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 | Illustrated poems by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney |  |
To Samuel Rogers, THE MOST VENERABLE POET OF EUROPE, AND THE FRIEND OF AMERICA; WHOSE STRAINS, READ IN THE SOLITUDE OF EARLY YEARS, AND WHOSE KIND WORDS TO THE STRANGER IN HIS OWN HOME ARE ALIKE HELD AMONG THE “Pleasures of Memory”, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
51
THE THRUSH.
“I'll pay my rent in music,” said a thrush
Who took his lodging 'neath my eaves in spring,
Where the thick foliage droop'd. And well he kept
His simple contract. Not for quarter-day
He coldly waited, nor a draft required
To stir his memory, nor my patience tried
With changeful currencies, but every morn
Brought me good notes at par, and broke my sleep
With his sweet-ringing coin.
Who took his lodging 'neath my eaves in spring,
Where the thick foliage droop'd. And well he kept
His simple contract. Not for quarter-day
He coldly waited, nor a draft required
To stir his memory, nor my patience tried
With changeful currencies, but every morn
Brought me good notes at par, and broke my sleep
With his sweet-ringing coin.
Sometimes, a song,
All wildly trilling through his dulcet pipes,
Falling, and caught again, and still prolong'd,
Betray'd in what green nook the warbler sat,
Each feather quivering with excess of joy,
While from his opening beak and brightening eye
There seem'd to breathe a cadence, “This is meant
For your especial benefit.” The lay
With overruling shrillness more than once
Did summon me to lay my book aside
And wait its close; nor was that pause a loss,
But seem'd to tune and shape the inward ear
To wisdom's key-tone.
All wildly trilling through his dulcet pipes,
Falling, and caught again, and still prolong'd,
Betray'd in what green nook the warbler sat,
Each feather quivering with excess of joy,
While from his opening beak and brightening eye
There seem'd to breathe a cadence, “This is meant
For your especial benefit.” The lay
With overruling shrillness more than once
Did summon me to lay my book aside
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But seem'd to tune and shape the inward ear
To wisdom's key-tone.
Then I had a share
In softer songs, that cheer'd his brooding mate,
Who, in the patience of good hope, did keep
Her lengthen'd vigil; and the voice of love
That flow'd so fondly from his trusting soul
Made glad mine own.
In softer songs, that cheer'd his brooding mate,
Who, in the patience of good hope, did keep
Her lengthen'd vigil; and the voice of love
That flow'd so fondly from his trusting soul
Made glad mine own.
Then, too, there was a strain
From blended throats, that to their callow young
Breathed tenderness untold; and the weak chirp
Of new-born choristers, so deftly train'd,
Each in the sweet way that he ought to go,
Mix'd with that breath of household charities
Which makes the spirit strong.
From blended throats, that to their callow young
Breathed tenderness untold; and the weak chirp
Of new-born choristers, so deftly train'd,
Each in the sweet way that he ought to go,
Mix'd with that breath of household charities
Which makes the spirit strong.
And so I felt
My rent was fully paid, and thought myself
Quite fortunate, in these our times, to find
Such honest tenant.
My rent was fully paid, and thought myself
Quite fortunate, in these our times, to find
Such honest tenant.
But when autumn bade
The northern birds to spread their parting wing,
And that small house was vacant, and o'er hedge
And russet grove and forest hoar with years
The hush of silence settled, I grew sad
To miss my kind musicians, and was fain
To patronize with a more fervent zeal
Such fireside music as makes winter short,
And storms unheard.
The northern birds to spread their parting wing,
And that small house was vacant, and o'er hedge
And russet grove and forest hoar with years
The hush of silence settled, I grew sad
To miss my kind musicians, and was fain
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Such fireside music as makes winter short,
And storms unheard.
Yet leave within our hearts,
Dear melodists, the spirit of your praise,
Until ye come again; and the brown nest,
That now its downy lining to the winds
Turns desolate, shall thrill at your return
With the loud welcome home.
Dear melodists, the spirit of your praise,
Until ye come again; and the brown nest,
That now its downy lining to the winds
Turns desolate, shall thrill at your return
With the loud welcome home.
For He who touch'd
Your breasts with minstrelsy, and every flower
With beauty, hath a lesson for his sons,
In all the varied garniture that decks
Life's banquet-board; and he's the wisest guest
Who taketh gladly what his God doth send,
Keeping each instrument of joy in tune
That helps to fit him for the choir of Heaven.
Your breasts with minstrelsy, and every flower
With beauty, hath a lesson for his sons,
In all the varied garniture that decks
Life's banquet-board; and he's the wisest guest
Who taketh gladly what his God doth send,
Keeping each instrument of joy in tune
That helps to fit him for the choir of Heaven.
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THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK.
So here thou art, old friend,
Ready thine aid to lend,
With honest face;
The gilded figures just as bright
Upon thy painted case,
As when I ran with young delight
Their garniture to trace,
And though forbid thy burnish'd robe to touch,
Still gazed with folded hands, admiring long and much.
Ready thine aid to lend,
With honest face;
The gilded figures just as bright
Upon thy painted case,
As when I ran with young delight
Their garniture to trace,
And though forbid thy burnish'd robe to touch,
Still gazed with folded hands, admiring long and much.
But where is she who sate
Near in her elbow-chair,
Teaching with patient care
Life's young beginner, on thy dial plate
To count the winged minutes, fleet and fair,
And mark each hour with deeds of love?
Lo, she hath broke her league with time, and found the rest above.
Thrice welcome, ancient crone!
'Tis sweet to gaze on thee,
And hear thy busy heart beat on.
Come, tell old tales to me:
Old tales such as I love, of hoar antiquity.
Near in her elbow-chair,
Teaching with patient care
Life's young beginner, on thy dial plate
To count the winged minutes, fleet and fair,
And mark each hour with deeds of love?
Lo, she hath broke her league with time, and found the rest above.
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'Tis sweet to gaze on thee,
And hear thy busy heart beat on.
Come, tell old tales to me:
Old tales such as I love, of hoar antiquity.
Thou hast good store, I trow,
For laughing and for weeping,
Things very strange to know,
And none the worse for keeping.
Soft tales have lovers told
Into the thrilling ear,
Till midnight's witching hour wax'd old,
Deeming themselves alone, while thou wert near,
In thy sly corner hid sublime,
With thy ‘tick!’ ‘tick!’ to warn how Time
Outliveth Love, boasting itself divine,
Yet fading ere the wreath which its fond votaries twine.
For laughing and for weeping,
Things very strange to know,
And none the worse for keeping.
Soft tales have lovers told
Into the thrilling ear,
Till midnight's witching hour wax'd old,
Deeming themselves alone, while thou wert near,
In thy sly corner hid sublime,
With thy ‘tick!’ ‘tick!’ to warn how Time
Outliveth Love, boasting itself divine,
Yet fading ere the wreath which its fond votaries twine.
The unutter'd hopes and fears,
The deep-drawn rapturous tears
Of young paternity,
Were chronicled by thee.
The nursling's first faint cry,
Which from a bright-hair'd girl of dance and song,
The idol, incense-fed, of an adoring throng,
Did make a mother, with her quenchless eyes
Of love, and truth, and trust, and holiest memories;
As Death's sharp ministry
Robeth an angel when the mortal dies.
The deep-drawn rapturous tears
Of young paternity,
Were chronicled by thee.
The nursling's first faint cry,
Which from a bright-hair'd girl of dance and song,
The idol, incense-fed, of an adoring throng,
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Of love, and truth, and trust, and holiest memories;
As Death's sharp ministry
Robeth an angel when the mortal dies.
Thy quick vibrations caught
The cradled infant's ear,
And while it scann'd thy face with curious fear,
Thou didst awake the new-born thought,
Peering through the humid eye,
Like star-beam in a misty sky;
Though the nurse, standing still more near,
Mark'd but the body's growing wealth,
And praised that fair machine of clay,
Working in mystery and health
Its wondrous way.
The cradled infant's ear,
And while it scann'd thy face with curious fear,
Thou didst awake the new-born thought,
Peering through the humid eye,
Like star-beam in a misty sky;
Though the nurse, standing still more near,
Mark'd but the body's growing wealth,
And praised that fair machine of clay,
Working in mystery and health
Its wondrous way.
Thy voice was like a knell,
Chiming all mournful with the funeral bell,
When stranger-feet came gathering slow
To see the master of the mansion borne
To that last home, the narrow and the low,
From whence is no return.
