 | Moll Pitcher |  |
---“If the seeker be of an haute and stomachful carriage, and maketh merrie of the wisdom of thine art, thou mayest gain an empery over his orgulous and misbelieving spirit, by some full strange, and terrible misterie, or cunning device, whereat he may be amort with doleful misgivings.”
C. Agripp. Note to Abra kat Abra.TO ELI TODD, M. D. OF HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT, THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, AS A FEEBLE TESTIMONY OF THE HIGH RESPECT AND WARM FRIENDSHIP OF THE AUTHOR.
5
MOLL PITCHER.
[_]
Note. The following pages, dear reader, are published neither for a poetical reputation nor for money. The former is unfortunately a most indefinite, and too often “stale, flat and unprofitable” comodity, inasmuch as it would puzzle the French cook who made fifty different dishes of a parsnip, to make either meat or drink of it. As for the latter, I have not enough of the poetical mania in my disposition, to dream of converting by an alchymy more potent than that of the old philosophers, a limping couplet into a brace of doubloons; or a rickety stanza into a note of hand. Moll Pitcher (“there's music in the name,”) is the offspring of a few weeks of such leisure, as is afforded by indisposition, and is given to the world in all its original negligence—the thoughts fresh as when first originated.
1. PART I.
Ha, ha—ha, ha—ha, ha!—
The old witch laughed outright—
Ha, ha—ha, ha—ha, ha!—
That cold and dismal night.
The wind was blowing from the sea
As raw and chill as wind might be—
Driving the waves, as if their master
Towards the black shore, fast and faster,—
Tossing their foam against the rocks
Which scowl along yon island's verge.
And shake their gray and mossy locks
Secure above the warring surge.
The old witch laughed outright—
The name of “Moll Pitcher” is familiar to almost every inhabitant of New England;—and her fame has extended to all parts of the commercial world—in short wherever American seamen have been known. No Pythoness of the olden time—no Druid of ancient Britain, churming over his misleto—no Scald of the North, bending at the shrine of Odin, ever acquired a more diabolical reputation, or was sought after with greater earnestness by a credulous community. She died about twenty years ago. A late writer (Upham, on Witchcraft) this concludes his notice of this singular personage:—“Her name has every where become the generic title of fortune-tellers, and occupies a conspicuous place in the legends and ballads of popular superstition. Her renown has gone abroad to the farthest regions; and her memory will be perpetuated in the annals of credulity and imposture. An air of romance is breathed around the scenes where she practised her mystic art, the interest and charm of which will increase as the lapse of time removes her history back to the dimness of the distant past.”
Ha, ha—ha, ha—ha, ha!—
That cold and dismal night.
The wind was blowing from the sea
As raw and chill as wind might be—
Driving the waves, as if their master
Towards the black shore, fast and faster,—
Tossing their foam against the rocks
Which scowl along yon island's verge.
And shake their gray and mossy locks
Secure above the warring surge.
Keen blew the wind, and cold,
The moon shone dim and faintly forth,
Between the gray cloud's parting fold,
As if it sickened of the earth,
So very pale and ghastly lay
Its broken light along the bay,
Silvering the fisher's stealing skiff—
Or whitening o'er the jagged cliff,
Or resting on the homes of men,
As if its awful sheen had been
A white funeral shroud outspread
By some kind spirit o'er the dead;
And, now and then, a wan star burned,
Where'er its cloudy veil was rended—
A moment's light, but seen and ended,
As if some angel from on high
Had fixed on earth his brilliant eye,
And back to Heaven his glances turned!
The moon shone dim and faintly forth,
Between the gray cloud's parting fold,
As if it sickened of the earth,
So very pale and ghastly lay
Its broken light along the bay,
Silvering the fisher's stealing skiff—
Or whitening o'er the jagged cliff,
Or resting on the homes of men,
As if its awful sheen had been
A white funeral shroud outspread
By some kind spirit o'er the dead;
And, now and then, a wan star burned,
6
A moment's light, but seen and ended,
As if some angel from on high
Had fixed on earth his brilliant eye,
And back to Heaven his glances turned!
She stood upon a bare, tall crag,
Which overlooked her ragged cot—
A wasted, gray and meagre hag,
In features evil as her lot.
She had the crooked nose of a witch,
And a crooked back and chin,
And in her gait she had a hitch,
And in her hand she carried a switch,
To aid her work of sin,
A twig of wizard-hazle, which
Had grown beside a haunted ditch,
Where a mother her nameless child had thrown
To the running water and merciless stone.
The residence of “Moll Pitcher” was directly under the shadow of High Rock—a bold eminence hanging over the village of Lynn, Mass.—and commanding a wide prospect of wild and beautiful scenery. On the one hand, the rugged coast stretches away to where the ancient and picturesque village of Marblehead rests on its rocky foundation, like the eyrie of a sea-eagle. On the other, are the beautiful beaches of Nahant and Chelsea—the islands sleeping like green-winged sea-birds in the distant bay of Boston, and the white sails flitting past them.
Which overlooked her ragged cot—
A wasted, gray and meagre hag,
In features evil as her lot.
She had the crooked nose of a witch,
And a crooked back and chin,
And in her gait she had a hitch,
And in her hand she carried a switch,
To aid her work of sin,
A twig of wizard-hazle, which
Had grown beside a haunted ditch,
Where a mother her nameless child had thrown
To the running water and merciless stone.
Who's coming up the winding path,
Worn faintly in the mossy rock?—
Enveloped in its ample cloak
The form a woman's semblance hath.
Why laughs the witch to see her come
So stealthily towards her home?
Knows she that dim shape thus afar,
When scarce one shorn and shadowed star,
With its faint line of wizard light
Crosses the shadow of the night?
Long laughed the witch—and then she spoke,
And echo answered from the rock,
As if some wild and evil elf
Within its caverns dared to mock
Her strange communion with herself.
“And so,” she cried, “she's come at last,—
The oak will kneel before the blast,
And wherefore should the sapling frail
Bend its light form against the gale?
The heart is strong—but passion stronger
And love than human pride is longer—
And ill may woman's weakness scorn
What manhood's strength hath hardly borne!
I know her tread—'tis haughty yet,
As if she could not all forget
Her early scorn of me and mine.
Ay, let her come!—the early spell,
Which binds her heart so sweetly well,
Shall serpent-like around it twine!
I know the charm—I know the word,
Which, powerless as the snake-charmed bird.
Shall bind her with its fearful tone—
Her cherished thoughts shall all be heard,
Her secret hopes shall all be known.”
Worn faintly in the mossy rock?—
Enveloped in its ample cloak
The form a woman's semblance hath.
Why laughs the witch to see her come
So stealthily towards her home?
Knows she that dim shape thus afar,
When scarce one shorn and shadowed star,
With its faint line of wizard light
Crosses the shadow of the night?
Long laughed the witch—and then she spoke,
And echo answered from the rock,
As if some wild and evil elf
Within its caverns dared to mock
Her strange communion with herself.
“And so,” she cried, “she's come at last,—
The oak will kneel before the blast,
And wherefore should the sapling frail
Bend its light form against the gale?
