I. 'l. 'C^t 4y^^^ ^, /? V >.\\ , -^ "^ IL©KE) OVOPJ /\RJ© MD§ ©AUCGMTl g If Mo FAMXl® Willi ^-■^4%: ^^^^- " God' who gavest Into m7 guiding hand this wanderer. " The Uothei » her ClviU .S 103 rHiiaoELry 3.^ €AmST AM® MEAM' POEMS EAELY AND AFTEE YEARS, N. p. WILLIS. ILLUSTRATED BY E. LEUTZE. " Blending, Poorly, yet truly, strivings gain'd or lost, As one in whom two natures keep contending PHILADELPHIA: CAREY AND HART. 1848. Entered accordixo to act of Congress, in the tear 1847, by CAREY & HAET, nr THE Clerk's Office op the District Court op the Easterk District op Pennsylvania. 7.L M stereotyped by L. JOHNSON AND CO. PHILADELPHIA. PRINTED BY T. K. AND P. G. COLLINS. ^« A MEMORY AND A HOPE -• s/ MY MOTHER AND MY DAUGHTER THESE VOIC'd VIBRATIONS OF THE LINK BETWEEN THEM AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. PEEFACE. In the present edition of his poetical works, doubtless the most ornamental and correct shape in which they will ever be offered to the public, the author has embodied poems never before printed; has restored_^several which were over- looked in the editions of late years; has, for the first time, critically re-read and corrected the entire collection ; and has thus assembled, he be- lieves, in their final and best form, all of his writings in verse (his plays excepted) which he can venture to think worthy of preservation. In his corrections, (he should remark, perhaps,) he has confined himself to the removal of inaccura- cies of sense and metaphor; many of the poems, though popular on account of the feeUng which embalms them, having been written in a stage PREFACE. of immature taste, and being incapable of eleva- tion to a high critical standard without a re- modelling which would effectually destroy them. Some poems have been restored which had been rejected from other collections, and some left which the author would prefer to have rejected now; the frequent choice of these, for selected miscellanies, and other unmistakeable signs of their popularity, overruling even the possibility of suppressing them. CONTENTS. Page The Healing of the Daughter of Jairus 13 The Leper 19 David's Grief for his Child 26 The Sacrifice of Abraham 32 The Shunammite 37 Jephthah's Daughter '^. . . 42 Absalom 47 Christ's Entrance into Jerusalem 52 Baptism of Christ 55 Scene in Gethsemane . . T^ 58 The Widow of Nain 60 Hagar in the Wilderness 64 Rizpah with her Sons, (the day before they were hanged on Gibeah) 70 Lazarus and Mary 75 Thoughts while Making the Grave of a New-born Child . . 83 On the Departure of Rev. Mr. White from his Parish . . 86 Birth-day Verses 89 To my Mother from the Apennines 93 Lines on leaving Europe 94 A True Incident 98 The Mother to her Child 101 A Thought over a Cradle 103 CONTENTS. Page Revery at Glenmary 105 Thirty-five 107 Contemplation 109 On the Picture of a " Child tired of Play" 112 A Child's First Impression of a Star 114 On Witnessing a Baptism 115 To a City Pigeon 116 The Belfry Pigeon 118 Saturday Afternoon 120 The Sabbath 122 Dedication Hymn 124 The Dying Alchymist 125 Parrhasius 131 The Scholar of Thebet Ben Khorat 138 The Wife's Appeal 151 Melanie 161 Lord Ivon and his Daughter 180 To Ermengarde 199 The Confessional 201 Florence Gray 206 The Pity of the Park Fountain 209 « Chamber Scene" 211 To a Stolen Ring 213 To Her who has Hopes for Me 215 The Death of Harrison 218 " She was not There" 221 Fail Me not Thou 223 Spirit Whispers 225 To M , from Abroad 227 Sunrise Thoughts at the Close of a Ball 229 To a Face Beloved 231 CONTENTS. Page Unseen Spirits 233 Better Moments 235 The Annoyer 238 Andre's Request to Washington 240 Dawn 243 Extract from a Poem dehvered at the Departure of the Senior Class of Yale College, in 1827 244 Poem delivered at Brown University, Sept. 6, 1831 . . . 249 The Torn Hat 262 To Laura W , Two Years of Age 265 On the Death of a Young Girl 268 May 270 The Solitary 272 Sonnet ~^ . . 274 Acrostic — Sonnet 275 The Soldier's Widow 276 Starhght ' 278 On the Death of Edward Payson, D. D 280 January 1, 1828, 282 January 1, 1829 284 Psyche before the Tribunal of Venus 286 On Seeing a Beautiful Boy at Play 288 Hero 291 Idleness 293 The Burial of the Champion of his Class, at Yale College . 297 Spring 300 The Declaration 302 On a Picture of a Girl leading her BHnd Mother through the Wood 304 To , on receiving from Her a Spray of Lihes of the Valley . . . • 306 a2 CONTENTS. Page Roaring Brook 307 An Apology for Avoiding, after long Separation, a Woman once Loved 309 Birth-day in a Foreign Isle 311 To 313 To a Bride 314 Despondency in Spring 31(3 To a Coquette 317 The Table of Emerald 318 The Broken Bracelet 321 To Julia Grisi, after hearing Her in " Anna Bolena" . . . 323 The Ehns of New Haven 324 The Lady Jane ; or, an Old Maid's Love 337 LIST OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS, DESIGNED BY LEUTZE. LORD IVON. _^ {To face Title.) ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. " I resign'd the bird To her white hands ; and, with a rapid thought, And lips already eloquent of love, Turn'd the strange chance to a similitude Of my own story." Lord Ivon and his Daughter, p. 185. THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. (Title-page.) ENGRAVED BY J. J. PEASE. " God ! who gavest Into my guiding hand this wanderer." The Mother to her Child, p. 102. vii viii ILLUSTRATIONS. PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR. ENGRAVED BY CHENEY FROM A PAINTING BY LAWRENCE. THE LEPER. ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. ' Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name — 'Helon!'" The Leper, p. 23. ABSALOM. ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. " Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee !" Absalom, p. 50. HAGAR. ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. " The well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness." Hagar in the Wilderness, p. C9. ILLUSTRATIONS. THE DYING ALCHYMIST. ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHEYS. " He raised himself Upon his wasted arm, and stirr'd the coals With difficult energ>'." The Dying Akhymist, p. 125. PARRHASIUS. ENGRAVED BY W. UUMPHRYS. I'd rack thee though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine." Panhasiits, p. 134. THE WIFE S APPEAL. ENGRAVED BY W. HU.MPHRYS. ■ I have told o'er thy powers In secret, as a miser tells his gold." The Wife's Appeal, p. 155. MELANIE. ENGRAVED BY W. E. TUCKER, And sang old songs, and gathcr'd flowers, And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours." Melanic, p. 166. ILLUSTRATIONS. MELANIE. ENGRAVED B Y W. HUMPHRYS. " It is his son! Tlie bridegroom is thy blood— thy brother I" Melanie, p. 179. THE LADY CLARE. ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. " But I was poor, with all my bright renown, And lowly born ; and she— the Lady Clare !" Lord Ivon and his Daughter, p. 190. LORD IVON. ENGRAVED BY VT. HUMPHRYS. " She rose at last, And, oh ! so sweetly pale ! And thou, my child ! My heart misgave me as I look'd upon thee." Lord Ivon and his Daughter, p. 197. MONK OF VALLOMBROSA. ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. " In Vallombrosa's holy shade Where nobles born the friars be." The Confessional, p. 203. THE SOLITARY ENGRAVED BY W. E. TUCKER. ' In such a depth of wilderness The only thinking one." The Solitary, p. 272. IDLENESS. ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. " Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves, And happy with the fair and blessed world— And this, 'tis true, is only idleness 1" Idleness, p. 295. THE LADY JANE. ENGRAVED BY J. J. PEASE. ' And bending, with almost a mother's bliss, To his bright lips, she seal'd it with a kiss!" The Lady Jane, p. 309. WILLIS'S POEMS. THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain Since the hot noontide in^ breathless trance — Her thin pale fingers clasp'd within the hand Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, Like the dead marble, white and motionless. The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind, The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, And her slight fingers moved, and heavily She turn'd upon her pillow. He was there — • The same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd Into his face until her sight grew dim With the fast-falling tears ; and, with a sigh Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name, B 13 16 THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. * * * The same silvery light, That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals. As at the door he stood, and welcomed in Jesus and his disciples. All was still. The echoing vestibule gave back the slide Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam Of moonhght, slanting to the marble floor, Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps He trod the winding stair ; but ere he touch'd The latchet, from within a whisper came, " Trouble the Master not^for she is deadV And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side. And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice Choked in its utterance ; but a gentle hand Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, <' She is not dead ; but sleepeth^ They pass'd in. The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns Burn'd dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls. The silken curtains slumber' d in their folds — Not even a tassel stirring in the air — And as the Saviour stood beside the bed, THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 17 And pray'd inaudibly, the Ruler heard The quickening division of his breath As he grew earnest inwardly. There came A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face ; And, drawing nearer to the bed, he moved The silken curtains silently apart, And look'd upon the maiden. Like a form Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay — The linen vesture folded on her breast, And over it her w^hite transparent hands, The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, The breathing curve was mockingly like life ; And round beneath the faintly tinted skin Ran the Kght branches of the azure veins ; And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, Matching the arches pencill'd on her brow. Her hair had been unbound, and falhng loose ' Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears In curls of glossy blackness, and about Her polish'd neck, scarce touching it, they hung. Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out 18 THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, ii Maiden! Arise P'' — and suddenly a flush Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips And through her cheek the rallied colour ran ; And the still outline of her graceful form Stirr'd in the linen vesture ; and she clasp'd The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes Full on his beaming countenance — arose ! THE LEPER, 19 THE LEPER. " Room for the leper ! Room!" And, as he came, The cry pass'd on — " Room for the leper! Room !" Sunrise was slanting on the city gates Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills The early risen poor were coming in, Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up Rose the sharp hammer's chnk, and the far hum Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, And all that in a city murmur swells — Unheard but- by the watcher's weary ear. Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick Hailino: the welcome liffht and sounds that chase The death-like images of the dark away. "Room for the leper !" And aside they stood — Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood — all Who met him on his way — and let him pass. And onward through the open gate he came, A leper with the ashes on his brow, Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip A covering, stepping painfully and slow, And with a difficult utterance, like one 20 THELEPER. Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, Crying, " Unclean ! unclean !" 'Twas now the first Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves, Whose shadows lay so still upon his path. Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye Of Judah's palmiest noble. He was young. And eminently beautiful, and life Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip. And sparkled in his. glance ; and in his mien There was a gracious pride that every eye Follow'd with benisons — and this was he ! With the soft airs of summer there had come A torpor on his frame, which not the speed Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs The spirit to its bent, might drive away. The blood beat not as wont within his veins ; Dimness crept o'er his eye ; a drowsy sloth Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his mien, With all its loftiness, seem'd struck with eld. Even his voice was changed ; a languid moan Taking the place of the clear silver key ; And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light And very air were steep'd in sluggishness. He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, THE LEPER. 21 Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein Slacken'd within his grasp, and in its poise The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook. Day after day, he lay as if in sleep. His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, Circled with livid purple, cover'd him. And then his nails grew black, and fell away From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepen'd beneath the hard unmoisten'd scales, And from their edges grew the rank white hair, — And Helon was a leper ! Day was breaking. When at the altar of the temple stoo The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burn'd with a struggling light, and a low chant Swell'd through the hollow arches of the roof Like an articulate wail, and there, alone. Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bow'd down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb : And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom : — 22 THE LEPER. Depart ! depart, child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God ! For He has smote thee with His chastenino- rod ; And to the desert-wild. From all thou lov'st away, thy feet must flee, That from thy plague His people may be free. Depart ! and come not near The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er ; And stay thou not to hear Voices that call thee in the way ; and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by. Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide ; Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well or river's grassy brink ; And pass thou not between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze ; And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen ; Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. THELEPER. 23 And now depart ! and when Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel His chastening rod. Depart ! leper ! and forget not God ! And he went forth — alone ! not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort unto him. Yea — he went his way, Sick, and heart-broken, and alone — to die l For God had cursed the lepej ! It was noon. And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow. Hot with the burning leprosy, and touch'd The loathsome water to his fever'd lips. Praying that he might be so blest — to die ! Footsteps approach'd, and, with no strength to flee, He drew the covering closer on his lip. Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er 24 THELEPER. The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name- <' Helon !" The voice was like the master-tone Of a rich instrument — most strangely sweet ; And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. " Helon ! arise !" and he forgot his curse. And rose and stood before Him. Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye As he beheld the Stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on His brow The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; No followers at His back, nor in His hand Buckler, or sword, or spear, — yet in his mien Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, A kingly condescension graced His lips. The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair. His garb was simple, and His sandals worn ; His stature modell'd with a perfect grace ; His countenance the impress of a God, Touch'd with the open innocence of a child ; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon ; His hair unshorn Fell to His shoulders ; and His curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. T IHl E a. E IF E THE LEPER. 25 He look'd on Helon earnestly awhile, As if His heart were moved, and, stooping down. He took a little water in His hand And lav'd the sufferer's brow, and said, "Be clean !" And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, And his dry palms grew moist, and his lips The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worshipp'd Him. 26 DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 'TwAs daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn Drew the night's curtain, and touch'd silently The eyelids of the king. And David woke, And robed himself, and pray'd. The inmates, now, Of the vast palace, were astir ; and feet Glided along the tesselated floors With a pervading murmur : and the fount Whose music had been all the night unheard, Play'd as if light had made it audible ; And each one, waking, bless'd it unaware. The fragrant strife of sunshine with the morn Sweeten'd the air to ecstasy ! and now The king's wont was to lie upon his couch Beneath the sky-roof of the inner court. And, shut in from the world, but not from heaven. Play with his lov'd son by the fountain's lip ; For — with idolatry confess'd alone To the rapt wires of his reproofless harp — He loved the child of Bathsheba. And when The golden selvedge of his robe was heard Sweeping the marble pavement, from within DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 27 Broke forth a child's laugh suddenly, and words- Articulate, perhaps, to his heart only — Pleading to come to him. They brought the boy — An infant cherub, leaping as if used To hover with that motion upon wings, And marvellously beautiful ! His brow Had the inspired up-lift of the king's, And kingly was his infantine regard ; But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing raoidd Of Bathsheba's— the hue and type of love, Rosy and passionate — and oh, the moist Unfathomable blue of his large eyes -^ Gave out its light as twilight shows a star, And drew the heart of the beholder in ! — And this was hke his mother. David's lips Moved with unutter'd blessings, and awliile He closed the lids upon his moisten'd eyes. And, with the round cheek of the nestling boy Press' d to his bosom, sat as if afraid That but the lifung of his lids might jar The heart-cup's over-fulness. Unobserved, A servant of the outer court had knelt Waiting before him ; and a cloud the while Had rapidly spread o'er the summer heaven ; And, as the chill of the withdrawing sun 28 DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. Fell on the king, he lifted up his eyes And frown'd upon the servant ; for that hour Was hallow'd to his heart and his fair child, And none might seek him. And the king arose. And with a troubled countenance look'd up To the fast-gathering darkness ; and, behold, The servant bow'd himself to earth, and said, "Nathan the prophet cometh from the Lord!" And David's lips grew white, and with a clasp Which wrung a murmur from the frighted child. He drew him to his breast, and cover'd him With the long foldings of his robe, and said, '< I will come forth. Go now !" And lingeringly. With kisses on the fair uplifted brow, And mingled words of tenderness and prayer Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips, He gave to them the child, and bow'd his head Upon his breast with agony. And so. To hear the errand of the man of God, He fearfully went forth. ******* It was the morning of the seventh day. A hush was in the palace, for all eyes Had woke before the morn ; and they who drew The curtains to let in the welcome light, Moved in their chambers with unslipper'd feet. And listen'd breathlessly. And still no stir ! DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 29 The servants who kept watch without the door Sat motionless ; the purple casement-shades From the low windows had been roU'd away, To give the child air ; and the flickering light That, all the night, within the spacious court, Had drawn the watcher's eyes to one spot only, Paled with the sunrise and fled in. And hush'd With more than stillness was the room where lay The king's son on his mother's breast. His locks Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirr'd — So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down, She watch'd his breathless slumber. The low moan That from his lips all ni^it broke fitfully. Had silenced with the daybreak ; and a smile — Or something that would fain have been a smile — Play'd in his parted mouth ; and though his lids Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes. His senses seem'd all peacefully asleep. And Baihsheba in silence bless'd the morn — That brought back hope to her ! But when the king Heard not the voice of the complaining child — Nor breath from out the room — nor foot astir — But morning there — so welcomeless and still — He groan'd and turn'd upon his face. The nights Had wasted, and the mornings come ; and days 30 DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. Crept through the sky, imnumber'd by the king, Since the child sicken'd ; and, without the door, Upon the bare earth prostrate, he had lain — Listening only to the moans that brought Their inarticulate tidings, and the voice Of Bathsheba, whose pity and caress. In loving utterance all broke with tears. Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there, And fill'd his prayer with agony. Oh God ! To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far ! How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on ! And when the spirit, mournfully, at last. Kneels at thy throne, how cold — how distantly — The comforting of friends falls on the ear — The anguish they would speak to, gone to Thee ! But suddenly the watchers at the door Rose up, and they who minister'd within Crept to the threshold and look'd earnestly Where the king lay. And still, while Bathsheba Held the unmoving child upon her knees. The curtains were let down, and all came forth, And, gathering with fearful looks apart, Whisper'd together. DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 31 And the king arose And gazed on them a moment, and with voice Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask'd, "Is the child dead ?" They answer'd, "He is dead !" But when they look'd to see him fall again Upon his face, and rend himself and weep — For, while the child was sick, his agony Would bear no comforters, and they had thought His heartstrings with the tidings must give way — Behold ! his face grew calm, and, with his robe Gather'd together like his kingly wont. He silently went in. "^ And David came. Robed and anointed, fbtth, and to the house Of God went up to pray. And he return'd, And they set bread before him, and he ate ; And when they marvell'd, he said, « Wlierefore mourn 7 Tlie child is dead, and I shall go to him — But he will not return to 7?ie." 32 THE SACRIFICE OFABRAHAM. THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. Morn breaketh in the east. The purple clouds Are putting on their gold and violet, To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. Sleep is upon the waters and the wind ; And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet There is no mist upon the deep blue sky, And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms Of crimson roses in a holy rest. How hallow'd is the hour of morning! meet — Ay, beautifully meet — for the pure prayer. The patriarch standeth at his tented door. With his white locks uncover'd. 'Tis his wont To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient ; And at that hour the awful majesty Of man who talketh often with his God, Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow As at his fourscore strength. But now he seemeth To be forgetful of his vigorous frame. And boweth to his staff as at the hour Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun — THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. 33 He looketh at its pencill'd messengers, Coming in golden raiment, as if all Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. Ah, he is waiting till it herald in The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son ! Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands Watching the steps of Abraham and her child Along the dewy sides of the far hills, And praying that her sunny boy faint not. Would she have watch'd their path so silently, If she had known that he was going up, E'en in his fair-hair'd beauty, to be slain As a white lamb for sacrifice ? They trod Together onward, patriarch and child — The bright sun throwing back the old man's shade In straight and fair proportions, as of one Whose years were freshly number'd. He stood up. Tall in his vigorous strength ; and, like a tree Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, And left his brow uncover'd ; and his face, Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. But the young boy — he of the laughing eye And ruby lip — the pride of life was on him. 34 THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. He seemed to drink the morning. Sun and dew, And the aroma of the spicy trees, And all that giveth the delicious East Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts With love and beauty. Every thing he met, Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing Of bird or insect, or the palest dye Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path ; And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung Away to some green spot or clustering vine, To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place ; And he would crouch till the old man ceme by. Then bound before him with his childish laugh, Stealing a look behind him playfully, To see if he had made his father smile. The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves. And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step Firm and unfaltering ; turning not aside To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells, THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. 35 Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot To toss his sunny hair from off his brow, And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings As in the early morning ; but he kept Close by his father's side, and bent his head Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, Lifting it not, save now and then to steal A look up to the face whose sternness awed His childishness to silence. It was noon — And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself. And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength. He could not look upon-his son, and pray ; But, with his hand upon the clustering curls Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God Would nerve him for that hour. * * ♦ ***** He rose and laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. He stood a moment — and a deep, quick flush Pass'd o'er his countenance ; and then he nerved His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke — «' Isaac ! my only son !"• — The boy look'd up; — " W'here is the lamb, my father ?" — Oh the tones, The sweet familiar voice of a loved child ! — What would its music seem at such an hour! — 36 THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held His loved, his beautiful, his only son. And lifted up his arm, and call'd on God — And lo ! God's angel stay'd him — and he fell Upon his face, and wept. THE SHU NAM MITE. 37 THE SHUNAMMITE. It was a sultry day of summer-time. The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills Stood still, and the divided flock were all Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots, And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd As if the air had fainted, and the pulse Of nature had run dowH-and ceased to beat. << Haste thee, my child !" the Syrian mother said, "Thy father is athirst ;" and, from the depths Of the cool well under the leaning tree, She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart, She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way Committed him. And he went lightly on, With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool Stone vessel, and his little naked feet Lifted with watchful care; and o'er the hills. And through the light green hollows where the lambj^ 38 T H E S H U N A M M I T E. Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts. Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows Throbbing with heat, he set his burthen down. Childhood is restless ever, and the boy Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree, But with a joyous industry went forth Into the reaper's places, and bound up His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly The pliant withs out of the shining straw — Cheering their labour on, till they forgot The heat and weariness of their stooping toil In the beguiling of his playful mirth. Presently he was silent, and his eye Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand Press'd 'nard upon his forehead, and his breast Heaving with the suppression of a cry. He utter'd a faint murmur, and fell back Upon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible. They bore him to his mother, and he lay Upon her knees till noon — and then he died ! She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon The dreamy languor of his listless eye, And she had laid back all his sunny curls THE SHUNAMMITi:. 39 And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong — His beauty was so unlike death ! She lean'd Over him now, that she might catch the low Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd To love when he was slumbering at her side In his unconscious infancy — « —So still ! 'Tis a soft sleep ! How beautiful he lies. With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek ! How could they say that he would die ! Ohjjtod ' I could not lose him ! I have treasured all His childhood in my heart, and even now, As he has slept, my memory has been there. Counting like treasures all his winning ways — His unforgotten sweetness : — " —Yet so still !— How like this breathless slumber is to death ! I could believe that in that bosom now There were no pulse — it beats so languidly ! I cannot see it stir ; but his red lip ! Death would not be so very beautiful! And that half smile — would death have left that there ? — And should I not have felt that he would die? And have I not wept over him ? — and pray'd Morning and night for him ? and could he die ? 40 THE SHU NAM MITE. — No — God will keep him! He will be my pride Many long years to corae, and his fair hair Will darken like his father's, and his eye Be of a deeper blue when he is grown ; And he will be so tall, and I shall look With such a pride upon him ! — He to die !" And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think That such fair things could perish. — — Suddenly Her hand shrunk from him, and the colour fled From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd His forehead, as she dallied with his hair — And it was cold — like clay ! Slow, very slow, Came the misgiving that her child was dead. She sat a moment, and her eyes were closed In a dumb prayer for strength, and then she took His little hand and press'd it earnestly — And put her lip to his — and look'd again Fearfully on him ; and, then bending low, She whisper'd in his ear, << My son ! — my son !" And as the echo died, and not a sound Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still — Motionless on her knee — the truth would corae ! And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart Were crush' d, she lifted him and held him close THE SHUN AM MITE. 41 Into her bosom — with a mother's thought — As if death had no power to touch him there ! The man of God came forth, and led the child Unto his mother, and went on his way. And he was there — her beautiful — her own — Living and smiling on her — with his arms Folded about her neck, and his warm breath Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear The music of his gentle voice once more ! 42 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. She stood before her father's gorgeous tent, To listen for his coming. Her loose hair Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud Floating around a statue, and the wind, Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft Of a pomegranate blossom ; and her neck. Just where the cheek w^as melting to its curve With the unearthly beauty sometimes there. Was shaded, as if light had fallen off, Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling Her light, quick breath, to hear ; and the white rose Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd, Like nothing but a lovely wave of light To meet the arching of her queenly neck. Her countenance was radiant with love. She look'd like one to die for it — a being JEPHTHAH'S DAU GHTER. 43 Whose whole existence was the pouring out Of rich and deep affections. Onward came The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes Rang sharply on the ear at intervals ; And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts Returning from the battle, pour'd from far, Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. They came, as earthly conquerors always come, With blood and splendor, revelry and wo. The stately horse treads proudly — he hath trod The brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheels Of warriors roll magnificently on — Their weight hath crush'd the fallen. Man is there — Majestic, lordly man — with his sublime And elevated brow, and godlike frame ; Lifting his crest in triumph — for his heel Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down! The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set, And his stern lip curi'd slightly, as if praise Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, But free as India's leopard ; and his mail, Whose shekels none in Israel might bear. Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. 44 JE PHTH A H'S DAUGHTER. His crest was Judah's kingliest ; and the look Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow. Might quell the lion. He led on ; but thoughts Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins Grew visible upon his swarthy brow. And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain. He trod less firmly ; and his restless eye Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill He dared not meet, were there. His home was near ; And men were thronging, with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe The struggle of his feelings with his pride. He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs Before his door were motionless. The leaves Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines "Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye Unchanged and beautiful ; and one by one. The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems, And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd Of silent and familiar things, stole up, Like the recover'd passages of dreams. He strode on rapidly. A moment more. And he had reach' d his home ; when lo ! there sprang One with a bounding footstep, and a brow Of light, to meet him. Oh how beautiful ! — Her proud eye flashing like a sun-lit gem — And her luxuriant hair ! — 'twas like the sweep JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 45 Of a dark wing in visions. He stood still, As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw Her arms about his neck — he heeded not. She call'd him " Father"— but he answer'd not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth? There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. Had sickness seized him } She unclasp'd his helm, And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands, And spoke the name of God, in agony. She knew that he was stricken, then ; and rusTi'd Again into his arms ; and, with a flood Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer That he would breathe-Ms agony in words. He told her — and a momentary flush Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd ; and she stood Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well — And she would die. * * » » The sun had wellnigh set. The fire was on the ahar ; and the priest Of the High God was there. A pallid man Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven. As if he would have pray'd, but had no words — And she who was to die, the calmest one 46 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. In Israel at that hour, stood up alone, And waited for the sun to set. Her face Was pale, but very beautiful ; her lip Had a more delicate outline, and the tint Was deeper ; but her countenance was like The majesty of angels. The sun set — And she was dead — but not by violence. A B S A L M. 47 ABSALOM. The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems. Whose flowers the wateF^lil^e a gentle nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, And lean'd, in graceful attitudes, to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells. By its light heed of human suffering. That it was fashion'd for a happier world ! King David's hmbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 48 ABSALOM. The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there. And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy Are such an empty mockery — how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer \ He pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those Whose love had been his shield — and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — For his estranged, misguided Absalom — ■ The proud, bright being, who had burst away In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherish'd him — for him he pour'd, In agony that would not be controll'd, Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straighten'd for the grave ; and, as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betray'd ABSALOM. 