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 COIVRIGHT DEPOSIT 
 
THE LAND WHERE 
 WE WERE DREAMING 
 
 And Other Poems of 
 DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS 
 
 Edited by 
 
 Charles W, Kent, Ph. D., 
 
 and 
 
 Virginia Lucas 
 
 With a Critical Introduction by 
 Charles W. Kent Ph. D. 
 
 University of Virginia Edition 
 
 RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 BOSTON 
 
Copyright 1913 by Virginia Lucas 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 1 U^ 
 
 The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 
 
 gCi.A3:]0853 
 
^ 
 
 Dedicated to 
 ''The Land Where We Were Dreaming" 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 IT was the fate of much Southern poetry to 
 have been written during the stormy period 
 of our Civil War and hence to have been 
 overlooked and neglected. War may fur- 
 nish incitement to the production of poetry, 
 but it does not generate that attitude of quiet and 
 content most conducive to gentle, poetic reading. 
 Indeed misfortune befell much poetry of this 
 period, for when it was not ignored, it was fre- 
 quently disparaged because of sectional align- 
 ments and prejudices. 
 
 Fortunately much of this poetry has in the 
 last generation or so been rediscovered, and, of 
 course, more justly appraised. Some of it that 
 owed its popularity in the first instance to trans- 
 ient hostility and disturbing passion has found its 
 true level, and is now valued, if valued at all, 
 because of its historical significance. Far more 
 of it has been given a higher place because of its 
 inherent or essential value. Under the surface 
 disturbed by emotions sometimes violent in their 
 nature depths of genuine poetic sentiment have 
 been sounded. Sidney Lanier was the first of 
 these poets to be recognized because so little of 
 his poetry rooted itself in polemic soil and all of 
 it seemed so free from taint and so fascinating in 
 i 
 
11 INTRODUCTION 
 
 its artistry. William Gilmore Simms in his 
 poetry and prose alike has been disassociated 
 from his environment of controversy and declared 
 a prolific and original author. Paul Hamilton 
 Hayne is now acknowledged to be one of our 
 most consistent sonnetteers in both sentiment and 
 grace, and a poet of flowing art and frequent ex- 
 cellences. Henry Timrod claims a place among 
 our finest lyric artists and other poets have 
 gained merited recognition. 
 
 Calm criticism has discriminated unflinchingly 
 between the good and bad in these poets, for there 
 is no fixed standard of accomplishment reached 
 by all of them at all times. Later editors have 
 been disposed to reject totally the unworthy 
 portions that the better parts may receive their 
 proper emphasis. Sometimes loyalty to hallowed 
 memories has demanded that the editions be com- 
 plete even where inequalities have been clearly 
 detected. Judgments about poetry are so 
 variable that frequently it seems best to leave 
 to the reader the exercise of his own discrimina- 
 tion. 
 
 Many Southern poets, sometimes called minor 
 because they never aspired to be included in that 
 small circle of the very best, still remain unknown 
 and unexploited. It may be that the poems are 
 totally inaccessible to the general reader as were 
 those of John R. Thompson before the publica- 
 
INTRODUCTION 111 
 
 tion of the Library of Southern Literature, or 
 obtained with great difficulty as those of Judge 
 Daniel Bedinger Lucas whose volumes now lying 
 before me are rare and precious. These are 
 copies presented with his own autograph to his 
 Alma Mater, the University of Virginia. 
 
 Daniel Bedinger Lucas was born in Charles- 
 town, Virginia, March 16, 1836. It would be 
 irrelevant here to trace his distinguished ancestry 
 through which he inherited both taste and talent, 
 and unnecessary to linger on a discussion of his 
 environment save to say that it brought him all 
 the advantages of the Virginia youth of his day. 
 Among these he counted educational privileges 
 in the University of Virginia with the friendships 
 and associations of this unsullied period. His 
 four years were filled with academic successes, 
 oratorical achievements and social delights. 
 Trained later for the law under a distinguished 
 teacher. Judge Brockenbrough, of Lexington, he 
 entered upon the practice of his profession just 
 before the Civil War broke out. He responded 
 promptly to the call of his State but was pre- 
 vented by bodily weakness from following all of 
 the military campaigns of his command. The 
 most dramatic and pathetic episode of his military 
 career came just before the close of the war when 
 he ran the blockade under great difficulties and 
 made his way to New York in an effort to save 
 
IV INTRODUCTION 
 
 his old college friend, John Yates Beall. Beall 
 had been captured, tried as a spy, and, in spite of 
 the endeavors of his friends, was executed at 
 Governor's Island. Mr. Lucas was unable to 
 return to his native State, but took up for the 
 remaining months of the war his residence in 
 Canada. It was here that he wrote his most 
 famous poem, "The Land Where We Were Dream- 
 ing. " This poem attracted much attention at 
 the time and deserves today its high place among 
 the lyrics produced by that noble struggle. When 
 he returned after the war to his home, he found 
 himself no longer a resident of Virginia but of 
 West Virginia, which as a war measure had been 
 torn from the mother State. By the test oath 
 of this new State he was precluded from the 
 practice of his profession until 1870. To follow 
 his career as a laT\^er would be to record many 
 of the most noted cases in the higher courts of 
 West Virginia. From the Bar he ultimately went 
 to the Bench and closed his legal career as President 
 of the Supreme Court of Appeals of his State. 
 Many other honors had come to him on the way 
 to this preferment. He had been a Presidential 
 Elector, Member of the House of Delegates and 
 by appointment a United States Senator, and in 
 all public positions had displayed marked ability 
 in his grasp of public questions and his unswerv- 
 ing loyalty to the true spirit of democracy. All 
 
INTRODUCTION V 
 
 of the honors and distinctions that came to him, 
 however, he subordmated to the happiness of his 
 own home over which presided his cultivated wife 
 to whom he was married in 1869. His widow and 
 one daughter, named after his native state, still 
 survive the husband and father who died in 1909. 
 It is to the loyalty of these two representatives 
 of his family, and especially to the industry and 
 devotion of his daughter, that this volume is due. 
 But the true purpose of this memoir is not to 
 estimate the legal abilities of this distinguished 
 barrister but to enumerate and value in a general 
 way his literary productions. As was mentioned 
 above, it was in 1865, while he was in Canada 
 that he first attracted attention by his most 
 famous poem, " The Land Where We Were Dream- 
 ing," a poem singularly expressive of the life and 
 sentiments of his fellow citizens in the far away 
 South. Soon after this, appeared his Memoir 
 of John Yates Beall, his noted college mate and 
 unfortunate comrade in arms, whose simple story 
 focuses the horrors of internecine strife in a single 
 episode. In 1869 he pubhshed, with his talented 
 sister, his first volume of poems, "The Wreath of 
 Eglantine," containing among other things the 
 poem already referred to and his long narrative 
 poem, "St. Agnes of Guienne. " It was this poem 
 that was so handsomely received by the critics 
 soon after its publication. Ten years later (1879) 
 
vi INTRODUCTION 
 
 appeared his next volume, a play based upon the 
 Civil War and entitled "The Maid of Northum- 
 berland. " Perhaps our author has not been alto- 
 gether free from the sensational and mysterious 
 in this production but he has succeeded in telling 
 an interesting story in most favorable form. 
 Five years later (1884) appeared "Ballads and 
 Madrigals" the last collection of his poetry but 
 by no means his last poems, for among others, 
 there was a remarkable series of poems written 
 for special occasions; for example, in 1865, on the 
 Confederate Cemetery at Winchester and in 1875 
 as the selected laureate at the University of 
 Virginia which was then celebrating its semi- 
 centennial. His selection for this task was prob- 
 ably due to the merits of his poem read before 
 the Delta Kappa Epsilon Fraternity in 1874. In 
 1882 he was again invited to read a poem on the 
 Confederate Monument at Charlestown, and in 
 1887 he appeared again before his fraternity, but 
 this time at a large national convention. His 
 last long poem was read before the New York 
 Southern Society. In all of these poems he shows 
 the double power of saying the thing that was 
 interesting at the moment and of making what 
 he said of lasting value. Perhaps no other South- 
 ern poet, save James Barron Hope, was ever 
 invited to fill so many important places on signi- 
 ficant programs. He collaborated with J. Fair- 
 
INTRODUCTION Vll 
 
 fax McLaughlin on the Southern MetropoHs, a 
 paper which Alexander Stephens pronounced the 
 nearest approach to the London Saturday Review 
 of any paper on this continent. Among the 
 papers contributed to the Southern Metropolis 
 or lectures delivered were those on Jackson, 
 John Bro^\^l, John Randolph, Henry Clay and 
 Daniel O'Connell. We may dismiss his prose, 
 without, however, doing it even meagre justice, 
 by noting its fullness, its lucidity, and its oratori- 
 cal fervor. Judge Lucas ^Tote freely with a 
 ready command of his resources and with natural 
 ease in expression. His speeches and lectures 
 show careful study and elaborate preparation but 
 not to the exclusion of a w^armth and naturalness 
 reflected in his o^ti conversational power. His 
 oration on Daniel O'Connell was declared by those 
 who had the privilege of hearing it, to be "masterly 
 as an analysis of the character and exhaustive as 
 an historical picture of the time of the Irish liber- 
 ator. " 
 
 But to us his poetry is of more permanent and 
 present interest, for it is of the nature of poetry to 
 have persistent vitality while prose serves its 
 transient purpose and is then dismissed. Revert- 
 ing to "The Land Where We Were Dreaming," 
 we find in this attractive lyric the redolence of a 
 self-satisfied but charmingly attractive civiliza- 
 tion. The poem is instinct with Southern loyalty 
 
Vm INTRODUCTION 
 
 but with no intolerance or bootless repining. 
 War was of necessity the theme of many of his 
 poems. How could it be otherwise v/ith an 
 author whose young manhood was thrilled by the 
 stirring events in which he had an occasional 
 share or in which he had a deep personal partici- 
 pation through sympathy. Yet it is significant 
 that in his martial strains there is rarely acute 
 feeling or any severity of tone. His adjustment 
 to the changed conditions after the war was de- 
 layed by the arbitrary action of his State not by 
 any belligerency in his mood. Therefore his 
 poems after the war were not marred by lack of 
 quietness or self poise. Occasionally it is true 
 he trifles and not always with easy grace, but 
 generally his sentiments whether of universal 
 friendship or of personal and passionate love are 
 highly worthy of his poetic heart. His earliest 
 studies of female character remind the reader 
 forcibly both in matter and manner of Tennyson's 
 similarly impersonal types, but with Mr. Lucas 
 the tendency is to go over from these impersonal 
 types to personal tributes. From Tennyson, too, 
 or from any other of the poets comtemporary 
 with his youth, he may have learned his love of 
 nature, best of all the nature of his o\vti environ- 
 ment. His fondness for local color did not have 
 to be satisfied by far wanderings, though on these 
 journeys he discovered fascinating subjects for 
 
INTRODUCTION IX 
 
 recital or description. In his love of flowers or 
 those flowers of the Empyrean, the stars above, 
 he revels in his quiet, gentle fashion, finding in 
 them themes always ready to hand but never 
 stale or commonplace. 
 
 It almost follows from this nature love that 
 his own nature was religious and that this rehgious 
 element found expression in his devotional poems; 
 for his attitude is devotional, whether he is half 
 revealing, half concealing his sacred emotions or 
 whether he is boldly formulating them in versified 
 prayers. Nor did his religion turn always heaven- 
 ward; for that he was too human, too surely 
 inspired by the conception of the fraternity of 
 mankind. His attachments were strong, whether 
 for individuals or for institutions, as is apparent 
 in the occasional poems already mentioned. In 
 them one discovers his unswerving loyalty to the 
 Southern cause, his confident love of his Alma 
 Mater, the University of Virginia, his attachment 
 to the friends and associates of his college days, 
 symbolized for him by his fraternity. In these 
 poems partaking of the nature of poetic addresses 
 there is always freedom and onrush of manner 
 mounting at times to genuine oratory. 
 
 In all of his poems metrical skill in the readiness 
 with which he passes from one verse form to 
 another, and his sure grasp of each, command 
 recognition. His essential capability, marred rare- 
 
X INTRODUCTION 
 
 ly by the inattention due to haste, is attested by 
 poem after poem with its variety of measure and 
 responsiveness of rhyme. Some of these poems 
 have a Poesque melody, others a hit less graceful 
 and flexible, but nevertheless firm and determined. 
 In all of his works he proves himself a student of 
 good poetry and if not always a consummate 
 master of his art, at least a loyal and worthy 
 disciple of his own great masters. 
 
 A perusal of Judge Lucas's life fills one with 
 wonder that in the midst of his numerous and 
 absorbing preoccupations he found any time to 
 indulge his talent for poetical composition; and a 
 study of his poems gives us no less surprise that 
 so much of his work done in these spare moments 
 is so well worthy of our acclaim and praise. It 
 is not contended that all of it is equally good but 
 that none of it need be omitted and that much of 
 it should enjoy a long and merited popularity. 
 
 Charles W. Kent. 
 
 University of Virginia, 
 
 October 19, 1912. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction by Charles W. Kent, Ph, D. . . . . 1 
 Part I 
 
 I. Poems from the Wreath of Eglantine, 1S69. 
 
 The Land Where We Were 
 
 Dreaming 13 
 
 My Heart is in the Mountains 16 
 
 Song of the South 17 
 
 Jefferson Davis 18 
 
 Ode 19 
 
 The Virginians Sit and Weep 23 
 
 Cahdia 24 
 
 Niveau 29 
 
 Lora Logie 35 
 
 To Miss Nannie B 36 
 
 The Flowers We Call Flora 37 
 
 The Picture 37 
 
 Mary 38 
 
 My Thought Grows Hazy with the 
 
 Season's Touch 38 
 
 O Lora as the Earth Pursues 39 
 
 Serenade 39 
 
 The Wind Chimed Low 40 
 
 The Solitary Horseman 40 
 
 Out on the Seashore 42 
 
 II. Ballads and Madrigals, 188I{.. 
 
 Dedication 43 
 
 The Creole 45 
 
Rosalie 48 
 
 Hortensia of Hortense 53 
 
 The Pawnbroker's Daughter 57 
 
 Meridienne, or the Department Girl 74 
 
 Christine 78 
 
 Madrigal 80 
 
 Madrigal 81 
 
 Madrigal 82 
 
 Evening 83 
 
 III. Earlier Poems, from Boudoir Melodies (un- 
 published) 1865. 
 
 Serenade 87 
 
 St. Anne's Bout de I'Isle 87 
 
 The Belle of the Dairy Farm 88 
 
 Canadian Song 89 
 
 The Twins: a Fragment 90 
 
 Ballad of the Dawn 90 
 
 Florette, the Flower Girl 91 
 
 Serenade 92 
 
 Canticle 93 
 
 Eleanor of Guienne 95 
 
 Beautiful Dreamer 97 
 
 IV. St. Agnes of Guienne^ and Early Narrative 
 Poems, 
 
 Dedication 99 
 
 St. Agnes of Guienne 101 
 
 Soliloquy of Cato's Sister 135 
 
 The Birth of Love 136 
 
 The Roman Nazarene 138 
 
 Part II 
 
 I. Patriotic and Occasional Poems, 1865-1888. 
 Semi- Centennial Ode, University of 
 
 Virginia, 1875 155 
 
The Love of Letters, D. K. E. Poem 161 
 O Love Thy Web is Sweet and 
 
 Light, D. K. E. Poem 164 
 
 Song on Canadian Consolidation. . . 166 
 
 Probation 166 
 
 Berkeley Centennial Ode 167 
 
 Decoration Hymn 170 
 
 Virginia Fuit 171 
 
 Jackson's Grave 173 
 
 A. P. Hill 174 
 
 The Death of Lee 176 
 
 The Lamp of Freedom 180 
 
 At the Gates of Liberty 181 
 
 In Memoriam : to the Southern Dead 184 
 
 Our Trust 185 
 
 11. Biographical and Serious Poems, 1869-1909- 
 
 Prayer 189 
 
 Duty 189 
 
 Hymn 190 
 
 Weight 191 
 
 Tennyson 191 
 
 Byron 191 
 
 From Paris to Versailles 193 
 
 Shakespeare 197 
 
 The Golden Note: Danske Dand- 
 
 ridge 197 
 
 Our Ancient Laws 198 
 
 Poe 199 
 
 in. Love Lyrics, 1865-1896. 
 
 Song 203 
 
 Song: I've Left the Village 204 
 
 December, 1871 205 
 
 Sonnet 206 
 
 You Could Not Love 206 
 
Song: 'Tis Sweet to Love 207 
 
 The Chestnut Curl 207 
 
 God Knows Us Wholly 208 
 
 Carpe Diem 209 
 
 Meeting and Parting 209 
 
 The Hidden Thought 210 
 
 Good-bye 211 
 
 Rosa Santa 212 
 
 ITookHerHand 213 
 
 My Love Loves Me 213 
 
 Song 214 
 
 I Ask For No Garden Elysian 215 
 
 Farewell 216 
 
 Lora 217 
 
 My Anchor's Weighed 218 
 
 Stanzas 220 
 
 Springsbury 220 
 
 The Old Charm 221 
 
 I Should Have Dreamt Younger . . . 222 
 
 Disproved 222 
 
 To My Wife 224 
 
 Notes, by Virginia Lucas 225 
 
PARTI 
 
Poems from 
 THE WREATH OF EGLANTINE 
 
THE LAND WHERE WE WERE 
 DREAMING 
 
 Fair were our nation's visions, and as grand 
 
 As ever floated out of fancy-land; 
 Children were we in simple faith, 
 But god-like children, whom nor death, 
 
 Nor threat of danger drove from honor's path — 
 In the land where we were dreaming ! 
 
 Proud were our men as pride of birth could 
 render. 
 
 As violets our women pure and tender; 
 And when they spoke, their voices' thrill 
 At evening hushed the whip-poor-will, 
 
 At morn the mocking bird was mute and still. 
 In the land where we were dreaming ! 
 
 And w^e had graves that covered more of glory, 
 Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story; 
 
 And in our dream we wove the thread 
 
 Of principles for which had bled. 
 And sufl^ered long our own immortal dead, 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 Tho' in our land we had both bond and free. 
 Both were content, and so God let them be; 
 Till Northern glances, slanting dowTi, 
 With envy viewed our harvest sun — 
 But little recked we, for we still slept on. 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 Our sleep grew troubled, and oujT dream grew 
 wild; 
 
 13 
 
Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field; 
 Crimson the Moon; between the Twins 
 Barbed arrows flew in circHng lanes 
 
 Of light; red Comets tossed their fiery manes 
 O'er the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 Down from her eagle height smiled Liberty, 
 And waved her hand in sign of victory; 
 The world approved, and everywhere, 
 Except where growled the Russian bear. 
 The brave, the good, the just gave us their 
 prayer, 
 For the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 High o'er our heads a starry flag was seen, 
 Whose field was blanched, and spotless in its 
 sheen; 
 Chivalry's cross its union bears, 
 And by his scars each vet'ran swears 
 To bear it on in triumph through the wars, 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 We fondly thought a Government was ours — 
 We challenged place among the world's great 
 powers; 
 
 We talked in sleep of ra^nk, commission. 
 
 Until so life-like grew the vision. 
 That he who dared to doubt but met derision, 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming ! 
 
 A figure came among us as we slept — 
 At first he lowly knelt, then rose and wept; 
 Then gathering up a thousand spears, 
 He swept across the field of Mars, 
 Then bowed farewell, and walked behind the 
 stars, 
 From the land where we were dreaming ! 
 14 
 
We looked again, another figure still 
 
 Gave hope, and nerved each individual will; 
 
 Erect he stood, as clothed with power; 
 
 Self-poised, he seemed to rule the hour, 
 With firm, majestic sway, — of strength a tower. 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming.' 
 
 As while great Jove, in bronze, a warder god, 
 Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, 
 Rome felt herself secure and free, — 
 So Richmond, we, on guard for thee, 
 Beheld a bronzed hero, god-like Lee, 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls, — 
 As wakes the mother when her infant falls, — 
 As starts the traveler when around 
 His sleepy couch the fire-bells sound, — 
 So woke our nation with a single bound 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 Woe! woe! is us, the startled mothers cried. 
 While we have slept, our noble sons have died! 
 
 W^oe! woe! is us, how strange and sad. 
 
 That all our glorious visions fled. 
 Have left us nothing real but our dead. 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 And are they really dead, our martyred slain? 
 
 No, Dreamers ! Morn shall bid them rise again ; 
 From every plain, — from every height, — 
 On which they seemed to die for right. 
 
 Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight, 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 15 
 
MY HEART IS IN THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 Right nobly flows the River James 
 
 From Richmond to the Sea, 
 And many a hallowed mem'ry claims, 
 
 And tribute cf love from me; 
 But Western Tempe farther on — 
 
 Mother of limestone fountains ! 
 My heart goes back with the setting sun — 
 
 My heart, my heart is in the Mountains ! 
 
 There where the fringe-tree nods his plume, 
 
 Beneath the white pine's shade — 
 There where the laurel drops his bloom 
 
 O'er many a wild cascade — 
 There where the eagle seeks his nest — 
 
 Mother of limestone fountains ! 
 List to an exile's prayer for rest — 
 
 My heart, my heart is in the Mountains ! 
 
 The wide expanse of the boundless sea 
 
 Is a sight to stir the soul. 
 And there is a breadth of majesty 
 
 In the Western prairie's roll — 
 But give me the heights that milk the clouds, 
 
 And gather the dew in fountains ! 
 Give me the peaks, with their misty shrouds — 
 
 My heart, my heart is in the Mountains! 
 
 There's something blank in the landscape here 
 
 And tame in the water's flow — 
 I pine for a mountain atmosphere. 
 
 And a crag in the sunset's glow ! 
 King of the Hills ! Blue Ridge that I love ! 
 
 Feed still the Vale with fountains, 
 From rock and dale, and mountain-cove — 
 
 My heart, my heart is in the Mountains ! 
 16 
 
SONG OF THE SOUTH 
 
 CHOIR 
 
 Sing us a song for the Land we Irove ! 
 
 O ! Minstrel, sing us a song ! 
 Let it be sad as a mateless dove, 
 
 But make it not, Minstrel, long! 
 
 On his viol a master's* mother breathed 
 The latest sigh from her mouth; 
 
 Oh ! thus on thy harp, with cypress wreathed, 
 Catch thou the breath of the South ! 
 
 For the citron shall bloom in the orange grove, 
 And the muscadine twine as of yore. 
 
 But her Darling Dead, embalmed in her love, 
 Shall return for their fruit no more! 
 
 Then tuning thy harp o'er the fresh-turned 
 sod, 
 'Neath a bough where the raincrow sings. 
 Catch the breath of the South, like the spirit 
 of God, 
 Poured over thy trembling strings! 
 
 MINSTREL 
 
 The Song of the South — with her free flag 
 furled ! 
 My harp grows mute at the prayer! 
 For the anthem would trouble the heart of 
 the world, 
 Like the song of a falling star ! 
 
 For they should remember that 'twas not 
 alone 
 
 ♦Paganini 
 
 17 
 
'Gainst the odds of her Northern foe, 
 That she struck when the star of her victory- 
 shone, 
 Or sank in her hour of woe ! 
 
 Then, Choristers, pardon the mournful chord, 
 For the hope of our country fled. 
 
 The dream of her glory dispelled by the sword, 
 Her laurels encircle the dead ! 
 
 So I'll hang my harp o'er the fresh-turned sod, 
 On a bough where the raincrow sings. 
 
 Till the breath of the South, like the spirit of 
 God, 
 Pour over my trembling strings ! 
 
 JEFFERSON DAVIS* 
 
 It is not Grant, nor Sheridan, nor Sherman 
 Hath blanched the whitest truths on hist'ry's 
 page, 
 
 But such as thou with this thy grand old sermon. 
 Imprinted on the forehead of the age — 
 
 That with God there's no de facto : only right 
 Can make a president or fill a throne, 
 
 That prison-bars, tho' they foreclose the light. 
 Debar not titles nor obscure the sun. 
 
 Foul fetters bind not justice down, because 
 A tyrant forge or rivet them, forsooth; 
 
 Barbarian orders are not more than laws. 
 
 Nor brutal outrage more than simple truth. 
 
 Therefore, Mother in Israel, lift thy prayer, 
 Thy President, because he cannot die, 
 
 "See Notes. 
 
 18 
 
Despite the worst that Vandal vengeance dare, 
 Is safe — his term is immortaUty ! 
 August, 1865. 
 
 ODE 
 
 Recited at the Consecration of the Stonewall Ceme- 
 tery, and Reinterment of the Brothers Turner 
 and Richard Ashby, at Winchester, Virginiay 
 October 2h. 1866. 
 
 Hark, hark ! I hear the booming cannon's roar ! 
 
 Each murd'rous blast, the startled echoes mock ! 
 The bomb-shells burst, the fiery hailstones pour, 
 The earth beneath my feet, the solid rock. 
 The very air is shaken with the shock; 
 And in the furrows of the battle-plain. 
 Red blood is streaming thick as Autumn rain. 
 And agonizing cries go up to God, in vain ! 
 
 Forward ! for all that's dear — for home and hearth ! 
 
 Fling out the battle-flag, and strike once more 
 For freedom, and the land that gave us birth ! 
 
 Sound, sound the drum, and let the cannons 
 roar! 
 
 Thousands of brave men marching on before, 
 To Him whose name our country's stay shall be, 
 
 Now look — the God whom all of us adore, 
 Who calms the storm, and rules the raging sea. 
 Will guide us yet to peace, through glorious vic- 
 tory! 
 
 II 
 
 Vain, vain! th' unequal contest, worse than vain! 
 Vainly our prayers besieged the highest throne; 
 19 
 
Vainly our blood, flowed out upon the plain — 
 Against a world in arms we stood alone ! 
 
 As some rude hunter, from a towering oak. 
 Overlooks the vale, and views the herd below, 
 Lets fly his darts, and lays the foremost low, 
 
 So fell our leaders by the fatal archer's stroke ! 
 
 And lo! there galloped through the gate of war, 
 
 Two brothers riding side by side, with spurs, ^ 
 And nodding plumes, and swords that gleamed 
 afar. 
 
 And eyes like day, when first the sun appears. 
 They strode their steeds as Neptune strode the sea, 
 
 And mane to mane they bounded through the 
 vale. 
 
 Like some harmonious rhythmus on the gale. 
 And smiled at danger, as more brave than he. 
 
 Their long black locks encharmed our southern 
 wind, 
 
 Which left the orange bloom, and golden maize 
 To follow them, though often left behind — 
 
 The milkmaid on the heifer leaned to gaze. 
 One fatal morning laid the younger low — 
 
 No more by rattling hoof of his, the fawn 
 
 Was startled as she browsed the hill at dawn — 
 No more his bugle-blast struck terror to the foe ! 
 
 His brother dead, like Leda's Jove-born son. 
 On milk-white steed among the Argive youth, 
 
 Th' Ashby, 'mid his southern comrades shone, 
 Craving one immortality for both; 
 
 Full oft at dawn Potomac saw him nigh. 
 His beard upon his charger flowing free, 
 (A black swan's wing upon the frothy sea,) 
 
 The war-gaze filling all his dark romantic eye. 
 
By eve the fount far up some Hampshire dell, 
 Laughed in the snowy fetlocks of his steed ! 
 
 The star-begotten river knew him well — 
 Oft broke his image on her rocky bed; 
 
 And Tuscarora, with her maiden mien, 
 
 Swerved toward the horseman as he rode beside, 
 Silent as she, and deeper than her tide, 
 
 As knightly form as ever water-nymph had seen! 
 
 Stern only to the foe, his name a spell, 
 
 Won on the soldier hearts and made him dear — 
 Till off the edge of War the Ashby feU— 
 
 Dropt from the cope, and went out like a star! 
 Here lie the Twain; their epitaph be this: 
 
 "These Brothers struggling one just cause to 
 gain. 
 
 Full-breasted both upon the foe were slain, 
 And now together sleep, in one sweet dream of 
 peace!" 
 
 They are not Death's — relinquished all his claim ! 
 
 Their deeds to History and immortal Song, 
 Their souls to God, their memories to Fame, 
 
 Their ashes to Virginia belong ! 
 Sleep Heroes — with no weight but flowers, sleep! 
 
 Your mother, like the Osprey, makes her nest 
 
 For you with feathers plucked from her own 
 breast 
 Here on the border of the eternal deep ! 
 
 The struggle o'er, no shaft of triumph looms — 
 
 The laurels of Virginia are but here I 
 Bound on no temples save these white-browed 
 tombs. 
 No victor crowning but the Sepulchre ! 
 And yet they die or wither nevermore ! 
 21 
 
But live while shines a gem of God, one star 
 In any crown of peace, or sounds of war 
 One note, and bloom till Memory's self grows 
 hoar! 
 
 Methinks, from off yon mountain-crest, the pines 
 Will sprigs of evergreen waft on the gale; 
 
 Methinks the Western sun, as he declines. 
 Will span with glory's prism all this vale. 
 
 An arch of triumph, and an arc of peace ! 
 Methinks I hear the genius of the State, 
 Out on th' impassioned atmosphere relate. 
 
 In tones of lyric pathos, burning words like these : 
 
 III 
 
 Thrice welcome, war-scarred veterans, who alive 
 return ! 
 Ye vowed to do your duty — well ye kept your 
 plight! 
 Sleep well, my dead, till History inscribe your urn, 
 Though conquered, victors still, though not 
 triumphant — right ! 
 
 My heroes slain, my prophets martyred one by 
 one — 
 My banner trailed in dust — but never tire 'mid 
 all! 
 Ye braves! these fallen forms shall up again and 
 on 
 Through all the coming years, made glorious by 
 their fall! 
 
 The stars shall rise that shine into the souls of men, 
 And in mysterious junction, dominate the earth ! 
 
 The suns that blazon liberty shall burn again. 
 And light the fires of glory, over freedom's birth ! 
 
IV 
 
 Thus speaks the grand old mother of us all, 
 
 Her voice still reaching for th' ethereal spheres — 
 
 Her heart on fire, a battle-flame her soul. 
 Her eyes ablaze, like the eternal stars. 
 
 We hearing, listen to the voice of Heaven, 
 From out these clouds of tyranny and shame. 
 Look up, take heart again, and name the name 
 
 Of some far Sabbath, which to liberty is given ! 
 
 A day shall come perchance — a morn shall dawn. 
 Shall give each grave a tongue, to every tongue 
 
 A text, to ev'ry text a sacristan. 
 
 An altar, and a priest, from whom the young 
 
 Shall learn the sermons of these darling dead. 
 To teach them how to dare, and do, or die. 
 To save the fruits of peace, or vainly try — 
 
 But failing, leap to war, as groom to bridal-bed! 
 
 THE VniGINIANS SIT AND WEEP 
 
 (Super flumina sedimus et flevimus) 
 
 From where thy waters lip 
 The sea, proud River James, to where 
 They sparkle in the mountain air — 
 Beneath our gray old temple-shades. 
 From Jamestown to Montgomery's glades. 
 
 The Virginians sit and weep. 
 
 Majestic as thy sweep, 
 Potomac, where thy waves move on 
 Beside the tomb of Washington, 
 The current of Virginia's grief — 
 On Vernon's Mount, Immortal Chief, 
 
 Thy Virginians sit and weep ! 
 23 
 
Shall Granger sickles reap, 
 Great Jefferson ! where thou didst sow, 
 While thy Rivanna's murm'ring flow. 
 At Monticello's base, to thee 
 Complains that now, no longer free, 
 
 We Virginians sit and weep! 
 
 Smooth was thy face, and deep — 
 All radiant, but not with joy. 
 And beautiful as the Spartan boy 
 Agesilaus loved; but look! 
 John Randolph! on thine own Roanoke, 
 We Virginians sit and weep! 
 
 From where, Kanawha, leap 
 Thy headlong waters into birth, 
 To where the rich and kindly earth 
 Pours out upon thy broad 'ning breast 
 Her oil — thou Oxus* of the West ! 
 
 W^e Virginians sit and weep! 
 
 Ozark! grim and steep. 
 Look eastward to the Chesapeake; 
 Thro' all this vale our sorrows speak — 
 From Piedmont to the Sewell's chain — 
 Ohio to the ocean's main. 
 
 We Virginians sit and weep ! 
 
 CALIDIA 
 I 
 
 O time, thou canst never restore me 
 The rapture which cro'^Tied me a king, 
 
 When Calidia melted before me, 
 A charmed and an idolized thing — 
 A maid in the bloom of her Spring. 
 
 *The ancients declared that the Oxus was covered at times with a film 
 of oil; a similar appearance presents itself on Kanawha. 
 
 24 
 
Her voice, seraphically maiden, 
 
 Seemed to fall from the spheres on high, 
 
 Like the sweet silver bell music-laden, 
 Which the falcon transports to the sky. 
 Full oft when the hawkers are nigh ! 
 
 But doubt not her spirit was stainless. 
 Because with much fervor it glowed. 
 
 The stream of her love, while it drainless. 
 As the Shannondale fountain flowed, 
 Was pure as a smile of God ! 
 
 And her breast, while swelling as finely, 
 
 As Corregio's cunningest skill 
 Hath made Magdalena's, divinely. 
 
 Like that of the painter's ideal. 
 
 Reposed on the Bible still! 
 
 And Time, thou canst never restore me 
 The rapture which crowned me a king, 
 
 When there rose, like a vision before me. 
 This maiden, an idolized thing. 
 All fresh with the blush of her Spring ! 
 
 II 
 
 One evening (how well I remember!). 
 We stood looking up at the Moon; 
 
 'Twas one of those eves in September, 
 That ever are fading too soon. 
 When we stood in the moonlight alone. 
 
 We had stepped from the porch, where the 
 vining 
 More than half intercepted the light. 
 To a spot where the Moon, in her shining, 
 Was clean, and immortally bright. 
 In the still, solemn temple of night. 
 25 
 
And you would have had, if you'd seen us, 
 A sermon instead of this rhyme. 
 
 Although there was nothing between us 
 Save faith, yet that is sublime, 
 When pure and unsullied by time. 
 
 Ah ! would that Time could restore me, 
 Like flight to the caged eagle's wing, 
 
 The faith that I felt when before me. 
 There rose, an aerial thing, 
 This maid in the bloom of her Spring! 
 
 Ill 
 
 I asked her to sing; she dissented; 
 
 But, after a blushing or two. 
 When I asked her again, she relented. 
 
 As virgins are fond to do, 
 
 When lovers persistently woo. 
 
 Her voice, though in compass deficient. 
 
 In soul was exquisitely fine; 
 The music was hers, quite sufficient 
 
 To make me think it divine. 
 
 While the words they were poor — but were 
 mine. 
 
 SONG 
 
 In the Spring the partridge pairing, 
 Sees the thrush build in the haw. 
 
 And the maid his flute note hearing. 
 Softly sighs, "Ah! me," and "Oh!" 
 
 Oft she sighs, "Ah! me," and "Oh!" 
 
 When the Summer comes more warming. 
 
 Then she loves to dream alone, 
 And her reveries are charming, 
 
But she's fickle as the Moon — 
 Yes, she changes with the Moon' 
 
 When the Autumn berries color, 
 And the vintage stains the wold, 
 
 If you love her, haste to tell her. 
 For she'll listen now when told — 
 Ah ! she'll listen now if told ! 
 
 Mark me — in the still September, 
 When the Harvest Moon's above, 
 
 Dare to touch her hand — remember 
 Now's the full tide of her love — 
 Lo ! the full tide of her love ! 
 
 Though she's sweet in Indian Summer, 
 If you love her, don't delay ! 
 
 For the frost will overcome her. 
 And in Winter she'll say nay — 
 Sure in Winter she'll say nay ! 
 
 She ceased, and no voice like the maiden's, 
 Methought, as it haunted me there. 
 
 Had ever in silvery cadence 
 
 Died away on the still night air. 
 So mournfully, musically clear. 
 
 And oh, what a world of religion — 
 What a spell that I dreamt not before. 
 
 Came down from the moon-gilded region, 
 And taught me to love her and more. 
 And bade me my spirit outpour: 
 
 Till my words grew immeaning, but tender; 
 They were low, they were idle and vain; 
 
 27 
 
But her own heart had taught her to render 
 The sense mine failed to make plain, 
 And she sighed — was it pleasure or pain? 
 
 I vow that I never have known it ! 
 
 I heard but that tremulous sigh, 
 While the maiden, her figure all moon -lit, 
 
 Held a tear, like a star, in each eye — 
 
 The reflex of stars in the sky! 
 
 And oh ! if Time could restore me 
 
 The rapture which crowned me a king, 
 
 When I saw thee, Calidia, before me, 
 A charmed and an idolized thing. 
 Dear Maid, in the blush of thy Spring ! 
 
 IV 
 
 We parted, I scarce know the reason — 
 'Tis fitting that dreamers should part! 
 
 But 'twas due more to chance and the season, 
 Than due to my will or her heart — 
 'Tis fitting that dreamers should part ! 
 
 Not a star is there less in the heaven — 
 Not a voice of the night is less clear. 
 
 Not a tint is less gorgeously given. 
 
 When each rose-leaf is wet with a tear, 
 And sun-kissed, the morning is here. 
 
 But ah ! the sweet sanctified seeming. 
 That wrapt them in splendor and gold. 
 
 Was due to the dream I was dreaming, 
 And my lover-like fancy of old — 
 Magician with power untold! 
 
 And the threads of this fanciful dreaming 
 Are broke in my heart — in its core, 
 28 
 
And love, with his old saintly seeming — 
 His power and freshness, is o'er. 
 His music an echo — no more! 
 
 Will no voice seraphically maiden. 
 And less from the earth than on high, 
 
 Like the silvery bell, music-laden. 
 
 Which the falcon transports to the sky, 
 Enchant me again ere I die? 
 
 Can no sight, I care not how fleeting, 
 No vision in beauty arrayed. 
 
 No eye-glance in ecstatic meeting, 
 Nor the glist of an aureoled head, 
 Arouse me as one from the dead? 
 
 Nay, Time! thou canst never restore me 
 The rapture which crowned me a king, 
 
 When bright, like a vision before me, 
 Rose a maid, as an idolized thing, 
 All flush with the blush of her Spring ! 
 
 NIVEAN 
 
 I 
 
 She spoke not of love, for she dared not. 
 Though her gray eyes were flashing the 
 truth, 
 
 I broke not of love, for I cared not. 
 My heart was at home in the South — 
 My heart was at home in the South ! 
 
