 | Moll Pitcher |  |
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—
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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,
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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
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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!
| Moll Pitcher | |