The heart is strong—but passion stronger
And love than human pride is longer—
7
What manhood's strength hath hardly borne!
I know her tread—'tis haughty yet,
As if she could not all forget
Her early scorn of me and mine.
Ay, let her come!—the early spell,
Which binds her heart so sweetly well,
Shall serpent-like around it twine!
I know the charm—I know the word,
Which, powerless as the snake-charmed bird.
Shall bind her with its fearful tone—
Her cherished thoughts shall all be heard,
Her secret hopes shall all be known.”
Again she laughed as down the crag
She swung her meagre skeleton—
No fears for thee, thou hateful hag—
The Devil keeps his own!
“Walk in, walk in my pretty maid—
This night is fitting for my trade!”
“Ha, mother Moll—'tis well—I've come,
Like other fools to know my doom.”
She swung her meagre skeleton—
No fears for thee, thou hateful hag—
The Devil keeps his own!
“Walk in, walk in my pretty maid—
This night is fitting for my trade!”
“Ha, mother Moll—'tis well—I've come,
Like other fools to know my doom.”
The twain passed in—a low dark room
With here and there a crazy chair,
A broken glass—a dusty loom—
A spinning-wheel—a birchen broom,
The witch's courier of the air—
As potent as that steed of wings
On which the Meccan prophet rode
Above the wreck of meaner things
Unto the Houri's bright abode.
A low dull fire by flashes shone
Across the gray and cold hearth-stone
Flinging at times a trembling glare
On the low roof and timbers bare.
With here and there a crazy chair,
A broken glass—a dusty loom—
A spinning-wheel—a birchen broom,
The witch's courier of the air—
As potent as that steed of wings
On which the Meccan prophet rode
Above the wreck of meaner things
Unto the Houri's bright abode.
A low dull fire by flashes shone
Across the gray and cold hearth-stone
Flinging at times a trembling glare
On the low roof and timbers bare.
How has New England's romance fled,
Even as a vision of the morning!
Its rites foregone—its guardians dead—
Its altar-fires extinguished—
Its priestesses, bereft of dread,
Waking the veriest urchin's scorning!
No more along the shadowy glen,
Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men,—
No more the unquiet church-yard dead,
Glimpse upward from their turfy bed,
Startling the traveller, late and lone;
As, on some night of cloudy weather,
They commune silently together,
Each sitting on his own head-stone!
The roofless house, decayed, deserted,
Its living tenants all departed,
No longer rings with midnight revel
Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil;
No hellish flame sends out its flashes
Through creviced roof and shattered sashes!—
The witch-grass round the hazle spring,
May sharply to the night air sing,
But there no more shall withered hags
Refresh at ease, their broomstick nags;
Or taste those hazle-shadowed waters
As beverage meet for Satan's daughters;
No more their mimic tones be heard—
The mew of cat—the chirp of bird,
Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter
Of the fell demon following after!
Even as a vision of the morning!
Its rites foregone—its guardians dead—
Its altar-fires extinguished—
8
Waking the veriest urchin's scorning!
No more along the shadowy glen,
Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men,—
No more the unquiet church-yard dead,
Glimpse upward from their turfy bed,
Startling the traveller, late and lone;
As, on some night of cloudy weather,
They commune silently together,
Each sitting on his own head-stone!
The roofless house, decayed, deserted,
Its living tenants all departed,
No longer rings with midnight revel
Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil;
No hellish flame sends out its flashes
Through creviced roof and shattered sashes!—
The witch-grass round the hazle spring,
May sharply to the night air sing,
But there no more shall withered hags
Refresh at ease, their broomstick nags;
Or taste those hazle-shadowed waters
As beverage meet for Satan's daughters;
No more their mimic tones be heard—
The mew of cat—the chirp of bird,
Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter
Of the fell demon following after!
The cautious good man nails no more
A horse shoe on his outer door,
Lest some unseemly hag should fit
To his own mouth her bridle bit—
The good wife's churn no more refuses
Its wonted culinary uses,
Until with heated needle burned
The witch has to her place returned!
Our witches are no longer old
And wrinkled beldames, Satan sold,
But young and gay and laughing creatures,
With the heart's sunshine on their features—
Their sorcery—the light which dances
Where the raised lid unveils its glances;
Or the low breathed and gentle tone
Faintly responding unto ours,
Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan
Above its nightly closing flowers!
Sweeter than that which sighed of yore,
Along the charmed Ausonian shore!
Even she, our own weired heroine,
Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn—
Despite her fortune telling sin,
Sleeps calmly where the living laid her;
And the wide realm of sorcery,
Left, by its latest mistress, free,
Hath found no gray and skilled invader:
So perished Albion's “glammarye,”
With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping,
His charmed torch beside his knee
That even the dead himself might see
The magic scroll within his keeping.
And hence our modern Yankee sees
Nor omens, spells nor mysteries;
And nought above, below, around,
Of life or death, of sight or sound,
Whate'er its nature, form or look,
Excites his terror or surprise—
All seeming to his knowing eyes
Familiar as his “catechize,”
Or, “Webster's Spelling Book.”
A horse shoe on his outer door,
Lest some unseemly hag should fit
To his own mouth her bridle bit—
The good wife's churn no more refuses
Its wonted culinary uses,
Until with heated needle burned
The witch has to her place returned!
Our witches are no longer old
And wrinkled beldames, Satan sold,
But young and gay and laughing creatures,
With the heart's sunshine on their features—
Their sorcery—the light which dances
Where the raised lid unveils its glances;
9
Faintly responding unto ours,
Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan
Above its nightly closing flowers!
Sweeter than that which sighed of yore,
Along the charmed Ausonian shore!
Even she, our own weired heroine,
Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn—
Despite her fortune telling sin,
Sleeps calmly where the living laid her;
And the wide realm of sorcery,
Left, by its latest mistress, free,
Hath found no gray and skilled invader:
So perished Albion's “glammarye,”
With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping,
His charmed torch beside his knee
That even the dead himself might see
The magic scroll within his keeping.
And hence our modern Yankee sees
Nor omens, spells nor mysteries;
And nought above, below, around,
Of life or death, of sight or sound,
Whate'er its nature, form or look,
Excites his terror or surprise—
All seeming to his knowing eyes
Familiar as his “catechize,”
Or, “Webster's Spelling Book.”
But to our tale.—In contrast strange,
Within the fire-light's fading range
The stranger stands in maiden pride,
By that mysterious woman's side.
The cloak hath fallen from her shoulder
Revealing such a form as steals
Away the heart of the beholder
As, all unconsciously it kneels
Before the beauty which had shone
Ere this upon its dreams alone,
If you have seen a summer star,
Liquidly soft and faintly far,
Beaming a smiling glance on earth
As if it watched the flowret's birth,
Then have you seen a light less fair
Than that young maiden's glances were.
Dark fell her tresses—you have seen
A rent cloud tossing in the air,
And, showing the pure sky between
Its floating fragments here and there—
Then may you fancy faintly, how
The falling tress—the ring-like curl
Disclosed or shadowed o'er the brow
And neck of that fair girl.