49 The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. His helm was at his feet ; his banner, soil'd With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him ; and the jewell'd hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, ^ Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier. And gazed upon theiiark pall steadfastly, As if he fear'd the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form Of David enter'd, and he gave command. In a low tone, to his few followers. And left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died ; then, throwing otT The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child. He bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of wo : 50 ABSALOM. << Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die ! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ! My proud boy, Absalom ! " Cold is thy broM'^, my son ! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, lake a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet ' My father /' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom ! '< But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young ; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom ! " And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart. Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart. Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom. To see thee, Absalom ! ■■- -S3|!iaO)l"SSlB"!«i«l WHwn?*''^ ft ® i A L ABSALOM. 51 ' And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; — And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup. If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom !" He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself A moment on his child : then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently — and left him there — As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 52 CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. He sat upon the " ass's foal" and rode On to Jerusalem. Beside him walk'd, Closely and silently, the faithful twelve, And on before him went a multitude Shouting Hosannas, and with eager hands Strewing their garments thickly in his way. Th' unbroken foal beneath him gently stepp'd, Tame as its patient dam ; and as the song Of "Welcome to the Son of David !" burst Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves Of the waved branches touch'd its silken ears, It turn'd its wild eye for a moment back, And then, subdued by an invisible hand, Meekly trode onward with its slender feet. The dew's last sparkle from the grass had gone As he rode up Mount Olivet. The woods Threw their cool shadows freshly to the west, And the light foal, with quick and toiling step. And head bent low, kept its unslacken'd way Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. 53 Sent o'er the mount from Jordan. As he reach'd The summit's breezy pitch, the Saviour raised His calm bkie eye — there stood Jerusalem ! Eagerly he bent forward, and beneath His mantle's passive folds, a bolder line Than the wont slightness of his perfect limbs Betray'd the swelling fulness of his heart. There stood Jerusalem ! How fair she look'd — The silver sun on all her palaces. And her fair daughters 'mid the golden spires Tending their terrace flowers, and Kedron's stream Lacing the meadows with its silver band, And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky With the morn's exhalations. There she stood — Jerusalem — the city of his love, Chosen from all the earth ; Jerusalem — That knew him not — and had rejected him ; Jerusalem — for whom he came to die ! The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips At the fair sight ; the children leap'd and sang Louder Hosannas ; the clear air was fill'd With odour from the trampled olive-leaves — But " Jesus wept." The loved disciple saw His Master's tears, and closer to his side He came with yearning looks, and on his neck The Saviour leant with heavenly tenderness, And mourn'd — <'How oft, Jerusalem! would I 54 CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. Have gather'd you, as gathereth a hen Her brood beneath her wings — but ye would not !" He thought not of the death that he should die — He thought not of the thorns he knew must pierce His forehead — of the buffet on the cheek — The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn ! — Gethsemane stood out beneath his eye Clear in the morning sun, and there, he knew, While they who " could not watch with him one hour" Were sleeping, he should sweat great drops of blood. Praying the " cup might pass." And Golgotha Stood bare and desert by the city wall, And in its midst, to his prophetic eye, Rose the rough cross, and its keen agonies Were number'd all — the nails were in his feet — Th' insulting sponge was pressing on his lips — The blood and water gushing from his side— The dizzy faintness swimming in his brain — And, while his own disciples fled in fear, A world's death-agonies all mix'd in his ! Ay ! — he forgot all this. He only saw Jerusalem, — the chosen — the loved — the lost ! He only felt that for her sake his life Was vainly given, and, in his pitying love, The sufferings that would clothe the heavens in black Were quite forgotten. Was there ever love, In earth or heaven, equal unto this ? BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 55 BAPTISM OF CHRIST. It was a green spot in the wilderness, Touch' d by the river Jordan. The dark pine Never had dropp'd its tassels on the moss Tufting the leaning bank, nor on the grass Of the broad circle stretching evenly To the straight larches, had a heavier foot Than the wild heron's trodden. Softly in Through a long aisle of willows, dim and cool, Stole the clear waters with their muffled feet, And, hushing as they spread into the light, Circled the edges of the pebbled tank Slowly, then rippled through the woods away. Hither had come th' Apostle of the wild. Winding the river's course. 'Twas near the flush Of eve, and, with a multitude around, Who from the cities had come out to hear, He stood breast-high amid the running stream. Baptizing as the Spirit gave him power. His simple raiment was of camel's hair, A leathern girdle close about his loins. His beard unshorn, and for his daily meat 56 BAPTISM OF CHRIST. The locust and wild honey of the wood ; But like the face of Moses on the mount Shone his rapt countenance, and in his eye Burn'd the mild fire of love ; and as he spoke The ear lean'd to him, and persuasion swift To the chain'd spirit of the listener stole. Silent upon the green and sloping bank The people sat, and while the leaves were shook With the birds dropping early to their nests, And the gray eve came on, within their hearts They mused if he were Christ. The rippling stream Still turn'd its silver courses from his breast As he divined their thought. " I but baptize," He said, " with water ; but there cometh One, The latchet of whose shoes I may not dare Ev'n to unloose. He will baptize with fire And with the Holy Ghost." And lo ! while yet The words were on his lips, he raised his eyes. And on the bank stood Jesus. He had laid His raiment off, and with his loins alone Girt with a mantle, and his perfect limbs, In their angelic slightness, meek and bare. He waited to go in. But John forbade. And hurried to his feet and stay'd him there. And said, " Nay, Master ! I have need of thine. Not thou of mine .'" And Jesus, with a smile BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 57 Of heavenly sadness, met his earnest looks, And answer'd, « Suffer it to be so now ; For thus it doth become me to fulfil All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream, He took around him the Apostle's arm, And drew him gently to the midst. The wood Was thick with the dim twilight as they came Up from the water. With his clasped hands Laid on his breast, th' Apostle silently Follow'd his Master's steps — when lo ! a light, Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun, Yet lambent as the softly burning stars, Envelop'd them, and from the heavens away Parted the dim blue ether like a veil ; And as a voice, fearful exceedingly. Broke from the midst, " This is my much loved Son In whom I AM WELL PLEASED," a snow-whitc dove. Floating upon its wings, descended through ; And shedding a swift music from its plumes, Circled, and flutter'd to the Saviour's breast. 58 SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. The moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow, Set with the morning-star, was not yet dim ; And the deep silence which subdues the breath Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world As sleep upon the pulses of a child. 'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane, With its bathed leaves of silver, seem'd dissolved In visible stillness ; and as Jesus' voice. With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear Of his disciples, it vibrated on Like the jfirst whisper in a silent world. They came on slowly. Heaviness oppress'd The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses Of his deep love were pour'd, he felt the need Of near communion, for his gift of strength Was wasted by the spirit's weariness. He left them there, and went a little on. And in the depth of that hush'd silentness, Alone with God, he fell upon his face. And as his heart was broken with the rush Of his surpassing agony, and death, Wrung to him from a dying universe, Was mightier than the Son of man could bear, SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. 59 He gave his sorrows way — and in the deep Prostration of his soul, breathed out the prayer, '< Father, if it be possible with thee, Let this cup pass from me." Oh, how a word. Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks, Stilleth the press of human agony ! The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul ; And though his strength was weakness, and the light Which led him on till now was sorely dim. He breathed a new submission — " Not my will. But thine be done, oh Father!" As he spoke. Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky As if the stars were swept like instruments. No cloud was visible, but radiant wings Were coming with a silvery rush to earth. And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one. With an illumined forehead, and the light Whose fountain is the mystery of God Encalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to him, And nerved him with a ministry of strength. It was enough ; and with his godlike brow Re-written of his Father's messenger. With meekness, whose divinity is more Than power and glory, he return'd again To his disciples, and awaked their sleep. For "he that should betray him was at hand." 60 THEWIDOWOFNAIN. THE WIDOW or NAIN. The Roman sentinel stood helm'd and tall Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread Of comers to the city mart was done, For it was almost noon, and a dead heat QuiverM upon the fine and sleeping dust. And the cold snake crept panting from the wall, And bask'd his scaly circles in the sun. Upon his spear the soldier lean'd, and kept His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream Was broken by the solitary foot Of some poor mendicant, he raised his head To curse him for a tributary Jew, And slumberously dozed on. 'Twas now high noon. The dull, low murmur of a funeral Went through the city — the sad sound of feet Unmix'd with voices — and the sentinel Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly Up the wide streets along whose paved way The silent throng crept slowly. They came on, THE WIDOW OF NAT N. 61 Bearing a body heavily on its bier, And by the crowd that in the burning sun Walk'd wiih forgetful sadness, 'twas of one IMourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate Swung on its hinges, and. the Roman bent His spear-point downwards as the bearers pass'd, Bending beneath their burden. There was one — Only one mourner. Close behind the bier, Crumpling the pall up in her wither'd hands, Follow'd an aged woman. Her short steps Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan Fell from her lips, thicken'd convulsively As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd Follow'd apart, but no one spoke to her. She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone — A widow with one son. He was her all — The only tie she had in the wide world — And he was dead. They could not comfort her. Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate The funeral came forth. His lips were pale With the noon's sultry heat. The beaded sweat Stood thickly on his brow, and on the worn And simple latchets of his sandals lay. Thick, the white dust of travel. He had come Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not To wet his lips by green Bethsaida's pool. 62 THE WIDOW OF ^'AIN. Nor wash his feet in Kishon's silver springs, Nor turn him southward upon Tabor's side To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze. Genesareth stood cool upon the East, Fast by the Sea of Galilee, and there The weary traveller might bide till eve ; And on the alders of Bethulia's plains The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild ; Yet turn'd he not aside, but, gazing on, From every swelling mount, he saw afar. Amid the hills, the humble spires of Nain, The place of his next errand ; and the path Touch'd not Bethulia, and a league away Upon the East lay pleasant Galilee. Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd Follow'd the stricken mourner. They came near The place of burial, and, with straining hands. Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall. And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's. And an inquiring wildness flashing through The thin gray lashes of her fever'd eyes. She came where Jesus stood beside the way. He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved. " Weep not !" he said ; and as they stay'd the bier. And at his bidding laid it at his feet, He gently drew the pall from out her grasp, THEWIDOWOFNAIN. 63 And laid it back in silence from the dead. With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near, And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space He stood and pray'd. Then, taking the cold hand. He said, "Arise !" And instantly the breast Heaved in its cerements, and a sudden flash Ran through the lines of the divided lips. And with a murmur of his mother's name, He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. And, while the mourner hung upon his neck, Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew. And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light. And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odours from its spicy pores, And the young birds were singing as if life Were a new thing to them ; but music came Upon her ear like discord, and she felt That pang of the unreasonable heart, That, bleeding amid things it loved so well. Would have some sign of sadness as they pass. She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were press'd Till the blood started; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead were swell'd out, As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye WEwo?*^ HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 65 Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, Which made its language legible, shot back, From her long lashes, as it had been flame. Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand Clasp'd in her own, and his round, dehcate feet, Scarce train'd to balance on the tented floor, Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up Into his mother's face until he caufjht The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath. As if his light proportions would have swell'd. Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staflf so wearily ? His beard Is low upon his breast, and his high brow. So written with the converse of his God, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. His lip is quivering, and his wonted step Of vigour is not there ; and, though the morn Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes Its freshness as it were a pestilence. He gave to her the water and the bread. But spoke no word, and trusted not himself To look upon her face, but laid his hand 66 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. In silent blessing on the fair-hair'd boy, And left her to her lot of loneliness. Should Hagar weep ? May slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her leaning trust again ? no ! by all her loveliness — by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies ; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness — yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But oh ! estrange her once — it boots not how — By wrong or silence — any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, — And there is not a feeling out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not. She w^ent her way with a strong step and slow — Her press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimm'd. As if it were a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd His hand till it was pain'd ; for he had read HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 67 The dark look of his mother, and the seed Of a stem nation had been breathed upon. The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. The cattle of the hills were in the shade, And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. It was an hour of rest ! but Hagar found No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips For water ; but she could not give it him. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, — For it was better than the close, hot breath Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes Were dim and blood-shot, and he could not know "Wliy God denied him water in the wild. She sat a little longer, and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. It was too much for her. She lifted him. And bore him fur'.her on, and laid his head Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; And, shrouding up her face, she went away. And sat to watch, where he could see her not, Till he should die ; and, watching him, she mourn'd : — 68 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. « God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, And see death settle on my cradle joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! And could I see thee die ? «' I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; Or wailing the soft hours. By the rich gush of water-sources playing, Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, So beautiful and deep. « Oh no ! and when I watch'd by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream. And thought of the dark stream In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, How pray'd I that my father's land might be A heritage for thee ! « And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee ! And thy white, delicate Hmbs the earth will press ; And oh ! my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there Upon his clustering hair !" \ HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 69 She stood beside the well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laujjh'd In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. 70 RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. RIZPAH WITH HER SONS, (THE DAT BEFORE THEY WERE HANGED ON GIBEAH.^ " Bread for my mother !" said the voice of one Darkening the door of Rizpah. She look'd up — And lo ! the princely countenance and mien Of dark-brow'd Armoni. The eye of Saul — The very voice and presence of the king — Limb, port, and majesty — were present there, Mock'd like an apparition in her son. Yet, as he stoop'd his forehead to her hand With a kind smile, a something of his mother Unbent the haughty arching of his lip, And, through the darkness of the widow's heart Trembled a nerve of tenderness that shook Her thought of pride all suddenly to tears. «< Whence comest thou?" said Rizpah. << From the house Of David. In his gate there stood a soldier — This in his hand. I pluck'd it, and I said, < A kingh son takes it for his hungry mother P God stay the famine !" * * * * As he spoke, a step, RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. 71 Light as an antelope's, the threshold press'd, And hke a beam of light into the room Enter'd Mephibosheth. What bird of heaven Or creature of the wild — what flower of earth — Was like this fairest of the sons of Saul ! The violet's cup was harsh to his blue eye. Less agile was the fierce barb's fiery step. His voice drew hearts to him. His smile was like The incarnation of some blessed dream — Its joyousness so sunn'd the gazer's eye ! Fair were his locks. His snowy teeth divided A bow of Love, drawn with a scarlet thread. His cheek was like the moist heart of the rose ; And, but for nostrils of that breathing fire That turns the lion back, and limbs as lithe As is the velvet muscle of the pard, Mephibosheth had been too fair for man. As if he wTre a vision that would fade, Rizpah gazed on him. Never, to her eye, Grew his bright form familiar ; but, like stars. That seem'd each night new lit in a new heaven, He was each morn's sweet gift to her. She loved Her firstborn, as a mother loves her child. Tenderly, fondly. But for him — the last — What had she done for heaven to be his mother ! Her heart rose in her throat to hear his voice ; She look'd at him forever through her tears ; Her utterance, when she spoke to him, sank down, As if the Ughtest thought of hira had lain In an unfathom'd cavern of her soul. The morning light was part of him, to her — What broke the day for, but to show^ his beauty ? The hours but measured time till he should come ; Too tardy sang the bird when he was gone ; She would have shut the flowers — and call'd the star Back to the mountain-top — and bade the sun Pause at eve's golden door — to wait for him ! Was this a heart gone wild ? — or is the love Of mothers like a madness ? Such as this Is many a poor one in her humble home, Who silently and sweetly sits alone, Pouring her life all out upon her child. What cares she that he does not feel how close Her heart beats after his — that all unseen Are the fond thoughts that follow him by day. And watch his sleep like angels ? And, when moved By some sore needed providence, he stops In his wild path and hfts a thought to heaven. What cares the mother that he does not see The Hnk between the blessing and her prayer ? He who once wept with Mary — angels keeping Their unthank'd watch — are a foreshadowing RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. 73 Of what love is in heaven. We may believe That we shall know each other's forms hereafter, And, in the bright fields of the better land. Call the lost dead to us. Oh conscious heart ! That in the lone paths of this shadowy world Hast bless'd all light, however dimly shining, That broke upon the darkness of thy way — Number thy lamps of love, and tell me, now, How many canst thou re-light at the stars And blush not at their burning? One — one only — Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time. And fed with faithful fondness to your grave — (Though sometimes with a hand stretch'd back from heaven,) Steadfast through all things — near, when most forgot — And with its finger of unerring truth Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour — ■ One lamp — thy mother''s love — amid the stars Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and, before The throne of God, burn through eternity — Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here. The hand in salutation gently raised To the bow'd forehead of the princely boy, Linger'd amid his locks. "I sold," he said, " My Libyan barb for but a cake of meal — Lo ! this — my mother ! As I pass'd the street, I hid it in my mantle, for there stand 74 RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. Famishing mothers, with their starving babes, At every threshold ; and wild, desperate men Prowl, with the eyes of tigers, up and down, Watching to rob those who, from house to house, Beg for the dying. Fear not thou, my mother ! Thy sons will be Elijah's ravens to thee !" [UNFINISHED.] LAZARUS AND MARY. 75 LAZARUS AND MARY. Jesus was there but yesterday. The prints Of his departing feet were at the door ; His << Peace be with you !" was yet audible In the rapt porch of Mary's charmed ear ; And, in the low rooms, 'twas as if the air, Hush'd with his going forth, had been the breath Of angels left on watch — so conscious still The place seem'd of his presence ! Yet, within, The family by Jesus loved were weeping. For Lazarus lay dead. And Mary sat By the pale sleeper. He was young to die. The countenance whereon the Saviour dwelt With his benignant smile — the soft fair lines Breathing of hope — were still all eloquent. Like life well mock'd in marble. That the voice, Gone from those pallid lips, was heard in heaven, Toned with unearthly sweetness — that the light, Quench'd in the closing of those stirless lids. Was veiling before God its timid fire. 76 LAZARUS AND MARY. New-lit, and brightening like a star at eve — That Lazarus, her brother, was in bliss, Not with this cold clay sleeping — Mary knew. Her heaviness of heart was not for him ! But close had been the tie by Death divided. The intertw^ining locks of that bright hair That wiped the feet of Jesus — the fair hands Clasp'd in her breathless wonder while He taught— Scarce to one pulse thrill'd more in unison. Than with one soul this sister and her brother Had lock'd their lives together. In this love, Hallow' d from stain, the woman's heart of Mary Was, with its rich affections, all bound up. Of an unblemish'd beauty, as became An office by archangels fill'd till now. She walk'd wuth a celestial halo clad ; And while, to the Apostles' eyes, it seem'd She but fulfili'd her errand out of heaven — Sharing her low roof with the Son of God — She was a woman, fond and mortal still ; And the deep fervour, lost to passion's fire. Breathed through the sister's tenderness. In vain Knew Mary, gazing on that face of clay, That it was not her brother. He was there — Swathed in that linen vesture for the grave — The same loved one in all his comeliness — And with him to the grave her heart must go. What though he talk'd of her to angels ? nay— Hover'd in spirit near her ? — 'twas that arm, Palsied in death, whose fond caress she knew ! It was that lip of marble with whose kiss, Morning and eve, love hemm'd the sweet day in. This was the form by the Judean maids Praised for its palm-like stature, as he walk'd With her by Kedron in the eventide— The dead was Lazarus ! * * * * The burial was over, and the nijrht Fell upon Bethany — and morn — and noon. And comforters and mourners went their way — But death stay'd on ! They had been oft alone, When Lazarus had follow'd Christ to hear His teachings in Jerusalem ; but this Was more than solitude. The silence now Was void of expectation. Something felt Always before, and loved without a name, — Joy from the air, hope from the opening door, Welcome and life from off the very walls,— Seem'd gone ; and in the chamber where he lay There was a fearful and unbreathing hush. Stiller than night's last hour. So fell on Maiy The shadows all have known, whose bleeding hearts Seem'd the torn gate through which the lov'd, departed, Broke from this world away. The parting soul 78 LAZARUS AND MARY. Spreads wing betwixt the mourner and the sky ! As if its path lay, from the tie last broken, Straight through the cheering gateway of the sun ; And, to the eye strain'd after, 'tis a cloud That bars the light from all things. Now as Christ Drew near to Bethany, the Jews went forth With Martha, mourning Lazarus. But Mary Sat in the house. She knew the hour was nigh When He would go again, as He had said, Unto his Father ; and she felt that He, Who loved her brother Lazarus in life. Had chose the hour, to bring him home through Death, In no unkind forgetfulness. Alone — She could lift up the bitter prayer to heaven, " Thy will be done, God !" — but that dear brother Had fill'd the cup and broke the bread for Christ ; And ever, at the morn, when she had knelt And wash'd those holy feet, came Lazarus To bind His sandals on, and follow forth With dropp'd eyes, like an angel, sad and fair — Intent upon the Master's need alone. Indissolubly link'd were they ! And now. To go to meet Him — Lazarus not there — And, to His greeting, answer, " It is well" — And, without tears, (since grief would weigh on Him Whose soul was over-sorrowful,) to kneel LAZARUS AND MARY. 79 And minister alone — her heart gave way ! She cover'd up her face, and turn'd again To wait within for Jesus. But once more Came Martha, saying, <«Lo! the Lord is here And calleth for thee, Mary!" Then arose The mourner from the ground, whereon she sate Shrouded in sackcloth ; and bound quickly up The golden locks of her dishevell'd hair ; And o'er her ashy garments drew a veil — Hiding the eyes she could not trust. And still, As she made ready to go forth, a calm As in a dream fell on her. At a fount Hard by the sepulchre, without the wall, Jesus awaited Mary. Seated near Were the way-worn disciples in the shade ; But, of Himself forgetful, Jesus lean'd Upon his staff, and watch'd where she should come To whose one sorrow — but a sparrow's falling — The pity that redeem'd a world could bleed ! And as she came, with that uncertain step, — Eager, yet weak, — her hands upon her breast, — And they who follow'd her all fallen back To leave her with her sacred grief alone, — The heart of Christ was troubled. She drew near. And the disciples rose up from the fount. 80 LAZARUS AND MARY. Moved by her look of wo, and gather'd round ; And Mary — for a moment — ere she look'd Upon the Saviour, stay'd her faltering feet, — And straighten'd her veil'd form, and tighter drew Her clasp upon the folds across her breast ; Then, with a vain strife to control her tears, She stagger'd to their midst, and at His feet Fell prostrate, saying, " Lord ! hadst thou been here, My brother had not died !" The Saviour groan'd In spirit, and stoop'd tenderly, and raised The mourner from the ground, and in a voice Broke in its utterance like her own. He said, ''Where have ye laid him ?" Then the Jews who came, Following Mary, answer' d through their tears, " Lord ! come and see !" But lo ! the mighty heart That in Gethsemane sweat drops of blood. Taking for us the cup that might not pass — The heart whose breaking cord upon the cross Made the earth tremble, and the sun afraid To look upon his agony — the heart Of a lost world's Redeemer — overflow'd, Touch'd by a mourner's sorrow ! Jesus wept. Calm'd by those pitying tears, and fondly brooding Upon the thought that Christ so loved her brother, Stood Mary there ; but that lost burthen now Lay on His heart, who pitied her ; and Christ, Following slow, and groaning in Himself, Came to the sepulchre. It was a cave, And a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, "Take ye away the stone !" Then lifted He His moisten'd eyes to heaven, and while the Jews And the disciples bent their heads in awe. And trembling Mary sank upon her knees. The Son of God pray'd audibly. He ceased, And for a minute's space there was a hush. As if th' angelic watchers of the world Had stay'd the pulses of all breathing things. To listen to that prayer. The face of Christ Shone as He stood, and over Him there came Command, as 'twere the living face of God, And with a loud voice. He cried, " Lazarus ! Come forth !" And instantly, bound hand and foot, And borne by unseen angels from the cave. He that was dead stood with them. At the word Of Jesus, the fear-stricken Jews unloosed The bands from off the foldings of his shroud ; And Mary, with her dark veil thrown aside. Ran to him swiftly, and cried, "Lazarus! My brother, Lazarus !" and tore away The napkin she had bound about his head — And touch'd the warm lips vdth her fearful hand — 82 LAZARUS AND MARY. And on his neck fell weeping. And while all Lay on their faces prostrate, Lazarus Took Mary by the hand, and they knelt down And worshipp'd Him who loved them. THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN CHILD, 83 THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN CHILD. Room, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to heaven ! Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes, watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! But lo ! while you delay to let her forth, Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss From lips all pale with agony, and tears, Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life Held as a welcome to her. Weep ! oh mother ! But not that from this cup of bitterness A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. One look upon thy face ere thou depart ! My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! My daughter ! With thy birth has gush'd a spring 1 knew not of — filling my heart with tears, And turning with strange tenderness to thee — A love — oh God ! it seems so — that must flow Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me, Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain Drawing me after thee ! And so, farewell ! 84 THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN CHILD. 'Tis a harsh world, in which affection knows No place to treasure up its loved and lost But the foul grave ! Thou, who so late wast sleeping Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart, Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving But it was sent thee with some tender thought, How can I leave thee — here ! Alas for man ! The herb in its humility may fall And waste into the bright and genial air. While we — by hands that minister'd in life Nothing but love to us — are thrust away — The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms, And the warm sunshine trodden out forever ! Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, A bank where I have lain in summer hours. And thouo:ht how little it would seem like death To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook, Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on. Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; The birds are never silent that build here, Trying to sing down the more vocal waters : The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, And far below, seen under arching leaves. Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, Pointinsr the living; after thee. And this THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN CHILD. 85 Seems like a comfort ; and, replacing now The flowers that have made room for thee, I go To whisper the same peace to her who lies — Robb'd of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, To bring the heart back from an infant gone. Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot The images from all the silent rooms. And every sight and sound familiar to her Undo its sweetest link — and so at last The fountain — that, once struck, must flow for ever — Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile Steals to her pallid lip again, and Spring Wakens the buds above thee, we will come. And, standing by thy music-haunted grave. Look on each other cheerfully, and say : — Ji child that we have loved is gone to heaven, And by this gate of flowers she passed away ! 86 DEPARTURE OF REV. MR. WHITE. ON THE DEPARTURE OF REV. MR. WHITE FEOM HIS PARISH, WHEN CHOSEN PRESIDENT OF WABASH COLLEGE. Leave us not, man of prayer ! Like Paul, hast tliou "Served God with all humility of mind," DwelUng among us, and « with many tears," " From house to house," « by night and day not ceasing," Hast pleaded thy blest errand. Leave us not ! Leave us not now ! The Sabbath-bell, so long Link'd with thy voice — the prelude to thy prayer — The call to us from heaven to come with thee Into the house of God, and, from thy lips, Hear what had fall'n upon thy heart — will sound Lonely and mournfully when thou art gone ! Our prayers are in thy words — our hope in Christ Warra'd on thy lips — our darkling thoughts of God Follow'd thy loved call upward ; and so knit Is all our worship with those outspread hands, And the imploring voice, which, well we knew, Sank in the ear of Jesus — that, with thee. The angel's ladder seems removed from sight, And we astray in darkness ! Leave us not ! Leave not the dead ! They have lain calmly down — DEPARTURE OF REV. MR. WHITE. 87 Thy comfort in their ears — believing well That when thine own more holy work was done, Thou wouldst lie down beside them, and be near When the last trump shall summon, to fold up Thy flock affrighted, and, with that same voice Whose whisper' d promises could sweeten death. Take up once more the interrupted strain, And wait Christ's coming, saying, " Here am I, And those whom thou hast given me !" Leave not The old, who, 'mid the gathering shadows, cling To their accustom'd staff, and know not how To lose thee, and so near the darkest hour ! Leave not the penitent, whose soul may be Deaf to the strange voice, but awake to thine ! Leave not the mourner thou hast sooth'd — the heart Turns to its comforter again ! Leave not The child thou hast baptized ! another's care May not keep bright, upon the mother's heart, The covenant seal ; the infant's ear has caught Words it has strangely ponder'd, from thy lips, And the remember'd tone may find again, And quicken for the harvest, the first seed Sown for eternity ! Leave not the child ! Yet if thou wilt — if, " bound in spirit," thou Must go, and we shall see thy face no more, " The will of God be done !" We do not say 88 DEPARTURE OF REV. MR. WHITE. Remember us — thou wilt — in love and prayer ! And thou wilt be remember'd — by the dead, When the last trump awakes them — by the old, When, of the <' silver cord" whose strength thou know'st, The last thread fails — by the bereaved and stricken, When the dark cloud, wherein thou found'st a spot Broke by the light of mercy, lowers again — By the sad mother, pleading for her child, In murmurs difficult, since thou art gone — By all thou leavest, when the Sabbath-bell Brings us together, an'd the closing hymn Hushes our hearts to pray, and thy loved voice, That all our wants had grown to, (only thus, 'Twould seem, articulate to God,) falls not Upon our listening ears — remember'd thus — Remember'd well — in all our holiest hours — Will be the faithful shepherd we have lost ! And ever with one prayer, for which our love Will find the pleading words, — that in the light Of heaven we may behold his face once more ! BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 89 BIRTH-DAY VERSES. My birth-day ! — Oh beloved mother ! My heart is with thee o'er the seas. I did not think to count another Before I wept upon thy knees— Before this scroll of absent years Was blotted with thy streaming tears. My own I do not care to check. I weep — albeit here alone — As if I hung upon thy neck, As if thy lips were on my own, As if this full, sad heart of mine, Were beating closely upon thine. Four weary years ! How looks she now ? What light is in those tender eyes ? What trace of time has touch' d the brow Whose look is borrow'd of the skies That listen to her nightly prayer ? How is she changed since he was there h2 90 BIRTH-DAY VERSES. Who sleeps upon her heart alway — Whose name upon her lips is worn — For whom the night seems made to pray — For whom she wakes to pray at morn — Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir, Who weeps these tears — to think of her ! I know not if my mother's eyes Would find me changed in slighter things ; I've wander'd beneath many skies. And tasted of some bitter springs ; And many leaves, once fair and gay, From youth's full flower have dropp'd away — But, as these looser leaves depart. The lessen'd flow^er gets near the core, And, when deserted quite, the heart Takes closer what was dear of yore — And yearns to those who loved it first — The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed. Dear mother ! dost thou love me yet ? Am I remember'd in my home ? When those I love for joy are met, Does some one wish that I would come .'' Thou dost — I am beloved of these ! But, as the schoolboy numbers o'er BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 91 Night after night the Pleiades, And finds the stars he found before — As turns the maiden oft her token — As counts the miser aye his gold — So, till life's silver cord is broken, Would I of thy fond love be told. My heart is full, mine eyes are wet — Dear mother ! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer yet ? Oh ! when the hour to meet again Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea. My heart takes up its lengthen'd chain, And, link by link, draws nearer thee — Wlien land is hail'd, and, from the shore, Comes off the blessed breath of home, With fragrance from my mother's door Of flowers forgotten when I come — When port is gain'd, and slowly now, The old familiar paths are pass'd. And, entering — unconscious how — I gaze upon thy face at last, And run to thee, all faint and weak. And feel thy tears upon my cheek — Oh ! if my heart break not with joy. The hght of heaven will fairer seem ; And I shall grow once more a boy : And, mother ! — 'twill be like a dream 92 BIRTH-DAY VERSES. That we were parted thus for years ; And once that we have dried our tears, How will the days seem long and bright — To meet thee always with the morn, And hear thy blessing every night — Thy " dearest," thy " first-born !" — And be no more, as now, in a strange land, forlorn ! TO MY MOTHER. 93 TO MY MOTHER FROM THE APENNINES. 'Tis midnight the lone mountains on — The East is fleck'd with cloudy bars, And, gliding through them one by one. The moon walks up her path of stars — The light upon her placid brow Received from fountains unseen now. And happiness is mine to-night. Thus springing from an unseen fount ; And breast and brain are warm with light. With midnight round me on the mount — Its rays, like thine, fair Dian, flow From far that Western star below. Dear mother ! in thy love I live ; The life thou gav'st flows yet from thee — And, sun-like, thou hast power to give Life to the earth, air, sea, for me ! Though wandering, as this moon above, I'm dark without thy constant love. 94 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. Bright flag at yonder tapering mast ! Fling out your field of azure blue ; Let star and stripe be westward cast, And point as Freedom's eagle flew! Strain home ! oh lithe and quivering spars ! Point home, my country's flag of stars ! The wind blows fair ! the vessel feels The pressure of the rising breeze, And, swiftest of a thousand keels, She leaps to the careering seas ! Oh, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail, In whose white breast I seem to lie. How oft, when blew this eastern gale, I've seen your semblance in the sky. And long'd with breaking heart to flee On cloud-like pinions o'er the sea ! Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld ! I turn to watch our foamy track, LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 95 And thoughts with which I first beheld Yon clouded line, come hurrying back ; My lips are dry with vague desire — My cheek once more is hot with joy — My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire ! — Oh, what has changed that traveller-boy ! As leaves the ship this dying fioam, His visions fade behind — his weary heart speeds home ! Adieu, oh soft and southern shore. Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven — Those forms of beauty seen no more, Yet once to Art's rapt vision given ! Oh, still th' enamour'd sun delays. And pries through fount and crumbling fane, To win to his adoring gaze Those children of the sky again ! Irradiate beauty, such as never That light on other earth hath shone. Hath made this land her home for ever ; And could I live for this alone — Were not my birthright brighter far Than such voluptuous slaves' can be — Held not the West one glorious star New-born and blazing for the free — Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet — Rome, wdth her Helot sons, should teach me to forget! 96 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. Adieu, oh fatherland ! I see Your white cliffs on th' horizon's rim, And though to freer skies I flee, My heart swells, and my eyes are dim ! As knows the dove the task you give her. When loosed upon a foreign shore — As spreads the rain-drop in the river ■ In which it may have flow'd before — To England, over vale and mountain. My fancy flew from climes more fair — My blood, that knew its parent fountain. Ran warm and fast in England's air. Dear mother ! in thy prayer, to-night. There come new words and warmer tears ! On long, long darkness breaks the light — Comes home the loved, the lost for years ! Sleep safe, oh wave- worn mariner ! Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea ! The ear of heaven bends low to her ! He comes to shore who sails with me ! The spider knows the roof unriven. While swings his web, though lightnings blaze- And, by a thread still fast on heaven, I know my mother lives and prays ! LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 97 Dear mother ! when our Ups can speak — When first our tears will let us see-^ When I can gaze upon thy cheek, And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me — 'Twill be a pastime little sad To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had — For all may flee, so feeling lingers ! But there's a change, beloved mother ! To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; I come — but with me comes another To share the heart once only mine ! Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely. One star arose in memory's heaven — Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only — Water'd one flower with tears at even — Room in thy heart ! The hearth she left Is darken'd to lend light to ours ! There are bright flowers of care bereft, And hearts— that languish more than flowers ! She was their light — their very air — Room, mother ! in thy heart ! place for her in thy prayer ! 98 A TRUE INCIDENT. A TRUE INCIDENT. Upon a summer's morn, a southern mother Sat at the curtain'd window of an inn. She rested from long travel, and with hand Upon her cheek in tranquil happiness, Look'd where the busy travellers went and came. And, like the shadows of the swallows flying Over the bosom of unruffled water, Pass'd from her thoughts all objects, leaving there. As in the water's breast, a mirror'd heaven — For, in the porch beneath her, to and fro, A nurse walk'd singing with her babe in arms. And many a passer-by look'd on the child And praised its wondrous beauty, but still on The old nurse troU'd her lullaby, and still, Blest through her depths of soul by hght there shining. The mother in her revery mused on. But lo ! another traveller alighted ! And now, no more indifferent or calm. The mother's breath comes quick, and \yi\h the blood Warm in her cheek and brow, she murmurs low, "Now, God be praised ! I am no more alone A TRUE INCIDENT. 99 In knowing I've an angel for my child, — Chance he to look on't only !" With a smile — The tribute of a beauty-loving heart To things from God new-moulded — would have pass'd The poet, as the inf^mt caught his eye ; But suddenly he turn'd, and with his hand Upon the nurse's arm, he stay'd her steps, And gazed upon her burthen. 'Twas a child In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed, Something to waken wonder. Never sky In noontide depth, or softly-breaking dawn — Never the dew in new-born violet's cup, Lay so entranced in purity! Not calm. With the mere hush of infancy at rest, The ample forehead, but serene with thought ; And by the rapt expression of the lips. They seem'd scarce still from a cherubic hymn ; And over all its countenance there breathed Benignity, majestic as we dream Angels wear ever, before God. With gaze Earnest and mournful, and his eyelids warm With tears kept back, the poet kiss'd the child ; And chasten'd at his heart, as having pass'd Close to an angel, went upon his way. Soon after, to the broken choir in heaven This cherub was recall'd, and now the mother 100 A TRUE INCIDENT. Bethought her, in her anguish, of the bard— (Herself a far-off stranger, but his heart FamiHar to the world,) — and wrote to tell him, The angel he had recognised that morn Had fled to bliss again. The poet well Remember'd that child's ministry to him ; And of the only fountain that he knew For healing, he sought comfort for the mother. And thus he wrote : — Mourn not for the child from thy tenderness riven, Ere stain on its purity fell ! To thy questioning heart, lo ! an answer from heaven "Is IT WELL WITH THE CHILD?" " It IS WELL !" THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. 101 THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. They tell me thou art come from a far world, Babe of my bosom ! that these little arms, Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er — That through these fringed lids we see the soul Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home ; And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say. Whispering to thee — and 'tis then I see Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven ! And what is thy far errand, my fair child ? Why away, wandering from a home of bliss, To find thy way through darkness home again ? Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky ? Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert, The cherub and the angel thou mayst be, A life's probation in this sadder world ? Art thou, with memory of two things only, Music and light, left upon earth astray, And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, Look'd for with fear and trembling r l2 102 THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. God ! who gavest Into my guiding hand this wanderer, To lead her through a world whose darkling paths I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone ! I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — The angels who now visit her in dreams! Bid them be near her pillow till in death The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more! And let the light and music, which the world Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense Hails with sweet recognition, be to her A voice to call her upward, and a lamp To lead her steps unto Thee ! A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. 103 A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. I SADDEN when thou smilest to ray smile, Child of my love ! I tremble to believe That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue The shadow of my heart will always pass ; — A heart that, from its struggle with the world. Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, And, careless of the staining dust it brings. Asks for its idol ! Strange, that flowers of earth Are visited by every air that stirs, And drink in sweetness only, while the child That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven, May take a blemish from the breath of love. And bear the blight for ever. I have wept With gladness at the gift of this fair child ! My life is bound up in her. But, oh God ! Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times Bears its sweet burthen ; and if Thou hast given To nurture such as mine this spotless flower, To bring it unpolluted unto thee, 104 A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. Take thou its love, I pray thee ! Give it light — Though, following the sun, it turn from me ! — But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light Shining about her, draw me to my child ! And link us close, oh God, when near to heaven ! REVERIE AT GLENMARY. I HAVE enough, God ! My heart to-night Runs over with its fulness of content ; And as I look out on the fragrant stars, And from the beauty of the night take in My priceless portion — yet myself no more Than in the universe a grain of sand — I feel His glory who could make a world, Yet in the lost depths of the wilderness Leave not a flower unfinish'd ! Rich, though poor ! My low-roof 'd cottage is this hour a heaven. Music is in it — and the song she sings. That sweet-voiced wife of mine, arrests the ear Of my young child awake upon her knee ; And with his calm eye on his master's face. My noble hound lies couchant — and all here — All in this little home, yet boundless heaven — Are, in such love as I have power to give, Blessed to overflowing. 106 REVERIE AT GLEN MARY. Thou, who look'st Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve, Knowest its fulness, as thou dost the dew Sent to the hidden violet by Thee ; And, as that flower, from its unseen abode. Sends its sweet breath up, duly, to the sky, Changing its gift to incense, so, oh God ! May the sweet drops that to my humble cup Find their far way from heaven, send up, to Thee, Fragrance at thy throne welcome ! THIRTY-FIVE. 107 THIRTY-FIVE. "The years of a man's life are threescore and ten.' Oh, weary heart ! thou'rt halfway home ! We stand on life's meridian height — As far from childhood's morning come, As to the grave's forgetful night. Give Youth and Hope a parting tear — Look onward with a placid brow — Hope promised but to bring us here, And Reason takes the guidance now — One backward look— the last— the last ! One silent tear— for Youth is past ! Who goes with Hope and Passion back ? Wlio comes with me and Memory on ? Oh, lonely looks the downward track — Joy's music hush'd— Hope's roses gone ! To Pleasure and her giddy troop Farewell, without a sigh or tear ! But heart gives way, and spirits droop. To think that Love may leave us here ! Have we no charm when Youth is flown — Midway to death left sad and lone ! 108 THIRTY-FIVE. Yet stay ! — as 'twere a twilight star That sends its thread across the wave, I see a brightening light, from far, Steal down a path beyond the grave ! And now — bless God ! — its golden line Comes o'er — and lights my shadowy way — And shows the dear hand clasp'd in mine ! But, list what those sweet voices say ! The better laiKTs in sight. And, by its chastening light, All love from lifers midway is driven, Save hers whose clasped hand will bring thee on to heaven ! I CONTEMPLATION. " They are all up — the innumerable stars — And hold their place in heaven. My eyes have been Searching the pearly depths through which they sprin< Like beautiful creations, till I feel As if it were a new and perfect world, Waiting in silence for the word of God To breathe it into motion. There they stand, Shining in order, like a living hymn Written in light, awaking at the breath Of the celestial dawn, and praising Him Who made them, with the harmony of spheres. I would I had an angel's ear to list That melody. I would that I might float Up in that boundless element, and feel Its ravishing vibrations, like the pulse Beating in heaven ! My spirit is athirst For music — rarer music ! I would bathe My soul in a serener atmosphere Than this ; I long to mingle with the flock Led by the ' living waters,' and to stray La the < green pastures' of the better land ! 110 CONTEMPLATION. When wilt thou break, dull fetter ! When shall I Gather my wings, and like a rushing thought Stretch onward, star by star, up into heaven !" Thus mused Alethe. She was one to whom Life had been like the witching of a dream, Of an untroubled sweetness. She was born Of a high race, and lay upon the knee, With her soft eyes perusing listlessly The fretted roof, or, on Mosaic floors, Grasp'd at the tesselated squares inwrought With metals curiously. Her childhood pass'd Like faery — amid fountains and green haunts — Trying her little feet upon a lawn Of velvet evenness, and hiding flowers Li her sweet breast, as if it were a fair And pearly altar to crush incense on. Her youth — oh ! that was queenly ! She was like A dream of poetry that may not be Written or told — exceeding beautiful ! And so came worshippers ; and rank bow'd down And breathed upon her heart-strings with the breath Of pride, and bound her forehead gorgeously With dazzling scorn, and gave unto her step A majesty — as if she trod the sea, And the proud waves, unbidden, lifted her ! And so she grew to woman — her mere look Strong as a monarch's signet, and her hand C N T E :\I P L A T I O N. 1 1 1 Th' ambition of a kingdom. From all this Turn'd her high heart away ! She had a mind, Deep, and immortal, and' it would not feed On pageantry. . She thirsted for a spring Of a serener element, and drank Philosophy, and for a little while She was allay'd, — till, presently, it turn'd Bitter within her, and her spirit grew Faint for undying waters. Then she came To the pure fount of God, and is athirst No more — save when the fever of the world Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes, Out in the star-light quietness, and breathe A holy aspiration after Heaven, 112 A CHILD TIRED OF PLAY. ON THE PICTURE OF A " CHILD TIRED OF PLAY." Tired of play! Tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day ? The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves ; Twilight gathers, and day is done — How hast thou spent it — restless one ? Playing? But what hast thou done beside To tell thy mother at eventide ? What promise of morn is left unbroken ? What kind word to thy playmate spoken ? Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven? How with thy faults has duty striven ? What hast thou learn'd by field and hill, By greenwood path, and by singing rill ? There will come an eve to a longer day. That will find thee tired — but not of play ! A CHILD TIRED OF PLAY. 113 And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now. With drooping limbs and aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creep. And long to go to thy quiet sleep. Well were it then if thine aching brow Were as free from sin and shame as now ! Well for thee, if thy lip could tell A tale like this, of a day spent well. If thine open hand hath relieved distress — If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness — If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, And humbled thy heart with penitence — If Nature's voices have spoken to thee With her holy meanings eloquently — If every creature hath won thy love, From the creeping worm to the brooding dove- If never a sad, low spoken word Hath plead with thy human heart unheard — Then, when the night steals on, as now, It will bring reUef to thine aching brow. And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. K2 114 A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION. A CHILD^S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. She had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world. And this were its first eve. She stood alone By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend. And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That look'd so still and delicate above, Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the faint golden mellowness, a star Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight Burst from her hps, and putting up her hands, Her simple thought broke forth expressively — "Father! dear father! God has made a star!" ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. 115 ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. She stood up in the meekness of a heart Resting on God, and held her fair young child Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips Of the good man glow'd fervently with faith That it would be, even as he had pray'd. And the sweet child be gather' d to the fold Of Jesus. As the holy words went on Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears, Stole -from beneath her lashes, and upon The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft With the baptismal water. Then I thought That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears Would be a deeper covenant— which sin And the temptations of the world, and death, Would leave unbroken— and that she would know- In the clear light of heaven, how very strong The prayer which press' d them from her heart had been In leading its young spirit up to God. 116 TO A CITY PIGEON. TO A CITY PIGEON. Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove ! Thy daily visits have touch'd my love. I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat. And my joy is high To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves. And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves ? Why dost thou haunt the sultry street, When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet ? How canst thou bear This noise of people — this sultry air ? Thou alone of the feather' d race Dost look unscared on the human face , Thou alone, with a wing to flee, Dost love with man in his haunts to be ; And the " gentle dove" Has become a name for trust and love. TO A CITY PIGEON. 117 A holy gift is thine, sweet bird ! Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word ! Thou'rt link'd with all that is fresh and wild In the prison'd thoughts of the city child ; And thy glossy wings Are its brightest image of moving things. It is no light chance. Thou art set apart, Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart. To stir the love for the bright and fair That else were seal'd in this crowded air ; I sometimes dream Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. Come then, ever, when daylight leaves The page I read, to my humble eaves. And wash thy breast in the hollow spout, And murmur thy low sweet music out ! I hear and see Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee ! 118 THE BELFRY PIGEON. THE BELFllY PIGEON. On the cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air : I love to see him track the street, With his wary eye and active feet ; And I often watch him as he springs. Circling the steeple with easy wings. Till across the dial his shade has pass'd, And the belfry edge is gain'd at last. 'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; There's a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; And I often stop with the fear I feel — He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — Chime of the hour or funeral knell — The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon- When the sexton cheerly rings for noon — When the clock strikes clear at morning light — When the child is waked with " nine at night "- When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Filling the spirit with tones of prayer — Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd, Or, rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smooth his breast, Then drops again with filmed eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies. Sweet bird ! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee !' With wings to fly to wood and glen. Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; And daily, with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; But, unlike me, when day is o'er. Thou canst dismiss the world and soar, Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 120 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. SATURDAY AFTERNOON. WRITTEN FOB A PICTORE. I LOVE to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old. And my locks are not yet gray ; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walk'd the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old, That my heart is ripe for the reaper. Death, And my years are wellnigh told. It is very true ; it is very true ; I'm old, and " I 'bide my time:" But my heart will leap at a scene like this. And I half renew my prime. Play on, play on ; I am with you there. In the midst of your merry ring ; SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 121 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smother'd call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall. I am willing to die when my time shall come. And I shall be glad to go ; For the world at best is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low ; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy w^ay ; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay. 122 THE SABBATH. THE SABBATH. It was a pleasant morning, in the time When the leaves fall — and the bright sun shone out As when the morning stars first sang together — So quietly and calmly fell his light Upon a world at rest. There was no leaf In motion, and the loud winds slept, and all Was still. The labouring herd was grazing Upon the hill-side quietly — uncall'd By the harsh voice of man ; and distant sound. Save from the murmuring waterfall, came not As usual on the ear. One hour stole on, And then another of the morning, calm And still as Eden ere the birth of man. And then broke in the Sabbath chime of bells — And the old man, and his descendants, went Together to the house of God. I join'd The well-apparell'd crowd. The holy man Rose solemnly, and breathed the prayer of faith — And the gray saint, just on the wing for heaven — And the fair maid — and the bright-hair'd young man- And child of curling locks, just taught to close The lash of its blue eye the while, — all knelt In attitude of prayer — and then the hymn, Sincere in its low melody, went up To worship God. The white-hair'd pastor rose And look'd upon his flock — and with an eye That told his interest, and voice that spoke In tremulous accents eloquence like Paul's, He lent Isaiah's fire to the truths Of revelation, and persuasion came Like gushing waters from his lips, till hearts Unused to bend were soften'd, and the eye Unwont to weep sent forth the willing tear. I went my way, but as I went I felt How well it was that the world-weary soul Should have its times to set its burthen down. 124 DEDICATION HYMN. DEDICATION HYMN. WRITTEN TO BE SaNG AT THE CONSECRATrON OF HANOVER-STREET CHCKCH. BOSTON. The perfect world by Adam trod Was the first temple — built by God — His fiat laid the corner-stone, And heaved its pillars, one by one. He hung its starry roof on high — The broad illimitable sky ; He spread its pavement, green and bright, And curtain'd it with morning light. The mountains in their places stood — The sea — the sky- -and " all was good ;" And, when its first pure praises rang. The " morning stars together sang." Lord! 'tis not ours to make the sea And earth and sky a house for thee ; But in thy sight our offering stands — A humblei temple. " made with hands." w Hum?*^ TIHIE PYDW(S AieiKllEli^OST. THE DYING ALCHYMIST. 125 THE DYING ALCHYMIST. The night wind with a desolate moan swept by; And the old shutters of the turret swung Screaming upon their hinges ; and the moon, As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, Struggled aslant the stain' d and broken panes So dimly, that the watchful eye of death Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. ******* The fire beneath his crucible was low ; Yet still it burn'd ; and ever as his thoughts Grew insupportable, he raised himself Upon his wasted arm, and stirr'd the coals With difficult energy, and when the rod Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips Mutter'd a curse on death ! The silent room. From its dim corners, mockingly gave back His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire Had the distinctness of a knell ; and when J26 THE DYING A L C H Y M I S T. Duly the antique horologe beat one, He drew a phial from beneath his head, And drank. And instantly his lips compress'd, And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame. He rose with supernatural strength, and sat Upright, and communed with himself: — I did not think to die Till I had finish'd what I had to do ; I thought to pierce th' eternal secret through With this my mortal eye ; I felt — oh God ! it seemeth even now This cannot be the death-dew on my brow ! And yet it is — I feel. Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid ! And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade ; And something seems to steal Over my bosom like a frozen hand — Binding its pulses with an icy band. And this is death ! But why Feel I this wild recoil ? It cannot be Th' immortal spirit shuddereth to be free ! Would it not leap to fly, Like a chain'd eaglet at its parent's call ? I fear — I fear — that this poor life is all ! THE DYING ALCHYMIST. 127 Yet thus to pass away ! — To live but for a hope that mocks at last- To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast, To waste the light of day, Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought, All that we have and are— for this— for naught ! Grant me another year, God of ray spirit !— but a day— to win Something to satisfy this thirst within ! I would know something here ! Break for me but one seal that is unbroken ! Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! Vain — vain ! — my brain is turning With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, And I am freezing— burning — Dying ! Oh God ! If I might only live ! ]Vry phial Ha ! it thrills me— I revive ! Ay — were not man to die. He were too mighty for this narrow sphere ! Had he but time to brood on knowledge here— Could he but train his eye- Might he but wait the mystic word and hour- Only his Maker would transcend his power ! 128 THE DYING ALCHYMIST. Earth has no mineral strange — Th' illimitable air no hidden wings — Water no quality in covert springs, And fii'e no power to change — Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell, Which the unwasting soul might not compel. Oh, but for time to track The upper stars into the pathless sky — To see th' invisible spirits, eye to eye — To hurl the lightning back — To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls— To chase Day's chariot to the horizon- walls — And more, much more — for now The life-seal'd fountains of my nature move — To nurse and purify this human love — To clear the godlike brow Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down, Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one — This were indeed to feel The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream — To live — oh God ! that life is but a dream ! And death Aha ! I reel — Dim — dim — I faint — darkness comes o'er my eye- Cover me ! save me ! God of heaven ! I die ! THE DYING ALCHYM 1ST. 129 'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild, His frame was wasted, and his features wan And haggard as with want, and in his palm His nails were driven deep, as if the throe Of the last agony had wrung him sore. The storm was raging still. The shutters swung Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind. And all without went on — as aye it will. Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. The fire beneath the crucible was out ; The vessels of his mystic art lay round, Useless and cold as the ambitious hand That fashion'd them, and the small rod, Familiar to his touch for threescore years. Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still Might vex the elements at its master's will. And thus had pass'd from its unequal frame A soul of fire — a sun-bent eagle stricken From his high soaring down — an instrument Broken with its own compass. Oh how poor 130 THE DYING ALCHYMIST. Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, Like th' adventurous bird that hath out-flown His ytrength upon the sea, ambition-wreck'd — A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest ! PARRHASIUS. " Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, among those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man ; and when he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and torment, the better, by his example, to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint." — Burton's Anat. of Mel. There stood an unsold captive in the mart, A gray-hair'd and majestical old man, Chain'd to a pillar. It was almost night, And the last seller from his place had gone, And not a sound was heard but of a dog Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, Or the dull echo from the pavement rung, As the faint captive changed his weary feet. He had stood there since morning, and had borne From every eye in Athens the cold gaze Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came And roughly struck his palm upon his breast. And touch'd his unheal'd wounds, and with a sneer Pass'd on ; and when, with weariness o'erspent, He bow'd his head in a forgetful sleep, j Th' inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats Of torture to his children, summon'd back The ebbing blood into his pallid face. 132 PARUHASIUS. 'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun Tipp'd with a golden fire the many domes Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street Through w^hich the captive gazed. He had borne up With a stout heart that long and weary day, Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, But now he was alone, and from his nerves The needless strength departed, and he lean'd Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts Throng on him as they would. Unmark'd of him, Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood. Gazing upon his grief. Th' Athenian's cheek Flush'd as he measured with a painter's eye The moving picture. The abandon'd limbs, Stain'd with the oozing blood, were laced with veins Swollen to purple fulness ; the gray hair. Thin and disorder'd, hung about his eyes ; And as a thought of wilder bitterness Rose in his memory, his lips grew white, And the fast workings of his bloodless face Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. ******* The golden light into the painter's room Stream'd richly, and the hidden colours stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth. And in the soft and dewy atmosphere PARRHASTUS. 133 Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. The walls were hung with armour, and about In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, And from the casement soberly away Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true, And, like a veil of filmy mellowness. The lint-spects floated in the twilight air. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvass. There Prometheus lay, Chain'd to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus— The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ; And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, Rapt mystery, and pluck'd the shadows forth With its far-reaching fancy, and with form And colour clad them, his fine, earnest eye riash'd with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip Were like the wing'd God's, breathing from his flight. " Bring me the captive now ! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens — around me play Colours of such divinity to-day. 134 PAR RH AS I US. " Ha ! bind him on his back ! Look! — as Prometheus in my picture here! Quick — or he faints ! — stand with the cordial near ! Now — bend him to the rack ! Press down the poison'd links into his flesh! And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! " So — let him writhe ! How long "Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now^ ! What a fine agony works upon his brow ! Ha! gray-hair'd, and so strong! How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! Gods I if I could but paint a dying groan ! " < Pity' thee ! So I do ! I pity the dumb victim at the altar — But does the robed priest for his pity falter ? I'd rack thee though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine — What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? '< < Hereafter !' Ay — hereafter ! A whip to keep a coward to his track ! What gave Death ever from his kingdom back To check the skeptic's laughter ? Come from the grave to-morrow with that story — And T may take some softer path to glory. ffSwnpl"?* A s y g. PARRHASIUS. 135 "No, no, old man! we die Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away Our life upon the chance wind, even as they ! Strain well thy fainting eye— For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, The light of heaven will never reach thee more. "Yet there's a deathless name! A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn. And like a steadfast planet mount and burn — And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, By all the fiery stars ! I'd bind it on ! '< Ay — though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd first — • Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild — " All — I would do it all — Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot — Thrust foully into earth to be forgot! Oh heavens ! — but I appal Your heart, old man ! forgive ha ! on your lives Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives ! 136 PARRHASIUS. " Vain — vain — give o'er ! His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow ! Gods ! if he do not die But for one moment — one — till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips ! <' Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath — Another ? Wilt thou never come, oh Death ! Look ! how his temple flutters ! Is his heart still ? Aha ! Hft up his head ! He shudders — gasps — Jove help him ! — so — he's dead." ******* How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules th' unrein' d ambition ! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought And unthrones peace for ever. Putting on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip, We look upon our splendour and forget The thirst of which we perish ! Yet hath life Many a falser idol. There are hopes Promising well; and love-touch'd dreams for some ; And passions, many a wild one ; and fair schemes For gold and pleasure — yet will only this PARRHASIUS. 137 Balk not the soul — Ambition only, gives, Even of bitterness, a henker full ! Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, Troubled at best — Love is a lamp unseen, Burning to waste, or, if its light is found. Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken — Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires. And Quiet is a hunger never fed — And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose — From all but keen Ambition — will the soul Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness To wander like a restless child away. Oh, if there were not better hopes than these — Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame — If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart Must canker in its coffers — if the links Falsehood hath broken will unite no more — If the deep-yearning love, that hath not found Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears — If truth, and fervour, and devotedness. Finding no worthy altar, must return And die of their own fulness — if beyond The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air The spirit may find room, and in the love Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart May spend itself — what thrice-moclc' d fools are we ! 138 SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT. THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT/ " Influentia coeli morbum hunc movet, iiiteidum omnibus aliis aiiiotis. ISIelaHCthon de Anima, Cap. de Humorihus. I. Night in Arabia. An hour ago, Pale Dian had descended from the sky. Flinging her cestus out upon the sea, And at their watches, now, the solemn stars Stood vigilant and lone ; and, dead asleep, With not a shadow moving on its breast. The breathing earth lay in its silver dew, And, trembUng on their myriad viewless wings, Th' imprison'd odours left the flowers to dream, And stole away upon the yielding air. Ben Khorat's tower stands shadowy and tall In Mecca's loneliest street ; and ever there. When night is at the deepest, burns his lamp As constant as the Cynosure, and forth * A famous Arabian astrologer, who is said to have spent forty )'ears in discovering the motion of the eighth sphere. He had a scholar, a young Bedouin Arab, who, with a singular passion for knowledge, aban- doned his wandering tribe, and, applying himself too closely to astrology, lost his reason and died. SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT. 139 From his loop'd window stretch the brazen tubes, Pointing for ever at the central star Of that dim nebula just lifting now Over Mount Arafat. The sky to-night Is of a clearer blackness than is wont, And far within its depths the colour'd stars* Sparkle like gems — capricious Antaresf Flushing and paling in the Southern arch ; And azure Lyra, like a woman's eye. Burning with soft blue lustre ; and away Over the desert the bright Polar star. White as a flashing icicle ; and here, Hung like a lamp above th' Arabian sea. Mars with his dusky glow ; and fairer yet, Mild Sirias,! tinct with dew^' violet, * " Even to the naked eye, the stars appear of palpably different co- lours; but when viewed with a prismatic glass, thejj^ may be very accu- rately classed into the red, the yellow, the brilliant white, the dull white, and the anomalous. This is true also of the planets, which shine by reflected light, and of course the difference of colour must be supposed to arise from their different powers to absorb and reflect the rays of the sun. The original composition of the stars, and the different dispersive powers of their different atmospheres, may be supposed to account also for this phenomenon." t This star exhibits a peculiar quality — a rapid and beautiful change in the colour of its light; every alternate twinkling being of an intense reddish crimson colour, and the answering one of a brilliant white. j(. When seen with a prismatic glass, Sirius shows a large brush of exceedingly beautiful rays. 140 SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT. Set like a flower upon the breast of Eve ; And in the zenith the sweet Pleiades,* (Alas — that even a star may pass from heaven And not be miss'd !)— the linked Pleiades Undimm'd are there, though from the sister band The fairest has gone down ; and, South away, Hirundof with its little company ; And white-brow'd Vesta, lamping on her path Lonely and planet-calm, and, all through heaven, Articulate almost, they troop to-night. Like unrobed angels in a prophet's trance. Ben Khorat knelt before his telescope,! Gazing with earnest stillness on the stars. The gray hairs, struggling from his turban-folds, Play'd with the entering wind upon his cheeks, And on his breast his venerable beard With supernatural whiteness loosely fell. The black flesh swell'd about his sandal thongs, Tight with his painful posture, and his lean * The Pleiades are vertical in Arabia. f An Arabic constellation placed instead of tlie Piscis Australis, be- cause the swallow arrives in Arabia about the time of the heliacal rising- ot' the Fishes. X An anachronism, the author is aware. The telescope was not in- vented for a century or two after the time of Ben Khorat. SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT. 141 And wither'd fingers to his knees were clench'd, And the thin lashes of his straining eye Lay with unwinking closeness to the lens, Stiffen'd with tense up-turning. Hour by hour, Till the stars melted in the flush of morn, The old astrologer knelt moveless there, Ravish'd past pain with the bewildering spheres, And, hour by hour, with the same patient thought, Pored his pale scholar on the characters Of Chaldee writ, or, as his gaze grew dim With weariness, the dark-eyed Arab laid His head upon the window and look'd forth Upon the heavens awhile, until the dews And the soft beauty of the silent night Cool'd his flush'd eyelids, and then patiently He turn'd unto his constant task again. The sparry glinting of the Morning Star Shot through the leaves of a majestic palm Fringing Mount Arafat, and, as it caught The eye of the rapt scholar, he arose And clasp'd the volume with an eager haste, And as the glorious planet mounted on. Melting her way into the upper sky, He breathlessly gazed on her : — " Star of the silver ray ! Bright as a god, but punctual as a slave — What spirit the eternal canon gave That bends thee to thy way ? What is the soul that, on thine arrowy light, Is walking earth and heaven in pride to-night ? " We know when thou wilt soar Over the mount — thy change, and place, and time- 'Tis written in the Chaldee's mystic rhyme As 'twere a priceless lore ! I knew as much in my Bedouin garb — Coursing the desert on my flying barb ! " How oft amid the tents Upon Sahara's sands, I've walk'd alone, Waiting all night for thee, resplendent one ! With what magnificence. In the last watches, to my thirsting eye, Thy passionate beauty flush'd into the sky ! " Oh God ! how flew my soul Out to thy glory — upward on thy ray — Panting as thou ascendedst on thy way, As if thine own control — This searchless spirit that I cannot find — Had set its radiant law upon my mind ! SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT. 143 " More than all stars in heaven I felt thee in my heart ! my love became A frenzy, and consumed me with its flame. Ay, in the desert even — My dark-eyed Abra coursing at my side — The star, not Abra, was my spirit's bride ! " My Abra is no more ! My ' desert-bird' is in a stranger's stall — My tribe, my tent — I sacrificed them all For this heart-wasting lore ! — Yet, than all these, the thought is sweeter far — Thou wert ascendant at my birth, bright star ! "The Chaldee calls me thine — And in this breast, that I must rend to be A spirit upon wings of light like thee, I feel that thou art mine ! Oh God ! that these dull fetters would give way And let me forth to tnack thy silver ray!" * * * * Ben Khorat rose And silently look'd forth upon the East. The dawn was stealing up into the sky On its gray feet, the stars grew dim apace, And faded, till the Morning Star alone, 144 SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT. Soft as a molten diamond's liquid fire, Burn'd in the heavens. The morn grew freshlier — The upper clouds were faintly touch'd with gold ; The fan-palms rustled in the early air ; Daylight spread cool and broadly to the hills ; And still the star was visible, and still The young astronomer, with straining eye, Drank its departing light into his soul. It faded — melted — and the fiery rim Of the clear sun came up, and painfully The passionate scholar press'd upon his eyes His dusky fingers, and, with limbs as weak As a sick child's, turn'd fainting to his couch, And slept. * * * * II. * * It was the morning watch once more, The clouds were drifting rapidly above, , And dim and fast the glimmering stars flew through ; And as the fitful gust sough' d mournfully The shutters shook, and on the sloping roof Plash'd, heavily, large, single drops of rain — • And all was still again. Ben Khorat sat By the dim lamp, and, while his scholar slept, Pored on the Chaldee wisdom. At his feet, Stretch' d on a pallet, lay the Arab boy. SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT. 145 Muttering fast in his unquiet sleep, And working his dark fingers in his palms Convulsively. His sallow lips were pale, And, as they moved, his teeth show'd ghastly through, White as a charnel bone, and — closely drawn Upon his sunken eyes, as if to press Some frightful image from the bloodshot balls — His lids a moment quiver'd, and again Relax'd, half open, in a calmer sleep. Ben Khorat gazed upon the dropping sands Of the departing hour. The last white grain Fell through, and with the tremulous hand of age The old astrologer reversed the glass ; And, as the voiceless monitor went on. Wasting and wasting with the precious hour, He look'd upon it with a moving lip. And, starting, turn'd his gaze upon the heavens. Cursing the clouds impatiently. " 'Tis time !" Mutter'd the dying scholar, and he dash'd The tangled hair from his black eyes away. And, seizing on Ben Khorat's mantle-folds. He struggled to his feet, and falling prone Upon the window-ledge, gazed steadfastly Into the East : — 146 SCHOLAR OF TIIEBET BEN KHORAT. << There is a cloud between — She sits this instant on the mountain's brow, And that dusk veil hides all her glory now — Yet floats she as serene Into the heavens ! Oh God ! that even so I could o'ermount my spirit-cloud, and go ! '< The cloud begins to drift ! Aha ! fling open ! 'tis the star — the sky ! Touch me, immortal mother ! and I fly ! Wider ! thou cloudy rift ! Let through ! — such glory should have radiant room ! Let through ! — a star-child on its light goes home ! « Speak to me, brethren bright ! Ye who are floating in these living beams ! Ye who have come to me in starry dreams ! Ye who have wing'd the light Of our bright mother with its thoughts of flame — — (I knew it pass'd through spirits as it came) — '< Tell me ! what power have ye ? What are the heights ye reach upon your wings ? What know ye of the myriad wondrous things I perish but to see ? Are ye thought-rapid ? — Can ye fly as far — As instant as a thought, from star to star ? SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KIIORAT. 147 ' ' Where has the Pleiad gone ? Where have all missing stars* found light and home ? Who bids the Stella Miraf go and come ? Why sits the Pole-star lone? And why, like banded sisters, through the air Go in bright troops the constellations fair ? " Ben Khorat ! dost thou mark ? The star! the star? By heaven! the cloud drifts o'er! Gone — and I hve ! nay — will my heart beat more ? Look ! master ! 'tis all dark ! Not a clear speck in heaven ? — my eyeballs smother ! Break through the clouds once more ! oh starry mother ! " I will lie down ! Yet stay, The rain beats out the odour from the gums, * " Missing stars" are often spoken of in the old books of astronomy. Hipparchus mentions one that appeared and vanished very suddenly ; and in the beginning of the sixteenth century Kepler discovered a new star near the heel of the right foot of Serpentarius, "so bright and sparkling that it exceeded any thing he had ever seen before." He " took notice that it was every moment changing into some of the colours of the rainbow, except when it was near the horizon, when it was gene- rally white." It disappeared in the following year, and has not been seen since. I A wonderful star in the neck of the Whale, discovered by Fabricius in the fifteenth century. It appears and disappears seven times in six years, and continues in the greatest lustre for fifteen days together. H8 SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT. And strangely soft to-night the spice-wind comes ! I am a child alway When it is on my forehead ! Abra sweet ! Would I were in the desert at thy feet ! " My barb ! my glorious steed ! Methinks my soul would mount upon its track More fleetly, could I die upon thy back ! How would thy thrilling speed Quicken my pulse ! — Oh Allah ! I get wild ! Would that I were once more a desert-child ! " Nay — nay — I had forgot ! My mother ! my star mother ! — Ha ! my breath Stifles ! more air ! Ben Khorat ! this is — death ! Touch me 1 feel you not ! Dying! — Farewell! good master! — room! more room! Abra! I loved thee ! star! bright star ! I come!" How idly of the human heart we speak, Giving it gods of clay ! How worse than vain Is the school homily, that Eden's fruit Cannot be pluck'd too freely from " the tree Of good and evil." Wisdom sits alone. Topmost in heaven ; — she is its light — its God ! And in the heart of man she sits as high — SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEiN KHORAT. 149 Though grovelling eyes forget her oftentimes, Seeing but this world's idols. The pure mind Sees her for ever : and in youth we come Fill'd with her sainted ravishment, and kneel. Worshipping God through her sweet altar-fires, And then is knowledge "good." We come too oft — The heart grows proud with fulness, and we soon Look with licentious freedom on the maid Throned in celestial beauty. There she sits. Robed in her soft and seraph loveliness. Instructing and forgiving, and we gaze Until desire grows wild, and, with our hands Upon her very garments, are struck down. Blasted with a consuming fire from heaven ! Yet, oh ! how fall of music from her lips Breathe the calm tones of wisdom! Human praise Is sweet — till envy mars it ; and the touch Of new-won gold stirs up the pulses well ; And woman's love, if in a beggar's lamp 'Twould burn, might light us clearly through the world ; But Knowledge hath a far more 'wildering tongue, And she will stoop and lead you to the stars. And witch you with her mysteries — till gold Is a forgotten dross, and power and fame Toys of an hour, and woman's careless love. Light as the breath that breaks it. He who binds His soul to knowledge steals the key of heaven — 150 SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT. But 'tis a bitter mockery that the fruit May hang within his reach, and when, with thirst Wrought to a maddening frenzy, he would taste — It burns his lips to ashes ! THE WIFE'S APPEAL. 151 THE WIFE'S APPEAL. " Love borrows greatly from opinion. Pride, above all things, strengthens affection." — E. L. Bulwer. He sat and read. A book with silver clasps, All gorgeous with illuminated lines Of gold and crimson, lay upon a frame Before him. 'Twas a volume of old time ; And in it were fine mysteries of the stars Solved with a cunning wisdom, and strange thoughts, Half prophecy, half poetry, and dreams Clearer than truth, and speculations wild That touch'd the secrets of your very soul, They were so based on Nature. With a face Glowing with thought, he pored upon the book. The cushions of an Indian loom lay soft Beneath his limbs, and, as he turn'd the page. The sunlight, streaming through the curtain's fold. Fell with a rose-tint on his jewelPd hand ; And the rich woods of the quaint furniture Lay deepening their vein'd colours in the sun. 152 THE WIFE'S APPEAL. And the stain'd marbles on the pedestals Stood like a silent company — Voltaire, With an infernal sneer upon his lips ; And Socrates, with godlike human love Stamp'd on his countenance ; and orators, Of times gone by that made them ; and old bards, And Medicean Venus, half divine. Around the room were shelves of dainty lore, And rich old pictures hung upon the walls Where the slant light fell on them ; and WTOUght gems. Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques From Herculaneum, the niches fill'd ; And on a table of enamel, wrought With a lost art in Italy, there lay Prints of fair M'omen, and engravings rare, And a new poem, and a costly toy ; And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep Upon the carpet couch'd a graceful hound. Of a rare breed, and, as his master gave A murmur of delight at some sweet line, He raised his slender head, and kept his eye Upon him till the pleasant smile had pass'd From his mild lips, and then he slept again. The light beyond the crimson folds grew dusk, And the clear letters of the pleasant book Mingled and blurr'd, and the lithe hound rose up, THE WIFE'S APPEAL. 153 And, with his earnest eye upon the door, Listen'd attentively. It came as wont — The fall of a light foot upon the stair — And the fond animal sprang out to meet His mistress, and caress the ungloved hand, He seem'd to know was beautiful. She stoop'd Gracefully down and touch'd his silken ears As she pass'd in — then, with a tenderness. Half playful and half serious, she knelt Upon the ottoman and press'd her lips Upon her husband's forehead. She rose and put the curtain-folds aside From the high window, and look'd out upon The shining stars in silence. « Look they not Like Paradises to thine eye ?" he said But, as he spoke, a tear fell through the light— And— starting from his seat— he folded her Close to his heart, and— with unsteady voice — Ask'd if she was not happy. A faint smile Broke through her tears ; and pushing off the hair From his broad forehead, she held back his head With her white hand, and, gazing on his face, Gave to her heart free utterance : — 154 THE WIFE'S APPEAL. " Happy ? — yes, dearest ! — blest Beyond the limit of my wildest dream — To J bright, indeed, my blessings ever seem ; There lives not in my breast One of Hope's promises by Love unkept. And yet — forgive me, Ernest — I have wept. " How shall I speak of sadness, And seem not thankless to my God and thee ? How can the lightest wish but seem to be The very whim of madness ? Yet, oh, there is a boon thy love beside — And I will ask it of thee — in my pride ! " List, while my boldness lingers ! If thou hadst won yon twinkling star to hear thee — If thou couldst bid the rainbow's curve bend near thee- If thou couldst charm thy fingers To weave for thee the sunset's tent of gold — Wouldst in thine own heart treasure it untold ? " If thou hadst Ariel's gift. To course the veined metals of the earth — If thou couldst wind a fountain to its birth — If thou couldst know the drift Of the lost cloud that sail'd into the sky — Wouldst keep it for thine own unanswer'd eye ? T IHl E W D IF E'© /5\ (P ip d A 0,0 "It is thy life and mine ! — Thou, in thyself — and I in thee — misprison Gifts like a circle of bright stars unrisen — For thou whose mind should shine. Eminent as a planet's light, art here — Moved with the starting of a woman's tear ! «I have told o'er thy powers In secret, as a miser tells his gold ; I know thy spirit calm, and true, and bold : I've watch'd thy lightest hours. And seen thee, in the wildest flush of youth, Touch'd with the instinct ravishment of truth. " Thou hast the secret strange To read that hidden book, the human heart ; Thou hast the ready writer's practised art ; Thou hast the thought to range The broadest circles Intellect hath ran — And thou art God's best work — an honest man ! " And yet thou slumberest here Like a caged bird that never knew its pinions, And others track in glory the dominions Where hast thou not thy peer — Setting their weaker eyes unto the sun, And plucking honour that thou shouldst have won. 156 THE WIFE'S APPEAL. " Oh, if thou lov'dst me ever, Ernest, ray husband ! — if th' idolatry That lets go heaven to fling its all on thee — If to dismiss thee never In dream or prayer, have given me aught to claim — • Heed me — oh, heed me ! and awake to fame!" Her lips Closed with an earnest sweetness, and she sat Gazing into his eyes as if her look Search' d their dark orbs for answer. The w^arm blood Into his temples mounted, and across His countenance the flush of passionate thoughts Pass'd with irresolute quickness. He rose up And paced the dim room rapidly awhile, Calming his troubled mind; and then he came And laid his hand upon her orbed brow, And in a voice of heavenly tenderness Answ^er'd her : — " Before I knew thee, Mary, Ambition was my angel. I did hear Forever its witch'd voices in mine ear ; My days were visionary — My nights were like the slumbers of the mad — And every dream swept o'er me glory-clad. THE WIFE'S APPEAL. 157 " I read the burning letters Of warlike pomp, on History's page, alone ; I counted nothing the struck widow's moan ; I heard no clank of fetters ; I only felt the trumpet's stirring blast, And lean-eyed Famine stalk'd unchallenged past ! "I heard with veins of lightning The utterance of the Statesman's word of power Binding and loosing nations in an hour — But, while my eye was bright'ning, A mask'd detraction breathed upon his fame. And a cursed serpent slimed his written name. " The Poet rapt mine ears With the transporting music that he sung. With fibres from his Ufe his lyre he strung, And bathed the w^orld in tears — ■ And then he turn'd away to muse apart. And Scorn stole after him — and broke his heart ! « Yet here and there I saw One who did set the world at calm defiance, And press right onward with a bold reliance ; And he did seem to awe The very shadows pressing on his breast. And, with a strong heart, held himself at rest. ]58 THE WIFE'S APPEAL. "And then I look'd again — And he had shut the door upon the crowd, And on his face he lay and groan'd aloud — Wrestling with hidden pain ; And in her chamber sat his wife in tears, And his sweet babes grew sad with whisper' d fears. " And so I turn'd sick-hearted From the bright cup away, and, in my sadness, Search'd mine own bosom for some spring of gladness ; And lo ! a fountain started Whose waters even in death flow calm and fast, And my wild fever-thirst was slaked at last. "And then I met thee, Mary, And felt how love may into fulness pour. Like light into a fountain running o'er : And I did hope to vary My hfe but with surprises sweet as this — A dream — but for thy waking — fiU'd with bliss. "Yet now I feel my spirit Bitterly stirr'd, and — nay, lift up thy brow ! It is thine own voice echoing to thee now, And thou didst pray to hear it — I must unto my work and ray stern hours ! Take from my room thy harp, and books, and flowers ! THE WIFE'S APPEAL. 159 * * * * * A year — And in his room again he sat alone. His frame had lost its fulness in that time ; His manly features had grown sharp and thin, And from his lips the constant smile had faded. Wild fires had burn'd the languor from his eye: The lids look'd fever'd, and the brow was bent With an habitual frown. He was much changed. His chin was resting on his clenched hand, And with his foot he beat upon the floor. Unconsciously, the time of a sad tune. Thoughts of the past prey'd on him bitterly. He had won power and held it. He had walk'd Steadily upward in the eye of Fame, And kept his truth unsullied — but his home Had been invaded by envenom'd tongues ; His wife — his spotless wife — had been assail'd By slander, and his child had grown afraid To come to him — his manner was so stern. He could not speak beside his own hearth freely. His friends were half estranged, and vulgar men Presumed upon their services and grew Familiar with him. He'd small time to sleep, And none to pray ; and, with his heart in fetters, He bore harsh insults silently, and bow'd Respectfully to men who knew he loathed them ! 160 THE WIFE'S APPEAL. And, when his heart was eloquent with truth And love of country, and an honest zeal Burn'd for expression, he could find no words They would not misinterpret with their lies. What were his many honours to him now ? The good half doubted, falsehood was so strong- His home was hateful with its cautious fears — His wife lay trembling on his very breast Frighted with calumny ! — And this is FAME ! MELANIE. 161 MELANIE. I STOOD on yonder rocky brow,* And marvell'd at the Sibyl's fane, When I was not what I am now. My life was then untouch'd of pain ; And, as the breeze that stirr'd ray hair, My spirit freshen' d in the sky, And all things that were true and fair Lay closely to my loving eye, With nothing shadowy between — I was a boy of seventeen. Yon wondrous temple crests the rock — As light upon its giddy base. As stirless with the torrent's shock, As pure in its proportion'd grace. And seems a thing of air — as then, Afloat above this fairy glen ; But though mine eye will kindle still In looking on the shapes of art, '' The story is told during a walk around the Cascatelles of Tivoli. o2 162 MEL AN IE. The link is lost that sent the thrill, Like lightning instant to my heart. And thus may break, before we die, Th' electric chain 'twixt soul and eye ! Ten years — like yon bright valley, sown Alternately with weeds and flowers — Had swiftly, if not gayly, flown, And still I loved the rosy Hours ; And if there lurk'd within my breast Some nerve that had been overstrung And quiver'd in my hours of rest, Like bells by their own echo rung, I was with Hope a masquer yet, And well could hide the look of sadness ; And if my heart would not forget, 1 knew, at least, the trick of gladness ; And when another sang the strain, I mingled in the old refrain. 'Twere idle to remember now. Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes. I bear beneath this alter'd brow The ashes of a thousand dreams — Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers. Some colour'd of Love's pencil well — But none of which a shadow lingers. MEL AN IE. 163 And none whose story I could tell. Enough, that when I climb'd again To Tivoli's romantic steep, Life had no joy, and scarce a pain, Whose wells I had not tasted deep ; And from my lips the thirst had pass'd For every fount save one — the sweetest — and the last. The last — the last ! My friends were dead, Or false ; my mother in her grave ; Above my father's honour'd head The sea had lock'd its hiding wave ; Ambition had but foil'd ray grasp, And love had perish'd in my clasp ; And still, I say, I did not slack My love of life and hope of pleasure. But gather'd my affections back ; And, as the miser hugs his treasure When plague and ruin bid him flee, I closer clung to mine — my loved, lost Melanie ! The last of the De Brevern race, My sister claim'd no kinsman's care ; And, looking from each other's face, The eye stole upward unaware — For there was naught whereon to lean Each other's heart and heaven between — 164 M E L A N I E. Yet that was world enough for me ; And, for a brief but blessed while, There seem'd no care for Melanie If she could see her brother smile ! But life with her was at the flow, And every wave went sparkling higher. While mine was ebbing, fast and low, From the same shore of vain desire ; And knew I, with prophetic heart, That we were wearing, aye, insensibly apart. We came to Italy. I felt A yearning for its sunny sky ; My very spirit seem'd to melt As swept its first warm breezes by. From lip and cheek a chilling mist. From life and soul a frozen rime, By every breath seem'd softly kiss'd — God's blessing on its radiant clime ! It was an endless joy to me To see my sister's new delight ; From Venice in its golden sea To Psestum in its purple light — By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills — In Vallombrosa's convent gloom — M E L A N I E. 165 Mid Terni's vale of singing rills — By deathless lairs in solemn Rome — In gay Palermo's '< Golden Shell" — At Arethusa's hidden well — We loiter'd like th' impassion'd sun That slept so lovingly on all, And made a home of every one — Ruin, and fane, and waterfall — And crown'd the dying day with glory If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of story. We came with Spring to Tivoli. My sister loved its laughing air And merry waters, though, for me, My heart was in another key ; And sometimes I could scarcely bear The mirth of their eternal play, And, like a child that longs for home When weary of its holiday, I sigh'd for melancholy Rome. Perhaps — the fancy haunts me still — 'Twas but a boding sense of ill. It was a morn of such a day As might have dawn'd on Eden first. Early in the Italian May. Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst, 166 M ELAN IE. And on the burthen of the air The breath of buds came faint and rare ; And far in the transparent sky The small, earth-keeping birds were seen Soaring deliriously high ; And through the clefts of newer green Yon waters dash'd their living pearls ; And with a gayer smile and bow Troop'd on the merry village-girls ; And from the Contadino's brow The low-slouch' d hat was backward thrown, With air that scarcely seem'd his own ; And Melanie, with lips apart. And clasped hands upon my arm, Flung open her impassion'd heart, And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm ; And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers. And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours. In happiness and idleness We wander'd down yon sunny vale — Oh mocking eyes ! — a golden tress Floats back upon this summer gale ! A foot is tripping on the grass ! A laugh rings merry in mine ear ! I see a bounding shadow pass ! — God ! my sister once was here ! LIPIHI f\K m IfflElli^MDE. ME LAN IE. 167 Come with me, friend ! — We rested yon ! There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore ! She sat upon this mossy stone — That broken fountain running o'er With the same ring, like silver bells. She Ksten'd to its babbling flow, And said, '< Perhaps the gossip tells Some fountain-nymph's love-story now !" And as her laugh rang clear and wild, A youth — a painter — pass'd and smiled He gave the greeting of the morn With voice that linger'd in mine ear. I knew him sad and gentle born By those two words — so calm and clear. His frame was slight, his forehead high And swept by threads of raven hair. The fire of thought was in his eye. And he was pale and marble fair. And Grecian chisel never caught The soul in those slight features wrought I watch'd his graceful step of pride, Till hidden by yon leaning tree. And loved him ere the echo died ; And so, alas ! did Melanie ! 