 But this heart will be cold in oblivion, 
 This heart must be cold at its core, 
 
 When I forget radiant Niveau, 
 As she sped o'er the crystaline floor, 
 Wing-footed, a fairy, and more. 
 
A gift, (how divinely 'twas given !) 
 To the snow from Ireland's sun, 
 
 To Erin herself from Heaven, 
 
 Yet in all save a sweet Irish tone, 
 Her being was Canada's own. 
 
 Short and warm as the summers her breath, 
 Like the nights were her beautiful eyes. 
 
 Her cheek to her neck was the path 
 Aurora, with rosiest dyes. 
 Treads down from the boreal skies. 
 
 Her brow it was Bel-oeil mountain. 
 And her mouth it was Ha ! Ha ! bay, 
 
 Her soul a Laurent ian fountain. 
 But the rapids her love — nay, nay, 
 In passion Niagara's play. 
 
 But she breathed not of love, for she dared not, 
 Though she tasted the thought in her 
 mouth. 
 
 And I spoke not of love, for I cared not. 
 My heart was at home in the South, 
 My heart was at home in the South ! 
 
 II 
 
 I spoke of our men and their deeds. 
 Till her Irish heart wept at my story; 
 
 But I chid her, and told her the seeds 
 They had sown on the battlefield gory, 
 Would blossom in harvests of glory. 
 
 She questioned — right timidly truly — 
 Of our fair, and a kindling light, 
 
 Breaking over my features unduly. 
 As Aurora breaks out on the night, 
 Told more than I wished to her sight. 
 30 
 
And I know not what impulse diverted 
 Our feelings, now pensively grown, 
 
 That I sang, with my features averted, 
 To an air not inopportune. 
 This hymn to a Southern Moon : 
 
 SONG 
 
 From thy full quiver, Dian, shaking. 
 Light arrows falling, gleam afar; 
 
 In my heart I feel them breaking. 
 
 They prick me to a nameless yearning, 
 
 That I were radiant as a star, 
 
 And set in heaven bright and burning ! 
 
 Thine arrows tangle in the moss. 
 
 Whose folds from yon live-oak depend- 
 
 They come and go, and are a loss : 
 But, tell me, are they lost for aye. 
 
 Or, like Christ's figures in the sand. 
 Will they be gathered by-and-by? 
 
 The Indian-jasmin opening hails thee; 
 
 The Southern orange, with perfume 
 Denied unto the Sun, regales thee; 
 
 And thus there are of souls who faintly, 
 On the light of day presume. 
 
 But at night are sweet and saintly! 
 
 Majestic, passionless, serene. 
 
 Come teach me thy philosophy — 
 
 O ! teach me all I should have been ! 
 When passion's fountains, overfull. 
 
 Waste idle tears, O, let them be 
 A lunar rainbow of the soul ! 
 
 But methinks, (and I frankly confess it,) 
 
 That my song was higher than she, 
 
 31 
 
For she laughed as she could not repress it — 
 (Her laugh was ever to me, 
 Like sunbeams athwart the sea!) 
 
 But she spoke not of love, for she dared not, 
 We were troubled to silence both. 
 
 For I broke not of love, for I cared not. 
 My heart was at home in the South — 
 My heart was at home in the South ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Now Venus looked down upon Mars, 
 And Mars stood away for the Moon, 
 
 Who fled through the nebulous bars 
 Of light, while the stars aboon, 
 Were fleeting with silvery shoon. 
 
 Burlington bay lay congealed. 
 
 As smooth as a marble floor; 
 The wind blowing o'er his field. 
 
 Had swept it from shore to shore. 
 
 As gleaners the threshing floor. 
 
 'Twas Carnival night at the Rink, 
 And I sandaled her feet with steel: 
 
 She must have been blushing, I think. 
 For my trembling hand would reveal 
 The emotion I wished to conceal. 
 
 And this heart will be cold in oblivion 
 This heart will be cold at the core. 
 
 When I forget radiant Niveau, 
 
 As she sped o'er the crystaline floor, 
 Wing-footed, a fairy and more! 
 
 "But Niveau," I whispered, "uprisen 
 32 
 
In beauty, the Moon's increase 
 Makes the Rink itself Hke a prison — 
 Let us fly to the Night, ere we miss 
 The joy of his luminous peace!" 
 
 So we stole from the Rink to our sleigh, 
 Her small soft hand in mine. 
 
 Unobserved from the Rink away, 
 
 Where the mirth effervesced like wine, 
 To the night — a holier shrine! 
 
 Away o'er the snow, away, 
 To the music of tinkling bells. 
 
 With their merry -wild interplay, 
 Away over heather and fells, 
 Away through the frosted dells ! 
 
 Away o'er the snow, away ! 
 
 Far over the creamy hills, 
 W^hile the ice, like dashing spray. 
 
 Round ocean-fretted keels, 
 
 Flew up from the iron heels. 
 
 Aw^ay o'er the bay's smooth floor. 
 
 Where the bird at our prow took wing. 
 
 And our well-shaped sleigh drew o'er 
 Full many a frozen spring, 
 Like any swift -pennated thing! 
 
 Way out on Ontario far 
 
 Our silvery snow-shell shone, 
 
 Like the Mother of Love in her car, 
 When the golden reins fall down. 
 And the strengthless doves speed on. 
 
 And we laughed, this maid and I, 
 For we knew we were all alone, 
 33 
 
And we warmed to the tender sky, 
 And felt for the pale, cold Moon — 
 But Spica Virginis shone ! 
 
 And I broke not of love, for I cared not. 
 Though never more tempted, in sooth, 
 And she breathed not of love, for she dared 
 not, 
 Though her gray eyes were flashing the 
 
 truth — 
 Her gray eyes were flashing the truth ! 
 
 IV 
 
 How the orange buds in unfolding, 
 Teach us soft and delicious things ! 
 
 Th' impregning gales, through the wolding. 
 Flutter low, with voluptuous wings, 
 In the face of our warm. Southern Springs! 
 
 The Winter had passed with its gleaming. 
 Its quarto bound up in the year. 
 
 Of the Canada maid but a dreaming, 
 A sigh and a silent tear. 
 Remained to my heart of her. 
 
 'Tis true that she wept when we parted — 
 I gave her a chain golden-wrought, 
 
 With a symbol of pearl twin-hearted. 
 And my hand in her dark hair caught 
 As I wound it about her throat. 
 
 She took from a cage above her 
 A bird of varied plume — 
 
 A bird she had tutored to love her : 
 '*He was born in meridian bloom, 
 Take him back," said she, " to his home!'* 
 34 
 
When the Winter had passed with its gleam- 
 ing, 
 I stood where my heart was at last, 
 
 By my side all radiantly beaming, 
 In the beauty of joy unrepressed. 
 Was the angel my soul knew best. 
 
 And I drew from my breast warm and tender, 
 My bird with an ill-defined pride, 
 
 But lo! (and I tell it with wonder,) 
 
 W^hen he looked on the maid at my side, 
 The sweet warbler fluttered and died! 
 
 And 'tis true that she wept when we parted — 
 And would that her gift I'd denied; 
 
 But I dreamt not that thus broken-hearted. 
 At being divorced from her side. 
 This warbler had fluttered and died. 
 
 And it seems to me now as a warning — 
 I fear, and I cannot tell why, 
 
 On the bourn of some fair summer morning, 
 Like this bird of meridian sky. 
 My own heart will flutter and die ! 
 
 LORA LOGIE 
 
 Softly and tenderly, 
 
 Lora Logic, 
 Falls the night-melody 
 
 Over the sea; 
 And over this sea of years, 
 Rufl3ed by raining tears, 
 Float, through a mist of fears, 
 
 Echoes of thee ! 
 
 Faintly and fitfully, 
 Lora Logic, 
 35 
 
Mournfully, constantly, 
 
 (Ah, me! ah, me!) 
 Notes like the bell-bird, still, 
 Or the weird whip-poor-will, 
 Follow me, fit to fill 
 
 Sad memory! 
 
 Hintingly, hauntingly, 
 
 Lora Logie, 
 As vespers mellowly, 
 
 Musically, 
 Out from the convent bell, 
 Ave Marias swell 
 For the dead day . . .ah, well, 
 
 Lora Logie! 
 
 TO MISS NANNIE B. 
 
 What star presided at thy birth. 
 Beneath whose soft, celestial spell, 
 
 Down-trembling to the charmed earth. 
 The very soul of music fell? 
 
 Like Echo, or young Sybalis, 
 
 Or note preserved from Orphic plaint, 
 Thou art a Voice, sweet Cantatrice, 
 
 Thy physique but a supplement. 
 
 As all the tints in mingled throng 
 Produce White Light in purity, 
 
 So all the elements of Song 
 
 Combine to form thy minstrelsy. 
 
 Priestess elect of Melody — 
 
 Eldest and dearest of the arts — 
 
 Wed Music still to Poesie, 
 
 Before the altars of our hearts; 
 
And lift our souls to ecstasy, 
 
 Until from hearing thee we're taught, 
 That Song's akin to prophecy, 
 
 A far diviner gift than Thought. 
 
 THE FLOWERS WE CALL FLORA 
 
 The flowers we call Flora . . . 
 My Flower is darling Lora! 
 
 But her real name 'tis not : 
 For the name of her face is Beauty, 
 And the name of her soul is Duty, 
 
 And the name of her mind is Thought ! 
 
 The morn we call Aurora . . . 
 My Morning I call Lora! 
 
 But her real name is Love : 
 For whate'er on earth we name her. 
 As Love will the Angels claim her, 
 
 A saint in the sky above! 
 
 THE PICTURE 
 
 Your frame is all the atmosphere ! 
 
 Methinks 
 I see the canvas penciled clear — 
 
 "God pinx." 
 Bright picture of the past, uneye 
 
 My soul! 
 Or fade, or change, or melting, die 
 
 Or fall 
 
 Down to my arms, or grant that I 
 
 May too 
 A tintograph, lie on the sky 
 
 With you! 
 37 
 
Your frame is all the atmosphere ! 
 
 Gold links 
 Suspend you to the heaven, where 
 
 Methinks 
 I see the canvas penciled clear — 
 "God pinx.'' 
 
 MARY 
 
 I heard three lovers once dispute : 
 One said thou wert a Flowret ; one 
 
 Maintained a Dream; the third, Ripe Fruit: 
 At length said all: "God knows alone: 
 
 "We only know if flower, or maid — 
 If budding girl, or girlish bud. 
 
 An involute most sweetly made — 
 
 She's surely something fresh from God!" 
 
 MY THOUGHT GROWS HAZY WITH THE 
 SEASON'S TOUCH 
 
 My thought grows hazy with the season's touch: 
 For this is Indian Summer, loved so much 
 By bards, who set to most mellifluent rhyme 
 Their hymns to Nature, in the olden time. 
 
 The sun, a day-born moon, shines dim through 
 smoke ; 
 
 The crows that clamor in the wilted oak. 
 With many a darting and defiant mawk, 
 Move not the rufl^es of the lordly hawk. 
 
 The driven shingles, echoing o'er the hills. 
 Betoken care for coming Winter's ills; 
 
 Only the red-bird's left to greet the morn — 
 At eve, the wain brings in the golden corn. 
 38 
 
The thirst to see thee — simply see — no more! 
 
 Comes like some new and un-named passion o'er 
 My soul, and makes it gloomier than the mist 
 Which steals, like unformed dreams, from out 
 the West! 
 
 O! LORA, AS THE EARTH PURSUES. 
 
 O Lora, as the earth pursues 
 
 The Sun by his own light, 
 One-half illumed, one-half in hues 
 
 Of dark, despairing night. 
 
 So I pursue thee, through, me seems, 
 
 Of life the hollow sphere. 
 Sometimes aslant beneath thy beams, 
 
 Sometimes direct and near! 
 
 With twilights following radiant noons — 
 
 Conjunctions and echpse — 
 With early and senescent moons. 
 
 From depth to depth I lapse ! 
 
 *A SERENADE 
 
 Along the steep the filberts' tassels swing. 
 The silver-maples' purple clusters blow. 
 
 Upon the rocks the honeysuckles cling — 
 
 The matted moss is pink with bloom below. 
 
 Spring's touch renews the sap and wakes the 
 flowers. 
 With thrill and gush of sunlight and of song. 
 Come, Love, from thy boudoir, and seize the 
 hours 
 Too flush with April joy to linger long. 
 
 *Adapted from poem by V. B. Lucas. 
 
 39 
 
Arise, my Love, and leave thy virgin couch, 
 
 Like some sweet dryad from her dripping m-n: 
 
 The fair young Morning, with her coral touch. 
 Makes all the hills and vales to blush in turn — 
 
 The Morn sits at her wheel a coralist 
 
 And sprinkles over cloud, and mist, and sod, 
 
 Her rosy dust, and cries: "Fair Reverist! 
 
 Awake ! come forth, and join our hymns to God !" 
 
 THE WIND CHIMED LOW BY THE DEEP 
 WAVE'S FLOW 
 
 The wind chimed low by the deep wave's flow. 
 As I strayed with my blue-eyed Lora, 
 
 And the twilight's gleam fell over the stream 
 Of the winding Tuscarora. 
 
 O softer far than yon pale star 
 
 Was the melting glance of Lora 
 And her voice, like a bird, through the stillness 
 stirred 
 
 The dream of Tuscarora. 
 
 Now the Whip-poor-will is repeating still 
 
 His chant to Pan or Flora, 
 But in fancy oft a sound more soft 
 
 Floats over Tuscarora. 
 
 THE SOLITARY HORSEMAN 
 
 I've heard, sir, from the village mouth, 
 You go a journey to the South, 
 Toward Mont Blanc and Chamberry, 
 
 W^here father went in Napoleon's day, 
 To a southern land called Italy, 
 
 I scarce know where, but far away. 
 40 
 
And here is a casket, gentle sir, 
 With a billet-doux and a lock of hair; 
 For it may chance that you shall meet 
 
 A horseman clad in sombre gray, 
 With features sad, but mild and sweet, 
 
 I scarce know where, but far away. 
 
 He rides a black but star-browed horse, 
 And urges him with gentle force; 
 I know not whither, for being sent 
 
 By me, without intent, (O, me!) 
 He rides across the continent, 
 
 I fear to perish in the sea. 
 
 I did not think that he'd depart — 
 I dearly loved to try his heart : 
 And if he knew that I repent, 
 
 Though on the borders of the sea, 
 He'd ride across the continent 
 
 But he'd come back again to me. 
 
 The moons return ... so does not he; 
 His face is south, his back to me. 
 And cruel is my punishment. 
 
 Jesu, Maria, pardon me 
 For sending o'er the continent 
 
 My love to perish in the sea ! 
 
 And by every one that journeys south, 
 I, hearing from the village mouth. 
 Inclose him word that I relent; 
 
 For I fear unless he hears from me, 
 He'll ride across the continent, 
 
 And perish in the farther sea. 
 
 41 
 
OUT ON THE SEASHORE 
 
 O what a world breaks on the sight, 
 In early morn, or wakeful night. 
 
 Out on the Seashore! 
 A line of blue, like level hills, 
 A briny breath the ether fills — 
 
 Ever, evermore. 
 
 Out on the Seashore! 
 
 Monsters! Sceptres! Cities gone! 
 
 Islands buried! Fleets undone! 
 All on the Seashore! 
 
 Yon line of blue is a sepulchre ! 
 
 Only the Mermaids prosper here. 
 In their Boudoir, 
 Out from the Seashore! 
 
 4S 
 
II 
 
 BALLADS AND MADRIGALS 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 What though the poets shame me, and not one 
 But sings a nobler strain than mine ! 
 
 Sweet Lora, read, thy praise outweighs, alone, 
 The censure of the other nine. 
 
 Say thou: "he is a poet!" I'll believe 
 
 The pretty fable true; although 
 The world deride my follies, I shall live, 
 
 If only thou wilt tell me so. 
 
 As thistle-down rides on the zephyr's breath, 
 
 Content as if on wings of flame, 
 I'll wear thy favor for the poet's wreath. 
 
 Thy blessed guerdon for his fame. 
 
 Rion Hall, 1870. 
 
THE CREOLE 
 
 Serene, in queenly mode, 
 
 Some hundred miles below 
 The belt or latitude 
 
 Where temperate grains and grasses grow, 
 A city sits upon the quay. 
 With spire and wall above the sea, 
 The music from whose many bells is flung 
 Upon the air from chapels where High Mass 
 is sung. 
 
 Here lived an artist on 
 
 His fortune, and to fame 
 In his own day well known, 
 
 Though now it matters not his name; 
 Wise in the wisdom of his art — 
 With pious vision, pure of heart. 
 He, with his stooping shoulders, pointed beard 
 And abstract mien, each morn was seen where 
 Mass was heard. 
 
 Arising with the sun, 
 
 He followed by-streets strange, 
 Each morn a different one, 
 
 Because his humor needed change; 
 His eye more inward turned than out — 
 His vision inward turned in thought. 
 For that he questioned things, and gave to 
 
 nature 
 Her own answers back, as best becomes the 
 creature. 
 
 One morn a cottage, built 
 
 In old-French style and frame. 
 He passed, wherein there dwelt 
 
 Some Creoles with a Spanish fame: 
 45 
 
For these love flowers and flowing vines — 
 For these love flowers, which are as signs : 
 Where'er they blossom in the window-bay 
 The Creole cottagers are musical and gay. 
 
 When first he passed this cot, 
 
 From out a willow-oak 
 That shaded the sweet spot, 
 
 A mocking-bird the silence broke, 
 Oh! passionately wild and sweet — 
 Oh! passionately did he greet 
 The rising sun, which did not make more pale 
 The moon, than did this bird out-sing the 
 nightingale. 
 
 Our artist, looking up 
 
 To hear this monarch sing. 
 Beheld, (as in its cup 
 
 A sweet magnolia of the spring,) 
 A maiden in the window near — 
 Drinking in the morning air — 
 Sitting, with such sweet pose of graceful form 
 As made a mind where art was shrined, per- 
 ceive the subtlest charm. 
 
 The artist scorns the law 
 
 Which governs ruder men — 
 He passed, he looked, he saw. 
 
 Perchance in turn was seen again; 
 Yet the dark lids of her sweet eyes — 
 Yet those dark masks did not arise. 
 But with their fringe o'ershaded the profound 
 Of beauty, in which slept her soul secure and 
 sound. 
 
 She sat in guilelessness. 
 Nor did her needle ply 
 46 
 
One stitch or more or less 
 
 Because an artist passed her by; 
 And if his shadow kissed her lap — 
 And if his shadow touched her lap, 
 And lingered in the maze of some sweet fold, 
 Perchance she marked it not — perchance she 
 may have thought him bold. 
 
 No more as one forlorn 
 
 Our artist seeks by-ways 
 To Mass, but every morn 
 
 Beside this cot he loitering stays; 
 And every morning finds her there — 
 Sitting, as was her custom, where 
 The willow-oak disputes the path — within 
 Her boudoir-window, silent and serene. 
 
 Sun answered unto sun 
 
 That saw him pass in vain. 
 Till many a Southern moon 
 
 Had time to fill her horn and wane. 
 He lingered longer now than first; 
 But though he lingered, yet he durst 
 Not break the sweet and modest peace that 
 
 lay 
 Full on the maid, still all afraid to cast her 
 eyes his way. 
 
 Thus year by year rolled by, 
 
 Till four in all it made 
 Since first the artist's eye 
 
 Fell on this silent Creole maid; 
 'Twas on St. Lucille's day, at last — 
 'Twas on St. Lucille's day he passed. 
 That on her form his shadow fell, when some 
 Strange spirit said unto the maid: Look up, 
 the hour hath come ! 
 47 
 
Then rose the golden sun, 
 
 Then sang the mocking-bird, 
 Then burst the buds upon 
 
 The oak, and all the bells were heard; 
 Then fluttered every leaf and vine. 
 Then fluttered with a throb divine 
 Her maiden heart, and, while her blushes rise. 
 She gazes full squarel3% (and O how fairly !) 
 into the artist's eyes ! 
 
 Then on his knees he fell, 
 
 With eyes upturned above, 
 To glorify Lucille, 
 
 The patroness of wedded love; 
 And thus, upon her day, they knelt; 
 And while she seemed to smile, both felt. 
 What time their marriage-bells rang merrily, 
 That the dearest boon a maid can own is 
 modesty ! 
 
 ROSALIE 
 
 Rosalie, a brunette 
 
 With eyes of deep repose, 
 
 Was queen of all her set, 
 
 As of the flowers, is the rose; 
 She had a suitor she approved. 
 As far as might be, for she loved — 
 But kept her secret, holding him aloof 
 With intervention of her soft but firm reproof. 
 
 One evening, when his heart 
 
 Was full of that dear pain 
 Which challenges all art. 
 
 Save her's who wounds, to heal again. 
 He called for Rosalie to walk. 
 And soon of love began to talk, 
 48 
 
Under the influence of the setting sun, 
 And that sweet pleasure which the day's decline 
 brings on. 
 
 Whether it was the power 
 
 Alone of phantasy, 
 She felt that such an hour 
 
 Might well decide her destiny; 
 There was a tremor in her thought 
 That agitated w4ien she brought, 
 From her boudoir, her evening hat and veil. 
 Till, like a star behind a cloud, she looked quite 
 pale. 
 
 The scent of hay, new mown. 
 
 Or of that willow-tree,* 
 Whose saffron cups are strewn 
 
 With dust, were not more sweet than she : 
 And this dear sweetness raised a hope — 
 And this her sweetness, with a hope. 
 Brought also to her lover, as twilight 
 Brings trembling shadows, agitation, but not 
 fright. 
 
 So that when, presently. 
 
 He would have plucked, near them, 
 A rose for Rosalie, 
 
 His hand uprooted flower and stem; 
 Now, a flower to Rosalie was more 
 Than any flower — endowed with power 
 To feel, and, when beloved, to love again, 
 And, with a wild sweet threnody, of wrong com- 
 plain. 
 
 '*What hand is this so rude," 
 She cried quite angrily, 
 *Bohemian Willoiv or Dusty Miller. 
 49 
 
*The moss-rose from its sod 
 
 Has torn away thus cruelly, 
 And left its mate to bloom alone? 
 This flower and my love grew on 
 One stem, which your mad hand has plucked — 
 
 the gloss 
 From my love's bloom shall fade as from this rose 
 
 its moss!" 
 
 Then he, quite penitent, 
 
 Upon his knees disclaimed 
 It but an accident. 
 
 And her forgiveness gently claimed; 
 His hand, he said, was tremulous 
 Because he loved too well, and thus 
 Had played him false, and done him wrong and he. 
 Planting again the flower, its growth would 
 guarantee. 
 
 "Ah me!" the maiden said, 
 
 "It is not every flower, 
 Plucked from the parent bed. 
 
 Will live through wind, and drought, and shower: 
 This species must we plant with care, 
 And cultivate with such a rare 
 Fidelity, that every fibre may 
 Regain its wonted hold, or it will die away ! 
 
 ** Replanting, use labor. 
 
 And tenderness, at first; 
 Nature will answer for 
 
 The vine, if but the slip be nursed; 
 This germ began beneath the moon — 
 This germ shot forth beneath the moon ; 
 But now at early dawn, in aid of dew. 
 You needs must water it, if growth you would 
 renew. 
 
 50 
 
'*The proverb says, (no doubt 
 
 With truth,) the flame of fire 
 Too closely watched goes out; 
 
 So may your tender plant expire; 
 Nor yet betray indifference. 
 Nor any trace of negligence, 
 For any fault your flower may forget. 
 Save that decay indifference may encourage or 
 beget. 
 
 **With all, dear friend, have faith. 
 
 Which gives the flower root. 
 And stem, and branch, and sheath. 
 
 And leaf and blossom, bud and fruit; 
 In their profound mythology. 
 The Greeks resolved this mystery. 
 And with their Floral worship taught us so: 
 A secret prayer mixed with our care will make a 
 flower grow! 
 
 "And if a doubt exist, 
 
 Consult some older one — 
 Some floriculturist 
 
 Who hath raised flowers of his own, 
 For if this rose shall grow,' ' she said — 
 "And if this rose shall grow, we wed; 
 And if it die, you may be married too, 
 But not to me, for Rosalie will never marry you!" 
 
 He took the rose gently, 
 
 And pressed it close to him, 
 (The hand of Rosalie 
 
 And his were touching on the stem,) 
 And with many an invocation. 
 And many a sweet rogation. 
 He planted as a Christian plants the tree 
 Of faith — to wither, or to bloom perennially, 
 51 
 
And though, with constancy, 
 
 He watched it, day by day. 
 It waned perceptibly. 
 
 As maids heartbroken fade away; 
 And then his love grew weary too — 
 And then his heart became untrue. 
 "It is no use," he said; "it will not grow 
 And there are other flowers which just as sweetly 
 blow!" 
 
 And thus a year rolled by — 
 
 He hoped he should forget. 
 Until, (he knew not why,) 
 
 He felt a strange and wild regret: 
 "I will return and see my rose — 
 I will return," said he; "God knows 
 My flower is dead, but yet I long to see 
 Its mouldy bier, to worship there its memory !" 
 
 And then alone, ashamed, 
 
 He sought the well-known scene; 
 And lo! there bloomed — there flamed — 
 
 His rose, in crimson, trimmed with green. 
 And garnished w^ith unrivalled moss — 
 And garnished with its moss; God knows 
 If it were a pure miracle or no. 
 That, thus bereft of care, and left, this rose should 
 grow! 
 
 "'Tis God that hath unclosed 
 
 My flower," the lover cried; 
 "Had He not interposed. 
 
 It surely must have waned and died !' ' 
 But then the neighbors said, (O fie!). 
 With many a nod, that they knew why 
 It grew: they would be sworn on holy writ. 
 It was in truth because, forsooth, the maid herself 
 had watered it! 
 
 52 
 
HORTENSIA OF HORTENSE 
 
 Hortensia of Hortense 
 
 The third was of her name, 
 Through Ksts of long descents 
 
 And range of old ancestral fame : 
 God knows how many knights there were — 
 God knows: the line ran back so far 
 
 It lost itself in gray, heraldic mist. 
 Like a tree from whose base, to its apex in 
 space, 
 
 A bird cannot fly without rest. 
 
 There was an old tradition. 
 
 As fame records, saying. 
 That, in their line's transmission. 
 
 The third Hortense should mate a king; 
 And thus Hortense — our heroine — 
 Being the third, we may divine 
 
 That to her maiden mind it would appear 
 A very fine thing to marry a king. 
 
 No matter what king it were. 
 
 Thus flattered Fancy, weaving 
 
 Around this text its woof. 
 Prepared her for believing 
 
 This legend without farther proof, 
 Till with the fragrance she exhaled, 
 All artlessly, there still prevailed 
 
 An air of regal dignity and ease. 
 Which set her to dreaming, in innocent schem- 
 ing. 
 
 Such visions as these: 
 
 "Our brothers shall be knighted 
 
 With followers at their side. 
 Our sister shall be plighted 
 
 53 
 
To be some royal cousin's bride; 
 And as for him that loves us so — 
 Despite our inclinations, tho' 
 
 It cost us many an anxious pang, we ween. 
 The boy must be taught it is not to be thought 
 
 In him to marry the queen." 
 
 This lover was a youth 
 
 Of such sweet sentiments 
 Of love, and faith, and truth. 
 
 As would have charmed the young Hor- 
 tense. 
 But for this family legend's sway — 
 Which so engrossed her on the day 
 
 When he poured out his lover's hope in 
 Spring, 
 "No, no," she said, with a toss of the head, 
 *'Hortense shall marry a king!" 
 
 '*Our king," her lover replied, 
 
 "Has had, since years ago. 
 Fair Margaret by his side. 
 
 The queen, to whom we duty owe: 
 For you to dream about her death — 
 For you to dream above your breath. 
 
 Misprision were — a treasonable thing." 
 *'No matter," she said, with a toss of the head, 
 
 *'Hortense shall marry a king!" 
 
 Thenceforth came sorrow's sting 
 Between the twain, and ruth. 
 Her lover being no king, 
 
 Nor the son of a king, in sooth. 
 Naught but a simple countryman — 
 Naught but an honest gentleman. 
 
 Who fronted the world like a young elm 
 tree, 
 
 54 
 
With a root of his own, as firm as the throne, 
 In native dignity. 
 
 Her family was a tree 
 
 Whose arms were shorn and bare. 
 Which Nature's charity 
 
 Alone left standing, year by year; 
 A maple full of age, and hoar 
 With frost of centuries, whose pure 
 
 And summer-swelling sap, once sweet and 
 kind, 
 Empirics had drawn, through ages agone, 
 
 And left but a shell behind. 
 
 While thus in doubtful mood 
 
 Betwixt her dreams and heart. 
 Her lover understood 
 
 The crisis, playing well his part : 
 "True love is sweet, my gentle maid — 
 True love is very sweet," he said. 
 
 "But far from me to stay your fortune's 
 wing; 
 It were better that I in the grave should lie. 
 
 Than that you should not marry a king. 
 
 'T know a sage who dwells 
 
 Upon yon mountain's crest, 
 Alone, among the hills, 
 
 Who well the future can forecast; 
 By the wide orbits of the spheres. 
 By tracing the eternal stars, 
 
 He solves the problems of futurity, — 
 I make the suggestion that together we question 
 
 This voice of astrology." 
 
 This idea, sweetly brought 
 Home to her heart by love, 
 55 
 
Was with such comfort fraught 
 
 As led her bosom to approve. 
 So >vhen the sun, in slanting down 
 Beneath the world, had dyed the crown 
 
 Of all the hills with amber, and with gold, 
 Hortense and her lover set out to discover 
 
 The sage in his mountain hold. 
 
 It was the virgin last 
 
 Of April's tender sun 
 That now, his noonstead past, 
 
 Fell slowly on the horizon — 
 The season which the young prefer, 
 The season which the gardener 
 
 Selects as best for budding rose on rose, 
 When pigeons are flying, the south wind sighing, 
 
 And the violet blows. 
 
 The pathway tortuous 
 
 Lay up the mountain hoar. 
 Which rose precipitous — 
 
 Hortense insisting, he before, 
 Lest accident should intervene 
 To make the cirque of silver seen 
 
 Which horizoned the dainty, virgin boot — 
 For the chariest maid is ever afraid 
 
 Of the eye that regards her foot. 
 
 At first, the sage inquired 
 
 Her age; which being known, 
 A gold-piece he required 
 
 To sever Venus from the Moon; 
 And next, through starry influence 
 Of firmaments, he traced Hortense, 
 
 Until her diagram, he said, was plain — 
 Then taking a tone like an oracle's own, 
 
 Thus he to the listening twain: 
 56 
 
''Whatever the stars foreknow 
 
 My art can estimate; 
 Whatever is true is so, 
 
 Nor does a fact admit debate : 
 The wise are wiser far than fools — 
 The wise are wise, and all the rules 
 
 Which govern men, humanity obeys; 
 That which exists, till it cease persists — 
 
 The eternal remains always ! 
 
 *' Shall Hortense mate a king? 
 
 The stars thus answer me, 
 One true heart is aching 
 
 For you, and this is royalty ! 
 Call back the roses to your cheek — 
 Call back your roses, and go seek 
 
 In virtue more worth, than in princely 
 birth, 
 For the heart, my maid," the astrologe said, 
 
 "Is the only thing royal on earth!" 
 
 Then a new light fell on 
 
 Her legendary dreams. 
 As when at last the sun 
 
 Dissolves a cloud with golden beams; 
 "My love will crown him king,' she said — 
 "My love shall place around his head 
 
 A diadem, with perfume in its ring; 
 God makes it more pleasant to marry a peasant, 
 
 Than unite without love to a king!" 
 
 THE PAWNBROKER'S DAUGHTER 
 
 In the town of Mobile, 
 
 In the French part thereof, 
 There lived an artist leal 
 
 Unto his art, with perfect love; 
 57 
 
But few he found to sympathize — 
 But few he found who could arise 
 
 And go unto the Father with the heart, 
 For Mobile, beyond measure devoted to pleasure 
 
 Knew nothing at all of art. 
 
 But little our hero cared 
 
 What others thought of him 
 If he could be well spared. 
 
 He could as well dispense with them. 
 The sweet wild-flow^ers, thickly strewn, 
 The grand live-oaks, with moss o'ergrown, 
 
 Stretched out their arms to him with wide 
 embrace, 
 And the bay, as it rolled, made his spirit as bold 
 
 As the rocks, with their granite face. 
 
 A shallop debonair. 
 
 Curved like the swallow's breast. 
 Bore him each evening, ere 
 
 The sun's deflection tinged the west. 
 Out towards the isles below the town — 
 Out towards the islands, or adown 
 
 The coast into some flowery retreat, 
 Where nothing was heard but the sweet mock- 
 ing-bird, 
 
 Or the shy paroquet. 
 
 With microscopic care 
 
 He drew the dahlia's stem: 
 His cypress made the air 
 Funereal as a requiem; 
 The great magnolias, full of bloom. 
 In giant beauty poured perfume 
 
 From out his canvas, with their cups of 
 cream, 
 
 58 
 
And his weird Spanish moss, as in nature it does, 
 Invited poetic dream. 
 
 His patrimony, small 
 
 At first, grew smaller day 
 By day, until 'twas all, 
 
 In tints and shadows, fled away — 
 Dissolved on canvas like his oil, 
 Dissolved on canvas, with much toil; 
 
 Artistically gone, with curious skill. 
 Were the dollars and cents, a bare competence. 
 
 Received from his father's will. 
 
 Art has her martyrs, too. 
 
 No less than pious faith. 
 As loyal to the true. 
 
 As constant in the face of death; 
 The windows of his studio, 
 And the lids of his portfolio. 
 
 Were filled with pictures soft and rarely 
 done. 
 With a touch like the sky of South Italy, 
 
 And the ripeness of her sun. 
 
 Near where his studio stood, 
 
 A sign between two balls 
 Oft furnished Rupert food 
 
 For his reflecting intervals. 
 ''U argent a louer!" one side read; 
 "Money to lend!" the other said. 
 
 So Rupert thought, betwixt the balls and 
 sign, 
 A pawnbroker's heart might soften to art. 
 
 And a picture bring something fine. 
 
 With a sweet landscape buried 
 Under his arm with care, 
 59 
 
In gown and cap he hurried 
 
 To the pawnbroker's corner, where 
 The; polished balls had much to say. 
 The golden balls, (as in its day 
 
 The fruit of which the poets much have 
 made,) 
 Hung ripe in the sun, overguarded by none 
 But the dragon of trade. 
 
 This shop, two stories high. 
 
 Stood by the water close; 
 Its plank was old and dry. 
 
 And all the window-frames were loose; 
 But the money-vault was dark and strong — 
 But the vault was strong, and all the wrong 
 
 Which time had done elsewhere had left 
 no trace 
 On the gnarled door or the granite floor 
 
 Of the iron-guarded place. 
 
 In the show-windows there 
 
 Were pistols, bowie-knives. 
 And rings, and diamonds rare. 
 
 And pipes, and books, and old archives — 
 All pawns bought in or unredeemed — 
 All pawns bought in, of which each seemed, 
 
 Where it lay furbished up right carefully. 
 As a volume unwrit were embodied in it 
 
 Of romance or poverty. 
 
 This ancient pawnbroker 
 
 Possessed great riches, gained 
 By adding year by year, 
 
 And losing nothing once attained. 
 His wife was dead — died young and fair — 
 And but one child remained to share 
 60 
 
His solitary life, his grief allay, 
 Whom he loved with a fond affection beyond, 
 The power of pen to portray. 
 
 The rules of trade, he thought. 
 
 Were all the laws of God 
 That childhood needed taught, 
 
 Or manhood needed understood. 
 One hundred pounds the old man weighed, 
 And, from appearance, always had; 
 
 His head was round, and small, and hair- 
 less now — 
 A large clam-shell would have covered it well 
 
 From the crown to the brow. 
 
 The air seemed a little damp, 
 
 The light a little dim. 
 When, with no safety-lamp 
 
 To test the atmosphere for him, 
 Our hero entered in his turn — 
 Our hero, entering, said in turn, 
 
 " Good sir, I've brought you in some trifles 
 mere — " 
 But the pawnbroker said, with a shake of his 
 head, 
 "Not any pictures here!" 
 
 Not any pictures here! 
 
 O hard, metallic soul! 
 Hast thou no cause to fear 
 
 Thy greed shall one day wreck the whole? 
 Such were the bitter thoughts, and more. 
 Which, like an angry flood, came o'er 
 
 The artist's mind, and he may be forgiven 
 For a very grave doubt they would manage 
 w^ithout 
 
 The pawnbroker's picture in heaven ! 
 
 61 
 
Not any pictures here! 
 
 No soul, no love, no heart, 
 No voice of music clear, 
 
 No flowers — in a word, no art! 
 But the clocks ticked on; no one perceived — 
 The clocks ticked on, and it is believed 
 
 The broker saw and felt as much as they 
 The youth's indignation, and sad meditation, 
 
 As he silently turned away. 
 
 He turned in deep disgust, 
 
 And silently walked away, 
 With a lighter human trust 
 
 And a heavier heart, by far, that day; 
 But the fear that most beset was this : 
 The fear he should have to confess 
 
 The open knowledge of his secret dread. 
 That his labor of years had ended in tears. 
 
 And art was a foe to bread. 
 
 Of all the treasures rare. 
 
 Misfortune had bereft 
 Betwixt him and despair. 
 
 But one thing only had she left 
 A curious old manuscript — 
 A curious old parchment, shipped 
 
 From Bombay with his father's library. 
 Which, in the long run, was bequeathed to his 
 son, 
 
 A valuable legacy. 
 
 A Hebrew Bible bought 
 
 By some virtuoso. 
 Which expert linguists thought 
 
 Bore date two thousand years ago; 
 A very ancient manuscript — 
 A very ancient volume, shipped 
 
From Bombay with his father's Hbrary, 
 Which, in the long run, was bequeathed to the 
 son, 
 A valuable legacy. 
 
 And Rupert thrummed a strain 
 
 Upon the ivory top 
 Of the Holy Book, and then 
 
 Hied Tvdth it to the broker's shop. 
 The moneyed man surveyed the book — 
 And then, with solemn mien, and look 
 
 Of owl-Uke vnsdom fearful in amount. 
 Replied, with all kindness to artistic blindness, 
 
 "This book might be turned to account." 
 
 And then he touched a bell 
 
 Of silver lying near, 
 Until the echo fell 
 
 In soft resonance on the ear; 
 And at the sound, a maiden came — 
 And at the sound, as if a dream 
 
 Had changed and gilded, glorified and 
 rosed 
 The shop and the scene, his daughter came in. 
 