Chiming all mournful with the funeral bell,
When stranger-feet came gathering slow
To see the master of the mansion borne
To that last home, the narrow and the low,
From whence is no return.
A laggard wert thou to the impatient breast
Of watching lover, or long-parted wife,
Counting each moment while the day unblest,
Like wounded snake, its length did draw;
And blaming thee, as if the strife
Of wild emotion should have been thy law,
When thou wert pledged, in amity sublime,
To crystal-breasted truth and sky-reporting time.
Of watching lover, or long-parted wife,
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Like wounded snake, its length did draw;
And blaming thee, as if the strife
Of wild emotion should have been thy law,
When thou wert pledged, in amity sublime,
To crystal-breasted truth and sky-reporting time.
Glad signal thou hast given
For the gay bridal, when with flower-wreath'd hair
And flushing cheek, the youthful pair
Stand near the priest with reverent air,
Dreaming that earth is heaven:—
And thou hast heralded with joyance fair
The green-wreath'd Christmas, and that other feast
With which the hard lot of colonial care
The pilgrim-sire besprinkled; saving well
The golden pumpkin and the fatted beast,
And round-cheek'd apple, with its luscious swell
Till, the thanksgiving sermon duly o'er,
He greets his children at his humble door,
Bidding them welcome to his plenteous hoard,
As, gathering from their distant home,
To knit their gladden'd hearts in love they come,
Each with his youngling brood, round the gray father's board.
For the gay bridal, when with flower-wreath'd hair
And flushing cheek, the youthful pair
Stand near the priest with reverent air,
Dreaming that earth is heaven:—
And thou hast heralded with joyance fair
The green-wreath'd Christmas, and that other feast
With which the hard lot of colonial care
The pilgrim-sire besprinkled; saving well
The golden pumpkin and the fatted beast,
And round-cheek'd apple, with its luscious swell
Till, the thanksgiving sermon duly o'er,
He greets his children at his humble door,
Bidding them welcome to his plenteous hoard,
As, gathering from their distant home,
To knit their gladden'd hearts in love they come,
Each with his youngling brood, round the gray father's board.
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Thou hast outlived thy maker, ancient clock!
He in his cold grave sleeps; but thy slight wheels
Still do his bidding, yet his frailty mock,
While o'er his name oblivion steals.
O Man! so prodigal of pride and praise,
Thy works survive thee; dead machines perform
Their revolution, while thy scythe-shorn days
Yield thee a powerless prisoner to the worm.
How darest thou sport with Time, while he
Plunges thee darkly in Eternity?
Haste! ere its awful wave engulf thy form,
And make thy peace with Him, who rules above the storm.
He in his cold grave sleeps; but thy slight wheels
Still do his bidding, yet his frailty mock,
While o'er his name oblivion steals.
O Man! so prodigal of pride and praise,
Thy works survive thee; dead machines perform
Their revolution, while thy scythe-shorn days
Yield thee a powerless prisoner to the worm.
How darest thou sport with Time, while he
Plunges thee darkly in Eternity?
Haste! ere its awful wave engulf thy form,
And make thy peace with Him, who rules above the storm.
159
TO A SHRED OF LINEN.
Would they swept cleaner!
Here's a littering shred
Of linen left behind—a vile reproach
To all good housewifery. Right glad am I
That no neat lady, train'd in ancient times
Of pudding making, and of sampler-work,
And speckless sanctity of household care,
Hath happen'd here to spy thee. She, no doubt,
Keen looking through her spectacles, would say,
“This comes of reading books.” Or some spruce beau,
Essenced and lily-handed, had he chanced
To scan thy slight superfices, 'twould be,
“This comes of writing poetry.”—Well, well,
Come forth, offender!—hast thou aught to say?
Canst thou, by merry thought or quaint conceit,
Repay this risk that I have run for thee?
---Begin at alpha, and resolve thyself
Into thine elements. I see the stalk
And bright blue flower of flax, which erst o'erspread
That fertile land, where mighty Moses stretch'd
His rod miraculous. I see thy bloom
Tinging, too scantly, these New England vales.
But, lo! the sturdy farmer lifts his flail
To crush thy bones unpitying, and his wife,
With kerchief'd head and eye brimfull of dust,
Thy fibrous nerves with hatchel-tooth divides.
---I hear a voice of music—and behold!
The ruddy damsel singeth at her wheel,
While by her side the rustic lover sits.
Perchance, his shrewd eye secretly doth count
The mass of skeins, which, hanging on the wall,
Increaseth day by day. Perchance his thought
(For men have deeper minds than women—sure!)
Is calculating what a thrifty wife
The maid will make; and how his dairy shelves
Shall groan beneath the weight of golden cheese,
Made by her dexterous hand, while many a keg
And pot of butter to the market borne,
May, transmigrated, on his back appear
In new thanksgiving coats.
Here's a littering shred
Of linen left behind—a vile reproach
To all good housewifery. Right glad am I
That no neat lady, train'd in ancient times
Of pudding making, and of sampler-work,
And speckless sanctity of household care,
Hath happen'd here to spy thee. She, no doubt,
Keen looking through her spectacles, would say,
“This comes of reading books.” Or some spruce beau,
Essenced and lily-handed, had he chanced
To scan thy slight superfices, 'twould be,
“This comes of writing poetry.”—Well, well,
Come forth, offender!—hast thou aught to say?
Canst thou, by merry thought or quaint conceit,
Repay this risk that I have run for thee?
---Begin at alpha, and resolve thyself
Into thine elements. I see the stalk
And bright blue flower of flax, which erst o'erspread
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His rod miraculous. I see thy bloom
Tinging, too scantly, these New England vales.
But, lo! the sturdy farmer lifts his flail
To crush thy bones unpitying, and his wife,
With kerchief'd head and eye brimfull of dust,
Thy fibrous nerves with hatchel-tooth divides.
---I hear a voice of music—and behold!
The ruddy damsel singeth at her wheel,
While by her side the rustic lover sits.
Perchance, his shrewd eye secretly doth count
The mass of skeins, which, hanging on the wall,
Increaseth day by day. Perchance his thought
(For men have deeper minds than women—sure!)
Is calculating what a thrifty wife
The maid will make; and how his dairy shelves
Shall groan beneath the weight of golden cheese,
Made by her dexterous hand, while many a keg
And pot of butter to the market borne,
May, transmigrated, on his back appear
In new thanksgiving coats.
Fain would I ask,
Mine own New England, for thy once loved wheel,
By sofa and piano quite displaced.
Why dost thou banish from thy parlour hearth
That old Hygeian harp, whose magic ruled
Dyspepsia, as the minstrel-shepherd's skill
Exorcised Saul's ennui? There was no need,
In those good times of callisthenics, sure;
And there was less of gadding, and far more
Of home-born, heart-felt comfort, rooted strong
In industry, and bearing such rare fruit
As wealth might never purchase.
Mine own New England, for thy once loved wheel,
By sofa and piano quite displaced.
Why dost thou banish from thy parlour hearth
That old Hygeian harp, whose magic ruled
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Exorcised Saul's ennui? There was no need,
In those good times of callisthenics, sure;
And there was less of gadding, and far more
Of home-born, heart-felt comfort, rooted strong
In industry, and bearing such rare fruit
As wealth might never purchase.
But come back,
Thou shred of linen. I did let thee drop
In my harangue, as wiser ones have lost
The thread of their discourse. What was thy lot
When the rough battery of the loom had stretch'd
And knit thy sinews, and the chemist sun
Thy brown complexion bleach'd?
Thou shred of linen. I did let thee drop
In my harangue, as wiser ones have lost
The thread of their discourse. What was thy lot
When the rough battery of the loom had stretch'd
And knit thy sinews, and the chemist sun
Thy brown complexion bleach'd?
Methinks I scan
Some idiosyncrasy that marks thee out
A defunct pillow-case. Did the trim guest,
To the best chamber usher'd, e'er admire
The snowy whiteness of thy freshen'd youth,
Feeding thy vanity? or some sweet babe
Pour its pure dream of innocence on thee?
Say, hast thou listen'd to the sick one's moan,
When there was none to comfort?—or shrunk back
From the dire tossings of the proud man's brow?
Or gather'd from young beauty's restless sigh
A tale of untold love?
Some idiosyncrasy that marks thee out
A defunct pillow-case. Did the trim guest,
To the best chamber usher'd, e'er admire
The snowy whiteness of thy freshen'd youth,
Feeding thy vanity? or some sweet babe
Pour its pure dream of innocence on thee?
