 | Erato, number I |  |
25
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE NEGLECTED.
He comes not! I have watched the moon go down,
And yet he comes not.
Percival—The Wife
And yet he comes not.
Percival—The Wife
The moon was high in heaven. The burning stars
Were looking down on slumbering innocence,
And guile, and sin, and grief. Alethe sat
Watching the dying embers on the hearth
Go silently and slowly out. The night
Was wearing on. She had been waiting long,
To hear the welcome footsteps of the one
On whom her young affections had been flung,
Unchanging as the ever-during hue
Of the all-glorious heaven. He came not yet—
And wearied with her watching, she lay down
In very wretchedness; and tears—hot tears,
Burst from the choking fountains of her heart,
Searing their courses. Tremulous and weak
Her voice arose in prayer—and the sweet tone,
That came like music from her thin, pale lips,
Melted at length into a dreamy sound,
Almost inaudible, save unto Him
Who readeth well the human heart. The tears
That burningly stole down her wasted cheek,
From her soul's depth of feeling, ceased their flow,
As though the waves of trouble had been stilled;
And slumber came upon her, as a balm
From Him that healeth up the broken heart!
Were looking down on slumbering innocence,
And guile, and sin, and grief. Alethe sat
Watching the dying embers on the hearth
Go silently and slowly out. The night
Was wearing on. She had been waiting long,
To hear the welcome footsteps of the one
On whom her young affections had been flung,
Unchanging as the ever-during hue
Of the all-glorious heaven. He came not yet—
And wearied with her watching, she lay down
In very wretchedness; and tears—hot tears,
Burst from the choking fountains of her heart,
Searing their courses. Tremulous and weak
Her voice arose in prayer—and the sweet tone,
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Melted at length into a dreamy sound,
Almost inaudible, save unto Him
Who readeth well the human heart. The tears
That burningly stole down her wasted cheek,
From her soul's depth of feeling, ceased their flow,
As though the waves of trouble had been stilled;
And slumber came upon her, as a balm
From Him that healeth up the broken heart!
Alethe was neglected. She had linked
Her destinies with one who bowed him down,
In deep humiliation, at the shrine
Of Drunkenness. Alethe long had striven
To win him from the desolating sin
That bowed his spirit like a pestilence.
But all was vain. A weary year wore on—
And the deep kindnesses she did for him,
Were all unheeded. Then he slighted her,
And then—neglected!
Woman hath a heart
Of holy fervidness—that trusteth much
In man's harsh nature—that endureth oft
The keenest suffering—that treasureth up
Each kindly word and look—ay! hoardeth them
With even miser care! She hath an eye
Of winning restlessness, that feedeth on
The idol of her love, with strange delight
And confidence. Still she hath that within
Which will not brook neglect: but either turn
With a fell purpose on her injurer,
And deeply be avenged—or brood in dread
And harrowing silentness, on the intense
And burning sense of wrong she hath endured,
Until her proud heart breaketh of its weight
Of cherished agony!
Another year
Wore on in silent suffering—and she lay
Calmly upon her bed of death, a seared
And broken-hearted one. Around her couch
Were those who knew her in her spring of life,
Ere she had drunk the ‘wormwood and the gall;’
Ere care had furrowed her queenly brow,
And dimm'd its soft transparence; and before
The richness of her early love was flung
Away, but to be blighted in the bud.
Her destinies with one who bowed him down,
In deep humiliation, at the shrine
Of Drunkenness. Alethe long had striven
To win him from the desolating sin
That bowed his spirit like a pestilence.
But all was vain. A weary year wore on—
And the deep kindnesses she did for him,
Were all unheeded. Then he slighted her,
And then—neglected!
Woman hath a heart
Of holy fervidness—that trusteth much
In man's harsh nature—that endureth oft
The keenest suffering—that treasureth up
Each kindly word and look—ay! hoardeth them
With even miser care! She hath an eye
Of winning restlessness, that feedeth on
The idol of her love, with strange delight
And confidence. Still she hath that within
Which will not brook neglect: but either turn
With a fell purpose on her injurer,
And deeply be avenged—or brood in dread
And harrowing silentness, on the intense
And burning sense of wrong she hath endured,
Until her proud heart breaketh of its weight
Of cherished agony!