 As fresh as a flower unclosed. 
 
 With serious looks impressed. 
 
 And none to throw away, 
 Neat as a lily dressed. 
 
 And fragrant as the breath of May, 
 The broker's daughter answered him — 
 His daughter entered, like a hymn 
 
 That troubles Nature in the haunts of birds; 
 Her angelic face and marvellous grace 
 
 Surpassing the power of words. 
 
 One glance of virgin light, 
 63 
 
And Rupert felt that all 
 The shadows winged their flight 
 
 From off the canvas of his soul; 
 But the five old clocks ticked bravely on — 
 The five old clocks ticked gravely on, 
 
 As if to pause for human love were crime; 
 For though man and the ocean may yield to 
 commotion, 
 Not so with the monarch Time. 
 
 Then read she with great care. 
 
 From the ancient Book of God, 
 With reverential air, 
 
 What thus the maiden understood: 
 "God is the first Author of Beauty, 
 God is the Fountain Source of Dutj^ — *' 
 
 "Hold there!" the broker cried; ''my 
 child, look at 
 The publisher's page, and see if its age 
 
 Will appear from its date. " 
 
 The maiden smiled a smile 
 
 Of sweet complacency, 
 And without art or guile, 
 
 Yielding to filial piety, 
 Unto her father made reply, 
 (To Rupert also with her eye. 
 
 As if a single glance at him sufficed) : 
 "The date, though obscure, is older, I'm sure, 
 
 Than the birth of Jesus Christ." 
 
 Her eye was blue and clear, 
 
 And soft, and of that cast 
 That kindles like a star 
 
 A constant, radiant dream of rest — 
 A sweet demand for sympathy, 
 An indefined intensity, 
 64 
 
That made its light so linger where it fell, 
 That rarely, if met, could an artist forget. 
 Or surrender the spell, 
 
 Rupert kept thinking o'er 
 
 The text which he had heard; 
 More plain than ever before 
 
 Its truth in art and life appeared. 
 She was a sermon on that text — 
 She was a sermon, and, unvexed 
 
 With doubt, the current of his faith more 
 broad, 
 And catholic ever, like a great flowing river, 
 
 Went out to the Ocean of God. 
 
 The broker spoke slowly. 
 
 With pen behind his ear: 
 "I cannot well foresee 
 
 What small advance this book will bear. 
 Such books you cannot well set down; 
 Sometimes such books may have a run. 
 
 But now there's no demand worth counting 
 on; 
 But seeing a friend, I will venture to lend 
 
 Fifty dollars upon this pawn." 
 
 Then some sweet pantomine 
 
 W^ith soft, caressing grace, 
 Much out of place and time. 
 
 Perchance, as was her angel face, 
 The daughter practised on the sire — 
 The daughter practised, and the sire. 
 
 To her soft whispers yielding, made reply : 
 "Then have your own way — fifty more we will 
 say 
 
 Than our rules will justify." 
 
 65 
 
Our artist's full, dark eye, 
 
 Electrically wild 
 In every flash, swept by 
 
 The father, and adored the child, 
 And wrapt her sylph-like form in flame — 
 And wrapt her child-like form with blame 
 
 Of its intense affection for a maid 
 Whose external beauty devotion to duty 
 
 More glorified made. 
 
 Then she to her retreat 
 
 Retired, with more flowers 
 Of color than was meet 
 
 For one who well redeemed the hours; 
 But her step was steady as her will — 
 Her step was light and firm, but still. 
 
 From the electric office of her heart, 
 Came this message oft: "What's the matter 
 aloft. 
 
 That the blood makes such a start?" 
 
 The broker little thought 
 
 The artist would redeem. 
 And very often brought 
 
 His mind to cogitate this theme: 
 "Given a book for some old sect — 
 Given a book the Jews respect, 
 
 (And quite right, too,) which being very 
 old. 
 Might not their Rabbis think this a great prize, 
 
 And worth a round sum in gold?" 
 
 The time his rule required 
 
 The book to be redeemed 
 Had now well-nigh expired; 
 
 And when the prospect darkest seemed, 
 A strange relief marked the event — 
 
When happened this strange accident: 
 Slipt underneath the painter's study sill, 
 A letter had come with a bill in its womb — 
 A hundred-dollar bill! 
 
 And in a sweet, clear hand, 
 
 Intensely feminine. 
 But rich in its command 
 
 Of fitting words in every line. 
 The letter, with delicious art 
 And pathos, seemed to touch his heart 
 
 Without intending it — obscure, yet clear, 
 Where in the conclusion it ventured allusion 
 
 To the Book which Rupert held dear. 
 
 *'How you sacrifice, beware, 
 
 For temporary gain, 
 A Book whose value rare 
 
 This printed excerpt will make plain." 
 The printed extract thus expressed, 
 When rightly read, made manifest 
 
 A Hebrew Bible, if in date the tome 
 Preceded Christ's birth, was very well worth 
 
 Ten thousand pounds at Rome. 
 
 O Mystery! thou queen. 
 
 Priestess of sorcery. 
 Weird, wild, unknown, unseen. 
 
 Mother of faith and prophecy, 
 With glorious stars thy hands are filled — 
 The stars within thy hands are spilled, 
 
 Through depth of cloud, from out thy high 
 abode. 
 And we who perceive are prone to believe 
 
 That thou art conversant with God ! 
 
 A simple act of grace, 
 67 
 
Mysteriously done, 
 In order that no trace 
 
 Or hint should make the author known, 
 , Became a prism for the morn — 
 Became a prism, and the morn, 
 
 Dissolved in colors, like the arc of God, 
 Made the woof of his dream like the meadow- 
 lawn seem, 
 When its diamonds are shining abroad. 
 
 Rupert supposed he knew 
 
 Whence his good fortune came, 
 In secret thanked her who 
 
 Resorted to this stratagem; 
 And silently achieved a prayer — 
 And silently sent up somewhere. 
 
 He scarce knew whither, nor had been 
 taught to whom, 
 A prayer of thanksgiving that some Spirit living 
 
 Had smiled through his gloom. 
 
 Then, like a man by power 
 
 Of prayer relieved from weight. 
 Our artist met the hour 
 
 Appointed to redeem his debt. 
 The broker met him presently, 
 And rubbed his hands quite pleasantly. 
 
 As was his wont, what time he could fore- 
 see 
 The chance was far gone for redeeming a pawn 
 
 By a son of gaunt poverty. 
 
 Sometimes, your windows up, 
 
 A sudden bird flies through. 
 Which has no time to stop 
 
 To make apology to you. 
 So passed the broker's daughter — nay, 
 68 
 
So passed, without a glance; but pray 
 
 What star of thought smote on her cheek 
 that it 
 Should suddenly flush, with a maidenly blush, 
 Beyond any question, lit? 
 
 The broker soon perceived 
 
 Some one as wise as he 
 The youth had undeceived, 
 
 Therefore he closed immediately. 
 The terms agreed upon were clear — 
 Which terms, however, might appear 
 
 Quite liberal upon his part to some, 
 For the broker agreed that he would proceed 
 
 To New York to market the tome. 
 
 The price was to be shared : 
 
 One-half to Rupert paid, 
 The other should reward 
 
 The old man for his skill in trade. 
 At his own risk, it was agreed, 
 (Expenses off, should he succeed,) 
 
 That he the volume hoar w^ould sell, 
 Though he thought, perhaps truly, he was 
 yielding unduly 
 
 When he kept but a half for his skill. 
 
 Administrative tact 
 
 Is but the gift of God. 
 Deciding once to act, 
 
 The broker firmly forward trod. 
 And laid his plans, for his own gain — 
 And taxed events, until a pen 
 
 He gave Rupert, (despite his artist's rage,) 
 Insisting that he as his clerk should agree. 
 
 While he was away, to engage. 
 69 
 
Now, when he told the maid 
 
 His purpose, she turned pale 
 And did object, and said 
 
 The painter as her clerk would fail; 
 Some other were more to her will — 
 Some other she'd prefer, but still 
 
 Her father's wish was law to her, she said; 
 iVnd she spoke but the truth : from earliest youth 
 
 His wishes had been obeyed. 
 
 The young man's heart was light, 
 
 But grave he kept his face, 
 Expressing no delight 
 
 In acceptation of the place; 
 The only pledge he gave was this: 
 A pledge of earnest faithfulness 
 
 In his attention to the shop, and her. 
 Whom the broker had said was still to be head, 
 
 And practical financier. 
 
 And when the day arrived 
 
 Which he had fixed to start, 
 The daughter well contrived 
 
 To pack some gems of Rupert's art, 
 Some trifles in a field quite new — 
 Some trifles, saying, "You may shew 
 
 These paintings in some gallery of art; 
 They will charge you no storage, and it may 
 encourage 
 
 Our painter to work with more heart." 
 
 New York, a town for fame 
 
 To dwell with rapture on. 
 Could not one broker claim 
 
 More apt in trade than Mobile's son; 
 He felt in Wall Street quite at home, 
 And was as much disposed to roam 
 70 
 
In such rich fields as e'er a Bull had been, 
 And saw through the matter of jargon and 
 clatter, 
 Like a machinist through a machine. 
 
 Ah, well — New York and Mobile 
 
 Lies many a mile between ; 
 And Mobile Bay, I feel, 
 
 Is sweeter when the spring is green, 
 And Nature dons her bridal robe — 
 When Nature wears her royal robe. 
 
 Sea-tinctured, and perfumed with fragrant 
 air, 
 While the sea-roses cluster, in delicate lustre, 
 
 Over her golden hair. 
 
 The broker's shop, 'tis true. 
 
 Was on a narrow way, 
 But his house, with portly view, 
 
 Smiled on the beauty of the bay; 
 From whose great chart the daughter 
 
 learned — 
 From her boudoir her spirit yearned, 
 
 With love intense, for that great mirror 
 bright. 
 Which, mingled with green, ever changing, was 
 seen 
 To wave like a flood of light. 
 
 And Rupert's genius 
 
 Had so inflamed her heart 
 With love ingenuous 
 
 For Nature, and her offspring. Art, 
 That oft upon the open bay. 
 With bending form, she did essay 
 
 The vernal dipping of his shallop's oar, 
 
 71 
 
And watched the sun rise, with worshipping 
 eyes, 
 And feelings unknown before. 
 
 What pawns were bought or sold 
 
 The broker's books may tell, 
 But what the tales were told 
 
 In sweet artistic scenes — ah, well — 
 What dreams were kindled by his brush. 
 As she leaned o'er him, at the flush 
 
 Of sun, or when declined his golden ray, 
 No balanced amount nor books of account 
 
 Shall reveal till the judgment-day! 
 
 The broker returned at last. 
 
 Disclosing nothing done 
 Until a day had passed. 
 
 And o'er his books his eye had run. 
 *' You've not done much in trade, I see — 
 You've not done very much," said he; 
 
 "But, then, I wanted little done, 'tis true, 
 For the laws of trade are too stern for a maid, 
 
 And too deep, my poor painter, for you. 
 
 "For you are Genius, I 
 
 Am only Common Sense; 
 You on your wit rely. 
 
 And I upon experience; 
 Without a hand to utilize. 
 Except you make them reahze. 
 
 How do your golden thoughts, unminted, 
 fail! 
 A fig for all thought that cannot be brought 
 
 Under the hammer of sale! 
 
 "You painted here some birds, 
 Some oak and cypress trees, 
 
 72 
 
Some rocks, and browsing herds, 
 And many more fine phantasies; 
 I touched them with the wand of trade — 
 I touched, and lo! your fortune's made; 
 For I would have you know that I have sold 
 Not only the Book, but the pictures I took. 
 For quite a round sum in gold ! 
 
 "Ha! ha! my good young friend. 
 
 Your luck I will not deny; 
 As long as you shall send 
 
 Such pictures they will sell, for I 
 Have touched them with the wand of trade — 
 I touched, and lo! your fortune's made!" 
 
 Then Rupert replied, with the maid by his 
 side, 
 "You pardon, good sire, if too high I aspire 
 
 When your daughter I ask for my bride!" 
 
 As when, in act to crow, 
 
 A proud cock beats the air 
 With silver wdngs, when lo! 
 
 Some rival strikes him unaware. 
 His song of cheer, a stifled note. 
 Dies with a rattle in his throat. 
 
 And all his pride of victory lies low; 
 So the turn of affairs to the broker appears 
 
 Like a most unexpected blow! 
 
 His face more sallow grew. 
 
 His gesturing arm fell prone. 
 His smiles like snow-birds flew. 
 
 His golden spectacles fell down; 
 But the fine old clocks ticked bravely on — 
 The fine old clocks ticked gravely on. 
 
 As if to pause for human pride were crime, 
 
 73 
 
For though Man and the Ocean may yield to 
 commotion, 
 Not so with the monarch Time! 
 
 At length: "I understand; 
 
 And grant that by the rule 
 Of trade you've played your hand, 
 
 While I, alas ! have played the fool ! 
 What have you, pray to live upon — 
 What have you to depend upon?" 
 
 Then Rupert kissed the maid, and smiling 
 said: 
 "Kind sir, do not let your anger forget 
 
 My fortune so recently made! 
 
 "If what you said was true, 
 
 In your antithesis. 
 That I am Genius, you 
 
 Good Sense — this maid Religion is!" 
 And here the broker's anger died — 
 And here he smiled, as he replied, 
 
 *'When Genius can move sweet Faith to 
 approve, 
 Let Reason confess such an union as this 
 
 Is worthy the name of Love!" 
 
 MERIDIENNE 
 
 Or, The Department-Girl. 
 
 In a city far famous, whose temples 
 
 Were beleaguered by Northmen the while, 
 
 Was a house near the James, where his rimples 
 Encircle the Beautiful Isle. 
 
 And here, on one eve, were assembled 
 Companions whose features were gay, 
 
 74 
 
With a something of care, which resembled 
 A cloud on a bright summer-day. 
 
 And they laughed in despite of their reason, 
 In despite of the war and its scath — 
 
 For the heart of the young in its season, 
 Is sublimer than danger or death. 
 
 Now it chanced, and I know not how either. 
 When Meridienne entered this hall. 
 
 She became, in the lieu of the weather. 
 The theme of discussion for all. 
 
 An orange, grown meltingly yellow, 
 On a tree most voluptuously reared — 
 
 Grown near to the top, and more mellow 
 Than citrons — ^her figure appeared. 
 
 With her crocks of geranium round her, 
 She thrid the Department's maze, 
 
 And a spell of divinity bound her, 
 
 As she wrought through the gloomiest days. 
 
 With no jewels save pearls in her mouth, and 
 Ne'er a gem save those in her eyes. 
 
 She inherited all of the South, and 
 Was richer than gold — being wise. 
 
 Her hand was as white as the tube-rose. 
 And her brow as the cotton-boll. 
 
 And the Indian-pipe when it uprose. 
 Was a virginal type of her soul. 
 
 Her head, which was regal, with tresses 
 Golden-folded, and burnished with light. 
 
 Wound around with a myriad graces. 
 Wore a wreath of clematis that night. 
 75 
 
"We've a gage about you, fair Meridienne, 
 Or rather your rich golden hair, " 
 
 Said a youth. "Is it all, fair Floridian, 
 Your own, or a braid do you wear? " 
 
 And no artist, divine in his passion, 
 Whom the genius of classical climes 
 
 Had enriched with a wealth of expression 
 Surpassing our passionless times, 
 
 In his moments divinest in frenzy, 
 When an idea brighter than flame 
 
 Might have shot from the furnace of fancy. 
 Could have drawn such a picture of shame ! 
 
 And I saw, from the alternate blending 
 
 Of anger and grief in her eyes, 
 The woman and angel contending. 
 
 Like evil and good, for the prize. 
 
 But at length, and in evident pain, she 
 Sent a smile like a beam o'er her face, 
 
 (The woman was conquered !) and then she 
 Arose, though abashed, in her place. 
 
 "You've a gage about me, " (with her smiling 
 Still moist as a dewy moonbeam,) 
 
 "I sincerely regret for beguiling 
 Your time you had not fitter theme. 
 
 "But your frankness in telling me wrenches 
 
 Decision on terms I'll explain: 
 Lo ! yonder, sent up from the trenches, 
 
 Are a thousand Confederate men! 
 
 "Let each gallant here who beseeches 
 From me this decision to-night, 
 76 
 
Say how much for those men from the ditches 
 I shall have to decide in his sight!" 
 
 Quick as thought we took up the suggestion — 
 Not a man dared refuse to subscribe, 
 
 For his gallantry made it a question 
 That he should not decline such a bribe. 
 
 And a very large sum for the lions 
 Who guarded our gates did we raise, 
 
 For those who were there were the scions 
 Of wealth, who were wedded to place. 
 
 And fast beat the heart of Meridienne, 
 When she came to award us the prize, 
 
 And her tears, like the dew in Floridian 
 Everglades, stood in her eyes. 
 
 Sublimely she stood in her passion, 
 
 Superb, as a sweet sacrifice. 
 With adorable precipitation 
 
 Unclasping clematis and ties. 
 
 In the light of devotion to duty. 
 
 Sweet Moon of the South, how she shone! 
 In the bright apogee of her beauty. 
 
 With her torrent of hair falling down! 
 
 Some tendrils were bent on reclining 
 On the slope of her shoulders' decline; 
 
 Some clung to the ripples defining 
 
 The curves which were still more divine. 
 
 And I know that although she essayed it, 
 
 She failed to confine as before, 
 For the effort to bind it but made it 
 
 A rebellion of beauty the more. 
 
 77 
 
And although all in vain such devotion 
 
 To the cause which is now but a dream, 
 Yet as soon shall the tides of the ocean 
 , Cease to throb, as our hearts at the theme! 
 
 And wherever, through ages, the story 
 Shall be written in annals or rhyme, 
 
 'Twill awaken an echo of glory, 
 
 Thrown back from the headlands of time. 
 Southern Metropolis, Oct. 16, 1869. 
 
 CHRISTINE 
 
 No prude, though wisely wary, 
 
 Christine was purely good, 
 No thought had she to marry. 
 
 Though countless suitors daily sued: 
 Her mission w^as a virgin one — 
 Her mission was to monotone 
 
 The chant of life, in maiden minstrelsy, 
 
 All gentle but untamed, like some sweet 
 devotee. 
 
 Though poets sought her hand 
 
 As zephyrs woo the sea. 
 Though warriors courted, and 
 
 Soft sighed the swains on bended knee, 
 Her words were answers from the moon — 
 Her words like arrows floated down 
 
 From some still region, passionless and cold, 
 
 Tho' wise as were Hypatia's in the schools of 
 old. 
 
 One day the rain had ceased 
 
 To pour with fury down. 
 Though every rill increased 
 
 With headlong current swept the town; 
 78 
 
A rainbow arched the western sky — 
 
 A rainbow flung its crescent high. 
 
 When, like Atlanta, virgin huntress fleet, 
 With kirtle looped, Christine essayed the 
 dripping street. 
 
 She gained a corner near, 
 But durst not venture on, 
 Because in wild career 
 
 The rushing torrent swept the town; 
 Behind her walked, in Southern dress — 
 Behind her stalked in stateliness, 
 
 One of the old chivalric, Southron race, 
 Who seemed to move degrees above 
 The herd in gentle grace. 
 
 She did not ask for aid — 
 
 She did not think of him — 
 And not a word he said. 
 
 But bore her o'er the torrent's brim ! 
 One arm about her slender zone — 
 One arm about her flowing gown, 
 
 As lightly as a great man does a loss, 
 
 He bore his burden, radiant with bloom, 
 across. 
 
 Lightly he set his flower down 
 
 Inviolably — 
 Without a word, walked on. 
 
 Nor stayed for thanks nor courtesy; 
 She watched his cavalier-like grace — 
 She watched him go about his ways. 
 
 Then said — her blue eyes filling up with 
 tears — 
 
 "There is the man I've waited for these 
 many years." 
 
 79 
 
And she is waiting still! 
 
 She never saw him more, 
 Except, despite her will, 
 
 Behind the veil of her boudoir, 
 At night, (dear, darling reverist!) — 
 At night, her brow is fancy-kissed, 
 
 While through the realms of virgin dreams, 
 A manly form, with stalwart arm. 
 Still lifts her over streams! 
 
 Southern Metropolis, Sept. 18, 1869 
 
 MADRIGAL 
 
 Always together! 
 
 Let them be, for it is well — 
 Two doves that hither 
 
 Set them down within this bosky dell — 
 Were always here, together still, 
 Were always near together, till 
 
 About my path one feigned a broken wing. 
 
 And the other brooded through the sweetest 
 days of spring ! 
 
 Always together! nay, 
 
 For worlds disturb them not! 
 Avoid the thither way 
 
 That leads mi to the try sting-spot; 
 I knew two sources side by side — 
 I knew two mountain sources glide 
 
 Always together, till at length one river 
 
 Swept downward through the opening ever- 
 glade for ever! 
 
 Always together! 
 
 Nature looks more wise for these, 
 And I had rather 
 
 80 
 
Hearken them than wise antitheses: 
 From out the fold of Eden's sadness — 
 From out the old Hellenic madness, 
 
 Scripture and Myth, Psyche and Eve, point 
 
 hither — 
 The human Soul and Love should always dwell 
 together. 
 
 MADRIGAL 
 
 And now that all is past, 
 
 My every effort vain. 
 Now that the grief at last 
 
 Is such that I can think again. 
 Tell me, Loved One, why I failed? 
 Tell me, Loved One, why, assailed 
 
 By every art my passion brought to bear. 
 
 Superb, unmoved, immaculately cold you 
 were?" 
 
 ** Was it so hard to love, 
 
 Or I so mean a thing, 
 That I should fail to move 
 
 One tear within your bosom's spring? 
 I do not ask the gods to live — 
 I do not ask the gods to give 
 
 Me beauty, wealth, or thrones; but this my 
 prayer, 
 
 To penetrate your maiden heart and feel 
 from there." 
 
 The maiden's blush now speaks; 
 Love's immemorial omen. 
 The old flush which the Greeks 
 
 Put on their marble, God on woman, 
 Came with a meaning all its own — 
 Came while she said, in trembling tone, 
 81 
 
Or, failing speech, articulately sighed, 
 *' You failed ... it was ... ah me! because 
 You have not longer tried!" 
 
 Southern Metropolis, May 22, 1869. 
 
 MADRIGAL 
 
 In her boudoir, one May, 
 
 In the dawn of married life, 
 At quiet close of day, 
 
 Clarence was reading to his wife: 
 "There ne'er was yet, " the husband read, 
 "There ne'er was yet, " the author said, 
 "The man by Hymen into bonds betrayed. 
 But in the end repented him that he was 
 wed!" 
 
 "Well, I know one!" replied, 
 Sweet-smilingly, the wife; 
 "As we go side by side 
 
 Down through the everglade of life. 
 Not one regret shall ever jar — 
 Not one regret shall ever mar 
 
 The perfect concord of our perfect bliss, 
 Nor one hard thought which we'll not soften 
 with a kiss!" 
 
 "Why, even now," responds 
 
 The husband solemnly, 
 " I do repent the bonds 
 
 Of silk that fetter you and me!" 
 And when the tears of sad surprise — 
 And when the tears rose in her eyes. 
 
 He made them gems, as sunrise makes the 
 
 dew — 
 "I would,' he said, "we were unwed. 
 That I might marry you anew!" 
 
 Southern Metropolis, May 1, 1869. 
 82 
 
EVENING 
 
 I see thee now, dark Evening on the strand, 
 Where Ocean's solemn surges round thee beat; 
 
 About thine instep breaks the golden sand 
 Which, rising, crumbles o'er thy dusky feet. 
 
 I see thee now beneath the twilight's globe. 
 Thy tunic strewn with golden-burning spots; 
 
 Stript from the blind old leopard Night, his robe 
 About thy darkly-rounding shoulders floats. 
 
 I see a single jewel clasp the band 
 
 That binds about thy head brown-waving hair; 
 Its lustre sparkles mildly o'er the land, 
 
 And, steadfast, penetrates the noiseless air. 
 
 I see thy hollow hand o'ershade thy brow. 
 
 Beneath whose smooth convex thy mellow eyes. 
 
 With mournfully regretting lustre, now 
 
 Gaze toward the Sun, who slants the downward 
 skies. 
 
 I see the op'ning gates of sapphire break 
 The cloudy ramparts of the billowy west; 
 
 I see the chariot-horses rear and shake 
 
 Their swift-receding manes about their breast. 
 
 Way yonder through the lane of living fire. 
 
 With showering diamonds flying from their 
 heels. 
 
 The Monarch's coursers speed with swift desire. 
 And farther westward roll his chariot-wheels ! 
 
 His shield was laid, his spear was in its rest. 
 
 His crown made brave young planets droop 
 their eyes; 
 
 83 
 
Thy breast was lifted, Evening, and he kissed 
 The soft, sweet cradle of thy sultry sighs. 
 
 Thy fairer rival, Morning, lies asleep 
 Beneath the shadow of the solid earth; 
 
 And Dew and Honeydew, their ankles deep 
 In early flowers, hand-in-hand go forth. 
 
 Thy fairer rival, Morning, when she hears 
 The Sun, with lilac tints beneath her eyes. 
 
 Shall wake, and joyful start, with bridal tears, 
 And part the crimson curtains of the skies. 
 
 She wakes, and parts the crimson curtains where 
 They hang their early splendors round her 
 couch — 
 
 The royal Bridegroom's breath is on the air. 
 The giddy roses tremble at his touch! 
 
 Thy father, Ocean, calls thee now away. 
 Brown, sober Eve! O slip into his breast! 
 
 Deep-chambered there the crystal fountains play, 
 And cool, pink mosses call thee down to rest ! 
 
 Down where their tones the purple sea-shells give, 
 Through hollow caverns, in old Ocean's breast, 
 
 In thy dark-domed boudoir, O chariest Eve, 
 Compose thy dusky, virgin limbs to rest! 
 
 Southern Metropolis, July, ^^, 1869. 
 
 84 
 
Ill 
 
 BOUDOIR MELODIES 
 
 (Early Poems) 
 
SERENADE 
 
 Garlands! myrtle! young rosebuds! 
 
 And the angels know what more — 
 A pillow more white than foam and suds 
 Out of the Saguinay's shore — 
 Hallow my Love's Boudoir! 
 
 Come forth sweet Evening Star! 
 
 Come forth while I adore ! 
 Come forth while my guitar 
 I touch as never before, 
 Under my Love's Boudoir! 
 
 Spindles ! Girdles ! and toilet joys, 
 
 And the angels know what more — 
 Inflorescent, dimity toys, 
 
 And the moonshine on the floor — 
 Hcillow my Love's Boudoir! 
 
 Come forth sweet Evening Star! 
 
 Come forth, while I adore! 
 Come forth while my guitar 
 I touch as never before, 
 Under my Love's Boudoir ! 
 
 ST. ANNE'S, BOUT DE L'ISLE 
 
 x\t St. Anne 's, Bout de I'lsle, I knew a sweet maid, 
 A fair Habitante, of exquisite mould ; 
 
 She laughed like the rapids, and walked like the 
 shade 
 Of an Indian queen in some forest of old — 
 Of an Indian queen in her forest of old ! 
 
 And rowing our shallop, o'er shallow and chute, 
 
 As the lilies were lulled by the Ottowa's song. 
 With her theeing and thouing, more soft than a 
 lute, 
 
 87 
 
She lulled me to rest with her sweet nativ 
 
 tongue — 
 She lulled me to rest with her sweet native 
 
 tongue ! 
 
 O ! bring me that vision again, Destiny ! 
 
 Lead me back to the cape where the ripples are 
 curled ; 
 
 My shallop of life anchored there, and for me 
 Let the End of the Isle be the end of the world — 
 Let the End of the Isle be the end of the world ! 
 
 THE BELLE OF THE DAIRY FARM 
 
 Her brow is like the whitest drop 
 
 Of early virgin snow 
 That crowns the highest mountain top 
 
 Beside the Richelieu's flow : 
 Her breasts are like two stately ships 
 
 That, floating side by side, 
 Rise up and fall where softly dips 
 The gentle Chambly 's tide : 
 
 With the wide chapeau upon her head, 
 
 And the milk pail on her arm. 
 At early dawn she trips the mead. 
 The Belle of the dairy farm ! 
 
 The soldiers dressed in garish red, 
 Oft lift their caps and stare — 
 She only smiles — the darling maid — 
 
 As they yield the path to her : 
 But under the cross where the Tamarack blows 
 
 His fragrance o'er the dell, 
 She often sits till twilight's close. 
 With the swain who loves her well : 
 With the wide chapeau upon her head, 
 A-leaning upon his arm, 
 88 
 
At purple eve, she trips the mead, 
 The Belle of the dairy farm ! 
 
 CANADIAN SONG 
 
 In fancy I see on a darling old coast, 
 
 A cot — a low cot — on Burlington Bay, 
 Where anchored at eve, my shallop was tossed, 
 
 Hard by where a trunk of sycamore lay; 
 Here Leda and I sat under the moon. 
 And sang to a sweet Canadian tune : 
 'Lo, threading thy mazes. 
 
 Sweet moon list here, 
 We're singing thy praises, 
 Give ear! Give ear!' 
 
 The Frost King descended, and winter was raw 
 Icicles hung from the straw-thatched beam: 
 'My Leda's a crystal,' I said; 'Withdraw 
 
 The straws from her soul, and you shatter the 
 gem!' 
 But still to the moon — the low-hung moon — 
 We sang to a soft Canadian tune : 
 'Lo, threading thy mazes, 
 
 Sweet moon list here ! 
 
 We're singing thy praises, 
 
 Give ear! Give ear!' 
 
 And when the Spring came, pouring over the West 
 
 Its currents of rippling and odorous air. 
 As rocked the white shallop, with gentle unrest. 
 
 So rocked the fair lilies entwining her hair. 
 While still to the moon — ^the low-hung moon — 
 We sang to a soft Canadian tune: 
 'Lo, threading thy mazes, 
 
 Sweet moon list here. 
 We're singing thy praises. 
 Give ear! Give ear!' 
 
 Southern Metropolis, 1869. 
 89 
 
THE TWINS— A FRAGMENT 
 
 From whence its golden hinges swing 
 
 To upward heaven's gate, 
 Two sentry angels said: 'Let's sing 
 
 To earth a sweet duette! 
 Now from our watch, we'll sing a snatch 
 
 Of song — a sweet duette!' 
 
 God hearing, said : this Song shall live ! 
 
 I'll touch it with my breath ; 
 In sweet accord this Strain I'll give 
 
 A fashion which no death 
 Shall ever mar, for it shall wear 
 
 Immortally as faith! 
 
 BALLAD OF THE DAWN 
 
 'Twas not when stars unfold 
 
 Their version of the world; 
 Nor when the day just told 
 
 Brings on the twilight dew impearled — 
 'Twas Dawn! with insects querrulous, 
 'Twas Dawn! when birds are garrulous. 
 
 And men are full of passion and of power, 
 
 And woman tender as the opening flower. 
 
 It matters not what chance, 
 
 (Which, preordained, is law), 
 Had led to the same haunts 
 
 Rudolph and Helena; in awe 
 Of the full glories of the day. 
 Of the full glories of the May, 
 
 Which mockingbird and thrush made musical. 
 
 While pewee, wren and lark held mass matuti- 
 nal. 
 
 90 
 
Into the garden they 
 
 By different gates had gone, 
 To see the fruits of May, 
 
 And if the almond-buds were on ; 
 She brushed the dew from tuHp heads. 
 She brushed the dew from violet beds — 
 
 Then Morning cried — T'll clasp their hands 
 
 If thou, O King of Day, wilt forge the marriage 
 bands!' 
 
 'Twas then they loved. 'Twas well — 
 Earth has no richer good. 
 
 Each soul has lapse and swell 
 
 Far greater than the ocean's flood! 
 
 And like two waves from o'er the main — 
 
 And as two waves ne'er part again. 
 
 These two young souls were merged in one. 
 All nature for an altar, and for a priest the Sun : 
 Aurora gave the Bride away, and Helena was 
 won! 
 
 FLORETTE, THE FLOWER GIRL 
 
 Dost thou remember, dear Florette, 
 When first I met thee, Sweet, hardby 
 
 The Arno, near Maria's gate, 
 
 A-singing — 'Flowers! who will buy!' 
 
 T will,' I cried, 'my rare Coquette! 
 
 And pluck them from thy lips in sooth! 
 No bud hast thou nor flow'ret yet, 
 
 That pouts in fragrance, like thy mouth!' 
 
 'A sou to me' — thou saidst — ' Monsieur, 
 And one to Mary for the poor. 
 
 And thou shalt have a kiss from her — 
 The Virgin in yon temple-door!' 
 91 
 
Coquette! how at this wit well posed, 
 The mellow-fruited olive hue 
 
 Of thy Italian cheeks out-rosed 
 
 The roses which thou held'st to view ! 
 
 And thy dark lashes drooped a wing 
 Like dusky night on ruby eves. 
 
 Dear Waif ! what gust of early Spring 
 Had blown thine arms so full of leaves? 
 
 'The Author of thy flowers' I cried, 
 ' Involve thy spirit in their mesh — 
 
 Keep thee in floral girlish pride, 
 
 And them in virgin fragrance fresh !' 
 
 SERENADE 
 
 I 
 
 Soft as the lilac dyes 
 Tinting beneath thine eyes 
 
 In purple rings. 
 Tender-sweet, mateless Dove, 
 Be thy pure dreams, my Love, 
 
 Of sweetest things ! 
 
 II 
 
 Bold as a fay or elf. 
 Peer into Heaven itself. 
 
 In maiden vision, 
 Until in ecstacy, 
 The Angels impart to thee 
 
 Rapture elysian ! 
 
 HI 
 
 Dream of the virgin prest 
 On the hoar Psalmist's breast, 
 92 
 
Think thou art she ! 
 A rose on a bank of snow — 
 A vestal flame all aglow 
 
 With purity! 
 
 IV 
 
 Lonely and virgin still, 
 People the world at will — 
 
 Each wish a soul I 
 All a bride's joy be thine ! 
 Drink of the pleasant wine 
 
 In fancy's boll! 
 
 Soft are the lilac dyes 
 Tinting beneath thine eyes 
 
 In purple rings! 
 Tender-sweet, mateless Dove, 
 Be thy pure dreams, my Love, 
 
 Of sweetest things! 
 
 CANTICLE 
 
 I dreamt the Moon had ploughed her lane 
 
 Precipitous ; 
 She seemed to rise and fall again 
 
 Like Sisyphus. 
 
 O Moon! I cried, confide in me! 
 
 I too am borne 
 Loose-winged upon the azure sea, 
 
 Near to thy horn! 
 
 Then on the horn that seemed to lie 
 
 Next to the Sun, 
 A form appeared, more fair than eye 
 
 E'er gazed upon. 
 93 
 
The quiver half-slipt off their pearl, 
 Her shoulders gleamed; 
 
 In langour every golden curl 
 Disheveled streamed. 
 
 Her lips were crimson as the red 
 
 Cinnabarine; 
 The charms her arching neck displayed 
 
 Gleam argentine. 
 
 She laid her limbs along the horn 
 
 Most languidly, 
 Like some surpassing Grace, freshborn 
 
 Of Purity. 
 
 Ah ! me, she sighed, the Spring is young, 
 
 The Latmian Sea 
 More softly woos the rocks along 
 
 The Carian lea! 
 
 Has anyone seen Selene's love, 
 
 Endymion.f* 
 Go tell him I will swifter move — 
 
 Yes, I will on. 
 
 Aye, tell him I grow faint and wane 
 
 Before my time; 
 The tides updrawn flow back again 
 
 Before their prime. 
 
 And tell him I am sick of love ! 
 
 Away, away! 
 Through zodiacal lights I move — 
 
 I may not stay ! 
 
 Has any seen my love — does he 
 Lie on the moss 
 
That's cinctured by the Latmian Sea — 
 The flowers and moss? 
 
 Tell him to draw the trellis close 
 
 Around our bower; 
 Bid him prepare our couch where grows 
 
 The Passion-flower. 
 
 Part there, ye clouds! make way, ye clouds! 
 
 Onward I fly ! 
 Through me, the mellow Spring infloods 
 
 All souls with joy! 
 
 Ye youths, and maidens, marry, and I 
 
 Will give you leave ! 
 I'll lay my horn athwart the sky 
 
 Each dewy eve. 
 
 I'll rest upon the April sky 
 
 Like beads on wine; 
 A silver pledge of purity. 
 
 All night I'll shine, 
 Voluptuously bright. 
 And lay me on the night 
 
 Like bead on w4ne 
 I'll lay me on the sparkling night, 
 
 Like bead on sparkling wine. 
 
 Southern Metropolis, 1869. 
 
 ELEANOR OF GUIENNE 
 
 In the olden midnight age, 
 
 When Urban's anathem 
 Was thundered, in his rage 
 
 'Gainst Islam in Jerusalem, 
 Queen Eleanor (cro^Tied in the fair 
 Guienne), was led by Lewis there; 
 95 
 
This Guienne Queen forsook her lord and duty 
 To love a Turkish youth of most transcendent 
 beauty, 
 
 Who, not in vain, her love to gain, 
 
 Poured out his Eastern strain. 
 
 *0 ! Eleanor of Guienne ! 
 
 Fair Queen of the distant West ! 
 
 I know that no woman can gain 
 The reward of the Faithfully Blest, 
 In the realm of voluptuous rest ! 
 
 'But without thee, the vale paradisean 
 Should tempt thy Mostali in vain 
 
 For Heaven itself as a vision 
 
 Would set like a star o'er the main 
 My beautiful Queen of Guienne! 
 
 *There are lakes of celestial repletion, 
 Where the water on crysolite shoals ; 
 
 There are volcanic gulfs of perdition. 
 Where the current eternally rolls. 
 In a tide of most desolate souls ! 
 
 'There are gardens whose joy beyond measure 
 The roses of Paradise fold 
 
 In perpetually virginal pleasure, 
 Where youths of ethereal mould 
 Bring goblets of beryl and gold ! 
 
 'But with thee, the Gulf of Perdition 
 Were sweet as the springs of Yemen ! 
 
 And I vow that the vale paradisean. 
 Without thee, should tempt me in vain, 
 
 For Heaven itself as a vision, 
 
 Would sink like an Isle in the main, 
 My beautiful, beautiful Queen of Guienne !' 
 P6 
 
BEAUTIFUL DREAMER 
 
 Now while the day grows dimmer. 
 From thy boudoir thou leanest still. 
 In soft abandonment of will. 
 
