University of Virginia Library

SELECTED EARLY POEMS

WINTER

Autumn has fled; and hoary Winter now
O'er hill and dale has spread his drear domain,
Covering with fleecy snow the fertile plain.
With piercing storms the winds tempestuous blow
And block the way. The streams refuse to flow—
Ev'n Nature's self, close bound with icy chain,
With meek submission, owns stern Winter's reign.
Congeal'd before the frown of his dark threat'ning brow—
And ah! how hard the helpless wanderer's lot
Who roams alone upon some hostile strand,
And sighs to tread once more his native land,
To meet those friends by memory ne'er forgot,
And hail, yet once again, that fertile spot,
Where Friendship binds him with her strongest band.

[THERE'S NOT A CLOUD]

THE POOR STUDENT ... A DRAMATIC SKETCH. IN THREE PARTS—

1. PART FIRST.

Scene.—A small chamber in a cottage—A lattice with woodbine, through which the moon shines—Summer, Midnight— The Poor Student sitting by a dying lamp.
Seymour.
Why do thy watches speed so fast, sweet Night?
Why does the lamp grow dim upon my vigils,
And the spirit falter, when the wings
Of the imagination would go on?
Why is the flesh weak, and the eye so dim
With over-watching, and yet know no rest?
'Tis that the spirit hath not strength to bear
The burthen of our gross mortality!
'Tis that the heart bows in its solitude
To patient study and its midnight care;
And, like the silver lute-chord, when o'erstrained,
Wearied by long and frequent watchings, breaks.
Sad is th' inheritance of pain, that waits
The child of genius and the son of song!
Sad the return for unrepining toil,
And wasting study o'er the midnight lamp!
The broken spirit, and the ambitious pride
Of buoyant youth crush'd down to earth forever;
The troubled eye, the brow of pale cold beauty,
The glow of brighter hope decaying there;
And feverish dreams, that haunt the couch of sleep;
These are the seals of genius, and the crowns
Of thorns, with woven flowers, her sons must wear
Upon their aching brows until they bleed.
And thou art beautiful, thou waning moon,
Whose silver lamp is hung in yon blue sky,
Shedding a glow of melancholy light!
And I have lov'd thee in my saddest hour,
When other loves had faded; and in thee
Have found a power to soothe, when was no other,—
A loneliness, that answer'd to my own.
And thou art far upon thine orbit, whilst
Around thee countless hosts of stars are met,
And rolling spheres are at their midnight hymns.
Sweet through the open'd lattice, and around
The quiv'ring woodbine the cool night breeze plays,
And fans with trembling wing my feverish cheek.
Nature looks lovely; and the moonlight sleeps
On the blue distant mountain, whilst the voice
Of dashing waters from the Summer vale
Breaks on my ear. And this is beautiful!
But I am sick at heart, and faint!—

Seymour and Gertrude
Gertrude
O Seymour,
Still do thy vigils keep thine eyes from sleep!—
Still does the wasting lamp shine dim upon
The midnight page, that soon shall be to thee
The chronicle of sorrow and disease!
Cease from thy study,—'tis the hour of sleep,
And thou hast need of sleep, for thou art weary.

Seymour
Gertrude, kind Gertrude, slumber will not seal
My aching eyes, until the night is spent
And the gray morning has begun its watches.
Why then should I lie down upon my couch
Of restless fever, where my limbs will tremble,
My lips be dry and parch'd, and my brow burn?
No! at the open lattice I will stand,
And gaze on nature with her moonlight veil.
The night is pleasant to me, and the breeze
Comes from the wood-crown'd mountain, with a light
And lively song, to kiss my pallid brow,
That is already fever'd!—Take my hand.

Gertrude
Alas, how hot and dry it is! O Seymour,
I fear thou art not well! thy pulse is high,
Thy cheek is deadly pale, and thy hand trembles!
O watch no longer; thou art wearied by it,
And it is over late, for midnight wanes.

Seymour
Were I to seek my couch, I could not sleep—
And if I could, strange dreams would visit me,
Thoughts of the mournful yew, and of the grave;
And this would be but weariness; besides,
The morning is not yet; and I have wished
The morning breeze was fresher and more chill.
My hours of midnight study are not many,
Why should I lessen them by restless sleep?

