 | [Poems by Paulding in] Salmagundi |  |
157
ELEGY
ON A LADY SACRIFICED TO GOLD.
Her eyes were like the star-wrought firmament,
Ethereal blue, and lighted with pale fires,
Mild as the moonbeams when with shadows blent,
Speaking calm wishes, sweet, yet chaste desires.
Ethereal blue, and lighted with pale fires,
Mild as the moonbeams when with shadows blent,
Speaking calm wishes, sweet, yet chaste desires.
158
On her ripe cheek the rose did sometimes blow,
When a quick mantling blush abided there;
But oftener, the pale lily, white as snow,
Shed its soft hue beneath the shadowy hair.
When a quick mantling blush abided there;
But oftener, the pale lily, white as snow,
Shed its soft hue beneath the shadowy hair.
That hair seem'd as 'twas made for aye to twist
Round captiv'd hearts and never let them go,
So wantonly it tangled round, and kiss'd
Her lovely cheek, blue eye, and brow of snow.
Round captiv'd hearts and never let them go,
So wantonly it tangled round, and kiss'd
Her lovely cheek, blue eye, and brow of snow.
I've seen twin rose-buds blushing side by side,
When morning dews the insect rabble sip;
But never yet did hue or sweet abide,
On dew-lapp'd rose, like those on her red lip.
When morning dews the insect rabble sip;
But never yet did hue or sweet abide,
On dew-lapp'd rose, like those on her red lip.
No wandering shepherd, who sojourns awhile
In bless'd Arabia, where the spices grow,
E'er saw the morn of May wear such a smile,
Or knew such sweets as from those lips did flow.
In bless'd Arabia, where the spices grow,
E'er saw the morn of May wear such a smile,
Or knew such sweets as from those lips did flow.
I've heard the turtle moan her roundelay
The breathing flute, and hunter's mellow horn,
Winding in soften'd distance, far away,
Along the hills, by answering echoes borne:
The breathing flute, and hunter's mellow horn,
Winding in soften'd distance, far away,
Along the hills, by answering echoes borne:
But when she spoke, and plaintive smil'd the while,
Op'd her red lip, and show'd the ivory row,
There was a harmony in speech and smile,
That turtle, flute, or horn did never know.
Op'd her red lip, and show'd the ivory row,
There was a harmony in speech and smile,
That turtle, flute, or horn did never know.
159
Thus cloth'd with every attribute of Heav'n,
She seem'd by holy Providence design'd
A rich and bright temptation, to be giv'n,
For some heroic act, or task of mind.
She seem'd by holy Providence design'd
A rich and bright temptation, to be giv'n,
For some heroic act, or task of mind.
But she was thrown away upon a clod
Of senseless earth, with neither heart nor soul;
A libel both on nature and on God—
A man who liv'd for gambling and the bowl.—
Of senseless earth, with neither heart nor soul;
A libel both on nature and on God—
A man who liv'd for gambling and the bowl.—
Who knew not what a treasure he possess'd,
But threw it from him as a worthless toy,
And turn'd from where an angel would have bless'd,
To scenes of senseless riot, beastly joy.
But threw it from him as a worthless toy,
And turn'd from where an angel would have bless'd,
To scenes of senseless riot, beastly joy.
The animal was rich, and her harsh sire,
Who could not comprehend a greater good,
Condemn'd his child to this ordeal of fire,
And sacrific'd to gold his flesh and blood.
Who could not comprehend a greater good,
Condemn'd his child to this ordeal of fire,
And sacrific'd to gold his flesh and blood.
At his command a heartless hand she gave,
Surrender'd a cold, shrinking, lifeless form,
And gave up one so beautiful and brave,
To consort with a wretched earth-born worm.
Surrender'd a cold, shrinking, lifeless form,
And gave up one so beautiful and brave,
To consort with a wretched earth-born worm.
For wo was her!—she lov'd another man—
A man to whom this husband was no more
Than was the beast that through the forest ran,
To the gay hunter, who his honours wore.
A man to whom this husband was no more
Than was the beast that through the forest ran,
To the gay hunter, who his honours wore.