Her cheek was delicately thin,
And through its pure, transparent white
The rose-hue wandered out and in,
As you have seen th' inconstant light
Flush o'er the Northern sky of night—
Her playful lip was gently full,
Soft curving to the graceful chin,
And colored like the fruit which glows
Upon the sunned pomegranite boughs;—
And oh, her soft, low voice might lull
The spirit to a dream of bliss,
As if the voices sweet and bland
Which murmur in the seraph land
Were warbling in a world like this!
Within the fire-light's fading range
The stranger stands in maiden pride,
By that mysterious woman's side.
The cloak hath fallen from her shoulder
Revealing such a form as steals
Away the heart of the beholder
As, all unconsciously it kneels
Before the beauty which had shone
Ere this upon its dreams alone,
If you have seen a summer star,
Liquidly soft and faintly far,
Beaming a smiling glance on earth
10
Then have you seen a light less fair
Than that young maiden's glances were.
Dark fell her tresses—you have seen
A rent cloud tossing in the air,
And, showing the pure sky between
Its floating fragments here and there—
Then may you fancy faintly, how
The falling tress—the ring-like curl
Disclosed or shadowed o'er the brow
And neck of that fair girl.
Her cheek was delicately thin,
And through its pure, transparent white
The rose-hue wandered out and in,
As you have seen th' inconstant light
Flush o'er the Northern sky of night—
Her playful lip was gently full,
Soft curving to the graceful chin,
And colored like the fruit which glows
Upon the sunned pomegranite boughs;—
And oh, her soft, low voice might lull
The spirit to a dream of bliss,
As if the voices sweet and bland
Which murmur in the seraph land
Were warbling in a world like this!
Out spoke the witch—“I know full well,
Why thou has sought my humble cot—
Come sit thee down—the tale I tell
May not be soon forgot.”
She threw her pale blue cloak aside,
And stirred the whitening embers up,
And long and curiously she eyed
The figures of her mystic cup—
And low she muttered, while the light
Gave to her lips a ghastlier white,
And her sunk eye's unearthly glaring
Seemed like the taper's latest flaring:
“Dark hair—eyes black—a goodly form—
A maiden weeping—wild dark sea—
A tall ship tossing in the storm—
A black wreck floating—where is he?
Give me the hand—how soft and warm
And fair its tapering fingers seem—
And who that sees it now would dream
That winter's snow would seem less chill
Ere long than these soft fingers will?
A lovely palm!—how delicate
Its veined and wandering lines are drawn!
Yet each are prophets of thy fate—
Ha—this is sure a fearful one!
That sudden cross—that blank beneath—
What may these evil signs betoken?
Passion and sorrow, fear and death—
A human spirit crushed and broken!
Oh, thine hath been a pleasant dream,
But darker shall its waking seem!”
Why thou has sought my humble cot—
Come sit thee down—the tale I tell
May not be soon forgot.”
She threw her pale blue cloak aside,
And stirred the whitening embers up,
And long and curiously she eyed
The figures of her mystic cup—
The whole apparatus of divination made use of by “Moll Pitcher” consisted of a cup into which tea was poured, and afterwards emptied from it. By the peculiarities of the shape or the position of the small particles of tea left in the bottom of the cup, she pretended to decide upon the destiny of her visitors.
And low she muttered, while the light
Gave to her lips a ghastlier white,
And her sunk eye's unearthly glaring
Seemed like the taper's latest flaring:
“Dark hair—eyes black—a goodly form—
A maiden weeping—wild dark sea—
A tall ship tossing in the storm—
11
Give me the hand—how soft and warm
And fair its tapering fingers seem—
And who that sees it now would dream
That winter's snow would seem less chill
Ere long than these soft fingers will?
A lovely palm!—how delicate
Its veined and wandering lines are drawn!
Yet each are prophets of thy fate—
Ha—this is sure a fearful one!
That sudden cross—that blank beneath—
What may these evil signs betoken?
Passion and sorrow, fear and death—
A human spirit crushed and broken!
Oh, thine hath been a pleasant dream,
But darker shall its waking seem!”
Something between a sigh and groan
Burst from the list'ner's panting heart—
How was her cherished secret known
To that dark woman's art?
She strove to smile—and one might mark
A sudden dimple trembling, where
A moment after cold despair
Rested beneath her tresses dark,
As if the hue of death were there.
A human smile!—how beautiful
Sometimes its blissful presence seems,
Sweet as the gentle airs which lull
To sleep the holy flowers of Gul
Which blossoms in the Persian's dreams—
A lovely light whene'er it beams
On beauty's brow—on beauty's eye
And not one token lingers nigh
On lip, or eye, or cheek unbidden
To tell of anguish vainly hidden!
But oh there is a smile which steals
Sometimes upon the brow of care
And like the North's cold light reveals
But gathering darkness there.
You've seen the lightning flash at night
Play briefly o'er its cloudy pile—
The moonshine trembling on the height
Where winter glistens cold and white,
And like that flash, and like that light,
Is sorrow's vain and heartless smile.
Burst from the list'ner's panting heart—
How was her cherished secret known
To that dark woman's art?
She strove to smile—and one might mark
A sudden dimple trembling, where
A moment after cold despair
Rested beneath her tresses dark,
As if the hue of death were there.
A human smile!—how beautiful
Sometimes its blissful presence seems,
Sweet as the gentle airs which lull
To sleep the holy flowers of Gul
Which blossoms in the Persian's dreams—
A lovely light whene'er it beams
On beauty's brow—on beauty's eye
And not one token lingers nigh
On lip, or eye, or cheek unbidden
To tell of anguish vainly hidden!
But oh there is a smile which steals
Sometimes upon the brow of care
And like the North's cold light reveals
But gathering darkness there.
You've seen the lightning flash at night
12
The moonshine trembling on the height
Where winter glistens cold and white,
And like that flash, and like that light,
Is sorrow's vain and heartless smile.
Like a cold hand upon her heart
The dark words of the sorceress lay,
Something to scare her spirit's rest
Forevermore away.
Each word had seemed so strangely true,
Calling her inmost thoughts in view,
And pointing to the form which came
Before her in her dreary sleep,
Whose answered love—whose very name,
Though naught of breathing life was near,
She scarce had given the winds to keep,
Or murmured in a sister's ear.
The dark words of the sorceress lay,
Something to scare her spirit's rest
Forevermore away.
Each word had seemed so strangely true,
Calling her inmost thoughts in view,
And pointing to the form which came
Before her in her dreary sleep,
Whose answered love—whose very name,
Though naught of breathing life was near,
She scarce had given the winds to keep,
Or murmured in a sister's ear.
Her secret love!—oh, she had kept
Its fire within her heart unseen,
And tears, in silent musing wept,
Its sacrifice had been.
In public gaze—in loneliness—
In fashion's gay and wild excess—
In every change of scene or lot
Its cherished name was uttered not,
For early had she learned to keep
Her gift of love enshrined and deep—
Pure as the vestal's altar-stone
Known and familiar but to one—
A harp whose chords might only move
In answer to its idol love,
Like Memnon's music heard alone
When sunlight on its statue shone!