Say, hast thou listen'd to the sick one's moan,
When there was none to comfort?—or shrunk back
From the dire tossings of the proud man's brow?
Or gather'd from young beauty's restless sigh
A tale of untold love?
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GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET.
Speak, speak, sweet guests.
Yes, ope your lips in words,
'Tis my delight to talk with you, and fain
I'd have an answer. I've been long convinced
You understand me, though you do not choose
To wear your bright thoughts on your finger-tips,
For all to sport with.
Yes, ope your lips in words,
'Tis my delight to talk with you, and fain
I'd have an answer. I've been long convinced
You understand me, though you do not choose
To wear your bright thoughts on your finger-tips,
For all to sport with.
Lily of the vale,
And you, meek Violet, with your eyes of blue,
I call on you the first, for well I know
How prone the village maiden is to hide
Her clear good sense among the city folks,
Unless well urged, and fortified to speak.
And you, meek Violet, with your eyes of blue,
I call on you the first, for well I know
How prone the village maiden is to hide
Her clear good sense among the city folks,
Unless well urged, and fortified to speak.
O purple Pansy! friend of earliest years,
You're always welcome. Hath no grandame told
You of your ancestors, who flourish'd fair
Upon the margin of my native Thames?
'Twas not the fond garrulity of age,
That made her laud the past, without respect
To verity; for I remember well
How beautiful they were, and with what pride
I used to pluck them, when my school was o'er,
And love to place them, rich with breathing sweets,
Between my Bible leaves, and find them there
Month after month, pressing their bosoms close
To some undying hope.
You're always welcome. Hath no grandame told
You of your ancestors, who flourish'd fair
Upon the margin of my native Thames?
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That made her laud the past, without respect
To verity; for I remember well
How beautiful they were, and with what pride
I used to pluck them, when my school was o'er,
And love to place them, rich with breathing sweets,
Between my Bible leaves, and find them there
Month after month, pressing their bosoms close
To some undying hope.
Bright Hyacinth,
I'm glad you've brought your little ones. How snug
You wrap them in their hoods. But still I see
Their merry eyes and their plump cheeks peep out.
Ah! here's the baby, in its blanket too.
You're a good mother, sure. Don't be in haste
To take their mantles off; the morn is chill;
I'd rather see them one by one come forth,
Just when they please. A charming family!
And very happy you must doubtless be
In their sweet promise and your matron care.
I'm glad you've brought your little ones. How snug
You wrap them in their hoods. But still I see
Their merry eyes and their plump cheeks peep out.
Ah! here's the baby, in its blanket too.
You're a good mother, sure. Don't be in haste
To take their mantles off; the morn is chill;
I'd rather see them one by one come forth,
Just when they please. A charming family!
And very happy you must doubtless be
In their sweet promise and your matron care.
Gay, graceful Tulip, did you learn in France
Your taste for dress? and how to hold your head
So elegantly? In the gale yestreen,
That o'er the parterre swept with sudden force,
I thought I saw you waltzing. Have a care,
And do not look disdainfully on those
You call plebeian flowers, because, you know,
We live in a republic, where the strength
Comes from beneath, and many a change occurs
To lop the haughty and to lift the low.
Your taste for dress? and how to hold your head
So elegantly? In the gale yestreen,
That o'er the parterre swept with sudden force,
I thought I saw you waltzing. Have a care,
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You call plebeian flowers, because, you know,
We live in a republic, where the strength
Comes from beneath, and many a change occurs
To lop the haughty and to lift the low.
Good neighbour Cowslip, I have seen the bee
Whispering to you, and have been told he stays
Quite long and late amid your golden cells.
Is it not business that he comes upon—
Matter-of-fact? He never wastes an hour.
Know you that he's a subtle financier,
And shows some gain for every day he spends?
Oh! learn from him the priceless worth of time,
Thou fair and frail! So shalt thou prove the truth,
That he who makes companion of the wise
Shall in their wisdom share.
Whispering to you, and have been told he stays
Quite long and late amid your golden cells.
Is it not business that he comes upon—
Matter-of-fact? He never wastes an hour.
Know you that he's a subtle financier,
And shows some gain for every day he spends?
Oh! learn from him the priceless worth of time,
Thou fair and frail! So shalt thou prove the truth,
That he who makes companion of the wise
Shall in their wisdom share.
Narcissus pale!
Had e'er a governess, who kept you close
Over your needle or your music books?
Not suffering you to sweep a room, or make
A pudding in the kitchen? I'm afraid
She shut you from the air and fervid sun,
To keep you delicate, or let you draw
Your corset-cord too tight. I would you were
As hardy as your cousin Daffodil
Who to the sharp wind turns her buxom cheek
Unshrinking, like a damsel taught to spin,
And milk the cows,—her nerves by labour strung
To bear its duties and its burdens too.
Had e'er a governess, who kept you close
Over your needle or your music books?
Not suffering you to sweep a room, or make
A pudding in the kitchen? I'm afraid
She shut you from the air and fervid sun,
To keep you delicate, or let you draw
Your corset-cord too tight. I would you were
As hardy as your cousin Daffodil
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Unshrinking, like a damsel taught to spin,
And milk the cows,—her nerves by labour strung
To bear its duties and its burdens too.
Lilac of Persia, tell us some fine tale
Of Eastern lands. We're fond of travellers.
Have you no legend of some sultan proud,
Or old fire-worshipper? What! not one note
Made on your voyage? Well, 'tis wondrous strange
That you should let so rare a chance slip by,
While those who never journey'd half as far
Fill sundry volumes, and expect the world
To reverently peruse and magnify
What it well knew before.
Of Eastern lands. We're fond of travellers.
Have you no legend of some sultan proud,
Or old fire-worshipper? What! not one note
Made on your voyage? Well, 'tis wondrous strange
That you should let so rare a chance slip by,
While those who never journey'd half as far
Fill sundry volumes, and expect the world
To reverently peruse and magnify
What it well knew before.
Most glorious Rose,
You are the queenly belle. On you, all eyes
Admiring turn. Doubtless you might indite
Romances from your own sweet history.
They're quite the fashion now, and crowd the page
Of every periodical. Wilt tell
None of your heart-adventures? Never mind!
We plainly read the zephyr's stolen kiss
In your deep blush; so where's the use to seal
Your lips so cunningly, when all the world
Call you the flower of love?
You are the queenly belle. On you, all eyes
Admiring turn. Doubtless you might indite
Romances from your own sweet history.
They're quite the fashion now, and crowd the page
Of every periodical. Wilt tell
None of your heart-adventures? Never mind!
We plainly read the zephyr's stolen kiss
In your deep blush; so where's the use to seal
Your lips so cunningly, when all the world
Call you the flower of love?
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And now good-bye,—
A pleasant gossip have I had with you,
Obliging visitants, but must away
To graver toils. Still keep your incense fresh,
And free to rise to Him who tints your brows,
Bidding the brown mould and unsightly stem
Put forth such blaze of beauty, as translates
To dullest hearts His dialect of love.
A pleasant gossip have I had with you,
Obliging visitants, but must away
To graver toils. Still keep your incense fresh,
And free to rise to Him who tints your brows,
Bidding the brown mould and unsightly stem
Put forth such blaze of beauty, as translates
To dullest hearts His dialect of love.
230
NO GOD.
“The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God.”
—Psalm xiv.
“No God! no God!” The simplest flower
That on the wild is found,
Shrinks, as it drinks its cup of dew,
And trembles at the sound.
“No God!” astonish'd Echo cries
From out her cavern hoar;
And every wandering bird that flies
Reproves the atheist lore.
That on the wild is found,
Shrinks, as it drinks its cup of dew,
And trembles at the sound.
“No God!” astonish'd Echo cries
From out her cavern hoar;
And every wandering bird that flies
Reproves the atheist lore.
The solemn forest lifts its head
The Almighty to proclaim;
The brooklet, on its crystal urn,
Doth leap to grave his name;
High swells the deep and vengeful sea
Along its billowy track,
And red Vesuvius opes his mouth
To hurl the falsehood back.
The Almighty to proclaim;
The brooklet, on its crystal urn,
Doth leap to grave his name;
High swells the deep and vengeful sea
Along its billowy track,
And red Vesuvius opes his mouth
To hurl the falsehood back.