Gertrude
Thy watchings, Seymour, are too long and frequent:
For I have noted them, and often seen
The light of thy dim taper tremble on
The leafy woodbine that hangs round thy lattice,
When others were asleep, and thou didst think
No eye was looking on thy patient toil.
To-night I knew thou wast not sleeping, and
I came to warn thee, that 't was time to rest.

Seymour
Dear Gertrude, I am faint and sick to-night,
And very sad, ev'n more than I am wont.
But though I may not sleep, yet thanks to thee
For those kind words of thine and kinder thoughts:—
For ever was the tone of feeling higher
Within thy bosom, than thy tongue could tell.

Gertrude
Thy wasted lamp is quiv'ring in its socket!
It has gone out,—and I must leave thee now.
Thy spirits will be lighter in the morning—
Good night! Good night!

Seymour
O go not yet, for I
Am very sorrowful, and fain would have
Thy voice to cheer me,—but thou too art sad.
How this hand trembles!—But look out and see
Where beautiful the setting moon goes down!
There are no mists about it, and no cloud
To dim its holy brightness at departing!
Thus, purified from all earth's grossness, would
My spirit bid the world and thee farewell!
For as in Heav'n her night-hours, so on earth
My days are number'd, and will soon be spent.
List! and thine ear will shortly hear the faint
And midnight music of the wind and wave
Swell o'er the upland and in distance die!
So shall I perish, and my memory,
Leaving no trace behind upon the earth;
Life's but a song of saddest harmony.
Thou saw'st the midnight lamp grow dull and dim,
Revive and fade by turns, and then sink down,
And with a pale and quiv'ring flame go out!
Cherish'd by thought and dim'd again by fears,
Such is the life of man!—and so the lamp
Of his existence often beams the brightest
When lowest in the socket, till at last
Wasted by one great effort, it goes out.
For oft the brightest glow is on the cheek
Where death has set his fatal seal most firmly,
And flow'rs are often found upon the grave's brink.

Gertrude
Thy thoughts dwell too much on the mournful grave,
Dear Seymour!—Would that thou wert happier,
Knowing no sorrow in thy dreams by night,
Nor in thy waking thoughts. Oh! I should be
Of cheerful heart and lighter spirit then;
And thy poor mother, though bow'd down with age,
Would bear the burthen of her years less sadly!—
Alas! I know not how it is, that still
My feelings have a melancholy tone,
That suits the sadness of thy countenance,
And then are livelier, when the cheerful glow
Of health and gladness is upon thy cheek.
Sleep, then, and rest thee; and may morning find
Thou hast a lighter heart than now! Good night!—

Seymour
Good night, dear Gertrude; and bright dreams be thine,
Till morning comes again, with her gemm'd wings
Waving in beauty on the eastern hills!— (Gertrude goes out.)

And roll the wings of night so swiftly on?—
They move more slowly now!—for nought so much
As care and sorrow stay the feet of Time.
And is it wise that man, who at its close
Becomes so avaricious of this life,
Should deem the hours time's hand has portioned out
As his inheritance, pass off too slowly?
Why should men say, that life is short, and yet
Waste the bright morning of their younger days?
Or that the Autumn-harvest brings no fruit,
When Spring's sweet blossoms faded through neglect?
Alas! Philosophy may never teach
The lesson from experience we can learn,
That life, which seems through hope's perspective glass
An age, is but a day to memory's eye.

(The scene closes.)