Its fire within her heart unseen,
And tears, in silent musing wept,
Its sacrifice had been.
In public gaze—in loneliness—
In fashion's gay and wild excess—
In every change of scene or lot
Its cherished name was uttered not,
For early had she learned to keep
Her gift of love enshrined and deep—
Pure as the vestal's altar-stone
Known and familiar but to one—
A harp whose chords might only move
In answer to its idol love,
Like Memnon's music heard alone
When sunlight on its statue shone!
Like the mimosa shrinking from
The blight of some familiar finger—
Like flowers which but in secret bloom,
Where age the sheltering shadows linger.
And which, beneath the hot noon ray
Would fold their leaves and fade away—
The flowers of Love, in secret cherished,
In loneliness and silence nourished,
Shrink backward from the searching eye,
Until the stem whereon they flourished,
Their shrine, the human heart, has perished,
Although themselves may never die.
Of woe—of deep and nameless grief,
That wild and evil hag had spoken—
Of agony which mocks relief—
Of human spirits broken.
And in her mutterings vague and dim
How strangely had she pictured HIM!
The dark eye and the darker hair—
The manly form and features fair—
A weeping girl—a wild dark sea—
A storm—a wreck—and “WHERE IS HE?”
Ay, where WAS he!—long months before,
His boat was rocking on the shore
His ship was tossing in the bay:
And she was folded to his heart—
Her fair cheek on her lover's lay,
While Love forgot the veil of art;
And softly blushed through falling tears,
The natural glow of virgin shame,
That feelings held apart for years,
And cherished hopes she scarce might name
To her own pillow's loneliness,
Had burned upon her answering kiss.
And thrilled upon her lip of flame!
And she had found herself alone,
Beneath the twilight cold and gray.
When heavily pealed the signal gun
And the proud vessel swept away;—
Watching her lover's broad sail fade,
Like a white wing in upper air,
And leaving neither track nor shade
On the blue waste of waters there!
The blight of some familiar finger—
Like flowers which but in secret bloom,
Where age the sheltering shadows linger.
And which, beneath the hot noon ray
Would fold their leaves and fade away—
13
In loneliness and silence nourished,
Shrink backward from the searching eye,
Until the stem whereon they flourished,
Their shrine, the human heart, has perished,
Although themselves may never die.
Of woe—of deep and nameless grief,
That wild and evil hag had spoken—
Of agony which mocks relief—
Of human spirits broken.
And in her mutterings vague and dim
How strangely had she pictured HIM!
The dark eye and the darker hair—
The manly form and features fair—
A weeping girl—a wild dark sea—
A storm—a wreck—and “WHERE IS HE?”
Ay, where WAS he!—long months before,
His boat was rocking on the shore
His ship was tossing in the bay:
And she was folded to his heart—
Her fair cheek on her lover's lay,
While Love forgot the veil of art;
And softly blushed through falling tears,
The natural glow of virgin shame,
That feelings held apart for years,
And cherished hopes she scarce might name
To her own pillow's loneliness,
Had burned upon her answering kiss.
And thrilled upon her lip of flame!
And she had found herself alone,
Beneath the twilight cold and gray.
When heavily pealed the signal gun
And the proud vessel swept away;—
Watching her lover's broad sail fade,
Like a white wing in upper air,
And leaving neither track nor shade
On the blue waste of waters there!
Smile not that on the maiden's heart,
The sybil's dark and cunning art
Had power to picture future ill,
And tinge the present darker still.
Life's sunniest hours are not without
The shadow of some lingering doubt—
Amidst its brightest joys will steal
Spectres of evil yet to feel;
Its warmest love is blent with fears,
Its confidence—a trembling one—
Its smile—the harbinger of tears—
Its hope—the change of April's sun!
A weary lot,—in mercy given,
To fit the chastened soul for Heaven,
Prompting with change and weariness,
Its yearning for that better sky,
Which, as the shadows close on this,
Grows brighter to the longing eye.
The sybil's dark and cunning art
Had power to picture future ill,
14
Life's sunniest hours are not without
The shadow of some lingering doubt—
Amidst its brightest joys will steal
Spectres of evil yet to feel;
Its warmest love is blent with fears,
Its confidence—a trembling one—
Its smile—the harbinger of tears—
Its hope—the change of April's sun!
A weary lot,—in mercy given,
To fit the chastened soul for Heaven,
Prompting with change and weariness,
Its yearning for that better sky,
Which, as the shadows close on this,
Grows brighter to the longing eye.
15
2. PART II.
Nahant, thy beach is beautiful!—
A dim line through the tossing waves,
Along whose verge the spectre gull
Her thin and snowy plumage laves—
What time the Summer's greenness lingers
Within thy sunned and sheltered nooks,
And the green vine with twining fingers
Creeps up and down thy hanging rocks!
Around—the blue and level main—
Above—a sunshine rich, as fell,
Bright'ning of old, with golden rain,
The isle Apollo loved so well!—
And far off, dim and beautiful
The snow-white sail and graceful hull,
Slow, dipping to the billow's swell.
Bright spot!—the Isles of Greece may share
A flowery earth—a gentle air;—
The orange-bough may blossom well
In warm Bermuda's sunniest dell;—
But fairer shores and brighter waters,
Gazed on by purer, lovelier daughters,
Beneath the light of kindlier skies,
The wanderer to the farthest bound
Of peopled Earth hath never found
Than thine—New England's Paradise!
A dim line through the tossing waves,
Along whose verge the spectre gull
Her thin and snowy plumage laves—
What time the Summer's greenness lingers
Within thy sunned and sheltered nooks,
And the green vine with twining fingers
Creeps up and down thy hanging rocks!
Around—the blue and level main—
Above—a sunshine rich, as fell,
Bright'ning of old, with golden rain,
The isle Apollo loved so well!—
And far off, dim and beautiful
The snow-white sail and graceful hull,
Slow, dipping to the billow's swell.
Bright spot!—the Isles of Greece may share
A flowery earth—a gentle air;—
The orange-bough may blossom well
In warm Bermuda's sunniest dell;—
But fairer shores and brighter waters,
Gazed on by purer, lovelier daughters,
Beneath the light of kindlier skies,
The wanderer to the farthest bound
Of peopled Earth hath never found
Than thine—New England's Paradise!
Land of the forest and the rock—
Of dark blue lake, and mighty river—
Of mountains reared aloft to mock
The storm's career—the lightning's shock—
My own, green land, forever!
Land of the beautiful and brave—
The freeman's home—the martyr's grave—
The nursery of giant men,
Whose deeds have linked with every glen,
And every hill and every stream,
The romance of some warrior-dream!
Oh—never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love—
The stream beneath the green hill flowing—
The broad-armed trees above it growing—
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;
Or, hear unmoved, the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New-England born;—
Or mark the stranger's Jaguar hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead—
The buried glory of a land
Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,
Nor feel resentment, like a brand,
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!
Of dark blue lake, and mighty river—
16
The storm's career—the lightning's shock—
My own, green land, forever!