Another year
Wore on in silent suffering—and she lay
Calmly upon her bed of death, a seared
And broken-hearted one. Around her couch
Were those who knew her in her spring of life,
Ere she had drunk the ‘wormwood and the gall;’
Ere care had furrowed her queenly brow,
And dimm'd its soft transparence; and before
The richness of her early love was flung
Away, but to be blighted in the bud.
The voice of age was blended with the low,
Faint murmuring, of the sufferer. The dim spark
Of life was soon extinguished—and she lay
In the embrace of the bereaving King!
Faint murmuring, of the sufferer. The dim spark
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In the embrace of the bereaving King!
How strong is woman in her love! but, oh!
How often madly blind, and culpable!
She kneels in deep idolatry, before
Unworthiness itself; and twines her arms
Around a thing whose core is rottenness.
And she will leave it not;—nor friends' advice—
Nor her own consciousness that it will prove
A blight upon her happiness and hopes—
Nor the entreaties of the few that love
Her as their own existence—can avail:
She disregards them all, and closer clings
—Frenzied, that they would tear it from her clasp—
Unto the object of her heart's embrace;
And—when it falleth of its rottenness,
She with it falls!
How often madly blind, and culpable!
She kneels in deep idolatry, before
Unworthiness itself; and twines her arms
Around a thing whose core is rottenness.
And she will leave it not;—nor friends' advice—
Nor her own consciousness that it will prove
A blight upon her happiness and hopes—
Nor the entreaties of the few that love
Her as their own existence—can avail:
She disregards them all, and closer clings
—Frenzied, that they would tear it from her clasp—
Unto the object of her heart's embrace;
And—when it falleth of its rottenness,
She with it falls!
WRECK OF THE HORNET.
The sun was low—a flood of light
Slept on the glittering ocean—
And Night's dark robes were journeying up,
With slow and solemn motion:
And ever-and-anon was heard
The sea-mew's shriek—ill-omened bird!
Slept on the glittering ocean—
And Night's dark robes were journeying up,
With slow and solemn motion:
And ever-and-anon was heard
The sea-mew's shriek—ill-omened bird!
Down sunk the sun—the gathering mist
Rose proudly up before it,
And streamed upon the lurid air,
A blood-red banner o'er it:
Frowning, and piled up heap on heap,
Dense clouds o'erspread the mighty Deep;
Darker, and pitchy black they grew—
And rolled, and wheeled, and onward flew,
Like marshaling of men.
Then trembled timid souls with fear—
Glistened in Beauty's eye the tear—
And ‘fatherland’ was doubly dear—
But brave hearts quailed not then.
Soon the rough tar's prophetic eye
Saw many a floating shroud on high,
And many a coffin drifting by—
And on the driving gale
Beheld the spirits of the Deep,
Above—around—in fury sweep—
And heard the dead's low wail,
And the Demon's muttered curse.
And on the fierce and troubled wind,
Rode Death—and, following close behind,
A dark and sombre hearse.
And soon the barque a wreck was driven,
Before the free, wild winds of heaven!
Rose proudly up before it,
And streamed upon the lurid air,
A blood-red banner o'er it:
Frowning, and piled up heap on heap,
Dense clouds o'erspread the mighty Deep;
Darker, and pitchy black they grew—
And rolled, and wheeled, and onward flew,
Like marshaling of men.
Then trembled timid souls with fear—
Glistened in Beauty's eye the tear—
And ‘fatherland’ was doubly dear—
But brave hearts quailed not then.
Soon the rough tar's prophetic eye
Saw many a floating shroud on high,
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And on the driving gale
Beheld the spirits of the Deep,
Above—around—in fury sweep—
And heard the dead's low wail,
And the Demon's muttered curse.
And on the fierce and troubled wind,
Rode Death—and, following close behind,
A dark and sombre hearse.
And soon the barque a wreck was driven,
Before the free, wild winds of heaven!