 Beautiful, beautiful Dreamer! 
 
 Look, Maiden, look. 
 Into the far dim future gaze. 
 Thy sweet and full harmonious face 
 
 An open music-book. 
 
 Oh! could I find 
 The art to strike the spirit keys 
 And pour a flood of reveries 
 
 Out on the wind ! 
 
 Thou wilt no words.'' 
 Dear, silent Improvisatrice. 
 Thy thoughts take flight., mute melodies, 
 
 Like songless birds ! 
 
 And yet we know 
 Beneath the shield of those sweet hives, 
 In a cell within a cell, survives 
 
 A busy beating heart : 
 
 Moist, rosy palm, 
 Redseam^d like the maple's leaf. 
 And sculptured nails in bas-relief. 
 
 Pink as its stem — 
 
 Her chin bear up ! 
 Press dimples back upon her mouth 
 Like the sw^eet magnolia of the South, 
 
 Within its velvet cup: 
 97 
 
And dreamy eye, 
 Deep, languishingly deep. Erect 
 With Fancy's wand, blue Architect! 
 
 PaviUons in the sky! 
 
 Dear, darling Reverist, 
 Strive on, with causeless tears, to reach 
 The mysteries Nature has to teach 
 
 Thy lips by Fancy kissed ! 
 
 Dutiful, dutiful Dreamer, 
 Dream purely, till in union sweet. 
 The woman and the angel meet — 
 
 Beautiful, beautiful Dreamer! 
 
 98 
 
IV 
 
 ST. AGNES OF GUIENNE 
 
 and 
 Early Narrative Poems 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 To 
 
 JAMES FAIRFAX MCLAUGHLIN, ESQ, 
 
 Orator, scholar, and classic, whose eloquent 
 tongue and facile pen have so richly illustrated 
 the chronicles and legends of his Church, this 
 second edition of an early poem is affectionately 
 inscribed by his friend, 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
ST. AGNES OF GUIENNE 
 
 It chanced one season when the lush young vines 
 Were yielding purple globules to the touch 
 
 Of rural maidens, mellow as the wines 
 
 Of Ischia, rosy, sparkling, troubling much 
 
 The heart of man, that, as the custom went, 
 
 The Guienne \'intage closed in merriment. 
 
 The viol, (old Cremona's fashion) sings 
 Sweet as the birds of Southern everglades; 
 
 But sweeter still the rustic laughter rings 
 
 Through ranks of beauty, under olive shades. 
 
 Where glancing ankles sparkle in the whirls 
 
 Of dance, like jewels in a maiden's curls. 
 
 As some old skiff that hath not known an oar 
 So long the moss grows on the slimy keel. 
 
 Struck by a sudden wave from almost o'er 
 The sea, obeys the impulse, and with reel 
 
 And lurch, strains at the mooring chain — 
 
 Struck by a wave from almost o'er the main — 
 
 So some old dames, by sudden impulse moved. 
 Retrace their early youth and beauty's prime, 
 
 Break in the dance with humor unreproved. 
 But soon exhausted, yield the floor to time, 
 
 And to their daughters, as the winter's snows 
 
 To sunshine's joyance at hoar March's close : 
 
 And on the borders of the ring there stand 
 
 Grandfathers gray, (old venerable vines!) 
 And priests, and crowned Ganymedes who hand 
 The goblets flush with purest-strained new 
 vines, 
 While deep embossed in shade, glide lovers who. 
 All imperceived, would fain steal out of view. 
 101 
 
The dance being o'er, it was not strange, in sooth, 
 
 A slender form, round-ripe withal, was seen 
 Bending — soft-bending — towards a comely youth, 
 Who led her homeward through the clover 
 green : 
 Two neighbors these; a sweet, French maid, Her- 
 
 mine; 
 The other Claude, a youth with manly mien. 
 
 Her voice was the sweet principle of oil; 
 
 Within her eyes, pure-gushing founts whence 
 flowed 
 In crystal current fluid light and soul. 
 
 Young Love, in fairy barks of myrtle, rode 
 At ease, or flashed the spray from gleaming oar, 
 Which drove the ripples to their dark-fringed 
 
 shore. 
 
 And sweet, imperious Eighteen, the time 
 When Nature hurries every rosy charm 
 
 Into the full-flushed glory of its prime, 
 Had burgeoned into blossom all her form : 
 
 She wept at times, then chided her own fears . . . 
 
 A simple bird's-nest troubled her to tears ! 
 
 That night Claude slept beneath her father's roof — 
 Alone, his chamber next the sky, apart; 
 
 Gay music still was in his ears, the woof 
 Of silver-threaded fancies spun his heart, 
 
 Inspired by many a goblet's rosy deep. 
 
 And far too fondly steeped in love for sleep. 
 
 How strange, inconsequential, are our dreams ! 
 One would have thought that genially would 
 flow 
 Like gentle currents of meandering streams. 
 His visions, flush with April joy — but no ! 
 102 
 
He dreamt a hurricane, a rudest breath 
 
 Of monsoon, threatened all with instant death! 
 
 It did exalt the rafters, and in spleen, 
 
 With whirlwind force, the thatched straw flung 
 high. 
 And yet, up through the roof, he thought, were 
 seen 
 The stars and moon unclouded in the sky: 
 (Awake, asleep, such are our dreams through life — 
 Strange contradictions, mingling peace and strife !) 
 
 He thought, warned by the crash that threatened 
 sore. 
 
 Deeming the house must fall, he rose and traced 
 The shaken wall; and walked the trembling floor, 
 
 To find some portal of escape, with haste 
 Improved by fear, but with such tangled weight 
 As dreams aye hang upon the sleeper's gait. 
 
 Now, sitting in her own boudoir- window. 
 With nimble fingers sewing on a new 
 
 Garment of subtile texture, white as snow. 
 But flowered with nosegays, violet and blue, 
 
 Hermine, also, had racked her golden head 
 
 With dark forebodings of a nameless dread. 
 
 It chanced, too, she bethought her much as would 
 Become a maid, upon her lover's fault 
 
 Of walking in his sleep, and by what mode 
 His mother told he should be made to halt — 
 
 By wordless handing of some object o'er, 
 
 Receiving which, he would return, and walk no 
 more. 
 
 Thus wrapping him about with sweetest fold 
 And tissue of her pretty maiden fears, 
 103 
 
That which just now her phantasy foretold 
 
 As fiction, dread reaUty appears — 
 For on the roof, anent her eastern Ught, 
 She hears a footstep, on the arching height ! 
 
 Her pulse grows still with fear, her beating heart 
 Forbids her listening by its own impact — 
 
 But Love, a weird magician, with his art, 
 
 Supplies the strength her nature else had lacked; 
 
 Raising the sash, sustained by Love's command, 
 
 She thrusts the garment in her lover's hand ! 
 
 A sudden change enveloped all Claude's dreams, 
 As well there might ... he thought the 
 storm gave up 
 
 Its restless spirit; and with chastened beams, 
 A new-born planet, bursting through the cope, 
 
 Waved satellites at him — diviner things 
 
 Than new-young moons, or Saturn's golden rings ! 
 
 Then through a fissure in the sky it leaped — 
 A touch but burned his eager grasp and glowed 
 
 While all its vesture from its shoulder slipt. 
 He seizing, was divine — a mantled god! 
 
 But yet the light was gone — the storm seemed 
 o'er. 
 
 And back to his couch, (as he was wont), he bore. 
 
 He dreamed, and seemed to know it was a dream — 
 And thought it nothing strange this maid, or 
 star. 
 
 Should interchange its being — sometimes seem 
 Hermine, Hermine at times a heavenly sphere: 
 
 Sometimes his joy blushed at itself; then all 
 
 Was poetry — fruition of the soul ! 
 
 He wished to dream for aye ; but dreams of bliss 
 104 
 
Are swifter-pinioned than the tufted grouse: 
 A little noise — a whir — a gleam, or less — 
 
 A glancing plume through sombre shade . 
 arouse, 
 Arouse, thou sleeper! for thy dream hath power 
 To haimt a life, but not to stay an hour! 
 
 And O ! the mystery of his wakened thought ! 
 
 There was the robe, and on it worked "Her- 
 mine, " 
 Frilled at the top, in front, at bottom wrought 
 
 With careful, scolloped hems, and stitches thin — 
 To Claude a mystic leaf all sybil-wove, 
 By happy winds waft from what nymphic grove? 
 
 From out this labyrinth no thread gave vent. 
 And ere one thought was hatched another shook 
 
 The shell of incubating wonderment — 
 
 The flight one doubt eschewed, another took. 
 
 Grieved at his fate, (that he had lost a star), 
 
 Claude claimed and kept the robe it seemed to 
 wear. 
 
 Next morn Hermine was sick, her mother said, 
 Because she trode unwisely all the sets 
 
 And measures of the dance upon the mead, 
 And paid the cost of pleasure in regrets. 
 
 Claude saw her not, but pondered more the white, 
 
 Enfolded meaning of the robe-of -night. 
 
 Ah, well! in such a jealous world as this 
 
 Love can not thrive : within his bowser the spies 
 
 Who guard but to betray his dream of bliss, 
 Are legion, and the stars themselves have eyes ! 
 
 A rustic moving on his path along 
 
 Had seen what, understood, were nothing wrong. 
 105 
 
Upon his neighbor's terrace, dressed in white, 
 Two forms — or ghosts, or flesh — that night had 
 seen, 
 
 Which were so loving close that not the light 
 Of any star could be discern between : 
 
 But by the crescent of the Moon that shone, 
 
 He would be sworn one was Claude's father's son. 
 
 In vain the struggle of young Innocence 
 Against the current of unjust surmise ! 
 
 Suspicion's tide, by hint and inference, 
 
 Grew like a mountain-source from pouring 
 skies. 
 
 Until the stream, quite overbore Hermine . . • 
 
 Sweet witch to float in such a sea of sin I 
 
 A parent, too, the rustic was, and felt 
 
 A touch of interested duty moved 
 To tell the father of Hermine her guilt, 
 
 And vouch the story which his eyes had proved, 
 So straight, unsparingly a tale impressed, 
 Which stirred a tempest in the father's breast. 
 
 For Hermine's father^ from his youth to prime, 
 Had borne his portion in Italian wars; 
 
 The fire of glory burned beneath the rime 
 
 Of age, and courage vouched him by his scars; 
 
 He grasped anew his weapon in his ire. 
 
 And swore the vengeance of an outraged sire. 
 
 Poor Fawn ! what could she say ? Is it not true 
 All that the conscientious neighbor speaks? 
 
 Can she face down the simple truth, or mew 
 The tell-tale blushes of her crimson cheeks? 
 
 Can she divert suspicion from her fame, 
 
 And swear no lover to her chamber came? 
 
 106 
 
Alas, the woven thread of circumstance 
 
 Was destined to a still more tight 'ning woof; 
 
 For while Claude slept one morn, a casual chance 
 Drew there his mother, and she saw the proof 
 
 Beneath his pillowy of the maiden's sin — 
 
 A robe embroidered with her name: "Hermine!" 
 
 *Tis sad — 'tis very sad to think upon, 
 That Fate should drive two blameless souls 
 apart ; 
 
 But, whate'er else is new beneath the sun. 
 The record of a broken human heart 
 
 Repeats itself, from age to age — sung o'er 
 
 From Euridyce dow^n to lost Lenore ! 
 
 With cruel hand the age's sophistry 
 
 Pointed all sorrowing maids to convent-gates, 
 Whose hinges turned like ports of destiny. 
 
 Closing behind them and their loves and hates. 
 With solemn vastness, mausolean gloom. 
 For sorrow simple death, for sin a tomb. 
 
 And gliding hither, Hermine pledged her will, 
 To leave behind, her name, her heart, her 
 troth — 
 (Go to ! for God was over-ruling still — 
 
 A maiden's prayer out-w^eighs a giant's oath!) 
 One morn a voice relaxed the abbey-door 
 Saint Agnes built, and Hermine was no more. 
 ****** 
 
 There rose, with turrets questioning the air, 
 This abbey of our Mother of the Snow, 
 
 Built by a Franco-Spanish maiden fair. 
 With Gothic courts and oblong portico. 
 
 And just a dash of Moresque fantasies. 
 
 The legend of whose origin was this : 
 107 
 
Rich in that poverty the world calls wealth — 
 More rich in every jewel of the soul — 
 
 Rich in sweet grace of maidenhood and health, 
 In noble rank, in virtue more than all, 
 
 Fair Agnes dwelt upon the broad Garonne, 
 
 Within an antique castle of her own. 
 
 Being won by art gallant, she loved a knight 
 Less honored than the king, but only less; 
 
 The pride of courtly circles, and delight 
 Of women, for his high-born gentleness — 
 
 She loved him with a famished love, though 
 strong. 
 
 Doting as angels dote upon the young. 
 
 This knight engirdled with his wooing arm. 
 Pure as Diana's moon-lit belt, her zone, 
 
 And tasted from her mouth the budding charm 
 No manly lips had touched before his own: 
 
 But in the end — alas, for honor's school ! 
 
 Betrayed her woman's love and trusting soul! 
 
 Deserted, broken-hearted, paler than 
 The veil of mists that over glaciers rise, 
 
 Young Agnes wept, and her sweet sorrow ran, 
 Washing the starry pupils of her eyes 
 
 With ceaseless tears, till, pitying her grief, 
 
 The Virgin bore upon her wings relief. 
 
 Maria came, crowned with the glorious Sun, 
 Treading upon the Moon, whose silver horn, 
 
 'Lumed from herself above, was pointing down 
 To where fair Agnes slept and rivalled morn 
 
 In sweet perfection of transcendent grace — 
 
 Her curls, like mists, encircling her face. 
 
 *Fair maid,' the Virgin said, * thy prayers are heard; 
 108 
 
And I, Mother of Mercy and of Grief, 
 With knowledge of the founts of pity stirred 
 
 In the Eternal Heart, will find relief. 
 Daughter, for thee, and teach thee what behest 
 Fulfilled, shall bring to thee the balm of rest : 
 
 *When in the morn thou wakest, look abroad, 
 And where thou seest first a flake of snow. 
 
 Take thou thy w^ealth and institute to God 
 
 A Convent, where, as Brides of Christ, may go 
 
 Young maids, who, like thyself, shall dearly prove 
 
 The anguish, folly-born, of earthly love.' 
 
 Thus spake the Virgin Mother, and although 
 September's Equinox in even scale, 
 
 Held out the night and day, a flake of snow, 
 When she had walked abroad across the vale. 
 
 Upon a high-majestic hill, she found. 
 
 Crowning green grass as em'rald waves are 
 crowned. 
 
 Here on the margin of a glassy Bay, 
 
 Fair Agnes built, with Gothic taste and skill, 
 
 A virgins' claustral home, w^here she and they. 
 Elect of Christ, and tempered to His will, 
 
 Clothed on with charity, relieved and blest 
 
 The poor, and gave themselves to God and rest. 
 
 'Twas chiefly at her own desire, Hermine, 
 A gentle Novice, sought this sisterhood; 
 
 Her beauty veiled, her love concealed within 
 These sacred walls, which still a trophy stood 
 
 Unshook, through centuries elapsed, to show 
 
 The mercy of our Mother of the Snow. 
 
 Yet, Hermine's earthly love pulled at her zone 
 109 
 
Like starving infants at a mother's breast; 
 And oft, like Elo'ise, before the stone 
 
 Of giant altars, where her vows were prest, 
 A flash of memory touched her thoughts to fire, 
 And filled her soul with a renewed desire. 
 
 A staid, sweet sadness settled on her brow — 
 The dreamy depth of her blue eyes increased — 
 
 Her clear, fresh mountain-rill of laughter now 
 Lay motionless within her virgin breast; 
 
 At noons, when all the courts her sisters filled. 
 
 She stood apart and watched a swallow build. 
 
 Mourn on ! thou darling mateless dove, mourn on ! 
 
 Mourn matelessly, sad, silent turtle-dove! 
 Mourn on in claustral sadness, and alone! 
 
 Thy heart, though still the throne of human 
 love. 
 Is known of God, and He (but only He !) 
 Is greater than a woman's sympathy ! 
 
 Mourn, thou — sweet turtle, mourn! no nuptial 
 moon 
 Shall measure bliss unbounded through her 
 flight 
 For thee; nor bound with silver joy, lay on 
 The sky her horn upon thy bridal night ! 
 No orange-blossoms, white as early snow, 
 Shall young companions garnish round thy brow! 
 
 And Claude.? Ah, well ! 'twas his no less to mourn. 
 
 Out through the thick blue curtain of despair, 
 His waning eyes gazed wistfully and lorn. 
 
 As toward the offing, peering into where 
 The Dark, full-misting rides upon the gale. 
 The shipwrecked sailor gazes for a sail. 
 110 
 
And often through the calm and solemn night, 
 Rounding some cape, or steering 'twixt two 
 isles, 
 
 His eager eye swept toward the Convent light; 
 And letting go the oars in dream the while, 
 
 He floated purposeless, with hands conjoined. 
 
 His rod relaxed, his bait by fish purloined. 
 
 The Autumn trode upon the Winter's skirt; 
 
 The Winter lined with frost the robe of Spring; 
 Sweet May, her head with violets engirt, — 
 
 Filled Nature's lap with vernal blossoming. 
 While higher rose the tide of sea-like love, 
 Till breeding flocks and mating shepherds throve. 
 
 One eve, a quiet clothed the water's breast ; 
 
 In stillness slept the mellow-breathing air; 
 A flame of gold burned through the couchant West ; 
 
 In the dark aisles had died the vesper prayer : 
 The sun came dropping like a gymnast by 
 His arms (as 'twere) from cloudy bars on high. 
 
 The mists had hung their ruddy films upon 
 
 The coast at morn, and would not up, nor off; 
 
 Yet rolled the Basin's waters smoothly on — 
 A shallop's sail could scarce find breeze enough; 
 
 The fishers toward the oflSng of the sea 
 
 Gazed, auguring a storm, and hugged the lea. 
 
 One hardy gondolier had ventured where 
 
 The Basin, broadened, merges in the Bay : 
 *'Mal Bay," the sailors christen it, in fear, 
 
 Because what time the treacherous waters lay 
 Most smooth, without a word, they swell and 
 
 surge 
 Like waves which totter on the ocean's verge. 
 Ill 
 
This shallop Claude's: above it, toward the sky, 
 And dominating far and wide the plane, 
 
 A cliff reared up his craggy head on high. 
 
 And flung his shadow 'thwart the level main, 
 
 Like some gigantic, dark-edged style, elate 
 
 Above a burnished silver dial-plate. 
 
 A white-winged dove, Claude's shallop sits, asleep ! 
 
 The troop of vulture Winds, upon the crest, 
 The signal given, plunge down on the deep. 
 
 And plane the waters smooth upon his breast. 
 For leagues around, with sudden-rising roar. 
 Startling the birds that scream along the shore ! 
 
 Resentful of this onslaught from the West, 
 Quick flung the Bay his mad defiance back; 
 
 With deep, hoarse murmurs from his solemn chest, 
 Upheaved his mane, and thundered on his 
 track; 
 
 Lashing himself to silver-fretted froth. 
 
 Majestic as the Heavens in his wrath. 
 
 Tall firs bent o'er the beetling crags their plumes, 
 And down and twigs went drifting through the 
 air 
 
 In mad career of whirling dance and glooms 
 Deep-settled, like the shadows of despair — 
 
 Claude's bark, a jockey, dressed in scarlet, still 
 
 Rode Neptune's horses with equestrian skill. 
 
 Born on the brim of waters, and with storm 
 Familiar as a child to nurse's mood. 
 
 He summoned to his aid, without alarm, 
 What forces of security he could — 
 
 Drew in his sails, flung out his too much weight, 
 
 And faced with blanchless brow the storm and fate. 
 112 
 
Sometimes he scudded like an arrow cast 
 Athwart the bosom of the hoary sea; 
 
 Sometimes he ckmg upon a billow fast, 
 Whither his tiny vessel seemed to be 
 
 Poised on the point, revolving as it were 
 
 A plate upon a necromancer's spear. 
 
 With lusty stroke Claude rowed, and not in vain. 
 On toward the Convent light, which like a star 
 
 Or burning pharos lit the boisterous main, 
 To guide our mariner across the bar 
 
 Into the Basin's far more stiller close, 
 
 Where sheltering coasts and shoals would inter- 
 pose. 
 
 With lusty stroke he battled, till apace 
 
 With brooding wings more sober night drew on : 
 
 The hidden stars peered out upon the face 
 
 Of heaven, through cloud-rifts peering one by 
 one. 
 
 Like frightened quails who leave the sedge to see 
 
 The fowler gone; then call for company. 
 
 And Dian shook her silver sceptre high 
 Above the wave, and o'er the continent. 
 
 Flinging the clouds like fillets through the sky, 
 Athwart the fields of azure firmament; 
 
 While Claude, reclining on his tired oar. 
 
 Less steered than drifted toward the quiet shore. 
 
 Into a curve of grayish coast exposed 
 To the full Moon, above the willow-tops, 
 
 W^here loving languor motionless reposed. 
 As on the marge the lily's golden cups. 
 
 Now faint, his contest with the bay well o'er, 
 
 Claude drew his bark upon the quiet shore. 
 113 
 
Not distant lay, by willows hid from sight, 
 An Inlet from the Bay or Basin yclept 
 
 The 'Bath of Saints,' because herein, at night, 
 In shadow of the Convent wall were dipt, 
 
 Immaculately kissed by saintly airs, 
 
 Fair models for the plastic summer stars ! 
 
 Here often Postulante and Neophyte 
 
 Unveiled their beauty to the curious Moon; 
 
 Deep-shrouded in the mystery of night. 
 
 And, with their virgin pureness clothed upon, 
 
 Gladdened the waters with angelic grace. 
 
 Till outer waves fought those within for place. 
 
 Here oft they dash the waves in mutual sport. 
 With rival speed some outer point to gain. 
 
 Or strive to see who first shall make the port. 
 Back swimming, leaward from the main; 
 
 Now their fair heads and shoulders rising, show, 
 
 Now in the laughing water dive below. 
 
 And hither oft soft-sighing southern airs 
 AVould leave the jealous lilies motionless 
 
 To follow Hermine, whiter than the stars, 
 Her beauty shrouded in a clinging dress, 
 
 (O! mystery divine in purity!) 
 
 From silver shoulder down to ivory knee. 
 
 Water for her was welcome as the sky ! 
 
 A child, she threw herself upon the Bay, 
 As do young sea-birds ere they learn to fly. 
 
 To swim by impulse natural as they — 
 As fluttering their wings they scatter oft 
 The spray, she threw her pearly hands aloft. 
 
 Her bosom rivaling the foam in snow, 
 
 Her smooth arms buffeting the am'rous streams, 
 114 
 
She seemed to thread the basin's silver flow, 
 
 As a young spirit threads the course of dreams — 
 (Poetic dreams, which silvery spirits throng 
 On diamond feet, to wake the nerves of song !) 
 
 Into a curve of grayish shore outside 
 
 This Bath of Saints, by accident, Claude rowed; 
 
 And drew his bark, whose Rhenish keel had tried 
 The Basin's fury, and the storm outrode, 
 
 Upon the beach; and blessed the solid strand, 
 
 As exiles just returned, their native land. 
 
 His feet scarce touched the beach, till fervently, 
 His eyes still fixed upon her Convent light. 
 
 He thanked the Snowy Mother, for that she 
 Had saved him from the terrors of the night : 
 
 'Mater Nivalis! henigne! ave! 
 
 Star-eyed! to save men from the hungry Sea!' 
 
 Thus he : was it the plaintive winds' w eird voice 
 Sighing through treillage of the muscadine. 
 
 Alone, gave out such melancholy noise. 
 
 Low-breathing through the clusters of the vine? 
 
 Or is it a human soul that grieves, 
 
 I>ow-breathing through the vines and willow- 
 leaves? 
 
 He listened in a strange suspense of will — 
 He doubted 'twas his fancy overwrought ; 
 
 But so distinct a sigh of pain gave still 
 Its stationary voice from out one spot, 
 
 That, prompt to alleviate distress, he rose 
 
 To seek the source of such complaining woes. 
 
 Upon the sand that fringed the glassy bay, 
 
 And overshaded by a willow tree, 
 Upon a spot clear as the sky, there lay — 
 115 
 
No grass or other flower but she — 
 A maiden's form that melted might have been 
 Poured in her bathing robe of spotless sheen. 
 
 And all her beauty flourished at one glance 
 
 Upon his stricken and poetic eye; 
 "This is," said he, *'a pleasant dream, perchance 
 
 From Earth the transit to Eternity, 
 And yonder form Elysium impearled — 
 The ivory model of our future world! " 
 
 What though the old and knightly age was o'er! 
 
 Still lived the spirit of true manliness; 
 Still Beauty guerdoned Courage, as of yore, 
 
 And Courage died for Beauty in distress . . . 
 Perplexed at first, Claude was not long delayed — 
 Here was a woman who had need of aid ! 
 
 As loyal as the virtuous Bethlamite, 
 
 Who spread his skirt adown the tap'ring limbs 
 Of the sweet daughter of the Moabite, 
 
 To veil her beauty from the rash moonbeams, 
 Which slanting cross the lintel, through the door 
 Beat in a shower on the threshing-floor; 
 
 So Claude, without one thought too large that 
 could 
 
 Have shamed ascetic hermitage of yore. 
 Spread over her but half-masked maidenhood 
 
 The gray capote, or fisher's cloak, he wore. 
 And shielding thus, he raised her drooping head. 
 And spanned her wrists to find if she were dead. 
 
 The current of her life beat slow and light — 
 Her breathing bore its balm as does a spray 
 
 Of spicewood in the still Sumatran night. 
 Or Spanish-palms in slumb'rous Balize day: 
 116 
 
'Agnes' said Claude, 'it must be she is thine! 
 And I will bear her back unto thy shrine. 
 
 Dear lily, whate'er wind hath blown thee here, 
 From out yon vestal garden of the Saints — 
 
 If evil thought, mad hope, or mishap mere — 
 It is my duty to restore thee hence : 
 
 For lo, thy life hangs in the scale, sweet flower, 
 
 Madonna shield thee with protecting power! 
 
 *What if it were — but no! it cannot be!' . . . 
 
 He dared not dwell upon that thought — and 
 yet— 
 (Or does he dream?) he sees, or fears to see, 
 
 In features cypressed by those locks dew-wet, 
 A dread similitude — enough to start 
 The virgin blood to boiling round his heart. 
 
 Onward he bore his burden with a tread 
 Uneven, for scarce had he time to trace 
 
 In his dear prize, the mould, the hair, the head, 
 The faultless features, and the tender grace 
 
 Of her with whom his fancy gilded o'er 
 
 The world of sight — whose name re-echoed every 
 shore — 
 
 Before the shadow of the Convent cast 
 Upon his hurried path its sombre weight, 
 
 And fearing lest each sigh should be her last. 
 He dared not pause to give his doubt debate, 
 
 But trembling with the thought, but half re- 
 pressed, 
 
 He drew his charge more tightly to his breast. 
 
 As up the mount the dark old pile he neared, 
 
 Which rose in strength superior to decay. 
 No sound to match his tread, or drown, he heard, 
 117 
 
Except a lonely watch-dog's deep-mouthed bay; 
 No porter's challenge met him at the gate, 
 Nor bar, nor bolt, bade him impatient wait. 
 
 The massive door, responding to his touch, 
 Upon the poised hinge, fell slowly back : 
 
 All things within the vestibule were such 
 As gave out nakedly a dampness black. 
 
 And gaunt with mouldy gloom — a cavern, this. 
 
 Replete with angels consecrate to peace ! 
 
 Claude pressed — more tightly pressed — the tender 
 form, 
 
 Which like a sweet love-poem lay within 
 The parchment-roll of his entwining arm : 
 
 As from the closing of a long ravine, 
 The mountain cotter's taper gleams by night, 
 So through the corridor a single light 
 
 Romantically lit the passage -term; 
 
 And through the door whence issued this, 
 Claude went — 
 Without monition, spreading wild alarm 
 
 Through all the wimpling veils of nun and saint ! 
 No bell of diver, seeking pearls, could spread 
 Confusion to the Ocean's heart more dread! 
 
 And here were pearls whose worth could not be 
 priced. 
 
 Richer than Persian or Brazilian gem. 
 Snatched from the world, and dedicate to Christ, 
 
 With grace to glitter in His diadem. 
 And here were pearls mured in an ocean cave, 
 Sparkling 'mid death, like diamonds in a grave ! 
 
 But Claude in innocence brought not away, 
 118 
 
But bore one back — kissed by the waves; may- 
 hap 
 Too roughly kissed, or flirted by the spray 
 Against a rude ledge in the water's lap : 
 No step profane for years these depths had 
 
 known — 
 Claude recked it not, but laid his jewel down! 
 
 Now, would that men were not more pure than 
 
 God! 
 And would no ermine whiter were than Heaven ! 
 No paths more straight than those which Jesus 
 
 trod — 
 No laws more strict than those Himself hath 
 
 given ! 
 There were then fewer saints, but more good 
 
 men — 
 The hermits rarer, but more Christians then ! 
 
 Above the ages — through their weird discord — 
 We vaguely hear — our hearts grow still to list — 
 
 The shrieks of fair young maids, with the keen 
 cord 
 Cleaving the soft, warm flesh of virgin wrist, 
 
 Of perfect arm, down to the ivory bone. 
 
 Or with smooth joints dissevered one by one ! 
 
 And mitred priests, with keys about the belt. 
 And childless females beautifully pale, 
 
 Who long had lost their names, nor ever felt. 
 Or would deny that they did ever feel. 
 
 One touch of love to demonstrate them human — 
 
 One weakness that had served to prove them 
 Woman ! 
 
 Cold, passionless, to heavenly pity dead, 
 
 For others, or themselves, th' imsparing Three 
 119 
 
To whom Hellenic Myth assigned the thread 
 
 Of life, were never more compassion-free, 
 Than were the judges in those Gothic years, 
 Who tried the crimes of Faith, or Love, or Tears ! 
 
 (This was the deep Red Sea through which we 
 crost 
 
 To reach the wilderness, our present shore: 
 The Jordan lies beyond, whose milky coast, 
 
 And brazen mountains, filled with precious ore, 
 Shall make us all forget the erring past, 
 And symbols know for only such at last !) 
 
 And such (save one) the Council called to sit 
 In censure, and assign to sanction dure, 
 
 Hermine, because she had not found it meet 
 To perish ere she reached the inlet-shore. 
 
 From whose crude sand, which knew not half her 
 worth, 
 
 Claude's manly arm redeemed, and bore her forth. 
 
 The tale she told was simply told and true — 
 It was an idyl which, but drifting on 
 
 Poetic souls, had fallen as the dew 
 
 On flowers, soothingly from out the moon. 
 
 To touch and woo the sense of pity, till 
 
 Sweet balm of fragrant mercy should distill. 
 
 Hermine confessed that from the steps of stone, 
 Which to the Bath of Saints led down their 
 flight. 
 
 Upon the yestern eve she went alone 
 
 To bathe, as was permitted her that night ; 
 
 That tempted by caressing waves too far, 
 
 She ventured almost o'er the Inlet's bar. 
 
 Meanwhile the tide arose : the sea, in wroth, 
 120 
 
(And that she had not thought of it before), 
 Broke on the rocks a pyramid of froth, 
 
 That bh'nding, pushed her outward from the 
 shore. 
 And only Jesu's tender-guiding hand 
 Enabled her, out-worn, to reach the strand. 
 
 Now faint from buffeting the waves — exhaust, 
 She scarce could tell what next to her befell; 
 
 She must have fallen fainting on the coast ; 
 
 By whom relieved (save dreams) she could not 
 tell, 
 
 'But God,' she sobbed 'He wots mine innocence 
 
 If act or thought could rightly give offense!' 
 
 The Abbess rose, an Aquilonian star 
 
 Gilding the sky of judgment, through hoar frost ! 
 *It were not strange,' she said, 'that one so fair 
 
 Should challenge your slight censure at the most, 
 If she but swam beyond the Bath of Saints, 
 Led by the curling ripple's blandishments. 
 
 'But, Reverend Bishop, Fathers, Prioress, 
 
 (Such was the Court), the mind conceiving sin 
 
 Knows well to paint, with seeming guilelessness, 
 In outward fairness what is foul within : 
 
 What think ye. Judges, when from me ye hear. 
 
 Within her own correction if I err, 
 
 'That he who bore her hither from the coast, 
 (By accident, as she pretends, good sooth!) 
 
 Nude and submissive in his arms of lust, 
 
 None other was than that rash Guienne youth. 
 
 Whose shame, with hers, meeting a stern reproof. 
 
 Drove Hermine hither, from her father's roof.' 
 
 (With brows of darker censure knit, they now 
 121 
 
Frown on Hermine, quite paralyzed with fear; 
 A quail pretending death in the windrow, 
 
 Beneath the circling hawk who hovers near — ) 
 * Shall I pronounce your sentence with one breath? 
 For broken vows! the penalty is Death!' 
 
 The Guienne maid is sweet, nor born for strife — 
 
 A fragrance from an aromatic vale. 
 In sabbaths of the year, a thing of life. 
 
 But perishing in storm and wintry gale — 
 A thing of much dear promise, if not killed 
 By some keen frost of wrong too early chilled. 
 
 Struck by the Abbess' clear, transfixing eyes — 
 
 Serenely beautiful, but pitiless, 
 As stars that shine in hyperboreal skies. 
 
 Beyond the bourn of ultrakanic seas, 
 Poor Hermine sobbing, sighed as all were o'er, 
 Then fainting, prostrate sank upon the floor. 
 
 A youthful priest, more troubled than the rest, 
 Sprang up as if to catch the falling flower. 
 
 But checked himself, as though the thought con- 
 fessed. 
 Would wrong his office, or offend some power; 
 
 The Abbess rang a bell that near her lay — 
 
 And a Nun answering, bore Hermine away. 
 
 The noblest things forever are most rare ! 
 
 A woman just ! An Englishman polite ! 
 A maiden without vanity, though fair ! 
 
 A Frenchman wedded less to form than right! 
 A priest with less of zeal than sanctitude ! 
 A wise man modest, or a great one good! 
 
 The Bishop still sat reading in his chair : 
 The golden cross fell on the table nigh; 
 122 
 
Above a cloud of finest snow-white hair, 
 
 The crimson mitre crowned his forehead high: 
 His open cassock left to view the milk 
 Of his white surplice of Sicilian silk : 
 
 While that Hermine confessed, he read straight on; 
 
 When th' Abbess had begun, he turned a leaf, 
 Nor raised his head until her speech was done, 
 
 Her judgment rendered, with its weight of 
 grief: 
 When Hermine fell, he held his peace, 
 His book on end, his finger in his place. 
 
 When as the morning bears a pallid mist 
 The sister bore Hermine away, he rose : 
 
 The tassel of his cassock 'bout his waist, 
 
 Catching his chair, he paused to set it loose: 
 
 As starhght gilding a cathedral aisle. 
 
 Rich-stained and beautiful, so shone his smile. 
 
 Upon his features, seemingly, there sate 
 Mysterious dreams of melancholy faith; 
 
 Their beauty soft, but not effeminate — 
 Such as the picture of Augustin hath : 
 
 His brows branched upward from his Grecian 
 nose. 
 
 As a straight oak its first two branches throws. 
 
 A far-off flame from out the mystic East 
 
 Lit up his eyes — an apostolic gaze 
 And legendary look, that marked him priest. 
 
 In mute significance, upon a face 
 That knew more than the simple laymen should. 
 Yet sought to use it only for their good. 
 
 His head, more noble than the solid earth — 
 A planet bending to the Church of Rome, 
 
 ns 
 
The sun where all his ideas had their birth, 
 
 And every aspiration made its home; 
 His faith the radius- vector of his mind, 
 Which bound its circle, and his hopes defined. 
 
 And as he rose he robbed the jealous Sun 
 Of holy kisses, where his shadow fell 
 
 Upon a picture on the wainscot; drawn 
 In freshness worthy of Herrara's skill. 
 
 Showing St. Agnes as she lay in dream 
 
 Soft -threading which, the Snowy Mother came. 
 
 A robe of leopard skins thrown o'er her form, 
 Disposed in tumbled luxurj^ left bare 
 
 Her throat, and hint of shoulder; one white arm 
 O'er lapped the tide of wavy, raven hair; 
 
 The other at the elbow bent, and prest, 
 
 Emergent from the robe, upon her breast. 
 
 Thus slept — immaculately slept — the Saint: 
 The Virgin hovered near her, clothed upon 
 
 With sunlight ; crowned with a full complement 
 Of glorious stars; beneath her curved the moon; 
 
 On either side, cherubic pinions beat 
 
 Upon the lucent air about her feet. 
 
 The Prelate's voice had that strange power to 
 please, 
 like a most friendly greeting in the dark, 
 Or carriage-wheels through arching cedar trees 
 
 At bottom of an old, majestic park. 
 Which make the gardener pause from work to 
 
 hear. 
 Bent o'er his spade, his foot uplift in air. 
 
 *My friends,' he said, 'far be from me to seem 
 Indifferent to crime, or false to truth ; 
 124 
 
To punish that, reflect of this the beam, 
 
 Transmitted us from God's perpetual youth, 
 As Hght to star from central-burning Sun, 
 Is our commission high — a sacred one ! 
 
 * Nor deem that I ignore the latitude 
 
 Vice gives itself in this distempered age; 
 How, scorning law, and every sanctitude. 
 
 From thrones to hovels, lust and anger rage — 
 From Lent to Carnival, corruption reigns, 
 And barters souls within our very fanes. 
 
 * And yet, as that Apostle whom Christ loved 
 
 Could preach but Love, and only that thence- 
 forth, 
 So we, whom our superior passion moved, 
 
 Forsaking paltry elements of earth. 
 To lie on Jesu's breast, should, from His touch. 
 Learn only Mercy renders Justice such ! 
 
 * 'Tis not the young — believe me, it is not 
 
 Young maidens such as this, whose sin 
 Leaves on our Church's ermine foulest blot — 
 
 'Tis not poor blue-eyed virgins, like Hermine, 
 Whose errors stain the solar robe of her 
 Encrowned with stars through God's eternal year! 
 
 ' 'Tis that the hand, which, holding Justice 'scales. 
 
 Should be as equal as eternal truth. 
 Relaxes grasp to clutch at gold, and sells 
 
 To wealth what it denies to humble ruth : 
 'Tis that the base to high position rise. 
 And ravished Law on her own altar dies ! 
 