Land of the beautiful and brave—
The freeman's home—the martyr's grave—
The nursery of giant men,
Whose deeds have linked with every glen,
And every hill and every stream,
The romance of some warrior-dream!
Oh—never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love—
The stream beneath the green hill flowing—
The broad-armed trees above it growing—
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;
Or, hear unmoved, the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New-England born;—
Or mark the stranger's Jaguar hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead—
The buried glory of a land
Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,
Nor feel resentment, like a brand,
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!
Oh—greener hills may catch the sun
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams, rejoicing as they run
Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange-bough
With golden fruit is bending low:—
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy—
And pillared fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave
The green luxuriant ivy climb;—
And far towards the rising sun
The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky,
And breezes soft as sighs of love
Above the broad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!
Yet, unto thee, New-England, still
Thy wondering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill
Seem dearer than the land of palms!
Thy massy oak and mountain pine
More welcome than the banyan's shade,
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed
Of Oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams, rejoicing as they run
Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange-bough
With golden fruit is bending low:—
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy—
And pillared fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave
The green luxuriant ivy climb;—
And far towards the rising sun
The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
17
And breezes soft as sighs of love
Above the broad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!
Yet, unto thee, New-England, still
Thy wondering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill
Seem dearer than the land of palms!
Thy massy oak and mountain pine
More welcome than the banyan's shade,
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed
Of Oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!
A fair, frail form is stealing out
Upon the long and sandy bar,
With wild glance, wandering all about
Uncertain and irregular.
The sea-gull screams aloud above her—
The thin waves circle at her feet,
Beyond, the white and timid plover
Is stooping its embrace to meet,
What doth she there?—her head is bare—
And backward streams her wild, dark hair;
Damp with the moist sea-atmosphere
It shades a neck as white and clear,
As pearls which shed their pure, pale glow,
Where in their crimson beauty sleep
The coral blossoms of the deep
A thousand fathoms down below.
Beautiful one!—her cheek is pale,
Even as the foam the wave hath lent
To rocks whereon its wrath is spent,
Like that which lingers on the rein
Which some fierce steed hath spurned in vain;
And ever and anon a wail
Soft as some grieving spectre's moan,
Plaintively low—a dreamer's tone,
Blends faintly with the rising gale.
She stands upon a rock that lifts
Its bleak brow to the chilling waters—
The thin gray mist above it drifts,
And dim within its fold, she seems
Like something of our early dreams—
A messenger from Ocean's daughters!
Her thin hand pointing to the sea
As eager—as imploringly—
As if across that blue expanse.
Her eye had caught some answering glance
And sadly now she turns aside,
With slow and weary step returning
Drooping her head as if to hide
The tearful trances of her mourning.
The morn will find her there again
—God's pity on the stricken brain!—
Upon the long and sandy bar,
With wild glance, wandering all about
Uncertain and irregular.
The sea-gull screams aloud above her—
The thin waves circle at her feet,
Beyond, the white and timid plover
Is stooping its embrace to meet,
What doth she there?—her head is bare—
And backward streams her wild, dark hair;
Damp with the moist sea-atmosphere
It shades a neck as white and clear,
As pearls which shed their pure, pale glow,
Where in their crimson beauty sleep
The coral blossoms of the deep
A thousand fathoms down below.
Beautiful one!—her cheek is pale,
Even as the foam the wave hath lent
To rocks whereon its wrath is spent,
Like that which lingers on the rein
Which some fierce steed hath spurned in vain;
And ever and anon a wail
Soft as some grieving spectre's moan,
Plaintively low—a dreamer's tone,
Blends faintly with the rising gale.
18
Its bleak brow to the chilling waters—
The thin gray mist above it drifts,
And dim within its fold, she seems
Like something of our early dreams—
A messenger from Ocean's daughters!
Her thin hand pointing to the sea
As eager—as imploringly—
As if across that blue expanse.
Her eye had caught some answering glance
And sadly now she turns aside,
With slow and weary step returning
Drooping her head as if to hide
The tearful trances of her mourning.
The morn will find her there again
—God's pity on the stricken brain!—
It is a fearful thing to turn
The heart's warm current icy chill
To bid the brain with madness burn,
And freeze the torpid bosom still,
Fearful to cloud the spiritual light
Which shines upon our mortal night—
To jar apart those chords of mind
Which God's mysterious hand hath twined
And for the music once their own
Call out a harsh and maniac tone.
We talk of death—we shudder o'er
The cold, pale from—the rayless eye,
As if the fearful change were more,
Than the mind's hour of liberty—
The opening of its prison-door.
Yet look upon the maniac's form
Whence reason's holy light hath fled:
Where being lingers wild and warm,
Even when its very soul is dead.
Look on the snaky eye of madness—
And hear that laugh—but not of gladness—
That shriek at midnight, shrilly blending
With the dull clanking of the chain—
And pluck away those fingers rending
From the hot cheek its bursting vien!—
Alas—the quiet sepulchre
Than such a state were welcomer.
The heart's warm current icy chill
To bid the brain with madness burn,
And freeze the torpid bosom still,
Fearful to cloud the spiritual light
Which shines upon our mortal night—
To jar apart those chords of mind
Which God's mysterious hand hath twined
And for the music once their own
Call out a harsh and maniac tone.
We talk of death—we shudder o'er
The cold, pale from—the rayless eye,
As if the fearful change were more,
Than the mind's hour of liberty—
The opening of its prison-door.
Yet look upon the maniac's form
Whence reason's holy light hath fled:
Where being lingers wild and warm,
Even when its very soul is dead.
Look on the snaky eye of madness—
And hear that laugh—but not of gladness—
That shriek at midnight, shrilly blending
With the dull clanking of the chain—
And pluck away those fingers rending
19
Alas—the quiet sepulchre
Than such a state were welcomer.
Yet her's is not that fiercer mood—
Gentle and lovely even in madness,
She only ask for solitude
To nurse her most unearthly sadness.
Oh! it is painful to behold
Her pale face on her hand reclining,
Or buried in her 'kerchief's fold,
With hot tears through her fingers shining.
And then to mark her 'wildered start,
Her quick glance in the vacant air,
Her thin hand pressing on her heart,
As if a sudden pang were there:
And then to list her murmured words
Sad as a mate-forsaken bird's,
Telling a wild and moving tale
Of wrecked ships driving in the gale—
Of voices shrieking in the blast—
Of wreathing arms on spar and mast—
Of one dark eye above the billow
Up glancing to the storm-fire's gleam;—
And that long sleep which hath no dream—
With ocean's weedy rock its pillow,
Down where the sea-plant's green arms cover
The cold, unwaking sleeper over.
Gentle and lovely even in madness,
She only ask for solitude
To nurse her most unearthly sadness.
Oh! it is painful to behold
Her pale face on her hand reclining,
Or buried in her 'kerchief's fold,
With hot tears through her fingers shining.
