TONES ON THE HARP: CHARLES CASHEL CONNOLLY. WASHINGTON : PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, 1861. PREFACE . It is a privilege universally conceded to those who offer a work to the public, to preface the same with an explanatory, or, more generally, an extenuating, clause. But I waive the privilege ; and will merely say, that if the substance of a book has not got the ring of pure metal, a preface stamp will never give it currency. THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. Pagi. 9 Lay of the Winds At Leisure ....•••• Spring Sing me a Song Crossing the Ford At Sea To Elreen A Fragment Blue-eyed Mary ...••••• The Waif's Retrospect The Suicide . . . • Where are my Friends? 77 Ode to a Sleeping Child 78 Billy Jolly to his Wife Polly 81 Epitaph on a Cat 83 Sonnet 85 Ode to my Heart 86 Lyric of the Winds 88 4G 48 50 52 53 55 57 60 63 7! VI CONTENTS. Pagb. Lines .......... 91 Impromptu 93 Leman, the Sage 95 Flowers 113 To Anna 115 Sonnet 117 Love's own Clime 118 The Dying Orphan's Lament 119 They cost "Rocks" 121 To a Friend 127 A Child's Epitaph 128 At Midnight 129 That wild Beach where my own Cot stands . . 130 Long Ago . . . . . . . . . .131 Thoughts 134 To Mannie 135 My Heart seems like a Ruined Altar . . . 136 In March 137 The Plighted Maiden 138 To Ella . ' 144 Music 145 To 147 Thoughts while gazing on a Lily .... 148 Daybreak 149 To Mary 152 CONTENTS. Vll Page. To a Belle 155 To a Sleeping Girl . . 156 Soxn 158 lOLA ' .... 159 Bong of the Warrior Bard l (jb 168 The Phantom Potomac . Soft Weather 170 172 The Jilted Lover 1(G To a Coquette *- 1 ' At Anchor 180 Memory 182 I knew Her well when but a Child .... 184 Think of Me 186 The Link that Binds 188 A Rhyme 189 To 192 The Two Brides 193 Serenade Annie of Washington 196 To 198 Lines . . ■ . . • • • • % ■ ■ 200 TONES ON THE HARP. LAY OF THE WINDS. 'Tis sonibrous Night! the last in Autumn. Hark ! The winds are out ! List ! list to what they say ! ' Tis a dreary night ! We have journeyed far, without moon or star, Since we left Daylight, In a dreary plight, In his dusky ear, in the west afar. 10 TONES ON THE HARP. How reigns Night — black Night ! How her murky trail, Drenched with chilly rain, shroudeth sea and main ! Let us rest awhile, ere we further toil, This desolate night. Lo ! here is a light ! and some sorry wight Inditing his will, Or poor fellow's bill. Let's tap on his pane, and sing him a strain, Then wing it again. 11. In a forest lorn, All shriveled and shorn, Where the trees stood stark in their naked bark- Yes, stood in the dark in their naked bark, All ragged and torn, We saw, as we passed, in a cavern vast, On a mossy bed, Poor old Autumn dead, LAY OF THE WINDS. 11 With brown fallen leaves, and some withered sheaves, Supporting her head. 'Neath her mildewed crown Were her tresses brown, in braids falling down, In negligent fold, Like a mourning veil, o'er her brow so pale, And her bosom cold. In her hand's repose, one lone autumn rose Lay slowly fading In the pervading Density of gloom of that silent tomb, Oblivion waiting; While a lornful wren, On an ivy stem, chirped a requiem; And a glow-worm's spark lit the sullen dark With a friendly gleam, Every now and then. 12 TONES ON THE HARP. III. As along we sped, o'er a mountain's head, We tarried awhile with a robber vile, And shrieked through a hole — " Give back what you stole, And redeem thy soul !" When he, with a bang, woke up all his gang ; * Then quoth he, " A ghost, I'll swear by a host, Is behind this post, At that rather small round hole in the wall ! "And I'll bet a mark. Or tusk of a shark, 'T is that pious lark, old Benjamin Ark, The minister's clerk, We stripped in the park, last night, in the dark ! i " He died, I am told, of a dreadful cold — Yes, died in the dark, Last night, in the park, LAY OF THE WINDS. 18 That stingy old lark, fat Benjamin Ark, The minister's clerk." IV. We paused on the moor, Where a peasant poor Sat watching her child, as it died and smiled, And swept with our wings the iEolian strings At the cottage door. Ah! 'twas sad to hear that pale mother dear Sob sadly aloud, With her head low bowed, As close to her breast her wan babe she pressed, In its pallid shroud; And sad to behold the father enfold, In silent embrace, Pale mother and child, with an anguish wild, While his changing face Of a struggle told ; 14 TONES ON THE HARP. And the quiv'ring lip, though he did not weep, Told of sorrow deep In the strong man's heart ; And the fitful start And the drooping head, that he inward bled. We next, at a door, where a miser hoar Sat counting his store of all potent ore, Knocked : we knocked right hard — * 'T was bolted and barred — We shook till it jarred, And puffed, and prattled, and lisped, and tattled, Through chinks that rattled, Then chuckled outright; when he, in affright, Extinguished his mite Of dim glaring light, And hustled his gold in a wallet old With his nervous hand, his lean, hungry hand ; LAY OV THE WINDS. 15 And it to his heart, a His poor, dwarfish heart, Hugged close, with a start ; While his ghoul-like eyes, his blear, famished eyes, Cast a greedy glare round his dwelling bare, Through the startled dust, All dense with the must Of fulsome old rust. VI. Then along we past To a castle vast, And swung in great state on its massive gate, And snapped our free wing at its mighty king, Then whistled a blast ; When, big in a pout, all burly and stout, The porter popped out From his cosy bed, With a night-cap red on his grizzly head, And leered all about. 1G TONES ON THE HARP. Then forth came the whole, ('twas a mighty roll Of flesh, his body,) Iu a rolling gait, with protruding pate, Like a round " dody," Still eyeing the gate. " Well, well," muttered he, " I vow I can't see, for the life of me, A soul at the gate ; 'Tis most strange to me what people could be Knocking here so late. " If robbers," quoth he, " or rebels ye be, I would, as a friend, advise ye extend, With a lively pace, Considerable space 'Tween ye and this place." This much gravely said, We whisked from his head his old night-cap red, And hung it up high Ou the topmost branch of a walnut stanch That flourished hard by. LAY OF THE WINDS. 17 Then, close to his ear, gave a rebel cheer, And tweaked his old nose — His ponderous nose — Full red as a rose, And shuffled a jig on his grizzly wig. He was a droll sight, And laughable quite, That lusty old wight, As, blinking, he stood, in a puzzled mood, His mouth rude in shape, wide open agape ; One hand on his head, And one on his paunch, His eye on the branch of the walnut stanch, Where his night-cap red Hung bobbing around, thirty feet from the ground. VII. On, still on, we sped, many leagues ahead, Over hill and plain, Through the pelting rain ; 18 TONES ON THE HARP. When, weary of flight, we rested in sight Of an ancient fane. 'Twas a queer old heap — 'twas oolong in shape, All rugged and brown, and looked like a frown On the hill it crowned, Or a spacious mound Where the shrouded sleep. As nearer we drew, Some mystery new Attracted our view ; And, pausing, we gazed, with wonder amazed, When we reached the base of that ancient place ; For there we beheld the graves that still held The dust of many ; Some marked with head-stones, and others cross-bones ; A few had tomb-stones, And some hadn't any. One epitaph read, " Here lies low the head Of one Jerry Broion, LAY OP THE WINDS. 19 Who made a mistake — take heed for his sake. Each shortsighted clown Hot haste in his wake !" One grave newly made 'neath a hemlock's shade, Which grew on the grade Of a barren knoll — Where a raven croaked, wriggled, winked, and croaked, On a human skull — Had a black grave-stone, full smooth as a hone, On which was graven, In large, round letters — dark blood-red letters, Deep sunk in the stone, Black as the raven — " Here, prone 'neath the sod. Lies a loathsome clod : Fame, fame was its creed : it failed to succeed, When it cursed its God, And smothered its soul in fumes of charcoal!" 20 TONES ON THE HARP. And two had these words On their pine head-boards, (They were white-pine boards,) Deep set in the ground of that barren mound — " They gambled for fame, but they lost the game I" And one, all alone by a long shin-bone, Had a square of tin ('T was coffee-pot tin) At its lowly head, upon which we read, " A break down — caved in !" And some had, in verse, Just this couplet terse : " Essayed to go it, but could not come it !" While Time, all perverse, With his wing erased that on many traced. To us this seemed strange, for in all the wide range Of our roamings far, beneath sun or star, We never had had, On tomb of the dead, Such epitaphs read. LAY OF THE WINDS. 