Now shrank with fear each gallant heart—
Bended was many a knee—
And the last prayer was offered up,
God of the Deep, to Thee!
Muttered the angry heavens still,
And murmured still the sea—
And old and sterner hearts bowed down,
God of the Deep, to Thee!
And still the wreck was onward driven,
Upon the wide, wild sea—
And Man's proud soul to Fate was given,
Woman's, oh God, to Thee!
Bended was many a knee—
And the last prayer was offered up,
God of the Deep, to Thee!
Muttered the angry heavens still,
And murmured still the sea—
And old and sterner hearts bowed down,
God of the Deep, to Thee!
And still the wreck was onward driven,
Upon the wide, wild sea—
And Man's proud soul to Fate was given,
Woman's, oh God, to Thee!
Gaped wide the Deep—down plunged the wreck—
Up rose a fearful yell—
Death's wings flapped o'er that sinking deck—
A shudder!—all was still.
Up rose a fearful yell—
Death's wings flapped o'er that sinking deck—
A shudder!—all was still.
Morn came. A flood of light agen
Burst on the glittering waters,
Above the Deep's stern-hearted men,
And Earth's fair sons and daughters:
Nought of or life or death was seen—
And who could say, that strife had been!
Burst on the glittering waters,
Above the Deep's stern-hearted men,
And Earth's fair sons and daughters:
Nought of or life or death was seen—
And who could say, that strife had been!
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ODE FOR INDEPENDENCE-DAY.
God of the high and glorious Heaven,
To Thee, forever, praise be given!
When tyrants aimed the deadly blow
To lay Columbia's banner low,
Thou, who canst blast, and who canst save,
Stretched forth thine arm to shield the brave—
And hurled Oppression's minions back,
Dishonored, on their blood-stained track.
To Thee, forever, praise be given!
When tyrants aimed the deadly blow
To lay Columbia's banner low,
Thou, who canst blast, and who canst save,
Stretched forth thine arm to shield the brave—
And hurled Oppression's minions back,
Dishonored, on their blood-stained track.
How fought our Spartan sires, and fell,
Their children need not shame to tell:
Thou wert the Power that led them on,
And smiled whene'er their valor won;
And Thou the Power that struck the blow,
Which laid their proud oppressors low:
To thee, oh God! their children raise,
This hallowed day, the voice of praise.
Their children need not shame to tell:
Thou wert the Power that led them on,
And smiled whene'er their valor won;
And Thou the Power that struck the blow,
Which laid their proud oppressors low:
To thee, oh God! their children raise,
This hallowed day, the voice of praise.
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Year after year hath worn away,
Since, on this ever-glorious day,
That deed of daring might was done,
Which freed the land of Washington!
'Twas Thou, who nerved the arm that smote!
And Thou, who nerved the hand that wrote!
And Thou, who nerved the tongue that swore
To seal that freedom with its gore!
Since, on this ever-glorious day,
That deed of daring might was done,
Which freed the land of Washington!
'Twas Thou, who nerved the arm that smote!
And Thou, who nerved the hand that wrote!
And Thou, who nerved the tongue that swore
To seal that freedom with its gore!
Then went the shout, all far and free:
—No longer bend the suppliant knee!
No longer cower beneath the nod
Of man—nor bow to aught but God!
Rise! swerve not till the work be done—
Till brighter still shine Valor's sun!
Death to the traitor, and the slave!
—For Country—Freedom—or the grave!
—No longer bend the suppliant knee!
No longer cower beneath the nod
Of man—nor bow to aught but God!
Rise! swerve not till the work be done—
Till brighter still shine Valor's sun!
Death to the traitor, and the slave!
—For Country—Freedom—or the grave!
Since—many a year hath rolled away,
And still returns this hallowed day:
And still, oh God! this land is free—
And bend its sons to none, but Thee!
And Freedom's torch is in her hand—
Its light illumines every land:
And despots, shuddering and amazed,
Curse this fair land, where first it blazed!
And still returns this hallowed day:
And still, oh God! this land is free—
And bend its sons to none, but Thee!