And then to mark her 'wildered start,
Her quick glance in the vacant air,
Her thin hand pressing on her heart,
As if a sudden pang were there:
And then to list her murmured words
Sad as a mate-forsaken bird's,
Telling a wild and moving tale
Of wrecked ships driving in the gale—
Of voices shrieking in the blast—
Of wreathing arms on spar and mast—
Of one dark eye above the billow
Up glancing to the storm-fire's gleam;—
And that long sleep which hath no dream—
With ocean's weedy rock its pillow,
Down where the sea-plant's green arms cover
The cold, unwaking sleeper over.
She seeks the spot where she has strayed
Upon HIS arm in fondness leaning—
When by the trembling light which played,
Amidst the leafy summer shade,
The kindling eye of either lover
In silent fondness told each rover,
The hidden heart's unwhispered meaning.
Beneath the old, familiar oak,
A carpet of the living green
Is round her; and from out a rock
Like that which felt the Prophet's stroke
Its mossed and yawning clefts between,
A little stream comes downward dancing,
Like silver to the sunshine glancing.
It is a lovely spot—and yet
However dark, however lowly,
The place where Love his seal has set,
Where fond and trusting hearts have met
Is always sweet—is always holy.
And there she sits, in her low tone
Strangely communing—yet alone!
Go, ask her who is listening—
And she will tell you, he is there—
A bodiless and spectral thing—
Impalpable as air!
That sometimes she can dimly view
His white hand beckoning in the trees,
His own pale forehead glancing through
The green leaves parted by the breeze.
Upon HIS arm in fondness leaning—
When by the trembling light which played,
Amidst the leafy summer shade,
The kindling eye of either lover
In silent fondness told each rover,
The hidden heart's unwhispered meaning.
Beneath the old, familiar oak,
A carpet of the living green
Is round her; and from out a rock
Like that which felt the Prophet's stroke
Its mossed and yawning clefts between,
20
Like silver to the sunshine glancing.
It is a lovely spot—and yet
However dark, however lowly,
The place where Love his seal has set,
Where fond and trusting hearts have met
Is always sweet—is always holy.
And there she sits, in her low tone
Strangely communing—yet alone!
Go, ask her who is listening—
And she will tell you, he is there—
A bodiless and spectral thing—
Impalpable as air!
That sometimes she can dimly view
His white hand beckoning in the trees,
His own pale forehead glancing through
The green leaves parted by the breeze.
How wonderful sometimes will seem
The burthen of a maniac's dream!
Mysterious workings of the brain—
The strange communion of the soul,
With dark and earth-born elements,
Until the dim wild thoughts which roll,
Across it, or in joy or pain,
Grow visible to outward sense!
Until its cold rememberings
Assume the look of living things,
The loved—the feared of olden time,
Recalled from Death's o'er peopled clime
From ocean-cave, and dungeon gloom,
Green-tufted grave and honoured tomb,
All wearing from their silent prison
The very look—the self same air,
As if alone from slumber risen,
And Death had not been there!
The burthen of a maniac's dream!
Mysterious workings of the brain—
The strange communion of the soul,
With dark and earth-born elements,
Until the dim wild thoughts which roll,
Across it, or in joy or pain,
Grow visible to outward sense!
Until its cold rememberings
Assume the look of living things,
The loved—the feared of olden time,
Recalled from Death's o'er peopled clime
From ocean-cave, and dungeon gloom,
Green-tufted grave and honoured tomb,
All wearing from their silent prison
The very look—the self same air,
As if alone from slumber risen,
And Death had not been there!
21
3. PART III.
A tall ship tossing in the bay!—
How glorious the stranger seems—
With tapering masts and streamers gay,
Rejoicing in the glad sunbeams!
Beautiful voyager!—she has been,
Unshrinking upon God's high sea—
Bearing right onward bravely when
The storm-wind followed free!
There's one upon her seamy deck,
With keen eye fastened on the shore,
As if some faithful loved one's beck
Were welcoming once more
From toil and fear to love and her
The worn and weary mariner.
Oh! he hath been a wanderer
Beneath Magellan's moveless cloud.
And where in murmurs hoarse and loud
The Demon of the Cape was heard;
And were the tropic sunset came
O'er the rich bowers of Indostan,
And many a strange and brilliant bird
Shone brighter in the western flame:
And through the bending jungle ran
The boa for his nightly food,
The tiger slumbering in the wood.
How glorious the stranger seems—
With tapering masts and streamers gay,
Rejoicing in the glad sunbeams!
Beautiful voyager!—she has been,
Unshrinking upon God's high sea—
Bearing right onward bravely when
The storm-wind followed free!
There's one upon her seamy deck,
With keen eye fastened on the shore,
As if some faithful loved one's beck
Were welcoming once more
From toil and fear to love and her
The worn and weary mariner.
Oh! he hath been a wanderer
Beneath Magellan's moveless cloud.
And where in murmurs hoarse and loud
The Demon of the Cape was heard;
And were the tropic sunset came
O'er the rich bowers of Indostan,
And many a strange and brilliant bird
Shone brighter in the western flame:
And through the bending jungle ran
The boa for his nightly food,
The tiger slumbering in the wood.
He sought for gold—for yellow gold—
His dreams were full of wealth untold;
Of stately barks that hailed to him;
Of gorgeous halls and grottos dim,
Of streams rejoicing in the shade,
By bower and trelliced arbor made,
Of smiling servants gathered near
In grateful love, but not in fear;
And more than these—his own loved one—
With her white brow and soft dark eyes,
Fair as the new-born flower, whereon
Never hath looked the noon-day sun,
The Houri of his Paradise!
His dreams were full of wealth untold;
Of stately barks that hailed to him;
22
Of streams rejoicing in the shade,
By bower and trelliced arbor made,
Of smiling servants gathered near
In grateful love, but not in fear;
And more than these—his own loved one—
With her white brow and soft dark eyes,
Fair as the new-born flower, whereon
Never hath looked the noon-day sun,
The Houri of his Paradise!
Yet his was not a sordid heart,
He did not love the merchant's mart,
His finer soul revolted when
He mingled thus with selfish men—
Yet long and wearily he bore
The burthen of incessant care,
Unfriended, on a stranger shore,
While Hope still hovered dimly o'er
One object which he valued more
Than all the wealth he gathered there;
The loved one in his native land,
More dear than gems of Sarmacand.
He did not love the merchant's mart,
His finer soul revolted when
He mingled thus with selfish men—
Yet long and wearily he bore
The burthen of incessant care,
Unfriended, on a stranger shore,
While Hope still hovered dimly o'er
One object which he valued more
Than all the wealth he gathered there;
The loved one in his native land,
More dear than gems of Sarmacand.
Welcome as the voice of kindness,
To him, who in some dungeon dim
Moves slow with pain his fettered limb,
Or light to those who sit in blindness,
Is home's green shore to him.
He stands upon his native earth—
Voices of greeting and of mirth
Are round him,—but his anxious eye
Turns from the throng impatiently—
One hurried word—one clasp of hand
And he has bounded from the strand!
On, swiftly on—even now he sees
Her white-walled dwelling through the trees!
To him, who in some dungeon dim
Moves slow with pain his fettered limb,
Or light to those who sit in blindness,
Is home's green shore to him.
