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 | Erato, number I |  |
—“Here is a wreath
With many an unripe blossom garlanded,
And many a weed; yet mingled with some flowers
Which may not wither!”—
Southey.
With many an unripe blossom garlanded,
And many a weed; yet mingled with some flowers
Which may not wither!”—
Southey.
iii
DEDICATION.
TO TIMOTHY FLINT,
—A NAME WHICH NEEDS NO EULOGY WITH THE LOVERS OF RICH AND ELOQUENT
WRITING—
THIS SMALL COLLECTION OF POEMS IS INSCRIBED,
BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND AND ADMIRER,
THE AUTHOR.
5
THE PENITENT,
A METRICAL TALE.
INTRODUCTION.
The incidents of the following Poem are not altogether fictitious.— The story is founded upon extraordinary events, which occurred in this country a number of years since. In the Agnes of the Poem, I have drawn such a character as the lady concerned was at the time represented to be; and in the Penitent himself, have attempted to delineate such a being, as I conceived the principal actor in those events might have been. The other characters are imaginary.
The only excuse I have to offer for the variety of versification and measure made use of in the course of the Poem, is, that it “suited my humor” when writing. Regularity would, probably, have better accorded with the rules of correct taste: but in violating these, I pleased my fancy, and avoided being monotonous.
1. PART FIRST.
Until my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.
—Ancient Mariner.
This heart within me burns.
—Ancient Mariner.
I.
Far, where the Indian, in primeval pride,
Plies the light pirogue on the shadowed tide;
And turns with reverence to the setting sun,
Where lies his fancied home when life is done,
While glowing thoughts in quick succession rise,
And hope elates his heart, and fires his eyes;
Where still he hunts, as in the olden times,
Ere with his own were blent the white-man's crimes:
Where rolls Missouri's dark and turbid wave,
Warring against the shores it should but lave,
Like the vile wretch who, with insidious art,
Inserts a poison whence he draws a dart,—
And the calm Spirit River glides along,
And darkly winds the wild Mi-a-wa-kong,—
Feeding, with tribute from the Laky Woods,
The Reservoir of oceans, as of floods:
Where the vast prairie, circling, bounds the view,
Its light green melting in the sky's dark blue;
Isles of deep verdure sleeping on its breast,
Like the brown shadows of the clouds at rest:
Where the deep silence that forever reigns,
By thundering hoofs, of herds that sweep the plains,
Alone is broken—or the lightning stroke
That rives the giant ash, and hoary oak:
There dwelt a tribe, that had not witnessed then
The guile and infamy of christian men;
And, fair I-o-way, on thy wood-lined shore,
Spread the rude village of their Sagamore.
Plies the light pirogue on the shadowed tide;
And turns with reverence to the setting sun,
Where lies his fancied home when life is done,
While glowing thoughts in quick succession rise,
And hope elates his heart, and fires his eyes;
Where still he hunts, as in the olden times,
Ere with his own were blent the white-man's crimes:
Where rolls Missouri's dark and turbid wave,
Warring against the shores it should but lave,
6
Inserts a poison whence he draws a dart,—
And the calm Spirit River glides along,
And darkly winds the wild Mi-a-wa-kong,—
Feeding, with tribute from the Laky Woods,
The Reservoir of oceans, as of floods:
This epithet I believe to be strictly applicable to the Mississippi. It is really astonishing, the amount of water which that noble river bears along, and discharges into the Gulf. At its source, as has been recently ascertained, it is an outlet for the superabundant waters of some of the northwestern lakes. It receives, before its junction with the Missouri, something like a hundred streams, some of them no inconsiderable rivers themselves. The country drained by the Missouri is very extensive; and the quantities of water which the Mississippi receives by that river alone, must be immense. The first stream of magnitude which empties into it after the Missouri, is the Ohio, which is formed by the union of two streams of respectable size, and runs a course of ten hundred miles, receiving in its way the waters of western Pennsylvania and Virginia,—those of Ohio, Kentucky and Indiana, and of lake Erie by the Portsmouth canal. After the Ohio, a number of streams, some of which are boatable for hundreds of miles, empty into the Mississippi.—The most distressing floods on the upper waters, seldom effect a rise in that river. Even the devastating freshet of 1832, which inundated so much of the country bordering on the Alleghany, Monongahela, and Ohio rivers, did not swell the Mississippi in the least at Neworleans.
Where the vast prairie, circling, bounds the view,
Its light green melting in the sky's dark blue;
Isles of deep verdure sleeping on its breast,
Like the brown shadows of the clouds at rest:
Where the deep silence that forever reigns,
By thundering hoofs, of herds that sweep the plains,
Alone is broken—or the lightning stroke
That rives the giant ash, and hoary oak:
There dwelt a tribe, that had not witnessed then
The guile and infamy of christian men;
And, fair I-o-way, on thy wood-lined shore,
Spread the rude village of their Sagamore.
They were a tribe whose fame spread far and wide—
Fleet in the chase—and well in battle tried.
Fear of their might kept hostile tribes afar,
And years had passed since they were led to war.
Their chieftain was a man of noble mind—
Though oft in battle proved, to peace inclined;
And he rejoiced, that low in earth were laid
The rusting tomahawk and scalping-blade.
Fleet in the chase—and well in battle tried.
Fear of their might kept hostile tribes afar,
And years had passed since they were led to war.
Their chieftain was a man of noble mind—
Though oft in battle proved, to peace inclined;
And he rejoiced, that low in earth were laid
The rusting tomahawk and scalping-blade.
There came, one evening, to his wigwam door,
A weary wanderer from a distant shore.
The thin, white locks, that on his temples lay,
Were moistened with the toil of the long day.
He had before been in the lonely wild,
And spoke their language—and the chieftain smiled.
This spot recalled one evening to his mind,
When storm and death careered upon the wind:
A party of explorers paused, and pass'd
In such a place, a night they feared their last;
But He, whose breath the storm is, stretched his arm
Above them, that they might not come to harm:
And, ere they on the morn their way pursued,
The voice of prayer rose in the solitude.
“How,” he exclaimed, “these eyes would joy to see
The Cross we fixed against a sheltering tree!
Though years have blanched my hair, and dim'd my eyes,
Methinks I could the place soon recognize.”
His eager eyes glanced round, and round again—
“Ay—and this must be it! The stream—yon plain,
Which ends not till begins the azure main!
It is!—look! look! the storm-worn Cross is there!
The tree—But oh! alas! how changed! how bare!
Leafless—and almost branchless!—sadly marr'd
Thy beauty—and thy giant trunk, how scarr'd!
Alike our fates, thou well-remembered tree!
Time hath dealt hard with both—but worst with thee.
My leaves are seared and yellow—thine have fled!
My form is bowed and tottering—thine is dead!
But the same breath of winter's wind, may lave
Thy sapless branches, and my new-raised grave.”
A weary wanderer from a distant shore.
The thin, white locks, that on his temples lay,
Were moistened with the toil of the long day.
He had before been in the lonely wild,
And spoke their language—and the chieftain smiled.
This spot recalled one evening to his mind,
When storm and death careered upon the wind:
A party of explorers paused, and pass'd
In such a place, a night they feared their last;
But He, whose breath the storm is, stretched his arm
Above them, that they might not come to harm:
And, ere they on the morn their way pursued,
The voice of prayer rose in the solitude.
“How,” he exclaimed, “these eyes would joy to see
The Cross we fixed against a sheltering tree!
Though years have blanched my hair, and dim'd my eyes,
Methinks I could the place soon recognize.”
His eager eyes glanced round, and round again—
“Ay—and this must be it! The stream—yon plain,
Which ends not till begins the azure main!
7
The tree—But oh! alas! how changed! how bare!
Leafless—and almost branchless!—sadly marr'd
Thy beauty—and thy giant trunk, how scarr'd!
Alike our fates, thou well-remembered tree!
Time hath dealt hard with both—but worst with thee.
My leaves are seared and yellow—thine have fled!
My form is bowed and tottering—thine is dead!
But the same breath of winter's wind, may lave
Thy sapless branches, and my new-raised grave.”
He stood a moment, lost in far-off years;
Another—and his eyes were filled with tears.
Then, though swart visages were gathering round,
He knelt, before that Cross, upon the ground.
The circle narrowed fast—and some began
To scowl, and murmur at the aged man.
But the tall Sagamore reached forth his hand,
And spoke a welcome to the Indian's land.
The stranger blessed him—blessed them all—and rose—
Partook their homely meal—and sought repose.
Another—and his eyes were filled with tears.
Then, though swart visages were gathering round,
He knelt, before that Cross, upon the ground.
The circle narrowed fast—and some began
To scowl, and murmur at the aged man.
But the tall Sagamore reached forth his hand,
And spoke a welcome to the Indian's land.
The stranger blessed him—blessed them all—and rose—
Partook their homely meal—and sought repose.
The morrow found him much refreshed. But when
He looked upon the wild and swarthy men
That lay around, half-naked, on the slope,
Despair by turns his bosom filled, and hope.
Then humbly knelt he on the dewy sod,
Protection asking of the christian's God;
And calmly rose, peace in his aged eye,
Assured his orison was heard on high.
Around him close the' uprisen warriors throng—
Some mutter harshly—others chant their song.
But soon the noble Sagamore appears,
Straight as the palm-tree, hoary though with years.
The circling warriors, as he comes, divide,
And, as he enters, close from either side:
Such honor to his years and rank was due,
And such his warriors never failed to shew.
He stood, and glanced his eagle-eye around,
And silence followed, instant and profound.
Then swelled his voice upon the ambient air,
And rose his dark arm, to the shoulder bare.
With natural eloquence, he warmly plead
That injury might not reach the stranger's head;
Then kindly took the old man's hand, and smiled,
And called him “Brother!”—Every look was mild.
Next spread the circle on the trampled ground—
Then passed the calumet of peace around.
He looked upon the wild and swarthy men
That lay around, half-naked, on the slope,
Despair by turns his bosom filled, and hope.
Then humbly knelt he on the dewy sod,
Protection asking of the christian's God;
And calmly rose, peace in his aged eye,
Assured his orison was heard on high.
Around him close the' uprisen warriors throng—
Some mutter harshly—others chant their song.
But soon the noble Sagamore appears,
Straight as the palm-tree, hoary though with years.
The circling warriors, as he comes, divide,
And, as he enters, close from either side:
Such honor to his years and rank was due,
And such his warriors never failed to shew.
He stood, and glanced his eagle-eye around,
And silence followed, instant and profound.
Then swelled his voice upon the ambient air,
And rose his dark arm, to the shoulder bare.
With natural eloquence, he warmly plead
That injury might not reach the stranger's head;
Then kindly took the old man's hand, and smiled,
And called him “Brother!”—Every look was mild.
Next spread the circle on the trampled ground—
Then passed the calumet of peace around.
8
A member of their tribe he soon became,
And they endowed him with a loftier name:
“Mu-sha-we-ta-ka”—prophet—priest—or sage—
In reverence to his time-blanched head, and age;
And for that “he had come,” he sadly said,
“A-weary of the world, to lay his head
In these still shades, their ancient graves among;
Far from the land where he had suffered wrong—
Much wrong.”—And for the raiment, room and food,
He asked, he thought he could return them good;
For he had knowledge of their after life,
When wrong should be unknown, and stilled all worldly strife.
And they endowed him with a loftier name:
“Mu-sha-we-ta-ka”—prophet—priest—or sage—
In reverence to his time-blanched head, and age;
And for that “he had come,” he sadly said,
“A-weary of the world, to lay his head
In these still shades, their ancient graves among;
Far from the land where he had suffered wrong—
Much wrong.”—And for the raiment, room and food,
He asked, he thought he could return them good;
For he had knowledge of their after life,
When wrong should be unknown, and stilled all worldly strife.
One day he learned that a few miles away,
A wretched hermit-hunter suffering lay:
Upon a dark stream's solitary shore
His dwelling rose—an aged sycamore—
Whose argent boughs, that through the darkness loom,
Serve but, by contrast, to increase the gloom.
Three annual rounds had made the constant sun,
Since first they found him, with his dog and gun.
So sudden was their meeting, that they threw
Their hatchets, and gave forth the scalp-halloo.
Undaunted in their midst did he appear—
Made no resistance, but he showed no fear.
And when, with arrows fixed, they closer prest,
Shrank not, but looked above, and bared his breast.
Then at his angry dog a club was flung—
Between the weapon and the dog he sprung.
“Hugh!—Good!” A breast so brave they could not wound,
And cast their weapons, bloodless, to the ground:
Then, with slow step, and far-extended hand,
Approached the leader of the hunting band;
And led him forward, till in turn each brave
Pressed heartily his hand, and welcome gave.
They took him to their village; but when day
Was fading, he retraced his lonely way;
And though they offered then, and oft again,
To make him of their tribe, it was in vain.
They could not tell what cause had brought him here,
Nor what detained him thus, from year to year.
It seemed some guilt upon his spirit bore;
But all they knew,—and they could learn no more,—
Was, that he stood in this wide world alone,
Without or home or kindred of his own.
There had he lived, his dog his only care,
Who shared his hunter-toil—partook his hunter-fare.
For his eye had now caught the aged man's—
And he shrieked, “Not yet! Not yet!”
A wretched hermit-hunter suffering lay:
Upon a dark stream's solitary shore
His dwelling rose—an aged sycamore—
Whose argent boughs, that through the darkness loom,
Serve but, by contrast, to increase the gloom.
Three annual rounds had made the constant sun,
Since first they found him, with his dog and gun.
So sudden was their meeting, that they threw
Their hatchets, and gave forth the scalp-halloo.
Undaunted in their midst did he appear—
Made no resistance, but he showed no fear.
And when, with arrows fixed, they closer prest,
Shrank not, but looked above, and bared his breast.
Then at his angry dog a club was flung—
Between the weapon and the dog he sprung.
“Hugh!—Good!” A breast so brave they could not wound,
And cast their weapons, bloodless, to the ground:
Then, with slow step, and far-extended hand,
Approached the leader of the hunting band;
And led him forward, till in turn each brave
Pressed heartily his hand, and welcome gave.
They took him to their village; but when day
Was fading, he retraced his lonely way;
And though they offered then, and oft again,
To make him of their tribe, it was in vain.
They could not tell what cause had brought him here,
Nor what detained him thus, from year to year.
It seemed some guilt upon his spirit bore;
But all they knew,—and they could learn no more,—
Was, that he stood in this wide world alone,
Without or home or kindred of his own.
There had he lived, his dog his only care,
Who shared his hunter-toil—partook his hunter-fare.
10
And he shrieked, “Not yet! Not yet!”
He drew in his breath, and shrank away—
And his cowardly limbs did quake;
For, half-crazed, he thought that the Evil One
Had come to tell him his days were done;
And he felt that he could not make
His peace with his much offended God:
And, fearing the stroke of the righteous rod,
In agony of soul
He fell over—and on his musty leaves
Moaning he lay, and attempting to pray:
And then a look he stole
At the solemn old man, and again began
To beckon him away.
And his cowardly limbs did quake;
For, half-crazed, he thought that the Evil One
Had come to tell him his days were done;
And he felt that he could not make
His peace with his much offended God:
And, fearing the stroke of the righteous rod,
In agony of soul
He fell over—and on his musty leaves
Moaning he lay, and attempting to pray:
And then a look he stole
At the solemn old man, and again began
To beckon him away.
The holy man approached him then—
But as he drew more near
The guilty wretch shrieked wildly out,
And swooned away, with fear.
But as he drew more near
The guilty wretch shrieked wildly out,
And swooned away, with fear.
They bore him to the village then,
And bathed his haggard brow;
And soon he oped his restless eyes—
But he was calmer now.
The reverend stranger spoke to him,
And kindly on his brow
Laid his cool hand—then touched his wrist—
His pulse was weak and slow.
He kindly spoke to him, and hoped
Him better, that he'd slept:
“Oh, man of God!” the wretch exclaim'd,
And gazed at him, and wept.
But few and slow are the tears that flow
From the scorching desert of guilt below!
“Such sleep as I have slept!”
And bathed his haggard brow;
And soon he oped his restless eyes—
But he was calmer now.
The reverend stranger spoke to him,
And kindly on his brow
Laid his cool hand—then touched his wrist—
His pulse was weak and slow.
He kindly spoke to him, and hoped
Him better, that he'd slept:
“Oh, man of God!” the wretch exclaim'd,
And gazed at him, and wept.
But few and slow are the tears that flow
From the scorching desert of guilt below!
“Such sleep as I have slept!”
The priest-like father told him then,
How he his hut had sought,
And found him miserably sick,
And hither him had brought.
The sick man thanked him fervently—
“Pray for me, holy one;
I cannot raise my voice in praise
Though setting is life's sun.
I cannot raise my voice in praise—
An outcast I from Heaven;
How he his hut had sought,
And found him miserably sick,
And hither him had brought.
The sick man thanked him fervently—
“Pray for me, holy one;
I cannot raise my voice in praise
Though setting is life's sun.
I cannot raise my voice in praise—
An outcast I from Heaven;
9
Their story filled the old man's breast with grief;
He soon departed to afford relief,
And willing with him went the generous chief.
Oh, in what plight the wretched man they found—
Raving delirious on the cold, damp ground!
He soon departed to afford relief,
And willing with him went the generous chief.
Oh, in what plight the wretched man they found—
Raving delirious on the cold, damp ground!
II.
He was a man of hideous mien;
His eyes were deeply set,
And the demon-fires of guilty days
Were burning in them yet.
His beard was thick, and long, and black;
Apparently the growth
Of many a day of wretchedness,
And solitude, and sloth.
His hair was matted o'er his head,
In locks of black and gray;
His cheeks were thin; with his shaggy chin
His fingers were ever at play.
They were ever at play with his shaggy chin,
And the eyebrows, iron-gray,
That lowered above his flashing eyes,
Like a cloud o'er the brilliants that gem the skies
At the close of a sultry day.
His eyes were deeply set,
And the demon-fires of guilty days
Were burning in them yet.
His beard was thick, and long, and black;
Apparently the growth
Of many a day of wretchedness,
And solitude, and sloth.
His hair was matted o'er his head,
In locks of black and gray;
His cheeks were thin; with his shaggy chin
His fingers were ever at play.
They were ever at play with his shaggy chin,
And the eyebrows, iron-gray,
That lowered above his flashing eyes,
Like a cloud o'er the brilliants that gem the skies
At the close of a sultry day.
Remorse had furrowed his ample brow—
His cheeks were sallow and thin;
His limbs were shriveled—his body was lank—
He had reaped the wages of sin:
And though his eyes constantly glanced about,
As if looking or watching for something without,
His mind's eye glanced within!
His cheeks were sallow and thin;
His limbs were shriveled—his body was lank—
He had reaped the wages of sin:
And though his eyes constantly glanced about,
As if looking or watching for something without,
His mind's eye glanced within!
And he drew in his breath, and shrank away
From the things that he saw there;
And the pallor of death o'erspread his face,
And the writhings of despair.
From the things that he saw there;
And the pallor of death o'erspread his face,
And the writhings of despair.
Wildly his eyes still glared about;
But the eye that glanced within,
Was the one which saw the images
That frightened this man of sin.
But the things he saw I may not tell—
For there 's nothing so frightful, unseemly and fell,
As the shapes in a guilty bosom 's hell.
But the eye that glanced within,
Was the one which saw the images
That frightened this man of sin.
But the things he saw I may not tell—
For there 's nothing so frightful, unseemly and fell,
As the shapes in a guilty bosom 's hell.
He drew in his breath, and shrank away,
As far as he could get—
I have no hope—my guilt is great—
Too great to be forgiven.
Hopeless—O, God!—My breast is torn—
With thoughts remorseful riven!”
“Till death there's hope”—“Nay! nay!” he cried,
“I cannot be forgiven!
“For such as I there is no place
In yonder glorious sky.”
“'Tis free for all who choose”—“Nay! Nay!
A murderer am I!
You shudder, holy man! I knew
There was no hope for me!
O, God!—Away! thou pallid form!
I know I murdered thee!
Back to thy grave! I soon shall come—
But not to dwell with thee!
Back!—do not drive me mad!—back! back!
O, God! what agony!”
As far as he could get—
11
Too great to be forgiven.
Hopeless—O, God!—My breast is torn—
With thoughts remorseful riven!”
“Till death there's hope”—“Nay! nay!” he cried,
“I cannot be forgiven!
“For such as I there is no place
In yonder glorious sky.”
“'Tis free for all who choose”—“Nay! Nay!
A murderer am I!
You shudder, holy man! I knew
There was no hope for me!
O, God!—Away! thou pallid form!
I know I murdered thee!
Back to thy grave! I soon shall come—
But not to dwell with thee!
Back!—do not drive me mad!—back! back!
O, God! what agony!”
He smote his breast—and soon his eyes
Were fixed, as if in death;
But still his lips, though mute, moved on,
And still he drew his breath.
And with his coarse and grizzly beard
His fingers were at play;
And time-and-time he'd mutter low,
“Away!—not yet!—away!”
Were fixed, as if in death;
But still his lips, though mute, moved on,
And still he drew his breath.
And with his coarse and grizzly beard
His fingers were at play;
And time-and-time he'd mutter low,
“Away!—not yet!—away!”
The hoary watcher bent him o'er
The guilty wretch's bed,
And wiped the dew from his clammy brow,
And lifted his frantic head;
And he pillowed it on his breast awhile,
Then words that soothed him said.
The guilty wretch's bed,
And wiped the dew from his clammy brow,
And lifted his frantic head;
And he pillowed it on his breast awhile,
Then words that soothed him said.
When the sinful one was calm again,
The good man knelt in prayer;
But the murderer's face soon turn'd from him—
Wild—haggard with despair;
For his thoughts were borne to the Heavens above,
And they found no haven there!
The good man knelt in prayer;
But the murderer's face soon turn'd from him—
Wild—haggard with despair;
For his thoughts were borne to the Heavens above,
And they found no haven there!
But as the fervent prayer went on,
That sad face brighter grew;
And it seem'd that within that man of sin
A change was working too:
That the dried-up fount of feeling,
Which in Passion's sun for years
Had been scorching, was suddenly made again
The source of relieving tears.
The words of the good man pierced his heart,
Whence a stream refreshing rush'd;
As the rod of the prophet smote the rock,
Till the gladdening waters gush'd.
That sad face brighter grew;
And it seem'd that within that man of sin
A change was working too:
That the dried-up fount of feeling,
Which in Passion's sun for years
12
The source of relieving tears.
The words of the good man pierced his heart,
Whence a stream refreshing rush'd;
As the rod of the prophet smote the rock,
Till the gladdening waters gush'd.
He cast his tearful eyes above—
The star of Hope was there!
It shone upon his soul, and lit
That desert of Despair.
And then he thanked the man of God
Time after time, and bless'd,
And asked to join with him in prayer:
“Not now—thou needest rest;”
He said, and gave a draught prepared
To lull him to repose;
And the soothed sufferer's weary eyes
Grow heavy soon, and close.
The star of Hope was there!
It shone upon his soul, and lit
That desert of Despair.
And then he thanked the man of God
Time after time, and bless'd,
And asked to join with him in prayer:
“Not now—thou needest rest;”
He said, and gave a draught prepared
To lull him to repose;
And the soothed sufferer's weary eyes
Grow heavy soon, and close.
END OF PART FIRST.
13
2. PART SECOND.
Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream.—
Shakspeare.
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream.—
Shakspeare.
But I have that within which passeth show!—
Ibid.
Ibid.
I.
Oh, the heart that is guilt's, and must sorrow alone,
The cause of its anguish unwept and unknown—
No hope in the future—no joy from the past,
Its light o'er the gloom of the present to cast—
No ear that will listen, unless to condemn—
No arm that will help it life's torrents to stem—
What chilling and desolate shadows are thrown
Around it, at times, as it wanders alone!
A garden, bereft of the beams of the sun!
A grove, where the whirlwind its errand hath done!
On itself, like the once-lighted taper, it feeds,
With a flame as consuming, that never misleads—
But points, like the flame of that taper, above,
To the regions of bliss, and forgiveness, and love;
But these are denied it—at least till it feels
The flame at its core, and in humbleness kneels.
The cause of its anguish unwept and unknown—
No hope in the future—no joy from the past,
Its light o'er the gloom of the present to cast—
No ear that will listen, unless to condemn—
No arm that will help it life's torrents to stem—
What chilling and desolate shadows are thrown
Around it, at times, as it wanders alone!
A garden, bereft of the beams of the sun!
A grove, where the whirlwind its errand hath done!
On itself, like the once-lighted taper, it feeds,
With a flame as consuming, that never misleads—
But points, like the flame of that taper, above,
To the regions of bliss, and forgiveness, and love;
But these are denied it—at least till it feels
The flame at its core, and in humbleness kneels.
Long, long had the breast of the Penitent been
The seat of such scourging—the fruitage of sin:
But hope broke at last through the thick-gathered gloom
And lighted the depths of the desolate tomb.
The seat of such scourging—the fruitage of sin:
But hope broke at last through the thick-gathered gloom
And lighted the depths of the desolate tomb.
II.
Only a fitful sleep was his:But still refreshed he woke—
And to the aged watcher thus,
At intervals, he spoke.
As regards the manner in which the Penitent is made to reveal his guilt,—a death-bed confession,—I trust it will not be deemed objectionable on the score of its antiquity. Originality in this particular, was neither thought of nor necessary. It is perfectly natural, and nothing more was desired. In this same manner we every year hear of some wretch unburthening his guilty bosom;—though on the very verge of eternity, he finds it impossible to die with his crimes unrevealed;—and because it has been made use of in fiction by a score of authors, (lord Byron among them, in one of his Turkish tales,) it does not follow that its use in fiction should be discontinued now, to the introduction of something less natural, and likewise less poetical.
14
Dimness on my sight is cast:
Death's cold shades are gathering now,
And his dew is on my brow.
I must thank thee, holy one,
Bless thee, for the kindness done.
Partly waking, partly sleeping,
I have heard thee sighing, weeping;
And I knew thy thoughts were given
To a soul unworthy Heaven.
Yet I feel that prayers like thine,
With contrition such as mine,
May with safety hope to meet
Favor at the Mercy-seat.
Partly sleeping, partly waking,
I have made my silent prayer;
And I feel that He is taking
Largely of my load of care.
Blessings unto thee be given,
Worker of the will of Heaven!
Praises for the Gracious Being—
Ever hearing—Ever seeing—
Him whose grace is freely sent
To the truly penitent—
Him whose goodness will forgive
Sinners who repentant live—
And who hunger, thirst and cry,
For the spirit-food on high;
Such in hope may live and die:
Father, such I feel am I.
Unto thee be blessings given.
Worker of the will of Heaven!
—Father, wipe my clammy brow;
I 've a tale to tell thee now:
'Tis a tale of hellish guilt—
Virtue ravished—life-blood spilt.
Oh, I would that it were told,
For my limbs are growing cold.
God of Heaven! if 'twere well,
This moment I in death would lie!—
No—Till the hellish deed I tell,
I feel I cannot die.
III.
“My native home is far away,
Beyond the hills of Alleghane,
Where 'gainst the granite mountains play
The lightning-fires in vain;
Where men are brave, and women fair—
A hardy, famed, and virtuous race—
One of whose proudest names I bear,
And bearing, it disgrace.
In youth I was a mother's joy,
In later years a father's pride;
But let not them my tongue employ—
They both, three years since, died:
Ay—died to think that seed of theirs
Had generated worse than tares:
Died with a broken heart, what time
I fled from justice for my crime.
Beyond the hills of Alleghane,
Where 'gainst the granite mountains play
The lightning-fires in vain;
15
A hardy, famed, and virtuous race—
One of whose proudest names I bear,
And bearing, it disgrace.
In youth I was a mother's joy,
In later years a father's pride;
But let not them my tongue employ—
They both, three years since, died:
Ay—died to think that seed of theirs
Had generated worse than tares:
Died with a broken heart, what time
I fled from justice for my crime.
“No more of parentage or name—
That crime is pressing on my tongue,
And burns my heart as with a flame:
I would it might not thence be wrung,
The dark recital—and that I
Might not relate the deed of hell;
But no!—I feel I can not die,
Until the tale I tell!
Oh God! thy scourge is on me now—
I kiss the rod, and humbly bow.
That crime is pressing on my tongue,
And burns my heart as with a flame:
I would it might not thence be wrung,
The dark recital—and that I
Might not relate the deed of hell;
But no!—I feel I can not die,
Until the tale I tell!
Oh God! thy scourge is on me now—
I kiss the rod, and humbly bow.
“Well—there was one with chiseled lip,
And forehead like a fresh snow-flake;
So lightly formed, she seemed to trip
Like fairy on a sleeping lake.
Her tresses shone as fair and bright,
—Her tresses of the ebon die—
As do the waving folds of night,
When, glowing in the rich moonlight,
They curl about the sky.
And then her eyes—large, dark, and mild—
The innocence of a very child
Was theirs; and theirs the piercing glance,
More fatal than the Parthian lance—
Because the breast was willing laid
Bare to the archery of the maid.
And forehead like a fresh snow-flake;
So lightly formed, she seemed to trip
Like fairy on a sleeping lake.
Her tresses shone as fair and bright,
—Her tresses of the ebon die—
As do the waving folds of night,
When, glowing in the rich moonlight,
They curl about the sky.
And then her eyes—large, dark, and mild—
The innocence of a very child
Was theirs; and theirs the piercing glance,
More fatal than the Parthian lance—
Because the breast was willing laid
Bare to the archery of the maid.
“And she had mind—as some have not—
And she had feelings, some would scorn:
They deem that thought would be a blot
On such a brow—a cloud at morn.
More beautiful but few there be,
And fewer still with hearts like hers:
No sin to such to bend the knee,
And become worshipers.
“How well, with her rich, ductile heart,
Might woman act a nobler part;
If she would flee the trifling toys
That mar, in sooth, not make her joys;
If half the care on them she flings
Away, were giv'n to worthier things;
If half that care were but bestow'd
To cultivate the gifts of God:
Then were our worship rightly hers—
Then were men oft'ner worshipers.
And she had feelings, some would scorn:
They deem that thought would be a blot
On such a brow—a cloud at morn.
More beautiful but few there be,
And fewer still with hearts like hers:
No sin to such to bend the knee,
And become worshipers.
16
Might woman act a nobler part;
If she would flee the trifling toys
That mar, in sooth, not make her joys;
If half the care on them she flings
Away, were giv'n to worthier things;
If half that care were but bestow'd
To cultivate the gifts of God:
Then were our worship rightly hers—
Then were men oft'ner worshipers.
“Such—such was Agnes!—Such the one
Who 'neath my fiendish purpose fell.
Oh God! I would this life were done!
Cold—cold!—but I must thus live on,
Till the dark tale I tell!
Who 'neath my fiendish purpose fell.
Oh God! I would this life were done!
Cold—cold!—but I must thus live on,
Till the dark tale I tell!
“Well—she was happy. Love had thrown
His silken chains about two hearts;
And there was one she called her own,
Who for a few brief months had gone
To visit other parts.
I saw them part—and look above—
Each at the fair and blessed sky:
I saw them part—I knew their love—
I knew their vows were writ on high:
And yet I strove to plant a dart
Of anguish in her happy heart;
To make her light of gladness dim;
And next, to win her love from him.
And if that love should be denied,
My bosom's hell—my lust—my pride—
Avenged, although my victim died,
This must be, and they gratified!
I thought not then of penance hour—
I dreamed not then of pangs like these;
I only knew, she had the power
My burning breast to ease:
And if her love I could not win,
I would not pause at deadlier sin!
His silken chains about two hearts;
And there was one she called her own,
Who for a few brief months had gone
To visit other parts.
I saw them part—and look above—
Each at the fair and blessed sky:
I saw them part—I knew their love—
I knew their vows were writ on high:
And yet I strove to plant a dart
Of anguish in her happy heart;
To make her light of gladness dim;
And next, to win her love from him.
And if that love should be denied,
My bosom's hell—my lust—my pride—
Avenged, although my victim died,
This must be, and they gratified!
I thought not then of penance hour—
I dreamed not then of pangs like these;
I only knew, she had the power
My burning breast to ease:
And if her love I could not win,
I would not pause at deadlier sin!
“We were together—side by side—
Nine furlongs from her home away:
It was a walk she loved—for they,
Poor Agnes and her bosom's pride,
Oft wandered here at day's decline,
Her arm in his, as now in mine.
And every nook, and every stone,
And every simple, shrub, and tree,
Each star that through the branches shone,
Each rock with lichen overgrown,
Each moss-clad root and grassy knoll,
—Rested upon in many a stroll—
Each thicket for the native thrush,
Each woodbine, flower, and alder-bush,
Familiar seemed to be,
As if within that roadside wood,
A guardian forest nymph, she stood
To tell to passing travelers
The' elysium of a home like hers,
In hope some beauteous youth to meet
Willing to share her cool retreat.
Nine furlongs from her home away:
It was a walk she loved—for they,
Poor Agnes and her bosom's pride,
Oft wandered here at day's decline,
Her arm in his, as now in mine.
And every nook, and every stone,
And every simple, shrub, and tree,
17
Each rock with lichen overgrown,
Each moss-clad root and grassy knoll,
—Rested upon in many a stroll—
Each thicket for the native thrush,
Each woodbine, flower, and alder-bush,
Familiar seemed to be,
As if within that roadside wood,
A guardian forest nymph, she stood
To tell to passing travelers
The' elysium of a home like hers,
In hope some beauteous youth to meet
Willing to share her cool retreat.
“How, round each small and trifling thing
We see when with our heart's devoted,
Love's magnifying pow'rs will fling
A halo all before unnoted!
And memory will often dwell
Upon them, not forgetting any;
And, like poor Agnes, something tell
Of every one, though they be many.
We see when with our heart's devoted,
Love's magnifying pow'rs will fling
A halo all before unnoted!
And memory will often dwell
Upon them, not forgetting any;
And, like poor Agnes, something tell
Of every one, though they be many.
“We were together:—We had tarried
So oft by some enchanting spot,
To her familiar, and which carried
Her thoughts away—where mine were not—
To one whose noble heart had won her,
Though wealthier ones were doting on her—
That, ere she knew, the bright, chaste moon,
—Not as of old, when Time was young,
She roamed the woods, in sandal-shoon,
With bow in hand, and quiver strung,
But 'mong the stars, and broad and round,
The moon of man's degenerate race,—
Its way had through an opening found,
And shone full in her face!
She started then—and looking up,
Turned on me her delicious eyes;
And I, poor fool! I dared to hope,
And met that look with sighs.
So oft by some enchanting spot,
To her familiar, and which carried
Her thoughts away—where mine were not—
To one whose noble heart had won her,
Though wealthier ones were doting on her—
That, ere she knew, the bright, chaste moon,
—Not as of old, when Time was young,
She roamed the woods, in sandal-shoon,
With bow in hand, and quiver strung,
But 'mong the stars, and broad and round,
The moon of man's degenerate race,—
Its way had through an opening found,
And shone full in her face!
She started then—and looking up,
Turned on me her delicious eyes;
And I, poor fool! I dared to hope,
And met that look with sighs.
“One moment passed—and I had pour'd
My poison in her scorning ear:
She saw my baseness, and abhorr'd,
And would no farther-hear.
I seized her hand—and at her feet
With frenzied fervor press'd my suit:
She spurned me, for my base deceit—
She spurned me, and was mute.
Then quickly turned to flee away—
But, frenzied by her ripened charms,
I madly seized her—and she lay
Encircled in these arms;
But, struggling from their hot embrace,
Eluded then the foul disgrace;
And silent stood:—But on her brow,
—The recollection chills me now—
And in her large, dark, glorious eye,
—Such, now meseems, might wrong defy—
And burning on her crimson cheek,
—Spell-bound, I could nor move nor speak—
And wreathing round her curling lip,
—Yet pale from guilt's lascivious sip—
There was a look—Pray God that ne'er
Again may woman's features wear
Such look, nor man be doomed to bear!—
There was a look—'Twas not of woe—
Though black, still blacker did it grow—
'Twas not of guilt—'twas not of fear—
Nor softened by one single tear!
—'Twas partly ice, and partly flame,
Partly expression without name—
An angel changed to demon-state—
But more than each, than all, 'twas hate—
Dark, deep, unmitigable hate!
And withering on my heart it fell—
Burning and freezing both—as well
The ice of earth as fire of hell.
My poison in her scorning ear:
She saw my baseness, and abhorr'd,
And would no farther-hear.
I seized her hand—and at her feet
With frenzied fervor press'd my suit:
18
She spurned me, and was mute.
Then quickly turned to flee away—
But, frenzied by her ripened charms,
I madly seized her—and she lay
Encircled in these arms;
But, struggling from their hot embrace,
Eluded then the foul disgrace;
And silent stood:—But on her brow,
—The recollection chills me now—
And in her large, dark, glorious eye,
—Such, now meseems, might wrong defy—
And burning on her crimson cheek,
—Spell-bound, I could nor move nor speak—
And wreathing round her curling lip,
—Yet pale from guilt's lascivious sip—
There was a look—Pray God that ne'er
Again may woman's features wear
Such look, nor man be doomed to bear!—
There was a look—'Twas not of woe—
Though black, still blacker did it grow—
'Twas not of guilt—'twas not of fear—
Nor softened by one single tear!
—'Twas partly ice, and partly flame,
Partly expression without name—
An angel changed to demon-state—
But more than each, than all, 'twas hate—
Dark, deep, unmitigable hate!
And withering on my heart it fell—
Burning and freezing both—as well
The ice of earth as fire of hell.
“And there she stood—unshrinking—grand—
A being of a moment's birth!
The stars were bright—the air was bland—
A silvery glory robed the earth.
And silence, deep as that which dwells
In hermit caves, and sainted cells,—
Or deeper still—like that which reigns
In chambers where the hand of Death
Is icing the last stirring veins
The dying body still retains—
And the suppressed and struggling breath
Of those who stand around the bed,
With swollen eye, and drooping head,
Alone is heard:—Such silence dwelt
Around us, in that lonely wood;
Where, powerless still, on earth I knelt,
And where, all-withering still, she stood.
Her bounding heart beat audibly—
And I her swelling breast could see,
—Which violence had opened bare—
Heaving her kindly-veiling hair.
And then—Oh God! I know not how,
Such madness fired this aching brow—
But soon I felt her bosom's swell,
And 'neath my brutal force she fell!
A being of a moment's birth!
The stars were bright—the air was bland—
A silvery glory robed the earth.
And silence, deep as that which dwells
In hermit caves, and sainted cells,—
Or deeper still—like that which reigns
In chambers where the hand of Death
Is icing the last stirring veins
The dying body still retains—
And the suppressed and struggling breath
Of those who stand around the bed,
With swollen eye, and drooping head,
Alone is heard:—Such silence dwelt
Around us, in that lonely wood;
Where, powerless still, on earth I knelt,
And where, all-withering still, she stood.
19
And I her swelling breast could see,
—Which violence had opened bare—
Heaving her kindly-veiling hair.
And then—Oh God! I know not how,
Such madness fired this aching brow—
But soon I felt her bosom's swell,
And 'neath my brutal force she fell!
“You shudder, father!—closer draw—
There lived who would avenge her fall—
I am not done—I feared the law—
Cold!—shivering!—but I must tell all:
I feared to leave her thus—I knew
My crime would call the vengeance forth
Of one who would his hand imbrue
In blood, in spite of law—and who
Would hunt me through the earth.
Still, father! still, to fly I tried!
She shuddered!—and a fearful moan,
—A moan to madness near allied—
Escaped her, as the consciousness
Of what she was, began to press
Upon her now bewildered brain:
A moment—all was still again.
A second time I would have flown;
But fear of vengeance stayed my flight,
And swelled the horrors of that night.
I paused—She turned, and tried to rise—
Then fixed on mine her haggard eyes.
The moon full on her features shone.
I groaned, in very agony,
As dwelt those altered looks on me.
So much of woe I ne'er had seen;
And hope man's eye may never trace
Such agony, as mine saw then,
In that wild, haggard face.
Such sense of guilt I ne'er had felt,
And pray that man may never feel,
As when above that form I knelt,
And raised the pointed steel.
I plunged it, father!—and, Oh Heaven!
Can crime like this be e'er forgiven!
I plunged the weapon—And the scream
She gave, as gushed the purple stream,
Rang on my quick and aching ear
As if a curse from God it were.
And on my knee, by that pale form,
Smeared with the heart's blood gushing warm,
I cannot tell how long I knelt,
Nor half the agony I felt;
But I would not live o'er again
That moment or that hour of pain,
For all the bliss that earth can give:
I seemed to be, but not to live.
The damn'd, methinks, on hell's dread shore,
Can neither bear nor suffer more.
There lived who would avenge her fall—
I am not done—I feared the law—
Cold!—shivering!—but I must tell all:
I feared to leave her thus—I knew
My crime would call the vengeance forth
Of one who would his hand imbrue
In blood, in spite of law—and who
Would hunt me through the earth.
Still, father! still, to fly I tried!
She shuddered!—and a fearful moan,
—A moan to madness near allied—
Escaped her, as the consciousness
Of what she was, began to press
Upon her now bewildered brain:
A moment—all was still again.
A second time I would have flown;
But fear of vengeance stayed my flight,
And swelled the horrors of that night.
I paused—She turned, and tried to rise—
Then fixed on mine her haggard eyes.
The moon full on her features shone.
I groaned, in very agony,
As dwelt those altered looks on me.
So much of woe I ne'er had seen;
And hope man's eye may never trace
Such agony, as mine saw then,
In that wild, haggard face.
Such sense of guilt I ne'er had felt,
And pray that man may never feel,
As when above that form I knelt,
And raised the pointed steel.
I plunged it, father!—and, Oh Heaven!
Can crime like this be e'er forgiven!
I plunged the weapon—And the scream
She gave, as gushed the purple stream,
Rang on my quick and aching ear
As if a curse from God it were.
20
Smeared with the heart's blood gushing warm,
I cannot tell how long I knelt,
Nor half the agony I felt;
But I would not live o'er again
That moment or that hour of pain,
For all the bliss that earth can give:
I seemed to be, but not to live.
The damn'd, methinks, on hell's dread shore,
Can neither bear nor suffer more.
“And that loud, piercing shriek!—it seem'd
As though a hundred victims scream'd,
Unceasingly, that scream of death:
It came from every rock and dell;
From every waving tree-top fell;
And with my bosom's every swell,
And every new-drawn breath.
And since, though I have wandered far,
That wild face looks from every star,
And every full-orbed moon;
And all night long, that fearful scream
Still haunts me in some horrid dream:
And this has made me what I seem—
Old and gray-haired too soon.
As though a hundred victims scream'd,
Unceasingly, that scream of death:
It came from every rock and dell;
From every waving tree-top fell;
And with my bosom's every swell,
And every new-drawn breath.
And since, though I have wandered far,
That wild face looks from every star,
And every full-orbed moon;
And all night long, that fearful scream
Still haunts me in some horrid dream:
And this has made me what I seem—
Old and gray-haired too soon.
“Three years, of such deep agony
Of soul and body, I have pass'd;
And they have seemed as ten times three—
Nay, look not thus aghast!
I know, it is a hollow sound
That issues from my breast's profound,
Sepulchral, cold abyss;
I know, it is as if the dead
Were speaking from the charnel-bed—
For all of life but speech has fled,
And death-tones are in this!
I know 'tis frightful, holy one—
But till the tale of guilt be done,
I cannot cease to speak.
Draw nearer—I am wondrous cold—
Methinks I feel the shroud enfold
My limbs, and hear the cloddy mold
Upon my coffin break.
There—father!—But I cannot feel
Thy touch! Oh God!—Now for my weal
A prayer—a silent one;
And I will give thee all that yet
Remains, of this exacted debt—
And then, I pray life's sun may set,
For all its heat is gone!
Of soul and body, I have pass'd;
And they have seemed as ten times three—
Nay, look not thus aghast!
I know, it is a hollow sound
That issues from my breast's profound,
Sepulchral, cold abyss;
I know, it is as if the dead
Were speaking from the charnel-bed—
For all of life but speech has fled,
And death-tones are in this!
I know 'tis frightful, holy one—
But till the tale of guilt be done,
I cannot cease to speak.
Draw nearer—I am wondrous cold—
Methinks I feel the shroud enfold
My limbs, and hear the cloddy mold
Upon my coffin break.
There—father!—But I cannot feel
Thy touch! Oh God!—Now for my weal
A prayer—a silent one;
And I will give thee all that yet
21
And then, I pray life's sun may set,
For all its heat is gone!
“That hour's or moment's anguish o'er,
—Anguish unfelt, unthought, before—
Trembling, above that corpse I stood,
But fearful more of man than God.
And that it might be thought the charms
I thus had snatched from worthier arms,
Had mine preferred, and flown with me,
And gone to parts unknown with me,—
That human search might be in vain,
And that they might not know her slain,—
I wound her hair, a shining band,
Round this nefarious, blood-stained hand,
And two long miles the beauteous corse
Thus dragged away, by demon force,
To where a stream ran deep and dark,
—A towering ledge of rock below—
Too small and swift for freighted barque,
And where man's foot might never go;—
And that, if found, it might be hard
The murdered one to recognize,
I every lovely feature marr'd,
And hacked and gashed her eyes:
Then pitched the body from that rocky height—
And, demon as I was, my senses sank in night.
—Anguish unfelt, unthought, before—
Trembling, above that corpse I stood,
But fearful more of man than God.
And that it might be thought the charms
I thus had snatched from worthier arms,
Had mine preferred, and flown with me,
And gone to parts unknown with me,—
That human search might be in vain,
And that they might not know her slain,—
I wound her hair, a shining band,
Round this nefarious, blood-stained hand,
And two long miles the beauteous corse
Thus dragged away, by demon force,
To where a stream ran deep and dark,
—A towering ledge of rock below—
Too small and swift for freighted barque,
And where man's foot might never go;—
And that, if found, it might be hard
The murdered one to recognize,
I every lovely feature marr'd,
And hacked and gashed her eyes:
Then pitched the body from that rocky height—
And, demon as I was, my senses sank in night.
“Suffice it—I recovered soon,
And from the scene of horror fled;
And ever since, that witness moon
Has shone upon this guilty head,
Which has nor asked nor wished for rest,
Here, in the dark woods of the West.
And such a life as mine has been!
And oh! in solitude to bear it!
Pray God, that ne'er again for sin
May man such years of anguish merit.
Before I reached these dark retreats,
I learnt my crime was fully known;
And heard, disguised in crowded streets,
Deep curses on my head show'rd down.
And from the scene of horror fled;
And ever since, that witness moon
Has shone upon this guilty head,
Which has nor asked nor wished for rest,
Here, in the dark woods of the West.
And such a life as mine has been!
And oh! in solitude to bear it!
Pray God, that ne'er again for sin
May man such years of anguish merit.
Before I reached these dark retreats,
I learnt my crime was fully known;
And heard, disguised in crowded streets,
Deep curses on my head show'rd down.
“A farmer's ear had caught the shriek,
That night, when the fair victim bled:
His dog, next morning, found the streak
Of blood, which to the victim led.
The farmer saw the mangled form,
Far down the steep, the stream beside;
His foot was sure—his heart was warm—
He soon was by the leaping tide,
Though dangerous was the craggy pass:
For legal form he did not linger—
But raised a white hand from the grass,
And found a ring upon one finger,
On which her name was graven full!
So works the Great Inscrutable.
Sooner or later, crime shall find
There is One Eye that's never blind.’
That night, when the fair victim bled:
His dog, next morning, found the streak
Of blood, which to the victim led.
22
Far down the steep, the stream beside;
His foot was sure—his heart was warm—
He soon was by the leaping tide,
Though dangerous was the craggy pass:
For legal form he did not linger—
But raised a white hand from the grass,
And found a ring upon one finger,
On which her name was graven full!
So works the Great Inscrutable.
Sooner or later, crime shall find
There is One Eye that's never blind.’
IV.
The Penitent's voice, long weak and low,Had died away to a mere, mere breath;
And his words came difficult and slow,
As drops at eve from an icicle flow,
When, gone the rays of the warming sun,
It drops, congeals—drops, congeals—and then is done!
And his eyes, though glazed, to Heaven were rais'd;
And his lips still moved, and his heart still prais'd.
Soon all was still:—then his icy breast
Once broke its unmoving and corpse-like rest;
Then a gasp for breath, and a low, deep moan,
And the Spirit of Life aloft had flown—
And the Penitent lay with Death.
V.
Dark was his crime! his after years, how sad!
By turns depressed—repentant—hopeless—mad!
Now from himself—vain effort!—prone to fly;
Pondering if thus to live—or, strike and die!
“But will death bring repose? If so, 'twere well;
If not!—and ah! that ‘if not!’—Who may tell!
What boots it if it bring or bring not rest?
Hereafter has no Hades like this breast!
Strike!—But Hereafter has what I may gain,
Through years of penitence, and prayer, and pain.
Why should more blood by this dark arm be spilt?
Why add to my already crying guilt?”
Loathing to live, and yet to die afraid,
The arm falls pow'rless, and the blow is staid.
By turns depressed—repentant—hopeless—mad!
Now from himself—vain effort!—prone to fly;
Pondering if thus to live—or, strike and die!
“But will death bring repose? If so, 'twere well;
If not!—and ah! that ‘if not!’—Who may tell!
What boots it if it bring or bring not rest?
Hereafter has no Hades like this breast!
Strike!—But Hereafter has what I may gain,
Through years of penitence, and prayer, and pain.
Why should more blood by this dark arm be spilt?
Why add to my already crying guilt?”
Loathing to live, and yet to die afraid,
The arm falls pow'rless, and the blow is staid.
Such were at times his hopes—communings—fears—
Such his self-conflicts through those suffering years.
Dark though his soul, a Power above prevail'd
In all—and his fell purpose ever fail'd.
If great his sin, his penance too was great;
And He is merciful who holds his fate.
Such his self-conflicts through those suffering years.
23
In all—and his fell purpose ever fail'd.
If great his sin, his penance too was great;
And He is merciful who holds his fate.
On thy far shore, fair I-o-way! he sleeps.
Above his dust, no conscious eye e'er weeps;
For the dark warriors, and the stranger gray,
To other scenes have long since passed away:
He to that home, long to his fancy dear,
Where grief intrudes not, and where falls no tear;
They, wandering deities of lake and wood,
Far to a wilder, deeper solitude;
Their hoary chief, to those elysian lands,
Where crystal waters flow o'er burnished sands.
Above his dust, no conscious eye e'er weeps;
For the dark warriors, and the stranger gray,
To other scenes have long since passed away:
He to that home, long to his fancy dear,
Where grief intrudes not, and where falls no tear;
They, wandering deities of lake and wood,
Far to a wilder, deeper solitude;
Their hoary chief, to those elysian lands,
Where crystal waters flow o'er burnished sands.
END OF THE PENITENT.
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,
26
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
27
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,
28
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!
29
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.
30
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
31
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.
32
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!
33
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!
36
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.
END OF ERATO NO. 1.
| Erato, number I | |