160
Glory and love were his most prime delights,
But virtuous love, in truth, he valued best,
And snatch'd at glory, as a heav'nly light,
To waken love in some high woman's breast.
But virtuous love, in truth, he valued best,
And snatch'd at glory, as a heav'nly light,
To waken love in some high woman's breast.
But what of that!—the ties of gentle love
Are naught to those that only breathe for gold;
So Av'rice burst the bands Affection wove,
And the bright victim, like a slave, was sold.
Are naught to those that only breathe for gold;
So Av'rice burst the bands Affection wove,
And the bright victim, like a slave, was sold.
Yet though they drove her to another's bed,
They could not make the hapless girl forget,
Another hand should to the church have led,
Another heart her throbbing heart have met.
They could not make the hapless girl forget,
Another hand should to the church have led,
Another heart her throbbing heart have met.
Heart-burning wishes, and heart-sick disgust,
By turns or scorch'd or froze her gentle blood;
And life was one hard struggle from the first,
To conquer hate, and quell love's raging flood.
By turns or scorch'd or froze her gentle blood;
And life was one hard struggle from the first,
To conquer hate, and quell love's raging flood.
And she did conquer, but it cost her life;
For cruel was the strife she had to bear,
Between the love-lorn mistress, wretched wife,
Blooming and beck'ning Love, and withered stern Despair
For cruel was the strife she had to bear,
Between the love-lorn mistress, wretched wife,
Blooming and beck'ning Love, and withered stern Despair
Pale grew her cheek, and paler every day,
Yet still sad patience bided in her eye—
Slowly, yet surely, sorrow work'd its way;
She died without a struggle, or a sigh.
Yet still sad patience bided in her eye—
Slowly, yet surely, sorrow work'd its way;
She died without a struggle, or a sigh.
161
One dark November day, when a chill blast
Swept through the churchyard with a moaning sound;
When round, the wither'd leaves were idly cast,
And the dry grass lay dead upon the ground—
Swept through the churchyard with a moaning sound;
When round, the wither'd leaves were idly cast,
And the dry grass lay dead upon the ground—
I follow'd her pale corse to its sad cell,
Where all that once was beauty now repos'd,
And heard the hollow earth sound, slowly swell,
Fainter and fainter, till the grave was clos'd.
Where all that once was beauty now repos'd,
And heard the hollow earth sound, slowly swell,
Fainter and fainter, till the grave was clos'd.
I saw an old man with a head of snow,
Stand like a statue, cut from solid stone;
A sad and moveless monument of wo,
Beside the grave all desolate and lone.
Stand like a statue, cut from solid stone;
A sad and moveless monument of wo,
Beside the grave all desolate and lone.
No wringing of the feeble hands was here,
Nor heaving breast discharging heavy sighs,
Nor furrow'd cheek moistened with trickling tear—
Despair alone glar'd in his hollow eyes.
Nor heaving breast discharging heavy sighs,
Nor furrow'd cheek moistened with trickling tear—
Despair alone glar'd in his hollow eyes.
And I would not have had that old man's heart,
For all this world's wealth twenty times full told;
Nor borne its slow, consuming, killing smart—
For 'twas the father, who his daughter sold!
For all this world's wealth twenty times full told;
Nor borne its slow, consuming, killing smart—
For 'twas the father, who his daughter sold!
187
FROM OUR NEW-ENGLAND CORRESPONDENT.
Painful her duties were:—To sooth the cureless pinings of old age;
To minister to worn-out mind and body,
And be repaid with querulous complaint,
Instead of thanks and blessings—
Yet she perform'd them—and that so smilingly!
263
THE HUNTER OF ALLEGHANY.
The Hunter is gone from his home in the vale,
To chase the wild deer on the mountain alone,
Though dark is the morning, and raw the rude gale,
That moans round the hill where the Hunter is gone.
To chase the wild deer on the mountain alone,
Though dark is the morning, and raw the rude gale,
That moans round the hill where the Hunter is gone.
It is lonely and desert, no hut to be seen,
No bed but the rude rock, no cloak but the skies;
And the torrent that foams its rough ridges between,
Oft stops the lone Hunter as homeward he hies.
No bed but the rude rock, no cloak but the skies;
And the torrent that foams its rough ridges between,
Oft stops the lone Hunter as homeward he hies.