21 Just here we observed, what luckily served To solve tbe mystery shrouding the history Of the dead that lay In the silent clay Round this cemet'ry : T was these words full plain, on a bull's-eye pane, Dingy and simple, Right over the door, the dark-looking door, Of the ancient fane : " This is Fame's Temple." Ah ! this, then, thought we, must certainly be That much vaunted goal, That glorious goal, Full many a soul, With ambition rife, struggles for through life, By the midnight lamp, In palace and camp, Cot and dungeon damp, Forgetting its God in its longings mad, To inhale a breath all pregnant with death. 22 TONES ON THE HARP. Then close we advanced, and cautiously glanced In the door full scant, hung open aslant, Denoting much use, Or, maybe, abuse, For one hinge was loose. Not a soul was there, Save the doughty dame, the donor of fame, Thrown back with an air, In her easy chair, Calmly reposing, and soundly snoring. Thought we, now's the time to see the sublime ; So right in we slid, like a patent lid, Without fuss or sound, In that fane profound, And, hovering round, Set us to noting some things worth quoting, Concerning the dead, th' illustrious dead. And foremost of all, On the dark and tall, Dusky, cobwebbed wall. LAY OF THE WINDS. 23 Hung huge battle blades of several grades, And quaint invention, With this inscription Plain written with gore, (it was human gore,) " All for Ambition!" And scattered all o'er The black, dusty floor, Was many a score Of scrolls stupendous with thoughts compendious, Traced by sages hoar in the coffined yore. And many volumes, with lengthy columns Of prose, rhyme, and verse, some profuse, some terse, On dear joys deterred, And bright hopes deferred, In long years interred. And many vast charts Of land and of sea, and planets that be In earth's canopy, Labeled, " Journeyed here for many a year, Until they broke their hearts !" 24 TONES ON THE HARP. With statues and globes, philosophers' tubs, Quaint Parisian robes, Scales of bound'ries, Paintings and leather, huddled together, Labeled, " Some Sundries.'" Here our attention Was drawn with tension To the word invention, On a nutmeg box containing two clocks, Two patented clocks, with skeleton works. 'T was labeled " Boyus" which rather got us, And set us thinking, roguishly thinking — 'Twas a Yankee game Bamboozled the dame For a sprig of fame. Our vision was next on a case transfixed In wondering trance, Where a skeleton brown, all polished and brown, By the heels hung down From a doctor's lance. LAY OP THE WINDS. 25 We looked overhead, And there we soon read, (Three times over, read,) In an oblong space o'er the doctor's lance, In the dove-tailed case, the rabbited case, Where the skeleton brown, All polished and brown, hung dangling down, 'Thout flesh or leader — The word "Physician," o'er this inscription : " Potent grave feeder !" We next, on a shelf, 'moDg crockery and delf, Saw a decanter, Full to the stopper, Of what, we can't tell, but had a strong smell Of " Pat's eye-water." And, strange for belief, On that very shelf, 'Mong crockery and delf, Next the decanter, was Tarn O'Shanter, With hair all shaggy, on his tailless Maggie. 26 TONES ON THE HARI>. Right on a level, (Beneath Tam's level,) Lay Thomas Hood's " Shirt" — no, sir, but his sheet — That same one hauled in by Small-Pica Flynn, The printer's devil. While right along side ('twas the other side Of the decanter) The paunch we descried Of old Jack Falstaff, ensconced in fine calf, With the Wives of Windsor. And stranger still, sir, Hung on a gimlet, a patent gimlet, Was the Dane Hamlet ; — You're mistaken, sir — Never a Hamlet, but a queer tablet, With this inscription, Rough written with ink — 'twas indelible ink — Black, green, blue and pink— " My own Library, to keep me merry, And help digestion." LAY OF THE WINDS. 27 By this you'll agree, 'tis most plain to see, That the doughty dame, the donor of fame, Takes kindly to laughing, And jovial quaffing, Instead of sighing. While thus observing, And deeply musing on thoughts amusing Of ambitious lore, And mortal weakness assuming greatness On this earthy shore, We noiselessly came where the drowsy dame Breathed a vast repose through her spacious nose ; Her mouth it was dumb, But her nose did hum With a racket, some. She was a gay lass, in negligent dress, All ruddy and fat, And tbo top of her nose, her bottle-shaped nose, A tinge of the rose Had truthfully caught. 28 TONES ON THE HARP. Her mouth was a sight — 'T was a great take in ; The hair on her head was a deep-dyed red ; Her eyebrows were white As the wen on her chin, and freckled her skin. Here the dame made a move we did not approve : Her arm with a swing she slapped on our wing With a gusty souse, Which caused us to sing " Yah, nix cum arouse I" And turn, twirl, and twist, And swell to a gust, And scoop up the dust, And toss it aloft on an old cockloft, Where the Wandering Jew bunked with Roderick Dhu. We now, with a dash, And a ringing crash, Which told of a smash, Pitched the nutmeg box, with its tickless clocks, In an iron pot; — 'twas Adam's old pot, LAY Or THE WINDS. 29 That same one which cooked His pristine porrage, When he fell rebuked, After beardless Sin, with a boyish grin, Brought mortal knowledge from the Devil's College. Then casting a glance at the dame askance, We edged for the entrance, With motion askew, And paused on the threshold to see and behold What she'd say and do. When bolt up she sat in her quivering fat, And curried her eye (she had but one eye) With her " soggy " fist, And smothered a sigh In her panting breast. " Pooh ! pooh !" sputtered she, " It appears to me There really must be A tremendous dust, — the lungs in my chest Seem to fume and seethe, I can scarcely breathe. 30 TONES ON THE HARP. "I wonder what noise, what racket, that was j I reckon 'tis but some dolt with a strut, Or lank-faced hobble, With toil bent double, Come for a bauble. " If so, let him wait. Halloo ! take a seat Outside of the door, where many before Have waited their fate!" She ceased ; and a snore Soon told of her state. VIII. Our pathway led next two high hills betwixt, Through a village small, Where one bare steeple Stood lonely and tall, the glory of all The pious people. All was hushed and still, Save a dosr that sat LAY OF TIIE WINDS. 31 On a barn-door sill, expressing his will To a bob tailed eat Coiled up on a shed, high over his head ; And further along, may be a furlong Outside of the ville, so silent and still, A house stood alone, In shape like a cone, And built up of stone. We paused at the door A minute or more, And, listening, heard not a single word, But something like that to the purr of a cat, Or maybe a snore. Quoth we, let us see if entrance there be, At front or behind — which way we don't mind — To this odd dwelling. Within we may find Something worth telling. 32 TONES ON THE ITARP. Then looking around, We very soon found, Eight feet from the ground, A window quite small, deep set in the wall, Where a broken pane, to keep out the rain, Was stuffed with a stocking, a long-legged stocking, A blue one at that — Now wasn't that flat, And woefully shocking, In this generation o' civilization? The stocking shoved in, we next followed in, And lit in the centre Of a feather bed, fastidiously spread On a quaint bedstead, An old time-tester. The first thing we found, On gazing around, In silence profound, With scrutiny keen, as well might have been, Was an old gray cat, which quietly sat LAY OP THE WINDS. 33 On a dainty mat of curious plat, By an old arm chair, that was stuffed with hair, With just here and there A flaw and a tear, To tell of its wear. In this old arm chair slept a maiden spare, And Time with his frost Had sprinkled her hair ; she might have been fair, But that had long past With the things that were. Round her eyes and nose, in gloomy repose, Were lines like to those people call " crow's toes ;" And her lips, tucked in 'Tween her nose and chin, Were sallow and thin. Her stiff arms hung down close to her starched gown, Making it plain to see That she ne'er fondled, nor proudly dandled, A babe on her knee, With a mother's glee. 3 34 TONES ON THE HARP. For mothers will rest With their dear arms pressed, All lovingly pressed, On their bosoms fond, in a dreamy bond, Though the loved one lie cold 'neath the silent mould. Ah ! 'tis sweet to gaze on the joy that plays In a mother's smile, when fond dreams beguile, And the lost ones dear Seem still dwelling here On this earthly sphere. The next thing our ken Beheld was a green Parrot, on a swing, her head 'neath her wing, Bobbing to and fro, neither fast nor slow, But the two between. On a round table, that stood next the gable, "We noticed some meat — A chunk of fat pork — one knife, and one fork, One cup, and one plate, Two pickles, one beet. LAY OF THE WINDS. 