Drains the sore heart of its life drops, or sears
With blacken'd streaks, which tell how strong a wrench
The mind can suffer and still keep its path,
Unbow'd though bruis'd, and growling inward wrath.

XXVIII.

Are we not men? Sucking the breast of Hope,
Fleeing to her soft arms and sweet caressing
To draw fresh life and strength, for wider scope,
From her, th' unfailing mother, whose warm blessing
Hangs o'er who highest rise or lowest grope,—
Who lets no day go by without impressing
A kiss on every child,—aye prompt to save
Through life, and beaming loveliest o'er the grave.

XXIX.

The sweet desires,—in childhood yet untold,
Like sleeping fragrancies in unblown flowers,—
That unto Youth's full gleaming eye unfold
Celestial visions, while his panting powers,
As free as pure, yet dream their deeds and hold
Communion with the stars,—are these not ours,
To steep our souls in beauty's golden dyes
And make the earth bloom still a Paradise?

XXX.

The rich emotions woven from the soul,
At once,—like wings to seraphs,—its support
And lucent garment, wherewith tow'rds its goal
Of earth or Heav'n, it moves with earnest port,
As life's internal treasuries unroll
Their wealth of sympathies,—do they not court
Enjoyment in our breasts? Can we not thirst
For virtue, longing selfish bonds to burst?

XXXI.

Of the broad tree of civilization, planted
Deep in the East in manhood's glowing morn,
Have the slow-ripening fruit to us been scanted?
Of Greek or Hebrew light have we been shorn,
Or modern, 'bout the which not less is ranted,
German, Italian, English, French? We're born
Freemen and Christians. What a birth-right! Where,
Since the earth's genesis, was one more fair?

XXXII.

And outwardly. The world-enclasping sun,
At the same moment that his fire mid-day
Darts down on Leman's lake,—his course half run
In Europe,—he his daily farewell ray
On Himalaya throws, the while upon
Green Allegany's tops the stars' delay
Is chid by Morning, who with burning lashes
Drives 'fore him the sidereal host, and flashes

XXXIII.

On our whole continent the welcome light.
Now Nature's troop of beauties shake the dew
From off their waken'd brows. Where in his flight
Is Morning gladden'd by a richer view
Of Earth's munificence? Where is the sight
Of thankful man op'd daily to renew
Greeting with forms, more lovely, bounteous, grand,
Than here in great Columbus' gorgeous land?

XXXIV.

The earth here too's refresh'd with winter's sleep:
The air wakes her in spring with its warm kiss,
Making her bosom heave as in it leap
The tokens of her near maternal bliss.
‘The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,’
Riding their foamy coursers from th' abyss
Of mighty forests on to the far ocean,
Bounding through empires live with vernal motion.

XXXV.

And summer's pomp of leaf and golden fruit,
With her full floods of genial heat, begetting
Delight in shade, where breezes soft recruit
Th' exhausted lungs and arms of labour, whetting
Its sated appetite for fresh pursuit.
But see! the day is spent,—the sun is setting.
Are we on earth? Or have the cherubim
Op'd Heaven's gates to let our spirits swim

XXXVI.

A moment in th' Empyrean.—And story;
We have a double heritage. Through speech,
We share the ‘sceptred Island's’ mental glory.
Far from the past, unto our bosoms reach
Of Britain's ancient sages, poets, th' hoary
But deathless tones (as on a sunny beach
The dark sea's billow's breaking from the deep,)
And our hearts fresh with their sweet music keep.

XXXVII.

‘Dan Chaucer, well of English undefil'd’
As affluent Spensor sings; and Milton, strong
With angels' strength, yet guileless as a child,
Champion of liberty, and with his song,—
Wherein all the soul's beauties are up-piled,—
Scaling the Heavens; these to us belong
With the two Bacons, Hooker, Taylor, More,
Feeding our minds and teaching us to soar.

XXXVIII.

And he,—a second Adam on the earth,
Repeopling it, the one unparallel'd,
Th' absolute lord of pathos and of mirth,
As if creation's growth he had beheld,
And had espied the secrets of its birth,
And drunk the subtle spirit as it well'd
In being's fonts,—Shakspeare,—that awful name!
A household word with us,—him too we claim.

XXXIX.

Nor less of haughty Britain's modern singers
And soul-unfolding thinkers does the word
Of cheer visit our hearts. The English bringers
Of tidings from the realms of mind are heard
As lovingly by us, as if the fingers
That pen'd the thoughts, by meditation stirr'd,
Grasp'd the stout feather of a swan whose beak
Suck'd food on the wide shores of Chesapeake.

XL.

As impotent the Britain's jealousy
From us to wrench the treasures of our tongue,
As 'gainst our soul-engender'd liberty
His cannon, in that fearful hour, when rung
From North to South the battle cry, and we
'Neath panoply of justice, boldly flung
In the oppressor's scornful teeth defiance,
Placing on God and right our hearts' reliance.

XLI.

Then 'fore the nations a new banner stream'd,—
For manhood and for principle unfurl'd,—
And on his rotten seat old Custom scream'd,
Trembling to witness his gross temples hurl'd.
Then wrathful wax'd still hearts, and soft eyes gleam'd,
And a new era loom'd upon the world,
And Fear grip'd wrinkled despots on their thrones,
And bade them hearken how the people's groans

XLII.

And quench'd in extacy, as mid the roar
Of Albion's wreckful squadrons, unappall'd
Columbia's band, bedrench'd in brothers' gore,
Still shouted hopeful, and the valiant call'd
Unto the valiant; till from shore to shore
The vauntful foeman in defeat was pall'd,
And freedom triumph'd, and at last the sun
Shone calmly on victorious Washington.

XLIII.

Washington! One can figure rolling Time
As pausing to contemplate the great deed,
When he was born, and listen to the chime
Swell'd from exulting angels, when the seed
Upon the earth was sown of such sublime
And man-ennobling acts, as 't was decreed
He should perform. The universe is bound
In harmony; and when the mighty sound

XLIV.

Of Niagára this vast land first woke
From silence, rending Chaos' brooding dream,
And into life earth's grandest sight had broke
Of oceans leaping; from God's throne a beam
Was loosen'd,—a great soul,—and it was spoke
In Heaven, ‘Washington shall be, and gleam
With awful majesty, a quenchless light,
In fellowship with Niagára's might.’

END OF CANTO SECOND.