The bard, and minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh God!—whose throne is where the thunders sleep—
Is where the storms their lofty watch-towers keep—
Is where, enthroned, the angry earthquake lies,
And Plague, and Pestilence,—all that the skies
On sorrowing man shall hurl in vengeance down!—
Thou, Lord, all these can'st silence with a frown,
And quiet with a smile what hems thee round,—
Oh, smile on me, and heal my heart's deep wound;
Shower down thy sunlight on my wintry brain,
That I, to happy days, may journey forth again!

“The ocean roaring like a hell of fire,
When human blood ascends the funeral pyre—
The sea of mountains in his fiercest rage,
Thou, stretching forth thy finger, can'st assuage!
The tempest, dragging down vast forests old
And shattering giant cliffs—when, far unroll'd,
Thy banner streams of Peace—sinks down dismay'd,
And sighs, and sobs, unutterably afraid!
Thou can'st stay mighty rivers in their sweep—
Control the torrent on the rocky steep—
Drive Wrong into the dust, and scatter wide
Sin's armour'd legions in their pomp and pride;

Whilst Virtue, shining like a tower of flame,
Beacons to all the earth thy mighty name;
And, praising thee, a thousand valleys ring
With the Hosannahs that thy children sing.
Sustain the broken reed, and make it grow
Firmly toward Heaven again; and stir the flow
Once more of healing streams about its root,
For I am barren and can bear no fruit.
All other men go forth their task to bear,
Whilst I have no community to share!

“Yet I'm familiar with all wondrous forms,—
Spirits that guide the pathways of the storms,
And shriek and howl along the ocean wave—
And ghosts that moan beside the midnight grave.
I know each star—for there my Mary is;
Each sound I know of field and wilderness;
There's not a mountain voice, but I have heard;
Nor river strong, nor brook, hath unknown word:
Yea, my beloved hath heard them—heard with me,—
Listen'd long days to hill-sounds; to the sea,
Whose waves in joy or terror strike mine ear;
The visible wonders of yon starry sphere—
The tempests, when the woods are shook with dread,
Tranceless, beheld the rainbow overhead;
Laugh'd with the laughing waters; known the breeze
In each diaphanous sound of flowers and trees;
Studied each fertile valley's trooping sound,
Whilst, in her breast, each voice a fitting echo found!

“Dost know what's the Volcano? 'Tis a fire
Vast, and of lightning heat, savage and dire,
That shakes great mountains to their central heart,
And eats and gnaws for ever; there's no part
With sustenance, but the fierce fiend doth dwell,
The bright and green-based mountains are his hell;
And, ever and anon, with hideous shower
Of burning lights, he leaps to heaven's high tower,
And mocks the godlike sun, and imitates his power.
Then with perpetual thunders, he will stay
In hideous calm; then, roaring on his prey,
Scorch the white clouds, and bellow to the plain,
And roll aloft his earth-despising rain.
Thou know'st Pompeii! Herculaneum thou,
With all your thousands in their pomp laid low!
Ye know who rear'd proud temples, who had wrought
Divinest marbles, beaming out with thought;
Ye know whose lords were slain, whose saintly men
Were buried on their knees, praying in vain—
Mother and child:—Ye know the hungry flame,
And miserably died your house and name.
Know'st thou the red Volcano?—I am one:
This quivering flesh, scorch'd down unto the bone;
This heart of burning fire—this blood that rose
To glorious heights of passion, black with woes!
The temples of my love all dead,—the light
Of peace and gladness sunk in endless night,
And driven beneath the lava-dust to die,
For ever shut within the circling sky.

“I am as a dry river:—no fair bark
Of hope, to glide upon the waters dark;
No pennant gleams upon the laughing air,
Floating along in gladness bright and fair;
The rainbow hues, and bells that ever play,
On stream and wave have breathed their lives away;
Dead are the fragrant flowers that met the flow
Of summer's sweetest breeze; and ceaseless now
Bright insects wheeling on the giddy wing—
And all the happy songs that the young woodlands bring.

“Even as a hungry raven in the storm,
That in the barren rock, with shivering form
That seems remorse, glares on the frowning sky,
And screams in bitter anguish, so am I.
A wither'd flower, upon some barren heath—
A frighted bird that feels the pang of death—
A gibbet on the moor where murder lies—
A star thrust out from the relentless skies—
A monument of wrong, and shame, and sin,
No more within the light of hope to enter in.