168 MELANIE. We sat and watch'd the fount awhile In silence, but our thoughts were one ; And then arose, and, with a smile Of sympathy, we saunter'd on ; And she by sudden fits was gay. And then her laughter died away, And in this changefulness of mood, (Forgotten now those May-day spells,) We turn'd where Varro's villa stood, And gazing on the Cascatelles, (Whose hurrying waters wild and white Seem madden'd as they burst to light,) I chanced to turn my eyes away. And lo ! upon a bank, alone, The youthful painter, sleeping, lay ! His pencils on the grass were thrown, And by his side a sketch was flung, And near him as I lightly crept, To see the picture as he slept, Upon his feet he lightly sprung ; And, gazing with a wild surprise Upon the face of Melanie, He said — and dropp'd his earnest eyes — " Forgive me ! but I dream'd of thee !" His sketch, the while, was in my hand, And, for the lines I look'd to trace — A torrent by a palace spann'd, MELANIE. 169 Half classic and half fairy-land — I only found — my sister's face ! Our life was changed. Another love In its lone woof began to twine ; But ah ! the golden thread was wove Between my sister's heart and mine ! She who had lived for me before — She who had smiled for me alone — Would live and smile for me no more ! The echo to my heart was gone ! It seem'd to me the very skies Had shone through those averted eyes ; The air had breathed of balm — the flower Of radiant beauty seem'd to be — But as she loved them, hour by hour, And murmur'd of that love to me ! Oh, though it be so heavenly high The selfishness of earth above, That, of the watchers in the sky, He sleeps who guards a brother's love — Though to a sister's present weal The deep devotion far transcends The utmost that the soul can feel For even its own higher ends — p 170 M E L A N I E. Though next to God, and more than heaven For his own sake, he loves her, even — 'Tis difficult to see another, A passing stranger of a day. Who never hath been friend or brother. Pluck with a look her heart away — To see the fair, unsullied brow. Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer. Upon a stranger's bosom now, Who for the boon took little care — Who is enrich'd, he knows not why — Who suddenly hath found a treasure Golconda were too poor to buy, And he, perhaps, too cold to measure — (Albeit, in her forgetful dream, Th' unconscious idol happier seem,) 'Tis difficult at once to crush The rebel mourner in the breast. To press the heart to earth, and hush Its bitter jealousy to rest — And difficult — the eye gets dim. The lip wants power — to smile on him f I thank sweet Mary Mother now, Who gave me strength those pangs to hide- And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow With sunshine that my heart belied. M E L A N I E. 171 I never spoke of wealth or race To one who ask'd so much from me — I look'd but in my sister's face, And mused if she would happier be; And hour by hour, and day by day, I loved the gentle painter more, And, in the same soft measure, wore My selfish jealousy away; And I began to watch his mood. And feel, with her, love's trembling care, And bade God bless him as he woo'd That loving girl so fond and fair. And on my mind would sometimes press A fear that she might love him less. But Melanie — I little dream'd What spells the stirring heart may move — Pygmalion's statue never seem'd More changed with life, than she with love The pearl-tint of the early dawn riush'd into day-spring's rosy hue — The meek, moss-folded bud of morn Plung open to the light and dew — The first and half-seen star of even Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven — Similitudes perchance may be ! But these are changes ofl;ener seen, 172 M ELAN IE. And do not image half to me My sister's change of face and mien. 'Twas written in her very air That Love had pass'd and enter'd there. IV. A calm and lovely paradise Is Italy, for minds at ease. The sadness of its sunny skies Weighs not upon the lives of these. The ruin'd aisle, the crumbhng fane, The broken column, vast and prone- It may be joy — it may be pain — Amid such wrecks to walk alone ! The saddest man will sadder be. The gentlest lover gentler there — As if, whate'er the spirit's key, It strengthen'd in that solemn air. The heart soon grows to raournful things, And Italy has not a breeze But comes on melancholy wings ; And even her majestic trees Stand ghostlike in the Caesars' home. As if their conscious roots were set MELA N I E. 173 In the old graves of giant Rome, And drew their sap all kingly yet ! And every stone your feet beneath Is broken from some mighty thought; And sculptures in the dust still breathe The fire with which their lines were wrought ; And sunder'd arch and plunder'd tomb Still thunder back the echo, " Rome !" Yet, gayly o'er Egeria's fount The ivy flings its emerald veil, And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount, And light-sprung arches span the dale ; And soft, from Caracalla's baths The herdsman's song comes down the breeze, While climb his goats the giddy paths To grass-grown architrave and frieze ; And gracefully Albano's hill Curves into the horizon's line ; And sweetly sings that classic rill ; And fairly stands that nameless shrine ; And here, oh, many a sultry noon And starry eve, that happy June, Came Angelo and Melanie ! And earth for us was all in tune — For while Love talk'd with them, Hope walk'd apart with me ! p2 174 MELANIE. V. I shrink from the embitter'd close Of my own melancholy tale. 'Tis long since I have waked my woes — And nerve and voice together fail ! The throb beats faster at my brow, My brain feels warm with starting tears, And I shall weep — but heed not thou ! 'Twill soothe awhile the ache of years ! The heart transfix' d — w^orn out with grief — Will turn the arrow for relief. The painter was a child of shame ! It stirr'd my pride to know it first, For I had question'd but his name, And thought, alas ! I knew the worst. Believing him unknown and poor. His blood, indeed, was not obscure; A high-born Conti was his mother. But, though he knew one parent's face, He never had beheld the other. Nor knew his country or his race. The Roman hid his daughter's shame Within St. Mona's convent wall. M E L A N I E. 175 And gave the boy a painter's name — And little else to live withal ! And, with a noble's high desires Forever mounting in his heart, The boy consumed with hidden fires, But wrought in silence at his art ; And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine, Worn thin with penance harsh and long. He saw his mother's form divine, And loved her for their mutual wronff. I said my pride was stirr'd — but no ! The voice that told its bitter tale Was touch'd so mournfully with wo, And, as he ceased, all deathly pale. He loosed the hand of Melanie, And gazed so gaspingly on me — The demon in my bosom died ! " Not thine," I said, "another's guilt ; I break no hearts for silly pride ; So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt!" VI. St. Mona's morning mass was done. The shrine-lamps struggled with the day ; And rising slowly, one by one, Stole the last worshippers away. 176 MELANIE. The organist play'd out the hymn, The incense, to St. Mary swung, Had mounted to the cherubim, Or to the pillars thinly clung ; And boyish chorister replaced The missal that was read no more, And closed, with half irreverent haste, Confessional and chancel door ; And as, through aisle and oriel pane. The sun wore round his slanting beam, The dying martyr stirr'd again. And warriors battled in its gleam ; And costly tomb and sculptured knight Show'd warm and wondrous in the light. I have not said that Melanie Was radiantly fair — This earth again may never see A loveliness so rare ! She glided up St. Mona's aisle That morning as a bride. And, full as was my heart the while, I bless'd her in my pride ! The fountain may not fail the less Whose sands are golden ore, And a sister for her loveliness. May not be loved the more ; M E L A N I E. 277 But as, the fount's full heart beneath, Those golden sparkles shine. My sister's beauty seem'd to breathe Its brightness over mine ! St. Mona has a chapel dim Within the altar's fretted pale, Where faintly comes the swelling hymn. And dies, half lost, the anthem's wail. And here, in twilight meet for prayer, A single lamp hangs o'er the shrine, And Raphael's Mary, soft and fair, Looks down with sweetness half divine, And here St. Mona's nuns alway Through latticed bars are seen to pray. Ave and sacrament were o'er, And Angelo and Melanie Still knelt the holy shrine before ; But prayer that morn was not for me ! My heart was lock'd ! The lip might stir. The frame might agonize — and yet, Oh God ! I could not pray for her ! A seal upon my brow was set — My brow was hot— my brain oppress'd— And fiends seem'd muttering round, « Your bridal is unblest !" 178 MEL AN IE. With forehead to the lattice laid, And thin, white fingers straining through, A nun the while had softly pray'd. Oh, ev'n in prayer that voice I knew ! Each faltering word — each mournful tone — Each pleading cadence, half suppressed — Such music had its like alone On lips that stole it at her breast ! And ere the orison was done I loved the mother as the son ! And now, the marriage vow^s to hear, The nun unveil'd her brow — When, sudden, to my startled ear. There crept a whisper, hoarse like fear, <' De Brevern ! is it thou /" The priest let fall the golden ring. The bridegroom stood aghast. While, like some weird and frantic thing. The nun was muttering fast ; And as, in dread, I nearer drew, She thrust her arms the lattice through, And held me to her straining view — But suddenly begun To steal upon her brain a light That stagger'd soul, and sense, and sight, And, wdth a mouth all ashy white, ■I > IL A R 1 ]\I E L A N I E. 179 She shriek'd, " It is his son ! The bridegroom is thy blood — thy brother ! Rodolph de Brevern wrong'' d his mother T^ And, as that doom of love was heard, My sister sunk — and died — without a sign or word ! * « * * * * I shed no tear for her. She died With her last sunshine in her eyes. Earth held for her no joy beside The hope just shatter'd — and she lies In a green nook of yonder dell ; And near her, in a newer bed, Her lover — brother — sleeps as well ! Peace to the broken-hearted dead ! 180 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. " Dost thou despise A love like this ? A lady should not scorn One soul that loves her, howe'er lowly it be." LORD IVON. How beautiful it is ! Come here, my daughter ! Is't not a face of most bewildering brightness ? ISIDORE. The features are all fair, sir, but so cold — I could not love such beauty ! LORD IVON. Yet, e'en so Look'd thy lost mother, Isidore ! Her brow Lofty like this— her lips thus delicate. Yet icy cold in their slight vermeil threads — Her neck thus queenly, and the sweeping curve Thus matchless, from the small and " pearl round ear" To the o'er-polish'd shoulder. Never swan Dream'd on the water with a grace so calm ! ISIDORE. And was she proud, sir ? LORD I VON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 181 LORD IVON. Or I had not loved her. ISIDORE. Then runs my lesson wrong. I ever read Pride was unlovely. LORD IVON. Dost thou prate already Of books, my little one ? Nay, then, 'tis time That a sad tale were told thee. Is thy bird Fed for the day ? Canst thou forget the rein Of thy beloved Arabian for an hour, And, the first time in all thy sunny life. Take sadness to thy heart ? Wilt listen, sweet ? ISIDORE. Hang I not ever on thy lips, dear father ? LORD IVON. As thou didst enter, I was musing here Upon this picture. 'Tis the face of one I never knew ; but, for its glorious pride, I bought it of the painter. There has hung Ever the cunning curse upon my soul To love this look in woman. Not the flower Of all Arcadia, in the Age of Gold, Look'd she a shepherdess, would be to me More than the birds are. As th' astrologer Worships tlie half-seen star that in its sphere Dreams not of him, and tramples on the lily Q 182 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. That flings, unask'd, its fragrance in his way, Yet both (as are the high-born and the low) Wrought of the same fine Hand — so, daringly, Flew my boy-hopes beyond me. You are here In a brave palace, Isidore ! The gem That sparkles in your hair imprisons light Drunk in the flaming Orient ; and gold Waits on the bidding of those girlish lips In measure that Aladdin never knew. Yet was I — lowly born ! ISIDORE. Lord Ivon ! LORD IVON. Ay, You wonder ; but I tell you that the lord Of this tall palace was a peasant's child ! And, looking sometimes on his fair domain, Thy sire bethinks him of a sickly boy, Nursed by his mother on a mountain side, His only wealth a book of poetry, With which he daily crept into the sun. To cheat sharp pains with the bewildering dream Of beauty he had only read of there. ISIDORE. Have you the volume still, sir •'' LORD I VON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 1S3 LORD IVON. 'Twas the gift Of a poor scholar wandering in the hills, Who pitied my sick idleness. I fed My inmost soul upon the witching rhyme — A silly tale of a low minstrel boy, Who broke his heart in singing at a bridal. ISIDORE. Loved he the lady, sir ? LORD IVON. So ran the tale. How well I do remember it ! ISIDORE. Alas! Poor youth ! LORD IVON. I never thought to pity him. The bride was a duke's sister ; and I mused Upon the wonder of his daring love. Till my heart changed within me. I became Restless and sad ; and in my sleep I saw Beautiful dames all scornfully go by ; And one o'er-weary morn I crept aw^y Into the glen, and, flung upon a rock, Over a torrent whose swift, giddy waters Fill'd me with energy, I swore my soul To better that false vision, if there were 184 LORD I VON AND HIS DAUGHTER. Manhood or fire within my wretched frame. I turn'd me homeward with the sunset hour, Changed — for the thought had conquer'd ev'n disease ; And my poor mother check'd her busy wheel I'o wonder at the step with which I came. Oh heavens ! that soft and dewy April eve, "When, in a minstrel's garb, but with a heart As lofty as the marble shafts uprear'd Beneath the stately portico, I stood At this same palace door ! ISIDORE. Our own ! and you A minstrel boy ! LORD IVON. Yes — I had wander'd far Since I shook off my sickness in the hills. And, with some cunning on the lute, had learn'd A subtler lesson than humility In the quick school of want. A menial stood By the Egyptian sphinx ; and when I came And pray'd to sing beneath the balcony A song of love for a fair lady's ear. He insolently bade me to begone. Listening not, I swept my fingers o'er The strings in prelude, when the base-born slave Struck me ! LORD I VON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 185 ISIDORE. Impossible ! LORD IVON. I dasli'd my lute Into his face, and o'er the threshold flew ; And threading rapidly the lofty rooms, Sought vainly for his master. Suddenly A wing rush'd o'er me, and a radiant girl, Young as myself, but fairer than the dream Of my most wild imagining, sprang forth. Chasing a dove, that, 'wilder'd with pursuit, Dropp'd breathless on my bosom. ISIDORE. Nay, dear father ! Was't so indeed .'' LORD IVON. I thank'd my blessed star ! And, as the fair, transcendent creature stood Silent with wonder, I resign'd the bird To her white hands : and, with a rapid thought, And lips already eloquent of love, Turn'd the strange chance to a similitude Of my own story. Her slight, haughty lip Curl'd at the warm recital of my wrong. And on the ivory oval of her cheek The rose flush'd outward with a deeper red ; And from that hour the minstrel was at home. 186 LORD I VON AND HIS DAUGHTER. And horse and hound were his, and none might cross The minion of the noble Lady Clare. Art weary of my tale ? ISIDORE. Dear father ! LORD IVON. Well! A summer, and a winter, and a spring, Went over me like brief and noteless hours. Forever at the side of one who grew With every morn more beautiful ; the slave, Willing and quick, of every idle whim ; Singing for no one's bidding but her own, And then a song from my own passionate heart, Sung with a lip of fire, but ever named As an old rhyme that I had chanced to hear ; Riding beside her, sleeping at her door, Doing her maddest bidding at the risk Of life — what marvel if at last I grew Presumptuous .'' A messenger one morn Spurr'd through the gate — "A revel at the court ! And many minstrels, come from many lands. Will try their harps in presence of the king ; And 'tis the royal pleasure that my lord Come with the young and lovely Lady Clare, LORD I VON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 187 Robed as the queen of Faery, who shall crown The victor with his bays." Pass over all To that bewildering day. She sat enthroned Amid the court ; and never twilight star Sprang with such sweet surprise upon the eye, iVs she with her rare beauty on the gaze Of the gay multitude. The minstrels changed Their studied songs, and chose her for a theme ; And ever at the pause all eyes upturn'd And fed upon her loveliness. The last Long lay was ended, and the silent crowd Waited the king's award — when suddenly The sharp strings of a lyre were swept without. And a clear voice claim'd hearing for a bard Belated on his journey. Mask'd, and clad In a long stole, the herald led me in. A thousand eyes were on me : but I saw The new-throned queen, in her high place, alone ; And, kneeling at her feet, I press'd my brow Upon her footstool, till the images Of my past hours rush'd thick upon my brain ; Then, rising hastily, I struck my lyre ; And, in a story woven of my own. 188 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. I so did paint her in her loveliness — Pouring my heart all ont upon the lines I knew too faithfully, and lavishing The hoarded fire of a whole age of love Upon each passionate word, that, as I sunk- Exhausted at the close, the ravish'd crowd Flung gold and flowers on my still quivering lyre ; And the moved monarch in his gladness swore There was no boon beneath his kingly crown Too high for such a minstrel ! Did my star Speak in my fainting ear ? Heard I the king ? Or did the audible pulses of my heart Seem to me so articulate ? I rose, And tore my mask away ; and, as the stole Dropp'd from my shoulders, I glanced hurriedly A look upon the face of Lady Clare. It was enough ! I saw that she was changed — That a brief hour had chill'd the open child To calculating woman — that she read With cold displeasure my o'er-daring thought ; And on that brow, to me as legible As stars to the rapt Arab, I could trace The scorn that waited on me ! Sick of life, Yet, even then, with a half-rallied hope Prompting my faltering tongue, I blindly knelt, And claim 'd the king's fair promise — Of Lady Clare I ISIDORE. For the hand LORD IVON. No, sweet one — for a sword. ISIDORE. You surely spoke to her ? LORD IVON. I saw her face No more for years. I went unto the wars ; And when again I sought that palace door, A glory heralded the minstrel boy That monarchs might have envied. ISIDORE. Was she there ? LORD IVON. Yes— and God ! how beautiful ! The last. The ripest seal of loveKness, was set Upon her form ; and the all-glorious pride That I had worshipp'd on her girlish lip, When her scared dove fled to me, was matured Into a queenly grace ; and nobleness Was bound like a tiara to her brow, And every motion breathed of it. There lived Nothing on earth so ravishingly fair. 190 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. ISIDORE. And you still loved her ? LORD IVON. I had perill'd life In every shape — had battled on the sea, And burnt upon the desert, and outgone Spirits most mad for glory, with this one O'ermastering hope upon me. Honour, fame, Gold, even, were as dust beneath my feet ; And war was my disgust, though I had sought Its horrors like a bloodhound — for her praise. My life was drunk up with the love of her. ISIDORE. And now she scorn'd you not r LORD IVON. Worse, Isidore ! She pitied me ! I did not need a voice To tell my love. She knew her sometime minion- And felt that she should never be adored With such idolatry as his, and sigh'd That hearts so true beat not in palaces — But I was poor, with all my bright renown, And lowly born ; and she — the Lady Clare ! ISIDORE. She could not tell you this ? LORD IVON. She broke my heart T IKl E [LA Y © LA K 1. LORD IVON AND 11 IS DAUGHTER. 19 J As kindly as the fisher hooks the worm — Pitying me the while ! ISIDORE. And you — LORD IVON. Lived on ! But the remembrance irks me, and my throat Chokes with the utterance ! ISIDORE. Dear father ! LORD IVON. Nay- Thanks to SM'eet Mary Mother, it is past ; And in this world I shall have no more need To speak of it. ISIDORE. But there were brighter days In store. My mother and this palace — LORD IVON. You outrun My tale, dear Isidore ! But 'tis as well. I would not linger on it. Twenty years From this heart-broken hour, I stood again. An old man and a stranger, at the door Of this same palace. I had been a slave 192 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. For gold that time ! My star had wrought with me ! And I was richer than the wizard king Throned in the mines of Ind. I could not look On my innumerable gems, the glare Pain'd so my sun-struck eyes ! My gold was countless. ISIDORE. And Lady Clare ? LORD IVON. I met upon the threshold Her very self — all youth, all loveliness — So like the fresh-kept picture in my brain. That for a moment I forgot all else, And stagger'd back and wept. She pass'd me by With a cold look — ISIDORE. Oh ! not the Lady Clare ! LORD IVON. Her daughter, yet herself! But what a change Waited me here ! My thin and grizzled locks Were fairer now than the young minstrel's curls — My sun-burnt visage and contracted eye Than the gay soldier with his gallant mien ! My words were wit, my looks interpreted ; And Lady Clare — I tell you. Lady Clare Lean'd fondly — fondly ! on my wasted arm. God ! how changed my nature v>'ith all this ! I, that had been all love and tenderness — LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 193 The truest and most gentle heart, till now, That ever beat — grew suddenly a devil ! I bought me lands and titles, and received Men's homage with a smooth hypocrisy ; And — you will scarce believe me, Isidore — I sufFer'd them to wile their peerless daughter, The image and the pride of Lady Clare, To wed me ! ISIDORE. Sir ! you did not ! LORD IVON. Ay ! I saw Th' indignant anger when her mother first Broke the repulsive wish, and the degrees Of shuddering reluctance as her mind Admitted the intoxicating tales Of wealth unlimited. And w^hen she look'd On my age-stricken features, and my form. Wasted before its time, and turn'd away To hide from me her tears, her very mother Whisper'd the cursed comfort in her ear That made her what she is ! ISIDORE. You could not wed her, Knowing all this ! LORD IVON. I felt that I had lost R 194 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. My life else. I had wrung, for forty years, My frame to its last withers ; I had flung My boyhood's fire away — the energy Of a most sinless youth — the toil, and fret. And agony of manhood. I had dared, Fought, suffer'd, slaved — and never for an hour Forgot or swerved from my resolve ; and now — With the delirious draught upon my lips — Dash down the cup ! ISIDORE. Yet she had never wrong'd you ! LORD IVON. Thou'rt pleading for thy mother, my sweet child ! And angels hear thee. But, if she was wrong'd, The sin be on the pride that sells its blood Coldly and only for this damning gold. Had I not offer'd youth first ? Came I not, With my hands brimm'd "with glory, to buy love — And was I not denied ? ISIDORE. Yet, dearest father, They forced her not to wed ? LORD IVON. I call'd her back Myself from the church threshold, and, before Her mother and her kinsmen, bade her swear It was her own free choice to marry me. LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 195 1 show'd her my shrunk hand, and bade her think If that was hke a bridegroom, and beware Of perjuring her chaste and spotless soul, If now she loved me not. ISIDORE, What said she, sir .'' LORD IVON. Oh ! they had made her even as themselves ; And her young heart was colder than the slab Unsunn'd beneath Pentelicus. She press'd My wither'd fingers in her dewy clasp, And smiled up in my face, and chid " my lord" For his wild fancies, and led on ! ISIDORE. And no Misgiving at the altar ? LORD IVON. None ! She swore To love and cherish me till death should part us, With a voice clear as mine. ISIDORE. And kept it, father ! In mercy tell me so ! LORD IVON. She lives, my daughter ! ******* Long ere my babe was born, my pride had ebb'd, 196 LORD I VON AND HIS DAUGHTER. And let my heart down to its better founts Of tenderness. I had no friends — not one ! My love gush'd to my wife. I rack'd my brain To find her a new pleasure every hour — Yet not with me — I fear'd to haunt her eye ! Only at night, when she was slumbering In all her beauty, I w^ould put away The curtains till the pale night-lamp shone on her, And watch her through my tears. One night her lips Parted as I gazed on them, and the name Of a young noble, who had been my guest. Stole forth in broken murmurs. I let fall The curtains silently, and left her there To slumber and dream on ; and gliding forth Upon the terrace, knelt to my pale star, And swore, that if it pleased the God of light To let me look upon the unborn child Lying beneath her heart, I would but press One kiss upon its lips, and take away My life — that was a blight upon her years. ISIDORE. I was that child ! LORD IVON. Yes — and I heard the cry Of thy small " piping mouth" as 'twere a call / L®UB 11 V© W„ LORD I VON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 197 From my remembering star. I waited only Thy mother's strength to bear the common shock Of death within the doors. She rose at last, And, oh ! so sweetly pale ! And thou, my child ! My heart misgave me as I look'd upon thee ; But he was ever at her side whose name She murmur'd in her sleep ; and, lingering on To drink a little of thy sweetness more Before I died, I watch'd their stolen love As she had been my daughter, with a pure. Passionless joy that I should leave her soon To love him as she would. I know not how To tell thee more. * * * * * * Come, sweet ! she is not worthy Of tears like thine and mine ! * * * * * * * She fled and left me The very night ! The poison was prepared — And she had been a widow with the morn Rich as Golconda. As the midnight chimed, My star rose. Gazing on its mounting orb, I raised the chaUce — but a weakness came Over my heart ; and, taking up the lamp, I glided to her chamber, and removed The curtains for a last, a parting look Upon my child. * * * # 198 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. * * * Had she but taken thee, I could have felt she had a mother's heart, And drain'd the chahce still. I could not leave My babe alone in such a heartless world ! ISIDORE. Thank God ! Thank God ! TOERMENGARDE. 199 TO ERMENGARDE. I KNOW not if the sunshine waste — The world is dark since thou art gone ! The hours are, oh ! so leaden-paced ! The birds sing, and the stars float on, But sing not well, and look not fair — A weight is in the summer air. And sadness in the sight of flowers ; And if I go where others smile, Their love but makes me think of ours. And heavier gets my heart the while. Like one upon a desert isle, I languish of the weary hours ; I never thought a life could be So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee ! I sit and watch the summer sky. There comes a cloud through heaven alone ; A thousand stars are shining nigh — It feels no light, but darkles on ! Yet now it nears the lovelier moon ; And, flushing through its fringe of snow, 200 TO EU MEN GARDE. There steals a rosier dye, and soon Its bosom is one fiery glow ! The Queen of Light within it lies ! Yet mark how lovers meet to part ! The cloud already onward flies, And shadows sink into its heart, And (dost thou see them where thou art ?) Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes ! Its light, like mine, is seen no more. And, like my own, its heart seems darker than before ! WTiere press this hour those fairy feet ? Where look this hour those eyes of blue ? What music in thine ear is sweet ? What odour breathes thy lattice through ? WTiat word is on thy lip ? what tone — WTiat look — replying to thine own ? Thy steps along the Danube stray — Alas ! it seeks an orient sea ! Thou wouldst not seem so far away Flow'd but its waters back to me ! I bless the slowly coming moon Because its eye look'd late in thine ! I envy the w^est wind of June W^hose wings will bear it up the Rhine ; The flower I press upon my brow Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now ! THE CONFESSIONAL. 201 THE CONFESSIONAL. " When thou hast met with careless hearts and cold, Hearts that young love may touch, but never hold — Not changeless, as the loved and left of old — Remember me — remember me — I passionately pray of thee !" Lady E. S. Wortlet. I THOUGHT of thee — I thought of thee, On ocean many a weary night — When heaved the long and sullen sea, With only waves and stars in sight. We stole along by isles of balm, We furl'd before the coming gale, W^e slept amid the breathless calm, We flew beneath the straining sail — But thou wert lost for years to me, And, day and night, I thought of thee ! I thought of thee — I thought of thee, In France — amid the gay saloon, WTiere eyes as dark as eyes may be Are many as the leaves in June — Where life is love, and even the air Is pregnant with impassion'd thought, 202 THE CONFESSIONAL. And song and dance and music are With one warm meaning only fraught — My half-snared heart broke lightly free, And, with a blush, I thought of thee ! I thought of thee — I thought of thee. In Florence, — where the fiery hearts Of Italy are breathed away In wonders of the deathless arts ; Where strays the Contadina down Val d'Arno with a song of old ; Where clime and woman seldom frown, And life runs over sands of gold ; I stray'd to lone Fiesole On many an eve, and thought of thee. I thought of thee — I thought of thee, In Rome, — when on the Palatine Night left the Csesars' palace free To Time's forgetful foot and mine ; Or, on the Coliseum's wall. When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone. Reclining, with a thought of all That o'er this scene has come and gone- The shades of Rome would start and flee Unconsciously — I thought of thee. 1 i iwesiMiiw* liw/ik.t-; U(lMWiSaill!ii»lii!?(i(iRii'(liiliS!* tftm F"fe jiM K (0) 7 y ^\ i il @ Kfl 1 IS © § /i. I thought of thee — I thought of thee, In Vallombrosa's holy shade, Where nobles born the friars be. By life's rude changes humbler made. Here Milton framed his Paradise ; I slept within his very cell ; And, as I closed my weary eyes, I thought the cowl would fit me well — The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me. Of heart's-ease — but I thought of thee. I thought of thee — I thought of thee. In Venice, — on a night in June ; When, through the city of the sea, Like dust of silver slept the moon. Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier, And, as the black barks glided by. The water to my leaning ear Bore back the lover's passing sigh — It was no place alone to be — I thought of thee — I thought of thee. I thought of thee — I thought of thee, In the Ionian isles — when straying With wise Ulysses by the sea — Old Homer's songs around me playing ; Or, watching the bewitch'd caique. •204 THE CONFESSIONAL. That o'er the star-lit waters flew, I listen'd to the helmsman Greek, Who sung the song that Sappho knew — The poet's spell, the bark, the sea. All vanish'd — as I thought of thee. I thought of thee — I thought of thee, In Greece — when rose the Parthenon Majestic o'er the Egean sea, And heroes with it, one by one ; When, in the grove of Academe, Where Lais and Leontium stray'd Discussing Plato's mystic theme, I lay at noontide in the shade — The Egean wind, the whispering tree, Had voices — and I thought of thee. I thought of thee — I thought of thee, In Asia — on the Dardanelles ; Where swiftly as the waters flee. Each wave some sweet old story tells ; And, seated by the marble tank Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old, (The fount where peerless Helen drank, And Venus laved her locks of gold,)* * In the Scamander, — before contending for the prize of beauty on Mount Ida. Its head waters fill a beautiful tank near the walls of Troy. THE CONFESSIONAL. 205 I thrill'd such classic haunts to see, Yet even liere — I thought of thee. I thought of thee — I thought of thee, Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters, All palace-lined from sea to sea ; And ever on its shores the daughters Of the delicious East are seen, Printing the brink with slipper'd feet ; And oh, the snowy folds between. What eyes of heaven your glances meet ! Peris of light no fairer be — Yet — in Staraboul — I thought of thee. I've thought of thee — I've thought of thee, Through change that teaches to forget ; Thy face looks up from every sea. In every star thine eyes are set. Though roving beneath Orient skies, Wliose golden beauty breathes of rest ; I envy every bird that flies Into the far and clouded West : I think of thee — I think of thee ! Oh, dearest ! hast thou thought of me ? 206 FLORENCE GRAY. FLORENCE GRAY. I WAS in Greece. It was the hour of noon, And the Egean wind had dropp'd asleep Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles Of Salamis and Egina lay hung Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea. I had climb'd up th' Acropolis at morn, And hours had fled, as time will in a dream. Amid its deathless ruins — for the air Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes, And they walk with you ! As it sultrier grew, I laid me down within a shadow deep Of a tall column of the Parthenon, And, in an absent idleness of thought, I scrawl'd upon the smooth and marble base. Tell me, memory, what wrote I there ? Tlie name of a siveet child I knew at Rome ! I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon. Touching my eyelids through the wind-stirr'd tent, Had witch'd me from my slumber. I arose And silently stole forth, and by the brink Of " gold Pactolus," where his waters bathe The bases of Cybele's columns fair, I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood I mused upon the storied past awhile. Watching the moon, that, with the same mild eye. Had look'd upon the mighty Lydian kings Sleeping around me — Croesus, who had heap'd Within that mouldering portico his gold. And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring Beneath yon swelling tumulus — and then I loiter'd up the valley to a small And humbler ruin, where the undefiled* Of the Apocalypse their garments kept Spotless ; and crossing with a conscious awe The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye It seem'd as if, amid the moonlight, stood " The angel of the church of Sardis" still ! And I again pass'd onward, and as dawn Paled the bright morning-star, I laid me down Weary and sad beside the river's brink. And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn. Wrote with my finger in the "golden sands." * " Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled their garments; and they shall walk with me in white: for they are worthy." — Revelation iii. 4. 208 FLORENCE GRAY. Tell me, memory, what wrote I there ? The name of the sweet child I knew at Rome ! The dust is old upon my << sandal- shoon," And still I am a pilgrim ; I have roved From wild America to Bosphor's waters, And worshipp'd at innumerable shrines Of beauty ; and the painter's art, to me. And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue, And of dead kingdoms I recall the soul, Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored My memory with thoughts that can allay Fever and sadness, and when life gets dim, And I am overladen in my years, Minister to me. But when wearily The mind gives over toiling, and with eyes Open but seeing not, and senses all Lying awake within their chambers dim. Thought settles like a fountain, still and clear- Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem. Tell me, memory, what shines so fair ? The face of the sweet child I knew at Rome ! PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN. 209 THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN. 