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The palm-tree, with its princely crest,
The cocoa's leafy shade,
The bread-fruit, bending to its lord,
In yon far island glade;
The winged seeds that, borne by winds.
The roving sparrows feed,
The melon on the desert sands,
Confute the scorner's creed.
The cocoa's leafy shade,
The bread-fruit, bending to its lord,
In yon far island glade;
The winged seeds that, borne by winds.
The roving sparrows feed,
The melon on the desert sands,
Confute the scorner's creed.
“No God!” With indignation high
The fervent sun is stirr'd,
And the pale moon turns paler still
At such an impious word!
And, from their burning thrones, the stars
Look down with angry eye,
That thus a worm of dust should meek
Eternal Majesty.
The fervent sun is stirr'd,
And the pale moon turns paler still
At such an impious word!
And, from their burning thrones, the stars
Look down with angry eye,
That thus a worm of dust should meek
Eternal Majesty.
232
THE MOURNING DAUGHTER.
Wheels o'er the pavement roll'd, and a slight form.
Just in the bud of blushing womanhood,
Reach'd the paternal threshold. Wrathful night
Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung
On that fair creature's rich and glossy curls.
She stood and shiver'd, but no mother's hand
Dried these damp tresses, and with warm caress
Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand
Was with the cold, dull earth-worm.
Just in the bud of blushing womanhood,
Reach'd the paternal threshold. Wrathful night
Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung
On that fair creature's rich and glossy curls.
She stood and shiver'd, but no mother's hand
Dried these damp tresses, and with warm caress
Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand
Was with the cold, dull earth-worm.
Gray and sad,
The tottering nurse rose up, and that old man,
The soldier-servant who had train'd the steeds
Of her slain brothers for the battle-field,
Essay'd to lead her to the couch of pain
Where her sick father pined.
The tottering nurse rose up, and that old man,
The soldier-servant who had train'd the steeds
Of her slain brothers for the battle-field,
Essay'd to lead her to the couch of pain
Where her sick father pined.
Oft had he yearn'd
For her sweet presence; oft, in midnight's watch,
Mused of his dear one's smile, till dreams restored
The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip
Breathing his woes away. While distant far,
She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks,
Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still.
In the heart's casket, his approving word
And the pure music of the welcome home,
Rich payment of her labours.
For her sweet presence; oft, in midnight's watch,
Mused of his dear one's smile, till dreams restored
The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip
233
She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks,
Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still.
In the heart's casket, his approving word
And the pure music of the welcome home,
Rich payment of her labours.
But there came
A summons of surprise, and on the wings
Of filial love she hasted. 'Twas too late;
The lamp of life still burn'd, yet 'twas too late.
The mind had pass'd away, and who could call
Its wing from out the sky?
A summons of surprise, and on the wings
Of filial love she hasted. 'Twas too late;
The lamp of life still burn'd, yet 'twas too late.
The mind had pass'd away, and who could call
Its wing from out the sky?
For the embrace
Of strong idolatry, was but the glare
Of a fix'd vacant eye. Disease had dealt
A fell assassin's blow. Oh God! the blight
That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain
The passive hand was grasp'd, and the wide halls
Re-echo'd “Father! father!”
Of strong idolatry, was but the glare
Of a fix'd vacant eye. Disease had dealt
A fell assassin's blow. Oh God! the blight
That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain
The passive hand was grasp'd, and the wide halls
Re-echo'd “Father! father!”
Through the shades
Of that long, silent night, she sleepless bent;
Pathing with tireless hand the unmoved brow,
And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair morn
Came with its rose-tint up, she shrieking clasp'd
Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray
Flush'd that wan brow, as if with one brief trace
Of waken'd intellect. 'Twas seeming all,
And hope's fond vision faded, as the day
Rode on in glory.
Of that long, silent night, she sleepless bent;
Pathing with tireless hand the unmoved brow,
And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair morn
Came with its rose-tint up, she shrieking clasp'd
Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray
Flush'd that wan brow, as if with one brief trace
234
And hope's fond vision faded, as the day
Rode on in glory.
Eve her curtain drew
And found that pale and beautiful watcher there
Still unreposing. Restless on his couch
Toss'd the sick man. Cold lethargy had steep'd
Its last dead poppy in his heart's red stream,
And agony was stirring Nature up
To struggle with her foe.
And found that pale and beautiful watcher there
Still unreposing. Restless on his couch
Toss'd the sick man. Cold lethargy had steep'd
Its last dead poppy in his heart's red stream,
And agony was stirring Nature up
To struggle with her foe.
“Father in heaven!
Oh give him sleep!” sigh'd an imploring voice,
And then she ran to hush the measured tick
Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl
That, clinging to the casement, hoarsely pour'd
A boding note. But soon from that lone couch
A hollow groan announced the foe that strikes
But once.
Oh give him sleep!” sigh'd an imploring voice,
And then she ran to hush the measured tick
Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl
That, clinging to the casement, hoarsely pour'd
A boding note. But soon from that lone couch
A hollow groan announced the foe that strikes
But once.
They bore the fainting girl away,
And paler than that ashen corse, her face,
Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid,
Droop'd o'er the old nurse's shoulder. It was sad
To see a young heart breaking, while the old
Sank down to rest.
And paler than that ashen corse, her face,
Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid,
Droop'd o'er the old nurse's shoulder. It was sad
To see a young heart breaking, while the old
Sank down to rest.
There was another change.
The mournful bell toll'd out the funeral hour,
And groups came gathering to the gate where stood
The sable hearse. Friends throng'd with heavy hearts,
And curious villagers, intent to scan
The lordly mansion, and cold worldly men,
E'en o'er the coffin and the warning shroud,
Revolving selfish schemes.
The mournful bell toll'd out the funeral hour,
235
The sable hearse. Friends throng'd with heavy hearts,
And curious villagers, intent to scan
The lordly mansion, and cold worldly men,
E'en o'er the coffin and the warning shroud,
Revolving selfish schemes.
But one was there,
To whom all earth could render nothing back,
Like that pale, changeless brow. Calmly she stood,
As marble statue. Not one trickling tear
Or trembling of the eyelid told she lived,
Or tasted sorrow. The old house-dog came,
Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm,
All unreproved.
To whom all earth could render nothing back,
Like that pale, changeless brow. Calmly she stood,
As marble statue. Not one trickling tear
Or trembling of the eyelid told she lived,
Or tasted sorrow. The old house-dog came,
Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm,
All unreproved.
He for his master mourn'd;
And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft
His shaggy length through many a fireside hour
Stretch'd at her father's feet? who round his bed
Of sickness watch'd with wistful, wondering eye
Of earnest sympathy? No, round his neck
Her infant arms had clasp'd, and still he raised
His noble front beside her, proud to guard
The last, loved relic of his master's house.
And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft
His shaggy length through many a fireside hour
Stretch'd at her father's feet? who round his bed
Of sickness watch'd with wistful, wondering eye
Of earnest sympathy? No, round his neck
Her infant arms had clasp'd, and still he raised
His noble front beside her, proud to guard
The last, loved relic of his master's house.
The deadly calmness of that mourner's brow
Was a deep riddle to the lawless thought
Of babbling gossips. Of her sire they spake,
Who suffer'd not the winds of heaven to touch
The tresses of his darling, and who dream'd,
In the warm passion of his heart's sole love,
She was a mate for angels. Bold they gazed
Upon her tearless cheek, and, murmuring, said,
“How strange that he should be so lightly mourn'd.”
Oh woman, oft misconstrued! the pure pearls
Lie all too deep in thy heart's secret well,
For the unpausing and impatient hand
To win them forth. In that meek maiden's breast
Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down,
Though the blanch'd lip breath'd out no boisterous plaint
Of common grief.
Was a deep riddle to the lawless thought
236
Who suffer'd not the winds of heaven to touch
The tresses of his darling, and who dream'd,
In the warm passion of his heart's sole love,
She was a mate for angels. Bold they gazed
Upon her tearless cheek, and, murmuring, said,
“How strange that he should be so lightly mourn'd.”
Oh woman, oft misconstrued! the pure pearls
Lie all too deep in thy heart's secret well,
For the unpausing and impatient hand
To win them forth. In that meek maiden's breast
Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down,
Though the blanch'd lip breath'd out no boisterous plaint
Of common grief.