2. Part Second.

Sequestered Woodland Scenery—Early Morning.
Seymour
The music of the morning,—the loud hymn
Of the wing'd tenants of the woodland, and
The rushing song of the breathing winds above them,
With the deep voice of falling waves, and faint
The far, long-swelling peal of village bells,—
Break full and cheerfully upon night's stillness.
The summer sky is cloudless, and the air
Breathes with a clear, cold freshness, as the Hours
Roll back the flood-gates of the eastern light,
And full the Spring-tide of the morning gushes.
Dark in its sheeted mirror, where yon stream
Spreads its blue waters to a wider bound,
The woodland waves reflected, and below
As fair a Heaven expands as that above,
With the lark's wild-wing fanning in the ether.
So! heralding Hyperion's advent, bright
The morning star glows like an orb of fire,
Full in the Orient, where the deeper blue
Of Heaven is ting'd with streaks of silver light,
And other stars seem joyless in the day-spring.
If in these rolling spheres, as man has deem'd,
The creature in the great Creator's image made,
Though of a higher rank than ours, inhabits,
A link in the great chain of being, form'd
Connecting man with angels,—or if there,
Spirits of higher and of holier birth,
Have their allotted dwellings, with what eyes
Did they look down on our rebellious earth
When waters were its grave, and man in death
Had lost his rich inheritance of joy?
O, did they weep when clouds of sin were round it,
And as a wandering planet it rolled on;
Unheard the music of the verging spheres,
Though not unseen the beauty of their brightness?
Or purified from tears, did they behold,
With pitying eyes, our frailty and transgression?—
But man may task his wisdom all in vain,
To light the clouded mystery of what
The free imagination may aspire to!
And reason's pinion stoops to earth again,
Tho' visionary fancy journeys on!—
Now as the morning blushes o'er the hills,
And brighter glows, I'll turn my feet along
The path that winds beside the river's margin. (Goes out.)


Gertrude and a Peasant Girl, enter on the opposite side.
Peasant Girl
This way he passed but deadly pale he was,
And his wild eye was gazing on the sky
As he would read his fate amongst the stars!
I pray thee not to follow—he might hurt thee!—

Gertrude
Hurt me, child!—never!—we have grown
Together from our childhood, and since then
Never has been my name on Seymour's lips,
Except in kindness; and the early bud,
That friendship plac'd between us is full-blown
Into the flower of love. And think'st thou now
That he would hurt me?

Peasant Girl
Ah! I could not tell,
But then he look'd so wildly, and his cheek
Was pale as death, and then was flush'd again,
And chang'd as did my brother's ere he died!
His step was hurried too, and now and then
He stopp'd and spoke, but it was to himself,—
None else was near.

Gertrude
Hush! child, you frighten me!
And yet say on! what heard or saw you more?

Peasant Girl
I know no more: for he had pass'd me then,
As I was standing on the trembling plank,
That bridges yonder brook. Now let us go!

Gertrude
Ah no!—not yet!—say, which way did he go?

Peasant Girl
He took the left-hand path that leads this way,
And farther onward to the waterfall.
Farewell.

(Goes out.)
Gertrude
O Seymour, this is then the fruit
Of thy long studies in the hours of sleep!
Thy midnight cares have blasted thee, and wither'd
The zeal and beauty of thy youth away,
And the rich pride of dawning manhood, which
An early piety kept holy, and
Free from pollution, pure, and passionless,
Unless the gush of wild and youthful feeling,
And brighter love, that knew no shade nor change,
Were deem'd thy passions. But the glow of health
Has faded like the rainbow's tints away,
And the deep hectic flush is on his cheek,
That, like the sere red leaf in Autumn, speaks
Decay and dissolution! He is here!—

Seymour and Gertrude
Seymour
Ah, Gertrude! I had wish'd to meet you here,
For I have had forebodings sad and fearful,
Of coming ill; and I have risen up
To feel the morning breezes fresh and free,
Breathing along the woodland, and to hear
The cheerful song of lighter hearts than mine.
I had a dream last night, and it has left
Dark traces on my mind, who am not wont
To take much thought of dreams. But this has spoken
Of the mysterious future, with a voice
That will be heard and listen'd to, though fearful.
I thought the freshness of the morning air
Might cheer my spirit, but I strive in vain
To chase away those shadow'd images,
That becon dimly to my waking thoughts,
And bid them follow on, as in my dreams.
Nor is my heart less troubled; for which way
I turn, faintly before my eyes they move.
This was my dream. I thought I stood at night
In a sick chamber by the couch of pain,
When life and death were struggling for the mast'ry.
Waving and dim a lamp stood by the couch,
And soon was wasted and went out! And then
Deep was the struggle of mortality;—
The flame of being quiver'd and was quench'd.
The moon shone dimly down!—Gertrude 't was thee!
I touch'd thy brow, 't was cold and pale.—I spake
But silence seal'd thy lips; and I awoke.
Trembling and faint I rose, but still that dream
Floats faint and fearfully before my eyes!—