'TwAS a summery day in the last of May — Pleasant in sun or shade ; And the hours went by, as the poets say, Fragrant and fair on their flowery way ; And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway — And the Fountain gayly play'd. The Fountain play'd right merrily, And the world look'd bright and gay ; And a youth went by, with a restless eye. Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry ; And he pray'd to God that he might die — And the Fountain play'd away. Uprose the spray like a diamond throne. And the drops like music rang — And of those who marvell'd how it shone. Was a proud man, left, in his shame, alone ; And he shut his teeth with a smother'd groan — And the Fountain sweetly sang. 210 PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN. And a rainbow spann'd it changeflilly, Like a bright ring broke in twain ; And the pale, fair girl, who stopp'd to see, Was sick with the pangs of poverty — And from hunger to guilt she chose to flee As the rainbow smiled again. With as fair array, on another day, The morning will have shone ; And, as little mark'd, in bright Broadway, A hearse will glide amid busy and gay, And the bard who sings will have pass'd away- And the Fountain will play on ! CHAMBER SCENE. 211 "CHAMBER SCENE." [AN EXQUISITE PICTURE IN THE STUDIO OF A YOUNG AKTIST AT ROME.] She rose from her untroubled sleep, And put away her soft brown hair, And, in a tone as low and deep As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer — Her snow-white hands together prest. Her blue eyes shelter'd in the lid. The folded linen on her breast Just swelling with the charms it hid ; And from her long and flowing dress Escaped a bare and slender foot, Whose shape upon the earth did press Like a new snow-flake, white and " mute ;" And there, from slumber pure and warm. Like a young spirit fresh from heaven. She bow'd her slight and graceful form. And humbly pray'd to be forgiven. Oh God ! if souls unsoil'd as these Need daily mercy from Thy throne — 212 CHAMBER SCENE. If she upon her bended knees — Our lovehest and our purest one — She, with a face so clear and bright We deem her some stray child of light — If she, with those soft eyes in tears, Day after day in her first years, Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee- What far, far deeper need have we ? How hardly, if she win not heaven. Will our wild errors be forgiven ! TO A STOLEN RING. 213 TO A STOLEN RING. Oh for thy history now ! Hadst thou a tongue To whisper of thy secrets, I could lay Upon thy jewell'd tracery mine ear, And dream myself in heaven. Thou hast been worn In that fair creature's pride, and thou hast felt The bounding of the haughtiest blood that e'er Sprang from the heart of woman ; and thy gold Has lain upon her forehead in the hour Of sadness, when the weary thoughts came fast, And life was but a bitterness with all Its \avidness and beauty. She has gazed In her fair childhood on thy snowy pearls, And mused away the hours, and she has bent On thee the downcast radiance of her eye When a deep tone was eloquent in her ear ; And thou hast lain upon her cheek, and press'd Back on her heart its beatings, and put by From her vein'd temples the luxuriant curls ; And in her peaceful sleep, when she has lain In her unconscious beauty, and the dreams 214 TO A STOLP]N RING. Of her high heart came goldenly and soft, Thou hast been there unchidden, and hast felt The swelling of the clear transparent veins As the rich blood rush'd through them, warm and fast. I am impatient as I gaze on thee. Thou inarticulate jewel ! Thou hast heard With thy dull ear such music ! — the low tone Of a young sister's tenderness, when night Hath folded them together like one flower— The sudden snatch of a remember'd song Warbled capriciously — the careless word Lightly betraying the inaudible thought Working within the heart ; and, more than all, Thou hast been lifted when the fervent prayer For a loved mother, or the sleeping one Lying beside her, trembled on her lip ; And the warm tear that from her eye stole out As the soft lash fell over it, has lain Amid thy shining jewels like a star. TO II EU WHO HAS HOPES FOR ME. 215 TO HER WHO HAS HOPES FOR ME. Oh stern, yet lovely monitress ! Thine eye should be of colder hue, And on thy neck a paler tress Should toy among those veins of blue ! For thou art to thy mission true — An angel clad in human guise — But sinners sometimes have such eyes, And braid for love such tresses too ; And, while thou talk'st to me of heaven, I sigh that thou hast not a sin to be forgiven ! Night comes, with love upon the breeze. And the calm clock strikes, stilly, "ten." I start to he'ar it beat, for then I know that thou art on thy knees — And, at that hour, where'er thou be, Ascends to heaven a prayer for me ! My heart drops to its bended knee— The mirth upon my lip is dumb — J 216 TO HER WHO HAS HOPES FOR ME. Yet, as a thought of heaven would come, There gUdes, before it, one of thee — Thou, in thy white dress, kneehng there — I fear I could leave heaven to see thee at thy prayer ! I follow up the sacred aisle Thy light step on the Sabbath-day, And — as perhaps thou pray'st the while — My light thoughts pass away ! As swells in air the holy hymn. My breath comes quick, my eyes are dim. And through my tears I pray ! I do not think my heart is stone — But, while for heaven it beats alone — In heaven would willing stay — One rustle of thy snow^-white gown Sends all my thoughts astray ! The preaching dies upon my ear — What "is the better world" when thy dark eyes are here ! Yet pray ! my years have been but few — And many a wile the tempter weaves, And many a saint the sinner grieves Ere Mercy brings him through ! But oh, when Mercy sits serene And strives to bend to me, TO HER WHO HAS HOPES FOR ME. 217 Pray, that the cloud which comes between May less resemble thee ! The world that would my soul beguile Tints all its roses with thy smile ! In heaven 'twere well to be ! But, — to desire that blessed shore — Oh, lady ! thy dark eyes must first have gone before ! 218 THE DEATH OF HARRISON. THE DEATH OF HARRISON. What ! soar'd the old eagle to die at the sun ! Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had won ! Are there spirits more blest than the "planet of even," Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven — No waning of fire, no quenching of ray. But rising, still rising, when passing away ? Farewell, gallant eagle ! thou'rt buried in light ! God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night ! Death! Death in the White House ! Ah, never before, Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor ! He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall — The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall — The youth in his birth-place, the old man at home. Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb ; — But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here — In a churchyard far off stands his beckoning bier ! He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high — As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky — THE DEATH OF HARRISON. 219 The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore — Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er — But Harrison's death fills the climax of story — He went with his old stride — from glory to glory ! Lay his sword on his breast ! There's no spot on its blade In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade ! 'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call — It was stay'd with sweet mercy when <' glory" was all ! As calm in the council as gallant in war, He fought for his country, and not its " hurrah !" In the path of the hero with pity he trod — Let him pass — with his sword — to the presence of God ! What more ? Shall we on, with his ashes ? Yet, stay ! He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day ! At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land — The bright gold of thousands has pass'd through his hand ; Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard ? No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword — No trappings — no horses ? — what had he, but now? On ! — on with his ashes ! — he left but his plough ! Follow now, as ye list ! The first mourner to-day Is the nation — whose father is taken away ! Wife, children, and neighbour, may moan at his knell — He was " lover and friend" to his country, as well ! 220 THE DEATH OF HARRISON. For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim, Let us weep in our darkness — but weep not for him ! Not for him — who, departing, leaves millions in tears ! Not for him— who has died full of honour and years ! Not for him — who ascended Fame's ladder so high From the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky ! SHE WAS NOT THERE. 221 "SHE WAS NOT THERE." " The bird, Let loose, to his far nest will flee. And love, though breathed but on a word. Will find thee, over land and sea." 'Tis midnight deep — I came but now From the close air of lighted halls ; And while I hold my aching brow I gaze upon my dim-lit walls ; And, feeling here that I am free To wear the look that suits my mood, And let my thoughts flow back to thee, I bless my tranquil solitude, And bidding all thoughts else begone, I muse upon thy love alone. Yet was the music sweet to-night. And fragrant odours fill'd the air, And flowers were drooping in the light. And lovely women wander'd there ; 222 SHE WAS NOT THERE. And fruits and wines with lavish waste Were on the marble tables piled, And all that tempts the eye and taste, And sets the haggard pulses wild, And wins from care, and deadens sadness. Were there — but yet I felt no gladness. I thought of thee — I thought of thee — Each cunning change the music play'd. Each fragrant breath that stole to me, My wandering thought more truant made. The lovely women pass'd me by, The wit fell pointless on mine ear, I look'd on all with vacant eye, [ did not see — I did not hear ! The skill'd musician's master-tone Was sweet — thy voice were sweeter far ! They were soft eyes the lamps shone on — The eyes I worship gentler are ! The halls w^ere broad, the mirrors tall. With silver lamps and costly wine — I only thought how poor was all To one low tone from lips like thine — I only felt how well forgot Were all the stars look on — and thy sweet eyes do not ! FAIL ME NOT THOU. 223 FAIL ME NOT THOU! " Oh, by that little word How many thoughts are stirr'd ! — The last, the last, the last !" The star may but a meteor be, That breaks upon the stormy night ; And I may err, believing thee A spark of heaven's own changeless light ! But if on earth beams aught so fair, It seems, of all the lights that shine, Serenest in its truth, 'tis there. Burning in those soft eyes of thine. Yet long-watch'd stars from heaven have rush'd. And long-loved friends have drojip'd away, And mine — my very heart have crush'd ! And I have hoped this many a day. It' lived no more for love or pain ! But thou hast stirr'd its depths again, And, to its dull, out-wearied ear. Thy voice of melody has crept, 224 FAIL ME NOT THOU. In tones it cannot choose but hear ; And now I feel it only slept, And know, at even tliy lightest smile, It gather'd fire and strength the while. Fail me not thou ! This feeling past, My heart would never rouse again. Thou art the brightest — but the last ! And if this trust, this love be vain — If thou, all peerless as thou art, Be not less fair than true of heart — My loves are o'er ! The sun will shine Upon no grave so hush'd as this dark breast of mine. SPIRIT-WHISPERS. 225 SPIRIT-WHISPERS. {^Spirit-whisper in the poeCs ear — morning.) Wake ! poet, wake ! — the morn has burst Through gates of stars and dew, And, wing'd by prayer since evening nursed, Has fled to kiss the steeples first, And now stoops low to you ! Oh, poet of the loving eye, For you is dress'd this morning sky ! {Second whisper — noon.) Oh, poet of the pen enchanted ! A lady sits beneath a tree ! At last the flood for which she panted — The wild words for her anguish wanted, Have gush'd in song from thee ! Her dark curls sweep her knees to pray : " God bless the poet far away !" (^Third ivhisper — midnight.) King of the heart's deep mysteries ! Your words have wings hke lightning wove ! This hour, o'er hills and distant seas, They fly like flower-seeds on the breeze, And sow the world with love ! King of a realm without a throne, Ruled by resistless tears alone ! TO M , FROM ABROAD. 227 TO M , FROM ABROAD. " The desire of the moth for the star — Of the night for the morrow — The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow." Shelley. " L'ahiia, quel che non ha, sogna e figura." Metastasio. As, gazing on the Pleiades, We count each fair and starry one, Yet wander from the light of these To muse upon the Pleiad gone — As, bending o'er fresh-gather'd flowers, The rose's most enchanting hue Reminds us but of other hours Whose roses were all lovely too — So, dearest, when I rove among The bright ones of this foreign sky, And mark the smile, and list the song, And watch the dancers gliding by. The fairer still they seem to be. The more it stirs a thought of thee ! 228 TO M , FROM ABROAD. The sad, sweet bells of twilight chime Of many hearts may touch but one, And so this seeming careless rhyme Will whisper to thy heart alone. I give it to the winds ! The bird, Let loose, to his far nest will flee, And love, though breathed but on a word, Will find thee over land and sea. Though clouds across the sky have driven, We trust at last the star will shine, And like the very light of heaven I trust thy love. Trust thou in mine ! SUNRISE THOUGHTS. 229 SUNRISE THOUGHTS AT THE CLOSE OF A BALL. Morn in the East ! How coldly fair It breaks upon my fever'd eye ! How chides the calm and dewy air ! How chides the pure and pearly sky ! The stars melt in a brighter fire — The dew, in sunshine, leaves the flowers — They, fi'om their watch, in light retire, While we, in sadness, pass from ours. I turn from the rebuking morn, — The cold gray sky, and fading star, — And listen to the harp and horn, And see the waltzers near and far — The lamps and flowers are bright as yet, And lips beneath more bright than they, — How can a scene so fair beget The mournful thoughts we bear away ! 'Tis something that thou art not here, Sweet lover of my lightest word ! 230 SUNRISE THOUGHTS. 'Tis something that my mother's tear By these forgetful hours is stirr'd ! But I have long a loiterer been In haunts where Joy is said to be, And though with Peace I enter in, The nymph comes never forth with me ! TOAFACEBELOVED. 231 TO A FACE BELOVED. The music of the waken'd lyre Dies not upon the quivering strings, Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire Upon the lip that trembling sings ; Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen, Nor shuts the flowers its fragrant cells, Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, I ween. Forever in its sparry wells — The spells of the enchanter lie Not on his own lone heart — his own rapt ear and eye. I look upon a face as fair As ever made a lip of heaven Falter amid its music-prayer ! The first-lit star of summer even Springs not so sofi;ly on the eye; Nor grows, with watching, half so bright; Nor, mid its sisters of the sky, So seems of heaven the dearest light — Men murmur, where that face is seen, My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien. 232 TO A FACE BELOVED. Yet though we deem the stars are blest, And envy, in our grief, the flower That bears but sweetness in its breast, And fear th' enchanter for his power. And love the minstrel for the spell He winds out of his lyre so well — The stars are almoners of light. The lyrist of melodious air. The fountain of its waters bright. And every thing most sweet and fair Of that by which it charms the ear. The eye, of him that passes near. A lamp is lit in woman's eye That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by. UNSEEN SPIRITS. 233 UNSEEN SPIRITS. The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide — And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walk'd she ; but, viewlessly, Walk'd spirits at her side. Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet. And Honour charm'd the air ; And all astir look'd kind on her, And call'd her good as fair — For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care. She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true — For her heart was cold to all but gold. And the rich came not to woo — But honour' d well are charms to sell If priests the selling do. v2 234 UNSEEN SPIRITS. Now walking there was one more fair — A slight girl, lily-pale ; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail — 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, And nothing could avail. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray ; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way ! — But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway ! BETTER MOMENTS. 235 BETTER MOMENTS. [EABXT POEM.] My mother's voice ! how often creep Its accents on my lonely hours ! Like heaUng sent on wings of sleep, Or dew to the unconscious flowers. I can forget her melting prayer While leaping pulses madly fly, But in the still, unbroken air, Her gentle tone comes steahng by— And years, and sin, and folly flee, And leave me at my mother's knee. The evening hours, the birds, the flowers. The starhght, moonlight— all that's meet For heav'n in this lost world of ours — Remind me of her teachings sweet. My heart is harder, and perhaps My thoughtlessness hath drunk up tears ; And there's a mildew in the lapse Of a few swift and chequer'd years — But nature's book is even yet With all my mother's lessons writ. 236 BETTER MOMENTS. I have been out at eventide Beneath a moonlight sky of spring, When earth was garnish'd like a bride, And night had on her silver wing — When bursting leaves, and diamond grass. And waters leaping to the light. And all that make the pulses pass With wilder fleetness, throng'd the night — When all was beauty — then have I With friends on whom my love is flung Like myrrh on winds of Araby, Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung ; And when the beautiful spirit there Flung over me its golden chain, My mother's voice came on the air Like the light dropping of the rain — And, resting on some silver star The spirit of a bended knee, I've pour'd out low and fervent prayer That our eternity might be To rise in heaven, like stars at night. And tread a living path of light. I have been on the dewy hills, When night was stealing from the dawn, And mist was on the waking rills. And tints were delicately drawn BETTER MOMENTS. 237 In the gray East — when birds were waking, With a low murmur in the trees, And melody by fits was breaking Upon the whisper of the breeze — And this when I was forth, perchance As a worn reveller from the dance — And when the sun sprang gloriously And freely up, and hill and river Were catching upon wave and tree The arrows from his subtle quiver — I say a voice has thrill'd me then, Heard on the still and rushing light. Or, creeping from the silent glen. Like words from the departing night, Hath stricken me, and I have press'd On the wet grass my fever'd brow. And pouring forth the earliest First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow, Have felt my mother's spirit rush Upon me as in by-past years. And, yielding to the blessed gush Of my ungovernable tears. Have risen up — the gay, the wild — Subdued and humble as a child. 238 THE ANN OYER. THE ANNOYER. " Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever." — Shelley. Love knoweth every form of air, And every shape of earth, And comes, unbidden, everywhere. Like thought's mysterious birth. The moonlit sea and the sunset sky Are written with Love's w^ords. And you hear his voice unceasingly. Like song in the time of birds. He peeps into the warrior's heart From the tip of a stooping plume, And the serried spears and the many men May not deny him room. He'll come to his tent in the weary night, And be busy in his dream ; And he'll float to his eye in morning light Like a fay on a silver beam. THE ANNO YER. 239 He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, And rides on the echo back, And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf, And flits in his woodland track. The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, The cloud and the open sky — He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, Like the light of your very eye. The fisher hangs over the leaning boat. And ponders the silver sea, For Love is under the surface hid, And a spell of thought has he. He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, And speaks in the ripple low, Till the bait is gone from the crafty line. And the hook hangs bare below. He blurs the print of the scholar's book. And intrudes in the maiden's prayer. And profanes the cell of the holy man. In the shape of a lady fair. In the darkest night, and the bright daylight. In earth, and sea, and sky, In every home of human thought, Will Love be lurking nigh. 240 ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON. ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON. It is not the fear of death That damps my brow, It is not for another breath I ask thee now ; I can die with a lip unstirr'd And a quiet heart — Let but this prayer be heard Ere I depart. I can give up my mother's look — My sister's kiss ; I can think of love — yet brook A death like this ! I can give up the young fame I burn'd to win — All — but the spotless name I glory in. Thine is the power to give, Thine to deny, ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON. 241 Joy for the hour I live — Calmness to die. By all the brave should cJierish, By my dying breath, I ask that I may perish By a soldier's death ! 242 D A VV i\. DAWN. " That line I learned not in the old sad song." — Charles Lamb. Throw up the window ! 'Tis a morn for life In its most subtle luxury. The air Is like a breathing from a rarer world ; And the south wind is like a gentle friend, Parting the hair so softly on my brow. It has come over gardens, and the flowers That kiss'd it are betray'd ; for as it parts. With its invisible fingers, my loose hair, I know it has been trifling with the rose, And stooping to the violet. There is joy For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing As if to breathe were music, and the grass Sends up its modest odour with the dew. Like the small tribute of humility. I had awoke from an unpleasant dream, And liorht was welcome to me. I look'd out D A W N. 243 To feel the common air, and when the breath Of the delicious morning met my brow, Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun Shone on familiar objects, it was like The feeling of the captive who comes forth From darkness to the cheerful light of day. Oh ! could we wake from sorrow ; were it all A. troubled dream like this, to cast aside Like an untimely garment with the morn ; Could the long fever of the heart be cool'd By a sweet breath from nature ; or the gloom Of a bereaved affection pass away With looking on the lively tint of flowers — How lightly were the spirit reconciled To make this beautiful, bright world its home ' 244 EXTRACT. EXTRACT FROM A POEM DELIVERED AT THE DEPARTURE OF THE SENIOR CLASS OF TALE COLLEGE, IN 1327. We shall go forth together. There will come Alike the day of trial unto all, And the rude world will buffet us alike. Temptation hath a music for all ears ; And mad ambition trumpeteth to all ; And the ungovernable thought within Will be in every bosom eloquent ; — But when the silence and the calm come on, And the high seal of character is set, We shall not all be similar. The flow Of life-time is a graduated scale ; And deeper than the vanities of power, Or the vain pomp of glory, there is set A standard measuring our worth for Heaven. The pathway to the grave may be the same. And the proud man shall tread it, and the low. With his bow'd head, shall bear him company ; EXTRACT. 245 And there will be no precedence of power, In waking at the coming trump of God ; But in the temper of the invisible mind, The godlike and undying intellect, There are distinctions that will live in heaven, When time is a forgotten circumstance ! The elevated brow of kings will lose The impress of regalia, and the slave Will wear his immortality as free, Beside the crystal waters ; but the depth Of glory in the attributes of God, Will measure the capacities of mind ; And as the angels differ, will the ken Of gifted spirits glorify him more, 'Tis life's probation-task. The soul of man Createth its own destiny of power ; And, as the trial is intenser here, His being hath a nobler strength in heaven. What is its earthly victory ? Press on ! For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on ! For it shall make you mighty among men ; And from the eyrie of your eagle thought. Ye shall look down on monarchs. press on ! For the high ones and powerful shall come To do you reverence : and the beautiful Will know the purer language of your brow, 246 E X T R A C T. And read it like a talisman of love ! Press on ! for it is godlike to unloose The spirit, and forget yourself in thought Bending a pinion for the deeper sky, And, in the very fetters of your flesh, Mating with the pure essences of heaven ! Press on ! — " for in the grave there is no work, And no device." — Press on ! while yet ye may ! So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst Of his immortal nature ; and he rends The rock for secret fountains, and pursues The path of the illimitable wind For mysteries — and this is human pride ! There is a softer winding-path through life, And man may walk it with unruffled soul And drink its wayside waters till his heart Is still'd with its o'erflowing happiness. The chart by which to traverse it is writ In the broad book of nature. 'Tis to have Attentive and believing faculties ; To go abroad rejoicing in the joy Of beautiful and well-created things ; To love the voice of waters, and the sheen Of silver fountains leaping to the sea ; To thrill with the rich melody of birds, Living their life of music ; to be glad EXTRACT. 247 In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm ; To see a beauty in the stirring leaf, And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tree ; To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence Of God's deep wisdom in the natural world ! It is to linger on " the magic face Of human beauty," and from Kght and shade Alike to draw a lesson ; 'tis to know The cadences of voices that are tuned By majesty and purity of thought ; To gaze on woman's beauty, as a star Whose purity and distance make it fair ; And from the spell of music to awake. And feel that it has purified the heart ! It is to love all virtue, like the light, Dear to the soul as sunshine to the eye ; And when the senses and the mind are fill'd Like wells from these involuntary springs, It is to calm the trembling depths with prayer, That it may be but a reflected Heaven. Thus would I, at this parting hour, be true To teachings which to me have priceless been. Thus would I — like a just-departing child. Who lingers on the threshold of his home. Strive, with vague murmurings and lingering looks, To store up what were sweetest to recall. 248 EXTRACT. And oh be this remember'd ! — that when life Shall have become a weariness, and hope Thirsts for serener waters, we may go Forth to God's wild-wood temples, and while all Its choirs breathe music and its leafy aisles. Are solemn with the beauty of the world, Kneel at its unwrought altar, and the cup That holds the " living waters" will be near. P O E M. 249 POEM DELIVERED AT BROWN UNIVERSITY, SEPT. 6, 1831. If, in the eyes that rest upon me now, I see the light of an immortal fire — If, in the awe of concentrated thought, The solemn presence of a multitude Breathing together, the instinctive mind Acknowledges aright a type of God — Then is the ruling spirit of this hour Compell'd from Heaven ; and if the soaring minds Usher'd this day upon an untried flight Stoop not their courses, we are met to cheer Spirits of light sprung freshly on their way. But, what a mystery — this erring mind ? It wakes within a frame of various powers, A stranger in a new and wondrous world. It brings an instinct from some other sphere. For its fine senses are familiar all, And, with th' unconscious habit of a dream, 250 POEM DELIVERED AT It calls, and they obey. The priceless sight Springs to its curious organ, and the ear Learns strangely to detect th' articulate air In its unseen divisions, and the tongue Gets its miraculous lesson with the rest, And in the midst of an obedient throng Of well-trained ministers, the mind goes forth To search the secrets of a new-found home. Its infancy is full of hope and joy. Knowledge is sweet, and Nature is a nurse Gentle and holy ; and the light and air. And all things common, warm it like the sun. And ripen the eternal seed within. And so its youth glides on ; and still it seems A heavenward spirit, straying oftentimes, But never widely ; and if Death might come And ravish it from earth, as it is now, We could almost believe that it would mount. Spotless and radiant, from the very grave. But manhood comes, and in its bosom sits Another spirit. Stranger as it seems, It is familiar there, for it has grown In the unsearch'd recesses all unseen, — Or if its shadow darken'd the bright doors, 'Twas smiled upon and gently driven in ; And as the spider and the honey-bee BROWN UNIVERSITY. 251 Feed on the same bright flowers, this mocking soul Fed with its purer brother, and grew strong. Till now, in semblance of the soul itself, With its own mien and sceptre, and a voice Sweet as an angel's and as full of power, It sits, a bold usurper on the throne. What is its nature ? 'Tis a child of clay, And born of human passions. In its train Follow all things unholy — Love of Gold, Ambition, Pleasure, Pride of place or name. All that we worship for itself alone. All that we may not carry through the grave. We have made idols of these perishing things Till they have grown time-honour'd on their shrines, And all men bow to them. Yet what are they ? What is Ambition ? 'Tis a glorious cheat ! Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine Hath not such gems. Earth's constellated thrones Have not such pomp of purple and of gold. It hath no features. In its face is set A mirror, and the gazer sees his own. It looks a god, but it is like himself! It hath a mien majestical, and smiles Bewilderingly sweet — but how like him ! It follows not with fortune. It is seen Rarely or never in the rich man's hall. 252 POEM DELIVERED AT It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy, And lifts his humble window, and comes in. The narrow walls expand, and spread away Into a kingly palace, and the roof Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write His name in burning letters over all. And ever, as he shuts his wilder'd eyes, The phantom comes and lays upon his lids A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay. He is its slave henceforth ! His days are spent In chaining down his heart, and watching where To rise by human weaknesses. His nights Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours. His kindred are forgotten or estranged. Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eye. His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd Half into scorn — till the bright, fiery boy, That was a daily blessing but to see, His spirit was so bird-like and so pure, Is frozen, in the very flush of youth. Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man ! And what is its reward ? At best, a name ! Praise — when the ear has grown too dull to hear BROWN UNIVERSITY. 253 Gold — when the senses it should please are dead ; Wreaths — when the hair they cover has grown gray ; Fame — when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb ; All things but love — when love is all we want ; And close behind comes Death, and ere we know That ev'n these unavailing gifts are ours, He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave ! Is it its own reward ! Reply to it, Every aspiring heart within these walls ! Summon the shadows of those bitter hours Wasted in brooding on neglect ! Recall The burning tears wrung from a throbbing brain By a proud effort foil'd ; and after all These agonies are number'd, rack your heart Back to its own self-nurtured wretchedness, And when the pangs are crowded into one Of all life's scorpion-stings, and Death itself Is sent or stay'd, as it would bless or curse, To tell me if self-misgiving torture not Unutterably more ! Yet this is all ! The world has no such glorious phantom else. The spirit that could slave itself to Gold Hath never drunk of knowledge at the well. And Pleasure, if the senses would expand 254 POEM DELIVERED AT And multiply with using, might delude The flesh-imprison 'd fancy — but not long. And earthly Love — if measured, is too tame — And if it drink, as in proud hearts it will, At the deep springs of life, is but a cloud Brooding with nameless sorrow on the soul — A sadness — a sick-heartedness — a tear ! And these are the high idols of this world ! Retreating shadows caught but at the grave — Mocking delusions, changing at the touch — Of one false spirit the false children all. And yet, what godlike gifts neglected lie Wasting and marr'd in the forgotten soul ! The finest w^orkraanship of God is there. 'Tis fleeter than the wings of Hght and wind ; 'Tis subtler than the rarest shape of air ; Fire and wind and water do its wall ; Earth has no secret from its delicate eye ; The air no alchymy it solveth not ; The star-writ heavens are read and understood. And every sparry mineral hath a name. And truth is recognised, and beauty felt. And God's own image stamp'd upon its brow. How is it so forgotten ? Will it live When the great firmament is roll'd away ? BROWN UNIVERSITY. 255 Hath it a voice forever audible, " I AM ETERNAii !" Can it overcome This mocking passion-fiend, and even here Live like a seraph upon truth and light ? How can we ever be the slaves we are, With a sweet angel sitting in our breasts ! How can we creep so lowly, when our wings Tremble and plead for freedom ! Look at him Who reads aright the image on his soul, And gives it nurture like a child of light. His life is calm and blessed, for his peace, Like a rich pearl beyond the diver's ken. Lies deep in his own bosom. He is pure. For the soul's errands are not done with men. His senses are subdued and serve the soul. He feels no void, for every faculty Is used, and the fine balance of desire Is perfect, and strains evenly, and on. Content dwells with him, for his mind is fed, And Temperance has driven out unrest. He heaps no gold. It cannot buy him more Of any thing he needs. The air of heaven Visits no freshlier the rich man's brow ; He has his portion of each silver star Sent to his eye as freely, and the light Of the blest sun pours on his book as clear 25G POEM DELIVERED AT As on the golden missal of a king. The spicy flowers are free to him ; the sward, And tender moss, and matted forest leaves Are as elastic to his weary feet ; The pictures in the fountains, and beneath The spreading trees, fine pencillings of light. Stay while he gazes on them ; the bright birds Know not that he is poor ; and as he comes From his low roof at morn, up goes the lark Mounting and singing to the gate of Heaven, And merrily away the little brook Trips with its feet of silver, and a voice, Almost articulate, of perfect joy. Air to his forehead, water to his lips, Heat to his blood, come just as faithfully, And his own faculties as freely play. Love fills his voice with music, and the tear Springs at as light a bidding to his eye ; And his free limbs obey him, and his sight Fhes on its wondrous errands every where. What does he need ? Next to the works of God His friends are the rapt sages of old time ; And they impart their wisdom to his soul In lavish fulness, when and where he will. He sits in his mean dwelling and communes With Socrates and Plato, and the shades BROWN UNIVERSITY. 