LIBRARY OF CONGRESS,! Chap r^S.Qi^_.. Shelf -.. __.:._./-/-9-— V4 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. GOLDEN LEAVES. THE GOLDEN LEAVES SERIES. I. Golden Leaves from the British Poets. II. Golden Leaves from the American Poet*. III. Golden Leaves from the Dramatic Poets. IN UNIFORM VOLUMES. »vf.- --z-' —^■• , l'' J- if'f' ■'"■'■ ^ ' LIFE IN THE AUTUMN WOODS. GOLDEN LEAVES FROM THE AMERICAN POETS COLLECTED BV v JOHN W. S. HOWS. ^S^^ITH SIX ILLXTSTrt^TIoaSTS, New York ! GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, 9 LAFAYETTE PLACE. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, By James G. Gregory, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. /Z-3WYii' P E E F A O E. t I ^HIS Selection from the works of American JL Poets is based upon the same design I con- templated in the companion volume of " Golden Leaves from the British Poets," lately issued. I have endeavoured to gather into one portable voi- ume those Poems that have, by general accepta- tion, become identified in the hearts of the People as the choicest and noblest specimens of American National Poetry. To these hteral ^'' household warns*' there are added other selections, not perhaps su generally famiHar to ordinary readers, but yet pos- sessing sufficient merit to make them worth',^ a place in a work expressly intended as an exponent of the Poetic Genius of the Country. A few of the earliest recorded efforts of American poetic composition are given, as interesting relics of a by- gone age — affording, as they do, graphic pictures of the habits and manners of the periods they de- scribe •■, and as marking also the incipient dawnings of poetic talent in this country. vi PREFACE. I may be permitted to add, without incurring the charge of undue egotism, I trust, that the prepara- tion of this work has been to me literally " a labour of love." It seemed to me a fitting tribute to render to those Poets whose works had entered so largely into my professional studies for the last thirty years, and between whom and the mere cur- sory reader, and those of a yet immature age, I had endeavoured faithfully to act as an Interpreter, that I should, in the probably closing effort of my literary career, present a worthy monument record- ing the Genius of American Poesy, acceptable to the reading Public, and one that should do honour to the Poets I have selected for representation ; and to these Gifted Men and Women I most re- spectfully dedicate these my humble labours. J. W. S. H. 5 Cottage Place, New Yopk, > October I r, 1864 / CONTENTS. Anonymous, pagb New England's Annoyances. **The first recorded Poem written in America'' (1630) I Anne Bradstreet. Contemplations (i 650) 3 Benjamin Thomson. New England's Crisis (1675) 6 Benjamin Franklin. Paper (1742) r 9 John Trumbull. The Fop (1772) II Mercy Warren, Things necessary to the Life of a Woman (1774) 1'/ Anne Eliza Bleeker. On the Death of her Child at the Retreat from Burgoyne (1777) 18 Philip Freneau. The Wild Honeysuckle (1782) ZO Indian Death-Song 7.1 viii CONTENTS. Susannah Rowson. page America, Commerce, and Freedom (1795) ^^ St. John Tucker. Days of my Youth (1800) 23 Timothy Dwight. The Social Visit (1794.) H Eliza Townsend. The Incomprehensibility of God 26 David Humphreys. Western Emigration (1799) - 28 Joel Barlow. The Hasty Pudding (i793).--. 29 Joseph Hopkinson. Hail Columbia (1798) 41 Clement C. Moore. A Visit from St. Nicholas 43 Washington Allston. The Paint- King 45 America to Great Britain 52 John Pierpont. The Pilgrim Fathers . 53 "Passing away" 55 Samuel Woodworth. The Bucket 57 Richard Henry Dana. Immortality 5^ The Little Beach-Bird 6c CONTENTS. IX Francis Scott Key. page The Star-spangled Banner ;. 6'7- John Howard Payne. : Sweet Home 63 James A. Hillhouse. The Last Evening before Eternity 64 Alexander H. Everett. The Young American 65 Seba Smith. The Burning Ship at Sea 67 Charles Sprague. Shakspeare Ode 69 The Family Meeting , 75 Art 77 Lydia Huntley Sigourney. The Pilgrim Fathers 79 Niagara 81 The Coral-Insect 82 William Cullen Bryant. Thanatopsis 84 Forest Hymn 86 The Death of the Flowers - 90 The Antiquity of Freedom 92 To a Waterfowl 94 To the Fringed Gentian 95 The Planting of the Apple-Tree 96 Edward Everett. Alaric the Visigoth 99 X CONTENTS. Frances H. Green. page The Chickadee's Song 102 Henry R. Schoolcraft. The Birchen Canoe 104 Geehale : an Indian Lament .. .. 106 Carlos Wilcox. Sunset in September 107 Emma C. Embury. Cheerfulness 109 Henry Ware, Jr. Seasons of Prayer Ill Maria Brooks. To the River St. Lawrence I13 John Neal. Music of the Night 117 On seeing Cavalry passing through a Gorge, at Sunset (from "Battle of Niagara") 119 James Gates Percival. The Graves of the Patriots 120 To the Eagle I2J New England 124 The Coral-Grove 126 It is great for our Country to die 127 Hannah F. Gould. The Snow-Flake X28 Joseph Rodman Drake. The American Flag 130 The Culprit Fay 133 CONTENTS. xi FiTZ-GrEENE HaLLECK. PAGl Marco Bozzaris 155 Connecticut 159 The World is bright before thee 162 Sarah Jane Hale. The Light of Home 163 The Tv/o Maidens 164 John G. C. Brainard. The Deep 165 The Indian Summer 166 The Sea-Bird's Song 167 James Wallis Eastburn. To Pneuma 168 The Restoration of Israel 169 Robert C. Sands. Weehawken 170 The Green Isle of Lovers 172 William B. O. Peabody. Hymn of Nature 17^ Sumner Lincoln Fairfield, An Evening Song of Piedmont 175 Grenville Mellen. On seeing an Eagle pass near me in Autumn Twilight 177 The True Glory of America... 179 S. Margaret Fuller. Ganymede to his Eagle 181 Emily Judson. The Weaver 185 xii CONTENTS. RuFuc Dawes. page The Spirit of Beauty i8S Sunrise from Mount Washington 1S9 Bishop George W. Doane. "What is that, Mother?" 191 A Cherub 192 Mrs. E. C. Kinney. To Powers's Greek Slave 193 The Woodman 194 Elizabeth J. Eames. Crowning of Petrarch 195 JAMES Gordon Brooks. Greece In 1832 198 Mary E. Brooks. Dream of Life 201 Charles Fenno Hoffman. The Myrtle and Steel 203 Sparkling and Bright 204 Forest Musings 205 The Origin of Mint Juleps 209 Rosalie Clare 210 Sophia Helen Oliver. Ministering Spirits 211 Mary E. Lee. The Poets 213 Rev. William Croswell, D. D. The Clouds 214 CONTENTS. xiii William Pitt Palmer. pags Lines to a Chrysalis 2ii Mary Noel Meigs. The Spells of Memory... ,„..,......... 218 Edward Coate Pinkney. Italy 220 Rev. George W. Bethune, D. D. Night Study 222 George P. Morris. Woodman, spare that Tree 224 The Whip-poor-will 225 My Mother's Bible 2,27 The West..... 228 Lydia Jane Pierson. The Wild-wood Home..... 230 Albert G. Greene. The Baron's Last Banquet 231 Old Grimes 234 Lucy Hooper. Legends of Flowers 236 James Nack. Spring is coming 238 William Gilmore Simms. The Lost Pleiad , 239 The Edge of the Swamp 241 Ann S. Stephens. Dropping Leaves 243 XIV CONTENTS. Edgar Allan Poe. page The Raven 245 Annabel Lee 251 The Bells 253 Sarah Helen Whitman. The Sleeping Beauty : " A Tale of Forests and Enchant- ments drear" 257 Jonathan Lawrence. Look aloft 266 George D. Prentice. Sabbath Evening ,. ... 267 The Dead Mariner 268 Frances Sargent Osgood. The Cocoa-nut Tree 270 Elizabeth Oakes-Smith. The Brook '. 272 Anna Cora Mowatt (Ritchie). Time 275 On a Lock of my Mother's Hair 276 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Arsenal at Springfield 2.77 A Psalm of Life 279 Footsteps of Angels 280 Excelsior 282 Paul Revere's Ride 284 Rain in Summer 288 The Village Blacksmith 291 The Skeleton in Armour 293 CONTENTS. x\ Julia Ward Howf. page Woman 299 The Dead Christ 300 James Russell Lowell. Act for Truth 302 The Heritage 304 To the Dandelion 306 An Incident in a Railroad Car 308 George Lunt. The Lyre and Sword 311 Amelia B. Welby. The Old Maid 312 To a Sea-Shell •. 314 Nathaniel Parker Willis, The Dying Alchemist 316 The Leper 320 Hagar in the Wilderness , ; 325 Parrhasius 330 Anne C. Lynch (Madame Botta). The Battle of Life 336 John Greenleaf Whittier. Maud MuUer 339 The Merrimack 344 Palestine 347 The Brother of Mercy 349 Alfred B. Street. A Forest Walk 352 The Gray Forest-Eagle 354 xvi CONTENTS. Rev. Arthur Cleveland Coxe, D. D. pagj The Chimes of England 359 Old Churches 361 Park Benjamin. Gold 363 The Stormy Petrel 364 Willis Gaylord Clark. A Lament 365 Henry Theodcjre Tuckerman. The Apollo Belvidere 367 To an Elm 372 Newport Beach 374 William D. Gallagher. Fifty Years ago 378 The Mothers of the West 381 Isaac McClellan. New England's Dead 382 Epes Sargent. The Missing Ship 384 Philip Pendleton Cooke. Life in the Autumn Woods 386 foHN G. Saxe. The Proud Miss MacBride. A Legend of Gotham 389 Phaethon, or the Amateur Coachman 399 Ralph Waldo Emerson. The Poet.... 403 Each and All 405 To the Humble-Bee 407 Good-by, Proud World! 409 CONTENTS. xvu Rev. Ralph Hoyt. page The World for Sale 4io William Ross Wallace. The Liberty-Bell 4*3 The Sword of Bunker Hill 415 Alice Carey. Visions of Light 4^6 Harvest-Time 41 ^ Thomas William Parsons. Hudson River 42.0 On a Lady singing 4^3 Phcebe Carey. The Christian Woman 424 Thomas Buchanan Read. The Stranger on the Sill 426 Passing the Icebergs 427 The Sea-King 430 Oliver Wendell Holmes. On lending a Punch-Bowl 431 The Old Constitution 435 The Music-Grinders 436 The Living Temple 438 James T. Fields. Sleighing-Song 440 The Alpine Cross \ 441 Last Wishes of a Child 442 Dirge for a Young Girl 443 Ballad of the Tempest 444 jcv'm CONTENTS. George H. Boker. fagb A Ballad of Sir John Franklin 445 Dirge for a Soldier. In Memory of General Philip Kear- ney 45° Richard Henry Stoddard. Hymn to the Beautiful 451 William Shakspeare. A Tercentenary Ode 455 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. The Ballad of Babie Bell 459 A Ballad of Nantucket 462 Kathie Morris. An Old Man's Poem 464 Bayard Taylor. Bedouin Song 468 The Arab to the Palm 469 Kubleh ; a Story of the Assyrian Desert 471 "Moan, ye Wild Winds" 476 The Bison-Track 477 LucRETiA M. Davidson. A Prophecy 479 Auction Extraordinary 480 Margaret M. Davidson, To her Sister Lucretia 481 To her Mother. Written a few Days before her Death .... 482 William Allen Butler. The New Argonauts 483 Charlemagne and the Hermit 486 William Winter. Orgia 489 Beside the Sea 491 After All 49a CONTENTS. XIX John Esten Cooke. May 493 Extracts from Stanzas 494 Elizabeth Ellett. The Sea-Kings ... 499 ]. T. Trowbridge. The Vagabonds 500 j. G. Holland. The Old Story of Bluebeard. (From "Bitter-Sweet") 504 Edmund B. Stedman. The Strawberry-Pickers. (From ** Alice of Monmouth")... 509 Anonymous. The Big Shoe. (From "Mother Goose for Grown Folks").. 513 Jack Horner , 516 Edith May. The Colouring of Happiness 518 Summer 519 Frank W. Ballard. Little May 521 The Prairie Grave 52a Harriet Beecher Stowe. "Onl/ a Year" 523 Anna Peyre Dinnies. To my Husband's First Gray Hair 525 XX CONTENTS. Rose Terry. page The Fishing-Song 527 Reve du Midi 528 Frank Lee Benedict. A. Picture. (From "The Shadow-Worshipper") 529 In Memoriam 530 GOLDEN LEAVES. ^Inongmotts. NEW England's annoyances. ** The first recorded Poem written in America." — (1630.) New England's annoyances, you that would know them, Pray ponder these verses, which briefly do show them. ^ I "*HE place where we live is a wilderness wood. Where grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good Our mountains and hills and our valleys below Being commonly covered with ice and with snow : And when the northwest wind with violence blows. Then every man pulls his cap over his nose : But if any's so hardy and will it withstand. He forfeits a finger, a foot, or a hand. But when the spring opens, we then take the hoe. And make the ground ready to plant and to sow ; Our corn being planted and seed being sown. The worms destroy much before it is grown ; And when it is growing some spoil there is made By birds and by squirrels that pluck up the blade ; And when it is come to full corn in the ear, Jt is often destroyed by raccoon and by deer. GOLDEN LEAVES. And now do our garments begin to grow thin. And wool is much wanted to card and to spin ; If we get a garment to cover without. Our other in-garments are clout upon clout : Our clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn. They need to be clouted soon after they're worn ; But clouting our garments they hinder us nothing, Clouts double are warmer than single whole clothing. If fresh meat be wanting, to fill up our dish. We have carrots and pumpkins and turnips and fish : And is there a mind for a delicate dish. We repair to the clam-banks, and there we catch fish„ 'Stead of pottage and puddings and custards and pies. Our pumpkins and parsnips are common supplies : We have pumpkins at morning and pumpkins at noon ; If it was not for pumpkins we should be undone. If barley be wanting to make into malt. We must be contented and think it no fault ; For we can make liquor to sweeten our lips Of pumpkins and parsnips and walnut-tree chips. ******** Now while some are going let others be coming. For while liquor's boiling it must have a scumming ; But I will not blame them, for birds of a feather. By seeking their fellows, are flocking together. But you whom the Lord intends hither to bring. Forsake not the honey for fear of the sting ; But bring both a quiet and contented mind. And all needful blessings you surely will find. ANNE BRAD STREET. ^nne Bvabatreet. CONTEMPLATIONS. (1650.) T TNDER the cooling shadow of a stately elm, ^"^^ Close sat I by a goodly river's side. Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm ; A lonely place, with pleasures dignified. I, once that loved the shady woods so well. Now thought the rivers did the trees excel. And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell While on the stealing stream I fixed mine eye. Which to the longed-for ocean held its course, I marked nor crooks nor rubs that there did lie. Could hinder aught, but still augment its force. " O happy flood," quoth I, " that holdst thy race Till thou arrive at thy beloved place. Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace. _ *' Nor is't enough that thou alone may'st slide. But hundred brooks in thy clear waves do meet • So hand m hand along with thee they glide To Thetis' house, where all embrace and greet. Thou emblem true of what I count the best — O could I leave my rivulets to rest ! So may we press to that vast mansion ever blest. '* Ye fish which in this liquid region 'bide. That for each season have your habitation. Now salt, now fresh, when you think best to glide To unknown coasts to give a visitation. 4 GOLDEN LEAVES. In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry : So Nature taught, and yet you know not why — You wat'ry folk that know not your felicity !" Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air. Then to the colder bottom straight they dive^ Eftsooiis to Neptune's glassy hall repair To see what trade the great ones there do drive. Who forage o'er the spacious sea-green field. And take their trembling prey before it yield. Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins theii shield. While musing thus with contemplation fed. And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain. The sweet-tongued Philomel perched o'er my head. And chanted forth a most melodious strain, Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, 1 judged my hearing better than my sight. And wished me wings with her a while to take my flight. " O merry bird," said I, " that fears no snares ; That neither toils nor hoards up in thy barn ; Feels no sad thoughts, nor 'cruciating cares To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm : Thy clothes ne'er wear, thy meat is everywhere. Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water clear. Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come dost fear. " The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew ; So each one tunes his pretty instrument. And warbling out the old, begins anew. ANNE BRADSTREET. 5 And thus they pass their youth in summer season. Then follow thee into a better region. Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion.*' Man's at the best a creature frail and vain. In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak ; Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain. Each storm his state, his mind, his body break : ' From some of these he never finds cessation. But day or night, within, without, vexation. Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st relations. And yet this sinful creature, frail and vain. This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow, This weather-beaten vessel racked with pain, Joys not in hope of an eternal morrow ; Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation. In weight, in frequency, and long duration. Can make him deeply groan for that divine translation. The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide. Sings merrily, and steers his bark with ease. As if he had command of wind and tide. And were become great master of the seas ; But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport. And makes him long for a more quiet port. Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort. So he that saileth in this world of pleasure. Feeding on sweets, that never bit of the sour. That's full of friends, of honour, and of treasure- — Fond fool ! he takes this earth e'en for heaven's bower. 6 GOLDEN LEAVES. Bat sad affliction comes, and makes him see Here's neither honour, wealth, nor safety : Only above is found all with security. O Time, the fatal wrack of mortal things. That draws Oblivion's curtains over kings — Their sumptuous monuments men know them not. Their names without a record are forgot. Their parts, their ports, their pomps, all laid i' the dust- Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings, 'scape Time's rust ; But he whose name is graved in the white stone. Shall last and shine when all of these are gone ! ISenJQinm ®l)omson. NEW England's crisis. (1675.) ^TpHE times wherein old Pompion was a saint, "■^ When men fared hardly, yet without complaint On vilest cates : the dainty Indian-maize Was eat with clamp-shells out of wooden irayes. Under thatched huts, v/ithout the cry of rent. And the best sawce to every dish, content. When flesh was food and hairy skins made coats, And men as well as birds had chirping notes ; When Cimnels were accounted noble blood. Among the tribes of common herbage food. Of Ceres' bounty formed was many a knack. Enough to fill poor Robin's Almanack. THOMSON. These golden times (too fortunate to hold) Were quickly sin'd away for love of gold. 'Twafi then among the bushes, not the strce;. If one in place did an inferior meet, " Good-morrow, brother, is there aught jci wdu' Take jQreely of me, what I have you ha*nt." Plain Tom and Dick would pass as current novr As ever since, " Your servant. Sir," and bow Deep-skirted doublets, puritanick capes, Which now would render men like upright apes^ Were comelier wear, our wiser fathers thought. Than the last fashions from all Europe brought. *Twas in those dayes an honest grace would hold, Till an hot pudding grew at heart a cold, And men had better stomachs at religion. Than I to capon, turkey-cock, or pigeon ; When honest sisters met to pray, not prate. About their own and not their neighbour's state. During Plain Dealing's reign, that worthy stud Of the ancient planters' race before the flood. Then times were good, merchants cared not a rush For other fare than jonakin and mush. Although men fared and lodged very hard. Yet innocence was better than a guard. 'Twas long before spiders and worms had draw^ Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawne New England's beautys, which still seemed to me Illustrious in their own simplicity. 'Twas ere the neighbouring Virgin-Land had broke The hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoak. 'Twas ere the Islands sent their presents in, Which but to use was counted next to sin. G OLDEN LEAVES. 'Twas ere a barge had made so rich a fraight As chocolate, dust-gold, and bitts of eight ; Ere wines from France, and Muscovadoe too. Without the which the drink will scarsely doe ; From western isles ere fruits and delicasies Did rot maids' teeth and spoil their handsome faces. Or ere these times did chance, the noise of war Was from our towns and hearts removed far. No bugbear comets in the chrystal air Did drive our Christian planters to despair. No sooner pagan malice peeped forth Bul valour snib'd it. Then were men of worth. Who by their prayers slew thousands ; angel-like, 'I heir weapons are unseen with which they strike. I'hen had the churches rest; as yet the coales Were covered up in most contentious souls: Freeness in judgment, union in affection. Dear love, sound truth, they were our grand protection. Then were the times in which our councells sate, These gave prognosticks of our future fate. If these be longer lived our hopes increase. These warrs will usher in a longer peace. — But if New England's love die in its youth. The grave will open next for blessed truth. This theame is out of date, the peacefull hours When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers. Not ink, but bloud and tears now serve the turn To draw the figure of New England's urne. New England's hour of passion is at hand ; No power except divine can it withstand. Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out. But her old prosperous steeds turn heads about, FRANKLIN. Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings, To fear and fare, upon their fruits of sinnings. So that the mirrour of the Christian world Lyes burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furled. Grief sighs, joyes flee, and dismal fears surpri2e Not dastard spirits only, but the wise. Thus have the fairest hopes deceived the eye Of the big-swoln expectant standing by : Thus the proud ship, after a little turn. Sinks into Neptune's arms to find its urne ; Thus hath the heir to many thousands born Been in an instant from the mother torn : Fven thus thine infant cheeks begin to pale. And thy supporters through great losses fail. This is the Prologue to thy future woe. The Epilogue no mortal yet can know. 38en|amm Jrankltn. PAPER. (174a.) QOME wit of old — such wits of old there were — ^ Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions car< By one brave stroke to mark all human kind. Called clear blank paper every infant mind. Where still, as opening Sense her dictates wrote. Fair Virtue put a seal, or Vice a blot. The thought was happy, pertinent, and true ; Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. \c GOLDEN LEAVES. I — can you pardon my presumption ? — I, No wit, no genius, yet for once will try. Various the papers various wants produce — The wants of fashion, elegance, and use ; Men are as various; and, if right I scan. Each sort of paper represents some man. Pray, note the fop — half powder and half lace — Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling-place ; He's the gilt paper, which apart you store. And lock from vulgar hands in the scrutoire. Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth. Are copy paper , of inferior worth ; Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed. Free to all pens, and prompt at every need. The wretch whom Avarice bids to pinch and spare, Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir. Is coarse brozun paper ; such as peddlers choose To wrap up wares, which better men will use. Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys. Will any paper match him ? Yes, throughout. He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt. The retail politician's anxious thought Deems this side always right, and tkat stark naught ; He foams with censure — with applause he raves — A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves : He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim. While such a thing as fools-cap has a name. TRUMBULL. \i The hasty gentleman whose blood runs high. Who picks a quarrel if you step awry. Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure : What is he ? What ? touch-paper.^ to be sure. What are the poets, take them as they fall. Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all ? Them and their works in the same class you'll find ; They are the mere waste paper of mankind. Observe the maiden, innocently sweet. She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet, *' On which the happy man, whom Fate ordains. May write his name, and take her for his pains. One instance more, and only one, I'll bring; 'Tis the great man, who scorns a little thing — Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own, Formed on the feelings of his heart alone : True, genuine royal paper is his breast ; Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best. 3o()n ®rnmbull. THE FOP. (177a.) T TOW blest the brainless fop, whose praise Is doomed to grace these happy days. When well-bred vice can genius teach. And fame is placed in folly's reach ; G OLDEN LEAVES. Impertinence all tastes can hit. And every rascal is a wit. The lowest dunce, without despairing, May learn the true sublime of swearing ; Learn the nice art of jests obscene. While ladies wonder what they mean ; The heroism of brazen lungs. The rhetoric of eternal tongues ; While whim usurps the name of spirit. And impudence takes place of merit. And every moneyed clown and dunce Commences gentleman at once. For now, by easy rules of trade. Mechanic gentlemen are made ! From handicrafts of fashion born ; Those very arts so much their scorn. To tailors half themselves they owe. Who make the clothes that make the beau. Lo ! from the seats where, fops to bless, Learned artists fix the forms of dress. And sit in consultation grave On folded skirt, or straitened sleeve, The coxcomb trips with sprightly haste. In all the flush of modern taste ; Oft turning, if the day be fair, To view his shadow's graceful air ; Well pleased, with eager eye runs o'er The laced suit glittering gay before ; The ruffle, where from opened vest The rubied brooch adorns the breast ; The coat, with lengthening waist behind. Whose short skirts dangle in the wind ; TRUMBULL. 13 The modish hat, v/hose breadth contains The measure of its owner's brains ; The stockings gay, with various hues ; The little toe-encircling shoes ; The cane, on whose carved top is shown A head, just emblem of his own ; While, wrapped in self, with lofty stride. His little heart elate with pride. He struts in all the joys of show That tailors give, or beaux can know. And who for beauty need repine, That's sold at every barber's sign ; Nor lies in features or complexion, But curls disposed in meet direction. With strong pomatum's grateful odor. And quantum sttfficit of powder ? These charms can shed a sprightly grace O'er the dull eye and clumsy face ; While the trim dancing-master's art Shall gestures, trips, and bows impart — Give the gay piece its final touches. And lend those airs would lure a duchess. Thus shines the form, nor aught behind. The gifts that deck the coxcomb's mind ; Then hear the daring muse disclose The sense and piety of beaux. To grace his speech, let France bestow A set of compliments for show. Land of politeness ! that affords The treasure of new-fangled words. And endless quantities disburses Of bows and compliments and curses ; 14 G OLDEN LEAVES. The soft addres^, with airs so sweet. That cringes at the ladies' feet; The pert, vivacious, play-house style. That wakes the gay assembly's smile ; Jests that his brother-beaux may hit. And pass with young coquettes for wit, And prized by fops of true discerning. Outface the pedantry of learning. Yet learning too shall lend its aid To fill the coxcomb's spongy head ; And studious oft he shall peruse The labours of the modern muse. From endless loads of novels gain Soft, simpering tales of amorous pain. With double meanings, neat and handy. From Rochester and Tristram Shandy.* The blundering aid of weak reviews. That forge the fetters of the muse. Shall give him airs of criticising On faults of books he ne'er set eyes on. The magazines shall teach the fashion. And commonplace of conversation. And where his knowledge fails, afford The aid of many a sounding word. Then, lest religion he should need. Of pious Hume he'll learn his creed. By strongest demonstration shown, Evmce that nothing can be known ; Take arguments, unvexed by doubt. On Voltaire's trust, or go without ; * Sterne's Tristram Shandy was then in the highest vogue. TRUMBU LL. 15 *Gainst Scripture rail in modern lore. As thousand fools have railed before ; Or pleased a nicer art display To expound its doctrines all away. Suit it to modern tastes and fashions By various notes and emendations ; The rules the ten commands contain. With new provisos well explain ; Prove all religion was but fashion. Beneath the Jewish dispensation : A ceremonial law, deep hooded In types and figures long exploded ; Its stubborn fetters all unfit For these free times of gospel light. This rake's millennium, since the day When Sabbaths first were done away ; Since pander-conscience holds the door, And lewdness is a vice no more ; And shame, the worst of deadly fiends, On virtue, as its squire, attends. Alike his poignant wit displays The darkness of the former days. When men the paths of duty sought. And owned what revelation taught ; Ere human reason grew so bright. Men could see all things by its light, And summoned Scripture to appear, And stand before its bar severe, To clear its page from charge of fiction, And answer pleas of contradiction ; Ere miracles were held in scorn. Or Bolingbroke or Hume were born. l6 GOLDEN LEAVES And now the fop, with great energy. Levels at priestcraft and the clergy. At holy cant and godly prayers. And bigots' hypocritic airs ; Musters each veteran jest to aid. Calls piety the parson's trade ; Cries out, " 'Tis shame, past ail abiding. The world should still be so priest-ridden !" Applauds free thought that scorns control, And generous nobleness of soul. That acts its pleasure, good or evil. And fears nor deity nor devil. These standing topics never fail To prompt our little wits to rail. With mimic drollery of grimace. And pleased impertinence of face. Gainst virtue arm their feeble forces. And sound the charge in peals of curses. Blest be his ashes ! under ground If any particles be found. Who, friendly to the coxcomb race. First taught those arts of commonplace, Those topics fine, on which the beau May all his little wits bestow. Secure the simple laugh to raise, And gain the dunce's palm of praise. For where's the theme that beaux could hit With least similitude of wit. Did not religion and the priest Suppiy materials for the jest ; The poor in purse, with metals vile For current coins, the world beguile ; MERCY WARREN. 17 The poor in brain, for genuine wit Pass off a viler counterfeit ; While various thus their doom appears. These lose their souls, and those their ears ; The want of fancy, whim supplies. And native humour, mad caprice ; Loud noise for argument goes off, P'or mirth polite, the ribald's scoff; For sense, lewd drolleries entertain us. And wit is mimicked by profaneness ! JHercs lUarren, THINGS NECESSARY TO THE LIFE OF A WOMAN. (1774-) A N inventory clear '*^^ Of all she needs, Lamira offers here ; Nor does she fear a rigid Cato's frown. When she lays by the rich embroidered gown. And modestly compounds for just enough — Perhaps some dozens of mere ffighty stuff: With lawns and lustrings, blond, and Mecklin laces. Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer-cases ; Gay cloaks and hats, of every shape and size, Scarfs, cardinals, and ribbons, of all dyes ; With ruffles stamped, and aprons of tambour. Tippets and handkerchiefs at least threescore; With finest muslins that fair India boasts. And the choice herbage from Chinesan coasts. l8 GOLDEK LEAVES. Add feathers, furs, rich satins, and ducapes. And head-dresses in pyramidal shapes ; Sideboards of plate, and porcelain profuse, With fifty dittoes that the ladies use ; If my poor, treach'rous memory has missed. Ingenious T 1 shall complete the list. So weak Lamira, and her wants so few. Who can refuse ? — they're but the sex's due. Yet Clara quits the more dressed negligee And substitutes the careless Polanee, Until some fair one frora Britannia's court Some jaunty dress or newer taste import ; This sweet temptation could not be withstood. Though for the purchasers paid her father's blood ; Though earthquakes rattle, or volcanoes roar. Indulge this trifle, and she asks no more : Can the stern patriot Clara's suit deny ? 'Tis Beauty asks, and Reason must comply. 2inne 6 G OLDEN LEAVES. It is not often thus around Our old familiar hearth we're found : Bless, then, the meeting and the spot. For once be every care forgot ; Let gentle Peace assert her power. And kind Affection rule the hour; We're all — all here. We're not all here ! ibome are away — the dead ones dear. Who thronged with us this ancient hearth. And gave the hour to guiltless mirth. Fate, with a stern, relentless hand. Looked in and thinned our little band : Some like a night-flash passed away. And some sank, lingering, day by day -, The quiet graveyard — some lie there — And cruel Ocean has his share — We're not all here. We are all here ! Even they — the dead — though dead, so dear ; Fond Memory, to her duty true. Brings back their faded forms to view. How life-like, through the mist of years. Each well-remembered face appears ! We see them as in times long past ; From each to each kind looks are cast ; We hear their words, their smiles behold ; They're round us as they were of old — We are all here. SPBAGUE. 77 We are all here ! Father, mother, Sister, brother. You that I love with love so dear. Jkis may not long of us be said ; Soon must we join the gathered dead ; And by the hearth we now sit round. Some other circle will be found. Oh ! then, that wisdom may we know. Which yields a life of peace below 1 So, in the world to follow this. May each repeat, in words of bliss, '' We're all— all here /" ART. WHEN, from the sacred garden driven, Man fled before his Maker's wrath. An angel left her place in heaven. And crossed the wanderer's sunless path. 'Twas Art 1 sweet Art ! — new radiance broke Where her light foot flew o'er the ground, And thus with seraph-voice she spoke : '* The curse a blessing shall be found " She led him through the trackless wild. Where noontide sunbeam never blazed ; The thistle shrank, the harvest smiled. And Nature gladdened as she gazed. Earth's thousand tribes of living things, At Art's command, to him are given ; 5 G OLDEN LEA VES. The village grows, the city springs. And point their spires of faith to heaven. He rends the oak — and bids it ride. To guard the shores its beauty graced ; He smites the rock — upheaved in pride. See towers of strength and domes of taste ! Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal ; Fire bears his banner on the wave ; He bids the mortal poison heal. And leaps triumphant o'er the grave. He plucks the pearls that stud the deep. Admiring Beauty's lap to fill ; He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep. And mocks his own Creator's skill. With thoughts that fill his glowing soul. He bids the ore illume the page, And, proudly scorning Time's control. Commerces with an unborn age. In fields of air he writes his name. And treads the chambers of the sky ; He reads the stars, and grasps the flame Tnat quivers round the throne on high. In war renowned, in peace sublime. He moves in greatness and in grace ; His power, subduing space and time, LinKs realm to realm, and race to race. MBS. SIG OURNET. 79 t'^xa i^iintleg Slgouruej}. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. TTOW slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main ! Amid the heavy billows now she seems A toiling atom : then from wave to wave Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed, or reels Half wrecked through gulfs profound. Moons wax and wane. But still that patient traveller treads the deep. — I see an icebound coast toward which she steers With such a tardy movement, that it seems Stern Winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone, And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds. — They land ! they land ! not like the Genoese, With glittermg sword, and gaudy train, and eye Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come From their long prison, hardy forms that brave The world's unkindness, men of hoary hair. Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave. Who hush the wailing infant with a glance. Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round, — Eternal forests, and unyielding earth. And savage men, who through the thickets peer With vengeful arrow. What could lure their steps To this drear desert ! Ask of him who left His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds. Distrusting not the guide who called him forth. Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed Should be as ocean's sands. But yon lone bark Hath spread her parting sail ; thev crowd the strand. 8o GOLDEN LEAVES. Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the woe That wrings their bosoms, as the last frail link. Binding to man and habitable earth. Is severed ? Can ye tell what pangs were there. With keen regrets ; what sickness of the heart ; What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth. Their distant dear ones ? Long, with straining eye. They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness Sank down into their bosoms ? No ! they turn Back to their dreary, famished huts, and pray ! Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life Fade into air. Up in each girded breast There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength, — ■ A loftiness to face a world in arms. To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay On Duty's sacred altar the warm blood Of slain affections, should they rise between The soul and God. O ye, who proudly boast In your free veins the blood of sires like these. Look to their lineaments. Dread lest ye lose Their likeness in your sons. Should Mammon cling Too close around your heart, or wealth beget That bloated luxury which eats the core . From manly virtue, or the tempting world Make taint the Christian purpose in your soul. Turn ye lo Plymouth Rock, and where they knelt Kneel, and renew the vow they breathed to God. JfBS. SIGOURNEY, NIAGARA. TT^LOW on, forever, in thy glorious robe Of terror and of beauty ! Yea, flow on, Unfathomed and resistless ! God hath set His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud Mantled around thy feet. And He doth give Thy voice of thunder power to speak of Him Eternally — bidding the lip of man Keep silence — and upon thy rocky altar pour Incense of awe-struck praise. Ah ! who can dare To lift the insect trump of earthly hope. Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime Of thy tremendous hymn ? Even Ocean shrinks Back from thy brotherhood : and all his waves Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem To sleep like a spent labourer, and recall His wearied billows from their -vexing play. And lull them to a cradle calm : but thou. With everlasting, undecaying tide. Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars. When first they sang o'er young Creation's birth, Heard thy deep anthem ; and those wrecking fires, That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears. Of thine unending volume. Every leaf. That hfts itself within thy wide domain. Doth gather greenness from thy living spray. Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! yon birds Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing 82 GOLDEN LEAVES. Amid thy mist and foam. 'Tis meet for them To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir The snowy leaflets of thy vapour wreath. For they may sport unharmed amid trie cloud. Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven. Without reproof. But as for us, it seems Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint Thy glorious features with our pencil's point. Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul A wondering witness of thy majesty ; But as it presses with delirious joy To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step. And tame its rapture, with the humbling view Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand In the dread presence of the Invisible, As if to answer to its God through thee. THE CORAL -INSECT. ' I "*OIL on ! toil on ! ye. ephemeral train, "^ Who build in the tossing and treacherous main ; Toil on — for the wisdom of man ye mock. With your sand-based structures and domes of rock : Your columns the fathomless fountains lave. And your arches spring up to the crested wave ; Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. Ye bind the deep with your secret zone. The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone ; MRS. SIGOURNEY. 83 Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; The turf looks green where the breakers rolled ; O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold; The sea-snatched isle is the home of men. And the mountains exult where the wave hath been. But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? There are snares enough on the tented field, 'Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield ; There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up ; There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup ; There are foes that watch for his cradle-breath. And why need ye sow the floods with death ? With mouldering bones the deeps are white, p'rom the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright ; The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold, And the gods of Ocean have frowned to see The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; Hath Earth no graves, that ye thus must spread The boundless Sea for the thronging dead ? Ye build — ye build — but ye enter not in. Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin ; From the land of promise ye fade and die. Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye ; As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid. Their noteless bones in oblivion hid. Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main, While the wonder and pride of your works remain. 84 GOLDEN LEA VE S. lUilltam €ullen Bryant TH ANATOPSIS. ^TT^O him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stem agony, and shroud, and pail. And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart j — Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from ail arop.nd — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding Sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. Where thy pale form is laid with many tears. Nor in the embrace of Ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claijii Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, — To be a brother to the insensible rock. BRYANT. 85 And to the s.uggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone— nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good. Fair forms, and hoary seers, of ages past. All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun, — the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods, — rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all. Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death. Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce — Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead there reign alone. So shalt thou rest, — and what if thou withdraw Unheeded by the living, and no friend 5* 86 G OLDEN LEAVES. Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favourite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, — The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid. And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,— Shall one by one be gathered to thy side. By those who, in their turn, shall follow them. So live, that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of Death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave, at night. Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave. Like one that draws the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. FOREST HYMN. ^ I ^HE groves were God's first temples. Ere*man learned "■^ To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave. And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood. Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down. BRYANT. 87 And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks. And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences. Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks, that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath, that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power. And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least. Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in His ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns ; Thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun. Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze. And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow. Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches ; till, at last, they stood. As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark — Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults. These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show. The boast ot our vain race, to change the rorci 88 G OLDEN LEAVES. Of thy fair works. But Thou art here — Thou iilFst The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds. That run along the summit of these trees In music; — Thou art in the cooler breath. That, from the inmost darkness of the place, Comes, scarcely felt ; — the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with T'hee. Here is continual worship ; — Nature, here. In the tranquillity that Thou dost love. Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around. From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes J and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs. Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades. Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace. Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak. By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem Almost annihilated, — not a prince. In all that proud Old World beyond the deep. E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower. With delicate breath, and look so like a smile. Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould. An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me, when I think BRYANT. i Of the great miracle that still goes on In silence, round me — the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works, 1 read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo ! all grow old and die — but see, again. How on the faltering footsteps of Decay Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful Youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost One of Earth's charms : upon her bosom yet. After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies. And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy. Death — yea, seats himself Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepulchre. And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them ; — and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies. The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink. And tremble and are stil]. O God ! when Thou 90 GOLDEN LEAVES. Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill. With all the waters of the firmament, 1'he swift, dark whirlwind that uproots the woods And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, . Uprises the great Deep and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power. His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate In these calm shades thy milder majesty,- And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. nr^HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year. Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay. And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. BE 7 ANT. 91 Wliere are the flowers, the fair young flov/ers that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds^ with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago. And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood — Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men. And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come. To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still. And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill. The South Wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore. And sighs to find them in the wo d and by the stream no more. 92 GOLDEN LEAVES. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf. And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours. So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. /^ FREEDOM ! thou art not, as poets dream, ^■"^ A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs. And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man. Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow. Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armourers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound. The links are shivered, and the prison-walls Fall outward : terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile. And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while lHc pale oppressor flies. BRYANT. 93 Thy birthright was not given by human hands : Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields. While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him. To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars. And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood. Didst war upon the panther and the wolf. His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrow on the mountain-side. Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself. Thy enemy, although of reverend look. Hoary with many years, and far obeyed. Is later born than thou ; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye. The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, But he shall fade into a feebler age ; Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares. And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His withered hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms. To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread, That grow to fetters ; or bind down thy arms With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh ! not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by Thy sword ; nor yet, O Freedom 1 close thy lids In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps. And thou must watch and combat till the day Of I he new earth and heaven. 94 GOLDEN LEAVES'. TO A WATERFOWL. V^T'HITHER, 'midst falling dew. While glow the heavens with the last steps oi Di Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong. As, darkly limned upon the crimson sky, Thy .figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side ? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — The desert and illimitable air — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned. At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere. Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest. And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend. Soon, o*er thy sheltered nest. TO A WATERFOWL. I BRYANT. 95 Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given. And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone. Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone. Will lead my steps aright. TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. ' I ^HOU blossom, bright with autumn dew. And coloured with the heaven's own blue. That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen. Or columbines, in purple dressed. Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late, and com'st alone. When woods are bare and birds are flown. And frosts and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky. Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall. 96 GOLDEN LEAVES. I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart. May look to heaven as I depart. THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. /^OME, let us plant the apple-tree. ^■^^ Cleave the tough greensward with the spade ; Wide let its hollow bed be made ; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care. And press it o'er them tenderly. As, round the sleeping infant's feet We softly fold the cradle-sheet ; So plant we the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree ? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest ; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower. When we plant the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree ? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs. To load the May-wind's restless wings. BRYANT. 97 When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee. Flowers for the sick girl's silent room. For the glad infant sprigs of bloom. We plant with the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree ? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon. And drop, when gentle airs come by. That fan the blue September sky ; While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass. At the foot of the apple-tree. And when, above this apple-tree. The winter stars are quivering bright. And winds go howling through the night. Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth. Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth ; And guests in prouder homes shall see. Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine. And golden orange of the line. The fruit of the apple-tree. The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds, and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar. Where men shall wonder at the view. And ask in what fair groves they grew ; And sojourners beyond the sea 98 GOLDEN LEAVES. Shall think of childhood's careless day. And long, long hours of summer play. In the shade of the apple-tree. Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom. And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower. The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie. The Summer's songs, the Autumn's sigh. In the boughs of the apple-tree. And Time shall waste this apple-tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below. Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still ? What shall the tasks of Mercy be. Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple-tree ? " Who planted this old apple-tree ?" The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say ; And, gazing on its mossy stem. The gray-haired man shall answer them : " A poet of the land was he. Born in the rude but good old times ; 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple-tree." EVERETT. 99 ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. (Alaric stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred.) \X T'HEN I am dead, no pageant train Shall waste their sorrows at my bier. Nor worthless pomp of homage vain Stain it with hypocritic tear ; For I will die as I did live. Nor take the boon I cannot give. 'Ye shall not raise a marble bust Upon the spot where I repose ; Ye shall not fawn before my dust. In hollow circumstance of woes ; Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, Insult the clay that moulds beneath. Ye shall not pile, with servile toil. Your monuments upon my breast. Nor yet within the common soil Lay down the. wreck of power to rest, Where man can boast that he has trod On him that was " the Scourge of God !" But ye the mountain-stream shall turn. And lay its secret channel bare. And hollow, for your sovereign's urn, A resting-place forever there : 100 G OLDEN LEAVES. Then bid its everlasting springs Flow back upon the king of kings ; And never be the secret said. Until the Deep give up his dead. My gold and silver ye shall fling Back to the clods that gave them birth ; The captured crowns of many a king. The ransom of a conquered earth : For, e'en though dead, will I control The trophies of the Capitol. But when, beneath the mountain-tide, Ye've laid your monarch down to rot. Ye shall not rear upon its side Pillar or mound to mark the spot ; For long enough the world has shook Beneath the terrors of my look ; And, now that I have run my race. The astonished realms shall rest a space. My course was like a river deep. And from the Northern hills I burst. Across the world in wrath to sweep. And where I went the spot was cursed ; Nor blade of grass again was seen Where Alaric and his hosts had been. See how their haughty barriers fail Beneath the terror of the Goth ! Their iron-breasted legions quail Before my ruthless sabaoth ; And low the queen of empires kneels. And grovels at my chariot-wheels. EVERETT. lOi Not for myself did I ascend In judgment my triumphal car ; 'Twas God alone on high did send The avenging Scythian to the war — To shake abroad, with iron hand, The appointed scourge of His command. With iron hand that scourge I reared O'er guilty king and guilty realm ; Destruction was the ship I steered. And Vengeance sat upon the helm. When, launched in fury on the flood, I ploughed my way through seas of blood. And, in the stream their hearts had spilt, Washed out the long arrears of guilt. Across the everlasting Alp I poured the torrent of my powers. And feeble C^sars shrieked for help. In vain, within their seven-hilled towers ; I quenched in blood the brightest gem That glittered in their diadem. And struck a darker, deeper die In the purple of their majesty, — And bade my Northern banners shine Upon the conquered Palatine ! My course is run, my errand done ; I go to Him from whom I came ; But never yet shall set the sun Of glory that adorns my name ; And Roman hearts shall long be sick. When men shall think of Alaric. 6 102 G OLDEN LEAVES. My course is run, my errand done ; But darker ministers o'^ Fate, Impatient, round the Eternal Throne, And in the caves of Vengeance, wait ; And soon mankind shall blench away Before the name of Attila ! THE chickadee's SONG. /^N its downy wing, the snow, ^■"^ Hovering, flieth to and fro — And the merry schoolboy's shout. Rich with joy, is ringing out ; So we gather, in our glee. To the snow-drifts — Chickadee ! Poets sing in measures bold Of the glorious gods of old. And the nectar that they quaffed. When their jewelled goblets laughed ; But the snow-cups best love we. Gemmed with sunbeams — Chickadee They who choose, abroad may go. Where the Southern waters flow, And the flowers are never sere In the garland of the year ; But we love the breezes free Of our North-land — Chickadee ! MRS. GREEN. . 103 To the cottage yard we fly. With its old trees waving high — And the little ones peep out. Just to know what we're about; For they dearly love to see Birds in winter — Chickadee ! Every little feathered form Has a nest of mosses warm ; There our heavenly Father's eye Looketh on us from the sky ; And He knoweth where we be — x4.nd He heareth — Chickadee 1 There we sit the whole liight long. Dreaming that a spirit-song Whispereth in the silent snow ; For it has a voice we know. And it weaves our drapery. Soft as ermine — Chickadee ! All the strong winds, as they fly. Rock us with their lullaby — Rock us till the shadowy Night Spreads her downy wings in flight : Then we hasten, fresh and free. To the snow-fields — Chickadee ! Where our harvest sparkles bright In the pleasant morning light. Every little feathery flake Will a choice confection make — Each globule a nectary be. And we'll dram it — Chickadee ' 104 GOLDEN LEAVES. So we never know a fear In this season cold and drear ; For to us a share will fall Of the love that blesseth all ; And our Father's smile we see On the snow-crust — Chickadee ! ^enrg II. 0ct)oolcraft. THE BIRCHEN CANOE TN the region of lakes, where the blue waters sleep. My beautiful fabric was built ; Light cedars supported its weight on the deep. And its sides with the sunbeams were gilt. The bright, leafy bark of the betula-tree* A flexible sheathing provides ; And the fir's thready roots drew the parts to agree. And bound down its high swelling sides. No compass or gavel wa« used on the bark. No art but in simplest degree ; But the structure was finished, and trim to remark. And as light as a sylph's could be. Its rim was with tender young roots woven round. Like a pattern of wicker-work rare ; And it pressed on the waves with as lightsome a bound As a basket suspended in air. ' Betula papyrarae. SCHOOLCRAFT. 105 The builder knew well, in his wild, merry mood, A smile from his sweet-love to win. And he sung as he sewed the green bark to the wood, '^ Leen ata nee saugein.''^* The heavens in their brightness and glory below. Were reflected quite plain to the view ; And it moved like a swan, with as graceful a show. My beautiful birchen canoe. The trees on the shore, as I glided along. Seemed rushing a contrary way ; And my voyagers lightened their toil with a song, That caused every heart to be gay. And still as I floated by rock and by shell. My bark raised a murmur aloud. And it danced on the waves as they rose and they fell. Like a fay on a bright summer cloud. I thought, as I passed o'er the liquid expanse. With the landscape in smiling array. How blest I should be, if my life should advance Thus tranquil and sweetly away. The skies were serene, not a cloud was in sight. Not an angry surge beat on the shore ; x'\nd I gazed on the waters, and then on the light. Till my vision could bear it no more. Oh ! long shall I think of those silver-bright lakes. And the scenes they exposed to my view ; My friends, and the wishes I formed for their sakes,. And my bright yellow birchen canoe. * You only I love. io6 GOLDEN LEAVES. geehale: an Indian lament. '"T^HE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore As sweetly and gayly as ever before ; For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie. And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright. And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light As it ever reflected, or ever expressed. When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best. The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light. And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track. For they know that their mates are expecting them back. Each bird and each beast, it is blest in degree : All Nature is cheerful — all happy, but me. I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair ; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair ; I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows. And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes ; I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed. For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead ; But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay ; The steel of the white man hath swept them away. This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore: Its charms I no longer obey or invoke — Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. I will raise up my voice to the Source of the light ; I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night ; I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves. And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves : WILGOX. \o; And wiil take a new Manito —such as shall seem To be kind and propitious in every dream. Oh, then I shall banish these cankering sighs. And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes ; I shall wash from my face every cloud-coloured stam, Red — red shall alone on my visage remain ! I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow; By night and by day I will follow the foe ; Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor snows ; His blood can alone give my spirit repose ! They came to my cabin when heaven was black ; I heard not their coming, I knew not their track ; But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees. They were people engendered beyond the big seas : My wife and my children — oh, spare me the tale ! For who is there left that is kin to Geehale ? €aiio0 lUtlco-t. SUNSET IN SEPTEMBER. 'nr^HE sun now rests upon the mountain-tops — ■^ Begins to sink behind — is half concealed — And now is gone : the last faint, twinkling beam Is cut in twain by the sharp-rising ridge. Sweet to the pensive is departing day. When only one small cloud, so still and thin, So thoroughly imbued with amber light. And so transparent, that it seems a spot Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount. io8 GOLDEN LEAVES. Hangs o'er the hidden orb ; or where a few Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain. At each end sharpened to a needle's point. With golden borders, sometimes straight and smooth And sometimes crinkling like the lightning-stream, A half-hour's space above the mountain lie ; Or when the whole consolidated mass. That only threatened rain, is broken up Into a thousand parts, and yet is one — One as the ocean broken inta waves ; And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark. As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote. All fading soon, as lower sinks the sun. Till twilight end. But now another scene To me most beautiful of all, appears : The sky, without the. shadow of a cloud. Throughout the west, is kindled to a glow So bright and broad, it glares upon the eye — Not dazzling, but dilating with calm force Its power of vision to admit the whole. Below, 'tis all of richest orange dye ; Midway, the blushing of the mellow peach Paints not, but tinges the ethereal deep ; And here, in this most lovely region, shines, With added loveliness, the evening-star. Above, the fainter purple slowly fades. Till changed into the azure of mid-heaven. Along the level ridge, o'er which the sun Descended, in a single row arranged. As if thus planted by the hand of Art, MRS. EMBUR Y. 109 Majestic pines shoot up into the sky. And in its fluid gold seem half dissolved. Upon a nearer peak, a cluster stands With shafts erect, and tops converged to one, A stately" colonnade, v/ith verdant roof; Upon a nearer still, a single tree. With shapely form, looks beautiful alone ; While, farther northward, through a narrow pass Scooped in the hither range, a single mount Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems. And of a softer, more ethereal blue, A pyramid of polished sapphire built. But now the twilight mingles into one The various mountains ; levels to a plain This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade,* Where every object to my sight presents Its shaded side ; while here upon these walls. And in that eastern wood, upon the trunks Under thick foliage, reflective shows Its yellow lustre. How distinct the line Of the horizon, parting heaven and earth ! ®mma €. ®mbuvu. CHEERFULNESS. \ GENTLE heritage is mine, A life of quiet pleasure : My heaviest cares are but to twine Fresh votive garlands for the shrine Where 'bides my bosom's tri-asure; 6* no G OLDEN LEAVES. I am not merry, nor yet sad. My thoughts are more serene than glad. I have outlived youth's feverish mirth. And all its causeless sorrow : My joys are now of nobler birth. My sorrows too have holier birth. And heavenly solace borrow ; So, from my green and shady nook. Back on my by-past life I look. The Past has memories sad and sweet. Memories still fondly cherished. Of love that blossomed at my feet. Whose odours still my senses greet, • E'en though the flowers have perished : Visions of pleasures passed away That charmed me in life's earlier day. The Future, Isis-like, sits veiled. And none her mystery learneth ; Yet why should the bright cheek be paled. For sorrows that may be bewailed When Time our hopes inureth ? Come when it will. Grief comes too soon- Why dread the night at highest noon ? I would not pierce the mist that hides Life's coming joy or sorrow ; If sweet Content with me abides While onward still the present glides, I think not of the morrow ; It may bring griefs — enough for me The quiet joy I feel and see. WABE. in Ijciirg 111 are, 3r. SEASONS OF PRAYER. ^T^O prayer, to prayer ! — for the morning breaks. And Earth in her Maker's smile awakes. His light is on all below and above — The light of gladness, and life, and love. Oh, then, on the breath of this early air. Send upward the incense of grateful prayer. To prayer! — for the glorious sun is gone. And the gathering darkness of night comes on. Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows. To shade the couch where His children repose. Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright. And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of nigh: To prayer! — for the day that God has blest Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. It speaks of creation's early bloom ; It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. Then summon the spirit's exalted powers. And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours. There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes. For her new-born infant beside her lies. Oh, hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows With rapture a mother only knows. Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer; Let it swell up to Heaven for her precious care. 112 GOLDEN LEAV-ES. There are smiles and tears in that gathering band. Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand. What trying thoughts in her bosom swell. As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair. And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer. Kneel down by the dying sinner's side. And pray for his soul through Him who died. Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow — Oh, what is earth and its pleasures now ! And what shall assuage his dark despair. But the penitent cry of humble prayer ? Kneel down at the couch of departing faith. And hear the last words the believer saith. He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; There is peace in his eye that upward bends ; There is peace in his calm, confiding air ; For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. It commends the spirit to God who gave ; It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave ! It points to the glory where He shall reign. Who whispered, *' Thy brother shall rise again." The voice o^ prayer in the world of bliss I But gladder, purer, than rose from this. The ransomed shout to their glorious King, Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing ; But a sinless and joyous song they raise. And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. MAEIA BRO OKS. n Awake, awake i and gird up tky strength To join that holy band at length. To Him who unceasing love displays. Whom the powers oi Nature unceasingly praise. To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ; For a life of prayer is the life oi heaven. illana JSvooks. TO THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. ^T^HE first time I beheld thee, beauteous stream. How pure, how smooth, how broad thy bosom heaved ! What feelings rushed upon my heart ! — a gleam As of another life my kindling soul received. Fair was the day, and o'er the crowded deck Jov shone in many a smile ; light clouds, in hue As silvery as the new-fledged cygnet's neck. Cast, as they moved, faint shadows on the blue — Soft, deep, and distant — -of the mountain-chain. Wreathing and blending, tint with tint, and traced So gently on the smiling sky. In vain Time, scene, has changed : 'twill never be effaced. Now o'er thy tranquil breast the moonbeams quiver : How calm the air, how still the hour — how bright ! Would thou wert doomed to be my grave, sweet river ! How blends my soul with thy pure breath to-night \ 114 G OLD EH LEAVE ere dawn of morrow. These charms may melt away — That sun's bright beam be shaded. That sky be blue no more. The summer ftowers be laded. And youth's warm promise o'er.. Believe it not ; thoi2gh lonely Thy evening home may be ; Though Beauty's bark can only Float on a summer sea. Though Time thy bloom is stealing. There's still, beyond his art. The wild-flower wreath of feeling, The sunbeam of the heart. MRS. RALE. 163 Saval) lane i§ale. THE LIGHT OF HOME. IV /TY son, thou wilt dream the world is fair, i-T A ^nd thy spirit will sigh to roam — And thou 7nust go ; — but never, when there. Forget the light of home ! Though Pleasure may smile with a ray more bright. It dazzles to lead astray ; Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night When treading thy lonely way : But the hearth of home has a constant flame. And pure as vestal fire ; 'Twill burn, 'twill burn forever the same. For Nature feeds the pyre. The sea of Ambition is tempest-tossed. And thy hopes may vanish like foam ; When sails are shivered and compass lost. Then look to the light of home ! And there, like a star through the midnight cloud. Thou shalt see the beacon bright; For never, till shining on thy shroud. Can be quenched its holy light. The sun of Fame may gild the name, But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; And Fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim, Are beams of a wintry day : 164 GOLDEN LEAVES. How cold and dim those beams would be. Should life's poor wanderer come ! — My son, when the world is dark to thee, Then turn to the light of home. THE TWO MAIDENS. /^NE came with light and laughing air, ^""^ And cheek like opening blossom — Bright gems were twined amid her hair. And glittered on her bosom ; And pearls and costly diamonds deck Her round white arms and lovely neck. Like summer's sky, with stars bedight. The jewelled robe around her. And dazzling as the noontide light The radiant zone that bound her — And pride and joy were in her eye. And mortals bowed as she passed by. Another came : o'er her sweet face A pensive shade was stealing ; Yet there no grief of earth we trace — But the Heaven-hallowed feeling Which mourns the heart should ever stray From the pure fount of truth away. Around her brow, as snow-drop fair, The glossy tresses cluster. BRAINARD. 16^ Nor pearl nor ornament was there. Save the meek spirit's lustre ; And faith and hope beamed in her eye. And angels bowed as she passed by. loljn ®. C Urmnarb. THE DEEP. ^HERE'S beauty in the deep :— The wave is bluer than the sky ; And, though the lights shine bright on high. More softly do the sea-gems glow. That sparkle in the depths below ; The rainbow's tints are only made When on the waters they are laid ; And sun and moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean's level brine. There's beauty in the deep. There's music in the deep : — It is not in the surf's rough roar. Nor in the whispering, shelly shore, — They are but earthly sounds, that tell How little of the sea-nymph's shell. That sends its loud, clear note abroad. Or winds its softness through the flood. Echoes through groves, with coral gay. And dies, on spongy banks, away. There's music in the deep. l66 GOLDEN LEAVES. There's quiet in the deep : — Above, let tides and tempests rave. And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave ; Above, let Care and Fear contend With Sin and Sorrow, to the end : Here, far beneath the tainted foam That frets above our peaceful home. We dream in joy, and wake in love. Nor know the rage that yells above. There's quiet in the deep. THE INDIAN SUMMER. '^XT'Hx^T is there saddening in the autumn leaves ? Have they that "green and yellow melancholy" That the sweet poet spake of.? — Had he seen Our variegated woods, when first the frost Turns into beauty all October's charms — When the dread fever quits us — when the storms Of the wild equinox, with all its wet. Has left the land, as the first Deluge left it. With a bright bow of many colours hung Upon the forest-tops — he had not sighed. The nioon stays longest for the hunter now . The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store : While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along The bright, blue sky above him, and that bends Magnificently all the forest's pride. Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, " What is there saddening in the autumn leaves ?" BRAINARD. 167 THE SEA-BIRDS SONG. /^N the deep is the mariner's danger, ^^ On the deep is the mariner's death — Who, to fear of the tempest a stranger. Sees the last bubble burst of his breath ? *Tis the sea-bird, &ea-bird, sea-bird. Lone looker on despair — The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird. The only witness there. Who watches their course, who so mildly Careen to the kiss of the breeze ! Who lists to their shrieks, who so wildly Are clasped in the arms of the seas ? 'Tis the sea-bird, &c. Who hovers on high o'er the lover. And her who has clung to his neck ? Whose wing is the wing that can caver. With its shadow, the foundering wreck ? 'Tis the sea-bird, etc. My eye in the light of the billow. My wing on the wake of the wave, I shall take to my breast, for a pillow. The shroud of the fair and the brave. I'm a sea-bird, &c. My foot on the iceberg has lighted. When hoarse the wild winds veer about ; M^*^ eye, when the bar-k is benighted. Sees the lamp of the lighthouse go out. I'm the sea-bird, &c. l68 GOLDEN LEAVES. 3ame0 lUallis Sastbmu. TO PNEUMA. ' I ^EMPESTS their furious course may sweep Swiftly o'er the troubled deep — Darkness may lend her gloomy aid. And wrap the groaning world in shade ; But man can show a darker hour. And bend beneath a stronger power ; There is a tempest of the soul, A gloom where wilder billows roll \ The howling wilderness may spread Its pathless deserts, parched and dread. Where not a blade of herbage blooms. Nor yields the breeze its soft perfumes ; Where silence, death, and horror reign. Unchecked, across the wide domain; — There is a desert of the mind More hopeless, dreary, undefined ! There Sorrow, moody Discontent, And gnawing Care, are wildly blent ; There Horror hangs her darkest clouds. And the whole scene in gloom enshrouds ; A sickly ray is cast around, vVhere naught but dreariness is found ; A feeling that may not be told — Dark, rending, lonely, drear, and cold. The wildest ills that darken life Are rapture to the bosom's strife ; EASTBURN. 169 The tempest, in its blackest form. Is beauty to the bosom's storm ; The ocean, lashed to fury loud. Its high wave mingling with the cloud. Is peaceful, sweet serenity To Passion's dark and boundless sea. There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest. When storms are warring in the breast ; There is no moment of repose In bosoms lashed by hidden woes ; The scorpion-sting the fury rears. And every trembling fibre tears ; The vulture preys with bloody beak Upon the heart that can but break ! THE RESTORATION OF ISRAEL. li/TOUNTAINS of Israel! rear on high Your summits, crowned with verdure new, And spread your branches to the sky. Refulgent with celestial dew. O'er Jordan's stream, of gentle flow. And Judah's peaceful valleys, smile. And far reflect the lovely glow Where Ocean's waves incessant toil. See where the scattered tribes return ! Their slavery is burst at length. And purer flames to Jesus burn, And Zion girds on her new strength : 170 GOLDEN LEAVES. New cities bloom along the plain. New temples to Jehovah rise. The kindling voice of praise again Pours its sweet anthems to the skies. The fruitful fields again are blest. And yellow harvests smile around ; Sweet scenes of heavenly joy and rest. Where peace a»d innocence are found. The bloody sacrifice no more Shall smoke upon the altars high, — But ardent hearts, from hill to shore. Send grateful incense to the sky ! The jubilee of man is near. When earth, as heaven, shall own His reign ; He comes to wipe the mourner's tear, . And cleanse the heart from sin and pam. Praise Him, ye tribes of Israel, praise The King that ransomed you from v/oe : Nations, the hymn of triumph raise. And bid the song of rapture flow ! Kobn-t (£. Sank, WEEHAWKEN. T7VE o'er our path is stealing fast; ^-^ Yon quivering splendours are the last The sun will fling, to tremble o'er The waves that kiss the opposing shore ; SANDS. 171 His latest glories fringe the height Behind us with their golden light. The mountain's mirrored outline fades Amid the fast-extending shades ; Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride. Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide ; For the great stream a bulwark meet That leaves its rock-encumbered feet. River and mountain ! though to song Not yet, perchance, your names belong, Those who have loved your evening hues Will ask not the recording Muse What antique tales she can relate. Your banks and steeps to consecrate. Yer, shou;d the stranger ask what lore Of by-gone days this winding shore. Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell. If vocal made by Fancy's spell, — ■ The varying legend might rehearse Fit themes for high, romantic verse. O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod, Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod ; Or peered, with hunter's gaze, to mark The progress of the glancing bark. Spoils, strangely won on distant waves. Have lurked in yon obstructed caves. When the great strife for Freedom rose. Here scouted oft her friends and foes. Alternate, through the changeful war, And beacon-fires flashed bright and far ; 172 GOLDEN LEAVES. And here, when Freedom's strife was won, P'ell, in sad feud, her favoured son ; — Her son — the second of the band. The Romans of the rescued land. Where round yon capes the banks ascend. Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend ; There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh. There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye. There last he stood. Before his sight Flowed the fair river, free and bright ; The rising mart, and isles, and bay. Before him in their glory lay — Scenes of his love and of his fame — The instant ere the death-shot came. THE GREEN ISLE OF LOVERS. •nr^HEY say that, afar in the land of the West, •^ Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair lake, unruJSled and sparkling, is spread ; Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers. In distance seen dimly, the green Isle of Lovers. There verdure fades never ; immortal in bloom. Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume ; And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depressed. All glowing like gems in the crowns of the East ; There the bright eye of Nature in mild glory hovers : 'Tis the land of the sunbeam — the green Isle of Lover.. ! PEAB ODT. 173 Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss. Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choiis Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires The dance and the revel, mid forests that cover On high with their shade the green Isle of the Lover. But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire. When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire. Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle. Whose law is their will, and whose life is their smile ; From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers, And peace reigns supreme in the green Isle of Lovers. • And he who has sought to set foot on its shore. In mazes perplexed, has beheld it no more ; It fleets on the vision, deluding the view — Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue : Oh ! who in this vain world of woe shall discover ' The home undisturbed, the green Isle of the Lover ? toilliam B. ®. IJeabobg. HYMN OF NATURE. /^^ OD of the earth's extended plains ! ^"'^ The dark, green fields contented lie ; The mountains rise like holy towers. Where man might commune with the sky ; The tall cliff challenges the storm That lowers upon the vale below. 174 G OLDEN LEAVES. Where shaded fountains send their streams. With joyous music in their flow. God of the dark and heavy deep ! The waves lie sleeping on the sands. Till the fierce trumpet of the storm Hath summoned up their thundering bands ; Then the white sails are dashed like foam. Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas. Till, calmed by Thee, the sinking Gale Serenely breathes, *' Depart in peace." God of the forest's solemn shade ! The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale. Lifts up admiring eyes to Thee ; But more majestic far they stand. When, side by side, their ranks they form. To wave on high their plumes of green. And fight their battles with the storm. God of the light and viewless air ! Where summer breezes sweetly flow. Or, gathering in their angry might. The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; All — from the Evening's plaintive sigh. That hardly lifts the drooping flower. To the wild Whirlwind's midnight cry. Breathe forth the language of thy power. God of the fair and open sky ! How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue. Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! HYMN OF NATURE. FAIRFIELD. 175 Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to Thee. God of the rolling orbs above ! Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze. Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun. And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven. Were kindled at thy burning throne, God of the world \ the hour must come. And Nature's self to dust return ; Her crumbling altars must decay. Her incense-fires shall cease to burn ; But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow ; For hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below. Stimner Cincoln Jairfielb. AN EVENING SONG OF PIEDMONT, /t VE MARIA ! 'tis the midnight hour, The starlight wedding of the earth and heaven^ When music breathes its perfume from the flower. And high revealings to the heart are given ; 176 G OLDEN LEAVES. Soft o^er the meadows steals the dewy air — Like dreams of bhss ; the deep-blue ether glows. And the stream murmurs round its islets fair The tender night-song of a charmed repose, Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love. The kiss of rapture, and the linked embrace. The hallowed converse in the dim, still grove. The elysium of a heart-revealing face. When all is 'beautiful — for we are blest; When all is lovely — for we are beloved ; When all is silent — for our passions rest ; When all is faithful — for our hopes are proved. Ave Maria ! *tis the hour of prayer. Of hushed communion with ourselves and Heaven, When our waked hearts their inmost thoughts declare. High, pure, far-searching, like the light of even ; When hope becomes fruition, and we feel The holy earnest of eternal peace. That bids our pride before the Omniscient kneel. That bids our wild and warring passions cease. Ave Maria ! soft the vesper hymn Floats through the cloisters of yon holy pile. And, mid the stillness of the night-watch dim. Attendant spirits seem to hear and smile ! Hark ! hath it ceased ? The vestal seeks her cell. And reads her heart — a melancholy tale ! A song of happier years, whose echoes swell O'er her lost love, like pale Bereavement's wail, Ave Maria ! let our prayers ascend From them whose holy offices afford MELLEN. 177 No joy in heaven — on earth without a friend — That true, though faded image of the Lord ! For them in vain the face of Nature glows. For them in vain the sun in glory burns ; The hollow breast consumes in fiery woes. And meets despair and death where'er it turns. Ave Maria ! in the deep pine-wood. On the clear stream, and o'er the azure sky. Bland Midnight smiles, and starry Solitude Breathes hope in every breeze that wanders by. Ave Maria I may our last hour come As bright, as pure, as gentle. Heaven ! as this 1 Let Faith attend us smiling to the tomb. And Life and Death are both the heirs of bliss ! ©venDiUe fllellen. ON SEEING AN EAGLE PASS NEAR ME IN AUTUMN TWILIGHT. O AIL on, thou lone, imperial bird. Of quenchless eye and tireless wing ; How is thy distant coming heard. As the night's breezes round thee ring ! Thy course was 'gainst the burning sun In his extremest glory. How ! Is thy unequalled daring done. Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now ? Or hast thou left thy rocking dome. Thy roaring ci*ag, thy lightning pine. 178 GOLDEN LEAVES. To find some secret, meaner home. Less stormy and unsafe than thine C Else why thy dusky pinions bend So closely to this shadowy world. And round thy searching glances send. As wishing thy broad pens were furled? Yet lonely is thy shattered nest. Thy eyry desolate, though high ; « And lonely thou, alike at rest. Or soaring in the upper sky. The golden light that bathes thy plumes On thine interminable flight. Falls cheerless on earth's desert tombs. And makes the North's ice-mountains bright So come the eagle-hearted down. So come the high and proud to eaFth,^ When life's night-gathering tempests frown Over their glory and their mirth : So quails the mind's undying eye. That bore, unveiled. Fame's noontide sun ; So man seeks solitude, to die, His high place left, his triumphs done. So, round the residence of Power, A cold and joyless lustre shines. And on life's pinnacles will lower Clouds, dark as bathe the eagle's pines. But, oh, the mellow light that pours From God's pure throne — the light that saves It warms the spirit as it soars. And sheds deep radiance round our graves. MELLEN. 