 T would not grant indulgence to the king. 
 
 To father contemplated wrong or sin; 
 I would not shrive an emperor a thing 
 U5 
 
Which he did not repent, or still persisted in : 
 But ah ! when weakness pleads for mercy, I 
 Were shaming Christ, to bid the contrite die! 
 
 * And a mere accident! the act of God, 
 
 Which we pronounce, for our convenience. 
 Chance, 
 (Which is but law less known and understood,) 
 
 Brings crime alone to gross improvidence: — 
 Who will affirm, that by design prepense. 
 This Novice swam beyond the Bath of Saints? 
 
 *Can it be thought there was concerted plan 
 
 Of sinful trysting at the Inlet-side, 
 Between her and this native of Guienne? 
 
 Abbess ! if so, what liberty too wide 
 Is this allowed novitiates in your charge, 
 That they communicate with men at large? 
 
 *If not by chance they met, but by design. 
 Who can believe he would return beneath 
 
 This convent-roof, consenting to resign 
 Himself to danger, and his love to death? 
 
 Not so! In everything I see confirmed 
 
 The accident the child herself affirmed. 
 
 * I see in her, misfortune, but no crime — 
 
 For sin, I see a miracle unfold 
 To us the sov'reign will, through grace sublime — 
 
 Of Him who rules by wonders, as of old ! 
 To these young shipwrecks on the coast of woe, 
 Methinks God points the path which they should 
 go. 
 
 * But fearing lest I should in evil hour. 
 
 Construing Providence, presume too far; 
 And having witnessed oft displays of power 
 126 
 
Miraculous by Her we worship here, 
 I'll pray our Mother that Her Saint make plain 
 The guilt or innocence of this young twain. 
 
 *In that fine age when the great Tuscan drew. 
 And Da Vinci breathed beauty into stone, 
 
 A Spanish sculptor dying young, and who 
 Is known to fame by this success alone, 
 
 Unfolded from his years of labor spent. 
 
 In white Carrara marble carved, our Saint. 
 
 'Not few the miracles She has performed; 
 
 And I myself bear witness that Her smile, 
 Once when some glorious diapason warmed 
 
 The palpitating air, broke forth the while; 
 And once at Mass when levity was shown, 
 Methought I heard the Marble Maiden groan. 
 
 ' The purest things this earth has ever known — 
 The violet's involute — fresh dew — new wine — 
 
 Are not so pure as this quick-breathing stone. 
 Rounded in mould of chastity divine; 
 
 Informed with old serenity, debased 
 
 By no impertinence of modern taste. 
 
 * I feel if this design, so sacred-white. 
 
 Were brought in contact with dark crime pro- 
 fane. 
 Saint Agnes, from her own celestial height. 
 
 Would whirl in living currents her disdain, 
 Until they broke the frozen bonds of stone. 
 And wrinkled all her beauty in a frown. 
 
 * If on the other hand my voice invoke 
 
 Her aid to render innocence more plain. 
 She who herself to answered prayer awoke 
 
 From dreams of love betrayed and sequent pain, 
 127 
 
Will by some token vindicate the name 
 Of sweet virginity, and maiden fame. 
 
 * Before you, Judges, and before the Saints, 
 And Sisters of this Abbey of the Snow, 
 
 In yonder Chapel an half hour hence. 
 Saint Agnes by some miracle may throw 
 
 Her own sunlight upon the clouds which wear 
 
 The hue of guilt above this youthful pair.' 
 
 The Bishop thus : anon the Chapel call 
 
 Once, twice, and thrice, gave out its clear-toned 
 voice 
 
 And chamber doors were heard to turn, and all 
 The Abbey bustle with unusual noise; 
 
 The school for novices came to a close, 
 
 And 'mong these semi-angels wonder rose. 
 
 The Gothic Chapel of the Snow was low. 
 
 But full of legendary ornament; 
 The outside rough, the inside rich with show, 
 
 Like the mean casing of a glorious saint ; 
 Endowed by legacies her temple shone 
 Through generations, from St. Agnes down. 
 
 Colossal forms around the pillared throne; 
 
 Mosaic groups of crucificial mould; 
 Vines arabesque, and mystic roses strewn 
 
 O'er fields of blue, with stars of burning gold; 
 Glories surrounding heads with jewels crowned; 
 The ceiling thick with wings, with saints the 
 ground. 
 
 Saints Genevieve, Cecilia, Magdalene; 
 
 The hierarchal choirs of heaven above ; 
 Far-flashing girdles; fountains crystaline; 
 
 Virgins beneath the rainbow-tinted dove . . . 
 128 
 
Each symbol with which Faith inflamed the heart, 
 Here Genius married to Eternal Art ! 
 
 Amidst a circle of celestial forms 
 
 There stood, a type of all that ransoms men, 
 Chaste as the glister of her marble charms, 
 
 The statue of Saint Agnes of Guienne : 
 Filled with divinest sorrow, her cold eyes 
 Upturned their frozen lashes to the skies. 
 
 Just where her tunic cleft the twin-orbed hills, 
 Whose sweet Carrara firmness swelled below, 
 
 A rose-bud opened out its carved frills. 
 In foliations of most spotless snow; 
 
 Its cup indented, showed upon its spars 
 
 The very furze, hair-fine, the calix bears. 
 
 From out the core a wingM insect peered. 
 So finely wrought the tentacles were seen — 
 
 The feet, the shell, the very eyes appeared. 
 
 And the small claws and horns for ravage keen ; 
 
 Already subtile fringe and beveled rut, 
 
 Showed where his depredating saws had cut. 
 
 The saintly feet were bare; beneath one heel 
 A miniature was pressed — without disdain, 
 
 And yet with passion's energy, until 
 
 The perfect toes were raised up from the plane : 
 
 The whole expression was divine, and meant 
 
 A woman crucified to form a saint. 
 
 When all were seated, genuflexions o'er — 
 
 The Bishop came with slow and reverend pace; 
 
 His manner meek, his eyes upon the floor. 
 Till in the Council's midst he took his place; 
 
 With folded arms there stood near by, o'erawed. 
 
 But brave in conscience still, Hermine and Claude. 
 129 
 
He loosely clad in Guienne fisher dress — 
 
 A short-sleeved jacket of the jauntiest green; 
 
 Superbly pallid unto ghastliness, 
 
 More white than her white frock, appeared 
 Hermine, 
 
 Whose manner, radiant with girlish grace. 
 
 In every Judge's heart (save one) found place. 
 
 The Abbess, like a type of beauty wrought 
 
 In sculptured marble, sat unmoved through all; 
 
 An intellect pure crystal — frozen thought — 
 A saint, if such can be, without a soul — 
 
 A woman, born of one, if such can be. 
 
 Without one spark of human sympathy. 
 
 * Through the confessional,' the Bishop said, 
 
 * The law forbids to tell or when or where 
 Two robes I have obtained; this one, and made 
 
 Deftly, was brought to me since past a year; 
 The other is the gray capote Claude wore. 
 And with it swathed this child upon the shore : 
 
 * The first fine woven robe without a name. 
 
 Is white as snow yet undivorced from air; 
 But, if it should prove black with maiden blame, 
 
 Its stain were darker than its texture fair; 
 Nor shall we lack a mistress for its sin, 
 Since on the marge her name I find, 'Hermine!' 
 
 * Upon our saintly founder's eflBgy , 
 
 Carved in an old and simple age of art. 
 Reflecting beauty, grace and majesty, 
 
 With charms which only genius could impart, 
 I now propose these vestures to suspend. 
 And on her face the issue will depend. 
 
 *If pure their owners, indiscreet alone — 
 130 
 
Saint Agnes' smile will brighten as the sky; 
 But if, when stained with sin, these robes upon 
 
 Her marble form, immaculate shall lie, 
 Mark ye — Saint Agnes' wrath will frown and 
 
 flush 
 More conscious than a living maiden's blush!' 
 
 Some eyes were there which had not seen for 
 years 
 (Save dreams), the face of an unshaven man! 
 The prospect troubled them, and moved such 
 tears 
 As only long-forgotten memories can: 
 And they were moved, and woman nature pain 
 Old, darling dreams retouched came back again. 
 
 And there was one suspended fragrant breath 
 Of sympathy for both (but more for Claude), 
 
 What time the test of guilt for life or death 
 The Court submitted as it were to God : 
 
 Hermine leaned on her lover, and her eyes 
 
 Recked not the scene, but counseled with the 
 skies. 
 
 Then o'er the shoulder of the marble thought, 
 The Bishop laid the Guienne capote's fold, 
 
 O'er this the maiden's raiment, deftly wrought. 
 Which clung to it far down the saintly mould, 
 
 As mist clings to an old gray-beaten rock — 
 
 Or spray of fringe-tree on a rugged oak ! 
 
 At first a twinkle on the forehead gleamed, 
 That intermitting, flushed again and fell 
 
 And burned, till all aglow her features beamed ; 
 The rose-bud trembled to a gentle swell; 
 
 The roundly chiseled, wedded lips unsealed 
 
 In magic circle — and a smile revealed ! 
 131 
 
A murmured joy gained on the expectant air; 
 
 All saw the statue smile, most plainly saw; 
 *A miracle! Praise to Saint Agnes there!' 
 
 They cry, and bow or kneel in rev'rent awe, 
 The cause itself now for the time passed o'er, 
 In wonder at the Saint's supernal power. 
 
 *Great God!' the good man cries, 'how we do mar 
 The grand proportions of our glorious creed! 
 
 In vain hast Thou created all things fair 
 
 And showered far more bounties than our meed. 
 
 We set our will thy steadfast laws above, 
 
 Ignore the heart, and beat down youthful love! 
 
 'Great Solitude! whose throne is in yon sea 
 Of crystal, and beneath whose feet are pent 
 
 Exhaustless sources of immensity. 
 Eternal, and above the firmament; 
 
 All hallowed be thy sacred name, and join 
 
 Each creature to extol thy power divine!' 
 
 Thus lost in thought : then silence waving : ' Bless, 
 Yea, all that is within us, bless His name. 
 
 Who grants this Office to our Patroness 
 To shelter innocence from unjust blame ! 
 
 His be the glory, ours, through grace, the power 
 
 To read the proper lesson from the hour. 
 
 ' This Novice is not yet a bride of Christ, 
 Nor could be such till that supremest hour, 
 
 Which by the last most solemn Eucharist 
 
 Makes her a queen who was but maid before — 
 
 With bridal veil of black exchanged for white, 
 
 Makes her a Nun who was but Neophyte. 
 
 *Nor is it every Novice should be Nun; 
 It is a solemn and majestic thing, 
 132 
 
This nuptial with the ever-peerless Son ! 
 
 And woe if we unwilling brides shall bring 
 Unto His shrine, who calls His service free — 
 The highest, only perfect liberty! 
 
 *Now 'tis not strange beneath this Hermine's zone 
 Should beat a heart rebellious to such thralls; 
 
 Her rosy teens have scarcely bloomed full-blown — 
 Her fancy wings its flight from out these walls, 
 
 And fluttering through her veil, bears back her 
 soul 
 
 To scenes not long walked through in girlish role. 
 
 *A11 maids are not for Nuns, nor men for Priests, 
 Else were our world unpeopled by its creed! 
 
 The Father writes our missions in our breasts, 
 Which fix our callings, if we but give heed; 
 
 Methinks by signs which we call accidents, 
 
 God marks these twain for lovers, not for saints. 
 
 ' By His authority, and in His name, 
 I, His interpreter within my sphere, 
 
 These twain affianced man and wife proclaim, 
 And by due service will unite them here. 
 
 The smiles of saints, apostles, angels under — 
 
 Whom God hath joined let not man put asunder!' 
 
 Then o'er them, like a spotless mantle, fell 
 
 The marriage-service of the Church of Rome. 
 
 The fair young Neophyte from lily-pale 
 To crimson felt the pallor go and come, 
 
 As if a pure white butterfly with wing 
 
 Translucent crept athwart a rose of Spring. 
 
 The Convent Vespers trembled toward the Sea; 
 
 And Incarnation, and Eternal Bliss, 
 And Resurrection, and Virginity, 
 133 
 
And Intercession, Passion, Christian Peace- 
 All Sacred Mysteries — poured in one stream 
 Of twilight service, closing with this Hymn : 
 
 I 
 
 Nivalis in candore. 
 Bright through eternity, 
 Star of the hoary Sea, 
 
 Ave! 
 We, in humility, 
 Bow to thy majesty. 
 Star of our destiny, 
 
 Ave! 
 
 II 
 
 Lo! in her dire distress, 
 Thou, in thy tenderness, 
 Cam'st to our Patroness — 
 
 Ave! 
 Thou too hast suffered grief. 
 Thou too hast found relief — 
 O! make our sorrows brief! 
 
 Ave! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Mother of Mystery! 
 Intacta Virgo! We 
 Ring out thy jubilee — 
 
 Ave! 
 Hark to thy Chapel bell, 
 Anthem on anthem swell! 
 Audi nos! Guard us well! 
 
 Ave! 
 
 IV 
 
 Agnes conjuring thee. 
 Hear us imploring thee, 
 134 
 
Salvis a te adhunc. 
 
 Car a Nivalis, tunc, 
 
 Ora pro nobis nunc — 
 
 Ave Maria, Mother of Snow! 
 
 SOLILOQUY OF CATO'S SISTER 
 
 O ! there is empire in my Caesar's eyes, 
 
 Farflashing like the Argive shield of Mars! 
 
 While round his frontal scope there seem to rise 
 Crowns lighted by the everflaming stars ! 
 
 I would have fled, but when his hand he laid 
 On mine, 'twas weightier than a sceptre is — 
 
 Ye Gods ! 'tis something still to be obeyed. 
 Adored by such a Roman heart as this ! 
 
 My soul lacked courage to resist his suit — 
 
 My heart foretold me that the tide which zones 
 
 His fate, and bears his freighted fortunes out. 
 Ere it return, should waste dismantled thrones! 
 
 And brows that oft had bent their weight on me. 
 Like semi-crescents arching glorious gems. 
 
 Should burst the wreathes of laureled victory. 
 And grow too large for girth, save diadems ! 
 
 And what care I ! since Rome gives us no aim 
 But choice to serve as wives, or love as maids — 
 
 Let Marcus save republics — hve for fame — 
 One hour with Caesar's worth Olympiads ! 
 
 What time I entered Vesta's rounded fane, 
 
 Her frowns my virgin gifts seemed to reprove; 
 
 I whispered: "Julius!" and her smiles again 
 Confessed I should not blush for such a love. 
 
 135 
 
Blushes, blush rather for yourselves instead, 
 Like dumbly-conscious roses, dyed in shame, 
 
 For staining cheeks where he his lips hath laid. 
 Called up by aught save love, at Caesar's name ! 
 
 For 'twere a shame to be ashamed of love 
 
 For one who'll shine when rival stars grow dim — 
 
 Let Thetis, silver-footed, blush for Jove, 
 Ere Caesar's Mistress blush for loving him ! 
 
 THE BIRTH OF LOVE 
 
 When Venus first sprang naked from the sea, 
 
 And wrung a shower from her dripping hair, 
 A radiance lit the water round about, 
 
 And perfume filled the aromatic air. 
 Old Neptune, mad with joy, his trident shook 
 
 All merrily at the Tritons, who caressed. 
 Lest they should harm the glowing beauty whom 
 
 The gods had thrown upon his troubled breast. 
 
 Chaste as the foam she trod, pure as the light 
 
 She drank, she stood; then languid from new 
 birth. 
 Sank quivering down upon the grateful wave 
 
 Which bore her onward toward the Cyprian 
 earth. 
 Till, where a bed of water-lilies lave 
 
 Their golden cups upon that eastern marge, 
 They gently laid her for the zephyr's kiss 
 
 To drain the dimples of their pearly charge. 
 
 Awaked in beauty, thence she walked alone; 
 
 While to her velvet foot, the grass and flowers 
 Sprang, conscious of a goddess' lucid step. 
 
 And lent rich fragrance to the violet hours. 
 Till in a myrtle bower where orange trees 
 136 
 
Their heads together laid, she sank to rest, 
 While through the maze of leaves and fruit there 
 stole 
 A single ray of sunshine on her breast. 
 
 The Seasons with their golden fillets sent 
 
 Their presents to the goddess on that shore ; 
 A golden chaplet, an emVjroidered zone 
 
 Star-chased — no eye save theirs had seen before ; 
 And wildeyed Fancy, with his tireless wing 
 
 Was chosen bearer. A second poised in air, 
 He took the presents with an easy grace. 
 
 Then bore adown the morning, towards the Fair. 
 
 A moment found him where young Venus lay, 
 
 In the orange grotto, on the myrtle bed; 
 A peerless rose, pure white, without a thorn. 
 
 And still in bud, had sprung up at her head. 
 A smile la}^ dreaming on her parted lips. 
 
 While rich blood circling with a Summer glow 
 Where e'er the blush was native tipped with pink, 
 
 And left each other spot to shame the snow. 
 
 The God space spurning, who had looked upon 
 
 All shapes of beauty that the skies embrace, 
 From thence to fill the dreams of men with forms 
 
 More heavenly -perfect than their hands could 
 trace. 
 Now stood entranced; and Fancy's self at last 
 
 Could not suggest one charm the more to Truth, 
 But bowed a silent worshipper before 
 
 The calm immortal beauty of her youth. 
 
 Fancy's lawless; no legal rein can tame 
 
 Whom to self -punishment the gods give o'er; 
 
 He flaunts his reckless pinions from the heights 
 To which the moral senses dare not soar : — 
 137 
 
He saw the sunbeam on the goddess' breast 
 Still flitting like the flame of wild desire — 
 
 A thousand sparkles trembled from his wings, 
 As passion shook them with a kindling fire. 
 
 He plucked a feather from his dewy plumes — 
 
 Then from a poppy native to those skies 
 Some drops upon the goddess' brow distilled, 
 
 And gently laid the feather on her eyes . . . 
 The lone beam tangled in his head of gold . . . 
 
 The myrtle laughed, the orange wept perfume — 
 The pure white rosebud frowned a thorn. 
 
 And blushing crimson, melted into bloom. 
 
 Thus, chance-begotten, lawlessly sprang Love; 
 
 Of Beauty born, like Fancy winged still — 
 Reaps where he does not sow, flees those that 
 court — 
 
 A wayward child that will not what he will: 
 A beam of summer sunshine for his heart, 
 
 A head that throngs with tangled fears and 
 dreams ; 
 Not blind, but bandaged with a dewy plume 
 
 Transmitting from the loved but beauty -beams. 
 
 THE ROMAN NAZARENE 
 
 ** More men hath laughter driven from the right. 
 Than error clad with fire. " — Alexander Smith. 
 
 What time the Eastern Morn had birthed a Son 
 That shook the dew from off his locks upon 
 Her altars, and the two-leaved gates of Rome, 
 Until her pagan images fell from 
 Their pedestals, and all her gods took flight 
 From high Olympus into void and night — 
 There lived at Rome a man of spotless fame, 
 138 
 
A Nazarene, Cornelius by name; 
 
 A Roman with a blemish in one eye, 
 
 Received when young, lie knew not where nor why, 
 
 Save that it wrestled with him at the breast 
 
 Of his Iberian mother; — for the rest, 
 
 His father's family was of ancient date, 
 
 Well known at Rome as having served the State; 
 
 For this it was that made a name at Rome, 
 
 Before her sun of glory set in gloom. 
 
 Our hero was a Nazarene; and when 
 
 The praetor sent a band of armed men — 
 
 (Barbarians hired to defend the state), 
 
 To bring into the Forum where he sate 
 
 Some twenty leaders of that sect of Jews, 
 
 Which did the gods and ancient faith abuse — 
 
 Whom all men spake against; who though forlorn, 
 
 Had moved all Rome to tumult by their scorn — 
 
 The captain of the band, a Cimbrian, 
 
 A patient soldier, and a worthy man. 
 
 Would not select Cornelius, for he knew 
 
 With what fair front he stood in public view : 
 
 But he wist not the Captain should neglect 
 
 Himself, the leading spirit of the sect. 
 
 And therefore with his captive brethren went, 
 
 Full of the holy spirit, and intent 
 
 Upon the vindication of the cause 
 
 He held more dear than life or Roman laws. 
 
 And when they had passed through the multitude 
 Unto the Forum where the curule stood, 
 Cornelius led the column as its voice. 
 And with a gesture calmed the murmuring noise: 
 And then his blemished eye, though lacking sight, 
 With an imperious splendor, full of light. 
 And ruddy as the moon half in eclipse. 
 Or as the altar-coal from which the lips 
 139 
 
Of prophecy burned with supernal fire — 
 Blazed on the praetor, and restrained his ire. 
 Save this, our hero's eloquence was small — 
 This conflagration of an earnest soul — 
 A blemished eye that gazed upon the Sun 
 Whom its more perfect fellow strove to shun — 
 A flaming sword that made its fellow dim, 
 Far-flashing like those of the cherubim ; 
 And though his words were few, and speech was 
 
 rude, 
 The praetor and the people understood 
 Such articles of Christian faith therefrom 
 As Paul had taught in his sojourn at Rome : 
 The fullness of the time — the open way 
 Unto the clearer dawn, and fuller day — 
 The cross and passion of God's holy Son — 
 His resurrection — power to atone — 
 His miracles — ^his origin disclosed 
 By works divine, which angels had disposed; — 
 That all the powers of Nature which of old 
 They worshipped — stars and streams and outer 
 
 mould 
 And types of things, as well as inner fires 
 That light man's soul — his passions and desires-^ 
 From which the Greeks and their old poets named 
 The gods, were but (Cornelius proclaimed), 
 The sounds and signs of One Majestic God — 
 The innumerable sounds and signs of God ! 
 
 At this, the praetor fearing to debate, 
 Unmoved, yet willing to exonerate, 
 Refused to hear our hero argue more, 
 Yet bade the guard release the captive score 
 Of Nazarenes, and to their head replied, 
 With Roman brevity, and cynic pride — 
 Tt ill becomes a Roman to eschew 
 Her ancient gods, to bow down to a Jew.' 
 140 
 
And when the kalends of the month drew near 
 
 Whose moon illuminates the infant year, 
 
 For some pretended sacrilegious deed 
 
 Against the gods, the pontiffs had decreed 
 
 A fair young Christian virgin should atone 
 
 By being to the public Wild Beasts thrown. 
 
 Within the Coliseum she was placed, 
 
 Of saintly mien, meek-eyed, and tender-faced; 
 
 Her hair unbound, did like a veil invest 
 
 The spotless glory of her virgin breast; 
 
 Her blue eyes, beaming, sent a gaze intense 
 
 To the great heaven, whither innocence, 
 
 Clad in the lustre of sweet maidenhood, 
 
 Appealed from the hoarse-shouting multitude — 
 
 O, Christ, like some sweet star, whose light 
 
 Flows through a storm-rocked sea at night. 
 
 She stood in the arena all alone. 
 
 With strange composure mildly clothed upon; 
 
 A slave let down a ladder from the wall 
 
 Upon the den that held, in space full small. 
 
 The Nemean lion; drawing whence the bar, 
 
 He slowly pryed the iron door ajar. 
 
 Thence re-ascended to the rail which bound 
 
 The podium, or parapet, around; 
 
 Then suddenly was seen, near where there sat 
 
 The Vestal Virgins,- on the parapet, 
 
 A Roman figure, stalwart, swarthy, high, 
 
 His features flaming with a blemished eye : 
 
 Down in the cirque, full eighteen feet, did bound 
 
 With daring intrepidity, and wound 
 
 His arm, strong-coiHng, round the meek-eyed 
 
 maid. 
 And held her as a sheaf of wheat : dismayed 
 Not by the drowsy lion, rolling wide 
 His yellow eyes in unregarding pride ; 
 Nor by the multitude, before whose eyes 
 He bore aloft his pale and fair-limbed prize 
 141 
 
Across the arena to the eastern gate, 
 
 Which, double-barred, led through the parapet; 
 
 And thundering thence, called on the outer guard 
 
 To open it, who straight the gate unbarred. 
 
 For no one intervened to countermand, 
 
 Then on the parapet he took his stand 
 
 Again, and thus spake, with uplifted hand : 
 
 *I am a Roman, too! by birthright free, 
 
 My family of equestrian dignity. 
 
 Did not divinely-taught Pompilius 
 
 Prohibit human sacrifice to us? 
 
 And what is THIS? For one I will not see 
 
 This white unblemished lamb unsparingly 
 
 Thrown on the lion's rage to glut his ire, 
 
 More pitiful than your ignoble fire — 
 
 Degenerate Romans! Spare the maid, and let 
 
 A Christian ransom her, and prove that yet 
 
 There breathes one Roman not afraid to die; 
 
 If still ye need a victim, here am I!' 
 
 Then broke the spell upon the multitude; 
 
 Then rose their shouts, as when the raging flood 
 
 Long gathering head, is through its barriers 
 
 driven ; 
 Then, echoing, shook the brazen floor of heaven, 
 With frequent plaudits of the hero's name. 
 And for a moment blazed the flickering flame 
 Of olden fire, rekindled by the breath 
 Of one brave man that coldly looked on death — 
 Then stared the Nemean lion, roused to rage. 
 And bounding to the center of the stage. 
 Up through the roofless amphitheater. 
 With Lybian roar, replied to Roman cheer. 
 Till all her hills responded audibly. 
 And Tiber bore the tumult to the sea. 
 
 Released, the lofty Nazarene walked on, 
 And that imperious light his eye had thrown 
 142 
 
Full on the Nemean lion, gave his face 
 
 Fair lineaments of light, and Christian grace, 
 
 Of majesty, and passion, till it shone 
 
 Full round, and bright, as might, perchance have 
 
 done 
 In Homer's Iliad, the rod of bold 
 Achilles, studded with its nails of gold. 
 
 Our hero was a Nazarene; and when 
 Proscription shook the souls of other men, 
 He only cherished more the faith thus fraught 
 With iron crowns of duty inly wrought 
 With gold. For now, with retroceding tide 
 The Sea of Old Beliefs was rolling wide 
 Its billowy strength of volume for a flow 
 Landward, against their final overthrow. 
 This Sea, now swelling for the fearful strife. 
 Was formed from all the streams of Roman life — 
 From flamen, sacrifice, and augury. 
 From priest craft, music, law and poesy. 
 From ancient cult us of the head and heart. 
 And glorious dreams, and all supremest art. 
 And streams, and grove, and mead and haunt, and 
 
 dell. 
 And hill and mountain, flower, and fruit and shell, 
 And cloud-caressing temple, and the swell 
 Of choral anthem, and the mysteries 
 Of sacred rites, and games, solemnities, 
 And feasts, and spectacles, and myths, and all 
 The weird creations of the pagan soul — 
 Such were the myriad sources of the Sea 
 That rose and thundered against Calvary. 
 
 And thus it chanced that on the final day 
 Which went before the opening ides of May, 
 Urged by the jealous priests of Jupiter 
 The Emperor ordained a test severe 
 143 
 
For all the sect of Nazarenes at Rome; 
 
 Each father of a family should come, 
 
 It was proclaimed, with presents to the fane 
 
 Of Jupiter, father of gods and men. 
 
 And to his lofty statue's base should bear 
 
 Their gifts and leave them dedicated there. 
 
 With awful front and a serenity 
 
 Like that which broods above the troubled sea 
 
 Of clouds deep-settled on his marble face, 
 
 Jove stood in beauty and immortal grace : 
 
 He looked the king and soveriegn of the sky, 
 
 Whose hurtling arrows know their time to fly. 
 
 His chiseled locks, with equal-parted line 
 
 Fell, like the lion's, round his brow divine; 
 
 His shield was near, whose turning pivot threw 
 
 Whole mountains on the rude Titanic crew; 
 
 His cloud-compelling hand, wont to control 
 
 Of earth and earth-encircling sea, the whole, 
 
 The index, guide, and arbiter of fate, 
 
 Which filled Tartarean realms of strife and hate 
 
 And peopled space, and blazoned every star — 
 
 Grasped grandly the right-aiming bolts of war— 
 
 O'er where his eagle sat disdaining flight. 
 
 Grasped the live thunderbolts of power and right ! 
 
 But when the day arrived which had been set, 
 When at Jove's shrine the Roman fathers met, 
 Each with his gift laid at his statue's base, 
 Of art or arms or lyre or costly vase, 
 Or with their silver votive tablets, some, 
 As was the custom still preserved at Rome, — 
 No Nazarene appeared, no offering. 
 No gift, nor incense did the Christians bring. 
 In vain the priests, the Emperor in vain 
 Fulmined their edicts at these faithful men; 
 Therefore the tyrant Caesar's furious ire 
 Broke forth in flames, like long-discouraged fire. 
 144 
 
And this the Pontiffs also had inflamed, 
 Through whom it was ere many days pro- 
 claimed : — 
 Three hundred of the leading spirits known 
 x\s Christians should for their contempt atone 
 By being forced to congregate around 
 The greater circus, near the city's bound 
 (Near which, in cottages but meanly built 
 The Nazarenes most numerously dwelt), 
 Thence to be driven along the iVppian Road 
 Unto the Temple where Jove's statue stood, 
 There to abjure the new-imported faith 
 Before the priests of Jove, or suffer death. 
 And to appall the souls of those they drove, 
 Or such of them as should most timid prove. 
 Along the Appian was placed the means 
 Of torture — iron claws — clogs — and machines 
 To crush the wrists, and thongs to scourge the 
 
 back, 
 The heated iron chair, and cruel rack. 
 And over them the executioners — 
 Rough wolves of men, long trained to laugh at 
 
 tears — 
 And on the route the Coliseum lay, 
 Full of wild beasts, most clamorous for prey. 
 Who hoarsely, and in raVin's plaintive voice. 
 Wounded the timid air with dreadful noise — 
 Among the rest, at large, two lions were 
 Unfed, within the amphitheater, 
 W^hich growling constantly at intervals 
 With throat of thunder shook the stubborn walls. 
 
 And on this Roman, pagan, holiday — 
 The fourth in order of the Ides of May — 
 On which the Christians were condemned to face 
 Their judgment at Jove's statue's base. 
 There to recant, or else with stripes or death 
 145 
 
Or gold atone for their religious faith, 
 
 A royal maid from her Cubiculum, 
 
 (For so they called a maid's Boudoir at Rome), 
 
 Departed, with her idle fancy bent 
 
 On witnessing the martyrs' punishment. 
 
 She was the Consul's petted daughter, gay 
 
 With all the rich adornment of her day : 
 
 With bracelets and rosettes and gems which on 
 
 Her wrists and whitely-rounding ankles shone, 
 
 And on her fingers, rings, whose weight of gold 
 
 Oppressed the tapering beauty with their fold ; 
 
 Her chair, borne by eight slaves, in white arrayed, 
 
 Was carried to the portico whose shade 
 
 O'ercast the court of great Minerva's fane. 
 
 Not distant from the Forum, along the lane 
 
 Through which the wretched band was to be 
 
 driven, 
 Whom Rome despised, tho' much beloved by 
 
 Heaven. 
 The maid, while waiting for this band to come. 
 Coquetted with the noble youths of Rome: 
 Her mien betrayed her proud patrician birth — 
 Dark flamed her eyes with mirth — unchallenged 
 
 mirth; 
 In front, in waves dividing from her crown, 
 Her ringlets to her forehead fair came down; 
 Behind, they fell in golden-fluttering haste 
 Below the soft indenture of her waist; 
 Her beauty made her curious scorn more sweet 
 Than faces where the tenderest passions meet. 
 Close by Minerva's statue stood her chair; 
 Her maids in spotless tunics loitered near. 
 All beautiful, but far less so than she. 
 Who looked their queen by Nature's own decree, 
 And shone as does the full-orbed moon among 
 The milder radiance of the starry throng. 
 And when the Christians in procession slow, 
 
 146 
 
Had neared her chair beneath the portico, 
 
 She raised her figure, languidly reclined, 
 
 On royal purple wherewith it was lined. 
 
 And yawned, and shook her curls of gold, and 
 
 then 
 Discharged her dangerous arrows among men. 
 
 Onward they came — the Nazarenes — all fired 
 With that brave trust, their steadfast faith in- 
 spired — 
 Onward unfalteringly their leader came. 
 His blemished eye bright as an oriflamme : 
 As when the battle rages on the sea 
 And doubtful hangs the scale of victory. 
 The flag-ship dashes to the front, and bids 
 The halting squadron follow where she leads. 
 Her colors at the mast, and blazing far 
 Above the curling smoke of bellowing war — 
 So strode Cornelius, towering o'er the rest, 
 With an immortal courage in his breast. 
 Until he neared Minerva's temple where 
 The Consul's daughter rested in her chair. 
 The maid looked up : he might have passed her by 
 But that she, curious, saw his blemished eye, 
 Whose brightness smote on her as swords on walls 
 Of rock, or heat upon asbestos falls. 
 As far as it had any power to effect 
 One sentiment save scorn at his defect : 
 She clapped her pretty hands until around. 
 In the golden air her rings made golden sound. 
 
 She laughed, and pointed where Cornelius came, 
 Till all her maids joined in the merry game. 
 Whose arrows dipped in poison, winged with dole, 
 Pierced through the armor of our hero's soul : 
 *Ho! Polyphemus,' she, aloud; *now yield 
 The palm with such a rival in the field ! 
 147 
 
See to it guards that with his squinting eye 
 The statues of the gods he pass not by, 
 Lest they should quit their pedestals in fright, 
 And leave all Rome to darkness and the night.' 
 
 Thus spoke the maid, with well-affected woe, 
 Beneath Minerva's marble portico. 
 * Enough!' Cornelius said, 'No more of this. 
 Thou hast prevailed, princess of hell's abyss. 
 One further step my limbs refuse — Christ smite 
 Thy soldier now, for he hath lost the fight. ' 
 
 Then turned the step that never fled before — 
 
 Then fell a star to rise again no more, 
 
 Then withered, with a sadness like the gloom 
 
 Of universal night, his soul's great bloom 
 
 Of heroism, courage, fortitude, 
 
 And high resolve of Christian manlihood, 
 
 Pierced by the shaft a woman's bow sent through 
 
 The only orifice his armor knew. 
 
 Back through the sorrowing Christian throng he 
 
 fled. 
 Back through their wonder and reproach he sped — 
 Back through the jeering pagan multitude — 
 Back through the temples of the Sacred Road — 
 Back from the open gate of martyrdom — 
 Back from the proudest pinnacle at Rome — 
 Pausing for naught, until he came quite near 
 The Coliseum's amphitheater, 
 Within whose ample and perpetual wall 
 The wild beasts held their furious carnival. 
 Here rose upon the startled air a roar 
 Such as the forest, hearing, trembles for 
 His occupants, what time the antlered deer 
 With eyes distended, nostrils stretched with fear, 
 Quick as the wind on which the sound is borne, 
 Breaks through the ramparts of the briary thorn : 
 148 
 
But when our hero neared the theater 
 
 And heard this Nemean thunder shake the air, 
 
 * Ha ! ha ! I am a Hon too, ' he cried, and laughed — 
 
 * 'Twas but the ANGEL in me feared the shaft 
 Of beauty's wit, and virgin ridicule — 
 
 The ruder MAN that dominates my soul 
 Knows not the mien of danger, and at bay 
 Can hold the lion roaring for his prey. ' 
 Then through the Coliseum's arch he sprang 
 Until he reached the parapet which rang 
 With the echo which the vacant seats gave back — 
 The thundering echo of his headlong track 
 Down to the arena, where, by the wrath 
 Of unchained lions, he was done to death. 
 
 And so one hero less was there at Rome — 
 One martyr more to certify her doom : 
 And He who treads the unseen worlds alone. 
 Himself their centre, and all space His throne, 
 Decided how our hero paid the cost — 
 Decided if Cornelius were lost. 
 Sometimes we prosper when we falter most — 
 God knows! the saved are safe indeed: the lost 
 indeed are lost. 
 
 149 
 
PART II 
 
I 
 
 PATRIOTIC AND OCCASIONAL POEMS 
 
To the U. Va. 
 
 SEMI-CENTENNIAL ODE 
 
 Read Before the Society of Alumni of the Univer- 
 sity of Virginia, 20th of June, 
 1875. 
 
 As desolate, lonely, and broken. 
 
 The Greatest American stood. 
 Full- voiced as Uriel, a token 
 
 Came out of his favorite Wood : 
 Or as words of Egeria spoken 
 
 To Numa the Good. 
 
 He had written the Charter of Treason, 
 
 Defying oblivion and death; 
 He had spoken, (Apostle of Reason!) 
 
 ' Let Conscience be free as the breath. 
 That the way of the Truth be not hidden, 
 
 And the Earth be not barren of Faith!' 
 
 But the Spirit that slumbered within him 
 
 Besought him to ponder again; 
 The Spirit of Greatness within him. 
 
 Unnamed in the language of men : 
 Build me a Temple of Learning, said she. 
 
 Build me a Temple of stone — 
 Build for all ages : assuredly. 
 
 Build for man's Reason a throne; 
 For Freedom and Truth shall prosper 
 
 Where Knowledge and Science are known! 
 155 
 
And this Spirit which our Numa should dower. 
 
 Unnamed in the language of men, 
 (His familiar of marvellous power), 
 
 Thought well of Virginia then : 
 She knew where her glory would centre, 
 
 And she smiled as she thought of her prime, 
 Of the faction which afterward rent her. 
 
 Of the noise which developed with time; 
 For there's glory in quiet exertion. 
 
 And Silence itself is sublime ! 
 
 Build me a home, said the Spirit, 
 
 Where the coin of all tongues shall be good — 
 All speech that the nations inherit 
 
 Shall be spoken, in fashion and mood, 
 From the youngest and poorest in merit, 
 
 Through the oldest and best understood. 
 To the murmurs of all creation. 
 
 And the infinite sounds of God ! 
 
 And there let Science be given 
 
 The keynote of all the refrain 
 Of the spheres — to call them at even, 
 
 And name them at morning again. 
 Exploring the chambers of heaven. 
 
 Till the order of stars is made plain; — 
 For Error is dangerous only 
 
 Where Truth is all fettered of men ! 
 
 Let her teach to our youth the way 
 
 Of the Great First Thought on the deep; 
 Of the calm-belts, and courses of storms, and the 
 play 
 Of the upper and under flows, and the sweep 
 Of the Stream of the Gulf, in its current 
 
 And march from the Carribbees, 
 By shell-bank, and coral, and torrent : 
 156 
 
Till they read His eternal decrees 
 In the arms of the Ocean of waters, 
 And the wings of Aerial Seas ! 
 