“O, matchless maid!—how had thy forehead high
Rejoiced in ancient time!—How had thine eye
Call'd forth the valour of the knights of old
Amid the storms of war!—thy footsteps bold,
Queen-like and proud, had made the chivalry
By the sea-shore, amid the forests free,
Rush from their towering homes to win thy praise;
And princes crowd thy shining paths, to gaze
Upon thy peerless form, in blank amaze!

How many holy names had greeted thee
From warrior's lips, till the eternal sea
Sung not such praises to the admiring shore!
But chivalry is dead, valour no more!
Now, 'mid emblazon'd pomp, the proud and great
Through perilous fears love's smiles no more await;
The forests bear no clang of warlike steed,
No lofty emprise, no heroic deed;
No fairy isles rejoice the Emerald sea,
Exultant with seraphic melody;
No wanton mermaid, by the gray rocks seen,
Entwines, in glassy bay, her locks of green;
No giant shape to slay—no conflict long,
To rescue spotless maid from brutal wrong;
No chains to break, by fell enchantment bound
On valorous knight, in spell-bound slumber found.
Romance hath fallen away, and chivalry
Hath lost the hues that brighten'd o'er its sky—
Delphi is past, and Memphis' hallow'd tone,
The prophet visions are for ever gone,
And Mona echoes but her Druids' moan.

“But thou art weary, for my griefs are dull—
Thy heart is gay, thy loves are beautiful,—
And I sustain no sympathy with thee.
Thy paths through all the world are wide and free.
Thy brightest hopes burn yet within thy breast;—
Thou hast to learn how I have been opprest—
How I have been abused!—Come blackest breath
Of bloated calumny—ye airs of death

That smoulder ever; come malignant crew
Of my oppressors,—I can war with you!
Yea, when I sink, still fall a conqueror.
For the white grave-flowers cannot tremble more,
The death-worms have no stings, the dews no hate,
The coffin boards no need to war with Fate;
And I do know that yet this spirit will soar
To dwell at God's right hand for evermore!”

He was not made for earth's tumultuous life,
For the enduring of the world's wild strife;
His proper home was Joy—in this bright sun
Alone he lived: this past, his day was done.
A rainbow glimmering on the spray-wrought wave,
Which the storms kill; sweet violets on a grave,
Which the cold frostworks nip; swift shades o'er braes,
Which the clouds dim; all glory which decays—
The wonders of the northern heavens—the bliss,
And bale of passion,—such, alas! was his!

Oh! there are griefs that, fastening on the heart,
No might can tear away, no force can part!
But as a mighty serpent, that doth hold
Some helpless beast in its relentless fold,
And, till the fluttering ties of life are gone,
Feeds on the heart's-blood, as it ripples down.

A broken heart!—what dreadful memories crowd
At that sad word—life chronicled aloud.
A broken heart?—it seems a castle old,
Its days of grandeur o'er, its glories told!

The large halls desolate—the sounding floor
To festal merriment aroused no more:
No wreathed dance, swift-borne to martial tread—
In each gay bower the silence of the dead—
Forgetfulness, oblivion, partners led!

The lute's lascivious note, the harp-string's thrill,
The lover's winning voice—the player's skill—
The dulcet music of gay cavalier,
Breathed like the west wind in his lady's ear,
The war-steed's noisy tramp, the vassal swarms,
The sword's swift lightning, battle's rude alarms,
The victor's proud return, whilst flowers beneath,
Strew all the ground, and beautify his path:
All these are dead—the joys of manly youth,
Ere years have come and their engender'd ruth.

The heart grief-broken!—'tis a riven cloud
Where sunlight will not dwell—a gloomy shroud
Where rottenness is folded—'tis a tree
Worn by the storms, where verdure cannot be—
A hollow in the rock—a stranded wreck—
A shatter'd beach, where constant billows break!

Already he was dying—the black cloud
Was closing o'er him—Death's funereal shroud;
The mists were filming o'er his radiant eye,
The damps of death were on his forehead high!—
How should I save him? shone the lovely place,
Beloved of old, where glow'd health's blooming face.

The glory of the everlasting hills
Might rouse him, shouting with a thousand rills,
And wake to youthful dreams: So we moved on,
Seeking each solitude remote from man:
Divinest aspect of each pleasant place,
The holiest lines that Nature loves to trace,
The sweetest smiles that beautify her face!