E'en on to life's decline,
Through all the giddy round of prosperous years,
The birth of new affections, and the charms
That cluster round earth's favourites, there walk'd
Still at her side the image of her sire,
As in that hour, when his cold, glazing eye
Met hers, and knew her not. When her full cup
Perchance had foam'd with pride, that icy glance,
Checking its effervescence, taught her soul
The chasten'd wisdom of attemper'd joy.
Through all the giddy round of prosperous years,
The birth of new affections, and the charms
That cluster round earth's favourites, there walk'd
Still at her side the image of her sire,
As in that hour, when his cold, glazing eye
Met hers, and knew her not. When her full cup
Perchance had foam'd with pride, that icy glance,
Checking its effervescence, taught her soul
The chasten'd wisdom of attemper'd joy.
268
ON THE ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN INTO THE UNION.
Come in, little sister, so healthful and fair,
Come take in our father's best parlour a share;
You've been kept long enough at the nurse's, I trow,
Where the angry lakes roar and the northern winds blow;
Come in, we've a pretty large household, 'tis true,
But the twenty-five children can make room for you.
Come take in our father's best parlour a share;
You've been kept long enough at the nurse's, I trow,
Where the angry lakes roar and the northern winds blow;
Come in, we've a pretty large household, 'tis true,
But the twenty-five children can make room for you.
A present, I see, for our sire you have brought,
His dessert to embellish; how kind was the thought!
A treat of ripe berries, both crimson and blue,
And wild flowers to stick in his button-hole too,
The rose from your prairie, the nuts from your tree;
What a good/little sister! come hither to me.
His dessert to embellish; how kind was the thought!
A treat of ripe berries, both crimson and blue,
And wild flowers to stick in his button-hole too,
The rose from your prairie, the nuts from your tree;
What a good/little sister! come hither to me.
You've a dowry besides very cunningly stored,
To fill a nice cupboard, or spread a broad board,—
Detroit, Ypsilant, Ann Arbour, and more;
For the youngest, methinks, quite a plentiful store;
You're a prog, I perceive—it is true to the letter,
And your sharp Yankee sisters will like you the better.
To fill a nice cupboard, or spread a broad board,—
Detroit, Ypsilant, Ann Arbour, and more;
For the youngest, methinks, quite a plentiful store;
269
And your sharp Yankee sisters will like you the better.
But where are your Indians—so feeble and few?
So fall'n from the heights where their forefathers grew!
From the forests they fade; o'er the waters that bore
The names of their baptism, they venture no more;
O soothe their sad hearts ere they vanish afar,
Nor quench the faint beams of their westering star.
So fall'n from the heights where their forefathers grew!
From the forests they fade; o'er the waters that bore
The names of their baptism, they venture no more;
O soothe their sad hearts ere they vanish afar,
Nor quench the faint beams of their westering star.
Those ladies who sit on the sofa so high,
Are the stateliest dames of our family,
Your thirteen old sisters,—don't treat them with scorn,
They were notable spinsters before you were born;
Many stories they know, most instructive to hear,—
Go, make them a curtsy, 'twill please them, my dear.
Are the stateliest dames of our family,
Your thirteen old sisters,—don't treat them with scorn,
They were notable spinsters before you were born;
Many stories they know, most instructive to hear,—
Go, make them a curtsy, 'twill please them, my dear.
They can teach you the names of those great ones to spell,
Who stood at the helm when the war-tempest fell;
They will show you the writing that gleam'd to the sky
In the year seventy-six, on the fourth of July,
When the flash of the Bunker-Hill flame was red,
And the blood gush'd forth from the breast of the dead.
Who stood at the helm when the war-tempest fell;
They will show you the writing that gleam'd to the sky
In the year seventy-six, on the fourth of July,
When the flash of the Bunker-Hill flame was red,
And the blood gush'd forth from the breast of the dead.
There are some who may call them both proud and old,
And say they usurp what they cannot hold;
Perhaps, their bright locks have a sprinkle of gray,
But then, little Michy, don't hint it, I pray,
For they'll give you a frown, or a box on the ear,
Or send you to stand in the corner, I fear.
And say they usurp what they cannot hold;
270
But then, little Michy, don't hint it, I pray,
For they'll give you a frown, or a box on the ear,
Or send you to stand in the corner, I fear.
They, indeed, bore the burden and heat of the day,
But you've as good right to your penny as they;
Though the price of our freedom they better have known,
Since they paid for it out of their purses alone;
Yet a portion belongs to the youngest, I ween,
So, hold up your head with the “Old Thirteen.”
But you've as good right to your penny as they;
Though the price of our freedom they better have known,
Since they paid for it out of their purses alone;
Yet a portion belongs to the youngest, I ween,
So, hold up your head with the “Old Thirteen.”
271
STRATFORD UPON AVON.
What nurtured Shakspeare mid these village-shades,
Making a poor deer-stalking lad a king
In the broad realm of mind?
Making a poor deer-stalking lad a king
In the broad realm of mind?
I question'd much
Whatever met my view,—the holly-hedge,
The cottage-rose, the roof where he was born,
And the pleach'd avenue of limes that led
To the old church. And, pausing there, I mark'd
The mossy efflorescence on the stones,
Which, kindling in the sunbeam, taught me how
Its little seeds were fed by mouldering life,
And how another race of tiny roots,
The fathers of the future, should compel
From hardest-hearted rocks a nutriment,
Until the fern-plant and the ivy sere
Made ancient buttress and grim battlement
Their nursing-mothers.
Whatever met my view,—the holly-hedge,
The cottage-rose, the roof where he was born,
And the pleach'd avenue of limes that led
To the old church. And, pausing there, I mark'd
The mossy efflorescence on the stones,
Which, kindling in the sunbeam, taught me how
Its little seeds were fed by mouldering life,
And how another race of tiny roots,
The fathers of the future, should compel
From hardest-hearted rocks a nutriment,
Until the fern-plant and the ivy sere
Made ancient buttress and grim battlement
Their nursing-mothers.
But again I ask'd,
“What nurtured Shakspeare?” The rejoicing birds
Wove a wild song, whose burden seem'd to be,
He was their pupil when he chose, and knew
Their secret maze of melody to wind,
Snatching its sweetness for his winged strain
With careless hand.
“What nurtured Shakspeare?” The rejoicing birds
272
He was their pupil when he chose, and knew
Their secret maze of melody to wind,
Snatching its sweetness for his winged strain
With careless hand.
The timid flowerets said,
“He came among us like a sleepless bee,
And all those pure and rarest essences,
Concocted by our union with the skies,
Which in our cups or zones we fain would hide,
He rifled for himself and bore away.”
“He came among us like a sleepless bee,
And all those pure and rarest essences,
Concocted by our union with the skies,
Which in our cups or zones we fain would hide,
He rifled for himself and bore away.”
—The winds careering in their might replied,
“Upon our wings he rode, and visited
The utmost stars. We could not shake him off.
E'en on the fleecy clouds he laid his hand,
As on a courser's mane, and made them work
With all their countless hues his wondrous will.”
“Upon our wings he rode, and visited
The utmost stars. We could not shake him off.
E'en on the fleecy clouds he laid his hand,
As on a courser's mane, and made them work
With all their countless hues his wondrous will.”
And then meek Avon raised a murmuring voice,
What time the Sabbath chimes came pealing sweet
Through the umbrageous trees, and told how oft
Along those banks he wander'd, pacing slow,
As if to read the depths.
What time the Sabbath chimes came pealing sweet
Through the umbrageous trees, and told how oft
Along those banks he wander'd, pacing slow,
As if to read the depths.
Ere I had closed
My questioning, the ready rain came down,
And every pearl-drop as it kiss'd the turf
Said, “We have been his teachers. When we fell
Pattering among the vine leaves, he would list
Our lessons as a student, nor despise
Our simplest lore.”
My questioning, the ready rain came down,
273
Said, “We have been his teachers. When we fell
Pattering among the vine leaves, he would list
Our lessons as a student, nor despise
Our simplest lore.”
And then the bow burst forth,
That strong love-token of the Deity
Unto a drowning world. Each prismed ray
Had held bright dalliance with the bard, and help'd
To tint the robe in which his thought was wrapp'd
For its first cradle-sleep.
That strong love-token of the Deity
Unto a drowning world. Each prismed ray
Had held bright dalliance with the bard, and help'd
To tint the robe in which his thought was wrapp'd
For its first cradle-sleep.
Then twilight came
In her gray robe, and told a tender tale
Of his low musings, while she noiseless drew
Her quiet curtain. And the queenly moon,
Riding in state upon her silver car,
Confess'd she saw him oft, through checkering shades,
Hour after hour, with Fancy by his side,
Linking their young imaginings, like chains
Of pearl and diamond.