 Let her teach and inspire a yearning 
 
 Of the knowledge concealed in the earth, 
 Of the love of preadamite learning, 
 
 And significant monster birth: 
 Of seadrift, and waters subsiding, 
 
 And landrise, and glacial domes. 
 And species extinct, or abiding, 
 
 Rockbound, in their cavernous homes; 
 For the crust of the earth is a scripture. 
 
 And her rocks are magnificent tomes! 
 
 Let her teach there the forces of nature. 
 
 With more than an alchemist's wand; 
 And the station and rank of each creature. 
 
 That inhabits the sea or the land; 
 From the lowest in life and sensation, 
 
 Through the highest embraced in the plan 
 Of the speechless in God's creation, . 
 
 To the marvellous germs that are hidden 
 In the innermost spirit of man ! 
 
 Let them forge, there, the weapons of native power, 
 
 Far greater than physical force — 
 The shafts of the Reason : — there shower 
 
 Of Genius the wealth, and resource. 
 As she comes from celestial abodes, 
 
 Through love to the Mind of man, 
 And births the great thoughts of the gods, 
 
 As only divinity can : 
 For, better pay tax to the alien sword. 
 
 Than bow to the alien pen ! 
 
 And there, let them teach, in their glory, 
 157 
 
Those Rights which the world has denied, 
 Which the States shall deny, (the old story 
 
 Repeating itself far and wide). 
 Until from the Porch you will build me. 
 
 The minds of Republics ascend 
 To the height of the truths which have thrilled me ; 
 
 For wherever the future may tend, 
 Be you sure what the Seedsman hath scattered, 
 
 Will prosper, and grow in the end ! 
 
 Let Philosophy there apprehend 
 
 How great is the value of Peace ! 
 O, Star of the Morning ! O, friend 
 
 Of all Nature ! increase ! 
 
 For, look out in the gold- waving wheat-field, 
 
 Untouched by the sickle, or scythe, 
 Drawing nigh to the harvest and grain-yield. 
 
 To render the husbandman blithe: 
 But lo ! when the tempest at midnight, 
 
 Arises with terrible sound. 
 The empty heads only stand upright. 
 
 While the heavy ones bow to the ground : 
 So in war-time the fools are elated. 
 
 While the wise men are stricken and bound ! 
 
 So — away from the tocsin, and clanging 
 Of the State, with its infinite noise, 
 
 Of cymbal, and empty haranguing 
 And all brazen playthings and toys. 
 
 Let the workmen of my Academe 
 Forge only the godlike for me : 
 
 For what would be Heaven itself but a dream, 
 To sink like the Sun in the Sea 
 If men were not more than they seem ! 
 
 Here — modest, and earnest, and upright, 
 158 
 
As the true in all ages have wrought, 
 The angels shall hear them at midnight, 
 
 As they strike on the anvils of thought : 
 And there shall be giants among them, 
 
 As strong as the Moon in her towers, 
 Though silent as she, and as faithful. 
 
 And, who to mere princes, or powers, 
 Shall be like the lightning to thunder. 
 
 Or like fruit to mere blossom and flowers ! 
 
 II 
 
 Thus his Spirit, exhorting, our Founder inspired, 
 
 Struck the hearts of the people he loved so well, 
 As in parable, Amphion fired 
 
 By the voice of a God, struck his chorded shell. 
 While the music-stirred breezes blew. 
 
 And each stone took its place: 
 So the walls of our Universe grew. 
 
 And encircled the hopes of a race ! 
 
 As this is her youth, I sing of her birth, 
 
 And not her majestic prime — 
 For an Hundred years is a day upon earth, 
 
 And Fifty a morning in time; 
 Through many and many a lustrum. 
 
 While governments rise and decline, 
 Perpetually young Hke the planets. 
 
 This Temple of Learning shall shine : 
 And Mother ! Fair Mother ! thy children 
 
 Shall return, and bow down at thy shrine ! 
 
 There once was a voice could have sung. 
 There once was a tongue could have told, 
 
 But the harp of our Poe is unstrung. 
 And the lips of our Thompson are cold : 
 
 And no echo of day-dawn is left us, 
 159 
 
No touch of celestial fire, 
 To kindle the heart of a prophet, 
 
 Or the lips of a poet inspire; 
 But Mother ! Fair Mother ! returning, 
 
 Thy children themselves are a choir ! 
 
 And beloved, round thine altars maternal, 
 
 The forms of thy first-born appear, 
 Whose fame with thine own is eternal — 
 
 Thy Hunter and Preston are here ! 
 When the volumne is full, then their story 
 
 Shall honor thine Hundred years; 
 For the dead gather harvests of glory, 
 
 Where the living sow sorrow and tears; 
 And Mother ! Fair Mother ! our children 
 
 Shall thank thee for lessons like theirs ! 
 
 Too soon for our marble and brass. 
 
 And too late to care aught for our praise, 
 They marshal thine earliest class. 
 
 With baton, and laurel, and bays; 
 And proud of thy stately alliance, 
 
 They salute thee, and cry from the heart : 
 "Long live to be mother of science, 
 
 And nurse of each splendid art!" 
 And Mother! Fair Mother! now bless them, 
 
 For well have they done their part ! 
 
 From pillar, rotunda, arcade. 
 
 From lecture-room, statue, and fane. 
 And landscape, and scholarly shade, 
 
 And comrades saluted again. 
 And professor, and classmate and friend. 
 
 And library, tome upon tome — 
 The beams of old memories lend 
 
 New light as they welcome us home : 
 O, Mother ! Fair Mother ! refresh us, 
 
 In the scope of thy bounteous dome ! 
 160 
 
For now at this Semi-Centennial, 
 
 We return to the arms that have nursed; 
 To thy breast, as a fountain perennial, 
 
 To quench an undying thirst : 
 While we drink of the dew of such fountains, 
 
 We know that our strength shall not fail : 
 From cities and valleys, and mountains. 
 
 We bid thee all hail! all hail! 
 Alma Mater, amata! returning, 
 
 We bid thee all hail! all hail! 
 
 THE LOVE OF LETTERS 
 
 Delivered at the Annual Celebration of the D. K. E. 
 
 Fraternity y University of Virginia, 
 
 October 13, 1874„ 
 
 From out her founts behind the Caspian sea. 
 Through vague tradition, and old Orphic rhyme, 
 
 Loud wailed the mournful voice of History, 
 That oblivion was the only fruit of Time ! 
 
 Sweet symphonies of music, woman-voiced. 
 Pure Eloquence, high Prophecy, stern Thought. 
 
 Landscapes which in perennial bloom rejoiced. 
 Majestic forms of beauty, all — forgot! 
 
 The Memphian splendor, and Etruscan pride, 
 Mausoleum, and pyramid, and fane, 
 
 All monuments were sermons petrified. 
 
 To teach men that their dead had lived in vain! 
 
 Till from the East the Love of Letters came, 
 Rudely equipped, but godlike even then, 
 
 And on her altars lit the sacred flame. 
 And called her Priests to testify to men ! 
 161 
 
With flute, and oaten stop, and lyre half-strung, 
 Each with Divine Impression over-weighed, 
 
 There came the old interpreters of Song, 
 And gave a sense to all the Goddess said. 
 
 'Let the dark rack of cloud,' she cried. *remain 
 Which we have named the Past — a blank, a 
 blot; 
 
 Henceforth no Genius shall create in vain. 
 No world-inspiring Wonder be forgot ! 
 
 *A11 that mankind shall do, or think, or be — 
 All that my sister Wisdom can devise. 
 
 My followers shall garner up for me. 
 
 That when the form decays the spirit may arise! 
 
 'No stone shall take a meaning from you, Greece, 
 No monument of Troy be understood. 
 
 Except through me, that I have bade increase 
 The Art of Writing-dearest gift of God'' 
 
 Thus spake the Goddess. From what mountain 
 burst 
 
 The flame of Letters boots it not to know — 
 If Cithaeron, or Eastern Taurus first, 
 
 Filled with her passion, set the world aglow. 
 
 Or regal-headed Ida caught the light. 
 And into rocky Chios sent the flame; 
 
 Henceforth the path of man was made more 
 bright, 
 And Song a rude Religious Sense became ! 
 
 From high Leucadia in the Ionian sea, 
 
 From Tempe's Valley and Castalian stream. 
 
 From Athos, Alba, and Sicilian lea, 
 
 From Grove, and Temple, Porch, and Academe; 
 16^ 
 
From streams of old Romance, and Troubadours, 
 From Spanish main, and Carthagenian mounts, 
 
 From Saxon rivers, on old English shores, 
 Flowed Literature — a Sea from many founts ! 
 
 The wonder-working Teuton of Mayence, 
 
 Who made words winged, as were those of the 
 gods; 
 
 Interpreters of spheres, and firmaments. 
 And maze of stars, and planetary roads ! 
 
 Divine Torquato, who beneath his chain, 
 In fancy set the Sacred Temple free ; 
 
 The Blind who saw Infinity most plain ; 
 
 The Draper's Son, who wove like Destiny — 
 
 Peace to affairs of State, and sale of gold. 
 Silent the busy hum of wheel on wheel; 
 
 We sing tonight these great High Priests of old. 
 Who wrote and sang, and taught mankind to 
 think, and feel ! 
 
 Praised be our Goddess ! and her altars crown 
 With secret rite, and revelry, and feast. 
 
 Till powers, to her, and potentates fall down 
 Like Agamemnon to Apollo's priest ! 
 
 And here beneath the shelter of her wings. 
 Upon her altars, gifts of song are laid; 
 
 For Books are more than multitudes or kings, 
 And Letters more than commerce, mart, or 
 trade ! 
 
 Then hail; thrice glorious Goddess, hail, all hail! 
 
 Thou only claim'st the first fruits of our soul; 
 Waft thine evangel by on every gale. 
 
 Until thy worship make the world one whole ! 
 163 
 
O LOVE, THY WEB IS SWEET AND LIGHT 
 D. K. E. 
 
 Oct. 21, 1887. Chicago, III. 
 
 O ! Love thy web is sweet and light, 
 
 Of rainbow-tinted, silken woof. 
 But far too weak its texture slight 
 
 For time, and strife, and change's proof: 
 The tempers of the noblest mould, their souls 
 Soon disentangle of thy dangerous coils, 
 
 While weaker hearts, that would be free again. 
 Break their own strength in thy mysterious skein. 
 
 And wake to find their travail vain — 
 Thou dream of women, and mad rage of men! 
 
 But Friendship's chain befits the sage, 
 
 Adorns the brave, exalts the just — 
 Youth's solace and the joy of age. 
 
 Which men may cherish, women trust; 
 Of burnished silver, or resplendent gold. 
 It binds old classmates in magnetic fold, 
 
 Each link a mirror, where we see relit. 
 The college pipe — rebound the ivy wreath — 
 
 Retold the classic jest, beneath 
 Pierian f oHage of most generous wit ! 
 
 Whom we adore, O ! Queen divine, 
 Whose token on our breasts we wore, 
 
 The prizes of the class were thine, 
 In modern science, ancient lore; 
 But less in value in our eyes were these 
 Rich treasures of departed centuries. 
 
 Than were the song, the shout that raged afar. 
 Like rites with fabled Bacchus in the van, 
 Except for Phrygian pipe, the Powhatan — 
 164 
 
For Syrian odors, fumed the brown cigar — 
 
 For joyful cry, 'Evoe! Evce!' 
 The welkin rang with glorious D. K. E. ! 
 
 Yet was our Mother temperate; 
 
 In love with letters, and the lamp, 
 She taught such culture and debate 
 
 Of noble themes as great men stamp; 
 The subtle fire that burns in spirits rare. 
 She lit, and nourished with a mother's care: 
 
 While on her past, with manly pride we muse, 
 Fill high to her the bowl of memory. 
 
 In youthful strain of revelry, 
 While temperate age commends the rarer use. 
 
 From Alpha to Omega let 
 
 The chapters of our Order run. 
 Until the seal of learning set 
 
 Hellenic grace upon each son; 
 The press, the church, the bar, the civic fame 
 With rare significance her work proclaim; 
 
 Her future as her past, shall shed renown 
 Of high achievement on curriculum, 
 
 And after life pursued therefrom. 
 With bays of victory, her sons shall crown. 
 
 And here upon this queenly Lake, 
 'Mid spires, and domes, and wondrous marts, 
 
 Our glasses touch for her dear sake 
 Who taught us well to play our parts ; 
 We thank our Mother for our college days. 
 The joys she gave, the courage, faith, and praise; 
 We pledge our dead companionship, and pray 
 Our end be peaceful when we come to die. 
 
 As when upon a cloudless sky. 
 Declining suns presage a fairer day ! 
 165 
 
SONG ON CANADIAN CONSOLIDATION 
 
 Written in Canada, 1865. 
 
 Lo! Sons of Canadie, in loyal devotion, 
 
 Where the Sun is declining in billows of gold, 
 
 Let us carry our flag where the Great Western 
 Ocean 
 Shall sprinkle its staff, and welcome its fold! 
 Shall sprinkle its staff, and welcome its fold! 
 
 Where Niagara gains on the rock on his border — 
 Where the Lawrence unbosoms himself to the 
 Sea, 
 
 Our banner, the symbol of Union and Order, 
 Shall float like a beacon, to gladden the free! 
 Shall float like a beacon, to gladden the free ! 
 
 And the Star of the North shall greet but One 
 People 
 
 From Van Couver's Isle to Placentia's Bay; 
 For the waves of two Oceans in thunder or ripple 
 
 Baptize a New Empire of Freemen today ! 
 
 Baptize a New Empire of Freemen today ! 
 
 Then Sons of Canadie ! in loyal devotion. 
 
 Where the Sun is declining in billows of gold, 
 
 Let us carry our flag where the Great Western 
 Ocean, 
 Shall sprinkle its staff, and welcome its fold! 
 Shall sprinkle its staff, and welcome its fold! 
 
 PROBATION 
 
 On every hand stern altars rise. 
 And all the pathway to the skies 
 Is strewn with human sacrifice. 
 166 
 
The desolate, the old, the young, 
 The fortunate, the weak, the strong, 
 Lo ! how they bleed and toil along ! 
 
 By day, by night, awake, in dreams, 
 At dawn, or when the starlight gleams — 
 And still the Goal no nearer seems ! 
 
 So many worlds, and this our first. 
 Who knoweth which is best or worst, 
 Who telleth which is blest or curst? 
 
 So many lives, and this one found 
 
 Too short our heavenly hopes to bound. 
 
 Where, O! where shall they be crowned? 
 
 Give us, our Father, power to see — 
 
 Give us Great Thoughts to make us free — 
 
 Give us the gift of Charity ! 
 
 God ! let there be an end of strife — 
 
 God! make the whole with meaning rife — 
 
 God ! lead us to eternal life ! 
 
 Southern Metropolis, Baltimore, March 6, 1869. 
 BERKELEY CENTENNIAL ODE 
 
 From off what woody pinnacle O Muse, 
 
 Shall Berkeley's Genius sound her notes of glee? 
 
 Till all the spirit of her hundred years infuse 
 Unwonted tones of wild sweet minstrelsy, 
 
 And rich Arcadian strains which shall commend 
 
 A harp swept by a trembling and unequal hand. 
 167 
 
The Genius of this Vale 
 
 Sits on yon Northern Mount, named from the 
 Polar Star. 
 There on her throne of rock beneath the pale 
 
 But august glories of her native air, 
 She claps her hands and thus centennially, 
 Set on the staff of mountains, sings her jubilee. 
 
 *Lo, on my right, thrice hail 
 
 With your Blue Ridge, my daughter Jefferson! 
 With your Blue Ridge empurpled in the sun, 
 And on my left in Morgan's woody Vale, 
 
 Rear up thy head, majestic Cacapon, 
 Between these rocky landmarks towering high, 
 Loud sound the echoes of Centennial Joy. 
 
 * Let Tuscarora wind his silver thread, 
 
 Through many a glen. 
 And Opequon caress the fertile mead, 
 With pleasant flowing music in his strain; 
 While bold Potomac, flush with mountain dew, 
 
 Runs hastening, leaping unto you. 
 Glad Daughter of the Stars, whose arms 
 
 Receive him, mistress of a thousand charms. 
 But yet above your nuptial hymn, both far and 
 
 nigh, 
 Loud sound the echoes of Centennial Joy.' 
 
 II 
 
 As if in dream, One Hundred years ago, 
 I see the smoke rise on the summer air. 
 
 In single spires, the smoke in all the vale below, 
 Lonesome and distant, tells of the pioneer — 
 
 I see the an tiered deer move slowly on, 
 
 I hear the woodman's stroke before the dawn. 
 168 
 
One Hundred years ago the royal crest 
 
 Of all the Georges, save the last and worst, 
 
 Blazed on our State's escutcheon, and the West 
 By tribute and allegiance, still accurst. 
 
 Racked off her sweet new wine, in bottles old 
 
 With Kingly use, and base with feudal mould. 
 
 One hundred years. O! cradle of a birth 
 
 So recent dated in historic range; 
 What magic genius rocked thee, that the earth. 
 
 And vibrate woods so rose and fell with change, 
 That all the old barbaric spirit spent, 
 A newer phase of men subdued the Continent.'^ 
 
 'Twas Labor, with fair Science by his side, 
 Who of celestial birth, gave him her hand; 
 
 And from their love, thus sacredly allied. 
 
 Sprang Progress like a dream, throughout the 
 land. 
 
 And Cereal Beauty, blooming like a rose. 
 And Liberty with fiercer natal throes. 
 
 Ill 
 
 We are new men; our prime is still ahead, 
 We still await the harvest of maturity 
 
 To garner all the broadcast of our dead. 
 
 And date our Morn from this Centennial Jubi- 
 lee. 
 
 Be glad, ye Brother Hills, with all your vines 
 inclosed ! 
 Rejoice like that fair flower that blooms cen- 
 tennially; 
 For Berkeley's Genius on her Northern Height 
 reposed. 
 This day fulfills One Hundred years of destiny. 
 169 
 
Be glad, ye Brother Hills, with all your vales 
 inclosed ! 
 For by her side, God's daughter. Peace, sits 
 smilingly, 
 And sees the growing towns, like islands inter- 
 posed 
 Athwart the emerald beauty of a rolling sea. 
 
 Rejoice, because our father's deeds have not out- 
 shone 
 Those of our modern dead, whose blood flowed 
 in their veins; 
 'Twas theirs to lay for Liberty her corner stone, 
 But to preserve the temple to ourselves remains. 
 
 Rejoice, because for us our heroes fought and 
 traced 
 With bloody feet their own immortal victories — 
 That Morgan led, and Darke our early annals 
 graced, 
 And Gates and Lee, and Stephens left their 
 memories. 
 
 We need no Doric Column, and no Tuscan pride 
 To point the path of glory ; for our soldiers trod 
 
 O'er burning plowshares, red with heat intensified, 
 And true to them, we must be to ourselves and 
 God. 
 
 DECORATION HYMN 
 
 Comrades, round these ashes gather. 
 Laden down with flowers and prayer. 
 
 We ourselves are honored rather 
 
 Than our dead, by this sweet care ! 
 
 For our grief we cannot smother 
 And our tears will ever flow, 
 170 
 
While the bosom of our Mother 
 Folds these heroes, still and low. 
 
 Duty called them, and they hearing, 
 
 Faltered not to lead the way; 
 Without questioning or fearing, 
 
 Ever foremost in the fray : 
 And our grief we may not smother, 
 
 And our tears must ever flow, 
 While the bosom of our Mother 
 
 Folds these heroes still and low ! 
 
 VIRGINIA FUIT 
 
 **The name of Commomvealth is past and gone.** 
 (Byron — Ode to Venice.) 
 
 Consummatum — the work of destruction is done. 
 The race of the first of the States has been run. 
 The guile of her foes finds its triumph at last. 
 And VIRGINIA, like Poland, belongs to the past. 
 
 How her story the heart's deepest reverence stirs, 
 What a stature, antique and heroic, was hers! 
 What a grace, what a glory, her presence adorn- 
 ing. 
 In the fresh, dewy light of fair Liberty's morning! 
 
 In that day of her early espousals she came 
 With her dowry of empire, her birthright of fame. 
 To enrich and ennoble, on land and on sea. 
 The Republic her WASHINGTON'S valor made 
 free. 
 
 And what greatness resplendent it won through 
 
 her love. 
 Let the eloquent page of the annalist prove, 
 171 
 
Wherein, though that page is now blotted with 
 
 tears, 
 Virginia ever as Empress appears. 
 
 *The nation's decrees did her counselors mould. 
 And her orator's words were as apples of gold; 
 Her captains triumphant, afloat and ashore, 
 Gave the banner of Union the brightness it bore. 
 
 And for this, that her children disgraced not their 
 
 sires. 
 That they strove to keep lighted their liberty fires. 
 That they hailed her as rightfully wearing the 
 
 crown. 
 And for this have her enemies trampled her down. 
 
 How low lies she now, stript of half her domain. 
 Bewailing her sons who in battle were slain. 
 With the shade of an infinite sadness upon her. 
 And all she loved dearest, all lost but her honor ! 
 
 Thank Heaven! that is safe: with a madness 
 
 accurst. 
 Let the tyrants that rule for the hour do their 
 
 worst; 
 She may bleed 'neath the heel of the hireling 
 
 invader. 
 They may spoil, they may rend, but they cannot 
 
 degrade her. 
 
 Let them subjugate nature — enraged, let them seek 
 To drain the broad waste of the blue Chesapeake, 
 Let them seal up the sources whence rushes Bull 
 
 Run, 
 And shut out from the Valley the face of the sun : 
 
 *To mould a mighty State's decrees, 
 
 (Tennyson. In Memoriam) 
 172 
 
Let them falsify fact — without conscience or ruth. 
 Let them paralyze Justice and manacle Truth; 
 (Fair Truth, we accept of their poet the line 
 That the years of the Godhead eternal are thine!) 
 
 Yet the record remains: in the garment of song 
 The legend of JACKSON her praise shall prolong, 
 And Veritas Virens crushed down though it be, 
 Shall spring to the light in the story of LEE : 
 
 From the anguish abyssmal, where prostrate she 
 
 lies, 
 VIRGINIA, the desolate, never may rise; 
 For already the iron hath entered the soul. 
 And behold at the fountain all broken the bowl! 
 
 But of just retribution there cometh the day; 
 The Master has promised it— I WILL REPAY— 
 And woe to the people He smites with His rod. 
 In that terrible day of the vengeance of God ! 
 
 1868, Charles Town, 
 
 JACKSON'S GRAVE 
 
 " The Government shrouded Jackson in their 
 battle flag, but the people shrouded him in May 
 flowers.*' — Dabney's Life of Jackson. 
 
 Fame had marked him from the cradle, 
 
 Though the Soldier knew it not. 
 All unconscious of a mission. 
 
 Save what holy living wrought; 
 Naught to him was vain ambition, 
 
 Naught but fealty to the cause 
 Of God and Truth and Duty, made him 
 
 All the hero that he was. 
 173 
 
Shroud him, Spotless Banner, hushing 
 Shouts of Victory to rest. 
 While his giant arms are folded, 
 Grandly o'er the Warrior's breast! 
 
 Here he sleeps in glory : let him ! 
 
 Patriots ponder o'er this spot ! 
 For the soul that can forget him 
 
 Soon itself shall be forgot! 
 Where this mound is held as sacred, 
 
 Men may overlook their chains. 
 Wingless Victory defends them, 
 
 And eternal Hope remains. 
 
 Shroud him. Spotless Banner, etc, — 
 
 Flowers of May, O ! early Flowers, 
 
 He was younger than you all; 
 For the bier that, scented, bore you, 
 
 Was the cradle of his soul ! 
 And this grave, so close and narrow 
 
 Is the garden of his fame. 
 Which shall fill the earth forever 
 
 With the perfume of his name. 
 
 Shroud him, Spotless Banner, etc. — 
 
 Southern Metropolis, Baltimore, March 20, 1869. 
 
 A. P. HILL 
 
 O! Marshal of Napoleon's peer — 
 
 O! Bayard of the fight! 
 O! soul that never knew to fear. 
 Nor faltered in the right. 
 
 'Twas time to go, for all was gone — 
 'Twas time to die, for all was done ! 
 
 You fought, as for a right, for breath; 
 As on a natural foe — 
 174 
 
And friend of Sin — you glared on Death, 
 And struck him blow for blow ! 
 
 But strike the colors now: lay down 
 The Sword, and die, for all is gone! 
 
 You walked our vales as spirits tread 
 
 The curling clouds on air — 
 Lo! how they followed where you led 
 Who else had felt despair : 
 
 With nothing more to give, fling on 
 The foe your life, for they have won! 
 
 As a last parting shot from ships 
 
 That to the bottom go, 
 What name from Jackson's dying lips 
 Was hurled against the foe? 
 
 'A. P. Hill! prepare your gun!' — 
 And died, believing it was done ! 
 
 And when our Emperor of men, 
 
 Great Lee, lay down to die. 
 And fancy lit the fight again. 
 What figure filled his eye ! 
 
 'A. P. Hill!' he cried, 'on! on!'— 
 And died, believing it was done! 
 
 O ! Soldier of the lion-heart — 
 
 O! Bayard of the fight! 
 O ! soul that nobly did his part. 
 Nor faltered in the right, 
 
 'Twas time to go, for all was gone — 
 'Twas time to die, for all was done! 
 
 175 
 
THE DEATH OF LEE 
 
 Winchester y January 19 y 1871. 
 
 Bend low to God ! the greatest man is dead ! 
 
 Who to his courage added tender grace, 
 And whilst in war he fired as he led, 
 
 In peace, taught patience to a warUke race : 
 Bend low in grief ! the greatest man is gone ! 
 The greatest spirit fled, our modern world hath 
 known ! 
 
 As some ripe shock of corn exposed to light, 
 And early rain, is gathered ere the frost 
 
 Hath touched a single golden blade with blight — 
 Before a single golden grain is lost — 
 
 He in his autumn fell, ere age could tame, 
 
 Ripe, through great actions, for eternal fame. 
 
 With broad, strategic hand he scattered far, 
 As seedsmen sow with grain the fallow soil. 
 
 The seed of vict'ry in the field of war, 
 
 And reaped a harvest rich with Federal spoil; 
 
 His skill, Manassas, Richmond, vouch, as should 
 
 The thunder of Cold Harbor, twice baptized in 
 blood! 
 
 Year after year, with giant arm, he foiled 
 
 The superhuman odds he wrestled with. 
 He piled his vict'ries as the Titans piled 
 
 Their mountains in the old Hellenic myth. 
 Then from the summit smiled on those who 
 
 stood 
 Below, and simply said : * I did the best I could !' 
 176 
 
As in mid ocean stands a stable rock, 
 
 While his great breast throws back the brine he 
 braves, 
 Defies the storm, and yields not to the shock, 
 
 Nor courts the stars, nor palters from the waves, 
 So stood our hero, proof against the time. 
 With front serene, undaunted, and sublime! 
 
 At last the days drew nigh when all should end; 
 'Twas done! and all achieved that man could 
 dare — 
 A nation on a narrow strip of land, 
 
 A whole Confederate world in ten miles square! 
 No people ever sank in a sublimer gloom. 
 From Ida's mount to Cithseron, from Cithseron to 
 Rome! 
 
 Though food was none, and what there was denied. 
 Their force out-numbered by the Federal dead, 
 The many-languaged host they still defied, 
 
 Unconquered yet, though hope itself had fled — 
 Unconquered, though they knew their course was 
 
 run, 
 Unpaid, unclad, untented, and at the last — un- 
 done! 
 
 Then dressed our hero gaily like a groom, 
 
 In that brave cloth with beauteous thread of 
 steel. 
 With wreath about his throat, and sash, and 
 plume. 
 And gold upon his arm, and silver at his heel, 
 And took the sword he kept so free from dole. 
 And gave it up, as a brave man yields his soul! 
 
 Success, defeat, a truer meaning have: 
 'Tis Virtue dominates eternally. 
 177 
 
'Tis Virtue makes the freeman or the slave, 
 
 From whose green heights of wingless victory, 
 Our hero, conquered — only shone the more, 
 As, half-eclipsed, the moon burns ruddier than 
 before ! 
 
 It is the old barbaric folly yet, 
 
 Which time has tempered, but cannot efface 
 In them, who deem the good can not be great. 
 
 And think the worst, the greatest of our race; 
 To Lee — Napoleon, Grant, and Csesar seem 
 As orreries of brass, beside the solar scheme ! 
 
 II 
 
 What though he clamored not for rank nor place. 
 And held no pow er that he did not grace 
 With lustre which his ow^n obedience shed? 
 Because he lived thus low ly , w^e magnify him dead ! 
 
 What though he w^ould not step for worlds, but 
 
 w^here 
 The lamp of conscience lit his pathway clear, 
 And proved that christian faith is manlihead! 
 Because he lived thus purely, we magnify him 
 
 dead! 
 
 What though he never struck an envious blow, 
 Betrayed a friend, nor laid a rival low, 
 Nor one self- vindicating word e'er said? 
 Because he, living, dwarfed us, we magnify him 
 dead! 
 
 What though an outw^ard show of coldness served, 
 As by the snow the early wheat's preserved. 
 To shield a tenderness most softly bred ! 
 Because he lived thus gently, we magnify him 
 dead! 
 
 178 
 
What though, his country lost, no man's behef 
 Could fathom his impenetrable grief. 
 Until at last it lowly laid his head? 
 Because he suffered grandly, we magnify him 
 dead ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 He loved not war, but could not well renounce 
 That fealty to his native land first due — 
 
 O, countrymen, there was a soldier once 
 
 From instinct brave, but brave from duty too! 
 
 A great self-mastered spirit, who out\aed 
 
 The empty pageants which his age supplied ! 
 
 But he is gone ! our paragon lies there ! 
 
 No more for him the orphan-making roar 
 Of guns — no more the shout, and trumpets' blare — 
 
 The tented field, and joy of fight no more! 
 No more his hand shall guide our Southern youth, 
 By labor's patient steps, through travail unto 
 truth! 
 
 Lie still in glory ! hero of our hearts, 
 
 Sleep sweetly in thy vaulted chapel-grave! 
 
 The splendor of the far-excelling stars departs — 
 Not so the lustre of the godlike brave ! 
 
 Thy glory shall not vanish, but increase. 
 
 Thou boldest son of war, and mildest child of 
 peace ! 
 
 Lie still in glory! patient, prudent, deep! 
 O, central form in our immortal strife, 
 With an eternal weight of glory, sleep 
 
 Within her breast, who gave thee name and life! 
 Lie very still ! no more contend with odds ! 
 Transcendent among men — resplendent with the 
 gods! 
 
 179 
 
Lie still in glory ! faithful, fervent, strong ! 
 
 Perchance the land we love shall need a name: 
 Perchance the breath of unresisted wrong 
 
 Shall blow enduring patience into flame: 
 If so, thy name shall leap from star to star 
 In thunder, and thy sleeping army wake to war ! 
 
 THE LAMP OF FREEDOM 
 
 When Liberty upon the main 
 
 Her lamp of freedom set, 
 Her anxious bosom throbbed with pain, 
 
 Her cheeks with tears were wet. 
 
 Old Europe, with her blast and blame 
 
 Of internecine fight. 
 Had well nigh quenched the sacred flame. 
 
 And left the world in night. 
 
 "Atlantic waves, bear this," she cried, 
 *'My charge upon your breast. 
 
 With wind and tide, until it ride 
 Safe-harbored in the West. " 
 
 ** There a new race, reserved for me, 
 
 Shall take it from your hand. 
 Their Union shall its altar be, 
 
 Their hearts its vestals stand." 
 
 " The zeal of patriots be the oil 
 
 To keep its taper bright. 
 The statesman's travail, soldier's toil, 
 
 The price of such dear Ught." 
 
 "From year to year, through age to age. 
 
 Eternal vigils shared 
 By many a hero, many a sage, 
 
 The holy flame shall guard!" 
 180 
 
AT THE GATES OF LIBERTY 
 
 The South Shall Claim Her Own Again! 
 Read before the New York Southern Society on Feb. 22, 1888. 
 
 Eternal Gates of Liberty, 
 
 Lift up your stately heads ! 
 Behold, with bridal pageantry, 
 
 And garlands from fair meads. 
 The South comes, with her sister train, 
 To claim her own again ! 
 
 Make room upon the left and right ! 
 
 What hour the clock of destiny 
 Has struck departing night, 
 
 Merged in the day of jubilee. 
 Star-girt, and beautifully bright, 
 There comes most fearlessly, amain. 
 The South to claim her own again ! 
 
 Pleasant and wonderfully fair, 
 
 Like one that knows her own. domain, 
 
 Magnolia flowers in her hair, 
 And orange blossoms rare, 
 
 Let her not knock in vain! 
 
 Lift up your equal heads to her, 
 Of all your courts contain co-heir, 
 
 For lo ! she claims her own again ! 
 
 No mendicant is at your doors. 
 
 Nor bids you raise your fronts of stone! 
 
 Whose fathers built, upon these shores, 
 With rampire, buttress, bastion. 
 
 And godhke masonry of skill, 
 
 Fair Freedom's all-enduring towers. 
 
 Returns, and, if you will, 
 181 
 
Within this holy fane, 
 
 Shall cherish all her own again ! 
 
 Of rock made they your stately plight, 
 
 And carved your panels with the sword, 
 And hinged upon the people's right, 
 
 To lift or close, but at their word ; 
 So when she bids, in conscience bold. 
 Your everlasting leaves unfold. 
 
 Widely they stand, 
 
 At her command. 
 Whose glory shall not wane — 
 The South who claims her own again ! 
 
 Mother of policies, and States, 
 
 The offspring of thy womb hath been 
 
 High progeny ! 
 This day the Nation consecrates 
 To him who watched these awful Gates, 
 
 For it and thee. 
 Wide-armed to let thee in, 
 
 They ready stand, at its command. 
 
 To rend their bars in twain. 
 That thou may'st claim thine own again! 
 
 What atmosphere is this surrounds 
 These granite heads within whose bounds 
 
 The goddess Freedom dwells? 
 'Tis Love, which bears with equal force, 
 Upon each planet in its course. 
 
 Whose music swells. 
 Till all the choir join the refrain — 
 The South shall claim her own again ! 
 
 In glory differs star from star, 
 Yet each, resplendent, shines afar, 
 In its own place; 
 
 18^ 
 
They wheel their chariot-wheels of fire, 
 They do not falter nor expire, 
 
 Nor fall from space; 
 In universal order's reign. 
 The South shall claim her own again ! 
 
 We know whereto our purpose guides 
 The ship of State, so that she rides 
 
 In safety on the main; 
 That those eternal landmarks, set 
 By Southern pilots, towering yet, 
 
 Through sunshine, storm or rain. 
 Upbear this legend as their debt — 
 The South shall claim her own again ! 
 
 Shall we ignore the hero race 
 
 That stormed the heights of Fame's re- 
 doubt. 
 With tracks that time cannot efface. 
 
 Nor history falter to point out? 
 The womb that bear, prolific still. 
 
 Shall reproduce the noble strain 
 Of statesmen, sages, warriors, tijl 
 
 The South shall claim her own again ! 
 
 Fair Freedom knows whence was her source 
 
 From out her Western height; 
 She will not bear the least divorce 
 
 Between the right and might; 
 She says unto the North, forbear. 
 
 To East and West, refrain; 
 She thunders through the lambent air — 
 
 The South shall claim her own again ! 
 
 Not arrogant, our attitude. 
 
 Nor fretful, nor perverse; 
 We know the marriage-bond holds good 
 
 For better or for worse; 
 183 
 
We recognize the founders' will, 
 
 Confirmed on battle-plain; 
 But this we know, for good or ill. 
 
 The South shall claim her own again! 
 
 Who gave the people right to rule 
 
 And made their voice supreme? 
 Who says there is no God's a fool. 
 
 Nor is His reign a dream ; 
 He laid in law these Palace-Gates, 
 
 Nor reared their heads in vain ! 
 HE says unto the Sister States — 
 
 The South shall claim her own again ! 
 
 Great Architect! we bow the head. 
 
 And ask Thee for a sign, 
 Such as, of old, Thy hand portrayed 
 
 Unto great Constantine; 
 When lo ! upon the naked sky 
 
 We read engraved most plain, 
 Far-flashing from the vault on high — 
 
 *' The South shall claim her own again!*' 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 Of the Southern Dead in ** Edge-Hilly'* Charles 
 Town, W. Va., June 9, 1888. 
 
 And shall we then forget these heroes? Never! 
 
 The Southern heart that boasts their memory 
 not 
 
 Shall be itself deservedly forgot, 
 While they in fame live on forever ! 
 
 The sceptre, like the ebbing tide, departs. 
 While like the granite cliff, whose stable form 
 184 
 
Hurls back the breakers, and resists the storm 
 Great deeds outwear all human arts I 
 
 And when some laggard age shall lack the light 
 Of high achievement, or sublimer mood. 
 Heroic travail, or great fortitude, 
 
 Here shall example serve the right! 
 
 Praised be their overtures to Liberty, 
 
 Their courage, and their unbought sense of 
 
 wrong ! 
 Sublimely faithful, and in patience strong, 
 
 Their deeds remain oiu* legacy ! 
 
 OUR TRUST 
 
 A Dedication Hymn at the Unveiling of the Confed- 
 erate Monument at Charlestown, W. Va., 1871. 
 
 Let perish every throb of hate. 
 Let only Love commemorate : 
 
 Let pride, and strife, and lust, 
 And all things perish but the true. 
 While here, unveiled, we raise to view 
 This shaft, and shed our tears anew 
 
 O'er consecrated dust! 
 
 These heroes were to us that live, 
 And now this feeble tribute give. 
 
 What wine is to its must ! 
 Unpurified, and weak as tears. 
 Our vintage mellows not with years, 
 While time renews and strengthens theirs. 
 
 Whose ashes are our trust! 
 
 They were to us that here upraise 
 This marble column in their praise. 
 What steel is to its rust ! 
 185 
 
While we grow dimmer year by year, 
 They gleam like some keen cimiter, 
 And brighten in an atmosphere 
 More heavenly we trust ! 
 
 They were to us whose sympathy 
 Here consecrate their memory. 
 
 What storms are to the gust! 
 We break in tears — and are forgiven : 
 They rose — and thunderbolts were driven- 
 They shook the trembling floor of heaven, 
 
 Whose ashes are our trust! 
 
 Like feeble rockets we expire — 
 These meteors set a world on fire ! 
 
