'WmSmmmm '/^mmrsD'h^k^ m^ mmm LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. \ ^/^.g '.M3..is:.^ \ # I UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. | ^^mf \^^f\A^^ mMf^mr\rsi^r'A^A A^^aAi ^l^P^^^^J^^i^Aft/V^A^^^^^ ^nftAA/^AA aAaaA.aA,^', f^A**/^^^f^^/^/^^,AAr^A ^V.A^CAC'^A^^A.A..AAAMAA^^^^^^ft^A^^^^^^^ AA■*A/^/ \A»CAAAAAA.A;AAAAAnAA,,,.,A,^^."^^^ mnHS .«w^w 'Afwm '^&M ^LM. \f\.f\AJ V'A! '' ^''/\;A wrn^ mfi.^ A^M' \^W' mM^:^^^^^ ^^B0i ^M/si!«if ^^m^m^. mfl^m^ ^^/^,?i^^ POEMS. POEMS LETTERS TO DON BROWN GAY HUMBOLDT, 1 BURR LINGTON, D. L. L. ALBANY: E. H. BENDER, PUBLISHER. M DCCC LVII, 1 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, BY GAY HUMBOLDT, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Northern District of N. Y. Baker Taylor, Printer, Albany. PREFACE. I INTENDED to publish the following Juveniles as if they had come into the world without a friend or introduction, but perhaps a book of this sort, showing so much both of haste and neglect, needs a word of apology or explanation — there- fore it shall have it. And first, if any one wants to know why these nondescript compositions ever had an existence, he will have to ask some one else, for frankly, I cannot tell. I have never uegle.cted any duty that thereby I might gain time for the collection and arrangement of these waifs — but who can labor inces- santly ? Every mortal after weary days of toil must have evenings of rest, and recreation. A few of these random lucubrations (hoten Poems), have been hastily collected and submitted to the printers— and since I was pre-engaged (as usual) with matters more tangi- VI PREFACE. ble and utilitarian, they (i. e., tlie devils,) had it all tlieir own way, and the consequence is that a part of the typography is like the copy, and the rest perfectly new, even to me. Snobs says I ought not to complain as there is plainly a most deci- ded reformation made in drear by dropping the r so that it shall henceforth and forever read dear ! Dear Snobs, and the dear Printers! Lest some acute critics should consider Franco the most am- bitious of April Leaves (because the longest), I will say that it is not, but on the contrary is one of the youngest of them all, having been written in 1851. To the Hon. George P. Maksh, of Burlington, Vernnont, I would tender my most grateful thanks that he so kindly per- mitted a humble student the use of his name by way of dedi- cation, yet after all I am afraid the appropriation of this would seem like assuming too much for a youthful production like my book, and hence whether it is " damned to" oblivion or " ever- lasting fame" I will inscribe it generally to my fellow students, being the Law Class for Autumn, 1857, U. of A. — and espe- cially to my fiiend Prof. Thos. C. Folger. Albany, N. Y., Nov. 17, 1857. CONTENTS. APRIL LEAVES. CUT FROM A POET'S PREFACE VINDICATION VINDICATION. PART SECOND EVA .... ADIEU THE BYGONE YEAR . SONNET . e . . THE LADY IRENE LOST IN THE WOODS OCONAY'S SPEECH TO DON BROWN . THE WOODS THE SNOW-FLOWER . DESTINY .... WE . TO ONE WHO SCORNED ME DREAMER BLANCHE GENEVIEVE TO DON BROWN PAGE 1 3 5 9 10 11 12 16 18 22 24 25 27 •28 31 Till CONTENTS. PAGK IF I LOVE THEE WILT THOU LOVE ME? . 37 WAKENING . . 39 THE BIRGE HOUSE . 40 HAUNTED ! . . 42 SAN MONTO . 45 TO THE AUTHOR OF " SHADELAND " 49 TO MADAME . 52 A PHANTASY . 54 A HERO . . 56 ASPIRATION . . 58 FOR AN ALBUM . . 60 FRANCO . 61 SONNET . . 69 SONNET . 70 H. P. M. . 71 MENDEE'S DAUGHTER . 73 BOYHOOD . 78 A DAY . 79 EFFIE ANGELL . . 83 CHATHAM . . 85 JENNIE MAYNE . • • • 89 NIGHTS FOR DAYS. INTRODUCTION FAERIE'S QUESTION I'LL REMEMBER 93 97 99 CONTENTS. ix PAGE STENA KILL • 100 ADEL , , 102 " AT ten" • • > 104 LOST . 108 THE angels' FLOWEBS , 109 AT REST . 110 burnsted • . • 112 TO JAYNE . 114 GOOD-NIGHT . 116 ELLA, OF THEE , 117 AWAY ... 119 NOVEMBER , « 123 UNDERBILL . • • 125 ALONE '• -• 127 LETTERS TO DON BROWN. KINDERHOOKING CHATHAM AS HOME A DIARY AMONG THE BURGHERS BURNSTED AGAIN MANSFIELD AND MEN UNDERHILL LAKE OLD-TIME CLIMBINGS MOUNTAINEERING A WHITE MOUNTAIN SHOWER 137 145 153 163 166 170 182 187 394 201 X CQNTENTS. FAO£ OCTOBER AT BURLINGTON . . . 208 DECEMBER AT UNDERBILL . . 214 HOME , . , . , 220 GLORIFICATION .... 228 BOAT-RACING .... 234 MINERALS AND ANGELS . . . 239 WATER-MELONS AND BURNS . . . 246 APRIL LEAVES. APRIL LEAVES. CUT FROM A POET'S PREFACE. In vain earth smiles her sweetest way; I am a hardened wretch, they say, Who scorneth love though heaven should pray. Who scorneth love, who scorneth hate, And fain would wreck the direst fate That bars his pathway to the Great. Who owns Ambition is his life, And mingles in the fiercest strife. Chanting wild words with wrecking rife. II. Another song, another day, Another passion- winged lay Aspiring for eternity. 1 CUT FROM A POET S PREFACE. Another poet on the shore Of that lone sea, that evermore Chants dirges for hopes gone before To their lone grave. Another soul Which spurns like lightning, all control. And only pushes for the goal, And vows that all the storms that rise, Between the frowning earth and skies, Shall never turn him from his prize. VINDICATION. m They laugh and scorn me dreamer (and forsooth Perhaps they ought.) They say my life is vain: That glowing visions of aspiring Youth Shall end in disappointment, wo and pain: That Hope which burns so bright shall die again: And wretched Sorrow grope his weary way In blinder darkness; it may be so, and fain Would I take heed of all my friends can say But something deeper than my life impels my life away — Away from formal rules which Wisdom makes. Away from seeming humble destiny, Away from school-boy plays among the brakes, Ar.d transient joys that wake in miseiy, Away from torturing facts to heaven of poesy. And who shall swear my thoughts are doomed to shame. That all youth's buoyant hopes are mockery ? I have cared much but care not now, for Fame Is nothing in itself, but with the world is flame 4 VINDICATION. Which burns for good or ill while empires, made Through the long toil ol ages, ruins be, Which tells for right or wrong till time shall fade Into the ether of eternity ! And, Power of Good, I will to work for thee! I rather shrink beneath the doom of fate Than give one smile to Wrong or Tyramiy. So be my high ambition, or soon, or late Jo}^ sets in gloom if Good can call me Great. VINDICATION. BEING PART SECOND. I. And "what are you?" they ask. And, " but a child, A weakling wanderer in a land unknown, An untaught rambler in a world o'erpiled With god-like labors of the ages grown ; A gaping school-boy on the Alps alone With heaven and earth of mysteries around, A thoughtless prattler, where all bards have thrown Their life-time toils with genius powers en- crowned," A wise one answers quick, with many a scowl profound. II. My answer this. I hope, and pray to hope. And will thus hope with this same certainty, Though dazzle-darked and labor-worn I grope In disappointment's night through all to be I 6 VINDICATION. I know our world is old and wise ; but He Who smiled on create worlds as morn-stars sung, And welcomed them to heaven's fraternity, While they should circle heavenly bowers among— He as erst was, and ever shall, in primal power is young. ^ III. • Also in goodness, and He has ordained Time should be Change; Progress, Divinity; Mind, Thought ; Life, Action. Else He might have chained The bright blue wooing air and answering sea, The deep-voiced rivers singing ceaselessly, The flitting warblers and the blissful light, And earth itself through eld eternity Were bound, and the sun's fire — for what were might Of that brave god if all were rest and night ! IV. But all is not. And nature's handiwork Is not from models. Bolder is her plan. She apes nor Past nor Present's lying smirk^^ Her thought works ages in a single span. And each fair world's a thought that ever ran Through mazy space, and each fair tree and flower, And noble word sublimed from God-sunned man, VINDICATION. 7 And each fair dream that flits through fancy's bower, And all that thrills the boundless universe with power. V. Yet each must labor for itself and all, And each himself mark out the path he'll run, And say himself if he will rise or fall. Much is to do, for though much has been done, The tireless Right has many a battle won, And firm her turrets stand but far apart; And he who would be fit accounted one Of her bold chiefs, as thou, Whittier, art, Must emulate the skies, yet toil with sacrijicing heart. VI. Of which no more for me. Life oft is sad From very loneliness ; and bitter tears Will course flushed cheeks, and longings vainly mad Throb high my brow; yet hope looms o'er the years, O'er all the doubting sighs and darkening fears That bar the backward scene — o'er all the frowns Of toppling scholiast fools and passing jeers Of kindly friends. Ay, her pure glory drowns All pomp of rank and wealth and famed Power's worshipped crowns. 8 VINDICATION. VII. Hence, weary-worn, yet young in years, I roam This ordeal world with strivings and desires I fain would wish not vain. Dear friends, I come, Not tranced, hung on joy's delusive wires. Nor lulled to rest with dulcet-drowsy lyres That charm with thoughtless lave and proud con- tent, But borne along by the all-deepening fires Of youthful aspiration; and though blent With tempest-crags, my path is with heaven's hop- ing stars o'ersprent. .SONNET. CHRISTIA.N1TY AND SLAVERY. Earth's labor widens, — look where oceans roll Far westward till they break on Asia's shore, And millions listen to its hollow roar, As Time sweeps onward to its final goal; Unnumbered millions who, forever more, Have groped their weary way in darkest night Of ignorance and sin, and bowed the knee To idol forms of earth. Oh mockery! They should first know their pathway leads to blight, And racking torment for eternity, And then the loveliness of " Christian light " To charm life's path till earth a heaven shall be, Encheered with angel love and minstrelsy. And peaceful righteousness of Slavery! ADIEU THE BY-GONE YEAR. Whether time sported with the blithesome hours That kiss the frosty brow of April's morn, Or sultry zephyrs from far southern bowers, That charm the snow wreaths into bursting flowers, Or laughed amid the showers Of wanton spring till summer's glorious dawn; Then worshipped her till eve's o'erheavenly gloam- ing, (As if the sorrowing angel forms of light Had lingered in the paling sky from roaming, To bid the hushing world of men good night) Or day brought toil or tempests' madly foaming, The wished for change, I mused alone the while. Until the gold- wrought hues of Autumn's gleaming Had turned to dewy shades, and shades to dream- ing Of winter's blighting breath, and brown and sere The cold earth heard but the mad frost- winds screaming, Among-t the spruce boughs on her mountains drear, Or passed in joy or tears, Adieu the by-gone year. EVA. Fair October dieth ever On cold Autumn's heartless breast, And our flow'rets always shiver As break storms howl from the West, And the river Sighing veils her leaf-strewn breast. And the winds sweep down the willows As the nights bear down the days, And engulfed amid the billows Are all June's coquettish rays. But the willows Never sighed to such lone lays As this evening by the Burnside, For this evening sad and lone, Every gust that shakes the casement Whispers in a mournful tone, That the angel Fair Evangeline is gone ! THE LADY IRENE. IN THE MANNER OF THE OLD MINSTRELS. I. 'TwAS in joyance wild that the Lady Irene Went forth in this gladsome world, I ween. For never so glorious a morning was seen Since day first broke from night's thrall. And she skipped right and left where springs new bowers Where laughing in sunshine and festooned with flowers, So she laughed with the sunshine and merry young hours, The gladdest of them all. 11. *' So on, so fair,'*^ while day smiled nigh, But soon he was lost in the western sky, Then despite her wild joy, a tear filled the eye Of the laughing girl Irene. 