179 THE TRUE GLORY OF AMERICA. TTALIA'S vales and fountains. Though beautiful ye be, I love my soaring mountains And forests more than ye ; And though a dreamy greatness rise From out your cloudy years. Like hills on distant stormy skies. Seen dim through Nature's tears. Still, tell me not of years of old. Or ancient heart and clime ; Ours is the land and age of gold. And ours the hallowed time ! The jewelled crown and sceptre Of Greece have passed away ; And none, of all who wept her. Could bid her splendour stay. The world has shaken with the tread Of iron-sandalled Crime — And, lo ! o'ershadowing all the dead. The conqueror stalks sublime ! Then ask I not for crown and plume To nod above my land ; The victor's footsteps point to doom. Graves open round his hand ! Rome ! with thy pillared palaces. And sculptured heroes all. Snatched, in their warm, triumphal days. To Art's high festival j l8o G OLDEN LEAVES. Rome ! with thy giant sons of power, Whose pathway was on thrones. Who built their kingdoms of an hour On yet unburied bones, — I would not have my land like thee. So lofty — yet so cold ! Be hers a lowlier majesty. In yet a nobler mould. Thy marbles— works of wonder ! In thy victorious days. Whose lips did seem to sunder Before the astonished gaze ; When statue glared on statue there. The living on the dead, — And men as silent pilgrims were Before some sainted head ! Oh, not for faultless marbles yet Would I the light forego That beams when other lights have se:. And Art herself lies low ! Oh, ours a holier hope shall be Than consecrated bust. Some loftier mean of memory To snatch us from the dust. And ours a sterner art than this. Shall fix our image here, — The spirit's mould of lovehness — A nobler Belvidere ! Then let them bind with bloomless flowers The busts and urns of old, — MARGARET FULLER. l8l A fairer heritage be ours, A sacrifice less cold ! Give honour to the great and good. And wreathe the living brow. Kindling with Virtue's mantling blood. And pay the tribute now ! So, when the good and great go down. Their statues shall arise. To crowd those temples of our own. Our fadeless memories ! And when the sculptured marble falls. And Art goes in to die. Our forms shall live in holier lialls. The Pantheon of the skv ! S, iHargaret Julln*. GANYMEDE TO HIS EAGLE.* T TPON the rocky mountain stood the boy, ^^ A goblet of pure water in his hand ; His face and form spoke him one made for joy, A willing servant to sweet Love's command j But a strange pain was written on his brow. And thrilled throughout his silver accents now : " My bird," he cries, " my destined brother-friend. Oh, whither fleets to-day thy wayward flight ? * On seeing Thorwaldsen's statue of Ganymede. l82 G OLDEN LEAVES. '* Hast thou forgotten that I here attend. From the full noon until this sad twilight ? A hundred times, at least, from the clear spring, Since the full noon o'er hill and valley glowed, I've filled the vase which our Olympian king Upon my care for thy sole use bestowed ; That, at the moment when thou shouldst descend, A pure refreshment might thy thirst attend. " Hast thou forgotten Earth — forgotten me. Thy fellow-bondsman in a royal cause. Who, from the sadness of infinity. Only with thee can know that peaceful pause In which we catch the flowing strain of love Which binds our dim fates to the throne of Jove. " Before I saw thee I was like the May, .Longing for Summer that must mar its bloom. Or like the Morning Star that calls the Day, Whose glories to its promise are the tomb ; And as the eager fountain rises higher. To throw itself more strongly back to earth. Still, as more sweet and full rose my desire. More fondly it reverted to its birth ; For, what the rose-bud seeks tells not the rose — The meaning foretold by the boy the man cannot disclose. " I was all Spring, for in my being dwelt Eternal youth, where flowers are the fruit; Full feeling was the thought of what was felt — Its music was the meaning of the lute : But Heaven and Earth such Hfe will still deny. For Earth, divorced from Heaven, still asks the question, ' Why ?' MAE G ABET FULLER. 183 " Upon the highest mountains my young feet Ached, that no pinions from their lightness grew. My starlike eyes the stars would fondly greet. Yet win no greeting from the circling blue; Fair, self-subsistent, each in its own sphere. They had no care that there was none for me : Alike to them that I was far or near. Alike to them, time and eternity. ** But, from the violet of lower air. Sometimes an answer to my wishing came. Those lightning-births my nature seemed to share. They told the secrets of its fiery frame — The sudden messengers of Hate and Love, The thunderbolts that arm the hand of Jove, And strike sometimes the sacred spire, and strike the sacred grove. *' Come in a moment, in a moment gone. They answered me, then left me still more lone ; They told me that the thought which ruled the world As yet no sail upon its course had furled. That the creation was but just begun. New leaves still leaving from the primal one^ But spoke not of the goal to which my rapid wheels would run. " Still, still my eyes, though tearfully, I strained To the far future which my heart contained. And no dull doubt my proper hope profaned. At last, oh bliss ! thy living form I spied. Then a mere speck upon a distant sky ; \ et my keen glance discerned its noble pride. And the full answer of that sun-filled eye i i84 G OLDEN LEAVES. ! knew it was the wing that must upbear My earthlier form into the realms of air. ** Thou knowest how we gained that beauteous height. Where dwells the monarch of the sons of light j Thou knowest he declared us two to be The chosen servants of his ministry — Thou as his messenger, a sacred sign Of conquest, or with omen more benign. To give its due weight to the righteous cause. To express the verdict of Olympian laws. ** And I to wait upon the lonely Spring, Which slakes the thirst of bards to whom 'tis given The destined dues of hopes divine to sing. And weave the needed chain to bind to heaven : Only from such could be obtained a draught For him who in his early home from Jove's own cup has quaiFed. ** To wait, to wait, but not to wait too long. Till heavy grows the burden of a song ; O bird ! too long hast thou been gone to-day. My feet are weary of their frequent way. The spell that opes the Spring my tongue no more can say. If soon thou com'st not, night will fall around. My head with a sad slumber will be bound. And the pure draught be spilt upon the ground. ** Remember that I am not yet divine ; Long years of service to the fatal Nine Are yet to make a Delphian vigour mine. MBS. JUDSO¥. 185 Oh, make them not too hard, thou bird of Jove ! Answer the stripling's hope, confirm his love j Receive the service in which he delights. And bear him often to the serene heights. Where hands that were so prompt in serving thee Shall be allowed the highest ministry. And Rapture live with bright Fidelity," €nul2 3iib0on. THE WEAVER. A WEAVER sat by the side of his loom, A-flinging his shuttle fast ; , And a thread that would wear till the hour of doom Was added at every cast. His warp had been by the angels spun. And his weft was bright and new. Like threads which the morning unbraids from the sun., All jewelled over with dew. And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers In the rich, soft web were bedded ; And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours : Not yet were Time's feet leaded ! But something there came slow stealing by. And a shade on the fabric fell ; And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly — For Thought hath a wearisome spell ' l86 GOLDEN LEAVES. And a thread that next o'er the warp was lain. Was of melancholy gray ; And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain. Where the flowers had fallen away. But still the weaver kept weaving on, Though the fabric all was gray; And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves, were gone. And the gold threads cankered lay. And dark — and still darker — and darker grew Each newly-woven thread ; And some there were of a death-mocking hue. And some of a bloody red. And things all strange were woven in — Sighs, and down-crushed hopes, and fears ; And the web was broken, and poor, and thin. And it dripped with living tears. And the weaver fain would have flung it aside. But he knew it would be a sin ; So in light and in gloom the -shuttle he plied, A-weaving these life-cords in. And as he wove, and, weeping, still wove, A tempter stole him nigh ; And, with glozing words, he to win him strove — But the weaver turned his eye. He upward turned his eye to heaven. And still wove on — on — on ! Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven And the tissue strange was done. MRS. JUDSON. 187 Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed, And about his grizzled head ; And, gathering close the folds of his shroud. Laid him down among the dead. And I after saw, in a robe of light. The weaver in the sky : The angels' wings were not more bright. And the stars grew pale it nigh. And I saw, mid the folds, all the iris-hued flowers That beneath his touch had sprung; More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours. Which the angels have to us flung. And wherever a tear had fallen down. Gleamed out* a diamond rare ; And jewels befitting a monarch's crown Were the footprints left by Care. And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh. Was left a rich perfume; And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky Shone the labour of Sorrow and Gloom. And then I prayed, "When my last work is done. And the silver life-cord riven. Be the stain of Sorrow the deepest one That I bear with me to heaven !" i88 GOLDEN LEAVES. Kixfu9 5DaiDe0. THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. 'T^HE Spirit of Beauty unfarls her light, "^ And wheels her course in a joyous flight ; I know her track through the balmy air. By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there j She leaves the tops of the mountains green. And gems the valley with crystal sheen. At morn, 1 know where she rested at night, For the roses are gushing with dewy delight ; Then she mounts again, and round her flings A shower of light from her crimson wings ; Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high, That silently fills it with ecstasy. At noon she hies to a cool retreat, Where bowering elms over waters meet ; She dimples the wave where the green leaves dip, As it smilingly curls like a maiden's lip. When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain From her lover, the hope that she loves again. At eve she hangs o'er the western sky Dark clouds for a glorious canopy. And round the skirts of their deepened fold She paints a border of purple and gold, Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay, When their god in his glory has passed away DAWES. 189 She hovers around us at twilight hour. When her presence is felt with the deepest power .; She silvers the landscape, and crowds the stream With shadows that flit like a fairy dream ; Then wheeling her flight through the gladdened air, The Spirit of Beauty is evervwhere. SUNRISE, FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON. ^ I "*HE laughing Hours nave cnasea away the Night, Plucking the stars out from her diadem : And now the blue-eyed Morn, with modest grace. Looks through her half- drawn curtains in the east, Blushing in smiles and glad as infancy. And see, the fooHsh Moon, but now so vain Of borrowed beauty, how she yields her charms, And, pale with envy, steals herself away ! The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on. Attendant on the day — the mountain-tops Have lit their beacons, ana trie vaies oelow Send up a welcoming ; — no song of birds Warbling, to charm the air with melody. Floats on the frosty breeze, yet Nature hath The very soul of music in her looks ! The sunshine and the shade of poetry. I stand upon thy lofty pinnacle. Temple of Nature ! and look down with awe On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen ; Around me crowd the giant sons of earth. Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued ; igo G OLDEN LEAVES. Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise Unrifted to the Thunderer — now they seem A family of mountains, clustering round Their hoary patriarch, emulously watching- To meet the partial glances of the day. Far in the glowing east the flickering light. Mellowed by distance, with the blue sky blending. Questions the eye with ever-varying forms. The Sun comes up ! away the shadows fling From the broad hills — and, hurrying to the west. Sport in the sunshine, till they die away. The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down. Out-welling from the clouds, and sparkling light Dances along with their perennial flow. And there is beauty in yon river's path. The glad Connecticut ! I know her well. By the white veil she mantles o'er her charms : At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills. Sportfully hiding — then again with glee Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place. Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves. And hills and rivers, mountains, lakes, and wooas. And all that hold the faculty entranced. Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air. And sleep in the deep quietude of joy. There is an awful stillness in this place, A Presence, that forbids to break the spell. Till the heart pour its agony in tears. But I must drink the vision while it lasts ; For even now the curling vapours rise. Wreathing their cloudy coronals to grace These towering summits — bidding me away : - BISHOP DOANE. 19) But often shall my heart turn back again. Thou glorious eminence ! and when oppressed. And aching with the coldness of the world, Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee. i3tsl}op %to. 111. SDoane. "what is that, mother?" 46 V;yHAT is that. Mother ?"— " The lark, my child ! The Morn has but just looked out, and smiled When he starts from his humble grassy nest. And is up and away, with the dew on his breast. And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere. To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise." " What is that. Mother ?" — " The dove, my son ! — And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan. Is flowing out from her gentle breast. Constant and pure, by that lonely nest. As the wave is poured from some crystal urn. For her distant dear one's quick return. Ever, my son, be thou like the dove — In friendship as faithful, as constant in love." " What is that. Mother .?" — '' The eagle, boy ! — Proudly careering his course of joy ; Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying. Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying. 192 GOLDEN LEAVES. His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, ■ He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine. Onward, and upward, and true to the line." "' What is that, mother ?" — " The swan, my love !- He is floating down from his native grove ; No loved one now, no nestling nigh. He is floating down, by himself to die : Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings. Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. Live so, my love, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home." A CHERUB. " Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death oi a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us very glad ; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is." — Jeremy Taylor to Evelyn (1656.) T> EAUTIFUL thing ! with thine eye of light, "^ And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright. Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne Of Him who dwelleth in light alone — Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing. With the burning seraph-choir to sing? Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness. Our darkling path to cheer and bless ? Beautiful thing ! thou art come in love. With gentle gales from the world above. Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss. Bearing our spirits away from this. JfES. KINNEY, 19: To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies. Where heaven's eternal sunshine hes; Winning our hearts, by a blessed guile. With that infant look and angel smile. Beautiful thing ! thou art come in joy. With the look and the voice of our darling boy — Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts He had twined about with his infant arts. To dwell, from sin and sorrow far. In the golden orb of his little star : There he rejoiceth in light, while we Long to be happy and safe as he. Beautiful thing ! thou art come in peace. Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease ; Wiping the tears which unbidden start From that bitter fount in the broken heart ; Cheering us still on our lonely way. Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray, Till, risen with Christ, we come to be. Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee. TO POWERS'S GREEK SLAVE. EAUTIFUL model of creative art ! "^ My spirit feels the reverence for thee. That felt the ancients for a deity : , And did the sculptor ahaoe thee, part by part. 194 GOLDEN LEAVES. Fair, as if whole from Genius* mighty heart Thou'dst sprung, like Venus from the foaming se^i ' Ah ! not for show, in a disgraceful mart. Is that calm look of conscious purity; Nor should unhallowed eye presume to steal A sensual glance, where holy minds would kneel. As to some goddess in her virgin youth. But who could shame in thy pure presence feel. Save those who, false themselves, must shrink, forsooc-h, From the mild lustre of ungarnished truth ? THE WOODMAN. TTE shoulders his axe for the woods, and away Hi^s over the fields at the dawn of the day. And merrily whistles some tune as he goes. So heartily trudging along through the snows. His dog scents his track, and pursues to a mark. Now sending afar the shrill tones of his bark — Then answering the echo that comes back again Through the clear air of morn, over valley and plair; And now in the forest the woodman doth stand : His eye marks the victims to fall by his hand. While true to its aim is the ready axe found. And quick do its blows through the woodland resound The proud tree low bendeth its vigorous form, Whose freshness and strength have braved many a sto in And the sturdy oak shakes that never trembled before. Though the years of its glory outnumber threescore. MBS. FAMES. ic They fall side by side — ^just as man in his prime Lies down with the locks that are whitened by time : Tlie trees which are felled into ashes will burn, As man, by Death's blow, unto dust must return. But twilight approaches : the woodman and dog Come plodding together through snow-drift and bogj The axe, again shouldered, its day's work hath done; The woodman is hungry — the dog wants his bone. Oh, home is then sweet, and the evening repast ! But the brow of the woodman with thought is o'ercast He is conning a truth to be tested by all — That man, like the trees of the forest, must fall. ®li^abctl) 3. (ffamea. CROWNING OF PETRARCH. A RRAYED in a monarch's royal robes, '*' ■*" With gold and purple gleaming, And the broidered banners of the proud Colonna o'er him streaming — With the gorgeous pomp and pageantry Of the Anjouite's court attended. He came, that princely son of song : And the haughtiest nobles rendered Adoring homage to the laureate bard. Whose sky was luminous — with fame and glory starred, 196 G OLDEN LEAVE S. And following his triumphal car, Rome*s youthful sons came singing His passion-kindled melodies. With the silver clarion ringing A prouder music — harp, and lute. And lyre, all sweet sounds blending — And the orient sun-god on his way In dazzling lustre bending : And radiant flowers their gem-like splendour shed O'er the proud march that to the Eternal City led ! In all its ancient grandeur was That sceptred city dressed. And pealing notes and plaudits rang For him its sovereign guest : The voice of the Seven Hills went up From kingly hall and bower. And throngs with laurel-boughs poured forth To grace that triumph-hour ; While censers wafted rich perfume around. And the glowing air with mirth and melody was crowned. On, onward to the Capi, )1, Italia's children crowded — Over three hundred triumphs there The sun had sat unclouded : For crowned kings and conquerors haught Had trod that path to glory. And poets won bright wreaths and names To live in song and story ! But ne'er before, king, bard, or victor came. Winning such honours for his name and poet-fame MR IS. EAMES. 197 The glittering gates are passed, and he Hath gained the imperial summit, And deep rich strains of harmony- Are proudly floating from it : Incense — sunshine — and the swelling Shout of a nation's heart beneath him. Go up to his glorious place of pride, While the kingly Orsos wreathe him ! Well may the bard's enraptured heart beat high. Filled with the exulting thought of his gift's bright victory. Crowned one of Rome ! from that lofty height. Thou wear'st a conqueror's seeming — Thy dark, deep eye with the radiance Of inspiration beamings Thou'st won the living wreath for which Thy young ambition panted ; Thy aspiring dream is realized : Hast thou one wish ungranted ? Kings bow to the might of thy genius -gifted mind; Hast thou one unattained hope, in the deep heart enshrined ? O wreathed lord of the lyre of song ! Even then thy heart was haunted With one wild and passionate wish to lay That crown, a gift enchanted, Low at her feet, whose smile was more Than glory, fame, or power — For whose dear sake was won, and worn. The glittering laurel -flower! Oh, little worth thy bright renown to thee. Unshared by her, the star of thy idolatry ! 10 iqS g olden leaves. Thanks to thy lyre ! she liveth yet, O poet, in thy numbers — The peerless star of Avignon, Who shone o'er all thy slumbers : Entire and sole idolatry At Laura's shrine was given. Yet was her life-lot severed far From thine as earth and heaven ! And thou, the crowned of Rome — gifted and great- Stood in thy glory still alone and desolate ! MwxtQ ©orboii Urooka. GREECE IN 1832. T AND of the brave ! where lie inurned "^"^ The shrouded forms of mortal clay, [n whom the fire of valour burned. And blazed upon the battle's fray : Land, where the gallant Spartan few Bled at Thermopylae of yore. When Death his purple garment threw On Helle's consecrated shore ! Land of the Muse ! within thy bowers Her soul-entrancing echoes rung. While on their course the rapid hours Paused at the melody she sung — Till every grove and every hill. And every stream that flowed along. BROOKS. . 199 From morn to night repeated still The winning harmony of song. Land of dead heroes ! living slaves ! Shall Glory gild thy clime no more ? Her banner float above thy waves Where proudly it hath swept before ? Hath not Remembrance then a charm To break the fetters and the chain. To bid thy children nerve the arm. And strike for freedom once again ? No ! coward souls, the light which shone On Leuctra's war-empurpled day. The -ight which beamed on Marathon Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play ; And tnou art but a shadow now. With helmet shattered — spear in rust — Thy honour but a dream — and thou Despised — degraded in the dust 1 Where sleeps the spirit, that of old Dashed down to earth the Persian plume. When the loud chant of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom ? The bold three hundred — where are the} , Who died on Battle's gory breast ? Tyrants have trampled on the clay Where Death hath hushed them into re=^ Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled ; And Fame her light is pouring still, Not on the diving, but the dead! 200 GOLDEN LEAVES. But 'tis the dim, sepulchral light Which sheds a faint and feeble ray. As moonbeams on the brow of Night, When tempests sweep upon their way. Greece ! yet awake thee from thy trance- Behold, thy banner waves afar ; Behold, the glittering weapons glance Along the gleaming front of war ! A gallant chief, of high emprise. Is urging foremost in the field. Who calls upon thee to arise In might — in majesty revealed. In vain, in vain the hero calls — In vain he sounds the trumpet loud " His banner totters — see ! it falls In ruin. Freedom's battle-shroud : Thy children have no soul to dare Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare. Which gleams a moment, and expires. Lost land ! where Genius made his reign. And reared his golden arch on high ; Where Science raised her sacred fane. Its summits peering to the sky; Upon thy clime the midnight deep Of Ignorance hath brooded long. And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep The sons of Science and of Song. Thy sun hath set — the evening storm Hath passed in giant fury by. MRS. M. E. BROOKS. 201 To blast the beauty of thy form. And spread its pall upon the sky ! Gone is thy glory'? diadem, And Freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece ! iHaro ®. Brooks. DREAM OF LIFE. T HEARD the music of the wave, "*■ As it rippled to the shore. And saw the willow-branches lave. As light winds swept them o'er — - The music of the golden bow That did the torrent span ; But I heard a sweeter music flow From the youthful heart of man. The wave rushed on — the hues of heaven Fainter and fainter grew. And deeper melodies were given As swift the changes flew : Then came a shadow on my sight ; The golden bow was dim — And he that laughed beneath its light, What was the change to him ? I saw him not ; only a throng Like the swell of troubled ocean, 20? GOLDEN LEAVES. Rising, sinking, swept along In the tempest's wild commotion : Sleeping, dreaming, waking then. Chains to link or sever — Turning to the dream again. Fain to clasp it ever. There was a rush upon my brain, A darkness on mine eye ; And when I turned to gaze again. The mingled forms were nigh : In shadowy mass a mighty hall Rose on the fitful scene ; Flowers, music, gems, were flung o'er all. Not such as once had been. Then in its mist, far, far away, A phantom seemed to be ; The something of a by-gone day — But oh, how changed was he ! He rose beside the festal board. Where sat the merry throng; And, as the purple juice he poured, Thus woke his wassail song : SONG. " Cuine ! while with wine the goblets flow. For wine, they say, has power to bless j And flowers, too — not roses, no ! Bring poppies, bring forgetfulness ! ** A lethe for departed bliss. And each too well remembered scene : Earth has no sweeter draught than this. Which drowns the thought of what has been. HOFFMAN. 20? '* Here's to the heart's cold iciness, "Which cannot smile, but will not sigh : If wine can bring a chill Hke this. Come, fill for me the goblet high ! " Come— and the cold, the false, the dead. Shall never cross our revelry ; We'll kiss the wine-cup sparkhng red. And snap the chain of Memory." o €t]arlc0 ifttuo j|offman. THE MYRTLE AND STEEL. NE bumper yet, gallants, at parting. One toast, ere we arm for the fight ; Fill round, each to her he loves dearest ! — 'Tis the last he may pledge her to-night. Think of those who of old at the banquet Did their weapons in garlands conceal. The patriot heroes who hallowed The entwining of myrtle and steel ! Then hey for the myrtle and steel. Then ho for the myrtle and steel. Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid. Fill round to the myrtle and steel ! 'Tis in moments like this, when each bosom With its highest-toned feeling is warm, Like the music that's said from the ocean To rise ere the gathering storm. 204 GOLDEN LEAVES. That her image around us should hover, Whose name, though our lips ne'er reveal, We may breathe mid the foam of a bumper, As we drink to the myrtle and steel. Then hey for the myrtle and steel, Then ho for the myrtle and steel. Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, ' Fill round to the myrtle and steel ! Now mount ! for our bugle is ringing To marshal the host for the fray. Where proudly our banner is flinging Its folds o'er the battle-array ; Yet, gallants — one moment — remember. When your sabres the death-blow would deal. That Mercy wears her shape who's cherished By lads of the myrtle and steel. Then hey for the myrtle and steel. Then ho for the myrtle and steel, Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid. Fill round to the myrtle and steel ! SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. CPARKLING and bright, in liquid light. Does the wine our goblets gleam in ; With hue as red as the rosy bed Which a bee would choose to dream in. Then fill to-night, with hearts, as light. To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. And break on the lips while meeting. HOFFMAN'. 205 Oh, if Mirth might arrest the flight Of Time through Life's dominions. We here a while would now beguile The graybeard of his pinions — To drink to-night, with hearts as light. To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. And break on the lips while meeting. But since Delight can't tempt the wight. Nor fond Regret delay him. Nor Love himself can hold the elf, Nor sober Friendship stay him, — We'll drink to-night, with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. And break on the lips while meeting. FOREST MUSINGS. T *HE hunt is up — The merry woodland shout. That rung these echoing glades about An hour agone. Hath swept beyond the eastern hills. Where, pale and lone. The moon her mystic circle fills ; A while across the setting sun's broad disk The dusky larch. As if to pierce the blue o'erhanging arch,. Lifts its tall obelisk. 10* zo6 GOLDEN LEAVES. And now from thicket dark. Where, by the mist-wreathed river. The fire- fly's spark Will fitful quiver. And bubbles round the lily's cup From lurking trout come coursing up. The doe hath led her fawn to drink ; While, scared by step so near. Uprising from the sedgy brink The lonely bittern's cry will sink Upon the startled ear. , And thus upon my dreaming youth. When boyhood's gambols pleased no more. And young Romance, in guise of Truth, Usurped the heart all theirs before ; Thus broke Ambition's trumpet-note On visions wild. Yet blithesome as this river On which the smiling moonbeams float. That thus have there for ages smiled And will thus smile forever. And now no more the fresh green-wood. The forest's fretted aisles. And leafy domes above them bent. And solitude So eloquent ! Mocking the varied skill that's blent In Art's most gorgeous piles — No more can soothe my soul to sleep Than thev can awe the sounds that sweep H FFMA N. 207 "o hunter's horn and merriment Their verdant passes through, Vhen fresh the dun-deer leaves his scent Upon the morning dew. The game's afoot ! — and let the chase Lead on, whate'er my destiny — Though Fate her funeral-drum may brace Full soon for me ! And wave Death's pageant o'er me — Yet now the new and untried world. Like maiden banner first unfurled. Is glancing bright before me \ The quarry soars ! and mine is now the sky. Where, ** at what bird I please, my hawk shall fly !" Yet something whispers through the wood — A voice like that, perchance. Which taught the haunter of Egeria's grove To tame the Roman's dominating mood And lower, for a while, his conquering lance Before the images of Law and Love — Some mystic voice, that ever since hath dwelt Along with Echo in her dim retreat, A voice whose influence all, at times, have felt By wood or glen, or where on silver strand The clasping waves of Ocean's belt Do clashing meet Around the land : It whispers me that soon — too soon The pulses which now beat so high. Impatient with the world to cope. Will, like the hues of autumn sky. 2o8 GOLDEN LEAVES. Be changed and fallen ere life's noon Should tame its morning hope. It tells me not of heart betrayed. Of health impaired. Of fruitless toil. And ills alike by thousands shared. Of which each year some link is made. To add to "mortal coil :" And yet its strange, prophetic tone So faintly murmurs to my soul The fate to be my own. That all of these may be Reserved fer me Ere manhood's early years can o'er me rolL Yet why, W"hile Hope so jocund singeth. And with her plumes the graybeard's arrow wingeth Should I Think only of the barb it bringeth ? Though every dream deceive That to my youth is dearest. Until my heart they leave Like forest-leaf when searest — Yet still, mid forest-leaves. Where now Its tissue thus my idle fancy weaves. Still with heart new-blossoming While leaves, and buds, and wild flowers spring. At Nature's shrine I'll bow j Nor seek in vain that truth in her She keeps for her idolater. H FFMA K. 209 THE ORIGIN OF MINT JULEPS, " And first behold this cordial Julep here, That flames and dances in its crystal bounds, With spirits of balm and fragrant sirups mixed j Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thome In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, Is of such power to stir up Joy as this, To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst." Milton — Comus. ^'nr^IS said that the gods, on Olympus of old -"- (And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt ?) One night, mid their revels, by Bacchus were told That his last butt of nectar had somehow run out 1 But, determined to send round the goblet once more. They sued to the fairer immortals for aid In composing a draught, which, till drinking were o'er^ Should cast every wine ever drunk in the shade. Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded her corn ; And the spirit that lives in each amber-hued grain, And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn. Was taught to steal out in bright dew-drops again. Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board Were scattered profusely in every one's reach, When called on a tribute to cull from the hoard. Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach. The liquids were mingled, while Venus looked on. With glances so fraught with sweet magical power. That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were gone. Has never been missed in the draught from that hour. 210 G OLDEN LEAVES. Flora then^, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook. And with roseate iingers pressed down in the bowl. All dripping and fresh, as it came from the brook. The herb whose aroma should flavour the whole. The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim. Though something yet wanting they all did bewail ; But juleps the drink of immortals became. When Jove himself added a handful of haiL ROSALIE CLARE. "1 T THO owns not she's peerless, who calls her not fair. Who questions the beauty of Rosalie Clare, Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field. And, though harnessed in proof, he must perish or yield ; For no gallant can splinter, no charger may dare Tlie lance that is couched for young Rosalie Clare. When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is poured. And fond wishes for fair ones around offered up, From each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup. What name on the brimmer floats oftener there. Or is whispered more warmly, than Rosalie Clare ? They may talk of the land of the olive and vine. Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine ; Of the houris that gladden the East with their smiles. Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles ; But what flower of far-away chme can compare With the blossom of ours— bright Rosalie Clare ? 3fRS. OLIVE E. 211 Who owns not she's peerless, who calls her not fair. Let him meet but the glances of Rosalie Clare ! Let him list to her voice, let him gaze on her form ; And if, seeing and hearing, his soul do not warm, Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air Than that which is blessed by sweet Rosalie Clare, Sopljta §elcn ®lber. MINISTERING SPIRITS. ^ I "*HEY are winging, they are winging Through the thin blue air their way Unseen harps are softly ringing Round about us, night and day. Could we pierce the shadows o'er us. And behold that seraph band. Long-lost friends would bright before us In angelic beauty stand. Lo ! the dim blue mist is sweeping Slowly from my longing eyes. And my heart is upward leaping With a deep and glad surprise. I behold them — close beside me. Dwellers of the spirit- land ; Mists and shades alone divide me From that glorious seraph band. Though life never can restore me My sad bosom's nestling dove. 212 GOLDEN LEAVES. Yet my blue-eyed babe bends o'er nie With her own sweet smile of love ; And the brother, long departed. Who in being's summer died — Warm, and true, and gentle-hearted — ■■ Folds his pinions by my side. Last called from us, loved and dearest — Thou the faultless, tried, and true, Of all earthly friends sincerest. Mother — I behold thee too ! Lo ! celestial light is gleaming Round thy forehead pure and mild. And thine eyes with love are beaming On thy sad, heart-broken child ! Gentle sisters there are bending. Blossoms culled from life's parterre ; And my father's voice ascending. Floats along the charmed air. Hark ! those thrilling tones Ely si an Faint and fainter die away. And the bright seraphic vision Fades upon my sight for aye. But I know they hover round me In the morning's rosy light. And their unseen forms surround me All the deep and solemn night. Yes, they're winging — yes, they're winging Through the thin blue air their way ; Spirit-harps are softly ringing Round about us night and day. MART E. LEE. JHars ®. Itt. THE POETS. '"T^HE poets — the poets — -*- Those giants of the earth , In mighty strength they tower above The men of common birth : A noble race — they mingle not Among the motley throng. But move, with slow and measured steps. To music-notes along. The poets — the poets — What conquests they can boast ! Without one drop of life-blood spilt. They rule a world's wide host ; Their stainless banner floats unharmed From age to lengthened age ; And History records their deeds Upon her proudest page. The poets — the poets — How endless is their fame ! Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leaves No shadow on each name ; But as yon starry gems that gleam In evening's crystal sky. So have they won, in memory's depths. An immortality. 214 GOLDEN LEAVES.^ The poets — the poets — Who doth not linger o'er The glorious volumes that contain Their bright and spotless lore ? They charm us in the saddest hours. Our richest joys they feed ; And love for them has grown to be A universal creed. The poets — the poets — Those kingly minstrels dead. Well may we twine a votive wreath Around each honoured head : No tribute is too high to give Those crowned ones among men. The poets — the true poets — Thanks be to God for them ! iiUi). lUilUam Crosaidl, 5D. S). THE CLOUDS. " Cloud land ! gorgeous land !" — Coleridge. T CANNOT look above and see Yon high-piled, pillowy mass Of evening clouds, so swimmingly In gold and purple pass. And think not. Lord, how thou wast seen On Israel's desert way. GROSWELL. 21 Before them, in thy shadowy screen. Pavilioned all the day 1 Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue Which the Redeemer wore. When, ravished from his followers' view. Aloft his flight He bore. When lifted, as on mighty wing. He curtained his ascent, And, wrapped in clouds, went triumphing Above the firmament. Is it a trail of that same pall Of many-coloured dyes. That high above, o'ermantling all. Hangs midway down the skies — Or borders of those sweeping folds Which shall be all unfurled About the Saviour, when He holds His judgment on the world ? For in like manner as He went, — My soul, hast thou forgot ? — Shall be his terrible descent. When man expecteth not ! Strength, Son of Man, against that hour. Be to our spirits given. When Thou shalt come again with power Upon the clouds of heaven ! 2i6 GOLDEN LEAVES. lllilliam |3itt |J aimer. LINES TO A CHRYSALIS A /FUSING long, I asked me this iVl «. Chrysalis, Lying helpless in my path. Obvious to mortal scath From a careless passer-by. What thy life may signify? Why, from hope and joy apart. Thus thou art ? '* Nature surely did amiss. Chrysalis, When she lavished fins and wings. Nerved with nicest moving-springs. On the mote and madrepore. Wherewithal to swim or soar; And dispensed so niggardly Unto thee. ** E'en the very worm may kiss. Chrysalis, Roses on their topmost stems. Blazoned with their dewy gems. And may rock him to and fro As the zephyrs softly blow ; Whilst thou liest, dark and cold. On the mould." Quoth the Chrysalis : " Sir Bard Not so hard PALMER. 2*'' Is my rounded destiny In the great Economy . Nay, by humble reason viewed. There is much for gratitude In the shaping and upshot Of my lot. " Though I seem of all things born Most forlorn. Most obtuse of soul and sense. Next of kin to Impotence, Nay, to Death himself; yet ne'er Priest or prophet, sage or seer. May sublimer wisdom teach Than I preach. ** From my pulpit of the sod. Like a god, I proclaim this wondrous truth : Farthest age is nearest youth. Nearest Glory's natal porch. Where, with pale, inverted torch, Death lights downward to the rest Of the blest. •* Mark yon airy butterfly's Rainbow-dyes ! Yesterday that shape divine Was as darkly hearsed as mine ; But to-morrow I shall be Free and beautiful as she. And sweep forth on wings of light, Like a sprite. 2l8 GOLDEN LEAVES. ** Soul of man in crypt of clay ! Bide the day When thy latent wings shall be Plumed for immortality. And with transport marvellous Cleave their dark sarcophagus, O'er Elysian fields to soar Evermore !" THE SPELLS OF MEMORY. TT was but the note of a summer bird. But a dream of the past in my heart it stirred. And wafted me far to a breezy spot. Where blossomed the blue forget-me-not. And the broad, green boughs gave a checkered gleam To the dancing waves of a mountain-stream ; And there, in the heat of a summer day. Again on the velvet turf I lay. And saw bright shapes in the floating clouds, And reared fair domes mid their fleecy shrouds. As I looked aloft to the azure sky. And longed for a bird's soft plumes to fly. Till lost in its depths of purity. Alas ! I have waked from that early dream : Far, rar away is the mountain-stream ; And the dewy turf, where so oft I lay, And the woodland flowers, they are far away ; MRS. MEIGS. 219 And the skies that once were to me so blue. Now bend above with a darker hue : And yet I may wander in fancy back. At Memory's call, to my childhood's track. And the fount of Thought hath been deeply stirred By the passing note of a summer bird. It was but the rush of the autumn wind. But it left a spell of the past behind. And I was abroad with my brothers twain In the tangled paths of the wood again : Where the leaves were rustling beneath our feet. And the merry shout of our gleesome mood Was echoed far in the solitude. As we caught the prize which a kindly breeze Sent down in a shower from the chestnut-trees. Oh ! a weary time hath passed away Since my brothers were out by my side at play ; A weary time, with its weight of care. And its toil in the city's crowded air. And its pining wish for the hill-tops high ; For the laughing stream and the clear blue sky ; For the shaded dell, and the leafy halls Of the old green wood where the sunlight falls. But I see the haunts of my early days — The old green wood where the sunshine plays, x'lnd the flashing stream in its course of light. And the hill-tops high, and the sky so bright. And the silent depths of the shaded dell. Where the twilight shadows at noonday fell ; And the mighty charm which hath conquered thess Is naught, save a rush of the autumn breeze. 220 GOLDEN LEAVES. It was but a violet's faint perfume. But it bore me back to a quiet room. Where a gentle girl in" the spring-time gay Was breathing her fair young life away. Whose light through the rose-hued curtains fell. And tinted her cheek like the ocean-shtil ; And the southern breeze on its fragrant wings Stole in with its tale of all lovely things ; Where Love watched on through the long, long hours. And Friendship came with its gift of flowers ; And Death drew near with a stealthy tread. And lightly pillowed in dust her head. And sealed up gently the lids so fair. And damped the brow with its clustering hair. And left the maiden in slumber deep. To waken no more from that tranquil sleep. . hen we laid the flower her hand had pressed T wither and die on her gentle breast ; 'Vnd back to the shade of that quiet room i go with the violet's faint perfume. ^broar^ dioates |]inkneg. ITALY. IT^NOW'ST thou the land which lovers ought to choose ^^ Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews ; In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run. The purple vintage clusters in the sun ; Odours of flowers haunt the balmy breeze. Rich fruits hang high upon the verdant trees ; PINK NET. 22 1 And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves. Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless loves. Beloved ! — speed we from, this sullen strand. Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand. Look seaward thence, and naught shall meet thine eye But fairy isles, like paintings on the sky ; And, flying fast and free before the gale. The gaudy vessel with its glancing sail ; And waters glittering in the glare of noon. Or touched with silver by the stars and moon. Or flecked with broken lines of crimson light. When the far fisher's fire affronts the night. Lovely as loved ! toward that smiling shore Bear we our household gods, to fix forever more. It looks a dimple on the face of Earth, The seal of Beauty, and the shrine of Mirth ; Nature is delicate and graceful there. The place's Genius^ feminine and fair ; The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud ; The air seems never to have borne a cloud. Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curled And solemn smokes, like altars of the world. Thrice beautiful ! — to that delightful spot Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot. There Art, too, shows, when Nature's beauty palls. Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls ; And there are forms in which they both conspire To whisper themes that know not how to tire ; The speaking ruins, in that gentle clime. Have but been hallowed by the hand of Time, II v£22 GOLD EN. L EA YES. And each can mutely prompt some thought of flame — The meanest stone is not without a name. Then come, beloved ! — hasten o'er the sea. To build our happy hearth in blooming Italy Ret). ®eorije U). I3di)une, U. ?3. I NIGHT STUDY. AM alone ; and yet In the still solitude there is a rush Around me, as were met A crowd of viewless wings ; I hear a gush Of uttered harmonies — heaven meeting earth. Making it to rejoice with holy mirth. Ye winged Mysteries, Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye. Beckoning me to arise. And go forth from my very self, and fly With you far in the unknown, unseen immense Of worlds beyond our sphere — what are ye ? whence ? Ye eloquent Voices, Now soft as breathings of a distant flute. Now strong as when rejoices The trumpet in the victory and pursuit; Strange are ye, yet familiar, as ye call My soul to wake from earth's sense and its thrall. B'ETHUNE. 22^ I know you now — I see With more than natural light — ye are the good The wise departed — ye Are come from heaven to claim your brotherhood With mortal brother, struggling in the strife And chains, which once were yours in this sad life Ye hover o'er the page Ye traced in ancient days with glorious thought For many a distant age ; Ye love to watch the inspiration caught From your sublime examples, and so cheer The fainting student to your high career. Ye come to nerve the soul. Like him who near the Atoner stood, when He, Trembling, saw round him roll The wrathful portents of Gethsemane, With courage strong : the promise ye have known And proved, rapt for me from the Eternal throne. Still keep, oh, keep me near you ! Compass me round with your immortal wings : Still let my glad soul hear you Striking your triumphs from your golden strings. Until with you I mount and join the song. An angel, like you, mid the white-robed throng. . 224 GOLDEN LEAVES (&tox%t |). ill orris. V^)ODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. V^TOODMAN, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough ! In youth it sheltered me. And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot ; There, woodman, let it stand — Thy axe shall harm it not ! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea. And wouldst thou hew it down r Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! Cut not its earth-bound ties ; Oh, spare that aged oak. Now towering to the skies ! When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade ; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here ; My father pressed my hand — Forgive this foolish tear. But let that old oak stand ! My heart-strings round thee cling Close as thy bark, old friend ! MORRIS. Here shall the wild-bird sing. And still thy branches bend. Old tree ! the storm still brave ! And, woodman, leave the spot ; While Pve a hand to save. Thy axe shall harm it not ! 225 THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 'lltT'HY dost thou come, at set of sun. Those pensive words to say f Why whip poor Will ? — what has he done ? And who is Will, I pray ? Why come from yon leaf-shaded hill, A suppliant at my door ? Why ask of me to whip poor Will ? And is Will really poor ? If poverty's his crime, let mirth From out his heart be driven ; That is the deadliest sin on earth. And never is forgiven. Art Will himself? It must be so — I learn it from thy moan ; For none can feel another's woe As deeply as his own. Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat While other birds repose ? What means thy melancholy note ? The mystery disclose. 226 GOLDEN LEAVES. Still " Whip poor Will !" — Art thou a sprite From unknown regions sent. To wander in the gloom of night. And ask for punishment ? Is thine a conscience sore beset With guilt ? — or, what is worse. Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt. No money in thy purse ? If this be thy hard fate indeed. Ah ! well mayst thou repine ; The sympathy I give I need — The poet's doom is thine. Art thou a lover. Will ? — hast proved The fairest can deceive ? Thine is the lot of all who've loved. Since Adam wedded Eve. Hast trusted in a friend, and seen No friend was he in need ? A common error — men still lean Upon as frail a reed. Hast thou, in seeking wealth and fame, A crown of brambles won ? O'er all the earth 'tis just the same. With every mother's son. Hast found the world a Babel wide. Where man to Mammon stoops — Where flourish arrogance and pride. While modest merit droops ? MORRIS. ^zy What ! none of these ? Then whence thy pain — To guess it who's the skill ? Pray have the kindness to explain Why I should whip poor Will ? Dost merely ask thy just desert ? What ! not another word ? Back to the woods again, unhurt — I would not harm thee, bird ! But treat thee kindly — for my nerves. Like thine, have penance done ; Use every man as he deserves. Who shall 'scape whipping ?— None ! Farewell, poor Will ! — not valueless This lesson by thee given ; Keep thine own counsel, and confess Thyself alone to Heaven ! MY MOTHERS BIBLE. ^T^HIS book is all that's left me now ! "*■ Tears will unbidden start — With faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart. For many generations past. Here is our family tree ; My mother's hands this Bible clasped — She, dying, gave it me. Ah ! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear. 228 GOLDEN LEAVES. Who round the hearthstone used to close After the evening prayer. And speak of what these pages said. In tones my heart would thrill : Though they are with the silent dead. Here are they living still ! My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters dear; How calm was my poor mother's look. Who leaned God's word to hear ! Her angel face — I see it yet ; What thronging memories come ! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home ! Thou truest friend man ever knew. Thy constancy I've tried; Where all were false I found thee true. My counsellor and guide. The mines of earth no treasure give That could this volume buy : In teaching me the way to live. It taught me how to die. THE WEST. H 'O ! brothers — come hither, and list to my story- Merry and brief will the narrative be : Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory — Master am I, boys, of all that I see. MORRIS. 229 Where once frowned a forest a garden is smiling — The meadow and moorland are marshes no more ; And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling The children who cluster like grapes at the door. Then enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest — The land of the heart is the land of the West. Oho, boys ! — oho, boys ! — oho ! Talk not of the town, boys — give me the broad prairie. Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free ; Behold how its beautiful colours all vary. Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea ! A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing ; With proud independence we season our cheer. And those who the world are for happiness ranging Won't find it at all if they don't find it here. Then enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest ; I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West. Oho, boys ! — oho, boys ! — oho ! Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger. We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own ; We spread hospitality's board for the stranger. And care not a fig for the king on his throne. We never know want, for we live by our labour. And in it contentment and happiness find ; We do what we can for a friend or a neighbour. And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind. Then enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest ; You know how we live, boys, and die in the West ! Oho, boys ! — oho, boys ! — oho ! II* 230 GOLDEN LEAVES. Cgbta laxit J3tev0on. THE WILD-WOOD HOME. /^H, show me a place like the wild-wood home, ^^ Where the air is fragrant and free. And the first pure breathings of Morning come In a gush of melody ! She lifts the soft fringe from her dark-blue eye With a radiant smile of love. And the diamonds that o'er her bosom lie Are bright as the gems above ; Where noon lies down in the breezy shade Of the glorious forest bowers. And the beautiful birds from the sunny glades Sit nodding amongst the flowers. While the holy child of the mountain-spring Steals past with a murmured song. And the honey-bees sleep in the bells that swing Its garlanded banks along; Where Day steals away, with a young bride's blush,- To the soft green couch of Night, And the Moon throws o'er, with a holy hush. Her curtain of gossamer light ; And the seraph that sings in the hemlock dell (Oh, sweetest of birds is she !) Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell Of melody rich and free ; There are sumptuous mansions with marble Wilis. Surmounted by glittering towers. GREENE. 231 Where fountains play in the perfumed hallb Amongst exotic flowers : They are suitable homes for the haughty m mind. Yet a wild-wood home for me, '^here the pure bright streams, and the mountain-wind. And the bounding heart, are free ! :3llbevt ®. ®mne. THE baron's last BANQJJET. /^^ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray. Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay — The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. '^ They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er — That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more ; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege-lord and master born, that I — ha ! ha ! — must die. '*And what is Death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear; — Think ye he's entered at my gate — has come to seek me here ? 232 GOLDEN LEAVES. I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot ; — I'll try his might — I'll brave his power j defy, and fear him not! " Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the cul- verin ; Bid each retainer arm with speed : call every vassal in. Up with my banner on the wall ! — the banquet-board pre- Dare, — J. ■* Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armour there 1" A hundred-. hands were busy then : the banquet forth was spread, And rang the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread ; While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall. Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board ; While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state. Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate. " Fill every beaker up, my men — pour forth the cheering wine ! There's life and strength in every drop — thanksgiving to the vine ! GREENE. 233 Are ye all there, my vassals true? — mine eyes are waxing dim : Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim ! ^'Ye're there j but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword. And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board. I hear it faintly. Louder yet 1 — What clogs my heavy breath ? Up all, and shout for Rudiger — ' Defiance unto Death !' " Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deaf ening cry. That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high. " Ho ! cravens, do ye fear him ? — Slaves, traitors, have ye flown ? Ho ! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone ? " But I defy him — let him come !" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sneath the ready blade came flashing half way up ; And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat, dead. 234 GOLDEN LEAVES. OLD GRIMES. /^LD Grimes is dead ! that good old man ^^ We never shall see more : He used to wear a long, black coat. All buttoned down before. His heart was open as the day ; His feelings all were true : His hair was some inclined to gray — He wore it in a queue. Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, . His breast with pity burned ; The large, round head upon his cane From ivory was turned. Kind words he ever had for all ; He knew no base design : His eyes were dark and rather small, ■ His nose was aquiline. He lived at peace with all mankind. In friendship he was true : His coat had pocket-holes behind. His pantaloons were blue. Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er. And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more. GBEENE. 235 But good old G«.iMES is now at rest. Nor fears Misfortune's frown : He wore a double-breasted vest — The stripes ran up and down. He modest merit sought to find. And pay it its desert : He had no malice in his mind. No ruffles on his shirt. His neighbours he did not abuse — Was sociable and gay : He wore large buckles on his shoes. And changed them every day. His knowledge, hid from public gaze. He did not bring to view. Nor make a noise town-meeting days. As many people do. His worldly goods he never threw In trust to Fortune's chances. But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances. Thus undisturbed by anxious cares. His peaceful moments ran • And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman. 236 GOLDEN LEAVES. LEGENDS OF FLOWERS. /^H, gorgeous tales, in days of old, ^"'^ Were linked with opening flowers. As if in their fairy urns of gold Beat human hearts like ours ; The nuns in their cloister, sad and pale. As they watched soft buds expand, On their glowing petals traced a tale Or legend of Holy Land. Brightly to them did thy snowy leaves For the sainted Mary shine. As they twined for her forehead vestal wreaths Of thy white buds, cardamine ! The crocus shone, when the fields were bare. With a gay, rejoicing smile ; But the hearts that answered Love's tender prayer Grew brightened with joy the while. Of the coming spring and the summer's light. To others that flower might say; But the lover welcomed the herald bright Of the glad St. Valentine's day. The crocus was hailed as a happy flower. And the holy saint that day ' Poured out on the earth their golden shower To light his votaries' way. On the day of St. George, the brave St. George, To merry England dear. MISS HO OFER. 237 By field and by fell, and by mountain-gorge. Shone hyacinths blue and clear : Lovely and prized was their purple light. And 'twas said in ancient story, That their fairy bells rang out at night A peal to old England's glory ; And sages read in the azure hue Of the flowers so widely known. That by white sail spread over ocean's blue Should the empire's right be shown. And thou of faithful memory, St. John, thou " shining light," Beams not a burning torch for thee. The scarlet lychnis bright ? While holy Mary, at thy shrine. Another pure flower blooms. Welcome to thee v/ith news divine. The lily's faint perfumes ; Proudly its stately head it rears. Arrayed in virgin white — So Truth, amid a world of tears. Doth shine with vestal light. And thou, whose opening buds were shown A Saviour's cross beside. We hail thee, passion-flower alone, Sacred to Christ, who died. No image of a mortal love. May thy bright blossoms be Linked with a passion far above — A Saviour's agony. 238 GOLDEN LEAVES. All other flowers are pale and dim. All other gifts are loss j We twine thy matchless buds for Him Who died on holy cross. Iame0 Jfack. SPRING IS COMING. OPRING is coming ! Spring is coming ! Birds are chirping, insects humming ; Flowers are peeping from their sleeping ; Streams, escaped from Winter's keeping, In delighted freedom rushing. Dance along in music gushing ; Scenes of late in deadness saddened. Smile in animation gladdened : All is beauty, all is mirth. All is glory upon earth. Shout we, then, with Nature's voice — ** Welcome, Spring ! rejoice ! rejoice !" Spring is coming ! — Come, my brother. Let us rove with one another To our well-remembered wild-wood. Flourishing in Nature's childhood. Where a thousand flowers are springing. And a thousand birds are singing ; Where the golden sunbeams quiver On the verdure-bordered river; SIMMS. 239 Let our youth of feeling out To the youth of Nature shout. While the waves repeat our voice — " Welcome, Spring ! rejoice ! rejoice !" lUllUain ®i!inore Simme. THE LOST PLEIAD, l^TOT in the sky, ^ 'Adhere it was seen, Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave, Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep, — Though green. And beautiful its caves of mystery, — Shall the bright watcher have A place — and, as of old, high station keep. Gone, gone ! Oh, never more to cheer The mariner who holds his course alone On the x4.t]antic, through the w«ary night. When the stars turn to watchers and do sleep. Shall it appear. With the sweet fixedness of certain light, Down-shining on the shut eyes of the Deep. Vain, vain ! Hopefdl most idly then, shall he look forth. That mariner from his bark — Howe'er the North Dot), raise his certain lamp v/hen tempests low er 240 GOLD EN LEAVES. He sees no more that perished light again ! And gloomier grows the hour Which may not, through the thick and crowding dark. Restore that lost and loved one to her tower. He looks, — the shepherd on Chaldea's hills. Tending his flocks, — And wonders the rich beacon doth not blaze. Gladdening his gaze ; And, from his dreary watc h along the rocks. Guiding him safely home ihrough perilous ways ! How stands he in amaze. Still wondering, as the drowsy silence fills The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils Its leaden dews — how chafes he at the night. Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light. So natural to his sight ! And lone. Where its first splendours shone, Shall be that pleasant company of stars : How should they know that death Such perfect beauty mars ; And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath. Fallen from on high. Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die— ■ All their concerted springs of harmony Snapped rudely, and the generous music gone f A strain — a mellow strain — Of wailing sweetness, filled the earth and sky ; The Stars lamenting in unborrowed pain That one of the selectest ones must die ; SIMMS. 241 Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest i Alas I 'tis ever more the destiny. The hope, heart-cherished, is the soonest lost; The flower first budded soonest feels the frost Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest ? And, like the pale star shooting down the sky. Look they not ever brightest when they fly The desolate home they blessed ? THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. 5^nr^lS a wild spot, and hach a gloomy look; The bird sings never merrily in the trees. And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank growtn Spreads poisonously round, with power to taint With blistering dews the thoughtless hand that dares To penetrate the covert. Cypresses Crowd on the dank, wet earth ; and, stretched at length. The cayman — a fit dweller in such home — Slumbers, half-buried in the sedgy grass. Beside the green ooze, where he shelters him, A whooping crane erects his skeleton form. And shrieks in flight. Two summer ducks, aroused To apprehension, as they hear his cry. Dash up from the lagoon, with marvellous haste. Following his guidance. Meetly taught by these. And startled at our rapid, near approach. The steel-jawed monster, from his grassy bed. Crawls slowly to his slimy, green abode. Which straight r-eceives him. You behold him now. ^2 G OLDEN LEAVES. His ridgy back uprising as he speeds In silence to the centre of the stream. Whence his head peers alone. A butterfly. That, travelling all the day, has counted climes Only by flowers, to rest himself a while. Lights on the monster's brow. The surly mute Straightway goes down so suddenly, that he. The dandy of the summer flowers and woods. Dips his light wings, and spoils his golden coat. With the rank water of that turbid pond. Wondering and vexed, the plumed citizen Flies, with a hurried effort, to the shore. Seeking his kindred flowers : but seeks in vain — Nothing of genial growth may there be seen. Nothing of beautiful ! Wild, ragged trees. That look like felon spectres — fetid shrubs. That taint the gloomy atmosphere — dusk shades. That gather, half a cloud and half a fiend In aspect, lurking on the swamp's wild edge, — Gloom with their sternness and forbidding frowns The general prospect. The sad butterfly. Waving his lackered wings, darts quickly on. And, by his free flight, counsels us to speed For better lodgings, and a scene more sweet Than these drear borders offer us to-night. MBS. STEPHENS. 24'^ ::^nu 6. 0kpl)en0. DROPPING LEAVES. '"P^HE leaves are dropping, dropping. And I watch them as they go ; Now whirling, floating, stopping. With a look of noiseless woe. Yes, I watch them in their falling. As they tremble from the stem. With a stillness so appalling — And my heart goes down with them ! Yes, I see them floating round me Mid the beating of the rain. Like the hopes that still have bound me To the fading past again. They are floating through the stillness. They are given to the storm — And they tremble off like phantoms Of a joy that has no form. But the proud tree stands up prouder, While its branches cast their leaves — And the cold wind whispers louder. Like a sobbing breath that grieves ; A heart that's long in breaking. As a single flower may cling, All withered, shorn, and quaking. On the naked stalk till spring. Then I thought — " That tree is human, And its boughs are human too ; 244 G OLDEN LEAVES. For while the leaves were wealth) With kindling sap and dew — While the sun shot golden lances Through all its billowy green. And the birds poured love and music Where the slanting rays had been — " Then its great roots gathered fragrance, Like wine-drops from the ground. Till it sparkled through the foliage. As faith fills the profound Of souls that live together In kindred trust and love. Till their union seems immortal As the burning stars above. " But the very dews of summer Had left their own decay ; And Change, a ruthless vampire. That steals the soul away. Came with the mellow autumn. And touched those leaves with blight ; Then the frost came stealing earthward. Like a ghost upon the night. ** When the frost had done its death-work^ When the golden leaves were sear. And the brown crept dimly on them In the old age of the year, — Ah ! the roots withdrew their nurture. While the tree stood firm and high ; When the leaves had lost their greenness, Lo, it cast them off to die !" POE. 245 Then I thought, " Those leaves were weary. And thrilled with human pain. As they fell so cold and dreary Beneath the beating rain. While the boughs waved slow and grimly, And shook them all away — Those leaves that fell so dimly. Like shadows on the day !" Then my soul went sadly after. As they quivered from my sight. And it followed faster, faster. As my hopes had taken flight. So I watched the pale leaves flutter. Flutter downward from the stem ; And I said, " The cold earth under Is enough for me and them." THE RAVEN. /^NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak ^■'^ and weary. Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly theie came a tapping. As of some or*" gently rapping, rapping at my chambo door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, '* tapping at my chamber Only this, and nothing more." 12 246 G OLDEN LEAVES Ahj distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, *' 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamxber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, ** Sir," said I, ** or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping. And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door. That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the door J — Darkness there, and nothing more. P OE. 247 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there won- dering, fearing. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before : But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "LenoreI" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, " Lenore 1"— Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than befoie, " Surely," said I, '* surely that is something at my window lattice ; Let me see, then, what thereat is — and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; — 'Tis the wind, and nothing more.'* Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter. In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed he ^ But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 24« GOLDEN LEAVES, Then tnib ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smi- ling. By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, *'* Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven. Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from tiie Nightly shore — ■ Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore !" Quoth the Raven, *' Nevermore," Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly. Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door. With such name as " Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered — Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have flown before — On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." • Then the bird said, *' Nevermore." POE. 249 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spo- ken, "Doubtless," said I, **what it utters is its only stock and store. Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore — Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore. Of * Never — nevermore '/ " But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smi ling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door : Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linfc- ing Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore. Meant in croaking ''Nevermore/ This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom^s core ; This and more I sat divinmg, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er. But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 250 GOLDEN LEAVES. Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. ** Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels He hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of. Lenore ! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore !" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." *' Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! — Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore. Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore !" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, ** thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! — By that Heaven that bends above us — -by that God we both adore — Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — ^ Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenorr ?" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." POE. 251 "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or iiend !" J shrieked, upstarting — " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — -quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from ofF my door !" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting. On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore ! ANNABEL LEE. TT was many and many a year ago. In a kingdom by the sea. That a maiden lived, whom you may know Bv the name -of Annabel Lee ; And this maiden she lived with no other thoughi Than to love, and be loved by me. 252 G DLDEN LEAVES. I was a child and she was a child. In this kingdom by the sea ; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee — With a love that the v/inged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago. In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee ; So that her high-born kinsman cam.e. And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know). In this kingdom by the sea. That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we. Of many far wiser than we ; And neither the angels in heaven above. Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; POE. 253 And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea. In her tomb by the sounding sea. THE BELLS. ff 'EAR the sledges with the bells — Silver bells ! What a world of merriment their melody foretells How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystaUine delight — Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells. Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkhng of the oells. II. Hear the mellow wedding bells — Golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight ! 12* ^54 GOLDEN LEAVES. From the molten-golden notes. And all in tune. What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon ! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ^ How it swells ! How it dwells On the Future ! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells. Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells. III. Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of Night How they scream out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak. They can only shriek, shriek. Out of tune. In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, [n a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher. With a desperate desire, A-ud a resolute endeavour. Now — now to sit or never. By the side of the pale-faced moon. POE. 255 Oh, the bells, bells, bells. What a tale their terror tells Of Despair ! How they clang, and clash, and roar ! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating Air ! Yet the ear it fully knows. By the twanging. And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet the ear distinctly tells. In the jangling. And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells. By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. Bells, bells, bells — In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! Hear the tolling of the bells — Iron bells ! vVhat a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! In the silence of the night. How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone ! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And tne people — ah, the people — rhey that dwell up in the steeple. All alone. 256 G OLDEN LEA VES. And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone. Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman — They are neither brute nor human — They are ghouls : And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls. Rolls, A paean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the pasan of the bells ! And he dances and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the pasan of the bells — Of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the throbbing of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells — To the sobbing of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time. As he knells, knells, knells. In a happy Runic rhyme. To the rolling of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells — To the tolling of the bells. Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — Bells, bells, bells — . To the moaning and the groaning of the bells MRS. WHITMAN. 257 Sara!) ^elcn U)l)ttman. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY! A TALE OF FORESTS AND ENCHANTMENTS DREAR." // PenseroiO *' Sister, 'tis the noon of night ! — Let us, in the web of thought, Weave the threads of ancient song, From the realms of Fairies brought. " Thou shalt stain the duslcy warp In nightshade wet with twilight dew ; I, with streaks of morning gold, Will strike the fabric through and through."* XXT'HERE a lone castle by the sea Upreared its dark and mouldering pile. Far seen, with all its frowning towers. For many and many a weary mile. The wild waves beat the castle walls. And bathed the rock with ceaseless showers; The winds roared fiercely round the pile. And moaned along its mouldering towers. Within those wide and echoing halls. To guard her from a fatal spell, A maid of noble lineage born Was doomed in solitude to dwell. Five fairies graced the infant's birth With fame and beauty, wealth and power ; rhe sixth, by one fell stroke, reversed The lavish splendours of her dower, * This is a joint production of Mrs. Whitman and her sister, Miss Power. 258 GOLDEN LEAVES. Whene'er the orphan's lily hand A spindle's shining point should pierce, She swore, upon her magic wand. The maid should sleep a hundred years. The wild waves beat the castle wall. And bathed the rock with ceaseless showers Dark, heaving billows plunge and fall In whitening foam beneath the towers. There, rocked by winds and lulled by waves. In youthful grace the maiden grew. And from her solitary dreams A sweet and pensive pleasure drew. Vet often, from her lattice high. She gazed athwart the gathering night. To marjc the sea-gulls wheeling by. And longed to follow in their flight. One winter night, beside the hearth She sat and watched the smouldering fire. While now the tempests seemed to lull. And now the winds rose high and higher ; Strange sounds are heard along the wall, Dim faces glimmer through the gloom. And still mysterious voices call. And shadows flit from room to room — Till, bending o'er the dying brands. She chanced a sudden gleam to see : She turned the sparkling embers o'er. And lo ! she finds a golden key ! Lured on, as by an unseen hand. She roamed the castle o'er and o'er — MES. WHITMAN. Through many a darlding chamber sped. And many a dusky corridor : And still, through unknown, winding way She wandered on for many an hour. For gallery still to gallery leads. And tower succeeds to tower. Oft, wearied with the steep ascent. She lingered on her lonely way. And paused beside the pictured walls. Their countless wonders to survey. At length, upon a narrow stair That wound within a turret high, She saw a little low-browed door. And turned, her golden key to try : Slowly, beneath her trembling hand. The bolts recede, and, backward flung With harsh recoil and sullen clang The door upon its hinges swung. There, in a little moonlit room. She sees a weird and withered crone. Who sat and spun amid the gloom. And turned her wheel with drowsy dron With mute amaze and wondering awe, A passing moment stood the maid, I'hen, entering at the narrow door. More near the mystic task surveyed. She saw her twine the flaxen fleece. She saw her draw the flaxen thread. She viewed the spindle's shining point. And, pleased, the novel task surveyed. 259 26o G OLDEN LEAVES. A sadden longing seized her breast To twine the fleece, to turn the wheel : She stretched her lily hand, and pierced Her finger with the shining steel ! Slowly her heavy eyelids close ; She feels a drowsy torpor creep From limb to limb, till every sense Is locked in an enchanted sleeo. X A dreamless slumber, deep as night. In deathly trance her senses locked ; At once through all its massive vaults And gloomy towers the castle rocked. The beldame roused her from her lair. And raised on high a mournful wail — A shrilly scream that seemed to float A requiem on the dying gale. ** A hundred yeai-s shah pass," she said, *' Ere those blue eyes behold the morn. Ere these deserted halls and towers Shall echo to a bugle-horn. " A hundred Norland winters pass. While drenching rains and drifting snows Shall beat against tne ca&\.ie wahs. Nor wake thee from thy long i-epose. A hundred times the golden grain Shall wave beneath the harvest moon, Twelve hundred moons shall wax and wane Ere yet thine eyes behold the sun !" She ceased : but still the mystic rhyme rhe long-resounding aisles prolong. MRS. WHITMAN. 261 And all the castle's echoes chime In answering cadence to her song. She bore the maiden to her bower. An ancient chamber wide and low. Where golden sconces from the wall A faint and trembling lustre throw ; — A silent chamber, far apart. Where strange and antique arras hung. That waved along the mouldering walls. And in the gusty night-wind swung. She laid her on her ivory bed. And gently smoothed each snowy limb. Then drew the curtain's dusky fold To make the entering daylight dim. PART II. And all around, on every side. Throughout the castle's precincts wide. In every bower and hall. All slept : the warder in the court. The figures on the arras wrought. The steed within his stall. No more the watch-dog bayed the moon. The owlet ceased her boding tune. The raven on his tower ; All hushed in slumber still and deep. Enthralled in an enchanted sleep. Await the appointed hour, A pathless forest, wild and wide. Engirt the castle's inland side. And stretched for many a mile ; 262 G OLDEN LEAVES. So thick its deep, impervious screen. The castle towers were dimly seen Above the mouldering pile. So high the ancient cedars sprung. So far aloft their branches flung, So close the covert grew. No foot its silence could invade, ■ No eye could pierce its depths of shade. Or see the welkin through. Yet oft, as from some distant mound The traveller cast his eyes around. O'er wold and woodland gray. He saw, athwart the glimmering light Of moonbeams, on a misty night, A castle far away. A hundred Norland winters passed. While drenching rains and drifting snows Beat loud against the castle walls. Nor broke the maiden's long repose. A hundred times on vale and hill The reapers bound the golden corn — And now the ancient halls and towers Re-echo to a bugle-horn ! A warrior from a distant land. With helm and hauberk, spear and brand. And high, untarnished crest. By visions of enchantment led. Hath vowed, before the morning's red, To break her charmed rest. MRS. WHITMAN'. 263 From torrid clime beyond the main He comes the costly prize to gain. O'er deserts waste and wide. No dangers daunt, no toils can tire ; With throbbing heart and soul on hre He seeks his sleeping bride. He gains the old, enchanted wood, Where never mortal footsteps trod — He pierced its tangled gloom ; A chillness loads the lurid air. Where baleful swamp-fires gleam and glare His pathway to illume. Well might the warrior's courage fail. Well might his lofty spirit quail. On that enchanted ground; No open foeman meets him there. But, borne upon the murky air. Strange horror broods around I At every turn his footsteps sank Mid tangled boughs and mosses dank. For long and weary hours — Till, issuing from the dangerous wood. The castle full before him stood. With all its flanking towers ! The moon a paly lustre sheds ; Resolved, the grass-grown court he tread The gloomy portal gained — He crossed the threshold's magic bound, He paced the hall, where all around A deathly silence reigned. 264 GOLDEN LEAVES. No fears his venturous course could stay- Darkling he groped his dreary way — Up the wide staircase sprang. It echoed to his mailed heel; With clang of arms and clash of steel The silent chambers rang. He sees a glimmering taper gleam Far off, with faint and trembling beam. Athwart the midnight gloom : Then first he felt the touch of fear. As, with slow footsteps drawing near. He gained the lighted room. And now the waning moon was low. The perfumed tapers faintly glow, And, by their dying gleam. He raised the curtain's dusky fold. And lo ! his charmed eyes behold The lady of his dream ! As violets peep from wintry snows. Slowly her heavy lids unclose. And gently heaves her breast ; But all unconscious was her gaze. Her eye with listless languor strays From brand to plumy crest : A rising blush begins to dawn. Like that which steals at early morn Across the eastern sky ; And slowly, as the morning broke. The maiden from her trance awoke Beneath his ardent eye ! MRS. WHITMAN. 265 As the first kindling sunbeams threw Their level light athwart the dew. And tipped the hills with flame. The silent 'forest-boughs were stirred With music, as from bee and bird A mingling murmur came. From out its depths of tangled gloom There came a breath of dewy bloom. And from the valleys dim A cloud of fragrant incense stole. As if each violet breathed its soul Into that floral hymn. Loud neighed the steed within his stall. The cock crowed on the castle wall. The warder wound his horn ; The linnet sang in leafy bower. The swallows, twittering from the tower. Salute the rosy morn. But fresher than the rosy morn. And blither than the bugle-horn. The maiden's heart doth prove. Who, as her beaming eyes awake. Beholds a double morning break — The dawn of light and love ! 266 G OLDEN LEAVES. Ionat!]an Caiurence. LOOK ALOFT. TN the tempest of" life, when the wave and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail. If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, ** Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow. With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe. Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed, ** Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which Hope spreads in light to thine eye. Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly. Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, *' Look aloft" to the Sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart. The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart, ** Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb. To that soil where '* affection is ever in bloom." And oh, when Death comes in his terrors, to cast His fears on the future, his pall on the past. In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart. And a smile in thine eye, '* look aloft," and depart ! PR'S NT ICE. 267 ©corge ID. |Ovmtic£. SABBATH EVENING. T TOW calmly sinks the parting sun ! Yet twilight lingers still ; And, beautiful as dream of heaven. It slumbers on the hill ; Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things. Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings. And, rendering back the hues above. Seems resting in a trance of love. Round yonder rocks the forest-trees In shadowy groups recline. Like saints at evening bowed in prayer Around their holy shrine ; And through their leaves the night- winds blow •So calm and still, their music low Seems the mysterious voice of prayer. Soft echoed on the evening air. ^nd yonder western throng of clouds. Retiring from the sky. So calmly move, so softly glow. They seem to Fancy's eye Bright creatures of a better sphere. Come dov/n at noon to worship here. And, from their sacrifice of love. Returning to their home above. The blue isles of the golden sea. The night-arch floating by. 268 G OLDEN LEAVES. The flowers that gaze upon the heavens. The bright streams leaping by. Are living with religion — deep On earth and sea its glories sleep. And mingle with the starlight rays. Like the soft light of parted days. The spirit of the holy eve Comes through the silent air To Feeling's hidden spring, and wakes A gush of music there ! And the far depths of ether beam So passing fair, we almost dream That we can rise, and wander through Their open paths of trackless blue. Each soul is filled with glorious dreams. Each pulse is beating wild ; And Thought is soaring to the shrine Of Glory undefiled ! And holy aspirations start. Like blessed angels, from the heart. And bind — for earth's dark ties are riven- Our spirits to the gates of heaven. THE DEAD MARINER. CJLEEP on, sleep on ! above thy corse ^ The winds their Sabbath keep ; The waves are round thee, and thy breast Heaves with the heaving deep. PRENTICE. 239 O'er thee mild Eve her beauty flings. And there the white gull lifts her wings. And the blue halcyon loves to lave Her plumage in the deep blue wave. Sleep on; no willow o'er thee bends With melancholy air — No violet springs, nor dewy rose Its soul of love lays bare ; But there the sea- flower, bright and young. Is sweetly o'er thy slumbers flung, And^ like a weeping mourner fair. The pale flag hangs its tresses there. Sleep on, sleep on ; the glittering depths Of ocean's coral caves Are thy bright urn — thy requiern The music of its waves ; The purple gems forever burn In fadeless beauty round thy urn. And, pure and deep as infant love. The blue sea rolls its waves above. Sleep on, sleep on ; the fearful wrath Of mingling cloud and deep May leave its wild and stormy track Above thy place of sleep ; But when the wave has sunk to rest, As now, 'twill murmur o'er thy breast, And the bright victims of the sea Perchance will make their home with thee. Sleep on ; thy corse is far away, But love bewails thee yet; ^3 270 GOLDEN LEAVES For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed. And lovely eyes are wet : And she, thy young and beauteous bride. Her thoughts are hovering by thy side. As oft she turns to view, with tears, The Eden of departed years. Jrances Sargeitt ©sgoob. THE COCOA-NUT TREE. /^H, the green and the graceful —the cocoa-nut tree ^^ The lone and the lofty — it loves, like me, The flash, the foam of the heaving sea. And the sound of the surging waves In the shore's unfathomed caves : With its stately shaft and its verdant crown. And its fruit in clusters drooping down — Some of a soft and tender green. And some all ripe and brown between. And flowers, too, blending their lovelier grace Like a blush through the tresses on Beauty's face. Oh, the lovely, the free. The cocoa-nut tree. Is the tree of all trees for me ! The willow, it waves with a tenderer motion. The oak and the elm with more majesty rise ; But give me the cocoa, that loves the wild ocean, And shadows the hut where the island-girl lies. MRS. OSGOOD. 