In her gray robe, and told a tender tale
Of his low musings, while she noiseless drew
Her quiet curtain. And the queenly moon,
Riding in state upon her silver car,
Confess'd she saw him oft, through checkering shades,
Hour after hour, with Fancy by his side,
Linking their young imaginings, like chains
Of pearl and diamond.
Last, the lowly grave—
Shakspeare's own grave—sent forth a hollow tone,
“The heart within my casket read itself,
And from that inward wisdom learn'd to scan
The hearts of other men. It ponder'd long
Amid those hermit cells where thought is born,
Explored the roots of passion, and the founts
Of sympathy, and at each seal'd recess
Knock'd, until mystery fled. Hence her loved bard
Nature doth crown with flowers of every hue
And every season; and the human soul,
Owning his power, shall at his magic touch
Shudder, or thrill, while age on age expires.”
Shakspeare's own grave—sent forth a hollow tone,
“The heart within my casket read itself,
And from that inward wisdom learn'd to scan
The hearts of other men. It ponder'd long
Amid those hermit cells where thought is born,
274
Of sympathy, and at each seal'd recess
Knock'd, until mystery fled. Hence her loved bard
Nature doth crown with flowers of every hue
And every season; and the human soul,
Owning his power, shall at his magic touch
Shudder, or thrill, while age on age expires.”
281
NAPOLEON AT HELENA.
“The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face of Napoleon's sepulchre, characterless, uninscribed.”
And who shall write thine epitaph, thou man
Of mystery and might?
Of mystery and might?
Shall orphan hands
Inscribe it with their fathers' broken swords?
Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear
Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock,
As the keen torture of the water-drop
Doth wear the sentenced brain?
Inscribe it with their fathers' broken swords?
Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear
Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock,
As the keen torture of the water-drop
Doth wear the sentenced brain?
Shall countless ghosts
Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame,
With shadowy finger, trace thine effigy,
Who sent them to their audit unanneal'd,
And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer
Given at the cannon's mouth?
Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame,
With shadowy finger, trace thine effigy,
Who sent them to their audit unanneal'd,
And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer
Given at the cannon's mouth?
Thou who didst sit
Like eagle on the apex of the globe,
And hear the murmur of its conquer'd tribes,
As chirp the weak-voiced nations of the grass,
Say, art thou sepulchred in yon far isle,
Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner
Descries mid ocean's foam? Thou who didst hew
A pathway for thy host above the cloud,
Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost-work crown
Of the throned Alps,—why dost thou sleep, unmark'd
E'en by such slight memento as the hind
Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone?
Like eagle on the apex of the globe,
And hear the murmur of its conquer'd tribes,
282
Say, art thou sepulchred in yon far isle,
Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner
Descries mid ocean's foam? Thou who didst hew
A pathway for thy host above the cloud,
Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost-work crown
Of the throned Alps,—why dost thou sleep, unmark'd
E'en by such slight memento as the hind
Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone?
Bid the throng
Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove,
Breathing thy thunders on the battle-field,
Return and deck thy monument. Those forms,
O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter strew'd,
From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone,
Heed not the clarion-call. Yet, should they rise,
As in the vision that the prophet saw,
Each dry bone to its fellow, or in heaps
Should pile their pillar'd dust, might not the stars
Deem that again the puny pride of man
Did build its Babel-stairs, creeping, by stealth,
To dwell with them? But here, unwept, thou art,
Like some dead lion in his thicket-lair,
With neither living man, nor spectre lone,
To trace thine epitaph.
Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove,
Breathing thy thunders on the battle-field,
Return and deck thy monument. Those forms,
O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter strew'd,
From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone,
Heed not the clarion-call. Yet, should they rise,
As in the vision that the prophet saw,
Each dry bone to its fellow, or in heaps
Should pile their pillar'd dust, might not the stars
Deem that again the puny pride of man
Did build its Babel-stairs, creeping, by stealth,
To dwell with them? But here, unwept, thou art,
Like some dead lion in his thicket-lair,
With neither living man, nor spectre lone,
To trace thine epitaph.
Invoke the climes
That served as playthings in thy desperate game
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd
To pay thy reckoning, till gaunt Famine fed
Upon their vitals. France! who gave so free
Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw
That purple vintage shed o'er half the earth,
Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare.
Thou, too, whose pride adorn'd dead Cæsar's tomb,
And pour'd high requiem o'er the tyrant train
Who ruled thee to thy cost, lend us thine arts
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence
To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown
Thine ancient spirit quail'd; and to the list
Of mutilated kings, who glean'd their meat
'Neath Agag's table, add the name of Rome.
Turn, Austria! iron-brow'd and stern of heart,
And on his monument to whom thou gav'st
In anger battle, and in craft a bride,
Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away.
Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name,
Like the rein'd war-horse at the trumpet-blast,
And take her witness to that fame which soars
O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt
Of Scandinavia's madman.
283
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd
To pay thy reckoning, till gaunt Famine fed
Upon their vitals. France! who gave so free
Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw
That purple vintage shed o'er half the earth,
Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare.
Thou, too, whose pride adorn'd dead Cæsar's tomb,
And pour'd high requiem o'er the tyrant train
Who ruled thee to thy cost, lend us thine arts
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence
To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown
Thine ancient spirit quail'd; and to the list
Of mutilated kings, who glean'd their meat
'Neath Agag's table, add the name of Rome.
Turn, Austria! iron-brow'd and stern of heart,
And on his monument to whom thou gav'st
In anger battle, and in craft a bride,
Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away.
Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name,
Like the rein'd war-horse at the trumpet-blast,
And take her witness to that fame which soars
O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt
Of Scandinavia's madman.
From the shades
Of letter'd ease, O Germany! come forth
With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll,
Such as thou spread'st at Leipsic, gather tints
Of deeper character than bold romance
Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream,
Or history trusted to her sibyl leaves.
Hail, lotus-crown'd! in thy green childhood fed
By stiff-neck'd Pharaoh and the shepherd kings,
Hast thou no trait of him who drench'd thy sands
At Jaffa and Aboukir? when the flight
Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong
To the accusing Spirit?
Of letter'd ease, O Germany! come forth
284
Such as thou spread'st at Leipsic, gather tints
Of deeper character than bold romance
Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream,
Or history trusted to her sibyl leaves.
Hail, lotus-crown'd! in thy green childhood fed
By stiff-neck'd Pharaoh and the shepherd kings,
Hast thou no trait of him who drench'd thy sands
At Jaffa and Aboukir? when the flight
Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong
To the accusing Spirit?
Glorious isle!
Whose thrice-enwreathed chain, Promethean like,
Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask
Thy deep memento for this marble tomb.
Ho! fur-clad Russia! with thy spear of frost,
Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance,
Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain,
And give the last line of our epitaph.
Whose thrice-enwreathed chain, Promethean like,
Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask
Thy deep memento for this marble tomb.
Ho! fur-clad Russia! with thy spear of frost,
Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance,
Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain,
And give the last line of our epitaph.
But there was silence. Not a sceptred hand
Received the challenge.
Received the challenge.
From the misty deep
Rise, island-spirits! like those sisters three,
Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life,
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write
That eulogy which haughtier climes deny.
Come, for ye lull'd him in your matron arms,
And cheer'd his exile with the name of king,
And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb;
Come, twine some bud of household tenderness,
Some tender leaflet, nursed with nature's tears,
Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd
His cradle at Ajaccio, turn'd away;
And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave
Plunged her slight annal with the haste of fear;
And lone St. Helena, heart-sick, and gray
'Neath rude Atlantic's scourging, bade the moon,
With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze
To an unhonour'd tomb.
Rise, island-spirits! like those sisters three,
Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life,
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write
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Come, for ye lull'd him in your matron arms,
And cheer'd his exile with the name of king,
And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb;
Come, twine some bud of household tenderness,
Some tender leaflet, nursed with nature's tears,
Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd
His cradle at Ajaccio, turn'd away;
And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave
Plunged her slight annal with the haste of fear;
And lone St. Helena, heart-sick, and gray
'Neath rude Atlantic's scourging, bade the moon,
With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze
To an unhonour'd tomb.
Then Earth arose,
That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne,
And, to the echo'd question—“Who shall write
Napoleon's epitaph?”—as one who broods
O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd—“None.”