'Twere hard to tell why that tear were there. Could her radiant brow be darkened care? If you questioned those lips of the lady fair They answered not, I ween. THE LADY IRENE. 13 III. 'Twas the half-lighted hour when bats are at play, And birds with dark wings are flitting away To their eyrie homes in the beeches gray, To their nests in the forests deep. — When of love the cuckoo broods and sings, When swallows hover on dreamy wings, And night whispers sweet to all living things — why should the Lady weep? IV. A longing mood of the spirit-mind, A wishing unwilled and undefined, A shadowy sadness undefined, Shall it fly with to-morrow's dew! She shall wake on the morrow's first gray dawn And laugh o'er her sorrow like darkness gone, She shall laugh and weep ere eve has drawn Her veil by the heavens blue. V. For let eyes like hers their brothers meet. And their charms shall have brought the world at her feet, Richly blessed if to catch but one smile so sweet Of the radiant maiden Irene. — 2 14 THE LADY IRENE. And they came from the East and sun-couched West, From the torrid isles, and the gleaming crest Of the ice-templed Alps, where storms never rest While the years whirl on, I ween, — VI. And so there sped from Lombardy practical man; for his wise blinked eye Scanned the useful broad lands around her lie, And the nibbled pastures green — And he scorned love, as a God would pride. But his " lands were broad and rich beside," And *' if wise (as pretty) she would be his bride" — She spurned the Slave, I ween! VII. And Crcesus came with his bags of gold, And his kingly proud titles all unrolled, And whispered her locks were sheeny like gold, Her eyes like pearls of the deep; And if the Lady would be his bride, She should reign by golden Pactolus' tide, And gold should biing the proud world to her side, — The Lady turned to weep! THE LADY IRENE. 15 viir. Bmt a Forest Boy hied from Switzerland, With nobleness stamped on his features, as bland As the heaven-crowned mounts of his native land When sparkling in morning sheen ; And he came with the glow of the sun on the w^old, His soul willing fountains of love untold, And whispered of love more than earth can unfold, She turned not away, I ween. LOST IN THE WOODS. The blooming month of July With flowers made glad the earth, When a merry lot of schoolboys Came shouting, dancing forth. And, " Come on, boys, 0, come on, boys," Was the burden of their lay, ** Come on, boys, 0, come on, boys. Shout on, boys, while ye may!'' They danced across the meadows. By the brooklet's crystal sheen, They danced beneath the forest. Where the fairies sleep, I ween — And, " Come on, boys, 0, come on, boys,'' Was the burden of their lay, *' Come on, boys, 0, come on, boys. Shout on, boys, while ye may!" LOST IN THE WOODS, 17 Woodman of that furthest forest, Where the foot of man hath been, Stopped a moment his lone ax strokes To list the merry din — •' Come on, boys, O, come on, boys/' Was their last glad, wild refrain, For they passed beneath the shadows^ And were never seen again !, OCONAY'S SPEECH TO DON BROWN. TKOM AN UNPITBLISHED POEM. I. *'DoN Brown, turn back! A cavern deep as hell Yawns but two steps before you. Turn, Don, turn!'' A voice of thunder spoke, which he knew well, Upon his right; then, with a warning yell, A mammoth stone the beetling crags did spurn. It smashed, and echoed down, and down, and down, Till seven swarthy forms had reached the crown II. Of the bare rocks around; when, dying deep Into the distance of its breathless fall, It splashed deep waters. Like some god of sleep He stood entranced upon the yawning steep ; While one swart form advanced before them all. And with commanding gesture, as if to Compel the world to note what he would do— oconay's speech to don brown. 19 III. *' Don Brown," he said, " you killed our Brave, — that's plain! The brothers of the dead call for revenge, And swear the sun should not wake heaven again Ere they have mixed with dust the slayer, slain. The sun must rest, but hate will never change — Will never ebb on this side of that river Which brave souls stem, which whirls weak hearts forever, IV. *'Don Brown, great years have died since Lorain came Amongst us, and we bowed into the dust. We thought him nobly great and good, (for shame!) We gave him of our richest lands and game; He took the whole and vowed his deed was just. We urged him. Then he fairly vowed to pay. If we would wait until the seventh day. V. '* And so we waited. Our wives and children here Were sheltered in the Mansfield Mountain Cave ; We fished the streams and rambled after deer, Or slept and little dreamed the lynx was near — We little dreamed Lorain had planned our grave. 20 OCONAY'S SPEECH TO DON BROWN. He'd promised, we believed— and built our light Upon the river bank the seventh night, VI. *'To guide us to our mutual place of meeting, To warn us safe from dread Winooski Falls. The night was come, and Lorain's drum was beat- ing; One boat upon the waves was fast retreating, When a young pale face through the darkness, calls — ' Beware the light!' By this we came to think Lorain had moved it to the cataract's brink. VII. ''■ Don Brown^ who warned us from that Lorain's, hell, Yet warned too late to save my only brother, I swore that when the Great Spirit should tell I would avenge my murdered kinsman well. Moons followed long — long mourned for one ai> other. The panther had grown big upon his prey — This night has swept the monster-fiend away. VIII. '' Don Brown, we know you. We have known you many, We've watched you many sorrow-burdened years. oconay's spkech to don brown. 21 Don, we have not forgotten you, nor can we. You shall not die — you shall not want while any Of all the mighty Iroquois appears. Your destiny is wild, and Oconay May often help to brave some rugged way. IX. *'Don Brown, adieu! The red man's talk should cease. You left the panther's whelp within the brake — Yet she is fair, may the Great Spirit please! We've saved your life — be that our sign of peace And ask no questions for your life, love's sake. Remember Oconay! Our brothers through The black woods guide you home. Once more adieu!" THE WOODS. FEOM THE GERMAN OF HUMBOLDT. I WAS born in the woods, In the wildest dell of the Solitudes — Where the Dryads hang their darkest woofs From the pine trees' many-tasseled roofs. In a dim arcade Of oaken boughs, with moss-plumes inlaid, Was my cradle swung; and I laughed till the stars Grew dizzy above night's drowsy bars. I was taught by the woods, Where panthers loud scream over cavern-born floods, Where mad torrents shouting 'neath rainbows fly. And mountain crags climb the daring sky. I love the wild moods Of the waving, towering, whispering woods, When they wave to the breeze, or tower to ihe sun. Or whisper to storms, as their wrath is done. THE WOODS. 23 And the hushing moods, When soft winds speak low, and the tempest broods In the aspen-trees, and the night-clouds weep O'er a world weighed down by the shadows of sleep. And when earth-joys are o'er, And the death-angel wings from his nightly shore May I be where loved tree-boughs in rapt twilight lie, And spirit-leaves woo the holy sky! THE SNOW- FLOWER, FROM THE GERMAN. 'Tis beautiful— the sleeping flower Amid the snows; More beautiful than summer's dower Can e'er disclose. Fit emblem of the soul divine In earthly guise ; Heaven beaming in a smile of thine From those dark eyeSy Bespeaking inspiration high. High love to thee, Outgushing far as time can fly Eternity! And yet while life shall trill her lay Of sadness o'er, While my heart beats its frosty way, We meet no more ! DESTINY. We parted as the sky By its watchers on high Told that night's highest noon Would be gone past soon — And forever. Oh, the stars spangled fair In the clear frosty air ; But the whispering breeze Through the sere, sighing trees Spoke "forever.'' And ever, evermore Are the zephyrs sighing o'er The thoughts of that night, — But such dreamy, witching light Shines down never. And the mountain towering bold On a sky of spangled gold, Looks so chilled with blight and drear, Or friendship's smile so dear Never, never. 3 26 DESTINY. We met — this youthful band, In an unknown mountain land, And our friendship, unmoved ever, Flowed along like life's calm river Ever, ever, Till we parted— and this band Shall be known through every land, By their minstrel music heard; And their thoughts, deep, genius-stirred, Live forever! WE. I. We met. Spring loved her sylvan bovvers, And gave eacli tree a wreath of flowers. We met. Birds carrolled everywhere, And earth was glad as heaven were there. The soul forgot its lowly dust — We loved, as kindred spirits must. Our hearts kept beat to heaven's own rhyme- Time fled, for we knew not of time ! II. We parted, — for her hand was sold To Mammon's slave — her heart for gold. We parted; and Time crossed the way, And clouds clung round each struggling day. Love crushed to earth, yet still be just; We parted; kindred spirits must, But they shall meet one day above. Where Gold is not the price of Love ! INSCRIBED TO ONE WHO SCORNED ME DREAMER. Push on your bold schemes, Ambition, Wealth, Power! The idlest of dreams May live — for an hour. Dream you scathe, like the levin. The broad land and sea, Yet I'd dream the sweet Heaven Is bending to me ! Go, mock at all beauty God's love can unfold; Go, do your high " duty," Coin your base heart for gold. And then boast your brave skill. Boast you're throned " up above , Yet— I will what I will, And LOVE what I love ! TO ONE WHO SCORNED ME DREAMER, 29 Your pomp is but glimmer, The light of swift streams — I own myself dreamer. What is life but dreams'^ Own I'd sometimes outfly The cold Care, which flings Deadening apathy O'er the souls aspirings. I would charm my lyre. With the twilight which plays O'er the fading fire Of our summer days. I would catch the first smile Of the cloudlet's morn, Then watch them awhile On the swift breezes borne. I would paint the bright beams Of Day's rainbows of light, And muse midst the dreams And shadows of Night. Would call the charmed hours, That come up from the past So many fair flowers That Time might not blast. 30 TO ONE WHO SCORNED ME DREAMER. Would name tintings and glowings 'Mid the storm's growing strife, But Heaven's o'erflowings To cheer weary life. And so gladden Duty By frail sunbeams and flowers— By each dream-thought of beauty That flits through Night's bowers ! BLANCHE GENEVIEVE TO DON BROWN. A STRAY LETrEB, I. My dearest Don : again another letter. You'll pardon: really now I could not help it. If inclinations prompt to write what better Can your Genevieve do ? Then first your debtor Would tender thanks for that dear note so well writ, Which found its way to me o'er wave and down, From mon cher whilom friend of Chatham town. II. And strange it is that so much thought could rest Within the folds of that one little sheet. Strange that acquaintance, of so passing quest, Could indite thoughts of such deep interest To her. But it is even thus — thus tintings fleet, The passing thoughts of one of Nature's sages May outlive all the gloried art of ages ! 32 BLANCHE GENEVIEVE TO DON BROWN. III. And may I not oft hope for thoughts like these During my sojourn in this foreign land? Is friendship bounded by the circling seas? And he who's won such friends, acquaintances, Such confidence of all on every hand, Cannot forget what he professed to be — ! must he not oft think to write to me ? IV. Though uncongenial as we are in soul, I can admire, if not appreciate Your genius flights, so high beyond control. Methinks in your " Bold Dreamer and his Goal'* Are the proud elements, heroic, great. Of a high character whom future story Shall honor not for his, but for the world's own glory. He bears a fancied resemblance to one Of my friends, too — knows no such word as fail, But struggles ever on through shade or sun, And will, till thought's all-boundless power is won! I pray success. May naught but laurels veil BLANCHE GENEVIEVE TO DON BROWN. 