271 In the Nicobar Islands, each cottage you see Is built of the trunk of the cocoa-nut tree. While its leaves, matted thickly and many times o'er. Make a thatch for its roof and a mat for its floor ; Its shells the dark islander's beverage hold — 'Tis a goblet as pure as a goblet of gold. Oh, the cocoa-nut tree. That blooms by the sea. Is the tree of all trees for me ! In the Nicobar Isles, of the cocoa-nut tree They build the light shallop — the wild, the free ; They weave of its fibres so firm a sail. It will v/eather the rudest southern gale ; They fill it with oil, and with coarse jaggherry — With arrack and coir, from the cocoa-nut tree. The lone, the free. That dwells in the roar Of the echoing shore — Oh, the cocoa-nut tree for me ! Rich is the cocoa-nut's milk and meat. And its wine, the pure palm-wine, is sweet ; It is like the bright spirits we sometimes meet^ — The wine of the cocoa-nut tree ; For they tie up the embryo bud's soft wing. From which the blossoms and nuts would spring; And thus, forbidden to bless with bloom Its native air, and with soft perfume. The subtile spirit that struggles there Distils an essence more rich and rare — And instead of a blossom and fruitage birth, The delicate palm-wine oozes forth. 272 GOLDEN LEAVES. All, thus to the child of genius, too. The rose of beauty is oft denied ; But all the richer, that high heart through. The torrent of feeling pours its tide ; And purer and fonder, and far more true. Is that passionate soul in its lonely pride. Oh, the fresh, the free. The cocoa-nut tree. Is the tree of all trees for me I The glowing sky of the Indian isles Lovingly over the cocoa-nut smiles. And the Indian maiden lies below. Where its leaves their graceful shadow throw : She weaves a wreath of the rosy shells That gem the beach where the cocoa dwells; She binds them into her long black hair. And they blush in the braids like rosebuds there -, Her soft brown arm, and her graceful neck. With those ocean-blooms she joys to deck. Oh, wherever you see The cocoa-nut tree. There will a picture of beauty be ! (fflt^abetl) ®akc0-5mitl). THE BROOK. 44 TT7HITHER away, thou merry Brook, Whither away so fast, Witli dainty feet through the meadow green And a smile as you hurry past ?" MES. OAKES-SMITH. 273 The Brook leaped on in idle mirth. And dimpled with saucy glee ; The daisy kissed in lovingness. And made with the willow free, I heard its laagh adown the glen. And over the rocky steep. Away where the old tree's roots were bare In the waters dark and deep ; The sunshine flashed upon its face. And played with flickering leaf — Well pleased to dally in its path. Though the tarrying were brief ^* Now stay thy feet, O restless one. Where droops the spreading tree. And let thy liquid voice reveal Thy story unto me." The flashing pebbles lightly rang. As the gushing music fell — The chiming music of the Brook, From out the woody dell : *' My mountain home was bleak and high, A rugged spot and drear. With searching wind and raging storm, And moonlight cold and clear. I longed for a greeting cheery as mine. For a fond and answering look ; But none were in that solitude To bless the little Brook. " The blended hum of pleasant sounds Came up from the vale below. 274 GOLDEN LEAVES. And I wished that mine were a lowly lot. To laugh, and sing as I go ; That gentle things, with loving eyes. Along my path should glide^ And blossoms in their loveliness Come nestling to my side. '' I leaped me down : my rainbow robe Hung shivering to the sight, And the thrill of freedom gave to me New impulse of delight. A joyous welcome the s.unshine gave. The bird and the swaying tree ; The spear-like grass and blossom start With joy at sight of me. " The swallow comes with its bit of clay When the busy Spring is here. And twittering bears the moistened gift A nest on the eaves to rear ; The tv/inkling feet of flock and herd Have trodden a path to me. And the fox and the squirrel come to drink In the shade of the alder-tree. " The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot. Comes hither with me to play^ And I feel the thrill of its lightsome heart As he dashes the merry spray. I turn the mill with answering glee. As the merry spokes go round ; And the gray rock takes the echo up. Rejoicing in the sound. MRS. RITCHIE. 275 "The old man bathes his scattered locj^s. And drops me a silent tear — For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face Look up from the waters clear. Then I sing in his ear the very song He heard in years gone by ; The old man's heart is glad again, And a joy lights up his eye." Enough, enough, thou homily Brook ! I'll treasure thy teachings well. And I will yield a heartfelt tear Thy crystal drops to swell ; Will bear, like thee, a kindly love For the lowly things of earth. Remembering still that high and pure Is the home of the spirit's birth. Qinna Cora illoiuatt (Kitcljte). TIME. "^TAY, rail not at Time, though a tyrant he be. And say not he cometh, colossal in might. Our beauty to ravish, put Pleasure to flight, And pluck away friends, e'en as leaves from the tree ; And say not Love's torch, which like Vesta's should burn^ The cold breath of Time soon to ashes will turn. You call Time a robber ? Nay, he is not so : While Beauty's fair temple he rudely despoils. The mind to enrich with its plunder he toils; __ And, sowed in his furrows, doth wisdom not grow ? 2/6 a OLDEN LEA VE S. The magnet mid stars points the north still to view; So Time, 'mong our friends, e'er discloses the true. Though cares then should gather, as pleasures flee by. Though Time from thy features the charm steal away. He'll dim too mine eye, lest it see them decay ; And sorrows we've shared will knit closer Love's tie : Then I'll laugh at old Time, and at all he can do — For he'll rob me in vain, if he leave me but you ! ON A LOCK OF MY MOTHERS HAIR. ^X /"HOSE the eyes thou erst didst shade, Down what bosom hast thou rolled ? O'er what cheek unchidden played. Tress of mingled brown and gold ! Round what brow, say, didst thou twine ? Angel-mother, it was thine ! Cold the brow that wore this braid, Pale the cheek this bright lock pressed. Dim the eyes it loved to shade. Still the ever-gentle breast — xA.ll that bosom's struggles past. When it held this ringlet last. In that nappy home above. Where all perfect joy hath birth. Thou dispensest good and love. Mother, as thou didst on earth; And, though distant seems that sphere. Still I feel thee ever near. LONGFELLOW. 277 Though my longing eye now views Thy angelic mien no more. Still thy spirit can infuse Good in mine, unknown before. Still the voice, from childhood dear. Steals upon my raptured ear — Chiding every wayward deed. Fondly praising every just; Whispering soft, when strength I need, '•'Loved one, place in God thy trust !" Oh, 'tis more than joy to feel Thou art watching o'er my weal ! Cicm-y Ulalr0U)ortl) Congfellou). THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 'T~^HIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling. Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms , But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villagers with strange alarms. Ah ! what a sound will rise— how wild and dreary- When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — The cries of agony, the endless groan. Which, through the ages that have gone before us, Tn long reverberations reach our own. 13*-- 2/8 G OLD EN LEAVES. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer ; Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song ; And loud, amid the universal clamor. O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din ; And Aztec priests upon tneir teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin ; The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade — And ever and anon, in tones of thunder. The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises. With such accursed instruments as these. Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? Were half the power that fills the world v/ith terror. Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error. There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ; And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! LONGFELLOW. 279 Down the dark future, through Jong generations. The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace ''' Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ; But, beautiful as songs of the immortals. The holy melodies of love arise. A PSALM OF LIFE. ' I '^ELL me not, in mournful numbers, " Life is but an empty dream 1" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; *' Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting. And our hearts, though stout and brave^, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. 28o G OLDEN LEAVES. In the world's broad field of battle. In the bivouac of life. Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead past bury its dead ! Act — act in the living present ! Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime. And, departing, leave behind as Footprints on the sands of Time- Footprints that perhaps another. Sailing o'er Life's solemn main A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing. With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing. Learn to labour and to wait. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. ^X 7'HEN the hours of day are numbered. And the voices of the night Wake the better soul that slumbered To a holy, calm delight — LONGFELLOW. 28 J Ere the evening lamps are lighted. And, like phantoms grim and tall. Shadows from the fitful firelight Dance upon the parlour wall; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door — The beloved ones, the true-hearted. Come to visit me once more ; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife. By the road-side fell and perished. Weary with the n/irch of hfe ! They, the holy ones and weakly. Who the cross of suffering bore. Folded their pale hands so meekly. Spake with us on earth no more ! And with them the being beauteous Who unto my youth was given. More than all things else to love me. And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine. Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine ; And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like. Looking downward from the skies. 282 GOLDEN LEAVE i^. Uttered not, yet comprehended. Is the Spirit's voiceless prayer — Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. Breathing from her lips of air. Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, AU my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died ! EXCELSIOR. ^TT^HE shades of night were falling fast, ■*' As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device — '* Excelsior !" His brow was sad ; his eye beneath Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue — *' Excelsior !" In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright Above, the spectral glaciers shone. And from his lips escaped a groan — "Excelsior!" *' Try not the pass !" the old man said : *' Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; LONGFELLOW. 283 The roaring torrenc is deep and wide !" And loud that clarion voice replied, "Excelsior!" " O stay," the maiden said, " and rest Thy weary head upon this breast !" A tear stood in his bright blue eye. But still he answered, with a sigh, " Excelsior !" " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ' Beware the awful avalanche !" This was the peasant's last good-night ; A voice replied, far up the height, " Excelsior !" At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried, through the startled air, "Excelsior!" A traveller, by the faithful hound. Half-buried in the snow was found. Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, "Excelsior!" There in the twilight cold and gray. Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay. And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star — " Excelsior !" 284 GOLDEN LEAVES. PAUL REVERES RIDE. T ISTEN, my children, and you shall hear "^"'^ Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April in 'Seventy-Five : Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, " If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night. Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church tower as a signal-light, — One if by land, and two if by sea ; And I on the opposite shore will be. Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm. For the country-folk to be up and to arm." Then he said good-night, and, with muffled oar, Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay. Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay The Somerset, British man-of-war : A phantom-ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar. And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the" tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street. Wanders and watches with eager ears. Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door. The sound of arms, and the tramo of feet. LOKGFELLOW. 285 And. the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church. Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread. To the belfry-chamber overhead. And started the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes, of shade, — Up the light ladder, slender and tall. To the highest window in the wall. Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town^ And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead In their night-encampment on the hill. Wrapped in silence so deep and still. That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread. The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent. And seeming to whisper, "All is well !" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away. Where the river widens to meet the bay, — A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride. 286 G OLDEN LEAVES. On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side. Now gazed on the landscape far and near. Then impetuous stamped the earth. And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill. Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo ! as he looks on the belfry's height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns. But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns. A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark. Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet : That was all ! and yet, through the gloom and the light The fate of a nation was riding that night : And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight. Kindled the land into flame with its heat. It was twelve by the village-clock. When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock. And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog. That rises when the sun goes dov/n. It was one by the village-clock. When he rode into Lexington. LONGFELLOW. 287 He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed^ And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare. Gaze at him with a spectral glare. As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village-clock. When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock. And the twitter of birds among the trees. And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall. Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled, — How the farmers gave them ball for ball. From behind each fence and farmyard wall. Chasing the red-coats down the lane. When crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road. And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere ; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, — A cry of defiance, and not of fear, — A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door. And a word that shall echo for evermore ! 288 GOLDEN LEAVES. For, borne on the night-wind of the past. Through all our history, to the last. In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need. The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed. And the midnight message of Paul Revere. RAIN IN SUMMER. TTOW beautiful is the rain ! "*■ After the dust and heat In the broad and fiery street. In the narrow lane, — How beautiful is the rain ! How it clatters along the roofs. Like the tramp of hoofs ! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout ! Across the window-pane It pours and pours ; And swift and wide. With a muddy tide. Like a river, down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain 1 The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks ; He can feel the- cool Breath of each little pool ; His fevered brain LONGFELLOW. 289 Grows calm again. And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From, the neighbouring school Come the boys. With more than their wonted noise And commotion ; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets. Till the treacherous pool Ingulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean. In the country, on every side. Where, far and wide, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide. Stretches the plain. To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain ' In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; Lifting the yoke-encumbered head. With their dilated nostrils spread. They silently inhale The clover-scented gale. And the vapours that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil ; For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word. 290 GOLDEN LEAVES, Near at hand. From under the sheltering trees. The farmer sees His pastures and his fields of grain. As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these. The Poet sees ! He can behold Ac^JARius old Walking the fenceless fields of air ; And from each ample fold Of the clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere The showery rain. As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told. Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops. Follows the water-drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound. To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers under ground ; And sees them, when the rain is done. LONGFELLOW. 291 On the bridge of colours seven Climbing up once more to heaven. Opposite the setting sun. Thus the Seer, With vision clear. Sees forms appear and disappear. In the perpetual round of strange. Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth. From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; Till glimpses more sublime Of things unseen before. Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning for evermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time ! THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. T TNDER a spreading chestnut-tree ^^ The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he. With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long. His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet v/ith honest sweat. He earns v/hate'er he can. And looks the whole world in the face.. For he owes not any man. 292 GOLDEN LEAVES. Week in,- week out, from morn till night. You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. With measured beat and slow^ Like a sexton ringing the village bell. When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in,at7t2i^ open door; They love to see the flaming forge. And hear the bellows roar. And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church. And sits among his boys ; He hears the parson pray and preach. He hears his daughter's voice. Singing in the village choir. And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice. Singing in Paradise ! He needs must think of her once more. How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing. Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin. Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done. Has earned a night's repose. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH- LONGFELLOW. 293 Thanks, thanks to tnee, my worthy friend. For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought ! THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.* (6 QPEAK ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! ^^ Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour dressed, Comest to daunt me ! Wrapped not in Eastern balms. But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms. Why dost thou haunt me ?" Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise. As when the Northern skies Gleam in December ; And, like the water's flow Under December's snow. Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber : *' 1 was a Viking old ! My deeds, though manifold, * Suggested by the discovery, at Fall River, Massachusetts, of a skeleton, clad in broken and corroded armour. 14 2-94 G OLDEN LEAVES. No Skald in song has told. No Saga taught thee ! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost t3ie tale rehearse. Else dread a dead man's curse ; For this I sought thee. " Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand. Tamed the ger-falcon j And, with my skates fast-bound. Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. ** Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear. While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow ; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark. Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. *' But when I older grew. Joining a corsair's crew. O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led ; Many the souls that sped. Many the hearts that bled. By our stern orders. LONGFELLOW. 295 " Many a wassail -bout Wore the long Winter out ; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing. As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale. Draining the oaken pail. Filled to o'erflowing. ** Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea. Soft eyes did gaze on me. Burning yet tender ; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine. On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendour. ** I wooed the blue-eyed maid. Yielding, yet half afraid. And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast. Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. " Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall. Loud sang the minstrels all. Chanting his glory ; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand. 296 GOLDEN LEAVES. Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. " While the brown ale he quafFed, Loud then the champion laughed ; And as the wind-gusts waft The sea- foam brightly. So the loud laugh of scorn. Out of those lips unshorn. From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. ** She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild ; And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded ! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight — Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded ? " Scarce had I put to sea. Bearing the maid with me, — Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen ! — When on the white sea-strand. Waving his armed hand. Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen ! " Then launched they to the blast j Bent like a reed each mast. Yet we were gaining fast. When the wind failed us ; LONGFELLOW. 297 And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, • So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. " And as, to catch the gale. Round veered the flapping sail, * Death !' was the helmsman's hail, 'Death without quarter !' Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel ; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water ! "As, with his wings aslant. Sails the fierce cormorant. Seeking some rocky haunt. With his prey laden. So toward the open main. Beating to sea again. Through the wild hurricane. Bore I the maiden. " Three weeks we westward bore. And when the storm was o'er. Cloud-like we saw the shore • Stretching to lee-ward ; There, for my lady's bower. Built I the lofty tower,* * The Round Tower at Newport, generally known as the " Old Wind-Mill," though now claimed by the Danes as the work of their early ancestors, who are supposed to have discovered the American continent at least two centuries before Columbus. 298 GOLDEN LEAVES. Which, to this very hour. Stands looking sea-ward. " There lived we many years Time dried the maiden's tears ; She had forgot hei fears. She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes. Under that tower she lies ; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another ! '* Still grew my bosom then. Still as a stagnant fen ! Hateful to me were men. The sunlight hateful ! In the vast forest here. Clad in my warlike gear. Fell I upon my spear — Oh, death was grateful ! " Thus, seamed with many scars. Bursting these prison-bars. Up to its native stars My soul ascended ! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 'Skoal I to the Northland ! skoal P " * — Thus the tale ended. * In Scandinavia, this is the customary 'salutation when drinking a health. MBS. HOWE. Julia lUarb ^5^^^- WOMAN. VESTAL priestess, proudly pure. But of a meek and quiet spirit ; With soul all dauntless to endure. And mood so calm that naught can stir ic, Save when a thought most deeply thrilling Her eyes with gentlest tears is filling. Which seem with her true words to start From the deep fountain at her heart. A mien that neither seeks nor shuns The homage scattered in her way ; A love that hath few favoured ones, And yet for all can work and pray ; A smile wherein each mortal reads The very sympathy he needs ; An eye like to a mystic book Of lays that bard or prophet sings. Which keepeth for the holiest look Of holiest love its deepest things. A form to which a king had bent. The fireside's dearest ornament — Known in the dwellings of the poor Better than at the rich man's door j A life that ever onward goes. Yet in itself has deep repose. A vestal priestess, maid, or wife — Vestal, and vowed to offer up 30C - GOLD EN LEAVES. The innocence of a holy life To Him who gives the mingled cup ; With man its bitter sweets to share. To live and love, to do and dare • His prayer to breathe, his tears to shed, Breaking to him the heavenly bread Of hopes which, all too high for earth. Have yet in her a mortal birth. This is the woman J have dreamed. And to my childish thought she seemed The woman I myself, should be : Alas ! I would that I were she. THE DEAD CHRIST. ^ I "^AKE the dead Christ to my chamber- The Christ I brought from Rome ; Over all the tossing ocean. He has reached His Western home -. Bear Him as in procession. And lay Him solemnly Where, through weary night and morning. He shall bear me company. The name I bear is other Than that I bore by birth ; And I've given life to children, Who'l] grow and dwell on earth ; But the time comes swiftly towards me— - Nor do I bid it stav — MBS. HO WE. . 301 When the dead Christ will be more to me Than all I hold to-day. Lay the dead Christ beside me — Oh, press Him to my heart ! [ would hold him long and painfully, Till the weary tears should start — Till the divine contagion Heal me of self and sin. And the cold weight press wholly down The pulse that chokes within. Reproof and frost, they fret me ; Toward the free, the sunny lands, From the chaos of existence, I stretch these feeble hands — And, penitential, kneeling. Pray God would not be wroth, Who gave not the strength of feeling And strength of labour both. Thou'rt but a wooden carving, Defaced of worms, and old ; Yet more to me Thou couldst not be Wert Thou all wrapped in gold Like the gem-bedizened baby Which, at the Twelfth-day noon, They show from the Ara Coeli's steps To a merry dancing-tune. I ask of Thee no wonders — No changing white or red ; I dream not Thou art living, I love and prize Thee dead. 302 GOLDEN LEA VES. That salutary deadness I seek through want and pain. From which God's own high power can bid Our virtue rise again. iamc0 Ru0scll CotDell. ACT FOR TRUTH. ^ I ^HE busy world shoves angrily aside The man who stands with arms akimbo set. Until occasion tells him what to do ; And he who waits to have his task m'arked out. Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds : Reason and Government, like two broad seas. Yearn for each other with outstretched arms Across this narrow isthmus of the throne. And roll their white surf higher every day. One age moves onward, and the next builds up Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild, Rearing from out the forests they had felled The goodly fiamework of a fairer state ; The builder's trowel and the settler's axe Are seldom wielded by the self-same hand ; Ours is the harder task, yet not the less Shall we receive the blessing for our toil From the choice spirits of the after-time. The field lies wide before us, where to reap The easy harvest of a deathless name. LOWELL. 303 Thdugh with no better sickles than our swords. My soul is not a palace of the past. Where outworn creeds, like Rome's gray senate, quake, Hearing afar the Vandal's trumpet hoarse. That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change ; Then let it come : I have no dread of what Is called for by the instinct of mankind ; Nor think I that God's world will fall apart Because we tear a parchment more or less. Truth is eternal, but her effluence. With endless change, is fitted to the hour ; Her mirror is turned forward, to reflect The promise of the future, not the past. He who would win the name of truly grea.. Must understand his own age and the next. And make the present ready to fulfil Its prophecy, and with the future merge Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave. The future works out great men's destinies ; The present is enough for common souls. Who, never looking forward, are indeed Mere clay, wherein the footprints of their age Are petrified forever : better those Who lead the blind old giant by the hand From out the pathless desert where he gropes. And set him onward in his darksome way. I do not fear to follow out the truth. Albeit along the precipice's edge. Let us speak plain : there is more force in names Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep Its throne a whole age longer if it skulk 304 i^ OLDEN LEAVES. Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. Let us call tyrants tyrants, and maintain That only freedom comes by grace of God, And all that comes not by His grace must fall ; For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth. TH E H ERITAGE. 'TT^HE rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold. And he inherits soft, white hands. And tender flesh that fears the cold. Nor dares to wear a garment old j A heritage, it seems to me. One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits cares : The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares. And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn ; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits wants ; His stomach craves for dainty fare ; With sated heart he hear? the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy-chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fet. LOWELL. ' 30: What doth the poor man's son inheri'; ? Stoat muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit ? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit. Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labour sings ; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit ? A patience learned of being poor ; Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door j A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish, to hold in fee. O rich man's son ! there is a toil. That with all others level stands ; Large charity doth never soil. But only whiten, soft, white hands, — This is the best crop from thy lands ; A heritage, it seems to me. Worth being rich to hold in fee, O poor man's son ! scorn not thy state ; There is worse weariness than thine. 3o6 G OLD EN LEAVES. In merely being rich and great ; Toil only gives the soul to sliine. And makes rest fragrant and benign A heritage, it seems to me. Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod. Are equal in the earth at last ; ■ Both, children of the same dear Gor>, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well- filled past; A heritage, it seems to me. Well worth a life to hold in fee. TO THE DANDELION. T^EAR common flower, that grow'st beside the w^/, ~^^^ Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold. First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold. High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they \n El Dorado in the grass have found. Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth — thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas. Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of Age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now L WELL. 307 To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand. Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. Thou art my trophies and mine Italy ; To look at thee unlocks a v/armer clime ; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time ; Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tint. His conquered Sybahis, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellov/ circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows on the grass — Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze. Where, as the breezes pass. The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways — Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass. Or whiten in the wind — of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap — and of a sky above. Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ; The sight o^ thee calls back the robin's song. Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long. And I, secure in childish piety. Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news ^lom heaven, which he did bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears. When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 308 G OLDEN LEAVES. AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. TTE spoke of Burns : men rude and rough Pressed round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff. As homespun as their own. And, when he read, they forward leaned, . Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears. His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned From humble smiles and tears. Slowly there grew a tender awe. Sunlike, o'er faces brown and hard. As if in him who read they felt and saw Some presence of the bard. It was a sight for Sin and Wrong And slavish Tyranny to see, A sight to make our faith more pure and strong In high humanity. I thought, ** These men will carry hence Promptings their former life above. And something of a finer reverence For beauty, truth, and love. *' God scatters love on every side. Freely among his children all. And always hearts are lying open wide. Wherein some grains may fall. LOWELL. lOKj " There is no wind but soweth seeds Of a more true and open life. Which burst, unlooked-for, into high-souled detd^; With wayside beauty rife. s *' We find within these souls of ours Some wild germs of a higher birth. Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers Whose fragrance fills the earth. " Within the hearts of all men lie These promises of wider bliss. Which blossom into hopes that cannot die. In sunny hours like this. " All that hath been majestical In life or death, since time began. Is native in the simple heart of all. The angel-heart of man. "And thus, among the untaught poor. Great deeds and feelings find a home. That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of classic Greece and Rome." O mighty brother-soul of man. Where'er thou art, in low or high. Thy skyey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity ! All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole : 310 GOLDEN LEA VES. In his broad breast the feeling deep That straggled on the many's tongue, S'vells to a tide of Thought, whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of Wrong. All thought begins in feeling, — wide In the great mass its base is hid, And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid. Nor is he far astray who deems That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams From the great heart of God. God wills, man hopes : in common souls Hope is but vague and undefined. Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls, A blessing to his kind. Never did Poesy appear So full of heaven to me, as when I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear To the lives of coarsest men. It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century ; — But better far it is to speak One simole word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men : LVNT. 311 To write some earnest verse or line. Which, seeking not the praise of art. Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine In the untutored heart. He who doth this, in verse or prose. May be forgotten in his day. But surely shall be crowned at laoc with those Who live and speak for aye. ®corge Cunt. THE LYRE AND SWORD, ^"I^HE freeman's glittering sword be blest — • "■' Forever blest the freeman's lyre — That rings upon the tyrant's crest ; Tins stirs the heart like living iire : Well can he wield the shining brand. Who battles for his native land ; But when his fingers sweep the chords. That summon heroes to the fray. They gather at the feast of swords Like mountain-eagles to their prey ! x^nd mid the vales and swelling hills That sweetly bloom in Freedom's land, A living spirit breathes and fills The freeman's heart and nerves his hand , For the bright soil that gave him birth. The home of all he loves on earth — %\2 G OLDEN LEAVES. For t/iis, when Freedom's trumpet calls. He waves on high his sword of fire — For ikts, amidst his country's halls. Forever strikes the freeman's lyre ! His Durning heart he may not lend To serve a doting despot's sway — A suppliant knee he will not bend Before these things of " brass and clay :" When Wrong and Ruin call to war. He knows the summons from afar; On high his glittering sword he waves. And myriads feel the freeman's fire. While he, around their fathers' graves, Strikes to old strains the freeman's lyre ! 2lmclia B. llUlbg. THE OLD MAID. "IT THY sits she thus in solitude? Her heart ^ ^ Seems melting in her eyes' delicious blue ; And as it heaves, her ripe lips lie apart. As if to let its heavy throbbings through ; In her dark eye a depth of softness swells. Deeper than that her careless girlhood wore ; And hei cheek crimsons with the hue that tells The rich, fair fruit is ripened to the core. It is her thirtieth birthday ! With a sigh Her soul hath turned from youth's luxuriant bowers. MBS. WELBY. 313 And her heart taken up the last sweet tie That measured out its hnks of golden hours ! She feels her inmost soul within her stir With thoughts too wild and passionate to speak ; Yet her full heart — its own interpreter — Translates itself in silence on her cheek. joy's opening buds, AfFection*s glowing flowers, Once hghtly sprang within her beaming track ; Oh, life was beautiful in those lost hours! And yet she does not wish to wander back ; No ! she but loves in loneliness to think On pleasures past, though never more to be ; Hope links her to the future — but the link That binds her to the past is memory. From her lone path she never turns aside. Though passionate worshippers before her fill ; Like some pure planet in her lonely pride. She seems to soar and beam above them all. Not that her heart is cold — -emotions new Arid fresh as flowers are with her heart-strings knit ; And sweetly mournful pleasures wander through Her virgin soul, and softly ruffle it. For she hath lived with heart and soul alive To all that makes life beautiful and fair; Sweet thoughts, like honey-bees, have made their hive . Of her soft bosom-cell, and cluster there, Yei life is not to her v/nat it hath been — Her soul hath learned to look beyond its gloss ; And now she hovers, like a star, between Her deeds ot love, her Saviour on the cross ! 314 GOLDEN LEAVES. Beneath the cares of earth she docs not bow. Though she hath ofttimes drained its bitter cup ^ Bit ever wanders on with heavenward brow. And eyes whose lovely lids are lifted up. She feels that in that lovelier, happier sphere Her bosom yet will, bird-like, find its mate. And all the joys it found so blissful here Within that spirit-realm perpetuate. Yet sometimes o'er her trembling heart-strings thrill Soft sighs — for raptures it hath ne'er enjoyed ; And then she dreams of love, and strives to fill With wild and passionate thoughts the craving void. And thus she wanders on — half sad, half blest— Without a mate for the pure, lonely heart That, yearning, throbs within her virgin breast. Never to find its lovely counterpart ! TO A SEA-SHELL, OHELL of the bright sea-waves What is it that we hear in thy sad moan f Is this unceasing music all thine own. Lute of the ocean-caves ? Or does some spirit dwell In the deep windings of thy chambers dim. Breathing forever, in its mourfiful hymn. Of ocean's anthem-swell ? Wert thou a murmurer long In crystal palaces beneath the seas, Ere from the blue sky thou hadst heard '"he breeze Pour its full tide of song ? MR^. WE LB 7. 31s Another thin^ with thee : Are there not gorgeous cities in the deep, Buried with flashing gems that brightly sleep, Hid by the mighty sea? And say, O lone sea-shell ! Arc there not costly things and sweet perfumes Scattered in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs ? Hush thy low moan, and tell. But yet, and more than all — Has not each foaming wave in fury tossed O'er earth's most beautiful, the brave, the lost. Like a dark funeral-pall ? 'Tis vain — thou answerest not ! Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead; 'Tis ours alone, with sighs like odours shed. To hold them unforgot ! Thine is as sad a strain As if the spirit in thy hidden cell Pined to be with the many things that dwell In the wild, restless main. And yet there is no sound Upon the waters, whispered by the v/aves. But seemeth like a wail from many graves. Thrilling the air around. The earth — O moaning shell ! — The earth hath melodies more sweet than these — The music-gush of rills, the hum of beci Heard in each blossom's bell. 3l6 G OLDEN LEAVES. Are not these tones of earth, The rustling forest, with its shivering leaves. Sweeter than sounds that e'en in moonlit eves Upon the seas have birth ? Alas ! thou still vilt moan — Thou'rt like the heart that wastes itself in sighs. E'en when amid bewildering melodies. If parted from its own. ICatljantel |Jarlfcv lUilltB, THE DYING ALCHEMIST. ^~I~^HE night wind with a desolate moan swept by. And the old shutters of the turret swung Screaming upon their hinges ; and the moon. As the torn edges of the clouds flew past. Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes So dimly, that the watchful eye of death Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. The fire beneath his crucible was low ; Yet still it burned ; and ever as his thoughts Grew insupportable, he rais'ed himself Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals With difficult energy ; and when the rod Fell from his nerveless lingers, and his eye Felt faint within its sockets, he shrunk back Upon hit pallet, and with unclosed lips Muttered a curse on Death ! The silent room. WILLIS. 317 From its dim corners, mockingly gave back His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire Had the distinctness of a knell ; and when Duly the antique horologe beat one. He drew a vial from beneath his head. And drank. And instantly his lips compressed. And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame. He rose with supernatural strength, and sat Upright, and communed with himself: " I did not think to die Till I had finished what I had to do ; I thought to pierce the eternal secret through With this my mortal eye ; I felt — O God ! it seemeth, even now. This cannot be the death-dew on my brow ! " And yet it is — I feel. Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid ! And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade , And something seems to steal Over my bosom like a frozen hand — Binding its pulse with an icy band. " And this is death ! But v/hy Feel I this wild recoil ? It cannot be The immortal spirit shuddereth to be free ! Would it not leap to fly, Like a chained eaglet at its parent's call ? I fear — I fear — that this poor life is all ! " Yet thus to pass away ! — To live but for a hope that mocks at last- To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast, 15 3l8 G OLDEN LEAVES. To waste the light of day. Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought. All that we have and are — for this — for naught ! ** Grant me another year, God of my spirit 1 — but a day — to win Something to satisfy this thirst within ! I would KNOW something here ! Break for me but one seal that is unbroken ! Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! '* Vain — vain ! — my brain is turning With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick. And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick. And I am freezing — burning — Dying ! O God ! if I might only live ! My vial Ha ! it thrills me — I revive ! " Ay — were not man to die. He were too mighty for this narrow sphere ! Had he but time to brood on knowledge here — Could he but train his eye — Might he but wait the mystic word and hour — Only his Maker would transcend his power ! " Earth has no mineral strange — The illimitable air no hidden wings — Water no quality in covert springs. And hre no power to change — Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell. Which the unwasting soul might not compel. " Oh, but for time to track The upper stars into the pathless sky — WILLIS. 319 To see the invisible spirits eye to eye — To hurl the lightning back — To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls — To chase Day's chariot to the horizon-walls — ** And more, much more ! — for now The life-sealed fountains of my nature move — To nurse and purify this human love — To clear the godlike brow Of Weakness and Mistrust, and bow it down. Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one — " This were indeed to feel The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream — To live ! — O God ! that life is but a dream ! And death Aha ! I reel — Dim— dim — I faint — darkness comes o'er my eye — Cover me ! save me ! — God of heaven ! I die !" 'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. No friend had closed his eyelids; and his lips. Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore Of his death-struggle. His long, silvery hair Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild. His frame was wasted, and his features wan And haggard as with want, and in his palm His nails were driven deep, as if the throe Of his last agony had wrung him sore. The storm was raging still. The shutters swung Screaming and harshly in the fitful wind. And all without went on — as aye it will. Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. 320 GOLDEN LEAVES. The fire beneath the crucible was out ; The vessels of his mystic art lay round, Useless and cold as the ambitious hand That fashioned them ; and the small rod. Familiar to his touch for threescore years. Lay on the alembic's rim, as if it still Might vex the elements at its master's will. And thus had passed from its unequal frame A soul of fire — a sun-bent eagle stricken From his high soaring down — an instrument Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies. Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked — A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest ! THE LEPER. 44 T3 OOM for the leper ! — room !" And, as he came ^^ The cry passed on, " Room for the leper ! room !' Sunrise was slanting on the city gates Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills The early-risen poor were coming in. Duly and cheerfully, to their toil ; and up Rose the sharp hammer's cHnk, and the far hum Of moving wheels and multitudes astir. And all that in a city murmur swells. Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear. Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick WILLIS. 321 Hailing the welcome light, and sounds that chase The death-like images of the dark away. " Room for the leper I" And aside they stood, Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood — all Who met him on his way — and let him pass. And onward through the open gate he came, A leper with the ashes on his brow. Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip A covering, stepping painfully and slow. And with a difficult utterance, like one Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down. Crying, " Unclean ! unclean 1" 'Twas now the deptn Of the Judean summer ; and the leaves. Whose shadows lay so still upon his path. Had budded on the clear and flashing eye Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young. And eminently beautiful, and life Mantled in eloquent fulness on his hp. And sparkled in his glance ; and in his mien There was a gracious pride that every eye Followed with benisons — and this was he ! With the soft airs of summer there had come A torpor on his frame, which not the speed Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs The spirit to its bent, might drive away. The blood beat not as wont within his veins ; Dimness crept o'er his eye ; a drowsy sloth Fettered his limbs like palsy, and his port. With all its loftiness, seemed struck with eld. 322 G OLDEN LEAVES. Even his voice was changed — a languid moan Taking the place of the clear, silver key; And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light, And very air, were steeped in sluggishness. He strove with it awhile, as manhood will. Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein Slackened within his grasp, and in its poise The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook. Day after day he lay as if in sleep ; His sK]n grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, Circled with livid purple, covered him ; And then his nails grew black, and fell away- From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepened beneath the hard, unmoistened scales. And from their edges grew the rank white hair, — And Helon was a leper ! Day was breaking When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense-lamp Burned with a straggling light, and a low chant Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof Like an articulate wail; and there, alone. Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up. Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb ; And, with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still. Waiting to hear his doom : WILLIS. 323 ** Depart ! depart, O child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God ; For He has smote thee with His chastening rod, And to the desert wild. From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee. That from thy plague His people may be free. ** Depart ! and come not near The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er. And stay thou not to hear Voices that call thee in the way; and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by. ** Wet not thy burning lip in streams that to a human dwelling glide ; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide ; Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink. By desert well, or river's grassy brink. " And pass not thou between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze. And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen ; Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain. Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. *' And now depart ! — and when Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim. Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him Who, from the tribes of men. Selected thee to feel His chastening rod. Depart, O leper ! and forget not God !" 324 G OLDEN LEAVES. And he went forth — alone ; not one, of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way. Sick and heart-broken, and alone, to die ; — For God hath cursed the leper ! It was noon. And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow. Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched The loathsome water to his fevered lips. Praying that he might be so blessed — to die ! Footsteps approached, and, with no strength to flee. He drew the covering closer on his lip. Crying, *' Unclean ! unclean 1" and, in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth, shrouding up his face. He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the stranger came, and, bending o'er The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name, — " Helon I" — the voice was like the master-tone Of a rich instrument — most strangely sweet ; And the dull pulses of disease awoke. And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill, " Helon, arise !" and he forgot his curse. And rose, and stood before him. Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye As he beheld the stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow WILLIS. 325 The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; No followers at his back, nor in his hand Buckler, or sword, or spear ; — yet in his mien Command sat throned serene, and, if he smiled, A kingly condescension graced his lips. The lion would have crouched to in his lair. His garb was simple, and his sandals worn ; His stature modelled with a perfect grace ; His countenance, the impress of a God, Touched with the open innocence of a child ; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon ; his hair, unshorn. Fell to his shoulders ; and his curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. He looked on Helon earnestly awhile. As if his heart were moved, and, stooping down, He took a little water in his hand. And laid it on his brow, and said, " Be clean !" And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins. And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped him. HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. ^TpHE morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves. And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, 15* 326 G OLDEN LEAVES. And every thing that bendeth to the dew. And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light. And loveliness, and fragrant air, were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odours from its spicy pores. And the young birds were carolling as life Were a new thing to them ; but, oh ! it came Upon her heart like discord, and she felt How cruelly it tries a broken heart. To see a mirth in any thing it loves. She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed Till the blood left them ; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead were swelled out. As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye Was clear and tearless; and the light of heaven. Which made its language legible, shot back From her long lashes, as it had been flame. Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet. Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor, Sandalled for journeying. He had looked up Into his mother's face until he caught The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath. As if his light proportions would have swelled. Had they but matched his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staff so wearily ? His .beard WILLIS. 327 Is low upon his breast, and his high brow. So written with the converse of his God, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. His lip is quivering, and his wonted step Of vigour is not there j and, though the mom Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes Its freshness as it were a pestilence. Oh ! man may bear with suiFering : nis heart Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp Of pain that wrings mortality ; but tear One cord affection clings to, part one tie That binds him to a woman's delicate love. And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed. He gave to her the water and the bread. But spoke no word, and trusted not himself To look upon her face ^ but laid his hand. In silent blessing, on the fair-haired boy. And left her to her lot of loneliness. Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn. And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off. Bend lightly to her tendencies again ? Oh, no ! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies j let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all . That makes her cup a bitterness — yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh ! estrange her once, it boots not how. 32B GOLDEN LEAVES. By wrong or silence, any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, — And there is not a high thing out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not. She went her way with a strong step and slow ; Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed As it had been a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through^ Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed His hand till it was pained ; for he had caught. As I have said, her spirit, and the seed Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. The morning passed, and Asia's sun rode up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. The cattle of the hills were in the shade. And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. It was an hour of rest ; but Hagar found No shelter in tne wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips For water; but she could not give it him. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky — For it was better than the close, hot breath Of the thick pines — and tried to comfort him ; But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know Why God denied him water in the wild. She sat a little longer, and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. It was too much for her. She lifted him. WILLIS. 329 And bore him farther on^ and laid his head Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub j And, shrouding up her face, she went away. And sat to watch where he could see her not. Till he should die j and, watching him, she mourned : '' God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! 1 cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook Upon, thy brow to look. And see death settle on my cradle joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! And could I see thee die ? " I did not dream of this when thou wast straying. Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; Or wearing rosy hours. By the rich gush of water-sources playing. Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep. So beautiful and deep. " Oh, no 1 and when I watched by thee the while. And saw thy bright curling lip in thy dream. And thought of the dark stream In my own land of Egypt, the deep Nile, How prayed I that my father's land might be An heritage for thee ! " And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee. And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; And oh ! my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. How can I leave my boy, so. pillowed there Upon his clustering hair.'" 330 G OLDEN LEAVES. She stood beside the well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laughed In his reviving happiness, and lisped His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand P ARRH ASIUS. " Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, among those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man j and when he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and torment, the better, by his example, to express the pain.' and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint.' — Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. '"SPHERE stood an unsold captive in the mart, A gray-haired and majestical old man. Chained to a pillar. It was almost night. And the last seller from his place had gone -, And not a sound was heard, but of a dog Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone. Or the dull echo from the pavement rung. As the faint captive changed his weary feet. He had stood there since morning, and had borne From every eye in Athens the cold gaze Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came. And roughly struck his palm upon his breast. And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer Passed on ; and when, with weariness o'erspent. He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep. WILLIS. 331 The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats Of torture to his children^ summoned back The ebbing blood into his pallid face. 'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun Tipped with a golden fire the many domes Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up With a stout heart that long and weary day. Haughtily patient of his many wrongs ; But now he was alone, and from his nerves The needless strength departed, and he leaned Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts Throng on him as they would. Unmarked of him, Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood. Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheek Flushed as he measured with a painter's eye The moving picture. The abandoned limbs. Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins Swollen to purple fulness .; the gray hair. Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes; And, as a thought of wilder bitterness Rose in his memory, his lips grew white. And the fast workings of his bloodless face Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. The golden light into the painter's room Streamed richly, and the hidden colours stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth. And in the soft and dewy atmosphere Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. 332 G OLDEN LEAVES. The walls were hung with armour, and about In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, And from the casement soberly away Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true. And, like a veil of filmy mellowness. The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay. Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus — The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ; And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth With its far-reaching fancy, and with form And colour clad them, his fine, earnest eye Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip. Were like the winged god's, breathing from li'.s flight. " Bring me the captive nov/ ! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift. And I could paint the bow - Upon the bended heavens — around me play Colours of such divinity to-day. '' Ha ! bind him on his back ! Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture here : Quick — or he faints ! — stand with the cordial near ! Now — bend him to the rack ! Press down the poisoned links into his flesh ! And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! WILLIS. 333 " So —let him writhe ! How long Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now ! What a fine agony works upon his brow ! Ha ! gray-haired, and so strong ! How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! " ' Pity' thee ! So I do ! I pity the dumb victim at the altar — But does the robed priest for his pity falter ? I'd rack thee, though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine ! — What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? *' * Hereafter !' Ay — hereafter / A whip to keep a coward to his track ! What gave Death ever from his kingdom back To check the sceptic's laughter ? Come from the grave to-morrow with that story — And I may take some softer path to glory. " No, no, old man ! we die Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away Our life upon the chance wind, even as they ! Strain well thy fainting eye — For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, The light of heaven will never reach thee more. '' Yet there's a deathless na??ie / A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn. And Hke a steadfast planet mount and burn ! — And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone. By all the fiery stars ! I'd bind it on ! 334 G OLDEN LEAVES. *' Ay — though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst- Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first — Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child. And taunt its mother till my brain went wild — *' All— I would do it ail- Sooner than die, like a dull worm to rot — Thrust foully into earth to be forgot ! O heavens ! — but I appal Your heart, old man ! forgive Ha ! on your lives. Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives ! " Vain — vain ! — give o'er. His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow » Gods ! if he do not die But for one moment — one — till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips ! '' Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters Brokenly now — that was a difflcult breath — Another ! Wilt thou never come, O Death ? Look ! how his temple flutters ! Is his heart still .? Aha ! lift up his head ! He shudders — gasps — ^Jove help him! — so— he's dead." ******* How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreined ambition ! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow- Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought And unthrones peace forever. Putting on WILLIS. 335 The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes_, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip. We look upon our splendour and forget The thirst of which we perish ! Yet hath life Many a falser idol. There are hopes Promising well ; and love-touched dreams for some j And passions, many a wild one ; and fair schemes For gold and pleasure — yet will only this Balk not the soul — Ambition- only, gives. Even of bitterness, a htdktr Jull I Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream. Troubled at best — Love is a lamp unseen. Burning to waste, or, if its light is found, Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken — Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires. And Quiet is a hunger never fed : And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose — From ail but keen Ambition — will the soul Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness To wander like a restless child away. Oh, if ther€ were not better hopes than these — - Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame — If the proud wealth flung back upon tlie heart Must canker in its coffers — if the links Falsehood hath broken will unite no more — If the deep yearning Love, that hath not found its like in the cold world, must waste in tears — ^ If Truth, and Fervor, and Devotedness, Finding no worthy altar, must return And die of their own fulness — if beyond J36 G OLDEN LT: AVE S. The grave there is no heaven in vi^hose w^ide air The spirit may find room, and in the love Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart May spend itself, — what thrice-mocked fools are we! ^nne €. tmt\] (illabaine Botta). THE BAtTLE OF LIFE. '"INHERE are countless fields the green earth o^er ■^ Where the verdant turf has been dyed with gore j Where hostile ranks, in their grim array. With the battle's smoke have obscured the day ; Where hate was stamped on each rigid face, As foe met foe in the death embrace -, Where the groans of the wounded and dying rose. Till the heart of the listener with horror froze. And the wide expanse of the crimsoned plain Was piled with its heaps of uncounted slain ; But a fiercer combat, a deadlier strife. Is that which is waged in the battle of life. The hero that wars on the tented field. With his shining sword and his burnished shield. Goes not alone with his faithful brand ; Friends and comrades around him stand. The trumpets sound and the war-steeds neigh To join in the shock of the coming fray — And he, flies to the onset, he charges the foe. Where the bayonets gleam and the red tides flow And he bears his part in the conflict dire With an arm all nerve and a heart all fire. MAI)A3IE BOTTA. 337 What though he fall ?— at the battle's close, In the flush of the victory won he goes. With martial music and waving plume. From a field of fame to a laurelled tomb. But the hero who wars in the battle oi life. Must stand alone in the fearful strife ; Alone in his weakness or strength must go, Hero or craven, to meet the foe : He may not fly on that fatal field — He must win or lose, he must conquer or yield. Warrior, who comest to this battle now With a careless step and a thoughtless brow. As if the field were already won — Pause and gird all thine armour on ; Myriads have come to this battle-ground With a valiant arm and a name renowned, And have fallen vanquished to rise no more. Ere the sun was set or the day half o'er. Dost thou bring with thee hither a dauntless will. An ardent soul that no blast can chill ? Thy shield of Faith hast thou tried and proved — Canst thou say to the mountain, " Be thou moved ?" In thy hand does the sword of Truth flame bright .? Is thy banner emblazoned, **' For God and the right ?'"' In the might of prayer dost thou strive and plead ? Never had warrior greater need ! Unseen foes in thy pathway hide ; Thoii art encompassed on every side. There Pleasure waits with, her siren trail). Her poison flowers and her hidden chain ; Hope with her Dead-Sea fruits is there ; Sin is spreading her gilded snare ; ^^S G OLDEN LEAVEii. Flattery counts with her hollow smiles. Passion with silvery tone beguiles; Love and Friendship their charmed spells weave ; Trust not too deeply — they may deceive ! Disease with her ruthless hand would smite. And Care spread o'er thee a withering blight ; Hate and Envy, with visage blacky x'\nd the serpent Slander, are on thy track. Guilt and Falsehood, Remorse and Pride, Doubt and Despair^ in thy pathway glide ; Haggard Want, in her demon joy. Waits to degrade thee and then destroy ; Palsied Age in the dis.tance lies, . And watches his victim with rayless eyes ; And Death the insatiate is hovering near. To snatch from thy grasp all thou holdest dear. No skill may avail and no ambush hide : In the open field must the champion bide. And face to face and hand to hand .\lone in his valour confront that band. In war with these phantoms that gird him round. No limbs dissevered may strew the ground ; No blood may ftow, and no mortal ear The groans of the wounded heart may hear. As it struggles and writhes in their dread control. As the iron enters the riven soul i But the youthful form grows wasted and weak. And sunken and wan is the rounded cheek ; The brow is furrowed, but not with years ; The eye is dimmed with its secret tears ; And streaked with white is the raven hair — These are the tokens of conflict there. WHITTIER. 339 The battle is over : the hero goes. Scarred and worn, to his last repose ; He has won the day, he has conquered Doom, He has sunk unknown to his nameless tomb ; Tor the victor's glory no voices plead ; Fame has no echo and earth no meed ; But the guardian angels are hovering near : They have watched unseen o'er the conflict here, And they bear him now on their wings away To a realm of peace, to a cloudless day. Ended now is the earthly strife. And his brow is crowned with the crown of life ! M 3ol)n ®reenkaf illl]ittier. MAUD MULLER. AUD MULLER, on a summer's day. Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But when she glanced to the far-off town. White from its hill-slope looking down. The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, — - 340 G OLDEN LEAVES. A wish that she hardly dared to own. For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane. Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid ; And asked a draught from the spring that flowea Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. And filled for him her small tin cup. And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. * Thanks," said the Judge — " a sweeter draught From a fairer hand, was never quaifed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, C?f the singing birds and the humming bees ; 1 hen talked of the haying, and wondered whether I'he cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! That I the Judge's bride might be ! W uiTTIER. 34 i " He would dress me up in silks so fine. And praise and toast me at his wine. *' My father would wear a broadcloth coat ; M7 brother should sail a painted boat. " rd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. *' And I'd feed the hungry, and clothe the poor. And all should bless me who left the door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. And saw Maud Muller standing still. " A form more fair, a face more sweet. Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. *' And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. '* Would she were mine, and I to-day Like her, a harvester of hay ! " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues ; " But low of cattle and song of birds. And health, and quiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sisters proud and cold. And his- mother vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. When he hummed in court an old love-tune. 16 342 G OLDEN LEAVES. And the young girl mused beside the well^ Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower. Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go : And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft when the wine in his glass was red. He longed for the wayside well instead ; And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. And the proud man sighed with secret pain, " Ah, that I were free again ! — " Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care, and sorrow, and childbirth pain. Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow-lot. And she heard the little spring-brook fall Over fhe roadside, through the wall. In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein. WHITTIER. 343 Andk, ga2dng down with timid grace. She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls ; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned. The tallow candle an astral burned ; And for him who sat by the chimney luga Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty, and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again. Saying only, " It might have been/' Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge I God pity them both, and pity us ail. Who vainly the dreams of youth recall : For of all sad words of tongue and pen. The saddest are these — " It might have been T' Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes; And in the hereafcer, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away ! 344 GOLDEN LEAVE i^. THE MERRIMACK. QTREAM of my fathers ! sweetly still ^ The sunset rays thy valley fill ; Poured slantwise down the long defile. Wave, wood, and spire, beneath them smile. I see the winding Powwow fold The green hill in its belt of gold. And, following down its wavy line. Its sparkling waters blend with thine. There's not a tree upon thy side. Nor rock, which thy returning tide As yet hath left abrupt and stark Above thy evening water-mark ; No calm cove with its rocky hem. No isle whose emerald swells begem Thy broad, smooth current ; not a sail Bowed to the freshening ocean-gale ; No small boat with its busy oars. Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores ; Nor farmhouse with its maple shade. Or rigid poplar colonnade. But lies distinct and full in sight. Beneath this gush of sunset light. Centuries ago, that harbour-bar. Stretching its length of foam afar. And Salisbury's beach of shining sand. And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand. Saw the adventurer's tiny sail Flit, stooping from the eastern gale ; WHITTIER 5-^5 And o'er these woods and waters broke The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak. As brightly on the voyager's eye. Weary of forest, sea^ and sky. Breaking the dull, continuous wood. The Merrimack rolled down his flood ; Mingling that clear, pellucid brook Which channels vast Agioochook — When spring-time's sun and shower unlock The frozen fountains of the rock. And more abundant waters given From that pure lake, " The Smile of Heaven. " Tributes from vale and mountain-side — With Ocean's dark, eternal tide ! On yonder rocky cape, which braves The stormy challenge of the waves. Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood. The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood. Planting upon the topmost crag The staff of England's battle-flag ; And, while from out its heavy fold St. George's crimson cross unrolled. Midst roll of drum and trumpet-blare. And weapons brandishing in air, He gave to that lone promontory The sweetest name in all his story ; Of her — the flower of Islam's daughters. Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters — Who, when the chance of war had bound The Moslem chain his limbs around. Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain. Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain, 34^ G OLDEN LEAVES, And fondly to her youthful slave A dearer gift than freedom gave. But look ] the yellow light no more Streams down on wave and verdant shore ; And clearly on the calm air swells The distant voice of twilight bells. From Ocean's bosom, white an-d thin. The mist comes slowly rolling in ; Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim. Amidst the sea-like vapour swim. While yonder lonely coast-light, set Within its wave-washed minaret. Half-quenched, a beamless star and pale, Shines dimly through its cloudy veil ! Vale of my fathers ! — I have stood Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood ; Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade Along his frowning palisade ; Looked down the Appalachian peak On Juniata's silver streak ; Have seen along his valley gleam The Mohawk's softly winding stream ; The setting sun, his axle red Quench darkly in Potomac's bed ; The Autumn's rainbow-tinted banner Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna ; V^et, wheresoe'er his step might be. Thy wandering child looked back to thee ! Heard in his dreams thy river's sound Of murmuring on its pebbly bound. The unforgotten swell and roar Of waves on thy familiar shore ; WHITTIER. 347 And seen, amidst the curtained gloom And quiet of my lonely room. Thy sunset scenes before me pass ; As, in Agrippa's magic glass. The loved and lost arose to view. Remembered groves in greenness grew ; And while the gazer leaned to trace. More near, some old familiar face. He wept to find the vision flown — A phantom and a dream alone ! PALESTINE. "OLEST land of Judea ! thrice hallowed of song, ■*^ Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng ; In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea. On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee. With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore, Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before ; With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod Made bright by the steps of the angels of God. Lo 1 Bethlehem's hill-side before me is seen. With the mountains around and the valleys between -. There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there The song of the angels rose sweet on the air. And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw Their shadows at noon on the ruins below; But where are the sisters who hastened to greet The lowly Redeemer, and sit at His feet ? 348 GOLDEN LEAVES I tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod; I stand where they stood with the chosen of God, — Where His blessings were heard and His lessons were taught, Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought. Oh, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came, — These hills He toiled over in grief, are the same ; The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow. And the same airs are blowing which breathed on His brow. And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet ; For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone, And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone. But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode Of humanity clothed in the brightness of God ? Were my spirit but turned from the outward and dim. It could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him. Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when. In love and in meekness. He moved among men ; And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea, In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me ! And what if my feet may not tread where He stood. Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood, Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed Him to bear. Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer ? Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here ; And the voice of Thy love is the same even now As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow. WHITT'IER. 349 Oh, the outward hath gone ! — but, in glory and power, The Spirit surviveth the things of an hour ; Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame On the heart's secret altar is burning the same ! THE BROTHER. OF MERCY. piERO LUCA, known of all the town As the gray porter by the Pitti wall Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall. Sick and in dolour, waited to lay down His last sad burden^ and beside his mat The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat. Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted. Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted ; Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife. In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life ; But when at last came upward from the street Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet. The sick m.an started, strove to rise in vain. Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain. And the monk said — *' 'Tis but the Brotherhood Of Mercy going on some errand good : Their black masks by the palace wall I see." PiERO answered faintly — " Woe. is me ! This day for the first time in forty years In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears. Calling me with my brethren of the m.ask. Beggar and prince alike, to some new task i6* y,SO GOLDEN LEAVES. Of love or picy — haply from the street To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain. To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors, Down the long twilight of the corridors. Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain. I loved the work : it was its own reward. I never counted on it to ofiset My sins, which are many, or make less my debt To the free grace and mercy of our Lord ; But somehow, father, it has come to be In these long years so much a part of me, I should not know myself if lacking it. But with the work the worker too would die. And in my place some other self would sit Joyful or sad — what matters, if not I ? i\nd now alFs over. Woe is me !" — " My son,*' The monk said, soothingly, " thy work is done ; And no more as a servant, but the guest Of God, thou enterest thy eternal rest. No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown Forever and forever.'* Piero tossed On his sick pillow : " Miserable me ! I am too poor for such grand company ; The crown would be too heavy for this gray Old head ; and, God forgive me if I say. It would be hard to sit there night and day. Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught With these hard hands, that all my life have wrought. Not for bread only, but for pity's sake. WHITTIER. ■ 351 I'm dull at prayers : I could not keep awake. Counting my beads. Mine's but a crazy head. Scarce worth the saving if all else be dead. And if one goes to heaven without a heart, God knows he leaves behind his better part. I love my fellow-men : the worst I know I would do good to. Will death change me so That I shall sit among the lazy saints. Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints Of souls that suffer ? Why, I never yet Left a poor dog in the Strada hard beset. Or ass o'erladen ! Must I rate man less Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness? Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin !) The world of pain were better, if therein One's heart might still be human, and desires Of natural pity drop upon its fires Some cooling tears." Thereat the pale monk crossed His brow, and muttering — *' Madman ! thou art lost !" Took up his pyx and fled ; and, left alone. The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan That sank into a prayer — " Thy will be done !" Then was he made aware, by soul or ear, Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him. And of a voice like that of her who bore him. Tender and most compassionate : " Be of cheer ! For heaven is love, as God himself is love : Thy work below shall fee thy work above." And when he looked, lo ! in the stern monk's place He saw the shining of an angel's face ! 352 GOLDEN' LEAVES. aife^ B. street. A FORESTWALK. \ LOVELY sky, a cloudless sun, A wind that breathes of leaves and flowers, O'er hill, through dale, my steps have won. To the cool forest's shadowy bowers ; One of the paths all round that wind. Traced by the browsing herds, I choose. And sights and sounds of human kind In Nature's lone recesses lose. The beech displays its marbled bark, The spruce its green tent stretches wide. While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark. The maple's scalloped dome beside : All weave on high a verdant roof. That keeps the very sun aloof. Making a twilight soft and green ~ Within the columned, vaulted scene. Sweet forest-odours have their birth From the clothed boughs and teeming earth : Where pine-cones dropped, leaves piled and dead, Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern. With many a wild flower's fairy urn, A thick, elastic carpet spread ; Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk. Resolving into soil, is sunk ; There, wrenched but lately from its throne. By some fierce whirlwind circling past. Its huge roots massed with earth and stone. One of the woodland kings is cast. STREET. 3^3 Above, the forest-tops are bright With the broad blaze of sunny light : But now a fitful air-grst parts The screening branches, and a glow Of dazzHng, startling radiance darts Down the dark stems, and breaks below The mingled shadows off are rolled. The sylvan floor is bathed in gold : Low sprouts and herbs, before unseen. Display their shades of brown and green ; Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss. Gleams twinkle on the laureFs gloss ; The robin, brooding in her nest. Chirps as the quick ray strikes her breast ; And, as my shadow prints the ground, I see. the rabbit upward bound. With pointed ears an instant look. Then scamper to the darkest nook. Where, with crouched limb and staring eye, He watches while I saunter by. A narrow vista, carpeted With rich green grass, invites my tread ; Here showers the light in golden dots. There sleeps the shade in ebon spots. So blended, that the very air Seems network as I enter there. The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum Afar has sounded on my ear. Ceasing his beatings as I come. Whirrs to the sheltering branches near; The httle milk-snake glides away. 3S4 G OLDEN LEAVES. The brindled marmot dives from day ; And now, between the boughs, a space Of the blue, laughing sky I trace : On each side shrinks the bowery shade ; Before me spreads an emerald glade ; The sunshine steeps its grass and moss. That couch my footsteps as I cross ; Merrily hums the tawny bee. The glittering humming-bird I see ; Floats the bright butterfly along. The insect choir is loud in song : A spot of light and life, it seems A fairy haunt for fancy dreams. Here stretched, the pleasant turf I press, In luxury of idleness ; Sun-streaks, and glancing* wings, and sky. Spotted with cloud-shapes, charm my eye ; While murmuring grass, and waving trees, Their leaf-harps sounding to the breeze, And water-tones that tinkle near. Blend their sweet music to my ear ; And by the changing shades alone The passage of the hours is known. THE GRAY F OR E S T - E A G L E. X T T'lTH storm-daring pinion and sun-gazing eye. The gray forest-eagle is king of the sky ! Oh, little he loves the green valley of flowers, Where sunshine and song cheer the bright summer hours ; STREET. 