 O! glorious holocaust! 
 We can but flicker and are done — 
 We can but glimmer where they shone — 
 We can but leave them here alone, 
 
 In sweet repose and trust ! 
 
 Let perish every throb of hate : 
 Let Love alone commemorate: 
 
 Let dust return to dust ! 
 I^t all things perish but the true. 
 While here we shed our tears anew, 
 And consecrate to them and You 
 
 This shaft, O! Christ, our Trust! 
 
 186 
 
II 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND SERIOUS POEMS 
 
PRAYER 
 
 Give us, Great God the power to see — 
 
 Give us Great Thoughts to make us fre( 
 Give us divinest sympathy 
 
 And sweet results of fantasy — 
 And to our maids sweet constancy — 
 
 And to our youth high courtesy — 
 And every deed of chivalry — 
 
 And to the old satiety — 
 And to the man sobriety — 
 
 And to the wife pure chastity — . 
 And to the husband purity — 
 
 And to the orphan charity — 
 And to the widow modesty — 
 
 And to the people liberty — 
 And to the world humanity, 
 
 And to the virtuous victory, 
 But to Love grant this — To he. 
 
 DUTY 
 
 The stars shall quench their own celestial fire, 
 The heavens rein vol ve themselves a scroll — 
 
 The universe in vanity expire, 
 
 Save that Immortal Trouble called the Soul ! 
 
 189 
 
*Magnetic harmonies of woman's voice — 
 Pure eloquence from crystal hearted men — 
 
 Gardens which, in perennial bloom, rejoice — 
 Majestic forms of beauty — all are vain! 
 
 In vain the martyr's crown, the poet's wreath, 
 The moving canvas, and the chiseled thought; 
 
 The arch of triumph, and the forum's breath: 
 The statesman's civic honors, dearly bought ! 
 
 *The Doric column, and the Tuscan pride; 
 
 Basilic old, and mosque, and pagan fane — 
 All monuments are sermons petrified, 
 
 To teach us that the dead have lived in vain ! 
 
 Duty alone can give to life a plan, 
 
 And it not more than this, nor less can be : 
 Obedient to God, and just to man, 
 True to thyself and thy high destiny ! 
 
 Southern Metropolis y 1869. 
 HYMN 
 
 What light is that a-breaking 
 
 Along the Easter sky — 
 While all the earth is shaking. 
 
 And a voice is heard on high? 
 'Tis the morning of the dawning of the 
 
 Great Light! 
 When the mountain tops are glinted. 
 And all the skies are tinted 
 
 With the Great Light! 
 
 *See D. K. E. Poem, p. 161 and Berkeley Cen- 
 tennialy p. 170. 
 
 190 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 O! Prophet of new song, who taught 
 A language other than our own — 
 
 We doubt no longer, but are brought 
 In chains of music to thy throne. 
 
 We yield, that thou art sent of Heaven — 
 Thy themes are themes of perfect joy, 
 
 Thy spirit by the splendors riven 
 That dominate eternity. 
 
 Each tender touch that makes us dream — 
 Each grander tone, our souls to thrill — 
 
 Transfuses, melted in one stream 
 Of full, free passion at thy will. 
 
 Subdued at length, who did thee wrong, 
 In clouds, bear witness that we hear — 
 
 Go out to greet thee. Child of Song, 
 As atmospheres to greet a star. 
 
 We follow, and each beam of light 
 
 That strikes thee from the Central Sun, 
 
 Thou renderest us to break and smite 
 The downward ages, one by one ! 
 
 WEIGHT 
 
 Some men in ponderous weight excel their kind, 
 
 Others endowed with keener sense refined. 
 Surpass their fellows in immortal mind ! 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Apropos His Centennial Year. 
 
 Thine, Byron, was the usual fate 
 Of too much ill-considered praise, 
 191 
 
And now, half century too late, 
 The critics would deface thy bays. 
 
 Was it, perchance, because thy pen 
 Dropt from some eagle's soaring wing, 
 
 Wrote gloriously of the rights of men 
 And scorned to flatter Court or King — 
 
 Was't this, despite thy fair-sweet art. 
 Closed on thy dust Westminster's gate? 
 
 But urned within the people's heart. 
 
 Safe, Thou, great Englishman, canst wait ! 
 
 "Of old, sat Freedom on her height," 
 
 (So on a time a Lord did sing,) 
 And he who loved the people's right 
 
 May yet last longer than the King. 
 
 So let the Critics ply their trade. 
 And honour modern fashion's claim, 
 
 They cannot cloud by their tirade 
 Thine own imperishable name. 
 
 The after-school abhorred all sense. 
 And simple language of their time; 
 
 And glorified incompetence 
 
 To comprehend their obscure rhyme. 
 
 But this thy lasting praise shall be 
 
 And for thy many faults atone; 
 We read without a glossary, 
 
 Or Anglo-Saxon lexicon. 
 
 Already does the tide recede; 
 
 Reaction for lucidity, 
 Begins with fame to intercede 
 
 Great Byron, for thy verse and thee. 
 
 W. Va. School Journal. 
 192 
 
FROM PARIS TO VERSAILLES 
 
 Julyy 1891. 
 
 Our four-in-hand is here, ascend, 
 
 And let us gallop through Saint Cloud 
 
 To Versailles; should the Muse attend. 
 We'll sing an anthem clear and loud. 
 
 From Paris to Versailles the lane 
 Is epoch-marked in spire and stone. 
 
 And dates its fame from Charlemagne 
 To Carnot, through Napoleon. 
 
 From Louvre to Madeleine we see 
 Wise motto graven on the gates, 
 
 "Equality, Fraternity 
 And Liberty, " — triumvirates. 
 
 Greater than ruled at Rome, we feel, 
 Because, on power alone intent, 
 
 Those governed with the glave of steel. 
 These with the sword of sentiment. 
 
 See here, Gambetta 'mid his peers, 
 Erect as when in high debates; 
 
 Yonder, the Arc of Triumph rears 
 Its immemorial list of dates. 
 
 With fervid wheel and swift, we lilt 
 By Tower and Arc, the Column pass,— 
 
 Doubly imperishably built. 
 Moulded of glory and of brass, 
 
 The Elysian Fields, with lily ranks 
 Of flowers, and fonts for marble fawn, 
 193 
 
overlooking Seine with reedy banks, 
 And bosky path of dark Boulogne. 
 
 O ! Umbrageous Avenue ! 
 
 What multitudes have trod your stones; 
 Priests, peasants, kings, — indifferent you 
 
 Have ministered to mobs and thrones ! 
 
 Blood, too, in strife unholy shed. 
 
 Has dyed your far-resounding haunt; 
 
 The *' stones of Rome would rise, " 'twas said- 
 But these are sterner adamant ! 
 
 The Palace of the kings of France, 
 Versailles, we reach and hesitate — 
 
 Dampness of Caves, vapor of trance 
 Enshroud these walls, — how desolate! 
 
 I look from their bay window height. 
 
 And turn my back upon their dead; 
 Without, I see the sun-smile, bright. 
 Upon the walks of flowery mead : 
 
 Within, I leave the Grand Salon, 
 
 Where monarchs sat and drank red wine; 
 
 Without, a headless king leads on 
 Processions to the guillotine! 
 
 Within, but for the voyager. 
 
 Silence and sleep would claim the past; 
 Without, the present bids good cheer — 
 
 The people are awake at last ! 
 
 Within, the gilded lie appalls. 
 
 Which once deceived a nation's sense; 
 
 Without, inclosed by garden walls 
 The lily, truth, exhales incense; 
 194 
 
Within, lies kingship dead, effete. 
 
 Surviving but in memory ; 
 Without, a problem wise and sweet 
 
 Is being solved for history : 
 
 Within, they have adjourned for time, 
 With all the tumult they displayed; 
 
 Without, lives France in Second Prime, 
 Free, prosperous, and undismayed! 
 
 Of all that art that made French men 
 Unequalled in the craftsman's sphere. 
 
 This palace holds no specimen — 
 
 Avaunt! but velvet robes are here — ! 
 
 Order ! my brave people, order ! 
 
 Do not disturb these ashes here; 
 They had their turn in town and border, 
 
 And you have yours for peace and prayer. 
 
 They lie unalterably low, 
 
 With all their titled ancestries; 
 At intervals a great man too — 
 
 An oak among the shrubberies. 
 
 All level now at any rate. 
 
 The strong king with the feeble one, 
 The puny emperor with the great, 
 
 The last and first Napoleon. 
 
 Where now convene the Notables? 
 
 Ah, here how silently are held 
 Their dead and dumb conventicles. 
 
 As ever ghosts or ghouls beheld! 
 
 "A banquet hall deserted," write 
 Upon thy walls once gay Chateau; 
 195 
 
The firm of kings, dissolved in night, 
 Hath left these relics here on show. 
 
 Jewels and gilded tapestries, 
 
 Pictures and sculps, in mould and dust; 
 Gem-hilt ed swords, in any wise. 
 
 Not stained with blood, nor dimmed with 
 rust. 
 
 Mere ornaments, they cannot scorn 
 The scabbard now as erst they did. 
 
 When Louis, on that glorious morn. 
 Superb, o'er Solferino rid! 
 
 Poor Louis, here thou sleepest too! 
 
 Not vain, nor altogether great; 
 Though false to France, time proved thee true 
 
 Unto thy dynasty and fate. 
 
 And here "at his last day," the bold. 
 The fierce, the great Napoleon sits — 
 
 No more the warrior of old 
 
 Who leaped from Ulm to Austerlitz ! 
 
 *With front like the imperial globe. 
 His two arms folded on his breast 
 
 No more; no more the purple robe 
 
 Nor throne, but cushioned couch of rest. 
 
 By those glazed eyes which eastward stare, 
 Searching for France rather than God, 
 
 The France that could forget him were 
 Not France, but some apostate sod ! 
 
 The Louvre may perish, Seine run dry. 
 Wild beasts invade the Trianon, 
 *See Victor Hugo. 
 
 196 
 
Still Fame, Great Corsican, as high 
 As are the stars, shall guide you on! 
 
 The world shall still discourse of you, 
 And worship where repose your bones ; 
 
 *As god of Terror, Titan, who 
 
 In lieu of mountains, piled up thrones ! 
 
 Be terrible as was thy son, 
 
 France, well beloved ! true to thy dead, 
 Still, Mother of Napoleon, 
 
 Shake the round earth where thou dost 
 tread ! 
 
 They should beware of thee who trailed 
 Thy glorious oriflamme so low; 
 
 Are there no scores to settle? hailed 
 By thy resilience! fit shall go! 
 *W. Va. School Journal. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 {At Stratford, 1891.) 
 
 Immortal Shakespeare, 
 
 Star of song that first rose here. 
 
 We pilgrims from beyond the sea. 
 Kneel at thy shrine most reverently ! 
 
 THE GOLDEN NOTE 
 
 To Danske Dandridge 
 
 The burning of the midnight oil, 
 
 The constant turning of the page. 
 By day, by night, with ceaseless toil, 
 
 \The refrain of the Republic, *Ca iral' 
 197 
 
These bring old age — 
 But not that golden note 
 
 The nightingale has in his throat! 
 
 'Twas yours, when we had failed, 
 
 To strike that note when young; 
 What time your finer touch prevailed 
 To thrill immortal chords of song. 
 Nature too old 
 To be controlled, 
 Proclaimed: "This child of mine shall sing 
 The glorious diapason of the Spring!" 
 
 Thenceforth with throstle and the dove, 
 Inspired by Nature, and her love, 
 
 From your sweet lyre there seemed to float, 
 As from the Muses' chorded shell. 
 
 The sounds they love so well — 
 The echoes of that golden note. 
 
 December 26, 1893, 
 
 OUR ANCIENT LAWS 
 
 What are our maxims of the past? 
 
 Are they but legends untranslate. 
 But ancient myths, too weak to last, 
 
 Or serve a purpose for the State? 
 
 Who moulded them with pious care 
 
 Fair Freedom to subserve. 
 And laid them on her altars where 
 
 The mass could read, the wise preserve? 
 
 Our giant Fathers ! Sons of God ! 
 
 Clothed on with faith in holy cause — 
 These were the men the wine-press trod, 
 
 To consecrate our primal laws. 
 198 
 
These were the men that well foreknew 
 The proneness of degenerate Time 
 
 A downward pathway to pursue. 
 
 That leads to grossness, greed and crime. 
 
 A world-wide struggle in a war 
 
 For empty power, a rueful thing; 
 An Empire, with no Emperor; 
 
 A Monarchy — without a King ! 
 
 Beware! my Countrymen, the hour 
 When we foreswear our Ancient Laws, 
 
 Lest rude Ambition pencil our 
 Republic's epitaph: "IT WAS!" 
 
 Rion Ball, 1903. 
 POE 
 
 Immortal Poe ! Behold the Hall of Fame, 
 
 Where haunted still by thee. 
 Entranced, forever listening to thy name, 
 
 The Bird of Destiny 
 Broods o'er a fate like thine. 
 
 Too dark for words of mine. 
 
 Let prophets from far distant climates come; 
 
 They find no space for thee 
 In their great hall of Fame they find no room. 
 
 We come and only we 
 To worship at thy shrine 
 
 Of lyric Song Divine. 
 
 Britain's poet longed to kneel 
 
 At thy neglected tomb. 
 Time's immemorial verdict there to seal 
 
 With amaranthine bloom; 
 199 
 
The modern Homer, he whose Island song 
 Taught a new language to the mimic 
 throng. 
 
 Ah, only from his golden throne, 
 
 Upon his golden lute, 
 He touched the magic note; then Poe was 
 known. 
 And so was quelled dispute. 
 Open thy portal. Fame ! Let soar 
 
 That sombre bird, whose song is heard for- 
 ever more. 
 
 Meanwhile, old Viper, spring thy rattle. 
 
 Where once he sang to thee. 
 The noblest poet of them all did battle 
 
 With grim necessity : 
 But yet the listening world heeds not thy 
 sting. 
 
 To his lost angel, while they hear him sing. 
 
 And shall the notables who built a Hall to 
 Fame, 
 Omitting Poe 
 Shall these inherit deathless glory's name? 
 
 No! A hundred voices answer "No." 
 The world revokes your charter. 
 
 Who have mistaken noise for fame, immor- 
 tal fame for barter. 
 Farmer's Advocate, Charles Town, Jan. 19, 1909. 
 
 200 
 
ni 
 
 LOVE LYRICS 
 
SONG 
 
 Moon, uprising in the heaven. 
 
 Flood the sky with silent light, 
 For to thee the power is given, 
 
 To shine into my soul to-night; 
 To touch the sweetest chords of feeling, 
 
 To my heart's most stillest depths, 
 Visions, fancies, thoughts revealing. 
 
 Fathoms deeper than the lips. 
 
 Why do Wonder's quaint suggestions, 
 
 Floating from thee in the sky. 
 To children prompt a thousand questions 
 
 To which age cannot reply? 
 Why do poets plume their pinions 
 
 For a more ethereal flight. 
 When they tread in thy dominions. 
 
 Fancy-feeding Queen of night? 
 
 Night, all desolate without thee. 
 
 By the day were put to shame, 
 And the stars that circle 'bout thee. 
 
 Scarcely would deserve the name; 
 But with thee, high-throned in splendor, 
 
 Like a thing of royal birth. 
 The Sky hath all that light can lend her. 
 
 And all that Beauty can, the Earth. 
 
 1869 
 
I*VE LEFT THE VILLAGE 
 
 Song 
 
 I've left the village, 
 
 Where first we met; 
 But in my fancy 
 
 I linger yet; 
 Beneath the grand old oak, 
 
 Where roses intertwine — 
 Oh! I've left the village, 
 
 Dear Heart of mine! 
 
 I've left the village! 
 
 O, dream-haunted Time, 
 Too sweet for music. 
 
 Too sad for rhyme, 
 Betray me not I pray. 
 
 With visions flush as wine — 
 For I've left the village, 
 
 Dear Heart of mine ! 
 
 I've left the village. 
 
 Ne'er to return. 
 My hopes all ashes. 
 
 My heart their urn; 
 The words unspoken yet. 
 
 Which might have made me thine — 
 Oh! I've left the village, 
 
 Dear Heart of mine ! 
 
 I've left the village, 
 
 Too late, too late ! 
 Remorse for folly, 
 
 Regret for Fate — 
 Can ne'er restore to me 
 
 The love I now resign; 
 For I've left the village. 
 
 Dear Heart of mine! 
 204 
 
DECEMBER, 1871 
 
 The leaves have fallen to the ground, 
 The Southern skies grown pale, 
 
 The lark neglects his Summer sound. 
 The thrush forgets his tale : 
 
 All desolately mute the woods, 
 
 With arms outstretched in prayers, 
 
 Remind our hearts of solitudes 
 As vast and calm as theirs ! 
 
 The joys like birds have taken wing. 
 That made our parts sublime. 
 
 In all the pride, and pomp of Spring, 
 In autumn's golden prime. 
 
 The West no longer woos the wold. 
 With amorous strains and pranks. 
 
 But like a conqueror, rude and bold, 
 Rides down the shattered ranks. 
 
 But now he's cold, ah me! so cold! 
 
 So changed this wintry West 
 That we would fold, like yonder wold. 
 
 Our bloom about our breast. 
 
 For now he blows — ah me ! he blows 
 So fierce, this rueful West — 
 
 That we would close, like yonder rose. 
 Our bloom about our breast. 
 
 205 
 
SONNET 
 
 Old Beauty, worshipped in the Cyprian queen- 
 Divinely wrought in marble, or by skill 
 Of painter's touch, or, more divinely still, 
 Called from the sea by Sapphic lyre — I ween 
 Is something in itself, and they at fault 
 Who deem it mere relation or result ; 
 But yet there is a higher Beauty still — 
 A sweet subjection of the heart and will. 
 This inner to the outward charm should be 
 As a fair flower of celestial birth. 
 Fragrant with its own immortality. 
 To some poor, perishable plant of earth! 
 Fair Evelyn ! the meed of praise is thine 
 Both flowers in one wreath to intertwine ! 
 
 YOU COULD NOT LOVE 
 
 You could not love me? Be it so! 
 
 I only ask you then. 
 To chide me not, now that you know 
 
 I cannot love again ! 
 
 No ! rather toll the bell of death, 
 And fill the aisles with prayer, 
 
 Than weave for you the orange-wreath, 
 Or bind it in your hair ! 
 
 Too late, too late repentance now ! 
 
 Too late your tears that start. 
 Time cannot mend a broken vow. 
 
 Nor heal a broken heart. 
 
 206 
 
TIS SWEET TO LOVE 
 
 *Tis sweet to love before we learn 
 The lessons loving has to teach; 
 
 The human heart was born to yearn 
 For everything beyond its reach. 
 
 'Tis sweet to love, adore but one ! 
 
 Mere fancy call it, if you will; 
 A darling fancy, all one's own, 
 
 Is something sweet and sacred still. 
 
 *Tis sweet to love, if you have knelt 
 To one, in rapture, or in vain; 
 
 'Tis sweet to feel as we have felt — 
 What Time can lose not, nor regain! 
 
 'Tis sweet to love, and know at least 
 That once, along life's songless road 
 
 A poet you have been, or priest, 
 Commissioned and inspired of God! 
 
 Southern Metropolis, 1869. 
 
 THE CHESTNUT CURL ' 
 
 A single wreathed chestnut curl, 
 
 Tremulously soft doth float, 
 And like a banner, silken lengths unfurl 
 
 Low on her delicate throat. 
 
 The sumptuous, dark, trailing tress 
 Strays lightly o'er her bosom fair. 
 
 Clasping her close with soft caress, 
 As if it loved to linger there. 
 
 A life lives in each slender strand, 
 
 Its mystic folds a fate intwine, 
 Oh ! ruthless Atropos, stay, stay thy hand, 
 
 That life, that fate, alas ! are mine. 
 207 
 
Oh! Berenice of the golden hair! 
 
 Where musically wave the wings of Cherubim, 
 Where wakes the music of the spheres, and where 
 
 The morning stars together choir out a jubilant 
 hymn. 
 
 Where Heaven's wide glories ope through mani- 
 fold gates of pearl, 
 And thou of all art most divinely fair, 
 Rejoicing Seraphim upbear a wreathed chestnut 
 curl. 
 As lustrous as thine own whate'er thy splendors 
 are. 
 
 Oh ! Berenice of the golden hair ! 
 
 Whose beauteous tresses stream a constellation 
 bright, 
 Receive, imperial stars, an imperial sister there. 
 To flood with light the deep, immeasurable 
 night. 
 
 Southern Metropolis, 1869. 
 
 GOD KNOWS US WHOLLY 
 
 God knows us wholly. 
 
 Pities, forgives. 
 Each act of folly. 
 
 All thought that grieves; 
 Woman perchance is wiser than he. 
 
 Sterner to fancies, 
 Why should she be? 
 
 Knows she the inmost, 
 
 Sees she the whole? 
 She once by sin lost. 
 Let her save, then, man's soul! 
 208 
 
God who hath made us, 
 
 And not in vain, 
 Will not upbraid us, 
 But will restrain; 
 Woman perchance is, 
 
 Wiser than he, 
 Sterner to fancies, 
 Why should she be? 
 Sees she the inmost. 
 
 Knows she the whole? 
 Having by sin lost, 
 
 Let her ransom the soul ! 
 
 Southern Metropolisy 1869. 
 
 CARPE DIEM 
 
 Carpe diemi seize the day ! 
 
 Care less than nothing for tomorrow: 
 Drink life's pleasures while we may. 
 
 Before we sink beneath its sorrow. 
 
 Carpe diem! seize the hour. 
 
 Lest it be said when we are gone. 
 
 We of love the sweetest flower 
 
 Have left unplucked, to fade e'er blown. 
 
 Carpe diem! seize the bliss 
 
 Which, all too passionate to last, 
 
 And expiring with a kiss. 
 
 Defies the future, scorns the past! 
 
 MEETING AND PARTING 
 
 What time I met my darling 
 
 She was so darling sweet, 
 I wept at thought of parting, 
 
 And yet 'twas very meet, 
 That we should part, 
 
 Though it should break my heart ! 
 209 
 
For once I knew a darling 
 
 Who is so darling sweet, 
 That God a way will show us 
 
 From doing aught below us — 
 A safe and sure retreat, 
 
 From all love's precipices — 
 From all the wild, wild kisses, 
 
 That were unmeet! 
 
 Some day perchance . . . ah! never, 
 
 For everlasting fate 
 Shall close the door forever, 
 
 On us who met too late. 
 For when I met my darling 
 
 She was so darling sweet, 
 I wept at thought of parting. 
 
 And yet 'twas very meet 
 That we should part, 
 
 Though it should break my heart ! 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 Men may make rhyme: but God makes 
 poetry — 
 
 The rythm of eternal truth is His, 
 The phrase that lasts for all eternity. 
 
 Must be afflate with true divinity. 
 
 THE HIDDEN THOUGHT 
 
 A hidden thought, with sweet perfume, 
 Excels all other thoughts in sweetness, 
 
 As buds that burst, but dare not bloom. 
 Lose naught by seeming incompleteness; 
 
 Deep down in some sequestered glade. 
 They hardly dare to lift their head. 
 
 They cannot bloom — hence cannot fade! 
 210 
 
Full many a heart, (or one at least,) 
 Has cherished such a fadeless dream. 
 
 All unconfessed to saint or priest, 
 Or to the one we most esteem ; 
 
 No, not to God Himself confessed, 
 Deep in the cloisters of the breast — 
 
 Neither a blessing nor unblest ! 
 
 If from the chamber where it lies, 
 A single breath should reach the day. 
 
 Ten thousand sentinels would rise 
 To chase or chasten it away : 
 
 But not for that shall it depart, 
 We cannot separate the heart. 
 
 And take a part, and leave a part ! 
 
 Who knows but in some way divine, 
 This hidden thought may germinate. 
 
 And by a higher power than mine, 
 Release itself from fear and fate? 
 
 I do not think that this shall be — 
 I dare not ask it God, of Thee — 
 
 Why should I hide it? Thou canst see! 
 
 GOOD-BYE 
 
 Good-bye Elaine, good-bye ! 
 
 Upon the dial-plate 
 Of time, arrests itself 
 
 The shadow of our fate, 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 Good-bye Elaine, good-bye ! 
 
 I dreamt of death, and shriven 
 By holy priest, and prayer, 
 I would not be forgiven, 
 Preferring thee to Heaven, 
 Elaine! 
 
 211 
 
Good-bye, Elaine ! and yet 
 
 Again, good-bye! 
 The everlasting sail is set, 
 
 The wind is high 
 That drives eternity 
 
 Between us like the sea — 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 ROSA SANTA 
 
 'Tis not the imperial Noisette, 
 Nor prairie-climbing Seraphine — 
 
 I sing a Rose that's sweeter yet, 
 
 More charming than the Garden's Queen! 
 
 Sweet is the rich deep Anisette, 
 And sweet the wilding Eglantine — 
 
 I sing a Rose that's sweeter yet. 
 
 More charming than the Garden's Queen. 
 
 Incarnate Rose! Coquette of flowers! 
 
 Bright, tender-blown and beautiful — 
 Exhale on this waste world of ours 
 
 The fragrance of thy virgin soul. 
 
 Lora Immaculata! Saint! 
 
 My soul enamoured bows to thee. 
 My heart, like some young penitent, 
 
 For thee, dies to the world and me. 
 
 Lora Sanctissima, thy form 
 
 Carved by my phantasy, illumes 
 
 The chapel of my thought — a charm — 
 Or altar-light, amid its glooms ! 
 
 212 
 
I TOOK HER HAND 
 
 I took her hand one Summer's eve, 
 
 Though she resisted, evermore 
 A soft encroachment on her leave 
 
 Would bring us nearer than before. 
 
 A single glow upon her breast, 
 
 Began to spread o'er blanch and bloom, 
 Like fire, above the mountain's crest, 
 
 Through fringe, and blushing ivy plume. 
 
 And as the fleeing birds speed white. 
 
 Reflected on the crimson skies. 
 Her startled thoughts came swiftly bright 
 
 Whence they had slept within her eyes. 
 
 Speed, speed ye winged thoughts, your flights, 
 
 Ere falling, burning, ye expire 
 Before ye clear the mountain heights 
 
 That rise 'twixt you and me, on fire ! 
 
 Her words were conies bounding forth 
 Alas, too late to 'scape the flame. 
 
 For burned to sighs, they lost their worth, 
 And perished in her modest shame ! 
 
 MY LOVE LOVES ME 
 
 The mountains are flowing with fountains. 
 The clouds are a boon to the earth; 
 
 But I care not a fig for the mountains, 
 Nor the clouds with their misty birth, 
 For my love loves me! 
 
 The sky is a grand old ceiling. 
 The stars are its chandeliers ; 
 213 
 
But a fig for their wondrous revealing, 
 And the harmonies of the spheres, 
 While my love loves me. 
 
 The planets do right to be shining. 
 Because they're perpetually young; 
 
 But I ask not the gift of divining 
 The future by them, so long 
 As my love loves me. 
 
 For we care not a fig for hereafter — 
 
 We pledge not a single vow; 
 Some sighs, amid musical laughter, 
 For the twain are eternity, now 
 That my love loves me ! 
 
 Southern Metropolis , 1869. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Come, come, my love — no longer say nay. 
 
 Tenderly now, for the love that I bear, 
 Bind up thy will as you bind a bouquet, 
 
 And lay on the altar of pleading and prayer; 
 
 Hear me, oh! hear me, darlingest hear. 
 
 The dew drop that trembles, does it not fall? 
 
 Tenderly now, for the love that I bear. 
 Glide from the night of reserve, as I call 
 
 And trustingly smile through the glint of a 
 tear — 
 
 Hear me, oh ! hear me, darlingest hear. 
 
 When others forsook thee, I, did I fail? 
 
 Tenderly now, for the love that I bear. 
 Forget the dull drifts that our union assail. 
 And yield, like an angel, borne down by a 
 
 tear — 
 Hear me, oh! hear me, darlingest hear! 
 214 
 
I know that sad doubts have early beset thee, 
 Tenderly now, for the love that I bear, 
 
 Let thy repentance of coldness acquit thee 
 And courage, love crowned, take the place 
 
 of thy fear; 
 Hear me, oh! hear me, darlingest hear! 
 
 I ASK FOR NO GARDEN ELYSIAN 
 
 I ask for no garden elysian, 
 
 Which thou wilt not share with me. 
 
 For without thee, high heaven, a vision. 
 Would sink like an isle in the sea — 
 My beautiful Lora Logic! 
 
 There are lands for the light to beam in 
 And bm-nish with luminous thought. 
 
 There are lands for the soul to dream in 
 With meridian odors fraught, 
 There are lands that are fit for naught. 
 
 There are realms where the angels are dwell- 
 ing 
 
 In towers of golden rest. 
 Where the lute and the timbrel are swelling 
 
 The litanies of the blest. 
 
 Through the gates of the purple West ! 
 
 But I ask for no garden elysian 
 For unless it were shared by thee 
 
 High Heaven itself as a vision 
 
 Would sink like an isle in the sea — 
 My beautiful Lora Logic! 
 
 215 
 
FAREWELL 
 
 Farewell! though there never was spoken 
 A word which the heart loved less, 
 
 Whether but wounded or broken, 
 With the love it were vain to confess, 
 And as idle to seek to repress ! 
 
 You deemed me indifferent — 'twas not so, 
 'Twas but what a trance is to death ! 
 
 Though I wonder not now that you thought 
 so. 
 For my brow was as smooth as the heath, 
 While my heart was the fire beneath ! 
 
 But the motion volcanic of passion 
 Has rifted the surface in bloom. 
 
 And the flowers of Spring and the fashion 
 Of grass, and the myrtle's perfume, 
 Have withered to ashes and gloom ! 
 
 O! beautiful, crystaUine — 
 
 Intelligence, whiter than snow ! 
 Whose eyes are blue amethystine. 
 
 That know not to melt into glow, 
 
 Or dissolve with an overflow! 
 
 Pale planet of pitiless splendor. 
 Cold Star of Siberian night. 
 
 More chaste than the moon and less tender, 
 Born never to bless but to blight. 
 With the frost of thy twinkling light — 
 
 Farewell! tho' there never was spoken 
 
 Articulate sigh loved less, 
 By the heart, whether wounded or broken, 
 
 With the love it were vain to confess, 
 
 And as idle to seek to repress ! 
 216 
 
LORA 
 
 Cold as the Frozen Sea, 
 Dark as its heart can be, 
 
 My Hfe, deprived of thee — 
 Star of my destiny, 
 Lora! 
 
 When wilt thou smile again, 
 
 Lora, Cherie! 
 When wilt thou smile again, 
 
 Lora on me! 
 Lora! 
 
 God calling — falls no tear ! 
 Vainly I strive to hear. 
 Thou speakest — Hope is near! 
 Thou smilest — Faith is here! 
 Lora! 
 I ne'er have seen thee frown ! 
 
 Smooth be thy brow and throne 
 Thoughts like the angels' o^ti — 
 Radiant and fit to crown 
 Lora! 
 God knows the mystery 
 
 Hid between me and thee — 
 He ^-ills it— let it be! 
 Star of my destiny! 
 Lora! 
 Think, Love, how sad and small 
 
 The circlet of life for all ! 
 
 Winter, Spring, June and Fall 
 
 And then a grave and pall 
 
 Lora! 
 
 Then couldst thou smile again 
 
 Lora, Cherie? 
 Never! Oh! ne'er again 
 Lora on me! 
 217 
 
MY ANCHOR'S WEIGHED, MY BACK IS 
 TO THE SHORE 
 
 My anchor's weighed, my back is to the shore; 
 The bark that bears me may return no more, 
 But still, whatever gales its canvas swell. 
 Sweet Friends ! a sad, perchance, a long Farewell ! 
 
 As bees high o'er the ripened fields of grain, 
 Bear back their burden to the hive again. 
 So over distant lands and ocean's foam 
 Hie ye, sweet-laden thoughts to those at home. 
 
 Change I defy thee ! All thy ravage spent, 
 I find no lesson which for me was meant. 
 Save that I cherish with a faith more true, 
 The loving hearts to whom I bid adieu. 
 
 And have they found me false or fickle? No; 
 The past has answered; let the future too — 
 Unrusting as a spring of gold, the chain 
 Which binds me to them, ever shall remain. 
 
 Virginia ! Fairest spot of all this earth. 
 
 Land of my home, my childhood, and my birth; 
 
 Where all my hopes, my own heart's treasures 
 
 dwell. 
 Mother farewell ! a thousand times farewell ! 
 
 What though upon thy broad and bleeding breast, 
 The heel of matricidal War is prest — 
 God shall defend thee. With His own right arm, 
 Plucked from His bosom, shelter thee from harm ! 
 
 218 
 
What time the Nations blew the blast of War, 
 From Lawrence to the Southern Gulf afar, 
 And little recked the cost or sacrifice. 
 Thy voice, and thine alone was still for peace. 
 
 Blest Peacemaker ! From out this mist of blood, 
 Shall rise the star of thy beatitude. 
 Like yon bright gem, the brow of day adorning. 
 Which clasps the cloud-tiara of the morning. 
 
 The last to draw in fratricide accurst, 
 
 To sheath the sword thou shalt not be the first; 
 
 No faltering is thine, no peace, no aim, 
 
 Save Freedom, and thine old untarnished name! 
 
 Virginia ! Dearest spot of earth to me, 
 Farewell ! Returning may I find thee free, 
 Thy monuments erect, thy flag on high. 
 Thy laws intact — thy head still in the sky. 
 
 But Lora ! deem me traitor to the heart> 
 When I admit that we can ever part. 
 No, rather always feel that I am near — 
 That I am with thee — thou thyself art here. 
 
 Time, Distance, Change, — there were indeed no 
 
 spell 
 To conquer these, if Love could say farewell. 
 No spiritual force o'er matter dull should reign — 
 Love's an eternal presence, or 'tis vain. 
 
 My anchor's weighed, my back is to the shore. 
 The bark that bears me may return no more, 
 Farewell sweet Friends, towards whom my heart 
 
 has yearned — 
 But welcome, Love, for thee I've just returned! 
 
 219 
 
STANZAS 
 
 When Winter comes to make these flowers 
 The ghosts of what they've been, 
 
 Their fate will seem to picture ours, 
 While mountains intervene. 
 
 Sweet -named, sweet-tempered and sweet- 
 tongued, 
 
 And darling, sweetest heart, 
 Would that the times to us belonged 
 
 That we might never part ! 
 
 Young Joy should fret with honey-dew, 
 
 As insects do the flowers. 
 The full round buds of life for you, 
 
 For me the blooming hours! 
 
 SPRINGSBURY 
 
 ''Let Me Dream'' 
 
 Let me dream of my youth as a paradise fled, 
 Where angels keep guard evermore; 
 
 But they open the gates to Memory's tread, 
 And I stand mid the blossoms of yore! 
 
 Let me dream of a log where I sat in the shade, 
 
 On the morn of a day long ago, 
 While the low rippling laugh of a beautiful maid 
 
 Rang clear as the sweet water's flow. 
 
 Let me dream of that sycamore log on the strand, 
 
 Where we sat neath a patriarch beech, 
 While the Shenandoah's waves communed with 
 the sand, 
 As though they had something to teach. 
 220 
 
Let me dream of a soft little hand I compelled, 
 While I pleaded with passionate power, 
 
 Of the promise she gave and the kiss she withheld 
 Let me dream, let me dream of that horn*! 
 
 Let us dream of our youth, as a paradise fled. 
 Where angels keep guard evermore; 
 
 But they'll open their gates, at least for the dead — 
 And our spirits shall love as of yore ! 
 
 1878, 
 
 THE OLD CHARM 
 
 ** Be it for good or he it for ill 
 
 There's a touch of the Old Charm that dings to her 
 stilV 
 
 In the morning of youth, we loved and w^e parted 
 
 In sorrow, my first Love and I — 
 And now when we meet unconstrained and light 
 hearted, 
 With a friendly "good-day" we pass by; 
 Yet I turn and look back; despite of my will — 
 There's a touch of the old charm that clings to 
 her still ! 
 
 At times we discourse of the old days together, 
 
 With a smile, or it may be a sigh — 
 And there's never a doubt in our hearts as to 
 whether 
 That love with our youth did not die. 
 But at parting I waver, despite of my will — 
 There's a touch of the old charm that clings to 
 her still. 
 
 221 
 
There's a witch'ry about her, Time cannot dispel ; 
 ^lln her movements a grace hers alone; 
 And I know not what thoughts from their 
 fountains upswell, 
 When still to myself I must own — 
 That be it for good or be it for ill, 
 There's a touch of the old charm that clings to 
 her still. 
 
 W. Va. School Journal. 
 
 I SHOULD HAVE DREAMT YOUNGER 
 
 Her lips with the dust of the coral impearled, 
 
 Her eyes as regretful of bliss, 
 As of something she knew, in some other world, 
 
 But could not remember in this; 
 
 Her teeth are the ewes going down to the stream — 
 
 Her smile is a saint's glorified, 
 And for all, and for all to me she's a dream 
 
 I should have dreamt younger or died. 
 
 I should have dreamt younger, in some finer 
 sphere. 
 
 Where love is as true as it seems 
 To the young — and not what it is here, 
 
 A drama of fancies or dreams ! 
 
 DISPROVED 
 
 February 14, 1891 
 
 "Poh, Poh! Who sends the valentine, 
 
 In our refined, enlightened day? 
 Back to its pagan gloom consign 
 This worship at a worthless shrine, " 
 
 I heard the wise old cynic say. 
 222 
 
"Youth has outgrown the childish toy, 
 The highly-colored heart and flowers, 
 
 And Cupid's foolish darts employ 
 
 No more the nobler aim and joy 
 Of this exalted race of ours." 
 
 But softly *mid the meerschaum's smoke 
 
 That circled his didactic head 
 A far, faint dream of life awoke. 
 And when the steel-blue cloudlets broke, 
 
 A sun-like face its radiance shed. 
 
 The one, one face — ^the very same. 
 
 The years were gone, — love was divine! 
 And to his cold, blanched lips there came 
 Again the blush of that dear name, 
 
 His first, last, only Valentine. 
 
 Alas ! for us, so worldly wise ! 
 
 Like dead leaves 'round us fade and fall 
 Our sophistries, in poor disguise. 
 While shapes we scarcely recognize 
 
 Remain the vernal things of all. " 
 
 There is no unbelief. The heart 
 
 Of truth beats strong, with master-stroke. 
 Above the dissonance of Art — 
 And theories that act a part 
 
 Are certain too to end in smoke. 
 