33 That noble brow, and richest " prepones »' Of pleasure crown his westering life with peace. VI. I could not help but muse awhile and dream When I had read your note; and wrote these lines Within my journal. That lone placid stream That trickles silent down as morn's first beam, Will not be always traced by thus light signs — No ! when the dashing rain comes on the earth, The gently murmuring rill shall herald forth VII A mighty torrent, — heeding not the slight And vain obstructions, which perhaps impede Less vigorous streams, it rushes like a sprite. And spurns the very lightning in its flight ! Thus weakly first the grandest minds succeed, — Thus aye with master spirit's dawning hour, But when he wakes worlds tremble at his power ! VIII. -m And so I thought of Don. Wondered when thou By thine unaided efforts hast become 34 BLANCHE GENEVIEVE TO DON BROWN. Truly both Wise and Great, wilt deign bestow One casual remembrance on her, who Has watched with glowing interest thy soul il- lume A glorious career — grand destiny? yes! I know thou wilt, for good thou canst but be ! IX. And, as we glide in our frail barges down The rapid stream of Time, though adverse tides And tempest-storms may frightful round us frown, And rend us far apart like wild waifs strown — Still, with the pleasure which but heaven pro- vides, Shall be remembered days of " auld lang syne,'' And those dark eyes that used to look in mine. X. Memories of days long gone (how glad, how dear!) When I resided 'neath your father's roof. We were not acquainted then, since then I hear You have been still more bold in your career — While I've been lost in fancy's mazy woof — The vain allurements of a vain heau mon-^e. 0, for thy eagle thoughts up-soaring clear and grand ! BLANCHE GENEVIEVE TO DON BROWN. 35 XI. Dwells there some wonderfully potent spell In " waves which a few fleeting nights before Nestled beneath the Berkshire Mountain's floor,'' Which renders boat-rides on the Stena Kill Doubly dear and delightful? If so — well. I, too, have had some famous rides upon The waves, but for congenial spirits, no, not one. xir. Of which enough. You sure will not despise — You do not think me fickle as some trust? At times I am wild, foolish fancies rise, But 'neath this hollow seeming mirth there lies A heart not quite devoid of generous Emotions. Do you know — well, I must close And wait, dear D., till the good post shall choose XIII. To bring an answer back. You will not deign To waste your study hours — even for me ! I know you task yourself laboriously Through these long summer days. "Excelsiors" reign As proud as ever, do they not? And not in vain» But now the midnight shades are in the sky, And still reluctant to that word good-bye. 36 BLANCHE GENEVIEVE TO DON BROWN. XIV. My pen faint lingers. But alack that so You must be wearied. Wilt write soon again ? Let it be all about yourself, you know That will be " interesting,"— " that will do," And so shall truth and friendship never wane;- Heroic to the end, if you'll believe Affectionate your " Cousin,'' Genevieve! IF I LOVE THEE WILT THOU LOVE ME? Little child upon the meadows, Poet-child at play, While all Nature laughs around him, Talks the hours away. '* Smiling daisy of the meadows, Buttercup of May, If I love thee, wilt thou love me ?" Daisy smiled away. ** Waving willow of the meadows, With thy tresses gay, If I love thee, wilt thou love me?'' Willow waved away. '• Soaring bird above the meadows. Trancing earth to-day, If I love thee, wilt thou love me?" Warbler soared away. 4 38 IF I LOVE THEE WILT THOU LOVE ME? *' Wimpling brooklet by the meadows. Answer me I pray, If I love thee, wilt thou love me?" Brooklet turned away. Little child upon the meadows, Poet-child at play, Sighing for something to love him Wept the hours away. July 24, 1854. WAKENING. Earth's sleeping shadows Blush 'neath the flow Of the soft-gushing twilight, As it waves to and fro — Morn breaks o'er the wildness Of mountain and flood, The dark vista widens To infinitude; But the soft-falling star-beams, That smiled from the night, Are lost in the brightness Of day's glorious light. So my visions of beauty Have faded away 'Neath the widening vista Of life's burning day! THE BIRGE HOUSE. UNDERHILL, VERMONT. It is night and I am sitting In a HaH of old renown, In the crag-embattled turret Of a rough old mountain town, Looking out upon the forests As the drowsy moon goes down, And the world grows hushed and awe-struck 'Neath the shadows' ghastly frown. And we still are left to musing (Gloomy night and I alone), While rapt trees forget to whisper, Dreaming to the zephyr's tone. Rustling birds flit by before me Chanting dirges weird and lone, Black clouds are floating o'er me, The stars are mystics grown, THE BIRGE HOUSE. 41 And they twinkle down so wildly, Then so dreamily I see, They are telling how life's best joys Hasten to eternity; They are speaking of loved schoolmates How I loved them (and do thee!) They are laughing at the folly Of high hopes in one like me; They are laughing, they are weeping, They are smiling through their tears,— They are scanning now the pledges, Summer vows of other years. They are braving now the darkness Till the orient morn appears. And the sun, in glory brightness. On his lightning path careers! HAUNTEDt I. A PALACE towers up in the darkness. Springfield, embosomed in forests, Like the long-thought-of bowers of childhood, Sleeps far along by the river. Beneath shadowy viewless curtains It is melancholy midnight. — Yet footfalls are heard in the Palace, Though no mortal has trod there for ages ! And a weird fight certainly rages, And a voice shrieks out the name " Alice!" ir. Many dead leaves on our city, Many years have blanched this proud temple. Since it welcomed a bride to its bosom. She was rich in the beauty of England, The rose and the lily commingled; And she worshiped her lord as if master Of heaven, as well as a Palace, That glowed in the twilight even HAUNTED ! 43 Like a saintly soul's first dream of hearen: — 0, well Haco loved his fair Alice. III. The stars had gone dreaming o'er Agwam, The moon looked over the river, And the breezes grown sick of their sighing In groves where the angels come never ! The night was asleep on the bosom Of the mighty and mystical mountains — That night Haco first dreamed that Heaven Was shut in a Springfield Palace. He will ne'er dream again from this even, For a fiend has shrieked out the name " Alice!" IV. 0, in vain he calls himself wretched, And looks back to the time when a cot stood Where now stands his proud-sculptured Palace- For he knows how in vain prayed for pity His tenant's young wife, sickly Alice, Frank Kane's weak and lily like Alice, — 0, in vain now he prays unto Heaven, Bent low in his gold-dazzled Palace, He sees but that lone cot this even. Chill snows and Frank's pale dying Alice! 44 HAUNTED ! V. And in vain for Haco the morning Rises up from the Chicopee river, And birds wake the groves with such warbling As the angels in Heaven love ever. No songs may cheer Haco forever, — Evermore the earth sickens in mourning — All the day and when day dies to even Lone he wanders o'er mountains and valleys, And thinks not of love or of heaven, But a fiend shriek's out the name "Alice !'' Sept., 1854. SAN MONTO. i. San Monto the antique Painter, — Far mid arching rocks he dwelt. Where the great eternal Mountains Rise forever till they melt In the grandeur-blue of Heaven. And he painted, morn and even. With all hues of light and gold, All the beauties Nature told. II. San Monto the antique Poet,— Far o'er earthly clouds he soared With his proud imagination ; And he blessed the inspiration Of each spirit-whispered word, And he blessed the God of Heaven For each extatic whisper heard. 46 SAN MONTO. So he studied Nature's beauties. Not as rigid schoolmen do By the sickening midnight taper, But with heart to rapture thriihng — Grasping all the world ere knew, — With a longing aspiration, As of mortal that would woo Love of the radtant angels . From the holy ether blue — Studied, learned the Life of Nature, Marked her laws through veiled creation From their deepest-thought foundation. Loves and darker passions too. Free as light, himself, he wondered All the world should not be free, And he often gravely pondered On the right of Tyranny ; Mused that life should be but freedom To prepare for life to be, Till beyond Time's surging river He should warble love forever, Etching songs for angel choirs, — So he wills to dream or ramble As the passing scene inspires, Scorns the worldling's hollow strife, SAN MONTO. 47 Paints with pen and pencil bold, Joys his life of morns and evens With all thoughts and rhymes the heavens Can unfold — Dreams full oft in holy evens He is tuning seraph lyres! III. San Monto, the antique Noble, Knew no nobler rank than Toil, Never knew that Degradation Stamped vile shame on every nation That deigned delve the vulgar soil. For he lived in the Dark Ages Ere the sun of science shone, Spangling with its glorious brightness Slavery's freedom-worshiped throne, — Ere the kindly soul of Justice Had been glozed to Sorrow's moan — Ere the fashion of the earthly Had been guide to heaven alone ! So he toiled and sang in gladness, Sowed his lands with measure bold, Sang, and garnered up in gladness Golden measures manifold. 48 SAN MONTO. Toiled till day went down the mountains Into regions drear and cold ; But what time the deepening fountains Glittered in the twilight gold, Bright he pictured all rapt visions Truth could catch or Art could mould, Tranced with highest thoughts and rhythms Earth and Heaven can unfold! IV. San Monto, the antique Artist, With all human frailties told, Would that hearts as true and noble Pulsed our present proud yet cold. Rest ignoble, vile, tame sameness Rusts our Genius natures out; Or glse blighting avaricious Passions bar their fires about. Would that heaven-born Truth and Justice Were not sepulchered in Gold ; Would all hearts that think for Freedom Dared to speak and act as bold — Then the truthful age of glory Should unfold! Chath/im, Oct. 10, 1853. TO THE AUTHOR OF "SHADELAND." J. 0, Effie Afton! would to heaven that I, In wandering up and down life's lonely round, Might find out Shadeland, if beneath the sky, If on this earth its blissful bowers be found ! (Thy pictured shades where heaven's own shadows lie) Where whispering leaves and laughing flowers en- thrall, And singing birds, and thou the "spirit of tljem all,"— n. Unbiassed nature and her goddess keeper — Would I might trace thee hither home as Beau did, Then all in vain thou played the roguish creeper 5 50 TO THE AUTHOR OF " SHADELAND." Through all known wilds, though vaster far and deeper Than e'er a gazelle of the forest threaded. Would smile or frown? You said you would be glad To welcome all the " professed friends '' you had. III. Yet call not me professed although unknown, I have not seen thee, and perchance may never, Still nobleness thy artless truth shall own More lovely than a Cleopatra's throne! I love thee, Effie, and will love forever. Wilt not believe ? It is enwrit this even Upon the brightest glowing leaves of Heaven ! IV. 'Of course you are not asked to love again. You said you would not, and I must believe, — Yet please tell puss not sing so sad a strain, I am a friend that will not play the " Steve." Kisses are angel's words, so by your leave, I'll send a few enclosed in my first letter, — Let me find Shadeland and I promise better. TO THE AUTHOR OP " SHADELAND." 51 V. But to be earnest. For you there is not Room to be lonely in this wide world now; Each sigh or smile, perhaps by you forgot, Has bought a thousand garlands for your brow, Ten thousand loves in palace and in cot, — And I, however madly wrought for fame, Still turn aside to praise thy peerless name! TO MADiVME Ellen, Spring has come again — The same fair Spring that tranced our sky, When blushing flowers enwreathed her brow, And love-lit smiles danced in her eye. Days are growing longer now, — The same fair April days, I weet, That used to climb old Mansfield's towers With radiant eye and crimson feet. Birds are singing too, how well! High with joy, with love how deep! Twilight's lingering heavens still tell Nights too glorious for sleep. Ellen, you were kind indeed, — I know me well that cozy room. Where sunbeams ever love to stay. And night ne'er brings her sable gloom. TO MADAME . 