355 For he hears in those haunts only music, and sees Only rippling of waters and waving of trees; There the red robin warbles, the honey-bee hums, The tiiuid quail whistles, the sly partridge drums ; And if those proud pinions, perchance, sweep along, There's a shrouding of plumage, a hushing of song ; The sunlight falls stilly on leaf and on moss. And there's naught but his shadow black gliding across : But the dark, gloomy gorge, where down plunges the foam Of the fierce, rock-lashed torrent, he claims as his home ; There he blends his keen shriek with the roar of the floodj And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten wood ; From the crag-grasping fir-top, where Morn hangs its wreath, He views the mad waters white writhing beneath ; On a limb of that moss-bearded hemlock far down. With bright azure mantle and gay mottled crown. The kingfisher watches, where o'er him his foe. The fierce hawk, sails circling, each moment more low : Now poised are those pinions and pointed that beak. His dread swoop is ready, when, hark ! with a sliriek. His eye-balls red-blazing, high bristling his crest, His snake-like neck arched, talons drawn to his breast. With the rush of the wind-gust, the glancing of light. The gray forest-eagle shoots down in his flight ; One blow of those talons, one plunge of that neck. The strong hawk hangs lifeless, a blood-dripping wreck ; And as dives the free kingfisher, dart like on high With his prey soars the eagle, and melts in the sky. A fitful red glaring, a low, rumbling jar. Proclaim the storm-demon yet raging afar : The black cloud strides upward, the lightning more fed, 356 G OLD EN LEAVES. And the roll of the thander more deep and more dread ; A thick pall of darkness is cast o'er the air. And on bounds the blast with a howl from its lair : The lightning darts zig-zag and forked through the gloom. And the bolt launches o'er with crash, rattle, and boom ! The gray forest-eagle, where, where has he sped ? Does he shrink to his eyry, and shiver with dread ? Does the glare blind his eye ? Has the terrible blast On the wing of the sky-king a fear-fetter cast ? No, no, the brave eagle ! — he thinks not of fright ; Thie wrath of the tempest but rouses delight ; To the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam. To the shriek of the wild blast he echoes his scream. And with front like a warrior that speeds to the fray. And a clapping of pinions, he's up and away ! Away, oh, away, soars the fearless and free ! What recks he the sky's strife ? — its monarch is he ! The lightning darts round him, undaunted his sight. The blast sweeps against him, unwavered his flight ; High upward, still upward, he wheels, till his form Is lost in the black, scowling gloom of the storm. The tempest sweeps o'er with its terrible train. And the splendour of sunshine is glowing again ; Again smiles the soft, tender blue of the sky. Waked bird-voices warble, fanned leaf-voices sigh ; On the green grass dance shadows, streams sparkle and run. The breeze bears the odour its flower-kiss has won. And full on the form of the demon in flight The rainbow's magnificence gladdens the sight ! The gray forest-eagle 1 oh, where is he now. While' the sky wears the smile of its God on its brow ? STREET. 357 There's a dark, floating spot by yon cloud's pearly wreath, With the speed of the arrow 'tis shooting beneath '. Down, nearer and nearer it draws to the gaze. Now over the rainbow, now blent with its blaze. To a shape it expands, still it plunges through air, A proud crest, a fierce eye, a broad wing are there j 'Tis the eagle — the gray forest-eagle — once more He sweeps to his eyry : his journey is o'er ! Time whirls round his circle, his years roll away. But the gray forest-eagle minds little nis sway ; The child spurns its buds for youth's thorn-hidden bloom. Seeks manhood's bright phantoms, finds age and a tomb ; But the eagle's eye dims not, his wing is unbowed. Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud ; The green tiny pine-shrub points up from the moss. The wren's foot would cover it, tripping across ; The beech-nut down dropping would crush it beneath. But 'tis warmed with heaven's sunshine, and fanned by i*s breath ; The seasons fly past it, its head is on high. Its thick branches challenge each mood of the sky ; On its rough bark the moss a green mantle creates. And the deer from his antlers the velvet-down grates ; Time withers its roots, it lifts sadly in air , A trunk dry and wasted, a top jagged and bare. Till it rocks in the soft breeze, and crashes to earth. Its blown fragments strewing the place of its birth. The eagle has seen it up struggling to sight. He has seen it defying the storm in its might. Then prostrate, soil-blended, with plants sprouting o'er, But the gray forest-eagle is still as of yore. ^5^ G OLDEN LEAVES. His flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbowed. Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud ! He has seen from his eyry the forest below In bud and in leaf, robed with crimson and snow; The thickets, deep wolf-lairs, the high crag his throne, And the shriek of the panther has answered his own. He has seen the wild red man the lord of the shades. And the smoke of his wigwams curl thick in the glades ; He has seen the proud forest melt breath-like away. And the breast of the earth lying bare to the day ; He sees the green meadow-grass hiding the lair. And his crag-throne spread naked to sun and to air; And his shriek is now answered, while sweeping along, By the low or the herd and the husbandman's song ; He has seen the wild red man off-swept by his foes, And he sees dome and roof where those smokes once arose; But his flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbowed. Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud ! An emblem of Freedom, stern, haughty, and high. Is the gray forest-eagle, that king of the sky ! It scorns the bright scenes, the gay places of earth — By the mountain and torrent it springs into birth; There rocked by the wild wind, baptized in the foam. It is guarded and cherished, and there is its home ! When its shadow steals black o'er the empires of kings. Deep terror, deep heart-shaking terror it brings ; Where wicked Oppression is armed for the weak, Then rustles its pinion, then echoes its shriek ; Its eye flames with vengeance, it sweeps on its way. And its talons are bathed in the blood of its prey. Oh, that eagle of Freedom ! when cloud upon cloud COXE. 359 Swathed the sky of my own native land with a shroud. When lightnings gleamed fiercely, and thunderbolts rung, How proud to the tempest those pinions were flung ! Though the wild blast of battle swept fierce through the i\x With darkness and dread, still the eagle was there ; Qnquailing, still speeding, his swift flight was on, rill the rainbow of Peace crowned the victory won. Oh, that eagle o'i Freedom ! age dims not his eye. He has seen Earth's mortality spring, bloom, and die ! He has seen the strong nations rise, flourish, and fall ; Fie mocks at Time's changes, he triumphs o'er all : He has seen our own land with wild forests o'erspread. He sees it with sunshine and joy on its head ; And his presence will bless this, his own chosen clime. Fill the archangel's fiat is set upon time. Bet). ^rtl)ur ClcDclaub €o£e, ?II. SI. THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. ' I "*HE chimes, the chimes of Motherland, Of England, green and old, That out from fane and ivied tower A thousand years have tolled ; How glorious must their music be As breaks the hallowed day. And calleth with a seraph's voice A nation up to pray ! 1 hose chimes that tell a thousand tales. Sweet tales of olden time ! 360 GOLDEN LEAVES. And ring a thousand memories At vesper, and at prime j At bridal and at burial. For cottager and king — Those chimes — those glorious Christian chimes, How blessedly they ring ! Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, Upon a Christmas morn. Outbreaking, as the angels did. For a Redeemer born ; How merrily they call afar. To cot and baron's hall. With holly decked and mistletoe. To keep the festival ! The chimes of England, how they peal From tower and Gothic pile. Where hymn and swelling anthem fill The dim cathedral aisle ; Where windows bathe the holy light On priestly heads that falls. And stain the florid tracery And banner-dighted walls ! And then, those Easter bells, in Spring, Those glorious Easter chimes ; How loyally they hail thee round. Old queen of holy times ! From hill to hill, like sentinels, Responsively they cry. And sing the rising of the Lord, ■ Fiom vale to mountain high. GOXE. 361 1 love ye, chimes of Motherland, With all this soul of mine. And bless the Lord that I am sprung Of good old English line ! And, like a son, I sing the lay- That England's glory tells; For she is lovely to the Lord, For you, ye Christian bells ! And heir of her ancestral fame. And happy in my birth. Thee too I love, my forest-land, The joy of all the earth ; For thine thy mother's voice shall be. And here — where God is King — With English chimes, from Christian spires. The wilderness shall ring. OLD CHURCHES. TTAST been where the full-blossomed bay-tree is blowing. With odours like Eden's around ? ♦' Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is growing. And wild vines are fringing the ground ? Hast sat in the shade of catalpas, at noon. And ate the cool gourds of their clime ; Or slept where magnolias were screening the moon. And the mocking-bird sung her sweet rhyme ? And didst mark in thy journey, at dew-dropping eve. Some ruin peer high o'er thy way, 362 G OLDEN LEAVE S. With rooks wheeling round it, and bushes to weave A mantle for turrets so gray ? Did ye ask if some lord of the cavalier kind Lived there, when the country was young ? And burned not the blood of a Christian, to find How there the old prayer-bell had rung.?- And did ye not glow when they told ye — the Lord ** Had dwelt in that thistle-grown pile ; And that bones of old Christians were under its sward, That once had knelt down in its aisle ? And had ye no tear-drops your blushes to steep When ye thought — o'er your country so broad The bard seeks in vain for a mouldering heap. Save only these churches of God ! O ye that shall pass by those ruins agen. Go kneel in their alleys and pray. And not till their arches have echoed "Amen !" Rise up, and fare on in your way ; Pray God that those aisles may be crowded once more. Those altars surrounded and spread, While anthems and prayers are upsent as of yore. As they take of the wine-cup and bread. Ay, pray on thy knees, that each old rural fane They have left to the bat and the mole. May sound with the loud-pealing organ again. And the full swelling voice of the soul. Peradventure, when next thou shalt journey thereby. Even-bells shall ring out on the air. And the dim-lighted windows reveal to thine eye T]\e snowy-robed pastor at prayer. BEN J A MIX. 363 IJaiii* Smjanun. GOLD. "Gold is, in its la=* analysis, the sweat of" the poor and the blood of the brave." — Joseph Napoleon. T It TASTE treasure like water, ye noble and great ! Spend the wealth of the world to increase your est^ate ; Pile up your temples of marble, and raise Columns and domes, that the people may gaze And wonder at beauty, so gorgeously shown By subjects more rich than the king on his throne. Lavish and squander — for why should ye save ** The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave !" Pour wine into goblets all crusted with gems — Wear pearls on your collars and pearls on your hems ; Let diamonds in splendid profusion outvie The myriad stars of a tropical sky ! Though from the night of the fathomless mine These may be dug at your banquet to shine. Little care ye for the chains of the slave, ** The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave." Behold, at your gates stand the feeble and old — • Let them burn in the sunshine and freeze in the cold ; Let them starve : though a morsel, a drop will impart New vigour and warmth to the limb and the heart : You taste not their anguish, you feel not their pain. Your heads are not bare to the wind and the rain — Must wretches like these of your charity crave " The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave V 364 G OLDEN LEAVES. An army goes out in the morn's early light. Ten thousand gay soldiers equipped for the figtu ; An army comes home at the closing of day — Oh, where are their banners, their goodly array ? Ye widows and orphans, bewail not so loud — Your groans may embitter the feast of the proud ; To win for their store, did the wild battle rave, "The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave." Gold ! gold ! in all ages the curse of mankind. Thy fetters are forged for the soul and the mind : The limbs may be free as the wings of a bird. And the mind be the slave of a look and a word. To gain thee, men barter eternity's crown. Yield honour, affection, and lasting renown. And mingle like foam with life's swift-rushing wave "The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave." THE STORMY PETREL. ^TpHIS is the bird that sweeps o'er the sea — -^ Fearless and rapid and strong is he ; He never forsakes the billowy roar. To dwell in calm on the tranquil shore. Save when his mate from the tempest's shocks Protects her young in the splintered rocks. Birds of the sea, they rejoice in storms ; On the top of the wave you may see their forms- They run and dive, and they whirl and fly. Where the glittering, foam-spray breaks on high ; OLABK. 3^S And against the force of the strongest gale. Like, phantom-ships they soar and sail. All over the ocean, far from land. When the storm-king rises, dark and grand. The mariner sees the petrel meet The fathomless waves with steady feet, x\nd a tireless wing and a dauntless breast, Without a home or a hope of rest. So, mid the contest and toil of life. My soul ! when the billows of rage and scrife Are tossing high, and the heavenly blue Is shrouded by vapours of sombre hue — Like the petrel wheeling o'er foam and spray. Onward and upward pursue thy way ! llHlils ®aalorb €lavk. A LAMENT. THERE is a voice I shall hear no more — There are tones whose music for me is o'er ; Sweet as the odours of spring were they, — Precious and rich — but they died away ; They came like peace to my heart and ear — Never again will they murmur here ; They have gone like the blush of a summer n^orn. Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne. There were eyes, that late were lit up foi me. Whose kindly glance was a joy to see ; 17 366 G OLDEN LEAVES. They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart. Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art ; Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring. When birds in the vernal branches sing ; They were filled with love that hath passed with them. And my lyre is breathing their requiem. 1 remember a brow, whose serene repose Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose ; And lips I remember, whose dewy smile. As I mused on their eloquent power the while. Sent a thrill to my bosom, and blessed my brain With raptures that never may dawn again ; Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed — Alas for the doom of the early dead 1 Alas for the clod that is resting now On those slumbering eyes — on that fated brow ! Woe for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom — For the lips that are dumb in the noisome tomb ; Their melody broken, their fragrance gone. Their aspect cold as the Parian stone ! Alas for the hopes that with thee have died — loved one 1 would I were by thy side ! Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear; 1 hear thy voice in the twilight air; Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see When the visions of evening are borne to me ; Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm — My arm embraceth thy graceful form ; I wake in a world that is sad and drear. To feel in my bosom — thou art not here. JUCKERMAN, 367 Oh ! once the summer with thee was bright ; The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light. T^tere was bliss in existence when thcu wert nigh. There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh ; Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest — - A Sabbath of blessings was in my bi-east ; My heart was full of a sense of love, Likest of all things to heaven above. Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall Where mv budding raptures have perished all ; To that tranquil and solemn place of rest Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast ; Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid, Thy brow is concealed by the cofHn-lid • All that was lovely to me is there — Mournful is life, and a load to bear I %t\\x^ ^f)£obore Qluckcvinan, THE APOLLO BELVIDERE, There is a tradition at Rome that an imaginative French gjr-j die? v»f love for this celebrated statue. "I'T was a day of festival in Rome, And to the splendid temple of her saint. Many a brilliant equipage swept on ; Brave cavaliers reined their impetuous steeds, While dark-robed priests and bright-eyed peasants strolled, Through groups of citizens, in gay attire, • 363 GOLDEN LE A VE S. The suppliant moan of the blind mendicant Blent with the huckster's cry, the urchin's shout. The clash of harness, and the festive cheer. Beneath the colonnade ranged the Swiss guards. With polished halberds — an anomaly, Of mountain lineage, and yet hirelings ! In the m.idst rose the majestic obelisk. Quarried in Egypt, centuries by-gone ; And, on either side, gushed up refreshingly The lofty fountains, flashing in the sun. And breathing, o'er the din, a whisper soft. Yet finely musical as childhood's laugh. Here a stranger stood in mute observance ; There an artist leaned, and pleased his eye With all the features of the shifting scene. Striving to catch its varying light and shade — The mingled tints of brilliancy and gloom. Through the dense crowd a lovely maiden pressed With a calm brow, an eagerness of air. And an eye exultant with high purpose. The idle courtier checked his ready jest. And backward stepped in reverence, as she passed ; The friar turned and blessed her fervently, Reading the joy in her deep look of love. That visits pilgrims when their shrine is won. To the rich chambers of the Vatican She hurried thoughtfully, nor turned to muse Upon the many glories clustered there. There are rooms whose walls are radiant still With the creations of the early dead — Raphael, the gifted and the beautiful ; Fit places those for sweet imaginings TUCKER MAN. 369 And spirit-stirring dreams. She entered, not. Gems of rare hues and cunning workmanship. Ancient sarcophagi, heroic forms. Busts of the mighty conquerors of time. Stirred not a pulse in that fond maiden's heart ; Sne stayed not to peruse the classic face Of young Augustus, nor lingered to discern Benignity in Trajan's countenance ; But sped, with fawn-like and familiar step, On to the threshold of a cabinet ; And then her eye grew brighter, and a flush Suffused her cheek, as, awe-subdued, she paused. And, throwing back the ringlets from her brow. With a light bound and rapturous murmur, stood Before the statue of the Grecian god : " They tell me thou art stone. Stern, passionless, and chill. Dead to the glow of noble thougfit, And feeling's holy thrill ', They deem thee but a marble god. The paragon of art, A thing to charm the sage's eye. But not to win the heart. ^' Vain as their own light vows. And soulless as their gaze. The thought of quenching my deep love By such ignoble praise ! I know that through thy parted, lips Language disdains to roll. While on them rest so gloriously The beamings of the soul. 370 G OLDEN LEAVES. *' I dreamed, but yesternight. That, gazing, e'en as now. Rapt in a wild, admiring joy. On thy majestic brow — That thy strong arm was round me flung. And drew me to thy side. While thy proud lip uncurled in love. And hailed me as a bride, *■' And then, methought, we sped, / Like thine own arrow, high. Through fields of azure, o-rbs of light. Amid the boundless sky r Our way seemed walled with radiant gems. As fell the starry gleams. And the floating isles of pearly drops Gave back their silver beams. *' Sphere-music, too, stole by In the fragrant zephyr's play. And the hum of worlds boomed solemnly Across our trackless way : Upon my cheek the wanton breeze Thy glowing tresses flung ; Like loving tendrils, round my neck, A golden band they clung. *' Methought thou didst impart The mysteries of earth. And whisper lovingly the tale Of thy celestial birth : O'er Poetry's sublimest heights Exultingly we trod; TUCKER MAN. «7» Thv words were music— -uttering The genius of a god ! '* Proud one ! 'twas but a dream ; For here again thou art. Thy marble bosom heeding not My passion-stricken heart. Oh, turn that rapturous look on me, And heave a single sigh — Give but a glance, breathe but a tone^ One word were ecstasy ! " Still mute ? Then must I yield ; This fire will scathe my breast ; This weary heart will throb itself To an eternal rest. Yet still my soul claims fellowship With the exalted grace. The bright and thrilling earnestness. The godlike in thy face. '' Thou wik relent at last. And turn thy love-ht eye In pity on me, noble one ! To bless me ere I die. And now, farewell, my vine-clad home, Farewell, immortal youth ! Let me behold thee when Love calJs The martyr to her truth !" 571 G OLDEN LE AVES. TO AN ELM. DRAVELY thy old arms fling ■^^-^ Their countless pennons to the fields of air, And, like a sylvan king. Their panoply of green still proudly wear. As some rude tower of old, Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form. With limbs of giant mould. To battle sternly with the winter storm. In Nature's mighty fane. Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky ; How long the pilgrim train That v/ith a benison have passed thee by 1 Ljone patriarch of the wood ! Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise. Of fresh and dauntless mood, Spreading thy branches to the open skies. The locust knows thee well. And when the summer days his notes prolong. Hid in some leafy cell, Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song. Oft, on a morn in spring, The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray. And there securely swing, To whet his beak, and pour his bhthesome lay. T U a K E R MA N. 373 How bursts thy monarch wail. When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life. And, bared to meet the gale. Wave thy old branches, eager for the strife ! The sunset often weaves Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare. While the fresh-murmuring leaves Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air. • Sacred thy roof of green To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free : Gay youth and age serene Turn with familiar gladness unto thee. Oh, hither should we roam. To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade ; Beneath thy emerald dome Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade. With blessings at thy feet. Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest ; Thy verdant, calm retreat Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast. When, at the twilight hour. Plays through thy tressil crown the sun's last gleam. Under thy ancient bower The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream. And when the moonbeams fall Through thy broad canopy upon the grass. Making a fairy hall. As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass — 17* 374 GOLDEN LEAVES. Then lovers haste to thee. With hearts that tremble like that shifting light : To them, O brave old tree, Thou art Joy's shrine — a temple of delight ! NEWPORT BEACH, ' I ^HE crested line of waves upheaving slow, •^ Like white-plumed squadrons in compact array. Moving to launch their thunder on the foe. Each gathering in, with hushed yet ardent will. Its strength of purpose ere the war-cloud burst — And with accumulate energy press on Their foamy ridges, to dissolve at last. Like Passion's billows, into gushing tears. Or, with an inarticulate moan, expire. Wave after wave successively rolls on x4nd dies along the shore, until, more loud. One billow with concentrate force is heard To swell prophetic, and exultant rears A lucent form above its pioneers. And rushes past them to the farthest goal. Thus our unuttered feelings rise and fall. And thought will follow thought in equal waves, Qntil Reflection nerves Design to will. Or Sentiment o'er chance Emotion reigns. And all its wayward undulations blends In one o'erwhelming surge ! In Meditation's hour these waves recede. And then appear the relics of the soul — TUCKERMAN. 375 Trophies long cherished, fragments of wrecked hopcs^ That, freshened by the dew of memory, gleam Like a mosaic pavement^ whose dim hues And worn inscriptions suddenly grow clear Beneath reviving moisture : purple shells And gay weeds fleck the strand, like garlands torn By fierce Ambition from the rocks of Time, To drift unheeded down Oblivion's main; And mystic characters indent the sands. Frail as the records that men love to trace. With the approaching tide to pass away. Like the sea, too, our being ebbs and flows. From fountains unexplored of inward life. To the world's sterile coast, with restless dash Chafing its bound ; then mournfully sweeps back. To lapse in earnest consciousness again. For what to thee, O thoughtful soul, imports. The monotone of apathetic days^ Save as the prelude to a higher strain, In which the symphony of Truth shall blend With Love's celestial arithem r Far apart From the insensate crowd, thy real life. Like the deep under-current of the sea. Resistless and invisible flows on : Oh, for a human ear attuned to catch Its muffled voice, or gently beaming eyes To pierce, with keen regard, the playful wave. And watch its hidden course [ After each tempest, both of mind and sea^ Cometh tranquillity ; then rosy hues 376 G OLDEN LEAVES. Flush the horizon with a glow that warms The sleeping flood like Hope's blest revery. And the low ripples^ with their soothing plash. Lave the gay-tinted pebbles till they shine Like precious jewels in the sunset lire ; And the wan moon her slender crescent shows, A diadem benign, serenely high. While the lulled wave as gently heaves below As the fair bosom where is treasured up Our heart's best life, and its pellucid depths Reflect the firmainent, as truthful eyes With crystal softness mirror love's pure gaze. What pristine vigour braces the glad frame That dallies v/ith the breakers, meets the surge. And feels the sportive tossing of the brine ! As in the world's antagonistic sphere We wrestle and grow calm, the vague unrest That haunts impulsive natures yields awhile To the encircling presence of the sea. Inviting thought to an excursive range. And, with its plaintive or impetuous roar, Stilling the tumult of the eager heart. The antique genius shaped a noble truth, In moulding Aphrodite as she stands Prepared to yield her beauty to the sea : A winsome coyness, half made up of fear And half of love, betrays itself in grace : With eyes averted from the tempting flood. She grasps her loosened hair, and, as the wave Strikes her pale feet, a swift recoil TUCKERMAN. 37/ Checks the advancing step, and thus she broods, A lovely image of subdued desire. Action and thought, that quiver and unite In exquisite proportion; thus we pause Up3n the brink of glory unachieved. Or sacrifice resolved — our hearts appalled By the chill touch and dre?.r infinitude 0'[ Fate's relentless tide. Thy breath, majestic Sea, was native air, And thy cool spray, like Nature's baptism, fell Upon my brow, while thy hoarse summons called My childhood's fancy into Wonder's realm. Thy boundless azure in youth's landscape shone Like a vast talisman, that oft awoke Visions of distant climes, from weary round Of irksome life to set my spirit free ; And hence whene'er I greet thy face anew. Familiar tenderness and awe return i\t the wild conjuration ; — fondest hopes. And penitential tears, and high resolves, Are born of musing by the solemn deep. Then here, enfranchised by the voice of God, Oh, ponder not, with microscopic eye. What is adjacent, limited, and fixed ; But with high faith gaze forth, and let thy thought With the illimitable scene expand. Until the bond of circumstance is rent. And personal griefs are lost in visions wide Of an eternal future ' Far awav Where looms yon sail, that, like a curlew's wing. 378 GOLDEN LEAVES. Prints the gray sky, are moored enchanted isles Of unimagined beauty, with soft airs, And luscious fruitage, and unclouded stars ; Where every breeze wafts music, every path. By flowers o'erhung, leads to a home of love. And every life is glorified with dreams : And thus beyond thy present destiny. Beyond the inlet wliere the waves of Time Fret at their barren marge, there spreads a sea More free and tranquil, where the isles of peace Shall yield thy highest aspiration scope. And every sympathy response divine. lUilliam El, ®allagl)€r. FIFTY YEARS AGO. \ SONG for the early times out West, And our green old forest-home. Whose pleasant memories freshly yet Across the bosom come : A song for the free and gladsome life In those early days we led. With a teeming soil beneath our feet. And a smiling heaven o'erhead ! Oh, the waves of life danced merrily. And had a joyous flow. In the days when we were pioneers. Fifty years ago ! • GALLAGHER. 379 The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase. The captured elk or deer ; The camp, the big bright fire, and then The rich and wholesome cheer ; The sweet, sound sleep at dead of nigb.t, By our camp-fire blazing high — Unbroken by the v/olf's long howl. And the panther springing by : Oh, merrily passed the time, despite Our wily Indian foe. In the days when we were pioneers, ' Fifty years ago ! • We shunned not labour : when 'twas due, We wrought with right good will ; And, for the home we won for them. Our children bless us still. We lived not hermit lives, but oft In social converse met; And fires of love were kindled then That burn on warmly yet. Oh, pleasantly the stream of life Pursued its constant flow. In the days when we were pioneers. Fifty years ago ! We felt that we were fellow-men ; We felt we were a band Sustained here in the wilderness By Heaven's upholding hand. And when the solemn Sabbath came. We gathered in the wood. 380 GOLDEN LEAVES. And lifted up our hearts in prayer To God, the only good. Our temples then were earth and sky ; None others did we know In the days when w£ were pioneers. Fifty years ago ! Our forest life was rough and rude. And dangers closed us round ; But here, amid the green old trees. Freedom we sought and found. . Oft through our dwellings wintry blasts Would rush with shriek and moan ; We cared not — though they were but frai/, We felt they were our own ! Oh, free and manly lives we led. Mid verdure or mid snow. In the days when we were pioneers, Fiftv vears apo ! But now our course of life is short; And as, from day to day. We're walking on with halting step. And fainting by the way, Another land, more bright than this. To our dim sig\t appears — And on our way to it we'll soon Again be pioneers 1 Yet while we linger, we may all A backward glance still throw To tne days when v/e were pioneers. Fifty }"ears ago 1 GALLAGHER. 3^^ THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST. ^T^HE mothers of our forest-land 1 -^ Stout-hearted dames were they ; With nerve to wield the battle-brand. And join the border fray. Our rough land had no braver. In its days of blood and strife — Aye ready for severest toil. Aye free to peril life. The mothers of our forest-land 1 On old Kentucky's soil How shared they, with each dauntless band, War's tempest and hfe's toil ! They shrank not from the foeman — They quailed not in the fight — But cheered their husbands through the day. And soothed them through the night. The mothers of our forest-land ! Their bosoms pillowed men ! And proud were they by such to stand. In hammock, fort, or glen. To load the sure old rifle — To run the leaden ball — To watch a battling husband's place. And fill it, should he fall ! The mothers of our forest-land ! Such were their daily deeds : Their monument 1 — where does it stand ? Their epitaph ! — who reads ? 382 G OLDEN LEAVES, No braver dames had Sparta, No nobler matrons Rome — Yet who or lauds or honours them, E*en in their own green home ? The mothers of our forest-land ! They sleep in unknown graves ; And had they borne and nursed a band Of ingrates, or of slaves. They had not been more neglected ! But their graves shall yet be found. And their monuments dot here and there "The Dark and Bloody Ground." 30aac UlcCldlan. NEW England's dead. NEW ENGLAND'S dead \ New England's dead I On every hill they lie ; On every field of strife, made red By bloody victory 1 Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide. Beheld the brave New England sword With slaughter deeply dyed ! Their bones are on the Northern hill And on the Southern plain, By brook and river, lake and rill. And by the roaring main. McGLELLAN. 383 The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell ; For by their blood that land was bought — • The land they loved so well. Then glory to that valiant band. The honored saviours of the land ! Oh, few and weak their numbers were — A handful of brave men ; But to their God they gave their prayei. And rushed to battle then. The God of battles heard their cry. And sent to them the victory. They left the ploughshare in the mould. Their flocks and herds without a fold. The sickle in the unshorn grain. The corn, half-garnered, on the plain. And mustered, in their simple dress, B'or wrongs to seek a stern redress — To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe. To perish, or o'ercome their foe. And where are ye, O fearless men ? And where are ye to-day? I call — the hills reply again That ye have passed away ; That on old Bunker's lonely height. In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground. The grass grows green, the harvest bright. Above each soldier's mound. The bugle's wild and warlike blast Shall muster them no more; 384 GOLDEN LEAVES. An army now might thunder past. And they heed not its roar. The starry flag 'neath which they fought. In many a bloody day. From their old graves shall rouse them not. For they have passed away. THE MISSING SHIP. GOD speed the noble President ! A gallant boat is she. As ever entered harbour, or crossed a stormy sea ; Like some majestic castle she floats upon the stream ; The good ships moored beside her, like pigmy shallops seem ! How will her mighty bulwarks the dashing surges brave ! How will her iron sinews make way 'gainst wind and wave ! Farewell, thou stately vessel ! ye voyagers, farewell ! Securely on that deck shall ye the tempest's shock repel. The stately vessel left us in all her bold array ; A glorious sight, O landsmen ! as she glided down our bay ; Her flags were waving joyously, and, from her ribs of oak. " Farezueil'' to all the city, her guns in thunder spoke. Flee, on thy vapoury pinions ! back, back to England flee ! Where patient watchers by the strand have waited long foi thee : SARGENT. 38s Where kindred hearts are beating to welcome home thy crew. And tearful eyes gaze constantly across -the v/aters blue ! Alas, ye watchers by the strand ! weeks, months have rolled away. But where — where is the President ? and why is this delay ? Return, pale mourners, to your homes ! ye gaze, and gaze in vain : Oh, never shall that pennoned mast salute your eyes again ! And now our hopes, like morning stars, have, one by one, gone out; And mute despair subdues, at length, the agony of doubt ; But still Affection lifts the torch by night along the shore, And lingers by the surf-beat rocks, to marvel, to deplore ! In dreams I see the fated ship torn by the northern blast ; About her tempest-riven track the white fog gathers fast ; When lo ! above the swathing mist their heads the icebergs lift. In lucent grandeur, to the clouds — vast continents adrift ! One mingled shriek of awe goes up at that stupendous sight ; Now, helmsman, for a hundred lives, oh guide the heliiT aright ! Vain prayer ! — she strikes ! and, thundering down, the ava- lanches fall ; Crushed, whelmed, the stately vessel sinks — the cold sea covers all ! Anon, unresting Fancy holds a direr scene to view : The burning ship, the fragile raft, the pale and dying crew i 385 G OLDEN LEAVES. Ah me ! was such their maddening fate upon the billowy brine ? Give up, remorseless Ocean ! a relic and a sign ! No answer cometh from the deep to tell the tale we dread : No messenger of weal or woe returneth from the dead : But Hope, through tears, looks up and sees, from earthly haven driven. The lost ones meet in fairer realms, where storms reach not — in heaven ! |]|]tltp |}enM£ton €ooke. LIFE IN THE AUTUMN WOODS. OUMMER has gone, ^^ And fruitful Autumn has advanced so far That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad sun. And you may look, with naked eye, upon The ardours of his car ; The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks embolden. Are making the green leaves golden. What a brave splendour Is in the October air ! how rich, and clear. And bracing, and all-joyous ! We must render Love to the Spring-time, with its sproutings tender. As to a child quite dear; But Autumn is a thing of perfect glory, A manhood not yet hoary. COOKE. 387 I love the woods. In this good season of the liberal year ; I love to seek their leafy solitudes. And give myself to melancholy moods. With no intruder near. And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder. In every natural wonder. But not alone. As Shakspeare's melancholy courtier loved Ardennes, Love I the browning forest ; and I own i would not oft have mused, as he, but flown To hunt with Amiens — And little thought, as up the bold deer bounded. Of the sad creature wounded. A brave and goo'd. But world-worn knight — soul-wearied with his part In t'his vexed life — gave man for solitude. And built a lodge, and lived in Wantley wood. To hear the belling Hart. It was a gentle taste, but its sweet sadness Yields to the Hunter's madness. What passionate And keen delight is in the proud swift chase ! Go out what time the lark at heaven's red gate Soars joyously singing — quite infuriate With the high pride of his place ; What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning In its first bright adorning. Hark ! the quick horn — As sweet to hear as any clarion — 388 G OLDEN LEAVES. Piercing with silver call the ear of morn ; And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and Topthorne, And Greysteil and the Don — Each one of them his fiery mood displaying With pawing and with neighing. Urge your swift horse. After the crying hounds in this fresh hour. Vanquish high hills — stem perilous streams perforce. On the free plain give free wings to your course. And you will know the power Of the brave chase — and how of griefs the sorest A cure is in the forest. Or stalk the deer ; The same red lip of dawn has kissed the hills. The gladdest sounds are crowding on your ear^ There is a life in all the atmosphere : — Your very nature fills With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring You climb with limbs untiring. It is a fair And goodly sight to see the an tiered stag. With the long sweep of his swift walk repair To join his brothers ; or the plethoric bear Lying on som.e high crag. With pinky eyes half closed, but broad head shaking, As gad-flies keep him waking. And these you see. And seeing them, you travel to their death With a slow, stealthy step, from tree to tree. Noting the wind, however faint it be. SAXE. 38c, The hunter draws a breach In times Hke these, which, he will say, repays him For all care that waylays him. A strong joy fills (A joy beyond the tongue''s expressive powc;) My heart in Autumn weather — fills and thriilc ! And I would rather stalk the breezy hills. Descending to my bower Nightly, by the sweet spirit of Peace attended. Than pine where life is splendid. 3o(]n ®. Qau. THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE. A LEGEND OF GOTHAM. f~\}i, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, ^^^ The very personification of pride. As she minced along in Fashion's tide, Adown Broadway — on the proper side — When the golden sun was setting ; There was pride in the head she carried so high. Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye, And a world of pride in the very sigh That her stately bosom was fretting : A sigh that a pair of elegant feet. Sandalled in satin, should kiss the street — The very same that the vulgar greet 18 390 G OLDEN LEAVES. In common leather not over " neat" — For such is the common booting; (And Christian tears may well be shed. That even among our gentlemen-bred The glorious Day of Morocco is dead. And Day and Martin are reigning instead. On a much inferior footingi) Oh, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride, And proud of fifty matters beside — That wouldn't have borne dissection ; Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk. Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk. Proud of ''knowing cheese from chalk," On a very slight inspection ! — Proud, abroad, and proud at home. Proud wherever she chanced to come — When she was glad, and when she was glum^ Proud as the head of a Saracen Over the door of a tippling-shop ! — Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop, '' Proud as a boy with a bran-new top," Proud beyond comparison ! It seems a singular thing to say, But her very senses led her astray Respecting all humility ; In sooth, her dull auricular drum Could find in humble only a " hum," And heard no sound of '* gentle" come. In talking about gentihty SAXE. 393 What lozuly meant she didn't know. For she always avoided "every thing low/ With care the most punctilious ; And, queerer still, the audible sound Of " super-silly" she never had found In the adjective supercilious ! The meaning of meek she never knew. But imagined the phrase had something to do With " Moses," a peddling German Jew, Who, like all hawkers, the country through. Was ''a person of no position;" And it seemed to her exceedingly plain, If the word was really known to pertain To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane To a lady of high condition ! Even her graces — not her grace. For that was in the *' vocative case" — - Chilled with the touch of her icy face. Sat very stiffly upon her ; She never confessed a favour aloud. Like one of the simple, common crowd — But coldly smiled, and faintly bowed. As who should say, ** You do me proud. And do yourself an honour 1" And yet the pride of Miss MacBride, Although it had fifty hobbies to ride. Had really no foundation ; But like the fabrics that gossips devise — Those single stories that often arise 392 G OLDEN LEAVES. And grow till they reach a four-story size — Was merely a fancy creation ! 'Tis a curious fact as ever was known In human nature, but often shown Alike in castle and cottage. That pride, like pigs of a certain^breed, Will manage to live and thrive on " feed" As poor as a pauper's pottage. That her wit should never have made her vain. Was — like her face— sufficiently plain; And as to her musical powers. Although she sang until she was hoarse. And issued notes with a banker's force. They were just such notes as we never indorse For any acquaintance of ours ! Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high — For Miss MacBride first opened her eye Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky ; But pride is a curious passion — And in talking about her wealth and worth, She always forgot to mention her birth To people of rank and fashion. Of all the notable things on earth. The queerest one is pride of birth. Among our '^fierce democracie '" A bridge across a hundred years, Without a prop to save it from sneers — Not even a couple of rotten peers — A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers. Is American aristocracy ! SAXE. 393 English and Irish, French and Spanish, German, Italian, Dutch, and Danish, Crossing their veins until they vanish In one conglomeration ; So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed. No heraldry-HARVEY will ever succeed In finding the circulation ! Depend upon it, mj snobbish friend, Your family thread you can't ascend, Without good reason to apprehend You may find it waxed at the farther end By some plebeian vocation ; Or, worse than that, your boasted line May end in a loop of stronger twine. That plagued some worthy relation ! But Miss MacBride had something beside Her lofty birth to nourish her pride — For rich was the old paternal MacBride, According to public rumour; And he lived *' up town," in a splendid square. And kept his daughter on dainty fare. And gave her gems that were rich and rare. And the finest rings and things to wear. And feathers enough to plume her. An honest mechanic was John MacBride, As ever an honest calling plied Or graced an honest diity , For John had worked, in his early day. In '' pots and pearls," the legends say — And kept a shop with a rich array 394 G OLDEN LEAVES. Of things in the soap and candle way. In the lower part of the city. No ** rara avis^' was honest John (That's the Latin for '' sable swan") — Though, in one of his fancy flashes, A wicked wag, who meant to deride. Called honest John " Old Fkoenix MacBride," *' Because he rose from his ashes !" Little by little he grew to be rich, By saVing of candle-ends and *' sich," Till he reached at last an opulent niche — No very uncommon affair; .For history quite confirms the law Expressed in the ancient Scottish saw — A MiCKLE may come to be may'r !