Gertrude
And dwell thy thoughts so long on such a dream?
A buoyant spirit as thine used to be,
And a mind strong by nature, would not deem
That such as these were proper themes for thought.
But love shall bring forgetfulness of this!
And by the friendship of our earlier years,
The plighted vows of our affection, and
Our thoughts and hopes of better days to come,
I do beseech thee to forget such dreams!—

Seymour
That love must have an end full soon, unless
It can survive the ruin of the grave!
And all the tenderness of former years,
Present affection, and our future hopes,
Be wither'd with me or bloom o'er the tomb!

Gertrude
O do not look so wildly on me, Seymour,
Nor let thy thoughts be of the grave. Long years
And happier shall yet be ours, and love
Shall smile, whose smile survives the grave.

Seymour
Listen, dear Gertrude, for these words may be
The last my lips shall utter on this theme!
When the long sleep of death shall come upon me,
Let that affection which through sorrow glows,
That love which warmed our hearts in earlier years,
Linger around the grave that keeps my dust,
And consecrate the melancholy place,
And let it fade,—if it should ever fade,—
As does the echo of the mellow flute,
Breathed o'er the sweet and silver-chorded lyre.
That love impressed so deeply on thy heart,
Should be the record of departed life,
Nor perish sooner than the marble stone,
That chronicles the name of him beneath!

(The scene closes.)

3. Part Third.

The Waterfall, and the Grave of Seymour—Summer, Sunset.
Gertrude
And art thou here no longer? Has the voice
Of fearful destiny called unto thee,
And has his hand seal'd thy affectionate lips,
Forever and forever? I have watch'd
Until the going down of the bright sun,
And his last beam is sleeping on thy grave!
Thine is a dreamless sleep, that knows no waking,
But he shall shine upon the earth again!
The groves are green around me, yet full soon
Nature shall tune her harp of Autumn tide,
Winds wake upon the mountain, and a sound
Be in the valley of fast falling leaves,
Scatter'd and sere, and rustling; so must fade
The pride, the bloom, and beauty of the Summer,
And solemn Autumn in the garb of age,
And nature worn and weary soon decay.
But unto nature shall be youth again!—
She shall give birth to Spring, and Spring to flowers;
Summer and Autumn shall again go by
And frozen Winter,—circling round the earth.
But thou art in the grave,—that has no portal,—
The grave, where youth can never dawn again,
Where love is not, nor heard the voice of mirth,
Where is no fear, nor hope, nor tears, nor sadness,
Nor chance, nor change, like what are on the earth.
O mournful, mournful is the dashing wave,
Where bright and broken o'er the steep it rolls,
And gushes wild among its moss-grown rocks;—
This was his frequent and his favorite haunt,
At morning and at evening, and these groves
Have known his wanderings, and have heard the sighs
Of his so young, but worn and wasted spirit.—
And it is meet, that he should sleep at last,
In this wild spot, with which he was familiar,
That the same winds, that caught his sighs before,
Might breathe them o'er his low and lonely grave,
And the same boughs, whose shade he lov'd in life,
Should wave, mournfully wave above his slumber!—
Why am I here? The past with all its joys
And sorrows, and its smiles and tears, is gone!
The lamp of Hope, that beam'd in other days
A light of beauty on my happier years,
Is washed, dim'd, and gone! Why linger I?
I hear a mournful voice none else may hear!
I see a spectred form, that becons me!
It points me to the grave!—Seymour, I come.— (Goes out.)


Two Peasants
First Peasant
This is a lonely spot, yet beautiful,
That he has chosen for his silent rest
From this world's troubles,—for his last cold couch,
And his last slumber, long, but still not wakeless.
And yet if spirits from their graves come forth
To walk the earth at night-fall, and the spots,
That were the habitations of the dust
They tenanted, his spirit too shall haunt
These shadowing groves he loved so well in life,
And on the night-breeze melancholy speak.