53 And yet, dear Nell, it may not be, I may not meet thee there to-night, And though I pray that life for thee May be all happiness and light: Still, Madame, do not wish me joy. And do not bid me " call again;'' Thy beauty beams no more for me. Thy smiles would pierce my heart in vain. And didst thou think I could forget ? Thou should'st have known this truth before — The heart that's loved as mine has loved^ Still loves, and must for evermore! A PHANTASY. I DREAMED it was night by the sleeping sea, And the stars were sinking away to rest; And I thought that proud kings were humbled to me, That proud nations trembled at my behest. In a moment a ship arose from the sea, 'Twas a fairy ship with a cloud of sail, And it sped on and onward right gallantly, As if borne on the wings of a tempest gale. There were echoes of laughter and songs of love That came to my ear — high sounds of glee — As like a bright cloud of evening she drove O'er the curling waves of the wakening sea. A PHANTASY. 65 Onward and on ! and a hurricane swept Onward and on o'er the place where I stood. Onward and on, till the fairy thing leapt Like a wild thing of life from the maddening flood! Onward and on, like a bird of the sea, It toppled the waves of the ether air, A moment — then dashed down breathlessly, — And vanished like rime in the sun's fierce glare ! A HERO. It is a beauteous picture Of genius power, I ween, That of the youthful Barbaroux By the Poet Lamartine. Of his cottage 'neath the cork trees, Where the sunbeams mazy glance Through the dreamy, waving foliage ; In the sunny South of France. Of his daily rustic labors, Where the calcined, coral land Struggles with the rocks and sun-rays. And the waves on either hand. Of his mingled science-labors With the labors of the day, Sounding Marat and M. Saussure, And such monarch minds as they. A HERO, 57 Of his lone wild pathos-musings. Burning at the noontide sun, Yet vague as ocean shadows Which the twilight smiles upon. Of his longing aspirations, Of his waking from home bowers,- — Of his eloquence deep moving, As by Truth's eternal powers ] Oh! those words of deep devotion, Wrought through toils and suffering tears! They shall echo like the ocean O'er the world's unnumbered years.' ASPIRATION. Fame will sing a Song to-day, Tranced with thought of ages gray, Which shall live forevermore, Sounding on Time's fading shore, Till the restless, surging sea Echoes back Eternity. Deep shall be the Lay, and wide As the shoreless ocean-tide — Deep as gushing flood of Day When it drowns the Galaxy, — Deep shall be as angel-love. Deep as Heavsn is above, Deep as Thought can ever be, Sounding through Eternity. ASPIRATION. 59 Wide, I ween, as unknown space Where the lawless comets race, — Wide shall be as sun-god's path, Towering where no mortal hath, As the reach of seraph eyes Beaming through the nightly skies, — Wide as Thought can ever fly, Winging through Eternity ! FOR AN ALBUM. Here we met one summer day, (We were younger then than now) Sunshine chased the hours away, Warblers tuned as sweet a lay, Burnside wavelets laughed as gay, Flowerets bloomed as rich and gay As if Heaven had raptured May, Lent her song and wreathed her brow! Here we part this winter day, (We are older now than then) Frosts have crushed the flowers of May^ Swept the flowers and birds away, We will leave this home to-day, You to seek another home, I like ocean wave to roam ! You will choose the sun's pure light, (Friends shall ever cheer your way,) I the ligtnings and the night — BuRNSTED shall be left again! FRANCO. Part I. — home, and why left. It was summer in a summery land, 'Twas June where June garlands the year With flowers so beautifully grand, And skies so deep and clear — All nature smiled so glad and free 'Twas luxury to breathe there, be. It was so once — should be so now, But Tyranny came o'er the waves ; — And though his ship was fair, I trow It groaned beneath a freight of slaves ; Franc's father was an Afric King, But now a senseless, soulless thing. His mother had been slave before, When first the Spaniards found this land, The Bible in their left they bore. But clutched the sword in their strong hand,- They said nought could withstand the Word, And proved it by their reeking sword !j 6 62 FRANCO. His brother, friends e'er had been slaves, His sisters too, yet they were fair. Their eyes like suns in crystal waves, And in such witching long dark hair The fairies, as the poets tell. And loves, too, ever long to dwell. And Franc himself, the last of all, He too must toil 'neath burning sun, For naught but prove himself a thrall, Till death proclaims each vile task done. Yet he can do it, and thank heaven For blessings manifold each even. For many blessings — parents dear, A cabin midst the low-roofed trees Where he can spend his evenings cheer. And feel himself at ease, — Where all may join to heaven a prayer, Then dream themselves already there! And Franco was the last of all To vainly curse an abject fate, Till Jenny, dark eyed Jenny Call Was sold beyond the State, — His mother too! Men said 'twas right. Franc, braving death, prepared for flight! FRANCO. 63 It was sunset in the dewy glade, And sunset in the drowsy sky, And the vesper bells had died away, And the kingly eagle's cry. And the shadows of night hung rapt and deep. As the world and time were lost in sleep. Yet what though the shades with mystic spell Bind common souls; with one it is day, For ere morning breaks he shall have swept His life or his thrall dom away. — And this is not all — his priced life shall stand Betwixt all he loves and what they would shun. For he knows the next morning that dawns o'er the land May bear them apart far as serfdoms' run. — His home-roof is torn — who would not swear To baffle the ruffians who girt him there! Thus he ponders to-night — Oh how welcome night To one who had clung, through the weary day. From bough to bough of the swamp-grown trees Before the blood hound's bay, — Who had clung from the topmost bending boughs Like a squirrel, the hunter's prey, — To-day the most cowering thing of life, . To-night with heart steeled for the direst strife. 64 FBANCO. To-night he walks like a king to his throne, For he knows, the wilderness path he treads, And the deadly peril and wreck he leads, And the guerdon that weighs all down. So he hurries along by the river's side, By the river that breaks like Niagara's tide. And he sees in the midst of broken waves, Fenced round with crag-cliflfs grim, And towering clouds that the river enshrouds, An Island wild and dim, And he knows that never did mortal wight To that island sail or swim, — For the cataract seized each form in a breath. And deep were the yawning caverns of death ! They have tried till the willing planters say That Demons guard that strand, And now they would no more make essay To reach it than Demon-land, Than if twelve dire Demons with gorgon hair Should over that torrent stand, With threatening swords and flaming breath. To guard it by fright, or blight, or death! FRANCO. 65 And Franc has heard all the stories wild They tell in darksome eves, When children listen with shrinking awe Till they tremble like aspen leaves, — . But to-night he does not half so much dread Witches as waves that no Demon dares tread? Part II. — franco's vine bribge. But he does not linger. One moment has tied A vine to a cypress tree, Another has spliced the vine so long That 'twill reach where he would be, And soon he cleaves the waters, — where Is there a Heaven to listen now his prayer? He pushes across — adown he is borne Like a waif on a tempest sea, He is borne hy his goal, and the brink draws near, Where the waters fall breathlessly — But Hope still clings to the tiny line, Like a Christian's faith in words Divine. And again he has tried, and thrice has failed, But the fourth he has won his goal, — 66 FRANCO. He has reached the wild banks, and offered up thanks To the Heaven that nerved his soul To bide the wrath of the cataract's path, Rule the waves as of old proud Pharaoh's slaves hath. Thanks! he is free. What witchery In the heart-felt truth of one little word. He is free, and has tied his vine to a tree Across and beyond the mad ford — A wave-hidden cable no eye may see. Yet it leads from the chains of Slavery To a glorious Island unmarred by man ; Bananas and palms climb the skies. And crystal waters in many a fount Midst the broken cliffs arise. And the driver's lash is never heard There more than in Paradise — No wonder they loved it. Franc's parents and brother, Two sisters and one loved more than another ! FRANCO. 67 Pa-KT III. — HOME, AND WHY CHERISHED. Long years have passed since first was spanned The gulf where a cataract raves, But the planters still say that Demons sport Over the ominous waves, And mocking laughter oft comes through the storm. Like the laughter o'er witches' graves, And no boat can stand a moment the flood That the charmed island laves. And oftentimes, the planters say, Their cornfields are robbed outright, And their slaves are often borne away By Demons of darkness and night, — But well does Franc know who these Demons are, And — ^the Angels of Love that bless his kind care. In the home he has made in the bowery dale Where a brook wimples down from gold caves, On his " Island of Freedom" that smiles 'neath the veil God has wrought from the wrathful waves ; And he says when God rolls the mists away, Christian men shall no more worship Slavery ! 68 FRANCO. Yet he loiters not, for the cause of Him Is of suffering fellow men, And so when the nights wax drowsy and dim He hastes o'er the weird flood again, And oranges fall from each bending tree, As the slave grasps the shores of Liberty. And children come with unfeigned glee To greet their father home again , While bold hearts swear that Tyranny Shall never blight this glen — And borne by the winds and waves along Oft come the notes of this careless song,- It is summer in a summery land, 'Tis June where June garlands the year With flowers so beautifully grand, And skies so deep and clear — All nature sports so glad and free, 'Tis luxury to breathe there, be I SONNET. A QUERY. They say that the spealjing of Northern men, Unbefitting the creeds of South-dwelling thanes, Has roused the toiling slave in his chains To think on the rights of Freedom again — Wherefore they are cursed, and the slaves crushed lower, Lest free-wakened thoughts should wield the power ! Thty say that the weaving of ocean streams, And sparkling up-gushing of fountains, The towering of mist-shrouded mountains From earth to the dim land of dreams, The rushing of storm-bearing winds through the sky Has wakened the spirit of Liberty, — Why should not God and all Nature be curst? For they breathed the spirit of Freedom first! SONNET. THE BOKNOU BOY. Where may his home be? Child of Afric king Brought hither to these ever-fragrant bowers, Where free wild breezes laugh among the flowers, And birds wing music — brought fit offering At Freedom's shrine; and so they thralled him here, That through the sunny days which crown the year The sons of Liberty might bless his soul With holy toil! — for they were Christian men Who kindly took him from his native glen Beyond where Gila's wood-streams westward roll In savage grandeur ; strange this cared-for child, When watched by pious hearts so good and mild In his new Canaan home, should sigh again For pagan palms and lands across the main! H. P. M. SUPPOSED TO HAVK BEExV THE MOST POETICAL THOUGHTS OF A FKEEMONTER.) . MAN live§ up in Underhill, (A town well fenced around with mountains,) /"ho says that Slavery, gqpd or ill, Should have its half earth's flowers and foun- r good or ill, he terms it first, Yet frankly owns, with *' you and me,'' hat 'tis the foulest, most accurst Vile stain upon humanity. it still he swears it's right as good To live and claim the law's protection, 15 even Christ's meekest brotherhood, That, chastened, bows to love's correction. 