And Freedom's torch is in her hand—
Its light illumines every land:
And despots, shuddering and amazed,
Curse this fair land, where first it blazed!
THE USURER'S DEATH.
He was a man of curious workmanship.
His eyes were gray, and small, and deeply set,
And ever glancing round, as though he feared
Some stealthy hand were reaching for his gold!
His lips were thin, and painfully compressed,
As if his lank and roomy mouth contained
The hoarded treasures of his grasping life.
His skeleton hand so firmly clenched a key,
It seemed the fleshless bones would burst the dry
And sallow skin that covered them. His hair
Was grey, and cut unevenly—for he
Had shorn himself for years, to save the mite
The barber would have charged him. Mind in him
Had never taken root; and all he knew,
Or cared, was how to turn to good account
His mortgages—to count his useless gold—
To reap his harvests from the wretchedness
Of those whom the inequitable hand
Of Fortune drove to seek his usury.
His eyes were gray, and small, and deeply set,
And ever glancing round, as though he feared
Some stealthy hand were reaching for his gold!
His lips were thin, and painfully compressed,
As if his lank and roomy mouth contained
The hoarded treasures of his grasping life.
His skeleton hand so firmly clenched a key,
It seemed the fleshless bones would burst the dry
And sallow skin that covered them. His hair
Was grey, and cut unevenly—for he
Had shorn himself for years, to save the mite
The barber would have charged him. Mind in him
Had never taken root; and all he knew,
Or cared, was how to turn to good account
His mortgages—to count his useless gold—
To reap his harvests from the wretchedness
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Of Fortune drove to seek his usury.
His years were but three score—and yet his frame,
Lean, bowed, and tottering, bore the marks of four;
And all, save his unresting eye, betrayed
That he would shortly mingle with the dust.
His life had been a useless one: to heap
Wealth—which his heartlessness would not enjoy,
Had been his only care. The widow's grief—
The orphan's nakedness—the poor man's woe—
These he could never see; and his dull ear
Could never catch the wailings wretchedness
Wrung from the lowly-lifed. The bitter tears
That sickness or misfortune caused to flow,
Ne'er warmed the ice of his obdurate heart!
Lean, bowed, and tottering, bore the marks of four;
And all, save his unresting eye, betrayed
That he would shortly mingle with the dust.
His life had been a useless one: to heap
Wealth—which his heartlessness would not enjoy,
Had been his only care. The widow's grief—
The orphan's nakedness—the poor man's woe—
These he could never see; and his dull ear
Could never catch the wailings wretchedness
Wrung from the lowly-lifed. The bitter tears
That sickness or misfortune caused to flow,
Ne'er warmed the ice of his obdurate heart!
The ceaseless toil to grasp—the fear to lose
The smallest pittance—watchfulness by day—
And silent hoarding of his gains by night:
Thus years had passed—and the intense pursuit
Of wealth, had worn him to a skeleton.
In a dark corner of his room he lay,
Stretched on a scanty mat of loathsome straw;
And ever-and-anon would raise his head,
And stretch his long and fleshless arm, and try
To draw the iron depot of his wealth
Closer, and closer; but would fail, and fall
Back on his pallet with a bitter groan!
—The hand of Death was on him. He recoiled,
And drew his bony knees up to his chin;
And pressed his sallow hands upon his eyes,
And shuddered, at the summons of the chill,
All-conquering King. His door, long closed, was forced;
The noise aroused him; and with frantic rage
He sprang upon the chest, and seized the key,
And hoarsely shrieking, “Rob me not!”—he died.
The smallest pittance—watchfulness by day—
And silent hoarding of his gains by night:
Thus years had passed—and the intense pursuit
Of wealth, had worn him to a skeleton.
In a dark corner of his room he lay,
Stretched on a scanty mat of loathsome straw;
And ever-and-anon would raise his head,
And stretch his long and fleshless arm, and try
To draw the iron depot of his wealth
Closer, and closer; but would fail, and fall
Back on his pallet with a bitter groan!