He stands upon his native earth—
Voices of greeting and of mirth
Are round him,—but his anxious eye
Turns from the throng impatiently—
One hurried word—one clasp of hand
And he has bounded from the strand!
On, swiftly on—even now he sees
Her white-walled dwelling through the trees!
Quick, from behind a leafy screen—
The gateway wreathed in creeping green,
With wild flowers twined in every curl—
And flashing from her brilliant eye
The wildness of insanity.
Darted the maniac girl.
“My own Adela!”—At his tone
She started—and as memory went
Back to the joys her youth had known,
Over each vacant lineament,
One gleam of banished reason shone!
Briefly it shone—a smile as chill
As moonshine on a wintry hill
Met the fixed, ardent gaze of love—
“Oh! Henry, it is kind to leave
That glad and happy home above,
Where spirits never learn to grieve
To whisper comfort to the ear
That glad and happy home above,
Where spirits never learn to grieve
To whisper comfort to the ear
That loved thy living words to hear.”
And then she smiled again so sadly,
So soft, so sweet—alas—SO MADLY!
Oh—God!—was this a human greeting?
Was this an ardent lover's meeting?
The wanderer pressed his burning brain,
With marble lip, and eye unweeping
While to its lid the tears were creeping
Hot, slow, like drops of fiery rain!
The gateway wreathed in creeping green,
With wild flowers twined in every curl—
23
The wildness of insanity.
Darted the maniac girl.
“My own Adela!”—At his tone
She started—and as memory went
Back to the joys her youth had known,
Over each vacant lineament,
One gleam of banished reason shone!
Briefly it shone—a smile as chill
As moonshine on a wintry hill
Met the fixed, ardent gaze of love—
“Oh! Henry, it is kind to leave
That glad and happy home above,
Where spirits never learn to grieve
To whisper comfort to the ear
That glad and happy home above,
Where spirits never learn to grieve
To whisper comfort to the ear
That loved thy living words to hear.”
And then she smiled again so sadly,
So soft, so sweet—alas—SO MADLY!
Oh—God!—was this a human greeting?
Was this an ardent lover's meeting?
The wanderer pressed his burning brain,
With marble lip, and eye unweeping
While to its lid the tears were creeping
Hot, slow, like drops of fiery rain!
The tears of manhood!—they are such,
As may not speak of selfish woe,
Beneath some Heaven-directed touch
Like Horeb's rock alone they flow!
And oh! if man could always wear
That strength of pride which loves to bear
With a firm lip and blenchless eye
The keenest human agony;—
If the strong spirit might not falter
Beneath the chastening of Heaven,
If ever on affliction's altar
A tearless sacrifice were given,—
Then might that spirit scorn to seek
Contrition's narrow path and lonely,
Or kneel in penitence, where meek
And humble faith availeth only.
Chained down to low material things,
The soul forgetful of its birth—
Forgetful of its upward wings
Would half become a thing of earth—
And hence each blow misfortune gives
But breaks some chain which binds us here;
And every shade the heart receives,
But makes the eye of faith more clear!
As may not speak of selfish woe,
Beneath some Heaven-directed touch
Like Horeb's rock alone they flow!
And oh! if man could always wear
That strength of pride which loves to bear
With a firm lip and blenchless eye
The keenest human agony;—
If the strong spirit might not falter
Beneath the chastening of Heaven,
If ever on affliction's altar
A tearless sacrifice were given,—
Then might that spirit scorn to seek
Contrition's narrow path and lonely,
Or kneel in penitence, where meek
And humble faith availeth only.
24
The soul forgetful of its birth—
Forgetful of its upward wings
Would half become a thing of earth—
And hence each blow misfortune gives
But breaks some chain which binds us here;
And every shade the heart receives,
But makes the eye of faith more clear!
The twain are wandering on the beach
Beneath the pleasant morning sun,—
Now stealing from the billow's reach,
Now following where its circles run.
It is a strange, yet lovely sight—
That dark eyed wanderer of the sea
Leading beneath the golden light,
The victim of insanity!
She thinks—how strange the thoughts will be
Of those whose mental light is dim!—
That one of that bright company
Who bend in Heaven the seraph's knee
Is near her in the form of him,
Who bending o'er her lovingly
Would half confirm her childish whim.
And hence her bearing is like one
Who would not seek, who would not shun
The kindness strangely proffered her
By some angelic messenger:
And yet an awe is on her face,
With trusting confidence contending,
Either alternate, yielding place,
Like human love with reverence blending.
Beneath the pleasant morning sun,—
Now stealing from the billow's reach,
Now following where its circles run.
It is a strange, yet lovely sight—
That dark eyed wanderer of the sea
Leading beneath the golden light,
The victim of insanity!
She thinks—how strange the thoughts will be
Of those whose mental light is dim!—
That one of that bright company
Who bend in Heaven the seraph's knee
Is near her in the form of him,
Who bending o'er her lovingly
Would half confirm her childish whim.
And hence her bearing is like one
Who would not seek, who would not shun
The kindness strangely proffered her
By some angelic messenger:
And yet an awe is on her face,
With trusting confidence contending,
Either alternate, yielding place,
Like human love with reverence blending.
He chides her not; but soothingly,
And kindly, checks her wayward mood;
And to his gentle guidance, she
Attends with simple gratitude.
The thousand fancies which were nursed
In madness, vanish one by one,
And even as though its clouds will burst
The veiled but triumphant sun,
The brightness of her soul again
Shines through the murky veil of madness,
And once again her spirit's gladness,
Revives, like sere grass after rain.
Where sleeps his cold and faded brow,
And hard is that unfeeling breast
Which harbors aught against him now.”
And kindly, checks her wayward mood;
And to his gentle guidance, she
Attends with simple gratitude.
The thousand fancies which were nursed
In madness, vanish one by one,
And even as though its clouds will burst
The veiled but triumphant sun,
25
Shines through the murky veil of madness,
And once again her spirit's gladness,
Revives, like sere grass after rain.
For this idea I am indebted to a lamented friend,—the late James O. Rockwell. Cut off at the early age of twenty-three, his fine and noble faculties had scarcely time for expansion;—but his character as a writer, and as a man will be fondly cherished by his friends. His faults—if he had any—and I do not know them.
—“restWhere sleeps his cold and faded brow,
And hard is that unfeeling breast
Which harbors aught against him now.”
Gentle as angels' ministry
The guiding hand of love should be
Which seeks again those chords to bind
Which human woe hath rent apart—
To heal again the wounded mind,
And bind anew the broken heart.
The hand which tunes to harmony,
The cunning harp whose strings are riven
Must move as light and quietly
As that meek breath of Summer heaven,
Which woke of old its melody;—
And kindness to the dim of soul,
Whilst aught of rude and stern control,
The clouded heart can deeply feel,
Is welcome as the odors fanned
From some unseen and flowery land,
Around the weary seaman's keel!