* Alack for many ambitious beaux ! She hung their hopes upon her nose (The figure is quite Horatian !) — Until, from habit, the member grew As very a hook as ever eye knew. To the commonest observation. A thriving tailor begged her hand. But she gave '* the fellow" to understand By a violent manual action. She perfectly scorned the best of his clan. And reckoned the ninth of any man An exceedingly vulgar fraction ! * *♦ Mickle, wi' thrift, may chance to be mair." — Scotci Prc-verb. SAXE. SP"; Another, whose sign was a golden boot. Was mortified with a bootless suit, In a way that v/as quite appalling ; For, though a regular sutor by trade. He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid, Who cut him off with a saw — and bade '* The cobbler keep to his calling." (The muse must let a secret out : There isn't the faintest shadow of doubt That folks who oftenest sneer and flout At " the dirty, low mechanicals," Are they whose sires, by pounding their knees. Or coiling their legs, or trades like these. Contrived to win their children ease From Poverty's galling manacles.) A rich tobacconist comes and sues. And, thinking the lady would scarce refuse A man of his wealth and liberal views. Began, at once, with '* If you choose — And could you really love him — " But the lady spoiled his speech in a huff. With an answer rough and ready enough. To let him know she was up to snuff^ And altogether above him ! A young attorney, of winning grace. Was scarce allowed to ** open his face," Ere Miss MacBride had closed his case With true judicial celerity; For the lawyer was poor, and ''seedy" to boot. And to say the lady discarded his suit. Is merely a double veritv. 396 GOLDEN LEAVE S. The last of those who came to court Was a lively beau of the dapper sort^ " Without any visible means of support"-- A crime by no means flagrant In one who wears an elegant coat. But the very point on which they vote A ragged fellow " a vagra'nt." A courtly fellow was dapper Jim, Sleek and supple, and tall and trim, And smooth of tongue as neat of limb ; And, maugre his meagre pocket. You'd say, from the glittering tales he toltj. That Jim had slept in a cradle of gold. With FoRTUNATus to rock it. Now dapper Jim his courtship plied (I wish the fact could be denied) With an eye to the purse of the old MacBride, And really " nothing shorter !" For he said to himself, in his greedy lust, '' Whenever he dies — as die he must — And yields to Heaven his vital trust. He's very sure to ' come down with his dust,* In behalf of his only daughter." And the very magnificent Miss MacBride, Half in love, and half in pride. Quite graciously relented ; And, tossing her head, and turning her back. No token of proper pride to lack — To be a Bride, without the " Mac," With much disdain, consented. SAXE. 397 Alas ! that people who've got their box Of cash beneath the best of locks. Secure from all financial shocks. Should stock their fancy with fancy stocks, And madly rush upon Wall-street rocks. Without the least apology ! Alas ! that people whose money-affairs Are sound, beyond all need of repairs, Should evei: tempt the bulls and bears Of Mammon's fierce zoology ! Old John MacBride, one fatal day. Became the unresisting prey Of Fortune's undertakers; And, staking all on a single die. His foundered bark went high and dry Among the brokers and breakers ! At his trade again, in the very shop Where, years before, he let it drop. He follows his ancient calling — Cheerily, too, in Poverty's spite. And sleeping quite as sound at night As when, at Fortune's giddy height. He used to wake with a dizzy fright From a dismal dream of falling. But alas for the haughty Miss MacBride, 'Twas such a shock to her precious pride ! She couldn't recover, although she tried Her jaded spirits to rally; 'Twas a dreadful change in human affairs. From a Place " up town" to a nook " up stairs," From an avenue down to an alley ! i8* 398 GOLDEN LEAVES. 'Twas little condolence she had, God wot. From her " troops of friends/' who hadn't forgot The airs she used to borrow ; They had civil phrases enough, but yet 'Twas plain to see that their *' deepest regret" Was a different thing from sorrow ! They owned it couldn't have well been worse To go from a full to an empty purse : To expect a ''reversion," and get a reverse. Was truly a dismal feature; But it wasn't strange — 'they whispered — at all : That the summer of pride should have its fall Was quite according to Nature ! And one of those chaps who make a pun, As if it were quite legitimate fun To be blazing away at every one With a regular double-loaded gun. Remarked that moral transgression Always brings retributive stings To candle-makers as well as kings : For " making light of cereous things" Was a very wick-ed profession ! And vulgar people — the saucy churls ! — Inquired about " the price of pearls," And mocked at her situation : '' She wasn't ruined, they ventured to hope — Because she was poor, she needn't mope ; Few people were better off for soap. And that was a consolation !" SAXE. 399 « And, to make her cup of woe run over. Her elegant, ardent, plighted lover Was the very first to forsake her ; ** He quite regretted the step, 'twas true — The lady had pride enough ' for two,' But that alone would never do To quiet the butcher and baker." And now the unhappy Miss MacBride — The merest ghost of her early pride — Bewails her lonely position ; Cramped in the very narrowest niche, Above the poor, and below the rich. Was ever a wor^e condition ? MORAL, Because you flourish in worldly affairs. Don't be haughty, and put on airs. With insolent pride of station ; Don't be proud, and turn up your nose At poorer people in plainer clo'es, But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose, That wealth's a bubble that comes — and goes I And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows. Is subject to irritation ] PHAETHON, OR THE AMATEUR COACHMAN. T^AN PHAETHON— so the histories run— -*^ Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun Or rather of Phcebus — but as to his mother. Genealogists make a deuce of a pother, 40O GOLDEN LEA VE S. Some going for one, and some for another ; For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer. This roaring young blade was the son of Aurop-a ' Now old Father Phcebus, ere railways begun To elevate funds and depreciate fun. Drove a very fast coach by the name of "The Sun," Running, they say. Trips every day (On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way), All lighted up with a famous array Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display. And dashing along hke a gentleman's " shay,*"" With never a fare, and nothing to pay ! Now Phaethon begged of his doting old father To grant him a favour, and this the rather. Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy. That he wasn't by any means Fhcebus's boy 1 Intending, the rascally son of a gun. To darken the brow of the son of the Sun 1 " By the terrible Styx," said the angry sire. While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire " To prove your reviler an infamous liar, T swear I will grant you whatever you desire !" *'Then by my head," The youngster said, " I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed — For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive. Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive I" "Nay, Phaethon, don't — I beg you won't — Just stop a moment, and think upon't ! SAXE. 40i You're quite too young/' continued the sage, ** To tend a coach at your early age ; Besides, you see, 'Twill really be Your first appearance on any stage ! Desist, my child — The cattle are wild, And when their mettle is thoroughly * riled,' Depend upon't, the coach will be * spiled' — They're not the fellows to draw^ it mild ! Desist, I say. You'll rue the day — So mind, and don't be foolish, Pha !" But the youth was proud. And swore aloud, 'Twas just the thing to astonish the crowd — He'd have the horses, and wouldn't be cowed ! In vain the boy was cautioned at large. He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge. And vowed that any young fellow of force Could manage a dozen coursers, of course ! Now Phcebus felt exceedingly sorrv He had given his word in such a hurry , But, having sworn by the Styx, no doubt He was in for it now, and couldn't back out. So calling Phaethon up in a trice. He gave the youth a bit of advice : '* '' Parce stimiilzs, utere loris P (A * stage direction,' of which the core is. Don't use the whip — they're ticklish things — But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings !) 402 GOLDEN LEAVE S. Remember the rule of the JEHu-tribe is, * Medio tutismnus ihis,^ As the judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman (Who was going to quod between two watchmen) ; So mind your eye and spare your goad — Be shy of the stones and keep in the road !"■ Now Phaethon, perched in the coach man*s place. Drove oiF the steeds at a furious pace. Fast as coursers running a race. Or bounding along in a steeple-chase \ Of whip and shout there was no lack — " Crack — whack — Whack — crack" — Resounding along the horses' back ! Frightened beneath the stinging lash. Cutting their flanks in many a gash. On — on they speed as swift as a flash. Through thick and thin away they dash (Such rapid driving is always rash) ! When, all at once, with a dreadfil crash. The whole establishment went to smash \ And Phaethon, he^ As all agree. Off the coach was suddenly hurled. Into a puddle, and out of the world \ MORAL. Don*t rashly take to dangerous courses. Nor set it down in your table of forces That any one man equals any four horses 1 EMERSON. 403 Don't swear by the Styx ! — It's one of Old Nick's Diabolical tricks To get people into a regular "fix," And hold 'em there as fast as bricks ! Ralpl) lUalbo (Sinevson. THE POET. TT^OR this present, hard Is the fortune of the bard Born out of time ; All his accomplishment From Nature's utmost treasure spent Booteth not him. When the pine tosses its cones To the song of its waterfall tones. He speeds to the woodland walks. To birds and trees he talks : . C^SAR of his leafy Rome, There the poet is at home. He goes to the river- side, — * Not hook nor line hath he : He stands in the meadows wide, — Nor gun nor scythe to see ; With none has he to do. And none to seek him Nor men below. Nor spirits dim. 404 GOLDEN LEAVES. What he knows nobody wants j What he knows he hides, not vaunts. Knowledge this man prizes best Seems fantastic to the rest; Pondering shadows, colours, clouds, Grass-buds, and caterpillars' shrouds. Boughs on which the wild bees settle. Tints that spot the violets' petal. Why Nature loves the number five. And why the star-form she repeats ;- Lover of all things alive, Wonderer at all he meets, Wonderer chiefly at himself, — Who can tell him what he is. Or how meet in human elf Coming and past eternities ? And such I knew, a forest seer, A minstrel of the natural year. Foreteller of the vernal ides. Wise harbinger of spheres and tides, A lover true, who knew by heart Each joy the mountain-dales impart; It seemed that Nature could not raise A plant in any secret place. In quaking bog, on snowy hill. Beneath the grass that shades the rill. Under the snow, beneath the rocks. In damp fields known to bird and fox. But he would come in the very hour It opened in its virgin bower. EMERSON. 4c 5 As if a sunbeam showed the place, And tell its long-descended race. It seemed as if the breezes brought him. It seemed as if the spairows taught him. As if by secret sight he knew Where in far fields the orchis grew. There are many events in the field. Which are not shown to common eyes. But all her shows did Nature yield To please and win this pilgrim wise. He saw the partridge drum in the woods. He heard the woodcock's evening hymn. He found the tawny thrush's broods. And the shy hawk did wait for him. What others did at distance hear. And guessed within the thicket's gloom, Was showed to this philosopher. And at his bidding seemed to come. EACH AND ALL. T ITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown ■^—^ Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; The heifer that lows in the upland farm. Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ^ The sexton, tolling his bell at noon. Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight. Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height ; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbour's creed has lent. 4o6 G OLDEN LEA VEB. All are needed by each one — Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven. Singing at dawn on the alder-bough ; I brought him home, in his nest, at even. He sings the song, but it pleases not now ; For I did not bring home the river and sicy : He sang to my ear — they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore ; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave. And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam — I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore. With the sun, and the sand, and the wilcl uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid. As mid the virgin train she strayed ; Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow white choir. At last she came to his hermitage. Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage ; The gay enchantment was undone — A gentle wife, but fairy none. '* Then I said, *' I covet truth ; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat — I leave it behind with the games of youth." As I spoke, beneath mv feet EMERSOK. +0? The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath. Running over the club-moss burrs ; I inhaled the violet's breath ; Around me stood the oaks and firs ; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; Over me soared the eternal sky. Full of light and of deity ; Again I saw, again I heard. The rolling river, the morning bird j Beauty through my senses stole — I yielded myself to the perfect whole. TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. TT^INE humble-bee ! fine humble-bee ! Where thou art is clime for me ; Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seekj — I will follow thee alone. Thou animated torrid zone ! Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer. Let me chase thy waving lines ; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer. Singing over shrubs and vines. Flower-bells, Honeyed cells, — These the tents Which he frequents. Insect lover of the sun, joy of thy dominion I , "^ 4-08 GOLDEN LEAVES. Sailor of the atmosphere. Swimmer through the waves of air. Voyager of light and noon. Epicurean of June ! Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum, — All without is martyrdom. When the south wind, in May days With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall ; And, with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a colour of romance ; And, infusing subtle heats. Turns the sod to violets, — Thou in sunny solitudes. Rover of the underwoods. The green, silence dost displace With thy mellow breezy bass. Hot Midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tune. Telling of countless sunny hours. Long days, and solid banks of fiowr , s ; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound. In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen ; . EMERSON. 409 But violets, and bilberry-bells. Maple-sap, and dafFodels, Clover, catchfly, adder's -tongue. And brier-roses, dwelt among : All beside was unknown waste. All was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer. Yellow-breeched philosopher. Seeing only what is fair. Sipping only what is sweet. Thou dost mock at Fate and Care, Leave the chaif and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast. Thou already slumberest deep ; Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. GOOD-BY, PROUD WORLD ! GOOD -BY, proud world ! I'm going home : Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine. Long through thy weary crowds I roam, A river-ark on the ocean's brine ; Long I've been tossed like the driven foam ; But now, proud world ! I'm going home. Good-by to Flattery's fawning "ace ; To Grandeur, with his wise grimace ; 410 GOLDEN LEAVES. To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; To supple Office, low and high ; To crowded halls, to court and street; To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; To those who go, and those who come ; Good-by, proud world ! Fm going home. I am going to my own hearth-stone. Bosomed in yon green hills alone — A secret nook in a pleasant land. Whose groves the frolic fairies planned ; Where arches green, the livelong day. Echo the blackbird's roundelay. And vulgar feet have never trod A spot that is sacred to thought and God. Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome ; And when I am stretched beneath the pines, ■Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man ; At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; For what are they all in their high conceit. When man in the bush with God may meet ! THE WORLD FOR SALE. Mr^HE WORLD FOR SALE ! Hang out the sign ; •*- Call every traveller here to me ; Who'll buy this brave estate of mine. And set me from earth's bondage free ? U07T. 411 'Tis going ! — Yes, I mean to fling The bawble from my soul away ; I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring, — The World at Auction here to-day ! It is a glorious thing to see — Ah, it has cheated me so sore ! It is not what it seems to be : For sale ! it shall be mine no more. Come, turn it o'er, and view it well ; I would not have you purchase dear ; 'Tis going — going ! — I must sell ! Who bids ? — Who'll buy the Splendid Tear ? Here's Wealth in ghttering heaps of gold— Who bids ? — But let me tell you fair, A baser lot was never sold ; — Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care ? And here, spread out in broad domain, A goodly landscape all may trace ; Hall, cottage, tree, field, hill, and plain : Who'll buy himself a burial-place ? Here's Love, the dreamy, potent spell That Beauty flings around the heart ; I know its power, alas ! too well ; — 'Tis going — Love and I must part ! Must part 1 — What can I more with Love ? All over the enchanter's reign ; Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove ? — An hour of bhss, an age of pain ! And Friendship — rarest gem of earth — (Who e'er hath found the jev/el his ?) 412 G OLDEN LEAVES, Frail, fickle, false, and little worth. Who bids for Friendship — as it is ? 'Tis going — going ! — Hear the call : Once, twice, and thrice ! — 'Tis very low ! 'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all — But now the broken staff must go ! Fame ! hold the brilliant meteor high ; How dazzling every gilded name ! Ye millions, now's the time to buy ! — How much for Fame ? how much for Fame ? Hear how it thunders ! — Would you stand On high Olympus, far renowned ? Now purchase, and a world command. And be with a world^s curses crowned ! Sweet star of Hope ! with ray to shine In every sad, foreboding breast. Save this desponding one of mine, — Who bids for man's last friend and best ? Ah ! were not mine a bankrupt life. This treasure should my soul sustain ; But Hope and I are now at strife, Nor ever may unite again. And Song ! — For sale my tuneless lute ; Sweet solace, mine no more to hold ; The chords that charmed my soul are mute ; I cannot wake the notes of old. Or e'en were mine a wizard shell Could chain a world in raptures high. Yet now a sad "Farewell ! farewell !" — Must on its last faint echoes die. WALLACE. 413 Ambition, Fashion, Show, and Pride, — I part from all forever now ; Grief, in an overwhelming tide, Has taught my haughty heart to bow. Poor heart ! distracted, ah, so long — And still its aching throb to bear ; How broken, that was once so strong ! How heavy, once so free from care 1 No more for me life's fitful dream ; — Bright vision, vanishing away ! My bark requires a deeper stream. My sinking soul a surer stay. By Death, stern sheriff ! all bereft, I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod ; The best of all I still have left — My Faith, my Bible, and my God. lUilliam Hobb lUallace. THE L I B E R T Y- B E L L.* A SOUND like the sound of a tempest rolled, -^"^ And the heart of a people stirred. For the bell of Freedom, at midnight tolled, Through a fettered land was heard : And the chime still rung From its iron tongue. Steadily swaying to and fro ; * Rung in Philadelphia, at the Declaration of Independence. 19 414 G OLlJEN LEAVES, And to some it came As a breath of flame. And to some as a sound of woe. Upon the tall mountain, upon the tossed wave, it was heard hj the fettered, and heard by the brave ; It was heard in the cottage, and heard in the hall. And its chime gave a glorious summons to all. The old sabre was sharpened, the time-rusted blade Of the bond started out in the pioneer's glade. Like a herald of wrath — and the host was arrayed I Along the tall mountain, along the tossed wave. Swept the ranks of the bond, swept the ranks of the brave; And a shout as of waters went up to the dome. And a sun-drinking banner unfurled. Like an archangel's pinion flashed out from his home. Uttered freedom and hope to the world. O'er the mountain and tide its magnificent fold. With a terrible glitter of azure and gold. In the storm and the sunshine forever unrolled. It blazed in the valley ; it blazed on the mast ; It flew like a comrade abroad with the blast ; And the eyes of whole nations were turned to its light ; And the hearts of the multitude soon Were swayed by its stars as they shone through the night, Like an ocean when swayed by the moon. Again through the midnight that bell thunders out. And banners and torches are hurried about, A shout as of waters, a long-uttered cry 1 How it leaps, how it leaps from the earth to the sky ! From the sky to the earth, from the earth to the sea. Hear the chorus re-echoed, '' The people are free !^^ WALLACE. 415 That old bell is still seen by the patriot's eye. And he blesses it ever when journeying by : Long years have passed over it, and yet every soul Must thrill in the night to its deep, solemn roll ; For it speaks in its belfry when kissed by the blast, Like a broad blessing breathed from the lips of the Past. Long years will roll o'er it, and yet every chime Must unceasingly tell of an era sublime. And more splendid, more dear than the rest of all Time. Oh, yes ! if the flame on our altars should pale. Let its voice but be heard, and the freeman will start To rekindle the fire, while he sees on the gale All the stars, all the stripes of the flag of his heart. THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL. " '76 IS FOREVER TO BE SUNG." ^tion. T TE lay upon his dying bed, '*■ "*' His eye was growing dim. When with a feeble voice he called His weeping son to him : '* Weep not, my boy," the veteran said, " I bow to Heaven's high will ; But quickly from yon antlers bring The sword of Bunker Hill." The sword was brought ; the soldier's eye Lit with a sudden flame ; And, as he grasped the ancient blade. He murmured Warren's name ; .i6 G OLDEN LEAVES. Then said — " My boy, I leave you gold, But, what is richer still, I leave you — mark me, mark me now — The sword of Bunker Hill ! " 'Twas on that dread, immortal day, I dared the Briton's band; A captain raised this blade on me — I tore it from his hand ! And while the glorious battle raged. It lightened Freedom's will ; For, boy, the God of Freedom's blessed The sword of Bunker Hill. ** Oh, keep the sword !" — his accents broke — A smile, and he was dead ; But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade Upon that dying bed. The son remains, the sword remains. Its glory growing still. And twenty millions bless the sire And sword of Bunker Hill. cilice (Caieg. VISIONS OF LIGHT. ^T^HE moon is rising in beauty. The sky is solemn and bright. And the waters are singing like lovers That walk in the valleys at night. ALICE CAREY. 417 Like, the towers of an ancient city. That darken against the sky. Seems the blue mist of the river O'er the hill-tops far and high. 1 see through the gathering darkness The spire of the village church, And the pale white tombs, half hidden By the tasselled willow and birch. Vain is the golden drifting Of morning light on the hill ; No white hand opens the windows Of those chambers low and still. But their dwellers were all my kindred. Whatever their lives might be. And their sufferings and achievements Have recorded lessons for me. Not one of the countless voyagers Of life's mysterious main. Has laid down his burden of sorrows. Who hath lived and loved in vain. From the bards of the elder ages Fragments of song float by. Like flowers in the streams of summer. Or stars in the midnight sky. Some plumes in the dust are scattered. Where the eagles of Persia flew. And wisdom is reaped from the furrows The plough of the Roman drew. 4i8 G OLDEN LEAVES, From the white tents of the crusaders The phantoms of glory are gone. But the zeal of the barefooted hermit In humanity^s heart lives on. Oh, sweet as the bell of the Sabbath In the tower of the village church. Or the fall of the yellow moonbeams In the tasselled willow and birch — Comes a thought of the blessed issues That shall follow our social strife. When the spirit of love maketh perfect The beautiful mission of life : For visions of light are gathered In the sunshine of flowery nooks. Like the shades of the ghostly Fathers In their twilight cells of books ! HARVEST-TIME. /^ OD'S blessing on the reapers ! all day long ^-'^ A quiet sense of peace my spirit fills. As whistled fragments of untutored song Blend with the rush of sickles on the hills : And the blue wild-flowers and green brier-leaves Are brightly tangled with the yellow sheaves. Where straight and even the new furrows lie. The cornstalks in their rising beauty stand ; ALICE CAREY. ^19 Heaven's loving smile upon man's industry- Makes beautiful with plenty the. wide land. The barns, pressed out with the sweet hay, I see. And feel how more than good God is to me ! In the cool thicket the red-robin sings. And merrily before the mower's scythe Chirps the green grasshopper, while slowly swings. In the scarce-swaying air, the willow lithe ; And clouds sail softly through the upper calms. White as the fleeces of the unshorn lambs. • Outstretched beneath the venerable trees. Conning his long, hard task, the schoolboy lieSj And, like a fickle wooer, the light bre-eze Kisses his brow ; then, scarcely sighing, flies ; And all about him pinks and lilies stand. Painting with beauty the wide pasture-land. Oh, there are moments when we half forget The rough, harsh grating of the file of Time, And I believe that an^^els come down yei And walk with us, as in the Eden clime; Binding the heart away from woe and strife, With leaves of healing from the Tree of Life. And they are most unworthy who behold The bountiful provisions of God's care. When reapers sing among the harvest-gold. And the mown meadow scents the quiet air. And yet who never say, with all their heart, ** How good, my Father, oh, how good Thou ait !" 420 GOLDEN LEAVES. 5[[)omas lllilUam jparsous. HUDSON RIVER. TJ IVERS that roll most musical in song -*^^ Are often lovely to the mind alone ; The wanderer muses, as he moves along Their barren banks, on glories not their own. When, to give substance to his boyish dreams. He leaves his own, far countries to survey. Oft must he think, in greeting foreign streams, '* Their names alone are beautiful, not they.'* If chance he mark the dwindled Arno pour A tide more meagre than his native Charles ; Or views the Rhone when summer*s heat is o'er. Subdued and stagnant in the fen of Aries ; Or when he sees the slimy Tiber fling His sullen tribute at the feet of Rome, Oft to his thought must partial Memory bring More noble waves, without renown, at home : Now let him climb the Catskill, to behold The lordly Hudson, marching to the main. And say what bard, in any land of old. Had such a river to inspire his strain ! Along the Rhine, gray battlements and towers Declare what robbers once the realm possessed ; But here Heaven's handiwork surpasseth ours. And man has hardly more than built his nest. FABSON-S. 42 J No storied castle overawes these heights. Nor antique arches check the current's play, Nor mouldering architrave the mind invites To dream of deities long passed away. No Gothic buttress, or decaying shaft Of marble, yellowed by a thousand years. Lifts a great landmark to the little craft, A summer cloud ! that comes and disappears : But cliffs, unaltered from their primal form Since the subsiding of the Deluge, rise. And hold their savins to the upper storm, While far below the skiff securely plies. Farms, rich not more in meadows than in men Of Saxon mould, and strong for every toil. Spread o'er the plain, or scatter through the glen, Boeotian plenty on a Spartan soil. Then, where the reign of Cultivation ends. Again the charming wilderness begins ; From steep to steep one solemn wood extends. Till some new hamlet's rise the boscage thins. *t>" And these deep groves forever have remained Touched by no axe — by no proud owner nursed : As now they stand they stood when Pharaoh reigned, Lineal descendants of Creation's first. Thou Scottish Tweed, a sacred streamlet now Since thy last minstrel laid him down to die. Where through the casement of his chamber thou Didst mix thy moan with his departing sigh ; — 19* 4.2* GOLDEN LExlVES. A few of Hudson's more majestic hills Might furnish forests for the whole of thine. Hide in thick shade all Humber's feeding rills. And darken all the fountains of the Tyne. Name all the floods that pour from Albion's heart. To float her citadels that crowd the sea. In what, except the meaner pomp of Art, Sublimer Hudson ! can they rival thee ? Could boastful Thames with all his riches buy. To deck the strand which London loads with gold, Sunshine so bright — such purity of sky — As bless thy sultry season and thy cold ? No tales, we know, are chronicled of thee In ancient scrolls ; no deeds of doubtful claim Have hung a history on every tree. And given each rock its fable and a fame. But neither here hath any conqueror trod. Nor grim invader from barbarian climes; No horrors feigned of giant or of god Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes. Here never yet have happy fields, laid waste. The ravished harvest and the blasted fruit. The cottage ruined, and the shrine defaced. Tracked the foul passage of the feudal brute. ''Yet, O Antiquity !" the stranger sighs, " Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the view ; The soul's indifference dulls the sated eyes. Where all is fair indeed — but all is new.'* PARSONS. 4.2g False thought ! is age to crumbling walls confined^ To Grecian fragments and Egyptian bones ? Hath Time no monuments to raise the mind. More than old fortresses and sculptured stones r Call not this new which is the only land That wears unchanged the same primeval face Which, when just dawning from its Maker's hand. Gladdened the first great grandsire of our race. Nor did Euphrates with an earlier birth Glide past green Eden towards the unknown Sou:h, Than Hudson broke upon the infant Earth, And kissed the Ocean with his nameless mouth. Twin-born with Jordan, Ganges, and the Nile ! Thebes aad the Pyramids to thee are young ; Oh, had thy waters burst from Britain's isle. Till now perchance they had not flowed unsung ! ON A LADY SINGING. /^FT as my lady sang for me ^"^ That song of the lost one that sleeps by the sea. Of the grave on the rock, and the cypress-tree. Strange was the pleasure that over me stole. For 'twas made of old sadness that lives in my soul. So still grew my heart at each tender word. That the pulse in my bosom scarcely stirred, And I hardly breathed, but only heard : Where was I ? — not in the world of men. Until she awoke me with silence again. :4 GOLDEN LEAVES. Like the smell of the vine, when its early bloom Sprinkles the green lane with sunny perfume. Such a delicate fragrance filled the room : Whether it came from the vine without. Or arose from her presence, I dwell in doubt. Light shadows played on the pictured wall From the maples that fluttered outside the hall. And hindered the daylight — yet ah ! not all ; Too little for that all the forest would be, — Such a sunbeam she was, and is, to me ! When my sense returned, as the song was o*er, I fain would have said to her, " Sing it once more," But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore : Music enough in her look I found. And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the sound. |)()cebe dlareg. THE CHRISTIAN WOMAN. /^H, beautiful as Morning in those hours ^"^ When, as her pathway lies along the hills, Her golden fingers wake the dewy flowers. And softly touch the waters of the rills. Was she who walked more faintly day by day Till silently she perished by the way. It was not hers to know that perfect heaven Of passionate love returned by love as deep ; PH(EBE CAREY. 4.25 Not hers to sing the cradle-song at even. Watching the beauty of her babe asleep ; *"' Mother and brethren" — these she had not known, Save such as do the Father's will alone. Yet found she something still for which to live — Hearths desolate, where angel-like she came, And *' little ones" to whom her hand could give A cup of water in her Master's name ; And breaking hearts to bind away from death. With the soft hand of pitying Love and Faith. She never won the voice of popular praise ; But, counting earthly triumph as but dross. Seeking to keep her Saviour's perfect ways. Bearing in the still path His blessed cross, She made her life, while with us here she trod, A consecration to the will of God ! And she hath lived and laboured not in vain : Through the deep prison-cells her accents thrill. And the sad slave leans idly on his chain. And hears the music of her singing still ; While little children, with their innocent praise, Keep freshly in men's hearts her Christian ways. And what a beautiful lesson she made known ! — The whiteness of her soul sin could not dim ; Ready to lay down on God's altar-stone The dearest treasure of her life for Him. Her flame of sacrifice never, never waned : How could she live and die so self-sustained? 426 G OLDEN LEAVES. For friends supported not her parting soul. And whispered words of comfort kind and sweet. When treading onward to that final goal Where the still bridegroom waited for her feet Alone she walked, yet with a fearless, tread, Down to Death's chamber, and his bridal bed ' Stljomaa Bncljanan Heab. THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. "D ETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn "^"^ Is the lowly home where I was born ; The peach-tree leans against the wall. And the woodbine wanders over all ; There is the shaded doorway still. But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill. There is the barn — and, as of yore, I can smell the hay from the open door. And see the busy swallow's throng. And hear the pewee's mournful song; But the stranger comes — oh ! painful proof — His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. There is the orchard — the very trees Where my childhood knew long hours of ease. And watched the shadowy moments run Till my life imbibed more shade than sun ; The swing from the bough still sweeps the air. But the stranger's children are swinging there. READ. 42; There bubbles the shady spring below. With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow ; 'Twas there I found the calamus-root. And watched the minnows poise and shoot. And heard the robin lave its wing. But the stranger's bucket is at the spring. O ye, who daily cross the sill. Step lightly, for I love it still ; And when you crowd the old barn-eaves, Then^ think what countless harvest-sheaves Have passed within that scented door To gladden eyes that are no more 1 Deal kindly with these orchard-trees ; And when your children crowd their knees Their sweetest fruit they shall impart. As if old memories stirred their heart : I'o youthful sport still leave the swing. And in sweet reverence hold the spring. The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds. The meadows with their lowing herds. The woodbine on the cottage wall — My heart still lingers with them all. Ye strangers on my native sill. Step lightly, for I love it still ! PASSING THE ICEBERGS. A FEARLESS shape of brave device. Our vessel drives through mist and rain, Between the floating fleets of ice — The navies of the northern main. 4-28 GOLDEN LEAVES. These arctic ventures, blindly hurled The proofs of Nature's olden force — Like fragments of a crystal world Long shattered from its skyey course. These are the buccaneers that fright The middle sea with dream of wrecks. And freeze the south winds in their flight. And chain the Gulf-stream to their decks. At every dragon prow and helm There stands some Viking as of yore ; Grim heroes from the boreal realm Where Odin rules the spectral shore. And oft beneath the sun or moon Their swift and eager falchions glow-^ While, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune Comes chafing through some beard of sno', And when the far north flashes up With fires of mingled red and gold. They know that many a blazing cup Is brimming to the absent bold. Up signal there, and let us hail Yon looming phantom as we pass ' Note all her fashion, hull, and sail. Within the compass of your glass. See at her mast the steadfast glow Of that one star of Odin's throne ; Up with our flag, and let us show The Constellation on our own ! READ. 429 And speak her well ; for she might say. If from her heart the words could thaw. Great news from some far frozen bay. Or the remotest Esquimaux. Might tell of channels yet untold. That sweep the pole from sea to sea ; Of lands which God designs to hold A mighty people yet to be : — Of wonders which alone prevail Where day and darkness dimly meet ; — Of all which spreads the arctic sail ; Of Franklin and his venturous fleet : How, haply, at some glorious goal His anchor holds — his sails are furled ; That Fame has named him on her scroll, ** Columbus of the Polar World." Or how his ploughing barks wedge on Through splintering fields, with battered shares. Lit only by that spectral dawn, The mask that mocking Darkness wears ; — Or how, o'er embers black and fev/. The last of shivered masts and spars. He sits amid his frozen crew In council with the Norland stars. No answer but the sullen flow Of Ocean heaving long and vast ; — An argosy of ice and snow. The voiceless North swings proudly past. 430 GOLDEN LEAVES. THE SEA-KING. From "The House by the Sea."j A MONARCH reigned beneath the sea On the wreck of a myriad thrones, — The collected ruins of Tyranny, Shattered by the hand of Destiny, And scattered abroad with maniac glee. Like a gibbeted pirate's bones. Alone, supreme, he reigned apart. On the throne of a myriad thrones, — Where, sitting close to the world's red heart. Which pulsed swift heat through his ocean mart, He could hear each heavy throe and start. As she heaved her earthquake groans. He gazed through the shadowy deep which shields His throne of a myriad thrones, — And saw the many variant keels Driving over the watery fields. Some with thunderous and Hashing wheels Linking the remotest zones. Oft, like an eagle that swoops in air. He saw, from his throne of thrones, The winged anchors with eager stare Leap midway down to the Ocean's lair — While hanging plummets gazed in despair At the unreached sands and stones 1 Along his realm lie mountainous bulks. The tribute to his throne of thrones, — HOLMES. 4^1 The merchant's and the pirate's hulks, — And where the ghost of the slaver skulks. Counting his cargo, — then swears and sulks Among the manacled bones ! His navy numbers many a bark. The pride of his throne of thrones : — Golden by day and fiery by dark. Each cleaves his pathway like a shark \ But his favourite barge is a dragon-ark, The fairest ship he owns ! The voice of that princess beneath the sea Reached to his throne of thrones ; — Then he leaped in his barge right gallantly. And cried, " My child, come sail with me j We will flash to sunward far and free. Till love for thy grief atones !" mx lUmMl §olmc0. ON LENDING A PUNCH -BOWL. ^ I ^HIS ancient silver bowl of mine, — it tells of good old -^ times, Ot joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes ; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true. That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. 432 G OLDEN LEAVE S. ■ A Spanish galleon brought the bar, — so runs the ancient tale ! 'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail ; And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail. He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale. 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame. Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same ; And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smo- king round. But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine. But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it was, perhaps. He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps. And then, of course, you know what's next, — it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came, — a hundred souls and more, — Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes, — To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim. When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim ; HOLMES. 433 The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword. And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. He poured the fiery Hollands in, — the man that never feared, — He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard ; And one by one the musketeers, — the men that fought and prayed — xAll drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid. That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew — He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, " Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin !" A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose. When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy— 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. " Drink, John," she said, " 'twill do you good — poor child, vou'll never bear 4-34 G OLDEN LEAVES. This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if — God bless me ! — you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill ;" So John did drink, — and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill 1 I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer ; I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here. 'Tis but the fool that loves excess ; — hast thou a drunken soul ? -Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl I 1 love the memory of the past, — its pressed yet fragrant flowers — The moss that clothes its broken walls, — the ivy on its towers ; — Nay, this poor bawble it bequeathed — my eyes grow moist and dim. To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to mc; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin That dooms one to those dreadful words, — ** My dear, where kave you been ?" HOLMES. ^35 THE OLD CONSTITUTION, \ Y , tear her tattered ensign down ! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky ; Beneath it rung the battle-shout. And burst the cannon's roar ; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more ! Her deck, once red with heroes' blood. Where knelt the vanquished foe. When winds were hurrying o'er the flood. And waves were white below. No more shall feel the victor's tread. Or know the conquered knee j The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea ! Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave ; Her thunders shook the mighty deep. And there should be her grave ; Nail to the mast her holy flag. Set every threadbare sail. And give her to the god of storms, — The lightning and the gale ! 4,^6 GOLDEN' LEAVES. THE MUSIC- GRINDERS. 'nP^HERE are three ways in which men take One's money from his purse ; And very hard it is to tell Which of the three is worse ; But all of them are bad enough To make a body curse. You're riding out some pleasant day. And counting up your gains ; A fellow jumps from out a bush And takes your horse's reins. Another hints some words about A bullet in your brains. It's hard to meet such pressing friends In such a lonely spot ; It's very hard to lose your cash. But harder to be shot ; And so you take your wallet out. Though you would rather not. Perhaps you're going out to dine,—-" Some filthy creature begs Yoa'U hear about the cannon ball That carried off his pegs. And says it is a dreadful thing For men to lose their legs. He tells you of liis starving wife. His children to be fed — HOLMES. 4?7 Poor little lovely innocents. All clamorous for bread, — And so you kindly help to put A bachelor to bed. You're sitting on your window-seat, Beneath a cloudless moon ; Vou hear a sound that seems to wear The semblance of a tune. As if a broken fife should strive To drown a cracked bassoon. And nearer, nearer still, the tide Of music seems to come— There's something like a human voice. And something like a drum ; You sit in speechless agony, Until your ear is numb. Poor " home, sweet home" should seem to be A very dism.al place ; Your " auld acquaintance" all at once Is altered in the face ; Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, Like hedgehogs dressed in lace. You think they are crusaders, sent From some infernal clime. To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, And dock the tail of Rhyme, — To crack the voice of Melody, And break the legs of Time. But hark ! the air again is still, • The music all is ground, 20