—The hand of Death was on him. He recoiled,
And drew his bony knees up to his chin;
And pressed his sallow hands upon his eyes,
And shuddered, at the summons of the chill,
All-conquering King. His door, long closed, was forced;
The noise aroused him; and with frantic rage
He sprang upon the chest, and seized the key,
And hoarsely shrieking, “Rob me not!”—he died.
EVE'S BANISHMENT.
She knelt—the ever-glorious sky
Spread its blue wings above—
And angel harps were breathing songs
Of never-dying love:
The stainless moon was glancing bright
Upon the glittering robes of Night.
Spread its blue wings above—
And angel harps were breathing songs
Of never-dying love:
The stainless moon was glancing bright
Upon the glittering robes of Night.
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She knelt—the myriad stars looked down,
In their untiring gaze,
Upon the bright and sinless bower,
Her home in happier days:
The sapphire walls of Heaven unfurl'd
Their banners to the Eden-world.
In their untiring gaze,
Upon the bright and sinless bower,
Her home in happier days:
The sapphire walls of Heaven unfurl'd
Their banners to the Eden-world.
She knelt—the earth lay calm beneath
The Holy Spirit's smile—
And strains of seraph melody
Stole on her ears the while—
And whispering winds, and zephyrs bland,
Her pale and feverish temples fann'd.
The Holy Spirit's smile—
And strains of seraph melody
Stole on her ears the while—
And whispering winds, and zephyrs bland,
Her pale and feverish temples fann'd.
She knelt—in its untroubled pride
The waveless stream rolled by,
And glittered in the beamy light
Of the unclouded sky—
And onward passed, with murmuring sweep,
Unto the vast and watery Deep.
The waveless stream rolled by,
And glittered in the beamy light
Of the unclouded sky—
And onward passed, with murmuring sweep,
Unto the vast and watery Deep.
She WEPT—a curse was on her heart,
A curse that could not die,
For the deep sin that rested there
Was registered on high:
She wept—her seared heart could not bear
The starless night of its despair.
A curse that could not die,
For the deep sin that rested there
Was registered on high:
She wept—her seared heart could not bear
The starless night of its despair.
She wept—to leave the sunny flowers
That gemmed the sylvan scene,
And danced, like fairy revelers,
Upon the glittering green—
Which almost offered rivalry
Unto the bright and glorious sky.
That gemmed the sylvan scene,
And danced, like fairy revelers,
Upon the glittering green—
Which almost offered rivalry
Unto the bright and glorious sky.
She wept—that all the shining host
That gazed upon her then,
Should never light her steps unto
That sinless bower agen:
But hence her heritage should be,
To toss on Life's wild, billowy sea!
That gazed upon her then,
Should never light her steps unto
That sinless bower agen:
But hence her heritage should be,
To toss on Life's wild, billowy sea!
MAY-DAY MORNING.
May morning! May morning!—The bird from its bough,
And the maid from her chamber, are hurrying now;
That glad in its heart at the coming of day,
And she, to go maying—Oh, flowery May!
The lark shakes the glittering dew from her wings,
And aloft from the meadow exultingly springs;
And frequent, though distant he be, ye may hear
The shrill reveillé of the proud chanticleer.
And the maid from her chamber, are hurrying now;
That glad in its heart at the coming of day,
And she, to go maying—Oh, flowery May!
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And aloft from the meadow exultingly springs;
And frequent, though distant he be, ye may hear
The shrill reveillé of the proud chanticleer.
May morning! May morning!—The winds are awake—
The leaf stirs on the mountain, the wave on the lake!
The buds swell and burst; and the rich leaves unfold—
Carnation, blue, scarlet, white, purple and gold;
And some, like the blush on the cheek of the fair—
No color, though shades of all colors are there:
And they yield their perfume to the wooing wind,
As the fair yield their charms—alike lovely and kind.
The leaf stirs on the mountain, the wave on the lake!
The buds swell and burst; and the rich leaves unfold—
Carnation, blue, scarlet, white, purple and gold;
And some, like the blush on the cheek of the fair—
No color, though shades of all colors are there:
And they yield their perfume to the wooing wind,
As the fair yield their charms—alike lovely and kind.