The mist hath vanished from her brain,
Like clouds the sun of noon has met;
And reason lights her eye again;
Again its glance is one of those,
Which, flashing from their calm repose,
Like star-beams at the daylight's close,
The gazer may not soon forget;—
A glance to haunt him in his sleep,
Wild, beautiful, and like the quiver,
Of moonlight, mirrored in the deep
Dark current of some shadowy river,—
A changeful, but unfading light—
A lustre from the spirit caught,
Varying indeed, but ever bright
With the unshadowed hues of thought!
Again the roses of her heart,
Are in their brightest blossoming:
Which bloom awhile then fade and die;
But the left seeds will sometimes start
Up into life again and try,
If kindlier breezes waft their balm,” &c.
And, as the frosted root will start,
With bud and leaflet when the spring
Is breathing round its wintry prison,
The verdure of her soul has risen!
Again, her hours go by like dreams
Which float above an infant's sleeping,
Soft as the flow of moonlight streams
When the gemmed dew of evening seems
Tears which the holy stars are weeping!
The guiding hand of love should be
Which seeks again those chords to bind
Which human woe hath rent apart—
To heal again the wounded mind,
And bind anew the broken heart.
The hand which tunes to harmony,
The cunning harp whose strings are riven
Must move as light and quietly
As that meek breath of Summer heaven,
Which woke of old its melody;—
And kindness to the dim of soul,
Whilst aught of rude and stern control,
The clouded heart can deeply feel,
Is welcome as the odors fanned
From some unseen and flowery land,
Around the weary seaman's keel!
The mist hath vanished from her brain,
Like clouds the sun of noon has met;
And reason lights her eye again;
Again its glance is one of those,
Which, flashing from their calm repose,
Like star-beams at the daylight's close,
The gazer may not soon forget;—
A glance to haunt him in his sleep,
Wild, beautiful, and like the quiver,
Of moonlight, mirrored in the deep
Dark current of some shadowy river,—
A changeful, but unfading light—
A lustre from the spirit caught,
Varying indeed, but ever bright
With the unshadowed hues of thought!
Again the roses of her heart,
Are in their brightest blossoming:
Upon a re-perusal of my poem I find I have adopted in the above lines an idea far more beautifully expressed in a poem by Park Benjamin, Esq.
“Oh!—there are roses in the heart,Which bloom awhile then fade and die;
But the left seeds will sometimes start
Up into life again and try,
If kindlier breezes waft their balm,” &c.
And, as the frosted root will start,
26
Is breathing round its wintry prison,
The verdure of her soul has risen!
Again, her hours go by like dreams
Which float above an infant's sleeping,
Soft as the flow of moonlight streams
When the gemmed dew of evening seems
Tears which the holy stars are weeping!
The shadow of the sunset lies
Mirrored on quiet lake and stream,
So bright, that one might almost dream
With yonder holy sky in view,
That Heaven's own rays were streaming through
The western doors of Paradise,
Left by the spirit of the star
Of twilight's holy time ajar!
Oh—if the human heart might take
Unto itself the loveliness
Of nature's light, as stream and lake
Invite the sunset's warm caress,—
If the sick spirit might receive
A blessing from the rosy eve,
Or light from star—or balm from air—
Or joy and gladness any where,
Safe from itself,—how much of bliss
Would mingle in a world like this!
Mirrored on quiet lake and stream,
So bright, that one might almost dream
With yonder holy sky in view,
That Heaven's own rays were streaming through
The western doors of Paradise,
Left by the spirit of the star
Of twilight's holy time ajar!
Oh—if the human heart might take
Unto itself the loveliness
Of nature's light, as stream and lake
Invite the sunset's warm caress,—
If the sick spirit might receive
A blessing from the rosy eve,
Or light from star—or balm from air—
Or joy and gladness any where,
Safe from itself,—how much of bliss
Would mingle in a world like this!
The faintly-yellow twilight fall
Within the gloomy cottage walls,
Slow fading from each darkening niche,
Across the matrass of the Witch,
It lingers yet, as if to show
The last extreme of human woe—
Crossing the features, grim an old,
The eye in mortal pain uprolled—
All—which appals the ear and eye,
Where poverty and death are nigh!
Within the gloomy cottage walls,
Slow fading from each darkening niche,
Across the matrass of the Witch,
It lingers yet, as if to show
The last extreme of human woe—
Crossing the features, grim an old,
The eye in mortal pain uprolled—
All—which appals the ear and eye,
Where poverty and death are nigh!
A beautiful and sylph-like girl,
With step as soft as summer air—
With fresh, young lip and brow of pearl,
Shadowed by many a natural curl,
Of unconfined and flowing hair—
With the moist eye of pitying care,
Is bending like a seraph there:
A seeming child in every thing
Save in her ripening maiden charms,
As nature wears the smile of spring,
When sinking into summer's arms.
With step as soft as summer air—
27
Shadowed by many a natural curl,
Of unconfined and flowing hair—
With the moist eye of pitying care,
Is bending like a seraph there:
A seeming child in every thing
Save in her ripening maiden charms,
As nature wears the smile of spring,
When sinking into summer's arms.
From that long trance of torpid sleep,
Which sometimes on the eve of death,
Binds down the pulses, still and deep,
Unbroken by the passing breath,
The Witch hath roused her, at the tone,
To her old ear so seldom known,
Of pity, murmured faintly o'er her,
By the fair child, who, half in fear,
And half in sorrow, stealing near,
Stands in the dim twilight before her.
Upstarting from her wretched bed,
And pushing back her grizzly hair;
With that dull eye whose rayless glare,
Seems like the vision of the dead,
She peers into that young girl's face,
Most earnestly, as if to trace
Something which thrills the broken chain
Of memory over, once again,
“Ha—who art thou?—her daughter?”—
She murmurs in those tones of fear,
Which mingle with the gasping breath
Like voices from the tongue of death,—
“She, whom my hate hath cursed so long—
Hath she forgot her deadly wrong?—
And, maiden, hath she bidden thee,
Bend kindly o'er a wretch, like me?—
Nay, then, Heaven bless her!”—with some word
Unuttered is that white lip stirred—
Alas—Heaven rest the spirit gone!
Maiden!—thou'rt with the dead alone.
Which sometimes on the eve of death,
Binds down the pulses, still and deep,
Unbroken by the passing breath,
The Witch hath roused her, at the tone,
To her old ear so seldom known,
Of pity, murmured faintly o'er her,
By the fair child, who, half in fear,
And half in sorrow, stealing near,
Stands in the dim twilight before her.
Upstarting from her wretched bed,
And pushing back her grizzly hair;
With that dull eye whose rayless glare,
Seems like the vision of the dead,
She peers into that young girl's face,
Most earnestly, as if to trace
Something which thrills the broken chain
Of memory over, once again,
“Ha—who art thou?—her daughter?”—
She murmurs in those tones of fear,
Which mingle with the gasping breath
Like voices from the tongue of death,—
“She, whom my hate hath cursed so long—
Hath she forgot her deadly wrong?—
And, maiden, hath she bidden thee,
Bend kindly o'er a wretch, like me?—
Nay, then, Heaven bless her!”—with some word
Unuttered is that white lip stirred—
Alas—Heaven rest the spirit gone!
Maiden!—thou'rt with the dead alone.
| Moll Pitcher | |