257 Of all great men and holy, and the words Written in fire by Milton, and the King Of Israel, and the troop of glorious bards, Ravish and steal his soul up to the sky — And what is it to him, if these come in And visit him, that at his humble door There are no pillars with rich capitals And walls of curious workmanship within ? I stand not here in Wisdom's sacred stole. My lips have not been touch'd with holy fire. An humbler office than a counsellor Of human duties, and an humbler place, Would better grace my knowledge and my years. I would not seem presuming. Yet have I Mingled a little in this earnest world. And staked upon its chances, and have learn'd Truths that I never gather'd from my books. And though the lessons they have taught me seem Things of the wayside to the practised m«n. It is a wisdom by much wandering learn'd ; And if but one young spirit bend its wing More in the eye of Heaven because it knew The erring courses that bewilder'd mine, I have not suffer'd, nor shall teach in vain. 12 258 POEM DELIVERED AT It is a lesson oftener learn'd than loved — All knowledge is not nourishment. The mind May pine upon its food. In reckless thirst The scholar sometimes kneels beside the stream Polluted by the lepers of the mind. The sceptic, with his doubts of all things good And faith in all things evil, has been there ; And, as the stream was mingled, he has strown The shore with all bright flowers to tempt the eye, And sloped the banks down gently for the feet ; And Genius, like a fallen child of light, Has fill'd the place with magic, and compell'd Most beautiful creations into forms And images of license, and they come And tempt you with bewildering grace to kneel And drink of the wild waters ; and behind Stand the strong Passions, pleading to go in ; And the approving world looks silent on ; Till the pleased mind conspires against itself. And finds a subtle reason why 'tis good. We are deceived, though, even as we drink, We taste the evil. In his sweetest tone The lying Tempter whispers in our ear, " Though it may stain, 'twill strengthen your proud wings ;" And in the wild ambition of the soul We drink anew, and dream like Lucifer To mount upon our daring draught to Heaven. BROWN UNIVERSITY. 259 I need not follow the similitude. Truth is vitality, and if the mind Be fed on poison, it must lose its power. The vision that forever strains to err, Soon finds its task a habit ; and the taste That will own nothing true or beautiful Soon finds the world distorted as itself; And the loose mind, that feeds an appetite For the enticements of licentious thought, Contracts a leprosy that oversteals Its senses, like a palsy, chill, and fast. Another lesson with my manhood came. I have unlearn'd contempt. It is the sin That is engender'd earliest in the soul, And doth beset it like a poison-worm, Feeding on all its beauty. As it steals Into the bosom, you may see the light Of the clear, heavenly eye grow cold and dim. And the fine, upright glory of the brow Cloud with mistrust, and the unfetter'd lip. That was as free and changeful as the wind — Even in sadness redolent of love — Curl'd with the iciness of a constant scorn. It eats into the mind till it pollutes All its pure fountains. Feeling, reason, taste Breathe of its chill corruption. Every sense 260 POEM DELIVERED AT That could convey a pleasure is benumb'd, And the bright human being, that was made Full of all warm affections, and with power To look through all things lovely up to God, Is changed into a cold and doubting fiend. With but one use for reason — to despise ! Oh if there is one law above the rest Written in wisdom — if there is a word That I would trace as with a pen of fire Upon the unsunn'd temper of a child — If there is any thing that keeps the mind Open to angel visits, and repels The ministry of ill — 'tis human love ! God has made nothing worthy of contempt. The smallest pebble in the well of truth Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand When man's best monuments have pass'd away. The law of heaven is love ; and though its name Has been usurp'd by passion, and profaned To its unholy uses through all time. Still, the eternal principle is pure ; And in these deep affections that we feel Omnipotent within us, we but see The lavish measure in which love is given ; And in the yearning tenderness of a child For every bird that sings above his head. BROWN UNIVERSITY. 261 And every creature feeding on the hills, And every tree, and flower, and running brook, We see how every thing was made to love, And how they err, who, in a world like this. Find any thing to hate but human pride ! Oh, if w^e are not bitterly deceived — If this familiar spirit that communes With yours this hour — that has the power to search All things but its own compass — is a spark Struck from the burning essence of its God — If, as we dream, in every radiant star We see a shining gate through which the soul. In its degrees of being, will ascend — If, when these weary organs drop away. We shall forget their uses, and commune With angels and each other, as the stars Mingle their light, in silence and in love — What is this fleshly fetter of a day That we should bind it with immortal flowers ! How do we ever gaze upon the sky. And w^atch the lark soar up till he is lost. And turn to our poor perishing dreams away, Without one tear for our imprison'd wings ! 262 THE TORN HAT. THE TORN HAT. [A PICTtJBE.] There's something in a noble boy, A brave, free-hearted, careless one. With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy. His dread of books and love of fun, And in his clear and ready smile, Unshaded by a thought of guile. And unrepress'd by sadness — "Which brings me to my childhood back. As if I trod its very track. And felt its very gladness. And yet it is not in his play, When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay. That his bright presence thrills me most. His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall, His merry laugh like music trill, And I unheeding hear it all — THE TORN HAT. 263 For, like the wrinkles on my brow, I scarcely notice such things now — But when, amid the earnest game, He stops, as if he music heard, And, heedless of his shouted name As of the carol of a bird. Stands gazing on the empty air As if some dream were passing there — 'Tis then that on his face I look, His beautiful but thoughtful face, And, like a long-forgotten book, Its sweet, famihar meaning trace — Remembering a thousand things Which pass'd me on those golden wings, Which time has fettered now — Things that came o'er me with a thrill. And left me silent, sad, and still, And threw upon my brow A holier and a gentler cast. That was too innocent to last. 'Tis strange how thought upon a child Will, like a presence, sometimes press — And when his pulse is beating wild. And life itself is in excess — When foot and hand, and ear and eye. Are all with ardour straining high — 264 THE TORN HAT. How in his heart will spring A feeling, whose mysterious thrall Is stronger, sweeter far than all ; And, on its silent wing, How with the clouds he'll float away. As wandering and as lost as they ! TO LAURA W , TWO YEARS OF AGE. Bright be the skies that cover thee, Child of the sunny brow — Bright as the dream flung over thee — By all that meets thee now — Thy heart is beating joyously, Thy voice is like a bird's — And sweetly breaks the melody Of thy imperfect words. I know no fount that gushes out As gladly as thy tiny shout. I would that thou might'st ever b(» As beautiful as now — That time might ever leave as free Thy yet unwritten brow : I would life were " all poetry" To gentle measure set, That nought but chasten'd melody Might stain thine eye of jet — Nor one discordant note be spoken, Till God the cunning harp hath broken. 266 TO LAURA W- I would — but deeper things than these With woman's lot are wove : Wrought of intensest sympathies, And nerved by purest love — By the strong spirit's discipline, By the fierce wrong forgiven. By all that wrings the heart of sin. Is woman won to heaven. " Her lot is on thee," lovely child — God keep thy spirit undefiled ! I fear thy gentle loveliness. Thy witching tone and air. Thine eye's beseeching earnestness May be to thee a snare. The silver stars may purely shine, The waters taintless flow — But they who kneel at woman's shrine. Wreathe poisons as they bow — She may fling back the gift again, But the crush'd flower will oftenest stain. What shall preserve thee, beautiful child ? Keep thee as thou art now ? Bring thee, a spirit undefiled. At God's pure throne to bow ? The world is but a broken reed, And life grows early dim — Who shall be near thee in thy need, To lead thee up to Him ? He, who himself was " undefiled ?" With Him we trust thee, beautiful child ! ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. 'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. Her presence, like the shadow of a wing That is just lessening in the upper sky, Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice — And for her step we listen — and the eye Looks for her wonted coming — with a strange, Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel That she will no more come — that from her cheek The delicate flush has faded, and the light Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip. That was so exquisitely pure, the dew Of the damp grave has fallen ! Who so loved, Is left among the living ? Who hath walk'd The world with such a winning loveliness, And on its bright brief journey gather'd up Such treasures of affection ? She was loved Only as idols are. She was the pride Of her familiar sphere — the daily joy Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze, And, in the light and music of her way, ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. 269 Have a companion's portion. Who could feel, While looking upon beauty such as hers, That it would ever perish ? It is like The melting of a star into the sky While you are gazing on it, or a dream In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken. z2 MAY. Oh, the merry May has pleasant hours, And dreamily they glide, As if they floated like the leaves Upon a silver tide ; The trees are full of crimson buds, And the woods are full of birds. And the waters flow to music, Like a tune with pleasant words. The verdure of the meadow-land Is creeping to the hills. The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets Are blowing by the rills ; The lilach has a load of balm For every wind that stirs. And the larch stands green and beautiful Amid the sombre firs. There's perfume upon every wind — Music in every tree — Dews for the moisture-loving flowers — Sweets for the sucking bee : The sick come forth for the healing South, The young are gathering flowers ; And life is a tale of poetry, That is told by golden hours. It must be a true philosophy, That the spirit when set free Still lingers about its olden home. In the flower and the tree, For the pulse is stirr'd as with voices heard In the depth of the shady grove. And while lonely we stray through the fields away The heart seems answering: love. •272 THE SOLITARY. THE SOLITARY. [A PICTURE.] Alone ! alone ! How drear it is Always to be alone ! In such a depth of wilderness, The only thinking one ! The waters in their path rejoice, The trees together sleep — But I have not one silver voice Upon my ear to creep ! The sun upon the silent hills His mesh of beauty weaves, There's music in the laugliing rills And in the whispering leaves. The red deer like the breezes fly To meet the bounding roe. But I have not a human sigh To cheer me as I go. T h Tft E'^. THE SOLITARY. 273 I've hated men — I hate them now — But, since they are not here, I thirst for the famihar brow — Thirst for the steahng tear. And I should love to see the one, And feel the other creep. And then again I'd be alone Amid the forest deep. I thought that I should love my hound — Hear my resounding gun, Till I forgot the thrilling sound Of voices — one by one. I thought that in the leafy hush Of nature they w^ould die ; But as the hinder'd waters rush, Resisted feelings fly. I'm weary of my lonely hut And of its blasted tree, The very lake is like my lot, So silent constantly. I've lived amid the forest gloom Until I almost fear — When will the thrilling voices come My spirit thirsts to hear ? 274 SONNET. SONNET. Storm had been on the hills. The day had worn As if a sleep upon the hours had crept ; And the dark clouds that gather'd at the morn In dull, impenetrable masses slept ; And the wet leaves hung droopingly, and all Was like the mournful aspect of a pall. Suddenly, on the horizon's edge, a blue And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay, And, as it wider and intenser grew, The darkness removed silently away. And, with the splendour of a God, broke through The perfect glory of departing day : So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er, Will light upon the dying Christian pour. ACROSTIC-SONNET. Elegance floats about thee like a dress, Melting the airy motion of thy form Into one swaying grace ; and loveliness, Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm, Is lurking in the chestnut of thy tress, Enriching it, as moonlight after storm Mingles dark shadows into gentleness. A beauty that bewilders like a spell Reigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy brow, So pure in vein'd transparency, doth tell How spiritually beautiful art thou — A temple where angelic love might dwell. Life in thy presence were a thing to keep. Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep. 276 THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. [A PICTURE.] Wo for my vine-clad home ! That it should ever be so dark to me, With its bright threshold and its whispering tree ! That I should ever come, Fearing the lonely echo of a tread Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead ! Lead on, my orphan boy ! Thy home is not so desolate to thee — And the low shiver in the linden tree May bring to thee a joy ; But oh, how dark is the bright home before thee. To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee ! Lead on ! for thou art now My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken. And the strong heart I lean'd upon is broken ; And I have seen his brow — The forehead of my upright one, and just — Trod by the hoof of battle in the dust. THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. 277 He will not meet thee there Who blest thee at the eventide, my son ! And when the shadows of the night steal on, He will not cull to prayer. The lips that melted, giving thee to God, Are in the icy keeping of the sod ! Ay, my own boy ! thy sire Is with the sleepers of the valley cast. And the proud glory of my life hath pass'd With his high glance of fire. Wo that the linden and the vine should bloom, And a just man be gather'd to the tomb ! Why — bear them proudly, boy ! It is the sword he girded to his thigh — It is the helm he wore in victory — And shall we have no joy .'' For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died ! — I will forget my sorrow in my pride ! 2 A 278 STARLIGHT. STARLIGHT. The evening star will twinkle presently. The last small bird is silent, and the bee Has gone into his hive, and the shut flowers Are bending as if sleeping on the stem, And all sweet living things are slumbering In the deep hush of nature's resting time. The faded West looks deep, as if its blue Were searchable, and even as I look. The twilight hath stole over it, and made Its liquid eye apparent, and above To the far-stretching zenith, and around. As if they waited on her like a queen. Have stole out th' innumerable stars To twinkle like intelligence in heaven, Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel ? Fit for the young affections to come out And bathe in like an element ! How well The night is made for tenderness — so still That the low whisper, scarcely audible. Is heard like music, and so deeply pure STARLIGHT. 279 That the fond thought is chasten'd as its springs And on the lip made holy. I have won Thy heart, my gentle girl ! but it hath been When that soft eye was on me, and the love I told beneath the evening influence Shall be as constant as its gentle star. 280 DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSON. ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSON, D.D. A SERVANT of the living God is dead ! His errand hath been well and early done, And early hath he gone to his reward. He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest. Would ye bewail our brother ? He hath gone To Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst, Nor hunger, but forever in the eye, Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look, Unchided, and untempted, and unstain'd. Would ye bewail our brother ? He hath gone To sit down with the prophets by the clear And crystal waters ; he hath gone to list Isaiah's harp and David's, and to walk With Enoch, and Elijah, and the host Of the just men made perfect. He shall bow At Gabriel's hallelujah, and unfold The scroll of the Apocalypse with John, And talk of Christ with Wary, and go back To the last supper, and the garden prayer DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSON. 281 With the beloved disciple. He shall hear The story of the Incarnation told By Simeon, and the Triune mystery Burning upon the fervent lips of Paul. He shall have wings of glory, and shall soar To the remoter firmaments, and read The order and the harmony of stars ; And, in the might of knowledge, he shall bow, In the deep pauses of archangel harps. And, humble as the Seraphim, shall cry — Who, by his searching^ finds thee out, oh God ! There shall he meet his children who have gone Before him ; and as other years roll on, And his loved flock go up to him, his hand Again shall lead them gently to the Lamb, And bring them to the living waters there. Is it so good to die ! and shall we mourn That he is taken early to his rest ? Tell me ! oh mourner for the man of God ! Shall we bewail our brother— that he died ? 2 a2 282 JANUARY 1, 1828. JANUARY 1, 1828. Fleetly hath pass'd the year. The seasons came Duly as they are wont — the gentle Spring, And the delicious Summer, and the cool, Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain. And Winter, like an old and hoary man, Frosty and stiff — and so are chronicled. We have read gladness in the new green leaf, And in the first-blown violets ; we have drunk Cool water from the rock, and in the shade Sunk to the noontide slumber ; — we have pluck'd The mellow fruitage of the bending tree. And girded to our pleasant wanderings When the cool wind came freshly from the hills ; And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves Had faded from its glory, we have sat By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced Over the fulness of the gather'd sheaf. " God hath been very good !" 'Tis He whose hand Moulded the sunny hills, and hollow'd out The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep JANUARY 1, 18-28. 283 The fountains in their secret places cool ; And it is He who leadeth up the sun, And ordereth the starry influences, And tempereth the keenness of the frost And therefore, in the plenty of the feast. And in the lifting of the cup, let Him Have praises for the well-completed year. 284 JANUARY 1, 1829. JANUARY 1, 1829. Winter is come again. The sweet south-west Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth Has laid aside its mantle to be bound By the frost fetter. There is not a sound, Save of the skater's heel, and there is laid An icy finger on the lip of streams, And the clear icicle hangs cold and still. And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought. Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends Many sweet voices wdth its odours out, And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb ! God made his ministry a silent one, And he has given him a foot of steel And an unlovely aspect, and a breath Sharp to the senses — and we know that He Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid Under the shadow of His hand. Look up ; And it shall be interpreted : — Your home Hath a temptation now ! There is no voice Of waters with beguiling for your ear, And the cool forest and the meadows green Witch not your feet away ; and in the dells There are no violets, and upon the hills There are no sunny places to lie down. You must go in, and by your cheerful fire Wait for the offices of love, and hear Accents of human tenderness, and feast Your eye upon the beauty of the young. It is a season for the quiet thought. And the still reckoning with thyself. The year Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time Whispers the history of its vanish'd hours ; And the heart, calling its affections up, Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still And settles like a fountain, and the eye Sees clearly through its d^iths, and noteth all That stirr'd its troubled waters. It is well That Winter with the dying year should come ! 286 PSYCHE. PSYCHE, BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF VENUS. Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche ! What is she, That those soft fringes timidly should fall Before her, and thy spiritual brow Be dark, as if her presence were a cloud ? A loftier gift is thine than she can give — That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow To perfectness, and give unto the form A beautiful proportion ; she may stain The eye with a celestial blue — the cheek With carmine of the sunset ; she may breathe Grace into every motion, like the play Of the least visible tissue of a cloud ; She may give all that is within her own Bright cestus — and one silent look of thine. Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all. Ay, for the soul is better than its frame. The spirit than its temple. What's the brow, P S Y C H E. 287 Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air, Or colour, but the beautiful links that chain The mind from its rare element ? There lies A talisman in intellect which yields Celestial music, when the master hand Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath The outward semblance, and to common sight Is an invisible and hidden thing ; But when the lip is faded, and the cheek Robb'd of its daintiness, and when the form Witches the sense no more, and human love Falters in its idolatry, this spell Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on Stealing anew the affections. Marvel not That Love leans sadly on his bended bow. He hath found out the loveliness of mind And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be Ever — the glory of the human form Is but a perishing thing, and love will droop When its brief grace hath faded ; but the mind Perisheth not, and when the outward charm Hath had its brief existence, it awakes. And is the lovelier that it slept so long — Like wells, that, by the wasting of their flow, Have had their deeper fountains broken up. 288 A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY. ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY. Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curls From his white shoulders by the winds were swept, And the clear colour of his sunny cheek Was bright with motion. Through his open lips Shone visibly a dehcate line of pearl, Like a white vein within a rosy shell, And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly As starlight from the edging of a cloud. I never saw a boy so beautiful. His step was like the stooping of a bird, And his limbs melted into grace like things Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like A painter's fine conception — such an one As he would have of Ganymede, and weep Upon his pallet that he could not win The vision to his easel. Who could paint The young and shadowless spirit ? Who could chain A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY. 289 The sparkling gladness of a heart that lives, Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light, With an unbreathing pencil ? Nature's gift Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream. And the new leaves of June, and the young lark That flees away into the depths of heaven, Lost in his own wild music, and the breath Of spring-time, and the summer eve, and noon In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept Over sweet-toned affections — but the joy That enters to the spirit of a child Is deep as his young heart : his very breath. The simple sense of being, is enough To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch He feels each moment of his life go by. Beautiful, beautiful childhood ! with a joy That like a robe is palpable, and flung Out by your every motion ! delicate bud Of the immortal flower that will unfold And come to its maturity in heaven ! I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light Lent to the new-born spirit, that goes out With the first idle wind. It is the leaf Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance Upon the w^ave that stealeth out its life. Then sink of its own heaviness. The face 2B 290 A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY. Of the delightful earth will to your eye Grow dim ; the fragrance of the many flowers Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice Of nature in her gentleness will be To manhood's senseless ear inaudible. I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy ! HERO. 291 HERO. Claudia. Know you any, Hero ? Hero. None, my lord ! As You Like It. Gentle and modest Hero ! I can see Her delicate figure, and her soft blue eye, Like a warm vision — lovely as she stood, Veil'd in the presence of young Claudio. Modesty bows her head, and that young heart That would endure all suffering for the love It hideth, is as tremulous as the leaf Forsaken of the Summer. She hath flung Her all upon the venture of her vow, And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower By the still river tempted from its stem, And on its bosom floating. Once again I see her, and she standeth in her pride, With her soft eye enkindled, and her lip Curl'd with its sweet resentment, like a line 292 HER O. Of lifeless coral. She hath heard the voice That was her music utter it, and still To her affection faithful, she hath turn'd And question'd, in her innocent unbelief. " Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide ?"- How did they look upon that open brow, And not read purity ? Alas for truth ! It hath so many counterfeits. The words, That to a child were written legibly, Are by the wise mistaken, and when light Hath made the brow transparent, and the face Is like an angel's — virtue is so fair — They read it like an over-blotted leaf. And break the heart that wrote it. IDLENESS. 293 IDLENESS. ■Idleness is sweet and sacred." Walter Savage Landok. When you have found a day to be idle, be idle for a day. When you have met with three cups to drink, drink your three cups." Chinese Poet. The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade Of the fast-flying clouds across my book Passes with gliding change. My merry fire Sings cheerfully to itself; my musing cat Purrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep, And looks into my face as if she felt, Like me, the gentle influence of the rain. Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes, And sometimes listening to the faster fall Of the large drops, or rising with the stir Of an unbidden thought, have walk'd awhile, With the slow steps of indolence, my room. And then sat down composedly again To my quaint book of olden poetry. 294 IDLENESS. It is a kind of idleness, I know ; And I am said to be an idle man — And it is very true. I love to go Out in the pleasant sun, and let my eye Rest on the human faces that pass by, Each with its gay or busy interest : And then I muse upon their lot, and read Many a lesson in their changeful cast, And so grow kind of heart, as if the sight Of human beings bred humanity. And I am better after it, and go More grateful to my rest, and feel a love Stirring my heart to every living thing ; And my low prayer has more humility, And I sink lightlier to my dreams — and this, 'Tis very true, is only idleness ! I love to go and mingle with the young In the gay festal room — when every heart Is beating faster than the merry tune, And their blue eyes are restless, and their lips Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks Flush'd wdth the beautiful motion of the dance. And I can look upon such things, and go Back to my solitude, and dream bright dreams For their fast coming years, and speak of them Earnestly in my prayer, till I am glad 113 [L E K E § IDLENESS. 295 With a benevolent joy — and this, I know, To the world's eye is only idleness ! And when the clouds pass suddenly away, And the blue sky is like a newer world, And the sweet-growing things — forest and flower, Humble and beautiful alike — are all Breathing up odours to the very heaven — Or when the frost has yielded to the sun In the rich autumn, and the filmy mist Lies like a silver lining on the sky. And the clear air exhilarates, and life Simply, is luxury — and when the hush Of twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on And the birds settle to their nests, and stars Spring in the upper sky, and there is not A sound that is not low and musical — At all these pleasant seasons I go out With my first impulse guiding me, and take Wood-path or stream, or slope by hill or vale. And in my recklessness of heart, stray on. Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves. And happy with the fair and blessed world — And this, 'tis true, is only idleness ! And I should love to go up to the sky. And course the heavens, like stars, and float away Upon the gliding clouds that have no stay In their swift journey— and 'twould be a joy To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know The tribes of the unfathomable depths- Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea ! And I should love to issue with the wind On a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth With its broad continents and islands green, Like to the passing of a spirit on ! — And this, 'tis true, were only idleness ! THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION, 297 THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION OF HIS CLASS, AT ^ YALE COLLEGE. Ye've gather'd to your place of prayer With slow and measured tread : Your ranks are full, your mates all there — But the soul of one has fled. He was the proudest in his strength, The manliest of ye all ; Why lies he at that fearful length, And ye around his pall ? Ye reckon it in days, since he Strode up that foot-worn aisle, With his dark eye flashing gloriously. And his lip wreathed with a smile. 0, had it been but told you, then. To mark whose lamp was dim — From out yon rank of fresh-lipp'd men, Would ye have singled him ? 298 THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION Whose was the sinewy arm, that flung Defiance to the ring ? Whose laugh of victory loudest rung — Yet not for glorying ? Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, No rivalry might brook. And yet distinction claiming not ? There lies he — go and look ! On now — his requiem is done, The last deep prayer is said — On to his burial, comrades — on. With a friend and brother dead ! Slow — for it presses heavily — It is a man ye bear ! Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily On the gallant sleeper there. Tread lightly, comrades ! — we have laid His dark locks on his brow — Like life — save deeper light and shade : We'll not disturb them now. Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful. That blue-vein'd eyeljd's sleep, Hiding the eye death left so dull — Its slumber we will keep. THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION. 299 Rest now ! his journeying is done — Your feet are on his sod — Death's blow has fell'd your champion — He waiteth here his God. Ay — turn and weep — 'tis manliness To be heart-broken here — For the grave of one, the best of us, Is water'd by the tear. 300 SPRING SPRING. L'onda del mar divisa Bagna la valle e I'monte, Va passegiera In fiume, Va prigionera In fonte, Mormora sempre e geme Fin che non torna al mar." Metastasio. The spring is here — the delicate-footed May, With its sKght fingers full of leaves and flowers, And with it comes a thirst to be away, In loveher scenes to pass these sweeter hours, A feeling like the worm's awakening wings, Wild for companionship with swifter things. We pass out from the city's feverish hum, To find refreshment in the silent woods ; And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, Like a cool sleep upon the pulse ' lods — Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal. To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, The waters tripping with their silver feet. The turning to the light of leaves in June, And the light whisper as their edges meet- Strange— that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone. There's no contentment in a world like this. Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss. That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream ; Bird-like, the prison'd soul will hft its eye And pine— till it is hooded from the sky. 20 302 THE DECLARATION. THE DECLARATION. 'TwAs late, and the gay company was gone, And light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange leaves and sweet verbena came Through the unshutter'd window on the air. And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd To whisper what I could not w^hen the crowd Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt, And with the fervour of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love. There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss Upon it — unforbidden ! — and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart. Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. THE DECLARATION. 393 I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke, And she withdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd Earnestly on me. She had been asleep. 304 GIRL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER. ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD. The green leaves as we pass Lay their light fingers on thee unaware, And by thy side the hazels cluster fair, And the low forest-grass Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind- Alas ! for thee, sweet mother ! thou art blind ! And nature is all bright ; And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn. Like folded curtains, from the day are drawn ; And evening's purple light Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky — Alas ! sweet mother ! for thy clouded eye ! The moon's new silver shell Trembles above thee, and the stars float up, In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup Is pencill'd passing well. And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee — Alas ! sweet mother ! that thou canst not see ! GIRL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER. 305 And the kind looks of friends Peruse the sad expression in thy face, And the child stops amid his bounding race, And the tall stripling bends Low to thine ear with duty unforgot — Alas ! sweet mother ! that thou seest them not ! But thou canst hear ! and love May richly on a human tone be pour'd. And the least cadence of a whisper'd word A daughter's love may prove — And while I speak thou knowest if I smile. Albeit thou canst not see my face the while ! Yes, thou canst hear ! and He Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung. To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung Heaven and earth and sea ! And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know — With hut one sense the soul may overflow. 2c2 TO ON RECEIVING EROM HER A SPRAT OF LILIES OF THE VALLEY. Small lily, that the careless overlook, Though, to the finder, sweeter than the rose — Pure, unobtrusive, fragrant-hearted flower — How truthful is its portraiture of thee ! I've known thee until now, as floats the mist Over the valley, silently aware That sweetness known in heaven lay hid near by ; But, as the same mist, heavy with the night, Falls in a dark tear to the lily's cup. And finds it sweetest at the darkest hour. So, thou pure girl, thy tender presence only Has an unconscious ministry to me, And near thee, in the night that shrouds me still, My darkness is forgotten. ROARING BROOK. 307 ROARING BROOK. [A PASSAGE OF SCENERY NEAR NEW HAVEN.] It was a mountain stream that with the leap Of its impatient waters had worn out A channel in the rock, and wash'd away The earth that had upheld the tall old trees, Till it was darken'd with the shadowy arch Of the o'er-leaning branches. Here and there It loiter'd in a broad and limpid pool That circled round demurely, and anon Sprung violently over where the rock Fell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on, Till they were broken by the hanging moss, As anger with a gentle word grows calm. In spring-time, when the snows were coming down- And in the flooding of the autumn rains. No foot might enter there — but in the hot And thirsty summer, when the fountains slept. You could go up its channel in the shade. To the far sources, with a brow as cool 308 ROARING BROOK. As in the grotto of the anchorite. Here when an idle student have I come, And in a hollow of the rock lain down And mused until the eventide, or read Some fine old poet till my nook became A haunt of faery, or the busy flow Of water to my spell-bewilder'd ear Seem'd like the din of some gay tournament. Pleasant have been such hours, and though the wise Have said that I was indolent, and they Who taught me have reproved me that I play'd The truant in the "leafy month of June," I deem it true philosophy in him Whose path leads to the rude and busy world, To loiter with these wayside comforters. AN APOLOGY. 309 AN APOLOGY FOR AVOIDING, AFTER LONG SEPARATION, A WOMAN ONCE LOVED. See me no more on earth, I pray ; Thy picture, in my memory now, Is fair as morn, and fresh as May ! Few were as beautiful as thou ! And still I see that willowy form — And still that cheek like roses dyed — And still that dark eye, deep and warm — Thy look of love — thy step of pride ! — Thy memory is a star to me. More bright as day-beams fade and flee. But thou, indeed ! — Ah ! years have fled, And thou, like others, changed the while — For joy upon the lip lies dead If pain but cloud the sunny smile ! And care will make the roses pale, And tears will soil the lily's whiteness. 310 AN APOLOGY. And, ere life's lamp begins to fail, The eye forgets its trick of brightness ! Look for the dew of morn at noon. And weep for beauty lost as soon ! Cold words that hide the envious thought ! I could not bear thy face to see — But oh, 'tis not that time has wrought A change in features dear to me ! No ! had it been my lot to share The fragrance of the flower decay'd — If I had borne but half the care ♦ That on thy brow its burden laid — If in my love thou'dst burn'd away, The ashes still had warm'd the heart so cold to-day ! BIRTHDAY IN A FOREIGN ISLE. 311 BIRTHDAY IN A FOREIGN ISLE. 'Tis the day my mother bore her son ! She has thought since morn of her absent one. At break of day she remember'd me, With trembling hp and bended knee ; And, at the hour of morning prayer. She has fix'd her eye on the empty chair; And, as my father bow'd to pray For one much loved and far away. My mother's heart has stirr'd anew, And tears have gush'd her fingers through ; And with moving lips and low-bent head. Her soul to heaven has melting fled. Mother ! dear mother ! I've wander'd long, And must wander still, in these lands of song. My cheek is burnt with eastern suns ; My boyish blood more tamely runs ; My speech is cold, my bosom seal'd ; My once free nature check'd and steel'd ; I have found the world so unlike thee ; I have been so forced a rock to be ; 312 BIRTHDAY IN A FOREIGN ISLE. It has froze my heart ! — of my mother only, When the hours are sad, in places lonely — Only of thee — does a thought go by That leaves a tear In my weary eye : I see thy smile in the clouded air ; I feel thy hand in my wind-stirr'd hair ; I hear thy voice, with its pleading tone, When else I had felt in the world alone — So alone, that there seemed to be Only my mother 'twixt heaven and me ! Mother ! dear mother ! the feeling nurst As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. 'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain ; 'Tis the only one that will long remain ; And as, year by year, and day by day. Some friend still trusted drops away. Mother ! dear mother ! oh, dost thou see How the shorten'd chain brings me nearer thee! Malta, Jan. 20, 1834. TO Thy love is like the thread of a new moon Drawn on the faint blue of a break in clouds : — The thunder of a storm not surely o'er Murmurs beneath it, and the lightning gleams Brokenly still, in one mass dark and near, As if it would close turbulently o'er And make all black again. But, motionless, As 'twere an angel's shallop in a calm, The bent moon floats, and its round freight of hope Lies in its breast — to unbelieving eyes A shadow that can never grow more fair, — But, to the clearer-sighted stars, a promise Of brightness that will wax to fill a heaven. 2D 314 TO A BRIDE. TO A BRIDE. [MRS. WM. F. O- Pass thou on ! for the vow is said That may ne'er be broken ; The trembUng hand hath a blessing laid On snowy forehead and auburn braid, And the word is spoken By lips that never their word betray'd. Pass thou on ! for thy human all Is richly given, And the voice that claims its holy thrall Must be sweeter for life than music's fall, And, this side heaven, Thy lip may never that trust recall. Pass thou on ! yet many an eye Will droop and glisten ; And the hushing heart in vain will try To still its pulse as thy step goes by. TO A BRIDE. 315 And we vainly listen For thy voice of witching melody. Pass thou on ! yet a sister's tone In its sweetness lingers, Like some twin echo sent back alone, Or the bird's soft note when its mate hath flown ; And a sister's fingers Will again o'er the thrilling harp be thrown. And our eyes will rest on their foreheads fair, And our hearts awaken Wlienever we come where their voices are — But oh, we shall think how musical were, Ere of thee forsaken. The mingled voices we listed there. 316 DESPONDENCY IN SPRING. DESPONDENCY IN SPRING. Beautiful robin ! with thy feathers red Contrasting, flower-like, with the soft green tree, Making thy Uttle flights, as thou art led By things that tempt a simple one like thee. I would that thou couldst warble me to tears As lightly as the birds of other years ! Idly to lie beneath an April sun, Pressing the perfume from the tender grass ; To watch a joyous rivulet leap on With the clear tinkle of a music glass, And, as I saw the early robin pass, To hear him through his little compass run — Only with joys like these to overflow Is happiness my heart will no more know. TO A COQUETTE. 317 TO A COQUETTE. Exquisite Laura ! with thy pouting lip And the arch smile that makes me constant so, Tempting me still, like a dull bee, to sip The flower I should have left so long ago — Beautifid Laura! who art just so fair That I can think thee loveliest when alone, And still art not so wonderfully rare That I could never find a prettier one — Fetterless Laura ! laughing, sighing, crying, In the same breath, and gravest with the gay, So wild that Cupid ever shoots thee flying, And knows his archery is thrown away — Inconstant as I am, I cannot yet Break thy sweet chain, oh merciless coquette ! 2d2 318 THE TABLE OF EMERALD. THE TABLE OF EMERALD. "Deep, it is said, under yonder pyramid, has for ages lain concealed the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes engraved, before the flood, the secret of alchymy that gives gold at will." Moore's Epicurean. That Emerald vast of the Pyramid — Were I where it is laid, I would ask no king for his heavy crown As its mystic words were said. The pomp of wealth, the show of power In vain for me would shine, And nought that brings the mind a care Would win bright gold of mine. Would I feast all day — revel all night — Laugh with a secret sadness ? Would I sleep away the breezy morn And wake to the goblet's madness ? Would I spend no time and no golden ore For the wisdom that sages knew ? Would I run to waste with a human mind, To its holy trust untrue ? THE TABLE OF EMERALD. 319 Oh knew I the depth of that Emerald spell, And had I the gold it brings, I would never load with a feaster's joy My spirit's mounting wings. I would bind no wreath to my brow to-day, That would leave a stain to-morrow, Nor drink a draught of joy to-night That would change with morn to sorrow. But, oh ! I would burst this chain of forms. And be spirit and fancy-free ; For costly aid to my mind alone Should my gold be scatter'd free. I would place my foot on my heaps of ore To mount to Wisdom's throne. And buy, with the wealth of an Indian mine. To be left, of care, alone. Ambition ! my lip would laugh to scorn Thy plume ^nd thy gleaming sword ! I would follow sooner a woman's eye Or a child's imperfect word ; But come with the glory of human thought, And the light of the scholar's brow, And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness And alone at thy altar bow ! 320 THE TABLE OF EMERALD. There v/as one mild eye — there was one deep tone- They were dear to this heart of mine ! Dearer to me was that mild blue eye Than the light on Wisdom's shrine. My soul brought up from its deepest cell The sum of its earthly love ; But it could not buy her wing from heaven, And she flew to her home above. That first deep love I have taken back In my rayless breast to hide ; With the tear it brought for a burning seal, 'Twill there forever bide. I may stretch on now to another goal — I may feed my thoughts of flame — The tie is broken that kept me back, And my mind speeds on — for fame. But, alas ! I am dreaming as if I knew The spell of the tablet green ! I forget how like to a broken reed Is the hope on which I lean. There is nothing true of my idle dream But the wreck of my early love, And my mind is coin'd for my daily bread, And how can it soar above ? THE BROKEN BRACELET. 321 THE BROKEN BRACELET. 'TwAS broken in the gliding dance, When thou wert in thy dream of power, "When lip and motion, smile and glance Were lovely all — the belle's bright hour. The light lay soft upon thy brow, The music melted in thine ear, And one, perchance forgotten now. With 'wilder'd thoughts, stood musing near, Marvelling not that hnks of gold A pulse like thine had not controU'd. 'Tis midnight now — the dancers gone — And thou in thy rich dreams asleep ; xind I, awake, am gazing on The fragments given me to keep. I think of every glowing vein That ran beneath these links of gold. And wonder if a thrill of pain Made those bright channels ever cold ! With gifts like thine, I cannot think Grief ever chill'd this broken link. 322 THE BROKEN BRACELET. Good night ! 'tis little now to thee That in my ear thy words were spoken, And thou wilt think of them, and me, As long as of the bracelet broken. And thus is riven many a chain That thou hast fasten'd but to break. And thus thou'lt sink to sleep again, As careless if another wake ; The only thought thy heart can rend Is — what the fellow HI charge to mend. TO JULIA GRISI. 3-23 TO JULIA GRISI, AFTER HEARING HER IN "ANNA BOLENA." When the rose is brightest, Its bloom will soonest die ; When burns the meteor brightest, 'Twill vanish from the sky. If Death but wait until delight O'errun the heart, like wine. And break the cup when brimming quite, I die — for thou hast pour'd to-night The last drop into mine. 324 THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. [EXTRACTS FROM A POEM DELIVERED BEFORE THE LINONIAN SOCIETY OP TALE COLLEGE, NEW HAVEN.] * * * The leaves we knew Are gone, these many summers, and the winds Have scatter'd them all roughly through the world ; But still, in calm and venerable strength, The old stems lift their burthens up to heaven. And the young leaves, to the same pleasant tune, Drink in the light, and strengthen, and grow fair. The shadows have the same cool, emerald air ; And prodigal as ever is the breeze, Distributing the verdure's temperate balm. The trees are sweet to us. The outcry strong Of the long-wandering and returning heart, Is for the thing least changed. A stone unturn'd Is sweeter than a strange or alter'd face ; A tree, that flings its shadow as of yore, Will make the blood stir, sometimes, when the words Of a long-look' d-for lip fall icy cold. THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. 325 Ye, who in this Academy of shade, Dreamt out the scholar's dream, and then away On troubled seas went voyaging with Care, But hail to-day the well-remember'd haven — Ye, who at memory's trumpet-call, have stay'd The struggling foot of life, the warring hand, And, weary of the strife, come back to see The green tent where your harness was put on — Say — when you trod the shadowy street this morn. Leapt not your heart up to the glorious trees ? Say — was it only to my sleep they came — The angels, who to these remember'd trees Brought me back, ever ? I have come, in dream. From many a far land, many a brighter sky. And trod these dappled shadows till the morn. From every Gothic aisle my heart fled home. From every groined roof, and pointed arch, To find its type in emerald beauty here. The moon we worshipp'd through this trembling veil. In other heavens seem'd garish and unclad. The stars that burn'd to us through whispering leaves, Stood cold and silently in other skies. Stiller seem'd alway here the holy dawn Hush'd by the breathless silence of the trees ; And who, that ever, on a Sabbath morn. Sent through this leafy roof a prayer to Heaven, And when the sweet bells burst upon the air, 2E 326 THEELMSOF NEW HAVEN. Saw the leaves quiver, and the flecks of light Leap like caressing angels to the feet Of the church-going multitude, but felt That here, God's day was holier — that the trees. Pierced by these shining spires, and echoing ever " To prayer !" " To prayer !" were but the lofty roof Of an unhewn cathedral, in whose choirs Breezes and storm-winds, and the many birds Join'd in the varied anthem ; and that so, Resting their breasts upon these bending limbs, Closer, and readier to our need they lay — The spirits who keep watch 'twixt us and Heaven. ******* Alas ! not spirits of bright wing alone "Dwell by the oracle of God." The tree That with its bright spray fans the sacred spire. And trembles like a seraph's lyre to prayer, Is peopled with the lying ministers To new-born passions, who, with couchant ear, Follow the lone steps of the musing boy. And ere the wild wish struggles to the light, Mask its dark features, and with silvery voice Promise it wings resistless. Back, to-day. Comes many a foot, all wearily and slow, That went into the world with winged heel ; And many a man, still young, though wisely sad, Paces the sweet old shadows with a sigh. THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. 327 The spirits are so mute to manhood's ear That tranced the boy with music ! On a night, The fairest of a summer, years ago. There walk'd a youth beneath these arching trees. The moon was in mid-heaven, an orb of gold. The air was rock'd asleep, or mid the leaves Waked without whisper. On the pavement lay The broken moonbeams, like a silver net. Massive and motionless, and, if a bird Sang a half carol as the moon wore on And look'd into his nest, or if the note Of a monotonous insect caught the ear. The silence was but challenged by the sound. And night seem'd stiller after. With his heart Robb'd of its sentinel, the youth paced on. His truant soul lay breathless on his lips, Drows'd with the spell of the voluptuous air ; And shut was memory's monitory book ; And mute, alas ! as they will sometimes be. Were Heaven's rebuking angels. Then uprose In the unguarded chamber of his heart, A murmur, inarticulate and wild ; And ere it had a semblance, or a name, A soft voice from the trees said, " Wak'st thou there ? Wak'st thou, at last, nature ? Thou hast slept, Far through the morn, and glowing flowers of joy, Many and bright ones, hast thou lost forever ; 328 THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. Bat life is full of roses — come away! Shut lip those dreary books, and come away ! Why is the night so passionately sweet, If made for study and a brow of care ? Why are your lips pride, and your eyes soft fire ? — Why beautiful in youth — if cold to joy ? List to the pleading senses, where they lie, Numb and forgotten in the cell of thought ; Yet are they God's gift — precious as the rest. Use what thou hast — turn to the soft path ever, — And, in the garden of this pleasant world. Pluck what seems fairest to thee !" A light wind Stole through the trees, and with its airy hand Lifted the leafy veil from off the moon ; And steadfastly Night's solemn eye look'd in Upon the flush'd face of the troubled boy — And the mysterious voice was heard no more. Again 'twas night. A storm was in the air ; And, by his pale and solitary lamp, A youth of sterner temper than the last. Kept the lone scholar's vigil. He had laid His book upon its face, and with his head Turn'd to the rattling casement, sat erect. And listen'd to the shrill, tempestuous wind. Gust after gust swept by, and as the scream Of the careering tempest fiercer came, THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. 329 The youth's dark brow crouch'd lowering to his eye, And his thin lips press'd bloodlessly together ; And with some muttering words, as if replying To voices that call'd to him from the storm, He rose, and hurriedly strode forth. The air Below the lashing tree-tops was all black. The lofty trunks creak'd staggering in the wind. But all invisibly ; and in the sky Was only so much light as must be there While hope is in the world. Small need had then The spirit who would wile that heart from Heaven To lend it mask or utterance. With step Reckless and fast the wanderer sped on. And as the tempest smote upon his breast, And howlingly fled past, he clench'd his hands, And struck his strong arms through the air, and rush'd Headlong with flying fury through the dark. Breathless and hoarse, at last, against the trunk Of a vast tree he stood ; and to an ear Bending from out the branches as they swung. Unconsciously he mutter'd : — " I am weak. And this wild storm is mighty ; but I feel A joy in its career, as if my soul Breathed only thus. I am aroused — unchain'd — Something gives outcry in me that was dumb — Something that pined for weapons is in arras. And set on with a trumpet. Glorious blast ! 330 THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. What is my poor tranquillity of life — My abject study — to thy stormy joy ? An intellect is mine — a passive soul Antagonist to nothing — while for thee, A senseless element, are wings and power — Power to dash the stars out from the sky — Wings to keep pace with midnight round the world. The lightning's fiery traverse is no bar, The thunder's hush no check, the howling trees Only thy music. Demon, if thou art ! Prince of the powers of air, if such there be ! Darkness and conflict are my element, As they are thine !" The storm lull'd suddenly, The tortured trees stood silent in the gloom. And all was still — save that amid the leaves Stirr'd a low murmur, which, like airy lips Whispering close into the scholar's ear, Became articulate: — "Be calm! be calm! Return to thy neglected books, and read ! Thou shalt have all thou wilt, but, in thy books, Lie weapons keener than the lightning's edge, And in thy intellect a power of ill To which the storm-wind is an infant's anger. The blast blots out the stars that shine again. The storm-wind and the darkness leave the trees Brighter for morn to smile on ; but the mind Forges from knowledge an archangel's spear, THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. 331 And, with the spirits that compel the world, Conflicts for empire. Call thy hate of day, Thy scorn of men, ambition! — and, if moved By something in thy heart to wrong and slay — Justice sits careless with a bloody sword ; Religion has remorseless whips ; and gold Brings to thy spurning foot the necks of men. Be thou the sword — the whip — get thou the gold — And borne triumphant upon human praise, The lightning were too slow to do thy will — The stormy night not black enough." Again Toward the window glimmering through the dark The scholar turn'd, and with a pallid brow, But lips of marble, fed his wasting lamp. And patiently read down the morning star. And he was changed thenceforward. * * * * * * Wave once more The wand athwart the mirror of the past. A summer's eve in June. The sun had shot A golden arrow down yon leafy aisle. And to his tent gone in. The dusty air Paraded in his glory. The bright spires, Like mourners who still see the lost in Heaven, Shone in his smile as if he had not set : And presently, amid his glowing track, 332 THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. Like one who came reluctant to replace The great light newly fled, the evening star Stood forth with timid and diminish' d ray — But brighten'd as the sun was longer gone. Life was a feast at this delicious hour, And all came forth to it. The bent old man Paced musingly before his open door. The tired child, with hands cross'd droopingly, Sat at the threshold. Slowly pass'd the dame ; Slowly the listless scholar, sauntering back To his shut books unwillingly ; and low — Soften'd and low — as if the chord of love Were struck and harmonized throughout the world, The hum of voices rose upon the air. Hush'd were the trees the while ; and voiceless lay The wakeful spirits in the leaves, till, lo ! A pale youth,* mingling in the throng ! With light And airy step, and mien of such a grace As breathes through marble from the sculptor's dream, He pass'd, and after him the stranger's eye Turn'd with inquiring wonder. Dumb no more Were the invisible dwellers in the trees ; For, as he went, the feathery branches seem'd To " syllable his name ;" and to the ears Of them who met him, whispering music flew, * James Hillhouse, who had died at New Haven a few months before. THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. 333 Stealing their hearts away to link to his. << Love him !" the old man heard as if the leaves Of his own roof-tree murmur'd it ; " Love well The poet who may sow your grave with flowers, The traveller to the far land of the Past, Lost to your feet forever !" Sadly lean'd The mourner at her window as he came, And the far-drooping elm-leaf touch'd her brow, And whisper'd, " He has counted all thy tears ! The breaking chord was audible to him ! The agony for which thou, weeping, saidst There was no pity, for its throbs were dumb — He look'd but in thine eyes, and read it all ! Love him, for sorrowing with thee ! The sad child, Sitting alone with his unheeded grief, Look'd at him through his tears, and smiled to hear The same strange voice that talk'd to him in dreams Speak from the low tree softly ; and it said — " The stranger who looks on thee loves the child ! He has seen angels like thee ; and thy sorrow Touches his own, as he goes silent by. Love him, fair child !" The poor man, from his door, Look'd forth with cheerful face, and as the eye, The soft eye of the poet, turn'd to his, A whisper from the tree said, " This is he Who knows thy heart is human as his own — Who, with inspired numbers, tells the world 334 THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. That love dwells with the lowly. He has made The humble roof a burthen in sweet song — Interpreted thy heart to happier men ! Love him ! oh, love him, therefore !" The stern man. Who, with the tender spirit of a child. Walks in some thorny path, unloved and lone ; The maiden with her secret ; the sad mother, Speaking no more of her dishonour'd boy. But bound to him with all her heart-strings yet, — These heard the trees say, as the poet pass'd, " Yours is the mournful poetry of life, And in the sad hues of your silent lips. Reads he with tenderest pity ! Knit to him The hearts he opens like a clasped book, And, in the honey'd music of his verse, Hear your dumb griefs made eloquent !" With eye Watchful and moist, the poet kept his way, Unconscious of the love around him springing ; And when from its bent path the evening star Stepp'd silently, and left the lesser fires Lonely in heaven, the poet had gone in. Mute with the many sorrows he had seen ; And, with the constancy of starry eyes. The hearts he touch'd drew to him. * * THE LADY JANE; OR, AN OLD MAID'S LOVE. THE LADY JANE; OR, AN OLD MAID'S LOVE, There was a lady — fair, and forty too. Loved by a youth of scarcely two-and-twenty. The story of this love is strange, yet true. I'll tell it you ! Romances are so plenty In prose, that you'll be glad of something new. And so I'll versify what did and meant he. You think he was too young ! — but tell me whether The moth and humming-bird grow old together ! II. Nature, that made the ivy-leaf and lily, Not of one warp and woof hath wove us all ! Bent goes the carefid, and erect the silly, And wear and tear make difference — not small ; And loveliness may drive through Piccadilly Changeless till fifty, if no pangs befall. A day's grief, out of some, a year's life washes ; Some shed it like ducks' backs and " Mackintoshes." 2 F .337 338 THE LADY JANE. III. The Lady Jane was daughter of an Earl — Shut from approach hke sea-nymph in her shell. Never a rude breath stirr'd the floating curl Upon her marble temple, and nought fell Upon the ear of the patrician girl But pride-check'd syllables, all measured well. Her suitors were her father's, and not hers — So were her debts at " Storr-and-Mortimer's." IV. Her health was lady-like. No blood, in riot, Tangled the tracery of her veined cheek, Nor seem'd her exquisite repose the quiet Of one by suffering made sweet and meek. She ate and drank, and probably lived by it, And liked her cup of tea by no means weak ' Untroubled by debt, lovers, or affliction, Her pulse beat with extremely little friction. V. Yet was there fire within her soft gray eye, And room for pressure on her lip of rose ; And few who saw her gracefully move by. Imagined that her feelings slept, or froze. You may have seen the cunning florist tie A thread about a bud, which never blows. But, with shut chalice from the sun and rain, Hoards up the morn — and such the Lady Jane. VI. The old lord had had offers for her hand, To which he answer'd — by his secretary. And, doubtless, some were for the lady's land. The men being old and valetudinary ; But there were others who were all unmann'd. And fell into a life of wild vagary, In their despair. To tell his daughter of it, The cold Earl thought would be but little profit. VII. And so she bloom'd — all fenced around with care ; And none could find a way to win or woo her. When visible at home — the Earl was there ! Abroad — her chaperon stuck closely to her ! She was a sort of nun in open air. Known to but few, and intimate with fewer : And, always used to conversation guarded. She thought all men talk'd just as her papa did. VIII. Pause while you read, oh, Broadway demoiselle ! And bless your stars that long before you marry, You are a judge of passion pleaded well ! 340 THE LADY JANE. For you have listen'd to Tom, Dick, and Harry, And, if kind Heaven endovi^'d you for a belle, At least your destiny did not miscarry ! " You've had your fling" — and now, all wise and steady. For matrimony's cares you're cool and ready ! IX. And yet the bloom upon the fruit is fair ! And " ignorance is bliss" in teaching love ! And guarding lips, when others have been there, Is apt uneasy reveries to move ! I really think mammas should have a care ! And, though of nunneries I disapprove, 'Tis easier to make blushes hear to reason Than to unteach a '< Saratoga Season." X. In France, where, it is said, they wiser are. Miss may not walk out, even with her cousin ; And, when she is abroad from bolt and bar, A well-bred man should be to her quite frozen ; And so at last, like a high-priced attar Hermetically seal'd in silk and resin, She is deliver'd safe to him who loves her ; And then — with w^hom she will she's hand and glove, sir! THE LADY JANE. 341 XI. I know this does not work well, and that ours Are the best wives on earth. They love their spouses, Who prize them — as you do centennial flowers, For having bloora'd, though not in your green-houses. 'Tis a bold wooer that dare talk of dowers. And where /live, the milking of the cows is Too rude a task for females ! Well, 'Twould hurt you, Where women are so prized, to sneer at virtue. XII. " Free-born Americans," they must have freedom ! They'll stay — if they have leave to run away. They're ministering angels when you need 'em, But 'specially want credit in Broadway. French wives are more particular how you feed 'em, The English drag you oftener to the play. But ours we quite enslave — (more true than funny) — With "heaven-born liberty," and trust — or money! XIII. Upon her thirtieth birth-day, Lady Jane Thought sadly on the twenties ! Even the Heens, That she had said farewell to, without pain — Leaves falling from a flower that nothing means — Seem'd worth regathering to live again ; But not like Ruth, fares Memory, who gleans 342 THELADYJANE. After the careful Harvester of years : — The Lady Jane thought on't with bitter tears ! XIV. She gUded to her mirror. From the air Glided to meet her, with its tearful eyes, A semblance sad, but beautifully fair ; And gradually there stole a sweet surprise Under her lids, and as she laid the hair Back from her snowy brow, Madonna-wise, " Time, after all," she said, " a harmless flirt is !" And from that hour took kindly to her thirties. XV. And, with his honours not at all unsteady, The Decimal elect stepp'd coolly in ; And having all his nights and mornings ready. He'd very little trouble to begin. And Twenty was quite popular, — they said he Went out of office with so little din ! The old Earl did not celebrate (nor ought he) Her birth-days more. And like a dream came Forty. XVI. And on the morn of it she stood to dress, Mock'd by that flattering semblance, as before, And lifted with a smile the raven tress, That, darkening her white shoulder, swept the floor. THELADYJANE. 343 Time had not touch'd her dazzling loveHness ! <' Yet is it time," she said, " that I give o'er — Tm an old maid ! — and though I suffer by it, I Must change my style and leave off" gay society." XVII. And so she did. Her maid by her desire Comb'd her luxuriant locks behind her ears ; She had her dresses alter'd to come higher, Though it dissolved the dress-maker in tears ! And flung a new French hat into the fire, Which she had bought, " forgetful of her years." This t' anticipate " the world's dread laugh !" Most persons think too much of it, by half. XVIII. I do not mean to say that generally The "virtuous single" take too soon to tea ; But now and then you find one who could rally At forty, and go back to twenty-three — A handsome, plump, affectionate " Aunt Sally," With no taste for cats, flannel, and Bohea ! And I would have her, spite of "he or she says," Up heart, and pin her kerchief as she pleases. XIX. Some men, 'tis said, prefer a woman fat — Lord Byron did. Some like her very spare. 344 THE LADY JANE. Some like a lameness. (I have known one that Would go quite far enough for your despair, And halt in time.) Some like them delicate As lilies, and with some "the only wear" Is one whose sex has spoil'd a midshipman. Some only like what pleased another man. XX. I like one that likes me. But there's a kind Of women, very dangerous to poets. Whose hearts beat with a truth that seems like mind- A nature that, though passionate, will show its Devotion by not being rash or blind ; But by sweet study grows to love. And so it's Not odd if they are counted cold, though handsome, And never meet a man who understands 'em. XXI. By never I mean late in life. But ah ! How exquisite their love and friendship then ! Perennial of soul such women are, And readers of the hearts of gifted men ; And as the deep well mourns the hidden star, And mirrors the first ray that beams again. They — be the loved light lost or dimly burning. Feel all its clouds, and trust its bright returning. THELADYJANE. 345 XXII. In outward seeming tranquil and subdued, Their hearts beneath beat youthfully and fast. Time and imprison'd love make not a prude ; And warm the gift we know to be the last ; And pure is the devotion that must brood Upon your hopes alone — for hers are past ! Trust me, " a rising man" rose seldom higher, But some dear, sweet old maid has pull'd the wire. XXIII. The Lady Jane, (pray do not think that hers Was quite the character I've drawn above. Old maids, like young, have various calibres. And hers was moderate, though she was " a love,") The Lady Jane call'd on the dowagers — Mainly her slight acquaintance to improve, But partly with a docile wish to know What solaces of age were comme ilfaut. XXIV. They stared at her plain hat and air demure. But answer'd her with some particularity. And she was edified, you may be sure, And added vastly to her popularity. She found a dozen mad on furniture. Live on embroidery, and none on charity ; 346 THELADYJANE. But her last call — the others were but short ones — Turn'd out to Lady Jane of some importance. XXV. The door was open'd by a Spanish page — A handsome lad in green with bullet buttons, Who look'd out like a trulian from a cage, And deign'd to glance at the tall menial but once, Then bent, with earnestness beyond his age, His eyes, (you would have liked to see them shut once, The fringes were so long) — on Lady Jane The varlet clearly thought her not so plain. XXVI. And bounding up the flower-laden stair. He waited her ascent, then open flung A mirror, clear as 'twere a door of air, Which on its silver hinge with music swung — Contrived that never foot should enter there Unheralded by that melodious tongue. This delicate alarum is worth while More 'specially with carpets of three-pile. XXVII. Beyond a gallery extended, cool, And softly lighted, and, from dome to floor. Hung pictures — mostly the Venetian school ; Each " worth a Jew's eye" — very likely more ; THE LADY JANE. 347 And drapery, gold-broider'd in Stamboul, Closed the extremity in lieu of door : This the page lifted, and disclosed to view The boudoir of the Countess Pasibleu. XXVIII. It was a small pavilion lined with pink, — Mirrors and silk all, save the door and sky-light, The latter of stain'd glass. (You would not think How juvenescent is a rosy high light !) Upon the table were seen pen and ink, (Two things I cannot say have stood in my light,) Amid a host of trinkets, toys, and fans ; The table in the style of Louis Quinze. XXIX. A singular and fragile little creature Upon the cushions indolently lay. With waning life in each transparent feature, But youth in her bright lips' ethereal play ; In short, the kind of creature that would meet your Conception of a transmigrating fay — The dark eyes, not at all worn out or weary. Kindling for transfer to some baby Peri ! XXX. The rest used up, past mending. Yet her tones Were wildly, deeply, exquisitely clear ; 348 THE LADY JANE. Though voice is not a thing of flesh and bones, And probably goes up while they stay here. Not to imply that nasal Smith and Jones Will twang as usual in "the better sphere," — But tones there be which must (the Lord assoil 'em !) Bewitch as they do here, or Heaven will spoil 'em. XXXI. Her person was dress'd very Kke her soul — In fine material most loosely worn. A cobweb cashmere struggled to control Ringlets that laugh'd the filmy folds to scorn. And, from the shawls in which she nestled, stole The smallest slipper ever soil'd or torn. You would not guess her age by looking at her. Nor from my sketch, of course. We'll leave that matter. XXXII. " My dear !" the Countess said, (by this time she Had ceased the Weather, poor old man, to hammer- He gets it, in these morning calls, pardie ! And Lady Jane had hinted with a stammer Her errand — somewhat delicate, you see,) " My dear, how very odd ! I fear I am a Poor judge of age — (who made that funny bonnet?) Indeed, I always turn'd my back upon it ! THE LADY JANE. 349 XXXIII. " Time has no business in one's house, my dear ! I'm not at home to any of my creditors. They send their nasty bills in, once a year, And Time's are like Mortality's— mere ' dead letters.' Besides, what comfort is there living here. If every stupid hour's to throw Death's head at us ? (Lend me a pin, dear !) Time at last will stop us : But, come to that — we're free by habeas corpus. XXXIV. ("Fie, what a naughty shawl ! No expose, I trust, love, eh ? Hold there, thou virtuous pin !) And so you really have come out to-day To look you up some suitable new sin !" « Oh, Countess !" " Did you never write a play ? Nor novel ? Well, you really should begin ! For, (hark, my dear!) the publishers are biters, Not at the book's fine title — but the writer's. 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