May morning! May morning!—The mist of the rill,
Curling up, is entwining the brow of yon hill;
It brightens, and reddens—and now hath a sheen,
That, were angels above it, would mirror their mien.
Now lower the sun sends his magical ray,
Where the mist of the river is breaking away;
Dispersing in masses, these hurry on high,
Till they look like small islands of gold in the sky.
Curling up, is entwining the brow of yon hill;
It brightens, and reddens—and now hath a sheen,
That, were angels above it, would mirror their mien.
Now lower the sun sends his magical ray,
Where the mist of the river is breaking away;
Dispersing in masses, these hurry on high,
Till they look like small islands of gold in the sky.
May morning! May morning!—Thy breath stirreth now
The dark curls on many a beautiful brow;
And from fairy-like forms, as they hasten along,
Burst gushings of gladness, and snatches of song.
The dew-drops that shine on the bending grass,
Kiss and adhere to their feet as they pass:
The bird on the wing, and the bird on the stem.
Gaily carol their prettiest notes for them.
The dark curls on many a beautiful brow;
And from fairy-like forms, as they hasten along,
Burst gushings of gladness, and snatches of song.
The dew-drops that shine on the bending grass,
Kiss and adhere to their feet as they pass:
The bird on the wing, and the bird on the stem.
Gaily carol their prettiest notes for them.
May morning! May morning!—Song, laughter and shout,
Mid thy bushes and blossoms, ring joyously out,
From hearts yet untouched by the canker of care—
And there 's leaping, and dancing, and rivalry there;
And white hands are gath'ring, in wreath and bouquet,
Fresh flow'rs for the bower on the hill-side to-day.
May morning! May morning!—Thy flowers are fair—
O, how richly they'll dress the young May-Queen's hair!
Mid thy bushes and blossoms, ring joyously out,
From hearts yet untouched by the canker of care—
And there 's leaping, and dancing, and rivalry there;
And white hands are gath'ring, in wreath and bouquet,
Fresh flow'rs for the bower on the hill-side to-day.
May morning! May morning!—Thy flowers are fair—
O, how richly they'll dress the young May-Queen's hair!
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ELEGIAC LYRIC.
Written upon the death, at Philadelphia in 1830, of A. H. Corwine, Portrait and Landscape Painter of this city.
“WEEP, FOR THE WORD IS SPOKEN!”
Weep, for the worthy fallen!
Mourn, for the bright and free!
Ambition hath a votary less
Upon the bended knee.
He was of those whose souls are given
To Glory and to Fame—
And he sought to win a wreath from Heaven,
On which to write—A NAME.
Mourn, for the bright and free!
Ambition hath a votary less
Upon the bended knee.
He was of those whose souls are given
To Glory and to Fame—
And he sought to win a wreath from Heaven,
On which to write—A NAME.
His was the depth of feeling
The sons of genius know—
A ray of light caught from above,
To cheer his path below.
He called the beautiful and bright
From nothingness—and gave
A living glory to the night—
A motion to the wave!
The sons of genius know—
A ray of light caught from above,
To cheer his path below.
He called the beautiful and bright
From nothingness—and gave
A living glory to the night—
A motion to the wave!
And he won unto his easel,
The visions of the blest;
And caught at times a glimpse of where
The sons of genius rest.
He revelled in the sunny light
That gilds the West at even—
And peopled it with forms as bright
As Houri girls of Heaven.
The visions of the blest;
And caught at times a glimpse of where
The sons of genius rest.
He revelled in the sunny light
That gilds the West at even—
And peopled it with forms as bright
As Houri girls of Heaven.
Dust unto dust returneth!
And he hath given up
The glory and the gloom of life,
And drunk the bitter cup.
The meteor-light of intellect
Hath faded from his brow;
His dreams of the IDEAL are wreck'd—
His sleep is dreamless now.
And he hath given up
The glory and the gloom of life,
And drunk the bitter cup.
The meteor-light of intellect
Hath faded from his brow;
His dreams of the IDEAL are wreck'd—
His sleep is dreamless now.
| Erato, number I | |