 223 
 
TO MY WIFE 
 
 Lora, thou art the center of desire, 
 
 The source of light and happiness to me, 
 
 Round which, like planets 'round a central fire. 
 Revolve my hopes and feelings steadily. 
 
 Myself a planet too, my thoughts, sweet Star! 
 
 Impelled by thee, diurnal circles run. 
 As fixed and faithful as chaste Dian's car — 
 
 His belt to Saturn, Saturn to the Sun ! 
 
 224 
 
NOTES 
 
NOTES. 
 
 THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING— p. 13 
 
 This, the most finished as it is the best known product of 
 his genius, was written by the author in Canada whither he 
 had gone January 1, 1865, to assist in the defence of his friend, 
 Captain John Yates Beall, who was tried as a spy and guer- 
 rilla and executed in New York, February 24, 1865. 
 
 The poem published anonymously in the Montreal Gazette, 
 was reproduced in many papers both in England and the 
 United States. The form given below is as it first appeared, 
 dated " Chambly, June, 1865 . ' ' The last verse was omitted by 
 intention, in later editions. 
 
 Fair were our visions! Oh, they were as grand 
 As ever floated out of fancy land ; 
 
 Children were we in simple faith, 
 
 But god-Uke children, whom nor death. 
 Nor threat, nor danger drove from honor's path, 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming. 
 
 Proud were our men, as pride of birth could render; 
 As violets, our women pure and tender; 
 
 And when they spoke, their voice did thrill,- 
 
 Until at eve, the whip-poor-will. 
 At mom the mocking-bird, were mute and still 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 And we had graves that covered more of glory 
 Than ever taxed tradition's ancient story; — 
 
 And in our dream we wove the thread 
 
 Of principles for which had bled 
 And suffered long our own immortal dead. 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 Though in our land we had both bond and free. 
 Both were content; and so God let them be; — 
 
 Till Envy coveted our Sun 
 
 And those fair fields our valor won : — 
 But little recked we, for we still slept on, — 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 227 
 
Our sleep grew troubled and our dream grew wild. 
 Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field; 
 
 Crimson the moon; between the Twins 
 
 Barbed arrows fly; and then begins 
 Such strife as when Disorder's chaos reigns, 
 
 O'er the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 Down from her sunlit heights smiled Liberty, 
 
 And waved her cap in sign of Victory — 
 The world approved, and everywhere 
 Except where growled the Russian bear, — 
 
 The good, the brave, the just gave us their prayer 
 For the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 We fancied that a Government was ours — 
 
 We challenged place among the world's great powers; 
 
 We talked in sleep of rank, commission, 
 
 Until so lifelike grew our vision, 
 That he who dared to doubt but met derision 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 We looked on high : a banner there was seen, 
 Whose field was blanched, and spotless in its sheen; 
 
 Chivalry's cross its union bears. 
 
 And vet'rans swearing by their scars 
 Vowed they would bear it through a hundred wars 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 A figure came among us as we slept; 
 
 At first he lowly knelt — then rose and wept; 
 
 Then gathering up a thousand spears 
 
 He swept across the field of Mars; 
 Then bowed farewell, and walked behind the stars; 
 
 From the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 We looked again — another figure still. 
 Gave hope, and nerved each individual will; 
 
 Full of grandeur, clothed with power. 
 
 Self -poised, erect, he ruled the hour 
 With stem, majestic sway — of strength a tower 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 As while great Jove, in bronze, a warder god, 
 Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, 
 Rome felt herself secure and free. 
 So "Richmond's safe," we said, while we 
 
 228 
 
Beheld a bronzed hero — godlike Lee, 
 In the land where we were dreammg! 
 
 As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls — 
 As wakes the mother when the infant falls — 
 As starts the traveller when around 
 His sleeping couch the fire-bells soimd — 
 So woke our nation with a single bound. 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 Woe! woe is us! the startled mothers cried — 
 While we have slept our noble sons have died ! 
 
 Woe! woe is us! how strange and sad, 
 
 That all our glorious visions fled 
 Have left us nothing real but our dead 
 
 In the land where we were dreaming! 
 
 And are they really dead, our martyred slain? 
 
 No, Dreamers ! morn shall bid them rise again ! 
 From every vale — from every height 
 On which they seemed to die for right — 
 
 Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight 
 In the land where we were dreaming — 
 
 Wake! Dreamers, wake! none but the sleeping fail; 
 
 Our Cause being God's, must in the end prevail; 
 Once this Thyestian banquet o'er, 
 Grow^n strong, the few who bide their hour 
 
 Shall rise and hurl its drunken guests from power. 
 In the land where we were dreaming. 
 
 "THE WREATH OF EGLANTINE AND OTHER 
 POEMS, Edited, and in part composed by Daniel Bedinger 
 Lucas" (Kelly, Piet & Co., Baltimore, 1869.) 
 
 Besides the poems of Virginia Bedinger Lucas, sister of the 
 author, published over the pen name of "Eglantine," this 
 volume contained six patriotic poems and a series of love 
 lyrics. A contemporary critic (New Orleans Commercial 
 Bulletin, January 18, 1869) writes: 
 
 "These graceful poems possess so much of real merit and 
 are marked by so many evidences of positive poetic beauty, 
 229 
 
that they might be left to mtroduce themselves. . . . Mr. 
 Lucas is not unknown in the periodical literature of the day, 
 and there are many both North and South, who will recognize 
 in the pages of this volume old and highly prized favorites. 
 Among them will be particularly remembered "The Land 
 Where We Were Dreaming" than which, with the exception 
 of several of Father Ryan's lyrics, we recall nothing more 
 exquisite in the War poetry of the South. . . . The other, 
 'Patriotic and National Poems' repeat the pathos and beauty 
 of the above. These are followed by some twenty "Tinto- 
 graphic Melodies" some of which even a stern critic might 
 declare to be almost faultless in conception, and melody and 
 rythm, etc." 
 
 MY HEART IS IN THE MOUNTAINS.— p. 16 
 
 This originally had six stanzas. Variations of MS. from 
 1869 edition as follows: 
 
 Lines 3 and 4 : 1st Stanza, 
 
 As erst the Tibur, now the Thames, 
 Makes music for the free. 
 
 Lines 3-8, 2nd Stanza, 
 
 There where the Ivy and Laurel bloom. 
 
 Or leaps the wild cascade; 
 Land of Love and fancy wild, 
 
 Mother of limestone fountains, 
 List to the strain of a wandering child — 
 My heart, my heart is in the Mountains ! 
 
 3rd Stanza, omitted in text. 
 
 From the Gap where the Daughter of the Stars 
 
 Down like a maiden coy 
 Her dowry to Potomac bears, 
 230 
 
Who leaps to her arms with joy. 
 Far back to Hampshire's cloud-capped hills 
 
 And Page's limestone fountains. 
 There's not a spot, but my bosom thrills — 
 
 My heart, my heart is in the mountains ! 
 
 Lines 7 and 8, Stanza 4 (3 of text), 
 
 "Or the rain distilled from their misty shrouds. 
 For my heart, my heart is in the Mountains." 
 
 Stanza 5, (4 of text), 
 
 "Rugged and hard is Mount Blanc to view; 
 
 And the Andes clad in snow 
 But my Ridge lies soft in matchless blue 
 
 And warm in the sunset's glow : 
 
 Queen of the hills, etc." 
 
 Stanza 6 (omitted), 
 
 Down at thy feet from the River's crest 
 
 I've seen the rainbow rise 
 And stretch along on thy rockbound breast 
 
 Like a jewel from the skies: 
 Symbol of peace ! Oh, not in vain 
 
 Come down from the heavenly fountains. 
 Let the exile return to his home again 
 
 For my heart, my heart is in the mountains. 
 
 SONG OF THE SOUTH— p. 17 
 
 This poem appeared in February, 1867, in "The Land We 
 Love." The Editor, Gen. D. H. Hill, of Charlotte, N. C, in 
 a letter to the author writes as follows: "The February number 
 lacks only covers to be sent out. It contains Gen. Lee's 
 Maximilian and your beautiful poem "The Song of the South. " 
 Gen. Lee directed me to send some copies to a friend in Lynch- 
 burg, etc." 
 
 231 
 
Stanzas 7-8-9. Omitted from the 1869 edition. 
 
 But the Teuton and Celt, from the Shannon and Rhine 
 And the Northman from Ottawa's banks 
 
 Came to barter their blood at Mammon's red shrine 
 And fill up the enemy 's ranks. 
 
 Kildare and O'Neal, these Sons would ye call 
 
 Who for gold in the recreant bands 
 The Chains which are rusting in Erin's soul 
 
 Have fettered on Southern hands! 
 
 Let the victory then to the North remain 
 
 And the shame to the foreign powers 
 The South has enough, amid all her pain — 
 
 For the honor and glory are ours! 
 
 JEFFERSON DAVIS— p. 18 
 
 There is an aged lady in Virginia, an octogenarian, who has 
 seen two Revolutions, or rather two developments of the same 
 Revolution, — that of '76, and that of '61. Ever since the 
 inauguration of JefiFerson Davis, this old lady has regularly 
 summoned her household at 1 o'clock each day to oflFer up 
 prayer for the President of the Confederate States; and not- 
 withstanding the fall of the Confederacy, and the imprison- 
 ment of Mr. Davis, regarding only the de jure aspect of affairs, 
 she rings out her bell daily at 1 o'clock, recalls the family 
 around the domestic altar, and offers prayer for the President 
 of the Confederate States. She declares she means to con- 
 tinue this practice — sublime in its devotional simplicity and 
 faith — until the end of the term for which he was elected! 
 
 Author's Note, 1869 
 
 Stanzas 4 and 5 omitted from the text are as follows: 
 
 Tho' sixty daggers laid great Caesar down. 
 Yet when no arm was left that struck at him. 
 
 He who had thrice refused a kingly crown. 
 Survived to wear Augustus' diadem. 
 
 232 
 
Sainte-Helene had her Restoration, too, 
 Tho' not of princely Bourbon blood perchance; 
 
 Napoleon dead, surviveth Waterloo, 
 And in the son of Louis ruleth France! 
 
 THE VIRGINIANS SIT AND WEEP— p. 23 
 
 Title originally, "We Virginians sit and Weep." Varia- 
 tions of MS. from 1869 text: 
 
 Line 5, Stanza 2, 
 
 Lo, where he rests. Immortal Chief 
 We Virginians sit and weep. 
 
 4th Stanza, omitted. 
 
 And Henry, should we keep 
 
 Thy memory more, departed Sage, 
 'Whose heart-strings were a lute?' The age 
 
 That heeded not thy prophet lips 
 Has passed and where thy body sleeps. 
 
 We Virginians sit and weep. 
 
 And shall thy thunder sleep. 
 
 Eternal Lord, so long as we 
 Enslaved by those whom we made free 
 
 And stripped all naked to the rod 
 Cast down, but not despairing God, 
 
 We Virginians sit and weep. 
 
 CALIDIA— p. 24 
 
 This poem in the MS. has for title "O Time, I beseech thee 
 restore me!" It consists of 18 five-line stanzas with the song 
 "From thy full quiver, Dian, shaking — " of four six-line 
 stanzas, inserted between parts II and III. This song in the 
 1869 edition is incorporated in Nivean. It is given in its 
 first form on page 203 as " Moon, Uprising in the Heaven." 
 
The Spring-Song which replaces it in the 1869 and present 
 text is probably that published in May, 1867, in "The Land 
 We Love." 
 
 Variations of MS. from text: 
 
 Stanzas 2, 3, 4 and 5 are as follows: 
 
 When softly and soothingly sweetly 
 
 Her voice with a spell of its own 
 Bewildered my senses completely 
 
 And mingled them up with its tone — 
 And her waist was Venus' zone. 
 
 And her arms were a hermit's damnation — 
 
 Let the anchorite see it and die! 
 And vestals would barter salvation 
 
 For the power that dwelt in her eye 
 When its arrows of love glanced by. 
 
 For her eyes were of amethyst blue 
 
 And her teeth were orient pearls, 
 While her hair of golden hue 
 
 Came down in a shower of curls 
 Round a throat like the Greek slave-girl's. 
 
 She was born in the far, sunny South, 
 In the land of the Muscadine vine. 
 
 With no pearls save the pearls in her mouth 
 And ne'er a gem save those in her eyne, 
 Yet her heart was a Southern gold mine. 
 
 NIVEAN— p. 29 
 
 Suggested to the author in 1865, while travelling in Canada, 
 this was written apparently in Richmond, Virginia, 1866. 
 A "Prelude" in prose and blank verse bears title "Canadian 
 Imagery." In place of the "Song to Dian" the following 
 verses occur: 
 
 SONG 
 
 Were I among the inspired throng 
 
 To whom rare gifts are given 
 I'd mount upon a rosy cloud 
 
 And dip my brush in heaven. 
 
 234 
 
Extracting whence etherial hints 
 
 I'd paint a thing of power, — 
 Men should not love but worship it. 
 
 Not fancy, but adore! 
 
 For drawing thence siderial tints. 
 
 With rainbow glories Ut, 
 The picture I'd dash on the sky 
 
 Should seem a part of it ! 
 And men should deem this poet's dream 
 
 A dream and something more — 
 Men should not love but worship it. 
 
 Not fancy, but adore! 
 
 There should appear a form so fair 
 
 And so majestic move. 
 That not a ray from any star 
 
 Should kindle more of love; 
 All men should feel my fair ideal 
 
 Was Beauty . . . perfect . . . pure . . . 
 They should not love but worship her. 
 
 Not fancy, but adore ! 
 
 She'd peerless stalk, and fearless walk 
 
 The theatre of spheres. 
 Till in the last death scene they closed 
 
 The Tragedy of Tears; 
 And she should guide men like a bride, 
 
 Tho' but their souls could know her 
 They should not love but worship her," 
 
 Not fancy, but adore! 
 
 LORA LOGIE— p. 35 
 
 This appeared first in the Nashville Home Monthly with 
 this introduction by Maurice Thompson. 
 
 "Mr. Lucas, of Virginia, has gained very wide reputation 
 as a poet. In the recent collections of Southern War Poetry 
 there are few poems equal to his "In the Land Where We 
 Were Dreaming." He sends us the following little poem 
 which is imique and inimitable." 
 
 The Lora of the poet's song is the lady who afterwards 
 became his wife. Miss Lena T. Brooke, of Richmond, Vir- 
 ginia. To her sister was dedicated the poem which follows: 
 
 To Miss N B ." 
 
 235 
 
"0! LORA, AS THE EARTH PURSUES"— p. 
 Variations of MS. from the text: 
 
 3rd Stanza: 
 
 With glorious dawn and brilliant noons, 
 
 With shadows and eclipse. 
 Thro' belts of ether, pale with moons. 
 
 From depth to depth I lapse. 
 
 4th Stanza (omitted). 
 
 No nearer? .... Ah, no nearer yet! 
 
 But if more distant still 
 I shall return, the bounds are set 
 
 By Destiny and Will! 
 
 THE WIND CHIMED LOW— p. 40 
 
 This Song by the author's sister, "Eglantine," has been 
 edited with so masterly a touch that it deserves to be classed 
 among the finest of his lyrics. The third stanza alone is en- 
 tirely the work of Daniel Bedinger Lucas. 
 
 THE SOLITARY HORSEMAN— p. 40 
 
 This appeared first in the Wreath of Eglantine, 1869, then 
 in Ballads and Madrigals, 1884. The W. Va. School Journal 
 says of it: 
 
 "In its sweet simpUcity it reminds us of a little Spanish 
 ballad of the sixteenth century called the "Wandering Knight's 
 Song," or in a different way of Heine's "The Palm and the 
 Pine." John Esten Cooke pronounces it worthy of Keats. 
 
 ... Mr. Lucas has probably written notihng better 
 than this exquisite little poem of 36 lines. " — December, 1888. 
 
BALLADS AND MADRIGALS 
 
 (N. Y., PoUard & Moss, 1884) 
 
 This second and last volume of lyrics represents more 
 mature work; it has perhaps less of the divine afflatus but is 
 characterized by a very attractive and subtle humor. Several 
 of the Madrigals appeared in the Southern Metropohs, owned 
 and edited in 1869-70 by Jas. Fairfax McLaughlin, Esq. 
 This gentleman, well known as critic and litterateur at that 
 period, was the author's brother-in-law and Ufe-long friend. 
 His delightful personality, together with his cultivation and 
 briUiant conversational powers were familiar to all Baltimor- 
 eans of that day. 
 
 THE CREOLE— p. 45 
 
 This, together with the "Pawn-broker's Daughter" recall 
 the author's visit to New Orleans in the Spring of 1866. 
 
 EVENING— p. 83 
 
 The last poem in this 1884 Edition, was first printed in 
 1869 in the Southern Metropohs and is perhaps our Poet's 
 finest lyric. 
 
 The variations from 1869 text are few and unimportant. 
 The closing stanza begins: "Down where their tones divinesi 
 seashells give. " 
 
 BOUDOIR MELODIES 
 
 With a few exceptions, these melodies were never given to 
 the public. They record impressions during that prolific 
 period of the poet's life, with which we have already had so 
 much to do. None of them, I suppose, dates later than 1869. 
 Among these should be included the two following lyrics, 
 found too late to be included in the text. 
 237 
 
MAID OF THE SOFT DARK EYE 
 
 (Written for Editor of Winchester Virginian, H. D. Beall) 
 1866. 
 
 I love thee more than I confess. 
 
 Maid of the soft, dark eye! 
 O ! teach me how to love thee less, 
 
 Or teach me how to die. 
 
 Maid of the soft, dark eye! 
 
 The bells will wake the list'ning ear 
 
 Maid of the soft, dark eye! 
 And the eye grow moist with a glist'ning tear 
 
 When the Old Year comes to die. 
 
 Maid of the soft, dark eye. 
 
 And why not smile as the New days ope 
 
 Maid of the soft, dark eye! 
 And light this gloom with the star of hope 
 
 As the day-star lights the sky, 
 
 Maid of the soft, dark eye! 
 
 This dread suspense — this agony! 
 
 Maid of the soft, dark eye! 
 Is the darkest woe of destiny, 
 
 From which I fain would fly — 
 
 Maid of the soft, dark eye! 
 
 Then melt thy heart to tenderness 
 
 Maid of the soft, dark eye! 
 And teach me how to love thee less 
 
 Or teach me how to die 
 
 Maid of the soft, dark eye! 
 
 EGLANTINE 
 1865. 
 
 My head is pillowed on thy grave. 
 
 My heart is billowed on the past. 
 Thou wert a Swan that took ten years to die, 
 
 And Sang the while, but sweetest at the last! 
 
 238 
 
And purely bright, without one cloud, 
 
 And purely white as was thy shroud. 
 The morning came on which thy bed was made. 
 
 And on thy spirit's cradle liUes laid. 
 
 From out the glades thy steps had loved 
 
 From hawthome shades where thou hadst roved 
 
 Short hved emblems of thy fleeting years 
 
 The rich brought flowers, but the poor brought tears. 
 
 Fresh flowers bring — white jessamine 
 
 For the pride of Spring, glad Eglantine, 
 Whose spirit leaned to God from out the land 
 
 As did these flowers to her small, plucking hand ! 
 
 Oh! Darling Dead, come back to me! 
 
 Thou art not dead to memory ! 
 Come back from realms I know not, ask not where. 
 
 And I'll away where'er thy spirit dare. 
 
 Come back, tho' God thine eyes have seen! 
 
 None less than God what thou hast been 
 Can ever be to me, thou more than all. 
 
 Than any words express or names recall. 
 
 My head is pillowed on thy breast. 
 
 My heart is billowed on the past — 
 Thou wert a Swan that took ten years to die. 
 
 And sang the while, but sweetest at the last! 
 
 ST. AGNES OF GUIENNE— p. 101 
 
 The poem, as here given, was revised by the author and 
 dedicated, but never republished. Concluding as it did the 
 1869 edition, St. Agnes of Guienne was favorably received 
 in Baltimore and throughout the South. I quote from Mrs. 
 Margaret J. Preston, in "The Land We Love," February, 
 1869. 
 
 "Whether 'St. Agnes of Guienne' is an old legend, as we 
 
 suppose, or an invention of the poet, its handling is original 
 
 and striking. The style has a well chosen quaintness in fine 
 
 keeping with the mediaeval period in which the story has 
 
 239 
 
place. There is sometimes a rich sensuousness of description 
 which suggests Keats' 'Eve of St. Agnes'. . . . Very 
 delicate, cameo-like chiseling, betraying, we think, the mallet 
 hand. ... As critics, we might pour out a vial or two 
 of wrath on the head of some of Mr. Lucas' riotous metaphors, 
 but we forbear, molUfied and subdued by the abounding 
 beauties of the poem. . . ." 
 
 In the 1869 edition, these verses follow the "tender little 
 song, which" (says Mrs. Preston) "ought to close the tale of 
 *St. Agnes of Guienne'." 
 
 Then went Hermine to say her sweet goodbyes, 
 
 Delighted at the cause, yet sad to part. 
 With a most heavenly pity in her eyes, 
 
 And a delicious hunger at her heart; 
 A virgin fragrance Uf ting its sweet spell 
 
 From out the cincture of a cloistered dell; 
 
 Soft twihght fills the world with harmony; 
 
 The measuring Sun has scored the level day; 
 The silver-sandaled Tide-Queen audibly 
 
 Calls to the pulses of the ebbing Bay; 
 The ruby Evening Star, a stemless rose 
 
 Bossed on the shield of Night, in Heaven glows. 
 
 From many a darkling chink, despite their vows. 
 The Angel eyes of Nuns flung moistened light. 
 
 Like fireflies sparkling through the drooping boughs 
 Of weeping willows, in the Southern night. 
 
 Or starry clusters when but few are left 
 
 Unhid by clouds, through some fantastic rift. 
 
 The twain pass on in unrestricted joy. 
 
 Whole atmospheres above a careful world ! 
 
 Their dew-bathed brows seem touching on the sky. 
 And clouds beneath their footsteps are unfurled 
 
 Their arms clasp benedictions and embrace 
 Eternity — though homeless, theirs all space. 
 
 Beside their path a blooming orange stands. 
 
 In center lies, from the conservatory 
 A melon, broken in the pathway's sands, 
 
 Full ripe, with crisp, green rind and crimson core; 
 Upon the left, clematis, from a bole 
 
 Of fig, blows whitely as the bridal soul. 
 
 240 
 
'Great God!' the good man cries, 'How we do mar 
 The grand proportions of our glorious creed ! 
 
 In vain hast Thou created all things fair 
 
 And showered far more beauties than we need ! 
 
 We set our will Thy steadfast laws above 
 
 Ignore the heart, and beat down youthful love ! 
 
 'Great Solitude! whose throne is in yon sea 
 Of crystal, and beneath whose feet are pent 
 
 Exhaustless sources of immensity. 
 Eternal and above the firmament — 
 
 How long! How long! ye Nightwinds, with your song ! 
 Ye Waves! Sweet Stars! Oh, answer me, how long!' 
 
 Then with his eyes, across the winding hill 
 
 As through the dusk their youthful figures glide. 
 
 The good man, murmuring benedictions, still 
 Pursues the husband and his virgin bride; 
 
 But as he turns to make the postern fast 
 
 Lo ! three young swallows fly from a sweet nest ! 
 
 THE BIRTH OF LOVE— p. 136 
 
 This, and the "Soliloquy of Cato's Sister," I judge to be 
 almost school-boy productions; they were never pubUshed. 
 Though differing from the flowing and beautiful, characters 
 of his later MS., the chirography of these is rounded, delicate 
 and as exquisitely neat as was most of the poet's work. 
 
 THE ROMAN NAZARENE— p. 138 
 
 This was read before a Literary Society in Martinsburg, 
 West Virginia, in 1875, but was never in print. 
 
 PART II 
 PATRIOTIC AND OCCASIONAL POEMS 
 
 The arrangement here followed is one rather of theme than 
 of strict chronology. 
 
 241 
 
PROBATION— p. 166 
 
 Stanzas 4, 5, 6, of the text are omitted from the earliest, as 
 well as from the S. Met. version. 
 
 In the original MS. entitled "The Pathway of Life," these 
 stanzas occur: 
 
 Lo! far beyond the couchant sun, 
 A star, beyond the horizon. 
 This is our goal, half hid — half shown. 
 
 This is our goal, half hid — half known. 
 Each one is struggling on and on, 
 Tho' crowded, still at heart — alone. 
 
 BERKELEY CENTENNIAL ODE— p. 167 
 
 Read in 1872, at Martinsburg, W. Va., in commemoration 
 of the erection of Berkeley County from Frederick, in 1772. 
 On this occasion the Hon. C. J. Faulkner and Gen. David H. 
 Strother, (Porte Crayon), also deUvered addresses. 
 
 JACKSON'S GRAVE— p. 173 
 
 Initial Stanzas, omitted from the text: 
 
 In the grand Masonic temple 
 Where the great and wisely good 
 After death a god-like Order 
 Stand in saintly brotherhood. 
 None was brighter in his glory. 
 None more worthy of a throne. 
 Than the one whose name immortal 
 Gives its impress to this stone. 
 
 Quiet, unobtrusive, gentle. 
 None e'er dreamed that such a soul 
 Slumbered, waiting for its mission. 
 Self-possessed in brave control, 
 
 242 
 
Till Virginia called her children 
 To defend their native earth 
 Then the Warrior woke to battle, 
 Then the Genius had birth! 
 
 VARIATIONS OF EARLIER MS 
 
 Lo, where Lee's line begins to waver. 
 And to halt twixt death and shame, 
 Behold their leader points his finger 
 With form erect and eye of flame — 
 
 "Look where Jackson stands, a Stonewall, 
 Holding all yon host at bay!" 
 Fame caught the echo, and forever. 
 New named him on her scroll, that day. 
 
 And on through ages yet minumbered, 
 No nation struggling to be free 
 But shall teach her sons and soldiers 
 This synonym of Liberty. 
 
 And Wingless Victory, ancient Goddess, 
 That built her fame on Marathon 
 Shall baptize her future children 
 With the title of this Son. 
 
 DEATH OF LEE— p. 176 
 
 Stanzas 9 and 10 were cut out in the original, the following 
 lines added in pencil were intended to conclude the poem. 
 
 This — ' this it was, O ! Friends ! Not Victory 
 That taught us — tribes and tribunes — to revere 
 Great Lee ! whose name shall outUve memory. 
 Because 'twas love of Duty made it dear! 
 
 THE LAMP OF FREEDOM— p. 180 
 
 Was incorporated in a Carrier's Address, for The Spirit of 
 Jeflferson, Charlestown, W. Va., January 1, 1877. It was 
 followed by some fifty lines: 
 
These were the words the Goddess spoke. 
 One hundred years ago, and woke 
 The echoes on our distant shore; 
 Out from the brine our fathers bore 
 The lamp, with energy subhme. 
 And set it on the chffs of Time. 
 
 And now a century had gone, 
 
 And saw the godhke taper burning on, etc. 
 
 THE NEW SONG OF LIBERTY 
 
 The date is uncertain, of the following; probably it was 
 Carrier's message, of 1875 or '76. 
 
 Ye Sons of Columbia, there's a taint on the air, 
 There's a blot on the flag which your forefathers bare. 
 There's a spot on the faith which your forefathers swear. 
 Then arise from your slumbers! on to the fight! 
 Rise in your majesty, rise in your might. 
 Reform be the battle-cry! God save the right! 
 
 Ignoble, debased and corrupt, will ye be 
 Untrue to the trust of a rich legacy. 
 Untrue to your country, — unfit to be free? 
 Never, no never! Then on to the fight! 
 Strike while the day is here, strike ere the night! 
 Reform be the battle cry! God save the right! 
 
 Did they think, the usurpers, who ruled for the time 
 
 To tarnish your name, with corruption and crime? 
 
 And darken America's fame in her prime? 
 
 'Twas a base thought they cherished; Reform is in sight. 
 
 Like a dream full of glory, a dawn full of fight. 
 
 So loud sound the battle-cry : God save the right ! 
 
 Stand fast 
 
 To the last. 
 Stand by your colors ! 
 
 SONG OF THE PROPHET OF THE NEW YEAR 
 
 Ride on! Ride on! Bold Puritan, nor heed the time's portent; 
 Thy star of fate is in the van, and rules the continent. 
 244 
 
Ride on ! ride madly on, and dash to earth thy wiser men, 
 
 Obey no whip but Steven's lash, no goad but Forney's pen. 
 
 Spur on and trample privilege, prescription, and the laws, 
 
 Still violate each sacred pledge, and desecrate each cause. 
 
 Ride on! No Cavaher disputes thy now imperial sway! 
 Spur on, no Huguenot refutes thy dogmas of today ! 
 
 Ride on! But in the heaven's cope, abandoning the East, 
 
 The star of empire tracks the slope adown the Purple West. 
 
 I see it furrow up the sky, the vast expanse adorn, 
 
 As yon day-jewel, blazing high, clasps up the scarf of mom. 
 
 I see the Mississippi wed the North- West to the South, 
 With many a league of canvas spread, from Lake to Delta's 
 
 mouth, 
 I see a Memphis sit and smile, enthroned by Commerce, Queen, 
 As olden Memphis ruled the Nile, from Cairo to the main. 
 I see the Crescent City reach her wings from shore to shore. 
 As Albion's ports their pinions stretch from Thames to Elsinore! 
 Ride while thou mayst, bold Puritan. Rule thine appointed 
 
 hour. 
 Thy lessons taught, thy star shall wane — the West shall 
 
 hold the power! 
 
 ThiLS sang the Prophet of the Year, 
 
 Interpreting what should appear upon some future day; 
 
 But if his song were right or wrong, — is not for me to say. 
 
 I only sing what he sang to me. 
 
 And leave to Time his prophecy — 
 
 To you. Kind Friends, its merit. 
 Your sole expense is 
 Is Twenty-five cents. 
 
 In Green-backs. Can you spare it? 
 
 II. BIOGRAPHICAL AND SERIOUS POEMS 
 
 DUTY— p. 189 
 
 The above had eight stanzas in the original MS., "The 
 Love of Letters," p. 161, has the first three stanzas almost 
 
 245 
 
 / 
 
without change, "The Doric column, and the Tuscan pride," 
 appears at the conclusion of the poem, p. 170, while "From 
 Ida's Mount to Cithaeron" figures in the Death of Lee, p. 
 176. I give two missing stanzas: 
 
 II 
 
 Prom Ida's Mount to gloomy Cithaeron, 
 Imperial Rome to Richmond on the James — 
 Hector, Philip, Caesar; Lee, Washington, 
 Have vainly filled the future with their names. 
 
 VII 
 
 And hopes newborn today, tomorrow die. 
 And all beneath the sun is mystery; 
 High heaven itself lies in tranquility. 
 And every meaner thought is vanity. 
 
 vni 
 
 Believe that only duty is not vain : 
 
 TENNYSON— p. 191 
 
 These hitherto unpublished lines were probably written in 
 the seventies. 
 
 BYRON— p. 191 
 
 Omitted stanzas: 
 
 One chant itself of thine would be. 
 Were all the rest lost in some strife. 
 In Fame's insurance company, 
 A premium for immortal life! 
 
 Thy hymn unto old ocean's tide. 
 Sublime as he; resonant and grand. 
 As is his wealth of waters wide. 
 Wedded to music as he to land. 
 
 246 
 
THE GOLDEN NOTE— p. 197 
 
 Heretofore unpublished, this tribute to a gifted poetess, 
 cousin and friend of the author, bears a suggestion of Dryden' s 
 Ode to Music. 
 
 POE— p. 199 
 
 The last, and Swan Song of the poet, was written in re- 
 sponse to a request from the University of Virginia, but the 
 author on account of feeble health was unable to read his 
 production at the Poe Centennary Celebration. 
 
 in. LOVE LYRICS, 
 
 Of the twenty odd poems here included, eleven are "Songs 
 to Lora." 
 
 Except where noted, none of these were ever published, 
 although among them is much of the poet's best work. 
 In a chronological arrangement, here impossible, it should be 
 noted that the verses on p. 204-5 and 209-11 should properly 
 follow p. 220. The Old Charm is possibly 1890 and I Should 
 Have Dreamt Younger, 1896. 
 
 SONG— p. 203 
 
 This was the basis of the Song to Dian, in Nivean, p. 31; 
 the 2d stanza read: 
 
 Whence this spell of nameless yearning 
 To be other than we are. 
 Something like thee, bright and burning, 
 Something radiant as a star? 
 Why do lovers draw more nearly, 
 Hope-entangled in a dream. 
 And in loving, love more dearly. 
 While they linger in thy beam? 
 
 247 
 
The original form, however, seems more beautiful than any 
 variation: take for example these stanzas in the Nivean 
 
 Song: 
 
 I see them breaking on the waters 
 Which silver-barb them as they light. 
 Barbed perchance for Ocean's daughters. 
 
 Mother of dew, the Jasmine hails thee, 
 The Southern orange with perfume 
 Denied unto the sun, regales thee. 
 
 And thus when through the starry mazes 
 Thou dost thy star-lit chase resume 
 The day-closed soul re-opes with praises. 
 
 Night all desolate without thee, 
 By the day were put to shame, 
 And the stars that circle 'bout thee. 
 
 But with thee, thy skirts all splendor 
 The stars thy forests, clouds thy game, 
 Sky hath all that light can lend her. 
 
 I'VE LEFT THE VILLAGE— p. 204 
 
 2d stanza read originally: 
 
 I've left the village. 
 
 Haunted by dreams, 
 Wierd, unsubstantial 
 
 As moonUght gleams. 
 Which glance through feathery twigs 
 
 Of some old lordly pine — 
 O! I've left the village, 
 
 Dear Heart of mine ! 
 
 DECEMBER, 1871— p. 205 
 
 The five versions of this lyric differ materially from the 
 MS., — the University of Virginia Magazine omits stanzas 3 
 and 4, substituting these Imes: 
 248 
 
We too, what time the West Wind breathed 
 
 In summer loved his breeze; 
 The world for us was all enwreathed 
 
 With garlands like these trees. 
 
 The first two stanzas are alike in all copies, except, line 8, 
 which reads, "As vast, as calm." There is no change either 
 in the last two stanzas except in the University of Virginia 
 Edition where they are transposed; and stanza 5 begins: 
 
 "But now he blows, ah me, so cold," 
 
 In the Maid of Northumberland, (see Dramatic Poems of 
 D. B. L., The Gorham Press, Boston, 1912), Mima's Song 
 has five stanzas, omitting 3 and 4, and repeating as a refrain 
 every fourth line. No 6 reads : 
 
 "But now he blows, ah me, he blows, 
 So cold, this wintry West," 
 and No. 7: 
 
 For now he blows, ah me, he blows. 
 So changed, this fickle W>st," 
 
 The text, with Nos. 3 and 4 new, follows copy set to music, 
 pubhshed 1880. 
 
 Stanzas, p. 220. evidently dedicated to Lora, began in the 
 MS., "The leaves have floated to the ground, etc." 
 
 It will be seen that like Poe, the author of these lines cor- 
 rected, and re-corrected an infinite number of times, in search 
 of perfect expression. 
 
 The flowers are gone, the early flowers 
 And late have sunk to rest — 
 No more the rainbow spans the showers. 
 Along the mountain's breast. 
 
 IV 
 
 The West wind knew the sweet perfume 
 
 The peach exhaled in May, 
 And yet he stript her stalk of bloom. 
 
 And drove her bees away : 
 
 249 
 
The groves were his boudoirs, the streams 
 Were mirrors where he gassed — 
 
 Dark Evening dropped her crown of beams 
 To tempt him as he passed. 
 
 VI 3-4 
 
 "That we would like the flowers close, 
 Or like the streamlets, (fountains) rest. 
 
 THE CHESTNUT CURL— p. 207 
 This is of doubtful authenticity. 
 
 ROSA SANTA— p. 212 
 
 Stanzas 4 and 5 begin; "Rosa Immaculata," and "Rosa 
 Santa, thy cherished form." 
 
 I ASK FOR NO GARDEN ELSYIAN, p. 215. 
 Modeled on Eleanor of Guienne, p. 97. 
 
 MY ANCHOR'S WEIGHED— p. 218 
 
 Doubtless written as the author was planning his departure 
 for Canada, 1865; or to Europe, whither he meditated a trip 
 in the autumn following. 
 
 SPRINGSBURY— p. 220 
 
 Refers to Springsbury, the old Taylor residence, Clarke 
 County, Va. 
 
 250 
 
I SHOULD HAVE DREAMT YOUNGER— p. 222 
 
 3d stanza, omitted from the text: 
 
 I should have known younger, m some other land, 
 Where the rivers run down to the sea; 
 And all the life-story we wrote in the sand 
 Proved gospels, — to her and to me. 
 
 TO MY WIFE— p. 224 
 
 This closing poem of the volume is taken from a note book, 
 the date being possibly 1891, or later. 
 
 *THE EAVES OF SONG 
 
 Lipping the grassplots over the mere. 
 My current glides along. 
 No fount at all, but drippings mere. 
 Over the eaves of Song. 
 
 And yet, perchance, from heaven still. 
 Although not deep nor strong. 
 My spirit shall pour but not at will. 
 Over the eaves of Song. 
 
 But O ! that a strain more rich and wild • 
 My soul could once prolong — 
 Less like the chant of a vernal child. 
 Just on the eaves of Song. 
 
 A chant for men to gloat upon. 
 
 As angels over the young. 
 That the hearts of men should overrun. 
 
 Under the eaves of Song. 
 
 tSONG 
 
 The wide- winged swan, the eagle. 
 The pheasant in the Spring, — 
 It must be these know melodies 
 Which they disdain to sing : 
 ♦Unpublished. 
 tThe Southern Metropolis, 1869. 
 
 251 
 
The new-mown hay, the daisies. 
 The early corn and late, 
 
 It must be, teach the plowboy 
 What he cannot translate. 
 
 I, too, have intimations. 
 
 Directly from the skies, 
 Which bid my fancies, solemnly. 
 
 Like songless birds, arise: 
 And if a surge of sorrow 
 
 Bring, vague, unspoken pain. 
 With swift and glad resilience. 
 
 My soul mounts up again. 
 
 And thus attuned to Nature, 
 
 Full natural as I feel. 
 Angels strike the harpstrings. 
 
 Their deepest tones reveal. 
 Ye will! Ye will! I know it! 
 
 If not below, on high. 
 And we shall sing together. 
 
 The Morning Stars and I. 
 
 25^ 
 
...(-'BRARY OF 
 
 .J-ONGRESS