That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne,
And, to the echo'd question—“Who shall write
Napoleon's epitaph?”—as one who broods
O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd—“None.”
286
COLUMBIA'S SHIPS.
The ships from young Columbia's shore,
As fleet they are, and free,
As those from haughtier realms that boast
Dominion o'er the sea.
As gallantly their banners float,
As keen their lightnings fly,
And braver hearts than there are found
Beat not beneath the sky.
As fleet they are, and free,
As those from haughtier realms that boast
Dominion o'er the sea.
As gallantly their banners float,
As keen their lightnings fly,
And braver hearts than there are found
Beat not beneath the sky.
White as the glancing sea-bird's wing
Their swelling sails expand,
Beside the bright Egean isles,
Or green Formosa's strand,
Or where the sparse Norwegian pine
A sudden summer shares,
Or Terra del Fuego's torch
Amid the tempest glares.
Their swelling sails expand,
Beside the bright Egean isles,
Or green Formosa's strand,
Or where the sparse Norwegian pine
A sudden summer shares,
Or Terra del Fuego's torch
Amid the tempest glares.
287
Unmoved their trackless course they hold
Though vengeful Boreas roars,
And make their port on stranger-coasts
Or undiscover'd shores.
Rude people of a foreign speech
Have learn'd their cheering cry,
“Land ho!—Aloft!”—and “Bear-a-hand!”
With the ready tar's reply.
Though vengeful Boreas roars,
And make their port on stranger-coasts
Or undiscover'd shores.
Rude people of a foreign speech
Have learn'd their cheering cry,
“Land ho!—Aloft!”—and “Bear-a-hand!”
With the ready tar's reply.
From zone to zone—from pole to pole,
Where'er in swift career
The venturous keel a path explores,
Our Yankee sailors steer.
The white bear, on his field of ice,
Hath seen their signals toss'd;
And the great whale, old Ocean's king,
Doth know them to his cost.
Where'er in swift career
The venturous keel a path explores,
Our Yankee sailors steer.
The white bear, on his field of ice,
Hath seen their signals toss'd;
And the great whale, old Ocean's king,
Doth know them to his cost.
The spices from the Indian isles,
The plant of China's care,
The cane's sweet blood from tropic climes
Their merchant-vessels bear.
Wherever Commerce points his wand,
They mount the crested waves,
And link together every sea
The rolling globe that laves.
The plant of China's care,
The cane's sweet blood from tropic climes
Their merchant-vessels bear.
Wherever Commerce points his wand,
They mount the crested waves,
And link together every sea
The rolling globe that laves.
288
Still nearest to the Antarctic gate
Our daring seamen press,
Where storm-wrapp'd Nature thought to dwell
In hermit loneliness;
“Whose masts are those, so white with frost,
Where fearful icebergs shine?”
My country from her watch-tower look'd,
And answer'd—“They are mine!”
Our daring seamen press,
Where storm-wrapp'd Nature thought to dwell
In hermit loneliness;
“Whose masts are those, so white with frost,
Where fearful icebergs shine?”
My country from her watch-tower look'd,
And answer'd—“They are mine!”
Columbia's ships! With dauntless prow
The tossing deep they tread;
The pirates of the Libyan sands
Have felt their prowess dread:
And the British lion's lordly mane
Their victor might confess'd,
For well their nation's faith and pride
They guard on Ocean's breast.
The tossing deep they tread;
The pirates of the Libyan sands
Have felt their prowess dread:
And the British lion's lordly mane
Their victor might confess'd,
For well their nation's faith and pride
They guard on Ocean's breast.
When strong Oppression fiercely frowns,
Her eagle rears his crest,
And means no bird of air shall pluck
His pinions or his breast;
And brighter on the threatening cloud
Gleam out her stars of gold.
Huzza! for young Columbia's ships,
And for her seamen bold.
Her eagle rears his crest,
And means no bird of air shall pluck
His pinions or his breast;
And brighter on the threatening cloud
Gleam out her stars of gold.
Huzza! for young Columbia's ships,
And for her seamen bold.
298
BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS.
A voice amid the desert.
Not of him
Who, in rough garments clad, and locust-fed,
Cried to the sinful multitude, and claim'd
Fruits of repentance, with the lifted scourge
Of terror and reproof. A milder guide,
With gentler tones, doth teach the listening throng.
Benignant pity moved him as he saw
The shepherdless and poor. He knew to touch
The springs of every nature. The high lore
Of heaven he humbled to the simplest child,
And in the guise of parable allured
The sluggish mind to follow truth, and live.
Who, in rough garments clad, and locust-fed,
Cried to the sinful multitude, and claim'd
Fruits of repentance, with the lifted scourge
Of terror and reproof. A milder guide,
With gentler tones, doth teach the listening throng.
Benignant pity moved him as he saw
The shepherdless and poor. He knew to touch
The springs of every nature. The high lore
Of heaven he humbled to the simplest child,
And in the guise of parable allured
The sluggish mind to follow truth, and live.
They whom the thunders of the law had stunn'd
Woke to the gospel's melody with tears;
And the glad Jewish mother held her babe
High in her arms, that its young eye might greet
Jesus of Nazareth.
Woke to the gospel's melody with tears;
And the glad Jewish mother held her babe
High in her arms, that its young eye might greet
Jesus of Nazareth.
299
It was so still,
Though thousands cluster'd there, that not a sound
Brake the strong spell of eloquence which held
The wilderness in chains, save now and then,
As the gale freshen'd, came the murmur'd speech
Of distant billows, chafing with the shores
Of the Tiberian sea.
Though thousands cluster'd there, that not a sound
Brake the strong spell of eloquence which held
The wilderness in chains, save now and then,
As the gale freshen'd, came the murmur'd speech
Of distant billows, chafing with the shores
Of the Tiberian sea.
Day wore apace,
Noon hasted, and the lengthening shadows brought
The unexpected eve. They linger'd still,
Eyes fix'd, and lips apart; the very breath
Constrain'd, lest some escaping sigh might break
The tide of knowledge, sweeping o'er their souls
Like a strange, raptured dream. They heeded not
The spent sun closing at the curtain'd west
His burning journey. What was time to them,
Who heard, entranced, the eternal Word of Life?
Noon hasted, and the lengthening shadows brought
The unexpected eve. They linger'd still,
Eyes fix'd, and lips apart; the very breath
Constrain'd, lest some escaping sigh might break
The tide of knowledge, sweeping o'er their souls
Like a strange, raptured dream. They heeded not
The spent sun closing at the curtain'd west
His burning journey. What was time to them,
Who heard, entranced, the eternal Word of Life?
But the weak flesh grew weary. Hunger came,
Sharpening each feature, and to faintness drain'd
Life's vigorous fount. The holy Saviour felt
Compassion for them. His disciples press,
Care-stricken, to his side: “Where shall we find
Bread in this desert?”
Sharpening each feature, and to faintness drain'd
Life's vigorous fount. The holy Saviour felt
Compassion for them. His disciples press,
Care-stricken, to his side: “Where shall we find
Bread in this desert?”
Then, with lifted eye,
He bless'd, and brake the slender store of food,
And fed the famish'd thousands. Wondering awe
With renovated strength inspired their souls,
As, gazing on the miracle, they mark'd
The gather'd fragments of their feast, and heard
Such heavenly words as lip of mortal man
Had never utter'd.
He bless'd, and brake the slender store of food,
300
With renovated strength inspired their souls,
As, gazing on the miracle, they mark'd
The gather'd fragments of their feast, and heard
Such heavenly words as lip of mortal man
Had never utter'd.
Thou, whose pitying heart
Yearn'd o'er the countless miseries of those
Whom thou didst die to save, touch thou our souls
With the same spirit of untiring love.
Divine Redeemer! may our fellow-man,
Howe'er by rank or circumstance disjoin'd,
Be as a brother in his hour of need.
Yearn'd o'er the countless miseries of those
Whom thou didst die to save, touch thou our souls
With the same spirit of untiring love.
Divine Redeemer! may our fellow-man,
Howe'er by rank or circumstance disjoin'd,
Be as a brother in his hour of need.
301
ON TRANSPLANTING A DAISY FROM RUNIMEDE.
From the green turf of Runimede
A daisy's root I drew,
Amid whose moisten'd crown of leaves
A healthful bud crept through,
And whisper'd in its infant ear
That it might cross the sea,
A cherish'd emigrant, and find
A western home with me.