60 I Doughnuts a dozen — There might have been two — and a caddy blue, Lettered " Young Hyson," Stood by its cousin, A small teapot, much the color of soot. Here the maid grew restless, Woke, or partly so, twisted to and fro, And scratched her elbow, Rubbed her chin, and squeezed her nostrils and sneezed, Then became listless ', Then wriggled anon, winced awry, and spun Around in her chair, And then clutched and clung, and twisted and flung, And frizzled and wrung Her thin faded hair ; While her lips grew white as a death -bed sheet, Then a faintish blue, Then red as a beet, Then lisped and mumbled, puckered and fumbled, With motion askew, 36 TONES ON THE HARP. As if some vision, Some dreadful vision, Of the night-mare kind, encompassed her mind, And came in collision With the pivot where swung her voluble tongue. Then, in a hurry, pregnant with flurry, Right up on her feet Straightway she started, and round the room darted Like a winged fury' Full "two-forty" fleet ; When we to her side in pity did glide, And lustily cried "Hallo! hallo, there !" When wide open flew her eyes rather blue, With a wrathful stare. Here the old gray cat sprung clear off the mat, Her eyes flashing fire, Her teeth gritting ire, Her back in a curve, distended each nerve Taught and tough as wire ; LAY OF THE WINDS. 37 Her tliin ears tucked back, Each hair as a tack Erect on her back, Her sides deep panting, her tail wide flaunting, Loud in her throttle the growl of battle. While the parrot sang, in a nasal twang, With her mimic tongue, " Miss Dorothy's young ! Miss Dorothy's young ! Bad liar! liar! murder! murder! fire!" Now the maid grew calm, And rubbing her nose, her long, pointed nose, With her fleshless palm, And scratching her heels with the long sharp nails Of her crooked toes, Thus spake : " Me ! ah, me ! It's quite too bad what a dream I've had; And I'm downright glad My mind is now free Of that vile vision, that awful vision. 38 TONES ON THE HARP. " Methought a monster, a horrid monster, Of the masculine brood, by my side there stood, With arms extending, And body bending, Towards me tending. " His face was quite bare, save his lip, and there Was a tuft of hair Like a rabbit's tail, All smeared, like the trail of a filthy snail, With the froth of ale. " My white hand he grasped, my small waist he clasped, Then smiling, he said :» 'My beautiful maid, Let us taste the bliss, The ambrosial bliss, Of affection's kiss.' " His head then bending, straightway intending To sully the tips of my virgin lips, While his eyes ablaze With a burning haze, Did upon me gaze. LAY OP THE WINDS. 39 " Wretch ! wretch ! man ! I cried — avaunt ! quit uiy side ! I detest you all, Fat, lean, great, and small, Medium, short, and tall, Old, young, dark, and light; away! leave my sight! " Then, struggling, I broke from the loathsome yoke Of his fond embrace, And running apace, Till somebody spoke, when wide I awoke — Thus ended the case." IX. On, still on we past, with a lusty blast Now sweeping the plain, Now skimming the main, There twisting the waves, the wild, heaving waves, In a foamy chain, And tossing the bark, The shivering bark, 40 TONES ON THE HARP. On the billows dark, And dashing the spray from her pathless way In vast hazy clouds on her wailing shrouds. And we softly told a brave seaman old, Whose thin locks were gray as the ocean's spray, That his dear wife died Since he left her side, And the old man cried. And we glad news told a young seaman bold, Of his fair young bride, and his eye looked pride, And he breathed a prayer That heaven would care For his Mary dear. And we scooped a grave In a rolling wave, For a seaman brave, Who fell from the mast as we shoreward past, And the sad news bore to his home on shore. LAY 01? THE WINDS. 41 X. Once again on land, our broad wings expand, Shaking shriveled trees, Heaping faded leaves On the tombless graves Of the humble dead, as along we sped. Then, weary of toil, we tarried awhile At a cot which stood by a tiny flood, That rippled along, With a mellow song, Hills and dales among, From the granite dome of its mountain home, To the throbbing sea, Limpid, wild, and free, I' sweet monotony — A lovely poem in creation's tome. 'Twas a cosy cot, And had pitched its lot On a lovely sput 12 TONES ON THE HARP. 'Neath an aged tree — 'twas an old oak tree — And a loving vine round its door did twine, And it looked right sad, for its leaves all had Fallen in the tomb of the summer's bloom, And some rose leaves lay, In a deep decay, On the threshold gray. While observing this, a noise like a hiss We heard in the cot ; — thought we, what's that ? There's something amiss In the cot, we guess; Let's see what's the muss. The door stood open, which gave sure token, That some wily chap Had been sparking late, some gentle inmate Who dreaded the clap Of a door shut tight ; When the old folks deem That she's snug in bed, with her dear - LAY OF THE WINDS. 43 Filled up with some dream, Some innocent dream Of virgin or saint — just the time it ain't. So right in we stept, and noiselessly crept To a half closed door, When again that sound, that same hiss like sound, "Which we heard before, Outside of the door, Came plump, with a bound, all lusty and round, . Through the half closed door, Where somebody slept, We knew by the snore ; When straight in we peeped, and there, snugly heaped, Lay an old man and wife, A sleeping for life, And dreaming, no doubt, of bright days gone out, When Youth on his fife Played love in their hearts, and sped Cupid's darts. 44 TONES ON THE HARP. For they low stuttered, and hugged, and sputtered Such flabby nonsense, As beardless lovers — some call them " lubbers" — Are likely to mince In the first instance. While noting their bliss, a loud fizzing kiss The old man just placed, In blundering haste, And very bad taste, On the full grown nose of his drowsy spouse. And this was the noise, that same hiss like noise, We heard when outside, And took for a muss ; There was naught amiss, and red-cheeked bliss Seemed there to abide. As we turned to go, there came soft and low A sound like a sigh From a room hard by, When right short we stopped, and in the room popped, Where we did espy, LAY OF THE WINDS. 45 In a curtained bed, the lovely young head Of a lass asleep ; And we raised the hair, the glossy brown hair, From her forehead fair, With a gentle sweep ; And lingered awhile, Just a little while, Observing the smile, the bewitching smile, That hovered the while On the red, red tips of her pouting lips. Yes, and you kissed her, I'll lay a wager ! What ! we — we kiss her ! Oh, you vile sinner ! We kiss her ! — no, sir — we never — never Thought of kissing her ! And now, sorry wight, we'll leave you to-night ; And maybe again, Some other dark night, We'll tap on your pane, and sing you a strain. We s:o ! we so ! Good night ! • 46 TONES ON THE HARP. AT LEISURE. Yonder, where the ivy-hooded tower A dim, twilight, lessening shadow flings Across the ruined and deserted bower, And the hoarse raven shakes her midnight wings- There will I stray, and on some mound recline, To watch pale eve, low in the fading west, Her trust of earth to brown hair'd Night resign, And drop to sleep upon her ample breast. Lo ! Night reigns ! How fair in every feature, From her cerulean couch, the Pride of Night ! Young Luna smiles upon tranquil Nature, f And waking stars wink their soft eyes of light. AT LEISURE. 47 Behold the old ivy-hooded tower, Wrapt in hazy glory, and glistening Beneath a noiseless, downfalling shower Of dew-drops, bright as diamonds sparkling. Each drooping leaf, spray, and flower is still, Save when, from the mild zephyr's wooing kiss, They bow their sinless heads with bashful skill, And silent tremble with a holy bliss. Each sobbing streamlet and each purling brook Mirrors the open planetary tome In their spotless crystalline hearts, and look Like fair, silver-clasped ringlets as they roam Softly along their autumn-braided banks, Girdling, and caressing, and kissing Each old moss-clad veteran rock which flanks Their pebbled course in all its meandering. 48 TONES ON THE HARP. SPRING . ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. Young buds are springing From mould in the vale ; Streamlets are singing Through meadow and dale ; And the proud forests nod Their leaf-plumed heads To the flowering beds On their mother sod. Friend of my heart, why sad ? 'Tis Winter no more — Cold Winter is o'er — Friend of my heart, be glad ! Soft winds are flying On balm-laden wing ; SPRING. 49 Glad birds are singing Their lyric of Spring ; And white cloudlets lie Cradled at rest In the blue bending west, In the mellow sky. Friend of my heart, why sad ? Cold Winter is fled, Old Winter is dead — Friend of my heart, be glad ! 