Second Peasant
They say, that troubled spirits always walk,
While dust is mingling with its dust again,
And it would seem, that his, so sad in life,
Would not sleep quiet in its lonely grave,
Where is no silent fellowship in death,
And no communion with those gone before,
But would come back to visit us again.

First Peasant
Poor Gertrude, she will die of grief! For he
Was all her hope, and he is wither'd now!

Second Peasant
He died in peace: and yet 't is said sad sounds
Were heard at night, and he had seen sad dreams,
Ere yet his mournful spirit was set free.
Still it would seem that death was sweet to him,
If it were not that Gertrude would be left
Lonely and comfortless in this wide world.

First Peasant
Hist! hist! some one is here!

The Peasants and a Stranger
Stranger
Peace, gentle friends!—
Unless my truant feet have led me far
From the right path, the peasant pointed out,
'T is somewhere near this spot a person dwells
Known by the name of Seymour. I have come
With tidings that will be of joy to him
And those that are dear to him. Know ye
Aught of his dwelling?

Second Peasant
Stranger, it is there!

(Points to the grave.)
Stranger.
What!—in the grave?—The grave, so cold and silent!
Then is the hand that would have sav'd, too late!—
The voice, that would have call'd from tears to joy,
Unheard!—the friend, that would have cherish'd,
Come but to see the green turf on the grave
Of him, that cold neglect has wither'd!
But yet the friendship, that was ours before,
Shall not be crush'd by death's unsparing hand:
For as the impress of the seal remains,
Though the frail wax that holds it may be broken,
So youthful friendship lingers though the heart,
Where time more deeply had impress'd it, breaks!—
He had an aged mother with him, and
A maid of somewhat greener years. To them
The proffer'd gift may not be brought in vain.
And how bear they the chastening rod?

First Peasant
The mother
Relies upon a hope, that never falters!—
But Gertrude, she, so young is broken-hearted!

(A corpse is precipitated over the waterfall.)
Second Peasant
'T is she!—'t is she!—

First Peasant
Gertrude!—

Stranger.
Then nought is left,
Save 't is to light'n the burthen of Old Age,
And smooth a few short footsteps to the grave!—
Now lead me to the desolated dwelling,
Over whose threshold have the feet of death
So lately pass'd!

Second Peasant
This way the foot-path leads.

End of the Poor Student.

TO THE NOVICE OF THE CONVENT OF THE VISITATION

JEPTHAH'S DAUGHTER

OLD PARISH CHURCH

NIGHT-FALL IN NOVEMBER

A WINTER'S NIGHT

[VALENTINE]

ON A LOCK OF HAIR

YOUTHFUL YEARS

The following lines were written by a young man who died last summer of the dysentery. An ancient poet has said:

The good die first:—
But they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket.

Next week I will send you another performance from the same pen.

Once more the harp, that breath'd
By youth's fresh fount its numbers,
When beauty's hand had wreath'd
Her wild-flowers round its slumbers,
After long years of pain and tears
My hand from sleep hath woken,—
Though it has hung so long unstrung,
That Time the chords hath broken!
The joys of other days,—
That beauty may inherit,
Ere early love decays,
And youth's more buoyant spirit,—
Fade, as at night the dim twilight
O'er the storm-troubled ocean,
Or the soft lute, whose chords would suit
The songs of youth's devotion!
The records Time hath made
Are passionate revealings!
The page that has display'd
The wreck of wasted feelings!—
Time cannot hide my broken pride
Beneath his restless pinion,
Nor hope can heal the wounds I feel
From passion's dark dominion.
I thought the joys of earth
Would droop and wither never!
That hopes of mortal birth
Would live and bloom forever:—
Nor wind should wake time's silent lake,
When skies were fair above me,
Nor hearts grow cold in the earth's mould
I thought were form'd to love me.
But there are griefs I knew not then,—
And storms on life's dark waters—
Sorrow is for the sons of men,
And weeping for earth's daughters!
The cold, cold moon shall see full soon
The stranger's grave so lowly,
Ere yet again it wax and wane,—
Silent and calm, and holy!