A daisy's root I drew,
Amid whose moisten'd crown of leaves
A healthful bud crept through,
And whisper'd in its infant ear
That it might cross the sea,
A cherish'd emigrant, and find
A western home with me.
Methought it shrank at first, and paled,
But when, on ocean's tide,
Strong waves and mighty icebergs frown'd,
And manly courage died,
It calmly raised a crested head
And smiled amid the storm,
As if old Magna Charta's soul
Inspired its fragile form.
But when, on ocean's tide,
Strong waves and mighty icebergs frown'd,
And manly courage died,
It calmly raised a crested head
And smiled amid the storm,
As if old Magna Charta's soul
Inspired its fragile form.
302
So, where within my garden plat
I sow the choicest seed,
Amid my favorite shrubs I placed
The plant from Runimede;
And know not why it may not draw
Sweet nutriment the same,
As when within that clime from whence
Our gallant fathers came.
I sow the choicest seed,
Amid my favorite shrubs I placed
The plant from Runimede;
And know not why it may not draw
Sweet nutriment the same,
As when within that clime from whence
Our gallant fathers came.
There's liberty enough for all,
If they but use it well;
And Magna Charta's spirit burns
In e'en the lowliest cell:
And the simplest daisy may unfold,
From scorn and danger freed;
So, make yourself at home, my friend,
My flower of Runimede.
If they but use it well;
And Magna Charta's spirit burns
In e'en the lowliest cell:
And the simplest daisy may unfold,
From scorn and danger freed;
So, make yourself at home, my friend,
My flower of Runimede.
303
THE GIFT OF APOLLO.
[_]
A legend of ancient mythology relates, that the inhabitants of Methymnia, on the island of Lesbos, received from Apollo a genius for music and poetry, as a mark of his gratitude for having extended the rites of burial to the severed head of Orpheus.
When Orpheus' limbs, by Thracian madness torn,
Down the cold Hebrus' sounding floods were borne,
The blood-stain'd lips in tuneful measures sigh'd,
And murmur'd music charm'd the listening tide.
Down the cold Hebrus' sounding floods were borne,
The blood-stain'd lips in tuneful measures sigh'd,
And murmur'd music charm'd the listening tide.
Thus roam'd the head, complaining and distrest,
Till Lesbian bands beheld the approaching guest,
And, with indignant sorrow, shuddering bore
The mangled victim to their verdant shore.
With fragrant streams the quivering brows they lave,
And cleanse the tresses from the briny wave,
Spread a soft pillow in the earth's green breast,
And with low dirges lull to dreamless rest.
Then from the tossing surge his lyre they gain,
A treasured trophy for Apollo's fane,
Round its fair frame funereal garlands bind,
And mourn its lord, to silent dust consign'd.
Till Lesbian bands beheld the approaching guest,
And, with indignant sorrow, shuddering bore
The mangled victim to their verdant shore.
With fragrant streams the quivering brows they lave,
And cleanse the tresses from the briny wave,
Spread a soft pillow in the earth's green breast,
And with low dirges lull to dreamless rest.
Then from the tossing surge his lyre they gain,
A treasured trophy for Apollo's fane,
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And mourn its lord, to silent dust consign'd.
Hark!—while its chords the gales of evening sweep,
Soft tones awake, and mystic voices weep.
“Eurydice!” in trembling love they sigh;
“Eurydice!” the long-drawn aisles reply,
And through the temple steals, in echoes low,
The mournful sweetness of remember'd wo.
Soft tones awake, and mystic voices weep.
“Eurydice!” in trembling love they sigh;
“Eurydice!” the long-drawn aisles reply,
And through the temple steals, in echoes low,
The mournful sweetness of remember'd wo.
Methymnia's sons, with new-felt warmth inspired,
By all Apollo's soul of song were fired,
Pour'd their rich offerings round his golden shrine,
Caught the rapt spirit, and the strain divine;
For he with smiles and priceless gifts repaid
The men whose pious rites appeased his favourite's shade.
By all Apollo's soul of song were fired,
Pour'd their rich offerings round his golden shrine,
Caught the rapt spirit, and the strain divine;
For he with smiles and priceless gifts repaid
The men whose pious rites appeased his favourite's shade.
305
BENEVOLENCE.
The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of Hosts.”
—Haggai ii. 8.
Whose is the gold that glitters in the mine?
And whose the silver? Are they not the Lord's?
And lo! the cattle on a thousand hills,
And the broad earth with all her gushing springs,
Are they not His who made them?
And whose the silver? Are they not the Lord's?
And lo! the cattle on a thousand hills,
And the broad earth with all her gushing springs,
Are they not His who made them?
Ye who hold
Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands
By your own names, and lock your gather'd gold
From him who in his bleeding Saviour's name
Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be
When, like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost,
You fall away?
Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands
By your own names, and lock your gather'd gold
From him who in his bleeding Saviour's name
Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be
When, like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost,
You fall away?
Point out to me the forms
That in your treasure-chambers shall enact
Glad mastership, and revel where you toil'd
Sleepless and stern. Strange faces are they all.
That in your treasure-chambers shall enact
Glad mastership, and revel where you toil'd
Sleepless and stern. Strange faces are they all.
306
Oh, man! whose wrinkling labour is for heirs
Thou knowest not who,—thou in thy mouldering bed,
Unkenn'd, unchronicled of them, shalt sleep;
Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave
Thy soul of good for them.
Thou knowest not who,—thou in thy mouldering bed,
Unkenn'd, unchronicled of them, shalt sleep;
Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave
Thy soul of good for them.
Now, thou mayst give
The famish'd food, the prisoner liberty,
Light to the darken'd mind, to the lost soul
A place in heaven. Take thou the privilege
With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art
Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult
To be co-worker with the King of kings.
The famish'd food, the prisoner liberty,
Light to the darken'd mind, to the lost soul
A place in heaven. Take thou the privilege
With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art
Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult
To be co-worker with the King of kings.
366
THE WIDOWED MOTHER.
He languish'd by the way-side, and fell down
Before the noon-day. In his hand were flowers
Pledged to his lady-love. Like her heart's joys,
They died with him.
Before the noon-day. In his hand were flowers
Pledged to his lady-love. Like her heart's joys,
They died with him.
There was a widow'd form
To whom the echo of his entering step
Had been as music. All alone she sits,
Tearful and pale. The world henceforth to her
Is desolate and void.
To whom the echo of his entering step
Had been as music. All alone she sits,
Tearful and pale. The world henceforth to her
Is desolate and void.
Young Love may weep,
But sunbeams dry its tears; and the quick pulse
Of hope in Beauty's bosom doth o'ercome
The syncope of grief. But unto Age
Thus utterly bereaved, what now remains,
Save, with bow'd head and finger on its lip,
In solemn meekness and in sanctity,
The Heavenly Pilot ever in its view,
To pass the narrow strait that coldly bars
Time from eternity?
But sunbeams dry its tears; and the quick pulse
Of hope in Beauty's bosom doth o'ercome
The syncope of grief. But unto Age
Thus utterly bereaved, what now remains,
Save, with bow'd head and finger on its lip,
In solemn meekness and in sanctity,
The Heavenly Pilot ever in its view,
To pass the narrow strait that coldly bars
Time from eternity?
367
THE WISH OF THE WEARY WOMAN.
A form there was, still spared by time
Till the slow century fill'd its prime;
Stretch'd on its bed, with half-closed eye
It mark'd uncertain shades flit by;
Nor scarce the varied world of sound
To the seal'd ear admittance found;
While the worn brow, in wrinkles dark,
Seem'd like the gnarl'd oak's roughen'd bark.
Till the slow century fill'd its prime;
Stretch'd on its bed, with half-closed eye
It mark'd uncertain shades flit by;
Nor scarce the varied world of sound
To the seal'd ear admittance found;
While the worn brow, in wrinkles dark,
Seem'd like the gnarl'd oak's roughen'd bark.
Oh! e'er did youthful beauty deck
Those wither'd limbs, yon living wreck?
Did blushes o'er that leathern cheek
The warmth of wild emotion speak?
Did rosy health that lip bedew,
And kneeling love for favour sue?
Alas! alas! for him who bears
A hundred years earth's load of cares.
Those wither'd limbs, yon living wreck?
Did blushes o'er that leathern cheek
The warmth of wild emotion speak?
Did rosy health that lip bedew,
And kneeling love for favour sue?
Alas! alas! for him who bears
A hundred years earth's load of cares.
| Illustrated poems by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney | |