Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Give to the young—the hope-cheered young,
Round whom life's rosiest lights are flung
Flowers—flowers—those fairy-gifts of spring—
And every bright and lovely thing!

Give costly offerings to the great—
Meet for their high and proud estate—
And worthless, worthless but to them
The gem but suits the diadem!

Give unto him that toils in ways
Of just ambition—meed of praise—
The laurel crown—the inspiring cheer,
And speed him on his bright career!

458

But give, oh! give to all who mourn,
To sorrow and to suffering born,
Pure sympathy's deep tears and sighs,
Which Grief knows fondly well to prize.

Give tears—kind tears to all who mourn!
Alas! and who of woman born
May claim not those dark mournful gifts?
(Though joy inspires, though hope uplifts.)

The poor and friendless faintly groan,
An hungered, through long hours and lone:
The heart hath its strong hunger too,
To nature and to feeling true!

The bread that cheers the fluttering breath
Saves not the soul from daily death:
If all unaswered upon earth—
It starves and wastes, in feeling's dearth!—

459

Thy brother in his need doth know
A nobler and more touching woe—
He from his kind seems thrust apart,
The outcast, and orphan of the heart!

Unless with love—the kind—the true,
Thou sorrowest o'er his sufferings too,
Thy gift a barren gift shall be—
Thy charity—no charity!

With earth-grown bread—give love's rich dole;
That Heaven-sent manna of the soul;
The hunger of the heart to cheer,
Give words of kindness, and its tear;

And for the bounding child, so fair,
With streamers bright of sunny hair,
Laughing along its lightsome way,
As human life were but all play!

460

Deem'st thou that sighs were there misplac'd?
Ye judge in rash and thoughtless haste:
It hath all griefs to undergo,
To learn life's lesson, woe by woe!

Thy brethren—those of riper years
Are now grown conversant with tears;
The first fierce wrench from peace is o'er;
The sharp, stern shock shall come no more!

Thy little brethren claim from thee
Thy tenderest pity's sympathy:
They have to learn they dwell beneath,
With pain and sorrow, sin and death!

That dark and deadly knowledge they
Have yet to learn with sick dismay!
Their souls have yet, from cloudless light,
To plunge in darkness, gloom, and night!

461

All those first, fiercest wounds and woes,
Which break up the young heart's repose,
The first—the first—the worst to bear,
Must be the child's dark, certain share!

When once the fearful plunge is made
We grow familiar with the shade:
Grief hath no more such mastering power!—
Its opening is its mightiest hour!

Weep then for those with lids unwet,
Who sigh not for themselves as yet!
Weep for them, in their tender years,—
Thy little brethren claim thy tears!

The thorn must pierce, the snake must sting;
The mortal, mortal anguish wring,—
These things must come with coming years:—
Give, give thy little brethren tears!

462

The bright, glad maiden, fair and meek,
With downcast eye and blushing cheek,—
The youthful lover, blythe and gay—
Yes! strew fresh flowers along their way.

But yet,—yet there too—there is cause
For deeper look, and thoughtful pause—
They love, and pour on fleeting dust,
The mighty fulness of their trust.

And e'en in their mid-happiness
They feel strange tremblings of distress—
The uncertainty of all on earth
Troubles their triumph—mars their mirth.

Their joys, indeed, like stars outshine,
Far glittering, with a light Divine;
But then those heavenly jewels bright
Gleam set and framed in death-dark night!

463

Their lives are crown'd with precious love!—
They yet 'mid many shadows move,
Of doubt and change, and fear and fate,
Aye, e'en in this, their blissful state!

And theirs can scarce be called repose;—
Oh, no! they have too much to lose!
The trouble of their tenderness
Still deepens on unto excess!

The anxieties of passion's sway—
Their fond, faint fears lest some dark day
Should loose those tenderest ties and best—
These shake their peace—these break their rest.

To love, must ever be to fear,
While destiny and death reign here:
The heart its wealth in fear enfolds—
Its precious treasures trembling holds.

464

Give tears and sighs unto the young,
Whose costly happiness is flung
Upon the changeful winds of life,
Exposed to all their chill and strife!

Strew flowers, fresh flowers, bright, blushing flowers
Along their path in rainbow'd showers!
For youth and love themselves are fair
As some rich flower of beauty rare.

Breathe sighs—shed tears—deep feeling tears
For them, e'en in their smiling years!
For they shall weep too—they shall sigh,
When loves depart and pleasures die!

E'en now they sigh—e'en now they weep,
For joys there are too rich—too deep!
Affection's, Feeling's joys supreme,
They make all else appear a dream.

465

Life—life too bounded and too brief,
Becometh in itself a Grief—
While still they pine for worlds more fair,
And pant for purer, ampler air.

Strange—strange it is that joy and love
Themselves full often darkly prove;—
The source of sorrow and unrest—
On earth we're perilously blest;

For every bliss that we may share
We pay a heavy price of care;
And those who never gladness knew
Ne'er look'd on sorrow's darkest hue!

Those for whose lips no joy-streams flow,
Ne'er drain'd the bitterest draughts of woe;
But those who know and prize them most,
How fare they when those founts are lost?

466

And e'en the very fear is death!—
They who feel most breathe trembling breath,
Their heart-strength seems with doubt to melt,
And what is joy, when coldly felt?

Pity the happy, who possess
In anxious dread their happiness—
Whose thoughts one long, keen vigil keep—
Whose hearts—fond watchers—never sleep!

And who, amidst the happy, who
Are those who ne'er such feelings knew?
If precious things are peace and rest,
Give tears unto the young and blest!

If stillness, solemn and serene—
Indifference to this earthly scene
Be good, these things but grow with years—
Give to the young and happy—tears!

467

For those of high and haughty birth,
The proud and mighty of the earth,—
Deem we but costly offerings meet,
To lay considerate at their feet?

They, too, howe'er it may appear—
Howe'er pride's towering brow they rear,
Are bankrupts—beggars, if they own
No feeling—and no love have known!

They, too, impoverished are indeed,
And sufferers, with one mighty need!—
If they are lone and hopeless here—
Pity them on their high career!

Not all earth's treasures poured forth free,
With all the treasures of the sea,
Can make him rich, whose heart is poor—
Who hails no loved friend at his door!—

468

And e'en if love and friendship come
To dwell with them in their proud home;
Still many ills unrecked of wait
On the envied doom of high estate.

While reverence they, and homage claim,
They're open, too, to scorn and blame,—
And, oh! how deadly these must be
To feasters upon flattery!

And then, midst those that seem to love—
That seem to honour and approve,—
How few there are that they can feel
Are sealed with faithfulness' own seal!

How must they long, yet dread to try
Their bosom-friend's fidelity,—
Walking in shadowy doubt for years—
Give to the Proud and Prosperous—tears!

469

Th' inspiring cheer—the laurel crown
To him who doth profoundly own
A pure ambition, high and just,
Uplifted to a lofty trust.

To him who would shine forth among
The hero, or the patriot throng,
And link to honoured names his name,
And earn a bright and stainless fame;

Whose fervent soul is all on fire,
Ennobled by its fine desire,—
Aye, much ennobled—crowned—not less
Than 'twould be by the great success!

And yet, while thus he struggleth on,
May not Ambition's noble son
Our pity claim, as well as praise?—
He walketh in uncertain ways!

470

Temptations—troubles—wrongs beset,
A thousand dark mischances threat,
Until at last he reach the goal,—
How oft he mourns with stricken soul!

Nor there, e'en there, perchance may he
Reap triumph in tranquillity:—
His part, indeed, is proudly done,
And palm and Victory's crown are won!

But there are dark, ungrateful hearts,
That ill perform and fill their parts,—
That render back reproach and blame
For all his deeds—so dear to Fame.

And after he hath made the crown
Of Fame and Victory all his own,
'Tis as the bitterness of death
To see one breath-stain on that wreath!

471

Then he, e'en in his dazzling sphere—
In his proud march and mid career,
May not alone demand thy praise,
But thus thy generous pity raise!

Aye, e'en though foul ingratitude
Should not on his free joy intrude,
He may confess, in earth's vain years,
His triumphs little more than tears!

Weep, weep, true heart, for all that mourn,—
Then weep for all that e'er were born!
For none may breathe the berath of life,
And shun its sorrows and its strife!