O, cold blows the north wind, and fast falls the snow,
The tracks are all cover'd that guided his way;
'Tis dark in the depths of the valley below,
And the last teints of daylight are fading away.
The tracks are all cover'd that guided his way;
'Tis dark in the depths of the valley below,
And the last teints of daylight are fading away.
'Tis night—and around the lone hut in the vale,
The snows drift, and cumber the windows and door;
Cold, dreary, and dismal now moans the sad gale,
I fear me our Hunter will ne'er return more.
The snows drift, and cumber the windows and door;
Cold, dreary, and dismal now moans the sad gale,
I fear me our Hunter will ne'er return more.
And so fears the good wife, that sits by the fire,
A listening the blast, as it rattles the door,
And draws to the chimney still nigher and nigher,
She fears that her good man will ne'er come back more.
A listening the blast, as it rattles the door,
And draws to the chimney still nigher and nigher,
She fears that her good man will ne'er come back more.
'Tis midnight—and yet blows the whirlwind of snow,
And louder the blast moans adown the lone vale,
And still sits the good wife, all wakeful with wo,
To think of the Hunter that bides the sharp gale.
And louder the blast moans adown the lone vale,
And still sits the good wife, all wakeful with wo,
To think of the Hunter that bides the sharp gale.
Is that his loud horn that resounds on the hill?
Or is it his voice moaning hollow and low?
'Tis only the fiend of the storm howling shrill,
And chiding his train through the mountains of snow.
Or is it his voice moaning hollow and low?
'Tis only the fiend of the storm howling shrill,
And chiding his train through the mountains of snow.
264
There's a noise at the door—'tis the Hunter is come!
She runs to the door, but no Hunter is there—
'Tis his dog, who through snow-drifts has found his way home,
While his master is freezing, God only knows where.
She runs to the door, but no Hunter is there—
'Tis his dog, who through snow-drifts has found his way home,
While his master is freezing, God only knows where.
He looks in the wife's face, he runs to the door,
And wistfully whining in accents of wo,
Invites her to follow, while he tracks before—
She wishes to follow, yet trembles to go.
And wistfully whining in accents of wo,
Invites her to follow, while he tracks before—
She wishes to follow, yet trembles to go.
But perhaps 'tis not far, and there's time yet to save
The poor wand'ring pilgrim that's lost in the hills,
For a lover, a mistress such perils would brave,
Shall a wife then decline what a mistress fulfils?
The poor wand'ring pilgrim that's lost in the hills,
For a lover, a mistress such perils would brave,
Shall a wife then decline what a mistress fulfils?
They have brav'd the dark night, and the keen pelting wind;
Cold, cold blew the blast, and the snow fell amain,
But none know if the Hunter they ever did find,
Nor wife, dog, or Hunter, e'er came home again.
Cold, cold blew the blast, and the snow fell amain,
But none know if the Hunter they ever did find,
Nor wife, dog, or Hunter, e'er came home again.
The hut is deserted, yet none e'er ask why
For few ever visit that valley so lone;
And those who may chance the log ruin to spy,
Think its tenants are all to the west country gone.
For few ever visit that valley so lone;
And those who may chance the log ruin to spy,
Think its tenants are all to the west country gone.
But one day or other, when years are past by,
Some Huntsman may traverse that mountain so drear,
And shrinking with horror, perchance will descry
Three skeletons whitening some precipice near.
Some Huntsman may traverse that mountain so drear,
And shrinking with horror, perchance will descry
Three skeletons whitening some precipice near.
And ponder, as sadly he leans on his gun,
And feels his hair bristle with horrible fear,
What ruffian, or wild beast, this foul deed has done,
Then turn him away, and pursue the wild deer.
And feels his hair bristle with horrible fear,
What ruffian, or wild beast, this foul deed has done,
Then turn him away, and pursue the wild deer.
52
FROM MY ELBOW CHAIR.
“Who does not love to list the old wife's taleOf former days, told in her rambling way,
And full of repetitions—yet most rare,
And worthy of the ear of list'ning youth,
Gather'd about the rousing winter's fire?”
| [Poems by Paulding in] Salmagundi | |