50 TONES ON THE HARP. SING ME A SONG. Sing me a song, a low, sad song, love, And let thy accents tremble, And the tone of thy voice resemble The all mournful cadence, love, Of the winds at twilight grieving, Of the winds lornfully wailing, In a cypress forest, love ! 4 Sing me a song, a low, sad song, love, Of youth who low reposes, 'Neath a mound of faded roses, In the arms of the past, love ; For my heart is lonely beating, For my heart is sadly thinking Of boyhood passed away, love ! SING ME A SONG. 51 Sing rue a song, a low, sad song, love, Of those who fondly loved us, Of the friends who walked beside us, Looking joy, hand in hand, love, In life's budding, blushing bower, In life's sunny morning hour, That will dawn nevermore, love ! 52 TONES ON THE HARP. CROSSING THE FORD. Yes, here the stream is clearest, Lean on my bosom, dearest, Now step firmly, fairest, On that ancient rock nearest The glad wave. Nay, tremble not for me, love, For by that sweet cooing dove, On yon leafy tree above, Making Nature's tender love To its mate, I will brave the torrent cold, With all cautious step, yet bold, While I tenderly infold Thy most chaste and precious mould To my heart. AT SEA. AT SEA. When wintry blast sweeps chill and fast Creation o'er, And drives each " mast" on ocean cast From shore to shore, God save the " tar" who from afar Looks to his land, And becks Hope's star from drifting spar With trembling hand. His bride may stand by the wild strand With pallid cheek And outstretched hand with pressure bland To clasp his neck. Oh! hear her cries, thou God allwise And merciful : 54 TONES ON THE HARP. To her sad eyes the big tears rise — Ah ! how mournful ! Go, lisp, oh, wind ! with accents kind, In his sad ear, These words, destined to cheer his mind And banish fear : " God heard thy bride when loud she cried To Him in prayer, To save her pride — her husband tried — Long loved and dear ! " And bade us waft that white- winged craft Skimming o'er the sea, One league abaft thy wave-lapped raft, To succor thee !" TO KLHEEN. 55 TO EL11EEN. I murmur not at fate's decree, That we shall never meet again ; Far, far between bounds the blue sea, And mountain vast and desert plain ! There was a time, to think of this My soul would faint upon each thought ; But now it seems a kind of bliss, With pain and pleasure strangely fraught. Since thou hast fled that sacred vow, Long plighted before high heaven ; — Great God ! that thought is woe ! oh, how Canst thou, hope to be forgiven ? 56 TONES ON THE HARP. Farewell ! ah, me ! yet sad the voice That speaks within my blighted heart ; But let it be — 't is done — thy choice Is made — we dwell, for aye, apart ! I will not mar thy dream of rest With sighs or words of perish'd love ; Let time, array'd in sorrow's vest, And ruder tongues than mine, reprove. A FRAGMENT. 57 A FRACxMENT. I stood, as stands the pilgrim stranger Of another clime ; unknown I stood Within Columbia's Capitol. I saw her populace, as billows On a turbid ocean, flow in ; each Brow with purpose bent, and pale with keen Intent. Anon the multitude hushed To silence were, and listening hung. Each eye deep burning and intently Fixed, looked on the forum of the free, Where sat convened th' representatives Of Columbia's stars. Then rose the voice Of States, and the issue seemed not for The welfare of the Federal bond, But of section, party, and color. 58 TONES ON THE HARP. And there was discord and contention, And Freedom stood " a house divided Against itself." The North, firm as the rock Her Pilgrims blessed of yore, calmly stood And pale; and strife, with cloudy front, sat Heavy on her knitted brow, and taunts Were on her lip. The South, proud mother Of Liberty's anointed chieftain, Mother of Presidents and a long Line of heroes, first in war and first In eloquence, shook her dusky locks, While her eye, hot as her burning suns, Flashed back defiance. And 'mid the jar Of jostled argument, and the clash Of angry eloquence, and the croak Of " ism," husky with the jaded Strife of party, big with corruption, And rotten to the core, I heard, loud Toned above the din tumultuous, the tongue Of Treason and Disunion ! A FRAGMENT. 59 There was A pause, a dreadful pause, nor motion Save the quiver of pale, parted lips, And the gleam of teeth hard shut, and the flash Of eyes indignant ; nor sound save like The hiss of breakers on a rugged Shore hard breathing spoke existence. Then, with a start, the people, as a forest Pressed by might of tempest, a moment Swayed and bent, and with an impulse grand, As of one mighty heart, the vast cry Of " Shame! Statesmen! Shame!" rose awful, And shook Columbia's Capitol ! GO TONES ON THE HARP. BLUE-EYED MARY. 'Twas in Spring-time, joyous Spring-time, I first met sweet blue-eyed Mary, On the banks of fair Potomac. Blithe was she, the lovely Mary ; On her cheek a rosy dimple, In her hand a floweret fair ; With the fragrant winds of twilight, Rippling free the chesnut hair Of the winning blue-eyed Mary ! 'Twas in Summer, hopeful Summer, I first wooed sweet blue-eyed Mary, On the banks of fair Potomac. Shy was she, the modest Mary ; On her cheek a bashful crimson, Her little hand caressed in mine, BLUE-EYED MARY. 61 Falling low her chesnut ringlets ; Heard my heart a faltering " Thine," From the lips of blue-eyed Mary ! 'Twas in Autumn, happy Autumn, I first wed sweet blue-eyed Mary, On the banks of fair Potomac. Dear was she, my loving Mary j On her lip a smiling whisper, On her cheek a summer glory, In her eye a beam of love-light, Told my heart a happy story Of my own, my blue-eyed Mary ! 'Twas in Winter, joyless Winter, I first wept my blue-eyed Mary, On the banks of fair Potomac. Pale was she, my dying Mary ; From her lip the smile departed, From her cheek the summer glory, In her eye the fading love-light Told my heart a mournful story Of my sainted blue-eyed Mary ! 62 TONES ON THE HARP. Now I wander, weary wander, All the seasons, sad and dreary, On the banks of fair Potomac, Calling on my silent Mary; Longing still for death to hasten, And the ties of earth dissever, Sc I quit this house of mourning, And rejoice in bliss forever, With my own, my blue-eyed Mary ! the waif's retrospect. 63 THE WAIF'S RETROSPECT, 'T is night ! — midnight ! an Autumn midnight, damp. Darkness, musty, sits in sullen silence, 'Midst brown and withered leaves, upon the grave Of Summer and its hopes, shadowing earth With the falling locks from her mildewed hair; Nor from high heaven's arc peers there a moon Or star into the vast of pulseless blackness. In slumber deep I would shut out the night, But cannot. I sit and rock the throbbing Vein and aching nerve of being, and gaze Intent, through eyelids closed, along the dim Seen track of footprints left in other days On childhood's path ; and as the wand of thought strikes The sepulchre of memory, and rakes 64 TONES ON THE HARP. The ashy film from off the mouldering past, I see arise the wan and palsied ghosts Of buried years ! Would it were tenantlcss ! II. I stand, or seem to stand, where oft I stood In orphan boyhood. Lorn I stand upon The cliff that beetles o'er the " Dead-Man's Cave," Where Atlantic's tide in peaceful moments Slumber'^ whose dusky base for ages past Has withstood the shock of waters scooped from Old ocean's depth, high piled in rolling hills, And heaved dark green, foaming, and furious, I>y fierce and mighty winds, bearing no scar Of ocean nor of tempest's rage. I gaze Far out upon the expanse of waters, High ridged with swells of sullen front and brow, Thick wreathed with wrathful froth, or calm as dream Of slumbering virgin, mirroring forth The rainbow, a miracle of its God, And mark the freighted bark, like a tiny Speck, by distance fixed against the far off the waif's retrospect. 65 Slanting rim of vision, and sigh to be Of her, and marvel much what aspect hath In other climes, and long to roam therein ; Or, listless, stretch me on the fallow bint, And hail the shifting clouds — creating there A boyish world ; or, lulled to sleep by sob Of fretful ripples, or dash of breakers Panting with the pulse of storm, I vision Of sunny lands, with balmy winds, and skies Serene, deep fringed with amber-tinted clouds, And streamers tipped with wavy gold, and rays Of never-failing day, and scenes how fair, Of blooming hills and glades and tuneful streams, And cities peopled with congenial kind, And forms of love and melody and joy — All offsprings of a lone and yearning heart ! in. I turn, as of yore, and yonder, beneath The low descending sun, stand the Abbey's Brown and crumbling walls, where ivy creeps And twines a garland green o'er the hallowed 5 66 TONES ON THE HARP. Dust of my forefathers and their offspring. Ah ! there rests a parent dear — my mother Fond — whose spirit fled while I, unconscious Of the light gone out — the love forever Gone — the treasure lost — dropped no mourning tear; Or, if I did, 'twas but a simple child's : — Of that my memory holds no record, Nor shadowy lineament of her face Nor form. 'T is said she was of comely mould, With flaxen hair of wavy wealth, and eyes Of fondest blue, and loved her boy full well ! And there are graves whose shrouded occupants I honored not, nor do I now. Perchance The feeling is merciless, unholy — But not unmerited. Youth, when slighted, Has in it a bitterness instilled which Grows apace with age, and takes, in manhood, Haply of gloom, a deeper shade and shape, And tone more isolated, entombing The shivering heart of blasted sympathy In a realm of dusk grim phantoms peopled, E,ayless and void of peace, or hope, or tone Of joyous cadence, as that which fasting the waif's retrospect. 67 Hermits wisely pass their terrestrial Span in solitude telling beads to shun. My nature was to love, and kind ; and my Heart's tide did rush all glowing to mingle With congenial floods, but found none, when It did ebb, chilled, nor flowed again — but has Become a glacier cold which knows no thaw. But let the dead slumber. I have triumphed And outlived them all, though still young in years ! But ah, how sear in heart ! Meseems I hear The clank, clank, clank of years, as from the wheel Of Time they drop into the past, and feel Their weight, weight, weight, down crush my groaning heart. — There rest my kindred — many, but not all. Some sleep in other lands, where freemen dwell. I, too, perhaps, may slumber there. In them I've wandered long, with friendship kind, and love Them well, and deem it honor high to fill A freeman's grave. Yet I would lay my earth "With my foresires in mine own land — the land Where I was born ; though Freedom hath no voice Nor temple there, but bondage dwells, and tears 68 TONES ON THE HARP. Fall fast, and wo is on the passing breeze ! Can man do less than love his native clay ? IV. I wander, as of yore. My steps incline To the wild beach. I pause. I mark the swell Of toppling billows far out upon The drear of ocean. On, still on they come ! Now faltering rush upon the shelly Strand, and expire in gasps whereat I stand ! The sea-gull, pillowed on her cradle wave, Shrieks wild, discordant notes as night drops on The deep. The curlew, homeward bound, with bold Wing cleaves the darkling air, and circling Sweeps around her cliff-girt eyrie. The winds Are up, and at their nightly revels. Hark ! In yonder cave they clap their rebel wings, And shout " Eternity ! eternity !" These were my friends of yore : these have my soul Communed with : to these my lips have muttered Thoughts of strange conception — thoughts which have n Record. Then Youth, agape, at distance stood, the waif's retrospect. 69 With lips apart, and pale, in attitude Of timid mein ; and Age, of knowledge full, Looked on with wisdom's eye, and slowly shook Its scanty locks of autumn hair, and spake : The house of reason totters ! Alas ! poor Boy ! poor boy ! I fear he sits with madness j Holding converse dread with her peopled clouds ! Perchance they erred not much, for I have felt, At times, odd promptings, and wished that this frail Pulp of flesh had withered ere it was flung To the winds of adversity to crisp And whip. Yet there has been on this fantastic Globe — this patient nurse of flesh — this spacious Catacomb of Man — beings who gave such Thoughts the shape and tone of words — words which hung A chaplet on the brow of Time to beard Destruction ! But I am not of these. Mine Had creation, but they lived not — they were Blasted ! I mourned not much. Fame holds aloft A bitter chalice ; and they who drink must Die ! Nor does the spirit, in eternity Aught better fare because of having quaffed The goblet brimming o'er with the applause 70 TONES ON THE HARP. Of man. Nor does its bones interred crumble In more peace beneath the costly sculptured Stone high raised, and called a mark of honor, Than in a modest grave, 'neath simple turf. Mine be a crave obscure — its head-stone a tear ! THE SUICIDE. 71 THE SUICIDE. There she calmly lies, but just recovered From the flood — her brown hair dank and clotted "With the foam of the wild breakers, which quenched Her life's brief lamp ! How icy cold her hand ! How stiff she lies ! How white her cheek ! Where now The dimpled rose that bloomed forever there ? Alas ! alas ! poor girl ! how dire her fate ! Stranger, I knew her well — how long and well ! — In childhood, in girlhood, and the first bloom Of buoyant womanhood. 'Tis but one fall Of leaves in the lap of Autumn, since that dark And ruined temple was lovely, rarely Beautiful — when reason filled its twilight Aisles, shadowy recesses, arches grand, And lofty dome, with the essence of life j When glad being, illumined by the torch 72 TONES ON THE HARI*. Of conscious innocence and virgin faith, Presided at its altars, scattering Incense sacred with a bounteous hand ; When from those lips compressed, as if to hold Life's secret in death, gushed strains of sweetest Tone from the heart's deep melody, filling With an alto grand the great spiritual Tabernacle, now swelling with a strain Of melting pathos, again faltering With a cadence sad, and anon thrilling With a wild, grand symphony. Oh, she was Glorious ! How we loved her ! All loved her, Rich and poor ! She was our pride ! Every heart Within our hamlet had a place for her ! Ah, stranger ! you may look and listen now ! The grand diapason of existence Is hushed — the consecrated fires extinguished ! The high priests have fled the sanctuary ! On its deserted altars there is writ, "Alas! alas! IchaLod! Ichabod!" Stranger ! would you learn the story of her wrongs ? Listen ; and while I speak, look on that face, And mark those deep set lines of agon v THE SUICIDE. 73 Round those rayless eyes, fixed with dark despair ! Those white lips fixed with unutterable Woe of the soul's dread suffering ! and ask Thy heart : Can this be Suicide ! Is it Not Murder, dealt by foul man, her brother ? "Iwas when the first glowing flush of dawning Womanhood shed a halo on her brow, There came unto our hamlet a stranger Who had been schooled — ay, well schooled — in cities. He was a man of comely mien, and step Of haughty tread. His manners, they were high And polished — his tongue, how smooth ! and his speech, Just tuned for maiden's ear, flowed fluently, And had a power. He saw the Jewel Of our hamlet — such was the name we gave Her who lies before you — and, seeing, Coveted, but not loved ! Oh, no — he had Too much of earth for that ! It were a grand, A glorious conquest, thought he, to win The wealth of that rich heart, pure as the rose Which nestled in her braided hair ! And long- He watched her smile for love, and long he sighed For that sigh which speaks affection, and oft 74 TONES ON THE HARP. He held the beaded goblet to her suininer Lips, that she might drink deeply, and be drunk Of love. Yet many suns had rose and set, And many moons waned palely, ere he had Triumphed. But then came the ripe, rich harvest Of his success. How sublime was the love Intense, the all-absorbing love, of her," The young, the beautiful, wooed and won ! How Her being seemed to leap from its abode, That it might mingle with and dwell for aye With him ! But he grew weary of her love — The victory was won — his earthy self Was gratified. With heartless irony He smote the confiding soul, and blighted The heart's rich love-bloom, and with remorseless Hand snapped the fond, clinging tendrils, and left Them to trail and wither in the dust ! Stranger ! There are moments of such untold grief, such Unutterable woe, such agony — Such burning agony — that reason falls Consumed, and the spirit, a captive lorn And tortured, bursts its prison, and is free ! THE SUICIDE. 75 And when the world, the great, wise world, cries out, " Suicide!'' it lies — 'tis Murder ! Stranger ! If beyond that slanting curtain of clouds There be, as creeds doth teach and I believe, A heaven, and fair-visaged Justice reigns, — That maiden's spirit is an angel there ! 76 TONES ON THE HARP. WHEKE ARE MY FRIENDS? Where are my friends ? Come, all come ! Come with the swallows — Summer is come ; On my hearth-stone sits Plentiful cheer ! And mine eyes grow bright, All happy and bright, With a joyful tear ! There's flowing wine ; Many friends are mine — True friends are mine ; Summer is here — summer is here ! Where are my friends ? ( i one — all gone ! WHERE ARE MY FRIENDS? 77 Gone with the swallows — Summer is gone J On my hearth-stone sits Poverty drear ! And my eyes grow dim, All troubled and dim, With a joyless tear ! No flowing wine, No friends are mine — False friends are mine ! Winter is here — winter is here ! 78 TONES ON THE HARP. ODE TO A SLEEPING CHILD Child of mortals, how calm thy rest ! No hidden grief nor sighs suppressed Disturb thy young and guileless breast — Happy child ! Thy dream is fraught with visions fair, Thy brow is smooth — no shade of care Nor mark of passion linger there — Sinless child ! But thou art young, thy summers few, Thine eye unwet by sorrow's dew; Thy heart yet deems that all is true — Trusting child ! Nor may thy heart e'er understand, Nor feel the cold and loveless hand OLE TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 79 That wields keen sorrow's ruthless wand — Tender child ! May thy life's star revolve in peace ; And may thy thoughts still roam the space Where Heaven showers bounteous grace — Gentle child ! Still may the angels of repose Thy pale, delicate eyelids close, And kiss thy tender cheek's faint rose — Feeble child ! But should thy fate and Heaven's will Meet thee a share of mortal ill, To bear along life's rugged hill, Patient child ! — Then, flower of earth, bear in mind There's a calm in heaven, destined, Through Christ, the hope of mortal kind, For thee, child ! 80 TONES ON THE HARP. And all who live to learn to die, And look with meek and loving eye To the Father of Souls on high — Guard the child ! BILLY JOLLY TO HIS WIFE POLLY. 81 BILLY JOLLY TO HIS WIFE POLLY. My own dear little wife, Let us banish, all strife ; So that this fleeting life Be with happiness rife. Let us laugh at old Time — That, you know, is no crime — Though we have not a dime To jingle a cash chime. Let us always be gay, Dance, sing, shout, romp, and play, Through our life's jolly day — • Thus banish frowns away. Then when Death claims his score, We'll wide open the door, 82 TONES ON THE HARP. And invite the lean boor To a seat on the floor. Not a tear shall we cry, But just kiss a good-bye ; And then part with a sigh, Till our union on high. We'll thereby let him see, That o'er life's troubled sea, Mortals' voyage can be One of sunshine and glee, If they will only take All things easy, nor stake One gay laugh for the sake Of lucre to make. EPITAPH ON A CAT. 83 EPITAPH ON A CAT. WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF AN "ANCIENT MAIDEN LADY." On, stranger dear, Let fall a tear ! One Thomas Cat, Who was in life a rouser ! Could filch a snack Behind your back, Dispatch a rat With every spat, Likewise a tip-top mouser — Lies here, caved in ! defunct ! His nom de plume was Damon, His morals purely Mormon ; Would thrash each brat Of prowling cat, 84 TONES ON THE HARP. And knock 'em harem-scarem, That dared to tread His native shed — The shed wherein he bunked, And kept o' nights a harem ! SONNET. 85 SONNET. WRITTEN ON BEING ASKED "WHAT IS LIFE?" When, in thy dream in autumn years to come, A vision forlorn shall arise, With faded brow, and lips all pale and dumb, And dim, and sad, and tearful eyes, It is the Shade of youth departed, Wandering back all broken-hearted From the tomb of buried joys, Through the vale of hapless sighs, To the Eden, where spring imparted Darling hues to blossoming life — Love's golden promise, void of strife — Cadence soft to songs of gladness, Tuned with hope, and void of sadness — Ah, mortal pilgrim ! that is Life ! 86 TONES ON THE HARP. ODE TO MY HEART Oh, heart of mine, be calm ! Why dost thou yield to sorrow, When life can always borrow Of hope a brighter morrow, A soothing taste of balm ? Though it ever prove to be All delusive as mist Upon a mountain's crest, Or bubbles on a sea ! Oh, cease to mourn and repine — Look to heaven, heart of mine, For the loved and lost ! Oh, heart of mine, be still ! Though thy sun be all shaded, And thy summer bloom faded, Ere its spring hath down laid it ODE TO MY HEART. 87 'Neath the leaves of autumn chill, In a melancholy shroud, On the bosom of old earth — Parent kind of each birth, Whether humble or proud ; — Oh, heart of mine, be not sad ! Look to heaven, and be glad : Seek God with thy breath ! TONES ON THE HARP. LYRIC OF THE WINDS We arc rovers free, On land or on sea ! We sob o'er a grave, Or shout on the wave : — What mortal can stay Our limitless sway By night or by day ? The gray mists we furl, The dark clouds we hurl On the mountain's curl, And sprinkle the rain On the thirsty grain — We spatter the rain Over hill and plain ; LYEIO OF THE WINDS. 89 << Or, torrid and dry, Go whistling by, High twirling the dust In a spiral bust Aloft to the sky, Or tossing the snow On the globe below. We nestle at rest In a flower's breast, Or we lash the main With a foamy chain. With a gentle gale We expand the sail, Or shattering blast ! We heed no behest Nor gentle request From sinner or blest, The rich or the poor. We are welcome guests, Or troublesome pests, At every one's door. 90 TONES ON THE HARP. We espouse no clime ; We are twins of Time. On creation's morn, With him we were born On creation's eve, With him we will leave This planet forlorn. LINES. 91 LINES. WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF A STATESMAN. Now sad Night walks in grief her dusky isle, While meteors troubled hasten to and fro Athwart the high, solemn heavens, and pale Fixed stars look trembling on the scene of wo ! The rebellious winds forget their stern will, And pause awhile, nor clap their wings, nor start, But linger, moaning plaintive o'er the ill That fills with sorrow a nation's heart ! The sobbing ocean chants a solemn dirge, And mournful echoes catch the woful strain ; And mermaids from their coral couch emerge, With tearful eyes, to join the weeping train ! 92 TONES ON THE HARP. The eagle bold deserts her rock-girt nest, And, screaming, cleaves the muffled elements With joyless wing and sorrow-heaving breast, As she marks the pall on freedom's battlements ! Freedom weeps ! Low droops her radiant head ! And pointing toward the scroll of duty, She speaks : " Here is no blot to shame the dead, Nor faidt to punish in eternity I" IMPROMPTU. 93 IMPROMPTU. ON BEING ASKED "WHAT IS LOVE?" Without Love, Man were but a savage ruthless ! Woman, a croaking hag, shriveled and toothless ! Prolific Earth, a chaos wild and fruitless ! Existence, loved, a boon unsought and bootless ! 94 TONES ON THE HARP. LEMAN, THE SAGE. What though it has not been nay life-long care To have my name enlist the mighty ear Of ruling Kings, high on the throne of state, — Nor satellites, who deem themselves as great, Have asked, Ah, pray, what speaks his pedigree? His ancestors, were they of high degree ? Is he by lineage long of noble blood, Or brat descended of the vulgar herd ? Ere autumn winds shout on the hills, And moan through forests drear, and rills Have hushed their summer songs, and birds Have flown to warmer climes, nor words LEMAN, THE SAGE. 95 Of love and hope, 'neath vernal shade, On dewy glebe, in silent glade, Are whispered by fond lover To maiden fair, at dusky hour; ir. At noon's decline, when lightly trips The gentle Eve, with dewy lips, Adown the hill-side, through the vale, The daisied brake, the mossy dale, Kissing the wild-flowers, cooling The sick brow, the sad heart soothing, Breathing rest to the toiling hand, Pouting the lips with language bland :- in. On granite rock, in quiet glen, Far distant from the clank and din Of jostling life, and the jar Of worldly shocks, and the loud war 96 TONES ON THE HARP Of passions fell, fierce contending For earthly dross, and the* rending Hiss, hiss, of husky panting strife On the surging billow of life ; — TV. Sat Leman old, with brow serene, And streaming locks of silver sheen. Fair was his mein, though poor his lot ; And lowly stood the rustic cot, Where he had passed his humble days In honest pride, and thankful praise To the God of earth and heaven, For the blessings many given. He gazed upon the ancient trees Where sweet birds sang their evening glees ; He gazed upon the purling brook, The mossy brink, the ivy nook; LEMAN, THE SAGE. 97 He gazed along the valley green, And on the hill-top's verdant scene ; Then roaming high o'er heaven vast, His vision linger'd on the west, VI. Where the low sun, with glowing light, Lit up a crescent cloud, and bright Floods pour'd of crimson hue, and roll'd Along the sky great waves of gold. He sigh'd ; then from his placid lips There cadence came, softly as dips The muffled oar in glassy lake, With measured pause, and slow he spake : — VII. " Thus sets the sun of life, when man Lays down this tuft of earth, this wan And weary pulp of flesh, in peace, And can bequeath unto his race 7 98 TONES ON THE HARP. The record of his errand here With man, his brother frail, nor fear The darkness of the tomb, nor dread The awful senteuce of the dead. VIII. " T is a glorious eve ; how calm Earth sits ; the winds slumber, and balm Of summer's fragrance-breathing sighs, Floats on ambient wing ; nor lies There a jet on heaven's expanse ; — All is tranquillity — a trance Serene of celestial feature Wraps the pausing ear of nature ! IX. " How oft I've seen, at break of day, The dawning sun o'er yonder brae, Clad with brown and blossoming heath, Look on the silent vale beneath ; LEMAN, THE SAGE. 99 And oft at eve I've sat me here, And gloried in his high career, As slow he sank to noble rest O'er yonder hill which marks the west. " Then when night came in twilight hood, And shadow cast o'er land and flood, Oft have I linger'd till the moon Told on the gnomon night's pale noon, With watchful eyes and sleepless mind, Pondering on the undefined Secrets of the soul's citadel, When the flesh moulders in its cell. XI. " But here life ends — my journey's o'er- My sands are told — ah, nevermore Shall I behold the rising sun, Nor gaze at eve, when toil is done, 100 TONES ON THE HARP. On the bright and glorious sky, Nor on earth's bloom of many die; Nor song of birds, to me so dear, May greet my soul through mortal ear ! XII. " My aged bark is drifting fast On the doubtful shore of the vast Stern island of eternity, There to learn the unknown mystery Of death, and the home of spirits — That dwelling each soul inherits On that strand where Lethe's ocean Rolls its waves with noiseless motion. XIII. " This moss-girt rock, my faithful seat, The friendly birds that carol sweet Upon these long familiar boughs, The guileless lambs that prank and browse LEMAN, THE SAGE. . 101 Along those verdure tufted braes, Yon brook which chants eternal praise, Will miss my presence when gray morn Proclaims another day is born." XIV. Here Leman paused awhile, and low Upon his hand reclined his brow, While within his quivering breast A fount of feeling, long suppress'd, Welled up, and from his moisten'd eye One drop rolled down upon a sigh To earth, and trembled in the moss, When thus again resumed his voice : — ■ xv. " Take it, Nature ! That tear is thine ! While the tendrils of life doth twine Around my spirit, my heart's pulse Shall throb to thee with fond impulse;- 102 . TONES ON THE HARP. When o'er my fainting bosom roll'd Wild waves of passion, thou hast told My heart be quiet, and hast led My wandering thoughts unto God ; XVI. " And hast said, ' Lo, I am the creed Of saints ! Look on my scroll, and read This truth — a pilgrim's sentiment Who begged for bread, but was content :' The poor, lean-visaged mendicant, Jaded and staggering of want, Whipp'd by his rags and poverty, To kiss the spare hand of charity, XVII. " Through summer's calm and winter's storm, Lays down at night his weary form On his straw bed, and takes repose In softer sleep — his dreams disclose LEMAN, THE SAGE. . 103 More joy, and brighter visions far, If beams within his heart that star Which lights the soul's imprisonment — That ray of heaven, sweet content — XVIII. " Than that man whose gold-belted garb Flings back the flash of heaven's orb ; Whose couch is down ; whose nice palate Smacks the best in plenty's wallet ; Whose pallid brow and lips compress'd, And fretful mein and troubled rest, Proclaim the viper Discontent Infests the vital tenement." XIX. " I do not mourn for life — we part In peace, good friends. No tear shall start When vision, nor sound, nor distance Hath a pulse in my existence, 104 TONES ON THE HARP. And the cold wing of sombre Death Fans my damp brow, and wafts the breath From these pale lips of weary clay, And drops the shroud o'er life's long day. xx. " I have lived my allotted span, And walked at ease when others ran With headlong speed, to grasp at what They could not reach, and never got. Not that I lacked a bold desire To gain some position higher Than that the will of wayward fate Assigned me as my birthright state ; XXI. " But I, being what some deride — A man of honor and of pride, Who gloried in an honest name More than the monument of fame, — LEMAN, THE SAGE. 105 I've dwelt in calm obscurity, 'Mid scenes and forms of purity — A hermit odd, as people say, Far from the haunts where bask the gay. xxn. " For in youth I learned but too well, How much the humble must excel In anything which tends to claim Distinction's pass to wealth and fame } And, if excelling, rarely reach The bauble from its lofty pitch, Unless in league with those who cheat Their upward flight to high estate. XXIII. " There be such men, full many, too ; And I have known of them a few In my spare dealings with the mass, Who hug to earth and earthly dross, 106 TONES ON THE HARP. . Nor balk at deeds, so dark and fell, That one alone would warrant hell, To gain the prize — the luring spoil — The guerdon of their damned toil ; XXIV. " And cringe and fawn upon the host Of glutted worms, who vainly boast Exalted rank and noble blood, Pure since the world's ingulfing flood, Which, if God's naked truth was plain, Had its origin in the vein Of dastard base, or implicit, Servile whelp of love illicit. XXV. " Worse : perchance a murderer's hand Raised the loftly structure, and plann'd The heaven insulting tower Of their vanity and power. LEMAN, THE SAGE. 107 Such are the lordly sons of might, Who claim the undisputed right To rule this flesh-lapped empire With ripping lash and fetters dire ; XXVI. " And fling the bitter taunt of slave To her desponding sons, and rave — Such wast thou in thy mother's womb- Such expire — shall be in the tomb — We are thy masters, our estate To rule ; thine to serve and entreat For daily crumbs — ay, existence! Raise not thou, with loud resistance, XXVII. " The rebel wail, nor in anguish Call for justice, when you languish Beneath the burden of our yoke, And thy rebellious heart is broke ! 108 TONES ON THE HARP. Thy country hath no will — no voice — No flag — no triumph song — no choice Of laws — nor rights ; — her marshal strains Are but the clank of shackle chains. XXV11I. " And scan, with eye of scorn, that man Who cannot boast a noble clan — Albeit to his high soul 'tis due That honor which belongs to few — The title Man — and they, how mighty In opulence or poverty! — Forms that, like the dazzling sun, The skulking eye of knaves must shun." XXIX. Again pale Leman paused : his eye With waning vision wandered high, Where the young moon, with friendly ray, Upon a slender drift of gray LBMAN, THE SAOE. 109 And dappled clouds, that lay at rest Par in the distant slanting east, Sat lightly midst the ether blue, Lighting the niche of dusky hue, XXX. Where night's brown queen, with raylesa eye, In dankish robes of tawny dye, Sat brooding alone in muffled woe, Her loose locks tossing to and fro — When thus again, in accents weak, His pallid lips essayed to speak : Faint was his utterance, and slow His language fell, with cadence low: — XXXI. " Oh, Father of Life ! I thank Thee For the blessings many thy free And bounteous will hath bestow'd On my pilgrimage o'er the road t 110 TONES ON THE HARP. Of devious life, and the balm Of honest slumber, and the calm Of sweet contentment's soothing peace Thou hast bid my soul embrace. XXXII. " When I am gone, none can defame My humble but unsullied name. That thought alone imparts more rest And quiet hope to this, my last Declining hour, than all the show Of honor mortals can bestow. Farewell, earth ! my mission is done ! Father, receive thy weary son !" xxxin. He ceased : a breeze then passing by, Paused awhile, then hovering nigh Where Leman lay, hush'd and listen'd; Then to a dew-drop that glisten'd LEMAN, THE SAGE. Ill Upon a drooping leaf hard by, Whispered, " I'll bear bis soul on high ; Thee and thy sisters mourn below — Mine will strike the harp of woe." XXXIV- On the Isle of Woe, where Emmet sleeps, And " Tara's harp" dread silence keeps, There is a grave beside a brook, 'Neath the shade of an aged oak, Whose friendly branches spreading wide, Lean fondly o'er the tiny tide, And guard, with giant arms outspread, The sacred temple of the dead — xxxv. There Leman lies, in humble state, The turf his monument ! — a slate Denotes where rests his lowly head, With this inscription to the dead : 112 TONES ON THE HARP. " There lies within this narrow herth, In humble yarb, the mortal clod Of one who craved no boon of earth, And owned no master but his God!" FLOWERS, 113 FLOWERS. There is a sermon and a creed in flowers, And they have tongues which speak unto conscience, And their voice hath music, and is sacred To the listening soul. The hills stupendous, Mountain crested ; the seas immense ; the rocks Which bound their deep, broad space, and brave the shod Of swells tempestuous — their dusky grandeur Veiled, anon, with the white spray of their wrath ; The circling planets, still rolling onward In numberless cycles, high poised amid Dread infinity of space, and ancient As their sun; the stars phosphoric, that light The nebulous expanse of firmament ; The etesian winds that blow; and the rains That fall within the concave of the vast Universe ; the birth and death of seasons ; 8 114 TONES ON THE HARP. The broad, bright day of wakefulness; the night Of darkness and of just repose; — bear not The signet of God's will more palpably Than does the frailest little floweret Whose petals quiver when zephyrs breathe. TO ANNA. 115 TO ANNA. Maiden ! thou of the dark brown hair, Full oft the morn and evening air Wafts on high a lover's prayer, Pure and free, Meant for thee — Solely thee ! But his soul in vain concealing What his eye is still revealing, Meets of sympathetic feeling None from thee — Ever free, Loveless thee ! Ah ! coldly beams thy dark blue eye, Whene'er he speaks or lingers nigh, I 116 TONES ON THE HARP. "Who hapless exists, and would die Still to be Loved by tliee — Only thee! SOX NET. 117 SONNET. How graud in autumn, when the evening sun Bends o'er the blushing sea, whose deep, broad space, With measured throb, rolls its blue waves to the base Of some south crested cliff, there stretched alone Upon the burnished heath to pause for hours, And feel, low breathing on thy listless face, The dew-lipped air, fresh from inland bowers Of clover wild, and wilder flowers, and mace ; To hear the fitful hum and languid sigh Of some stray wind among the drowsy boughs, And the grass-braided brooklet lisping nigh, That still with dreamy poem ever goes Gliding along in sweet monotony, Obedient to its Maker's high decree ! 118 TONES ON THE HARP. LOVE'S OWN CLIME. There the sun shines daily from on high, O'er valleys fair and ever green ; There lakelets reflect the azure sky, Brave emerald branches between ; There nature's fountains gushing clear, Leap the mountain's furrowed brow; There bounds the swift, the noble deer, And gay birds chant on every bough ; There lov'd philomels nightly sing Sweet songs to their own lovely isle; There the soft zephyr's lambent wing Wafts soothing fragrance all the while; There Luna sheds her kindest light, And dew-drops kiss many a rose; There the stars wink in fond delight, At Peace and Plenty's kind repose. THE DYING ORPHAN'S LAMENT. 119 THE DYING ORPHAN'S LAMENT. A poor orphau girl, forlorn and pale, Knelt by a grave on a wintry night ; Fast fell her tears, and sad her wail, While the snow-drops wove a garland white O'er her brow upturned and braidless hair, Full dark as the tomb, and floating wild, As with white lip, on the midnight air, She breathed this lament, poor orphan child, To her mother in heaven ! " Ah ! sad is the night on this wild heath, And woefully croaks the dark wing'd raven, Dismally perched yon tower beneath, By lightnings fierce long rent and riven ; But sadder still is my heart within — Faint and alone, on this dreary wild, 120 TONES ON THE HARP. A friendless waif in this world of sin, Since thou hast left thy poor orphan child, Dearest mother in heaven ! No gentle voice in my joyless ear Soothingly whispers a sweet relief To my weary soul's unceasing tear, That flows from a fount of endless grief. They say that my heart is void of love, And my pale, sad lips, have never smiled ! Ah ! none doth know but thy soul above, The deathless love of thy orphan child, Fondest mother in heaven ! My lips grow still, and mine eyes grow dim, And faint is the throb of my sick heart ; I know 'tis Death, but I fear not him — His icy touch can no pang impart! Farewell, earth ! adieu, mortality ! Lo! I am coming, sweet spirit mild, To thy changeless home of purity ! Oh ! press to thy heart thy orphan child, My own mother in heaven ! THEY COST "ROCKS." 121 THEY COST "ROCKS." « Wife, you wear a bonnet blue, A pretty bead have in it, too ! "Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing, only — a-hem — It costs some rocks to deck a whim — Let down that slat, The sun is scorching ! Wife, you wear a dress quite new, With frills around, athwart, askew ! " Well, what of that ?" Oh, nothing, only fine robes Cost solid rocks as well as globes — I'm growing fat, I've burst my girdle ! 122 TONES ON THE HARP. Wife, you wear gloves tipped with flue ; Your hand is very small, 't is true ! "Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing, only kidskin Costs rocks. They've ta'en t' using ratskin- How very flat This young poodle lies ! Wife, your eyes are brilliant; who Has brighter ? Echo answers who ? "Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing, only, my dear, It costs rocks to keep the vision cle;ir — This beer is flat, Ilops are very scarce ! Wife, your lips are rosy hue. You smile more sweet than cousin Sue ! "Well, what of that?" Oh, nothingf only I ween It costs rocks to keep the mouth serene — There -roes a rat ; Moll, look to the cheese ! THEY COST " ROCKS." 123 Wife, you never act the shrew, Nor scold a lick, as others do ! "Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing, only quiet Costs some rocks, as well as diet — Mike, dust that mat ; You know dust makes dirt ! Wife, you're fair as morning dew, Or any hud that ever grew ' "Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing, only beauty Costs, in rocks, a heavy duty — Bill's had a spat ; Lo ! his jacket's slit ! Wife, you never seem to rue, But stick to notion tight as glue ! "Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing, only self-will Costs rocks — sometimes 'twill outright kill — Moll, cleanse the vat! We'll have a shower! 124 TONES ON THE HARP. Wife, you never care to sew, But then you love romances so ! " Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing, only novels Cost rocks — mother made good waffles — My pipe, you Mat! I've got the toothache ! Wife, you always wish to strew Our board with luscious roast and stew ! "Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing, only dainties Cost rocks in fish, flesh, or pastries — That's leghorn plat In that old bonnet ! Wife, you always sniff and pooh When food is high, the wherewith few ! "Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing, only eating Sendeth rocks pell-mell a skating — There's fish called sprat, Rather small, but sweet ! THEY COST " ROCKS." 125 Wife, you never do say " boo" To household squander ; no, not you ! " Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing, only wasting Costs some rocks, as well as feasting — That little gnat Has stung my smeller ! Wife, you never take a cue, To snub our friends — that sponging crew ! " Well, what of that ?" Oh, nothing, only suckers Reduce rocks to flimsy wafers — Boys, hold your chat ; Silence becomes youth ! Wife, I guess you always knew Adam's rooster was the first that crew ! " Well, what of that ?" Oh, nothing, only knowledge Costs rocks — you'd have the boys at college — There's tit for tat, Says Mike Finnegan ! 126 TONES ON THE HARP. Now, wife, between me and you, I adore you — I'll vow I do! • "Well, what of that?" Oh, nothing; only just that You cost huge rocks ; that's very pat- Hum, where's my hat ? I ken wrath feminine ! TO A FRIEND. 127 TO A FRIEND. Give rue thy hand ! for well I know, — Through sun or shade, through weal or wo, Through breathless calm or heavy blow, On land or surging billows' flow, — Thou art a noble friend, All changeless to the end ! 128 TONES ON THE HARP. A CHILD'S EPITAPH One morn a flower bloomed, At evening it faded. Here lie the withered leaves ; The essence rose to God ! AT MIDNIGHT. 129 AT MIDNIGHT. 7 T is midnight damp ! utter silence reigns ! And darkness dense and black as ebon Clasps the earth, as if in terror, and strains It to her dumb lips and pulseless heart ! I hearken ! no tone of peace nor strife Wanders through the empire of blackness ! 'Tis as if the vital spark of life Hath smothered in the all dreadful gloom ! Oh, I'm sick of this quiet — this dearth Of light and sound ! I wish some living thing Would stir, e'en a cricket on the hearth, Or a spider dust his web on the wall ! 11(> TONES ON THE HARP. THAT WILD BEACH WHERE MY OWN COT STANDS. Yes, sing me songs of love and truth ; My heart is strangely sad to-day ! I'm thinking of the friends of youth, Now sleeping 'neath the silent clay, In mine own land, my childhood's home, Far o'er the blue Atlantic wave, By the wild beach where billows foam, And dark rocks stand and wild winds rave ! Ah, sad the will and sad the thought, That bears me back to youthful days ! Ah, sad the scene and lone the cot, Where I have sung my boyish lays ! Guided by my wandering star, I've seen fair spots in stranger lands ; Yet dear to me — ah ! dearer far, That wild beach where my own cot stands ! LO.\