72 if. p. M. Now I would ask him what is law. And what the use of legislation, And all the plans sage heads can draw To glorify this freedom nation, — If noblest Right and vilest Wrong Must have an equal compensation! Heaven ! watch o'er and suffer long A freedom-boasting, slavish nation ! MENDEE'S DAUGHTER. I. The sun was sloping down the wooded west, The eastern wooded hills were robed in gold The wooded vale between was paling cold, And night, at Mendee's wigwam, gone to rest. II. A little girl was playing on the shore Of a broad river, which rolled strong and deep Its world of waters from the farthest steep That crowns the Rocky Mountains evermore. III. Which rolled its waves five thousand miles along, By frowning mountains and most gloomy groves, (In which the fierce-eyed lynx and panther roves) Down to the Gulf renowned in Aztec song. 7 74 mendee's daughter. IV. 'Twas June. The Natches Chieftain was away Hunting the dusk ox, that had left ere now Its rocky realm beneath the mountain's brow, To sport where deeper shades, where richer pas- tures lay. V. The Natches wife had also taken leave. Plucking the luscious fruits which Nature yields, Careless of owners, in her countless fields; So Mendee's Looay played alone this eve. VI. And a sweet child she was of four bright years, A laughing thing, — a sweet, bright Indian girl, All decked with bead, and costly shell, and pearl. As well beseemed the queen of " Nature's Peers.'' VIT. Fair — Life is passing fair, until 'tis tried; And Looay had but gazed on wayside flowers, And sported on through blithesome sunny hours. Unheeding that beyond surged "Time's ungentle tide." MENDEE'S DAUGHTER. 75 VIII. Unheeding that the raft which came to-day Against the bank where she so careless played, Should be by Neptune's lightest fancy stayed, Then treacherous borne by his mad waves away ! IX. And Mendee's wigwam shall no more be blest By the light presence of this angel form ! And has she passed like snow-wreath in the storm. Or like the twilight down the wooded west ? X. And Mendee dreams it not ! For he is far Hunting the dusk ox by the mountain steeps, And while his lone wife calls "Looay!" and weeps, All through the long night Mendee dreams of war. XI. But beauteous Looay — she nor weeps nor cries, But stands her hands clasped in imploring mood. While her dark eyes gaze mournful on the flood. And on the swiftly flitting woods and skies. 76 mendee's daughter. XII. Oh, Christ! would that some Raphael might see, And sketch out Naiure's attitude of prayer, Oi that a Poet might behold her there, And henceforth dream of her divinity ! XIII. Or would some Christians find her! They should take Her to their home, and cherish her, and love As a pure godsend from the realms above — Should cherish her for love and Jesu's sake. XIV. And she was found by Christians, as they say, ' ' While yet the sun was struggling up the East,' For Chopart owned a Christian name, at least, And found, and took our heroine away. XV. And boasting Christians, knowing Mendee well, Did they take Looay to her home again ? Or did they teach her Christ for sinners slain, And of His home where angels love to dwell ? mendee's daughter. 77 XVI. Say, should they not ? But they did not, and so A life went out in darkness that begun So rich in radiance of joy, the sun Saw not a gladder where his beams might go. XVII. They should, but did not, no — but made her slave, A villain slave that kingly daughter creeps, — Though parents sigh, and injured Heaven weeps, They swear to scourge her to a villain's grave ! BOYHOOD. Black clouds have shut around, and night With utter loneliness of darkness come To blind and bar about the little light That disappointment's sorrow left to roam To my sick spirit. — When hopes glowing bright, All wont to be the guiding stars of life, Have set, what else may cheer the longing sight But a loved past ? — There was a time when Joy Could call me all her own — Love knew no base alloy, Ambition knew not but his will should throne The skies if he commanded, and alone I would have promised me, in spite of every care, A world to bear, And so felt stronger for the promise, — thrilled with joy At the vast work before me, for — I was a boy ! A DAY. IN SIX PARTS. I. — EVENING. It is good to dream an evening hour Of the hateful present away with the past, When I thought I had friends, and joyed in the dower As of heaven — but ah ! it would not last. II. — MORNING, I waked — the morn arose with air Of conscious beauty, proud and fair ; The twilight loved the mountain brow. And set with gems its crest of snow. — The birds that slept beneath the grove, Awake to sing of joy and love. Until the mountains make reply; The very trees stand smiting by, As if the angel-forms of day Had kissed the tears of night away. \ 80 A DAY. III. — TO FELICE. Yes, "dearest friend"— for thou art this to me When morn wakes life, Art this when the sunbeams float dreamily O'er the day's strife. But when the sun-gods, in their radiant home. Weave tears with light, And the frowning shades, as they westward roam. Bear the swift night — When the starry spheres sparkle^ thoughts not their own In heaven above, And the restless winds whisper wild and lone. Thou art more, dear love! IV. — TO LTJLTT. Lulu ! where is thy home — where ? On the earth, or in the air, Or down in the wave-roofed sea? I would not know, I. would not care, Yet still I sigh, and wonder where. Whence can such beauty be ? A DAY. 81 If angels are by mortals seen, Methinks thou hast an angel's mien. Lulu divinely fair ! How beautiful — how high thy air; No need of diamonds to deck thy hair. And call thee fair. Lulu so fair, and can it be That a saddened thought dares come to thee, — Hast ever longed for Love's sweet care? Or in summer bower or in autumn eve Have you heard his voice, have you seen Love weave His heart-tangling woof From the passionate eyes Of the bending skies, And the winds that grieve! V. — THE POET, 0, life has been sad and weary, wild With the poet-child! Poet-man, I should say, a king on his throne Of earth-and-time powers, But with sceptre o'ergrown, Heavy weighed down with flowers ! A DAY. VI. EVENING AGAIN. Nights with starry radiance bright, Nights aglow with " Northern Light," Nights alive with meteor gleams. Nights for musing fancy's dreams, Farewell ! Nights to con the genius-page, Heaven's thought-gifts for every age, Nights for angry storms to rage As the east-shades thicken o'er. Nights that may return no more. Farewell! EFFIE ANGELL. Effie with the dark brown hair, Effie of the laughing eye, Lips which angels fain might share Though to share them were to die, Smiles the angels well might wear, When they near the Throne Most High, Has thy heart e'er known a care ? Can thy lips have known a sigh? Effie's very name is power, Sways her world with wondrous might, For she bears the angels' dower Throned on Fame's serenest hight. — Can it be that clouds e'er lower Round thy angel- trancing sight ? Canst thou've known a saddening hour With thy lyre, the heaven's delight? 84 EFFIE ANGELA Effie, angel with such light Beaming from such laughing eyes. Seemed a Queen of Joy last night, Reigning in some Paradise ! All hearts knelt beneath their might, Yet could not ever hope to rise — I would have given the world last night, To know such lips could utter sighs I Effie, angel without care! In the garden-bower to night — Oh, how dififerent her air! For those eyes spoke such delight To a soul of what dispair, — Tears had veiled their burning light. Yet, Christ, what love was there!— Effie, what of Fame to-night? CHATHAM. May is always bright and gay When it comes up Chatham way, Chatham banks were very fair When Spring, and you, and I were there, Without a care. Chatham is a bustling town, But the Stena Kill comes down (Nursling from old Berkshire's breast) Humming songs of dreamy rest Adown the West — Down by Burnsted, simple scene, Chatham, of thy banks of green. Homely cottage built of wood, Over which in solitude Three chestnuts brood. 8 36 CHATHAM. With a garden down below Full of paths the fairies know, Which lead out through leafy doors To the river, o'er whose shores Broad sycamores Do only spread and tower each hour, And cast a shade of darker power, So that, however bright the days, No light but twilight ever strays O'er the dark ways. I know it is a homely scene, Cottage on some banks of green. Near the village, yet away So far that sounds thy strife, to-day, Like yesterday — And therefore why — what can there be, Makes the place so dear to me ? Asked in vain I Madame Roe, — Now Jenny of the long-ago, Say, do you know? CHATHAM. 87 Must be that some magic dwells, Chatham, in thy simple dells, For, while all years rose and set, I've been trying to forget, And cannot yet! Tried, dear Jenny Mayne, and yet Jove might just as well forget, — For whatever world was seen. Sudden rose up right between, Old Chatham Green. And whatever bright-eyed hours Flitted 'neath the orange bowers. Sudden rose the forms of syne, And in the midst one brow divine I'd swear was thine. So many a year with anxious eye Hath toiled its pathway through the sky, And many a land, and many a sea — That never heard of God, or thee — Has listened me — 88 CHATHAM, Many a land and sea I've passed, Thinking that perhaps at last Heaven might give me leave to rise From the spell that always lies In those dark eyes! Magic scenes and fairy forms ! Jenny, can yoii tell what charms In those Chatham valleys lie? Would I might know ere I die What spell, and why! JENNIE MAYNE. , Those are the eyes I love to see, Both light and dark like twilight shadows, Merrily dancing on and on Like song-birds o'er the meadows. Dark brown hair with golden tints A glorious lily brow adorning, Like day, when first his soft smile wakes The dreamy gold of morning. And mouth! if such old Jove should see. Old Jove from his cloud-paved throne wert scon missing; For nothing should keep him, more than me, From the smile of such lips, and — kissing. More than me, Jane, when I felt thy proud eyes, And thy rich locks my forehead enwreathing. And Time stopped awhile on his restless course To note thy lips' soft breathing. 90 JENNIE MAYNE. More than me, Jennie; 0! do not frown, For I did love thee once, that is certain; And did kiss thee once, as the slant sun fell. And night drew her starry curtain. And though swiftly the years have fled since then, Till Age swears my jet locks are hoary. Still I love to look on such light -and- dark eyes, And dark locks of golden glory I NIGHTS FOR DAYS. NIGHTS FOR DiYS, INTRODUCTION. "WHO CARES FOR THE FARMER BOY? The snowy storm-birds of winter are all gone; March winds and frosts have nearly brought on April showers, even among the cold mountains of Vermont. The sun with each rising is gradually creeping back to its long deserted path in the North, and on many a favored knoll is warming into tearful smiles the wild flowers, ■ hid and cherished till now by December's snows. The summer birds have comeback from far southern bowers, and now begin to cheer our leafless woods with their Eden music. Squirrels dance out from their wild log dens and chatter on the topmost branches ; the wood- peckers commence their perpetual monotonous rapping — rapping ; the breezes breathe of sunnier climes, and swell the faintly trickling rills to rushing torrents — it thaws by day and freezes by night, and the sugar- making goes on briskly. But who does care for the farmer-boy ? — He was up and in 94 INTRODUCTION. the woods before the sun had dared to light up its accus- tomed pathway — the notch in the mountains. He has swung the huge potash kettle to its place and rolled heavy heac h logs around for an arch ; he has kindled a fire from some buried cinders ; he has filled his kettle from overflowing buck-ts ; he has cooked his breakfast by the flaming boiling- fire ; and his dinner, and his supper; he has stopped in his weary round with his gathering pails to listen to the new bird-warblings, and has made the birds listen in turn to notes as wild and thrilling — but the day is now gone, and the twi- light, kissing its last "good-night" upon the pure white moun- tain's brow, is gone, and it is deep night. What now ? The spruce ridge on the East, so brightly green in the daylight, is like a wall of darkness that towers up against the glowing stars. The tall maples and beeches wave dreamily by the smoke that curls among their ancient boughs ; and the cat-like sawyer-owl, stealing out from his bushy eyrie, has changed the cheerful song of the day-birds to a shrieking wail; and the farm-boy from reading by the wood light has turned to noting the scenery around him — the power-fraught steam that writhes and curls from the bubbling sap, and the bright sparks that play ofl" from the parent fire, and soar away in spite of — brighter for the very darkness closing round — soar and — go out, — and before he is aware of it he is dreaming. He has been reading of heroes; Carlyle's "Heroes and Hero Worship," and Lamartine's Heroes of the French Re- INTRODUCTION. ^95 volution, and now his bosom heaves with generous emula- tion; his heart glows with conscious power to achieve sowjc^Atwg- worthy man's high being — Destiny: to rise — soar, even like the fire-flakes now before Mm, and what — go out ? "Yes he speaks aloud as lie thrusts the poker with an ex- pressive emphasis against the brands till a glittering wreath of sparks is formed high above, ''better go out thun— than never burn at all T^ Reckless youth! you know not what you do-— you know not what a bitter freezing world is before you. Here you have a home, friends •, quiet bumble friends to be sure, but still friends ! with whom you can pursue an honest, peaceful, happy life you can be quite rich, indeed, if you desire it. " Canst thou not be content ?" He laid around more wood, great heaps of birch and hard- hack sticks ; drew up his rude seat nearer to the fire and sat down again, but dark sad thoughts did not keep away this time. He thought of the future — of the world — of the great drama of life. " It is a crowding world," he continued aloud, **a hard life, a scrambling, selfish, crowding business— life; there are more great and good now than can gain a foothold, and there are certainly too many 6ac^/" Would he had known the Poet's words ; ** Self-ease is pain; thy only rest Is labor for a worthy end.'* Vb INTRODUCTION. But One did care for him — One who ever deigns to care for the sad, the weary, or the broken-hearted ; and He has so ordained it that those who labor most diligently shall rest most peacefnlly. Exhausted with his day's toil he leaned his head over a- gainst a broad stump, witlx a common blanket for a pillow, and sleep, though unbidden, found him — found him with no watchers hut the wild-swaying forest trees, and the shades and heaven's stars looking down on his pure brow. And he dreamed — what he never told — but he has written it down under the veil of fiction, and in his notes ; and, though not superstitious, who can say but that the impress of that angel- form of beauty smiling from heaven, shall cheer him onward forever in a toilsome yet heroic career of Greatness 1 1 11. FAERIE'S QUESTION. " Will friends know and love in Heaven Friends they love so fondly here?'' Said my darling friend one even Of this wild and wintry year. "It must be,'* answered onr Carrie, Ere Fd thought to make reply. It must be, my darling Faerie, Or this world is all a lie. I know this is a hard, unfeeling. And most utilitarian age — Most cold, in apathy congealing — Most sternly steeled in every page. I know this age is very golden, For golden lamps God's sun outblaze, Which makes Dame Nature's laws, so olden, Look very strangely out of place. 9 98 FAERIE'S QUESTION. And yet there are whom earth inherits, And jostles on with Mammon's crew, Who own gold-love poor food for spirits, And so love friends, as I do you. Yet some souls seek so close communion. Even here beneath cold Mammon's reign, That Death could never break their union. But for the hope to meet again — To meet again beyond the heavens That smile to frown in such disdain, Beyond the flitting morns and evens That trance our longing hearts in vain. " It must be friends will know," said Carrie, " The friends they love so fondly here." It must be so, my darling Faerie, Or Heaven itself were very dear! III. I'LL REMEMBER." " I'LL remember'' — it floats In my memory, Like the golden notes Of yesterday; Like the songs of the spheres that wing from the sky, And encircle the world with harmony. ** I'll remember '' — it weaves O'er my rough path rich bowers. Thy smiles for the leaves, Thy love for the flowers, — It charms the welkin, though writhing with storms, Into Heaven-borne clouds, lit by rainbow forms! lY. STENA KILL. L I LOVE the songs of quiet streams, Just floating in the dusk that seems Between this and the land of dreams — What time the world grows hushed and still, Till the sad moon looks o'er the hill, And listens to the whippoorwill — What time the swallow's drowsy wing Falls downward by the low woods' ring. Till lost like an imagining — What time the very leaves seem grown Upon the breathless air alone, Upon the stirless ether strown — Till the sad shades of night sweep down From Adirondack's bosky throne, And the winds rouse them with a moan ! STENA KILL. 101 II. And yet this glorious autumn eve, What is it makes all Nature grieve, But dreaming dreams of Genevieve? And yet there is a soul should light This gloomy, mourning autumn night Into a day divinely bright. And yet could those deep beaming eyes Greet mine — with what a glad surprise. As a freed seraph's, paradise! Yet could I sit upon this shore, (As we did on one night before,) Till the stars bent the tree-tops o'er — Till the mad, bustling world grew still, And the loved moon rose o'er the hill To listen to the whippoorwill — Till weary sleep should fold her wing, And the drowsed birds forget to sing, And naught be heard but whispering Of the deep waves as on they rove, Of the light boughs in Heaven above. And of those lips of her I love, — And could—but, well-a-day ! alone Must my path henceforth lengthen on Till life's last, dreary day— is done ! V. ADEL. Night, wading the ocean, Leans her head on the sky. Disheveled her tresses Trail the clouds floating by, And she dreams that a loved one Of the dark fringed eye, A loved — how much loved one ! Is slumbering nigh. Now she feels the soft breath Of the loved sleeper nigh, Now she listens a whisper That echoes a sigh. Now anxious she startles Lest Dangers lurk by. Now she feels a soft kiss Thrill with joy of the sky! ADEL. 103 Ah ! who has not loved one Of the soul- welling eye, And wept at the parting With many a sigh, And wondered a loved one Like Adel could die, And wondered and longed To dream in the sky ! VI. AT TEN." I. Wearily on Plod the world's millions — All through the morning, Though crowned with heaven's sunbeams, All through the mid-day Though crowned with heaven's sun, All through the evening, Though heaven, with her laughing stars. Rushes so wildly forth — All through the evening. Though night draws her curtained bars Over the sleeping earth, Until " Ten.'' And what then? Does then all toil cease ? Does some sweet angel then Come to each soul again. Whispering peace ? AT TEN. 105 11. Wearily on Plod the world's millions — Some midst the rustling cane, Prove themselves abject slaves, Some midst the golden grain, Roam the free prairie's waves. There, midst the untamed woods, Still the swart hunter broods — Here, midst the city's din, Wander the throng of sin, Glad night shall soon begin, Death's veil borrow — Brave hearts are toiling there. Whose every thought's a prayer, In spite of fell Despair, Drunk with all sorrow — Brave hearts are struggling here Spite of all world-cares weigh, Spite of to-morrow, Whose glowing thoughts appear Too pure for sin's dark sphere, Too bright for child of clay , Toiling each anxious day Until " Ten,'' And what then ? Oh, this still, holy even, 106 AT TEN. Does peace each heart beguile, Does some sweet angel smile On each lone soul the while, Whispering Heaven! III.' Wearily on Plod the world's millions — Each bearing ill or worse, Nature's eld, primal curse. Where the mad waves of men Surge round and round again, Mindless as markless, I, with the millions. Am pushing on and on, Where all the world has gone Aye to Death's darkness — So in this mad turmoil, Here do I ever toil Spite of all darkness ! Why does not hope decay. Wearied from day to day, And the mad soul gainsay Life, Heaven and perish! Why? I will tell you, Moir, I am oft " tempted sore," AT TEN. 107 Through all the burning day Wearing God's hours away, Until " Ten.'» And what then? Oh, you should know the air, Of a sweet angel, fair, Waiting to smile on me With eyes of such beauteous blee, — Then, spite of Mockery, Life crowned so Fairily, Who would not cherish ! VII. LOST! I LOVED a flower one morn in May, But time was light and life was gay, And birds entranced the dreamy bowers. And laughter chased the golden hours. I started — lo, the westering day Had passed away ! I sought beneath the twilight gray For that loved flower of early May, I hunted long, and far, and wide. And found each beauty-flower beside. But wept because the loved one gay Had passed away ! VIII. THE ANGELS' FLOWERS. *Tis midnight by the dreamy stars, And the moon looks on the floor; And the angels are circling dovyn to the bowers They loved in Eden before. They come — I can tell the glow of their smile Where the ether deeper blushes : They come — I can tell their gentle tread Where the darkness deeper hushes. They come — I can tell their flitting wings O'er the music the zephyr weaves; And the rustling of their tiny feet On the trembling aspen leaves. They have passed the shade- wreathed chestnut now By the sorrowing sycamore, — They are stooping now to kiss the flowers They loved in the Eden before ! 10 IX. AT REST. The Night is resting now, And her dark and placid brow Is pillowed soft and fair In the sky, — And I know her form is there By the cloudlets soft and fair Mantling nigh. The Moon with radiance rare Watches now with anxious care From her gilded throne above The deep sky, — And I know kind passions move By the starry looks of love Bending nigh. AT REST. Ill The world is resting now, And its fever-throbbing brow Is pillowed soft by care Of the sky,— Heaven is watching with sweet care O'er the holy ones and fair Sleeping nigh! BURNSTED. Do you know this charmed vale. This Chatham of old? Do you know where the twilight Melts the air into gold — Where the clouds hid© their frowns Beneath rainbow-hued bars, And the trees tower up Till they tiss the bright stars ? Do you know where the wavelets Of the Stenakill fall With a musical murmur, As night trances all ? Do you know where the wavelets Ne'er so laughingly glide, As when dark eyed maidens Are listening beside ? ♦ BURNSTED. 113 Once they whispered a story Of darkness and fear, E'en a hero of Woden Might startle to hear — How mortals and brothers Met their brothers at bay, And fought by these waters Till the sun turned away, And left Night with her shadows To weep o'er the slain; 0, may never such slaughter Curse this fair land again ; But may dim twilights golden Chase bright days o'er the sky. And the waves ever whisper Love to maids listening nigh. XI. TO JAYNE. 0, a thousand shades Have passed the sun, And a thousand days Their bright paths run, And a thousand eyes Have kissed the brow Of the twilight mountains* As even now. And a thousand times Have I vowed to forget, And a thousand times more I love thee yet — Jayne, wilt love back again 0, a thousand clouds Have tried to scorn The dewy splendors Of blushing morn, TO JAYNB. 115 And a thousand clouds, From darkling above, Have melted to sparkling Rainbows of love. And a thousand times Have I left thee before. Yet love thee each day A thousand times more — Jayne, wilt love back again ! XII. GOOD-NIGHT. Good-night 1 Good-night to the wooing breeze That kisses my roses o'er, Good-night to the listening trees. That stand beside my door, Good-night to the kindly shades That have loved me all nights before, Good-night to the dark-eyed maids, yes, one *' good-night" more. Good -night I Good-night to the soaring visions That careered day's sunbeams along. Good-night to the soul's elysians. The world of love and song, Good-night to the twilight glades, That lead to the spirit shore. Good-night to the dark-eyed maids, yes, one "good-night" more! XIII. ELLA, OF THEE! While the morn wakes up lil'e, Yawning languidly, And day's anxious strife Goes prosingly by, Till, with mad splendors rife, The slant sunbeams die, I toil apart from the world alone. And muse till the twilight has nestled down, Ella, of thee! While the dewy shades sweep Their raven locks O'er the forests deep — As the owlet knocks. And crickets sleep Beneath the rocks, I sit me down with the night alone, And dream till the moon has climbed her throne, Ella, of thee! 118 ELLA, OF THEE. While the scene grows dimmer On mountain and wold, Till the moon's faintest shimmer Is westering told, And the dark towers grimmer All earth to infold, I sit me down with the night alone, And dream till the last wild star is gone, Ella, of thee! XIV. AWAY. One token-word. Black clouds with craggy wings Have chased a drowning night of shades away, And morning, with her thousand offerings Of glowing beauty, has been barred to»day. Yet not all cheerless is the world around, For, far against the sky the mountains grim Are drunk with light— and warbling notes pro- found Swell from the forests dim. And gray old eagles eddy as they pass, Winging afar from deep immensity; And brooklets born where battling torrents be, Low-hushed by zephyrs, nestle in the grass. And now aslope the vales where lead mists creep,. And aspens tremble as the storm-god dreams, And o'er the lily beds where Naiads sleep The sunlight streams. 120 AWAY. Ah, well-a-day! ^tis open toil-tirae new, And I must break awhile the magic spell, Must bind my youth-thought hopes about my brow. And push me forward for the guerdon well. Eva, wilt go with me? I may not tell Thee life will always be as bright and gay As when Time's fairy-chiming, vesper bell Proclaims to flowers the marriage eve of May— Perchance this morn may not be glad as when Old Winter took his snowy curtains down. And Spring sat with thee in the Stena glen. And wove her blossoms with thy tresses brown. And gave thee rosebuds with her kisses sweet. And looked love in thine eyes — for long since then The Summer with slow pace and sunburnt feet, And girdle of thick leaves and ripening wheat Passed the earth by, and Autumn sauntered forth ; Yet the same garments, which the south winds wove With purling rain-drops from the dewy north. Are left the grove. — Eva, wilt come with me — wilt thou not say? The sun careers his pathway o'er the sea; I would not hie me up the mountains gray Apart from thee! AWAY. 121 Wilt come ? Beneath this living roof of trees, Whose ancient boughs swim in the heights above, Are twined with luscious fruits wild flowers of love, And singing bees Go on their way, and winds — and birds flit by En wreathed in so much beauty ofie would say Empyrian spirits plume their wings to-day Beneath the sky. Away shall be our course, embowered with vines, That climb caressed by birches, fragrant sweet, Or where the grandeur-towering mountain pines Speak courage meet ! No meteor passions here. Rapt Energy Must joy each moment, and the love which flows From out the curtain of the heart's repose But nerve life's purpose high. And love that ever wings from thy dark eyes. So deep, and yet so sparkling full of fire, Must nerve a spirit's pinions aye to rise, To soar aye higher. — The vessel rocks — alas ! and but a dream? 'Tis dear. Too true "away,'' for thou from here Art far» Ah, now I knovv^ me well the sea-bird's scream, And — that hid parting tear I 31 122 AWAY. One word — " remember!" How the thoughtless cars With brazen feet sped on their iron path, Till June's mazed sun went down the hills in wrath, And lone night came beneath the dizzy stars, That glimmered through their rifted folds of clouds Like Hope ancfjoy in shrouds — And I was borne with Day Away. Again was changed. I started at the sigh Of the storm spirit, and the gurgling moan Of wild lost waves, as shouting winds rushed by, And pent-up bil'ows struggled with a groan, — Pale lights flashed out from the hurrying sea. Then fainted from their eyries, ocean- worn, In the dim distance — madly I was borne Away from thee! XV. NOVEMBER. The weary, dreary winds are blowing Through the leafless trees sighing and sere, The hours, with a mournful gaze, keep going, Going back to the silent year. The past Snail have whelmed ail the weeping world at last ! Yestermorn, Lizzie, thou laughed with us all In our home by the Stena Kill river, And our birds sang the sweetest lays of the fall, But to-day their wild notes sadly quiver; At last Thou art gone aye from us like the silent past. Yestereve, Lizzie, the twilight smiled As day by the tresses of night was creeping, And the rivulet's bhthe waves were in joyance be- guiled — But alas, now our Carrie is sadly weeping For thee, And the waves hurry now to their tomb in the sea ! 124 NOVEMBER. To-morrow will bring thee thy old friends again To whom thy first child-love was plighted, And the long-thought-of wilds of Clyna Kill glen Thou'lt roam as when love first delighted, And dream That the world has grown cold like the CJyna's rough stream. But the hearth-fire will wake thee from fancies like these, And thy mirth shall enliven the gloaming, Till night with dark wings o'ershadows the seas And the cliffs where the Clyna is foaming. Bright eyes Shall gladden thy home as the st^rrs do the skies. And bright eyes cease dreaming our past was once dear. And our home by the Stena Kill river, And so while the winters rage sullen and drear, And summers enchant life forever, Tl.iou'lt forget Friends that love thee as well as friends ever loved yet ! XYI. UNDERHILL. Tis a curtained, foggy, night scene Since the snowy day went by, Drowsy clouds black wrapped in shadows Far against the mountains lie, While the winds keep whistling music To the stars that watch the sky. Aged matron chats with freedom, Tells her tales of long ago ; Eighty summers came and faded Like the driving wreaths of snow, Life itself shall scon have faded From this darkened vale below, To a higher and a better World where sorrow comes not aye — 126 UNDERHILL. And though she thinks the present kindly With loved friends to cheer the way, So her life of morns and evens Passes happily away. Yet the youthful days are fairest — Ah, those joyous mountain braes, And the friends that sported with us Through all flowery, leafy ways, Listening to the Brown's wild chorus— Oh, those glorious, ancient days! XYII. ALONE. I. He knew her when young Spring was coming near With eye of light, and tresses crowned with flowers And budding leaves, whilom where Winter blear Had weary shivered through the long, dark hours, And while bland Summer wove rich, languid bowers, And sat down with them in each forest glen. Till Autumn, mocking, hurled his frosty showers, — Earle loved her then! II. It was a charmed morning, passing fair With amber light distilled through tissue screens Of fragrant birch — when birds enthronged the air With heart-gushed warb lings, where the lone brook leans Mk 128 ALONE. To raptured flower-lips with the softest breath, And Nature smiles as Eden were again Impaled within these earth-ranged walls of death, Jayne loved him then ! III. Oh, there is Heaven foreknown when spirits meet Enthrilled with holy passion into one, Though world-eyed Wisdom breaks communion sweet But just begun. And who shall say that God does not delight To see His children love (though short the while) As Angels would if Heaven's sun, always bright, Ne'er looked upon a world of sin and guile! IV. It cannot be that Goodness e'er enjoys The torture of a soul His breath gave breath, Ah no! full oft He weeps while He destroys. That proud Sin's wages should be always Death! But what of Sin? Love was our theme erstwhile, But Love must not be told without a moan. Lest too believing ones should think that Guile Had left this fair, bright world to Love alone! ALONE. 129 V. Yet all was well, as poet ever sung, For kindred spirits to grow rich in power That dies not. Fair, and pure, and young, They twined themselves a pleasant cottage bower, Beside those Alps that throne proud Europe's sky. Beside those crystal waves called Geneva, And all good angels watched them ever nigh, As bards would say. VI. For they had never lost their heart's first truth, — Earle had not even thought to give away (As men do now) the happiness of youth For gold or clay — But cheerly sowed his lands on Spring morns bright, And garnered up his sheaves in Autumn gray. And warbled oft the songs a glad heart might, From day to day, vrr. Till seven bright years had decked his garden bower, And three bright forms played round his thresh- hold stone, 130 ALONE. And still Jayne sweetJy smiled as on that hour Love first had claimed his own. But wo the power (despite Life's pleasant Spring) That led him forth from rural paths to gaze On bauble toys, which mark the earthly king From those enkinged always. VIII. War's clarion voice called Earle from garden bowers. He saw lights blaze from palace windows proud, And when he neared each castle's haughty towers, And mingled with a pearl-bedizened crowd, Who scorned the blissful heaven of quiet sleep, And mocked the weary night with revels loud. He dreamed not that the heart more prone to weep Could mask itself in Joy so kingly browed! IX. And when the dance whirled, set to music thrills, It seemed to waken all the harmonies, For evil spirits set their cunning wills To rob one soul of bliss and cheat the skies, And so like fairies looked the direst ills, And so like angels all these heartless lies, Earle thought their feet tripped lightly like the rills That sport the silvery steeps of Paradise! ALONE. 131 X. But one (of all) seemed fair beyond a thought, He worshipped ere he knew or wondered why. Oh, well she minded how each spell was wrought To pierce his heart with every smile and sigh — Yet all in vain! Love could not stir his heart Without awakening love that reigned before ! But still the syren vowed her elfish art Should bring Earle's regal heart 'neath her vile power ! XI. And so she changed her course, and thronged his soul With longings for the wealth that glozed his eyes. Ah-wella-day! Too soon this gained control, For here no sentinel armed with his cries! — ^ •'Alas!" his angel cried, *' he has forgot His home, love, God I and now what is there more? Take him on whom your bfleful charms have wrought. And give him what he asks, earth's barren power!'' 132 ALONE, XII. And Earle's heart shuddered as it heard the rhyme Of his false charmer echoing, as they tell, Like the soft-lipped and gold-tongued marriage chime That dies a funeral knell ! "All thine,'' she said, "these lordly towers and walls!" — But while she spoke her rich voice died a moan. And echoes sighed along the palace halls — "Alone !" XIII. He started — all were gone! The doors ajar Slammed in the night wind, and the jeweled lamps. So bright erstwhile looked ghastly paled and far. Like fatuus fires seen through sepulchral damps. A nd couches clad in princely Tyrian there Ranged far along b}'' tables richly spread. Yet a sick drowse as if to blight and bar The very air hung round with chilling dread ! XIV. With maddened haste he spurned the marble floor, Retreating echoes died upon his ear, ALONE. 133 He called the name he loved to breathe before — With quivering fear ! He searched again. Again the echo falls, As of departing feet, came hushed and dread. He stopped — and silence brooded o'er the halls, As o'er the dead ! XV. He passed through gilded banquet-room and tower, And rich-worked, book-set aisles where Genius bound Was wont to while away a weary hour For the encrowned. He sought another and another room — Fainting he sank upon the cold hearth-stone ! And this is pomp of earth — a gilded tomb Alone ! 12 NOTES LETTERS TO BO^ BROWN". I. KINDERHOOKLNG. My Dear Don: — I know it is bold in me to ad- dress you after so many years of absence and silence — me, old and dusty, and overgrown with the dying weeds of a past-time luxurious life, — yoii, young and aspiring, growing to power and fame, with the first bright laurels still fresh on your brow. But if I know you, you will not scorn a friend, however crooked his thoughts or trembling his hand. It has been so long since I have written, I suppose you wonder how I can tell a pen from a harpoon, or my own thoughts from Dickens'. I'll tell you — I always read and think every day for 138 LETTERS TO DON BROWN. myself, and further than that, it makes but little difference whether I write with a pen or a crow- bar, if the same while I am truly in earnest. Do they say I am old? Perhaps they are right, yet how may they know? " We should count time by heart throbs." After all, Don, what matters it whether I am young as the mountain rill that with each shower dances itself into life by my cottage door, or old as the scraggy maple boughs above, that have out- lived the blights and blooms of a thousand chang- ing years! Old age does not necessarily bring thoughtlessness; I rebel against the fashion of coupling these words. It should bring more thought — for the prospect aided by memory must be far wider, vaster. It is neither necessary nor right to grow careless and insensible. I am old; yet can I not as well love sport (and jovial frankness,) whether I find it in pert Ed. Hills, with six satin shirts and a smile for every belle, or yet in portly Peter Carringtons, living easily upon a large plan- tation and plenty of bread and butter? Can I not as well love the bold, graceful, sparkling imper- sonation of girlhood and beauty, as Lizzie, or Jenny or Minnie ? Indubitably (as Morley would say) I do. I do know the difference between the " lovely dark-eyed girls of Cadiz," and your life- less "ladies" and romping Ovolkinvanstrander- KINDERHOOKING. 139- burgs. (0-vol-kin-van-strander-burgs!) My young friend, words are weak — I wish I could paint. (Then Edens would be cheap so that all could have them.) First there should be a little bower of a cottage peeping out through brilliant groves of peach and chestnut trees, and down below a sweet little river with its banks covered with sycamores ^ and maples, and willows, and Lizzies, and Jennies, and Geneve Blanches, (and a swing with you to swing them,) and Kinderhook Lake eight miles in the background, with th^cars running up there full race ahead qf a thunder-storm and a picnic ! Next should come all the incidents of the day — all the personages (thirty ladies, six gentlemen and myself,) and pies, and biscuits, and lemonades, and soda waters, and lake waters. We left Chatham depot at 9.40 a. m. At first the clouds thickened, and we thought they would certainly shower on us, and we were ''glad — just for incident,'' But when we concluded they would not, we forgot our wished-for incident, we were gladder. We did not have time to change our mind again, for our steed snuffed and snorted as if spurn- ing his load, and whistled us along his iron path at a mad velocity. I suppose all poets understand how much can be said on the cars too low for other ears — so I will not tell you. Dear Don, I would not wish lo insinuate ^^^ LETTERS TO DON BROWN. [ anything against you, much less against your friei thafis,— myself— but your friend must not de but that seventy winters have frosted his passio as well as his cranium, only he does still lovej wild, deep, love-lit eye like Minnie's. He loves watch her eye meet his (Charlie's) as if they wi looking in to the depths of his spirit-he loves see them chat (though he cannot hear a word, know!) till with an extra snort and jam backw they bring up at their journey's end. " What a short ride." - tempora " old CicL would have said, ';Who knows which way is t" lake?" said Highschylder, It thundered. - It.J coming," said Van Ship. . ' I You told me once how well you liked the cj ladies. Well I like them and hate them,-]ik Ihem because I cannot help it, and hate them, ] suppose, because I was not a city lady. But enough of likes and hates. This much willj show why I was pleased and Miss Jenny was rowi iiig in our boat beside me, and I was pleased and Miss Pierpont, in a rage of distress, was rambling around the four corners of Kinderhook, searching for the lake and us, which she could not find. We took boats at Niversville, a flourishing vil- laffe founded by the Dutch Nivers in 1639 and composed of a low Dutch groggery, a high Putch factory, a low Dutch shed, and six leaky Dutch KINDERHOOKING, 141 SCOWS, worth fifty cents apiece for cheap Dutch strainers. Well, the next thing after taking boats we rowed them, or rode them, up what appeared to me to be a long narrow mill pond; but Van Ship said some- thing about the river Styx, and "nine times round hell.'' I do not know, but I hope he didn't mean anything, as he seemed to be a fine " cleverish young man.'' 0, pond lilies and presidents! I for once wished I was young. They rode us into the bushes and up a stump. The next time I ride with Van Ship Der Kirk, I choose to go a-foot. My dear Critic, I do not know what picturesque means. Professor Newman makes it mean almost anything, so I will say that the shore alders of this part of our journey, one third in the mud, one third in the water, and three feet out of the water, made a very picturesque appearance. One mile of churning and spattering brought us to the long-looked-for Kinderhook Lake. We went over to the island, a rolling hill four rods long, and covered with a species of cactus (I don't know it from horseradish) flowering vines, and wild roses. This is about the centre of the lake. On the north, east, and west, respectively, there are three headlands where " the tall trees in pillared ranks 142 LETTERS TO DON BROWN'. come down the borders of the banks'' — oaks, hem-' locks, ashes, and pines. The northern one is the most of a promontory, runs farthest out towards the island centre, and has the dryest, most grassy sward; hence chosen for our picnic dining-table. I say it was chosen, for they (the rest) had the table all spread while we were hunting lily-flowers and incidents. Is it not strange about those lilies? — how they keep reaching up, up from their dark home, it may be twenty feet below, all to meet the loving air and sunshine — and those incidents, — they are not all for the most bold and reckless, say nulla nisi ARDUA VIRTUS as many times as you please, the careless will yet claim aud have their share of in- cidental honors. Blanche fell overboard. Van Ship had several times told her to be care- ful, but it did no good. Unheeding she kept on her wanton sport, and soon she found herself sporting with the " Heartless waves Away down where they sleep by mermaid caves.'' Here perhaps you will expect about nineteen pages and three-quarters of — oh's, and several dashes and exclamation points; but if you do, you will be disappointed. You will simply find my KINDERHOOKING, 143 simplest of thoughts, namely — I never saw Blanche look so beautifully as now when Van S. took her from the water, I could well imagine myself in fairy or nymph land, or in the dreamy Orient with Moore's fairy creations proving themselves true, or — well, when you behold, you will admit that the scene must have been most enchanting. The fierce splendor of June was mellowed by soft amber-hued clouds that seemed to watch, across the sky, bright waves of joy and beauty; birds sang and flitted round as if to charm a place for love and beauty; the gently sloping hills bent down their fairest heads as if to kiss the sleeping beauty — all beautiful. But this was not the best of it for me ; she, my some while heroine, lost all her haughty imperious- ness and affectation in her ducking! We landed, and she leaned on her benefactor's ( ?) arm as lan- guidly and lovingly as heart could wish ! It was two past noon before Mr. Cady, Miss Pierpont, and Mrs. Tower (the part of our com- pany left behind) found us. Dear old Mrs. Tower! I remember, even now, the literary advice she gave me when I was a mere witling of a beardless boy. *' Unless you can write with the greatest ease and power, unless it is as natural for you to com- pose as to eat, sleep, or breathe — in fine, unless 144 LETTERS TO DON BROWN. you are a born Genius, do not think of this author- ship business.'' " Yes,*' I replied, *' but who is to determine this Genius-power? Who is to sort and brand the world of men, so that all may know the Genius- kings, and therefore make no mistake?" " Posterity," was the ready answer. I thanked her for her kind counsel, but was impatient, im- petuous then, and thought I could not wait ! The day was fast fading into twilight over the Hudson valley as we arrived again at Burnsted. 11 CHATHAM AS HOME. Dear Don: — This is a growing, Anglo-Dutch viHage, situated at the junction of the Western, Hudson and Harlem Railroads, and of venerable railroad antiquity — namely, ten years. It is a whistling, smashing place for business, yet we do not care, for the Stena Kill (Dutch Steine Kill) comes down from the Berkshire Mountains be- tween this and Burnsted, and here we are alone. Fine sort of loneliness in a Female Seminary, you may imagine ! Have you seen our blitheful Lizzie? Darker eyes ne'er worshipped night — Brighter eyes ne'er dazzled Heaven, In its radiance of light — Deeper eyes ne'er measured Heaven In its boundlessness of might ! 13 146 LETTERS TO DON BROWN. Beauties are abundant. Imagine one with a step as free As the mermaids that dance the restless sea, With tresses as dark as a raven's wing, And lovely as fairy's imagining ; And with eyes as dark, and sparkling, and deep As an angel has, or a sheep, (dear sheep!) And though it is well and natural enough for you to dream Of evergreen isles in a flower-crowned sea. Like gems with their wreath of crystal round — And life-stars shining placidly In heaven's profound — yet it were sometimes lonely and cold, even chill- ing (for such as I), without other companionship: and this has been supplied (since you could not be here) by Dr. Crake and the Domine. And, by the way, I must be pardoned a surplussage of rythras and rhymes (though like Bulwer and Jedediah Cleithsbotham, claiming everything good and plea- surable myself) that the former of the above- named professionals is a poet. Not a common writer for a crammed corner of the common news- paper press, thanks to the loving sisters of the lyre ! but an unbound, unclouded impromptu-ity — one who would say, *• Though to all there is not given Strength for such sublime endeavor, CHATHAM AS HOME. 147 Thus to scale the walls of heaven, And to leaven with fiery leaven All the hearts of men forever; Yet all bards wiiose hearts unblighted Honor and believe the presage, Bear aloft their torches lighted, Gleaming through the realms benighted, As they onward bear the message!" as easy as the next scribbler would say — Genius. And in looks, too, he is the genius, and in some- thing more than the vulgar acceptation — that is, oddity. Six feet, with deep eyes beneath a massive mountain of forehead; it is good to hear him dis- course of nature in nature's temple, in our en- chanting woods that overspread our enchanting river. He is plainly enough to me one of the heaven-anointed, yet he has not, and very likely never will have, a name in fame — he is not great in ambition. He is an anomaly* I cannot as yet discover the least trace of what Milton calls the last infirmity of noble minds. He loves his wife, (who would not such an one?) and mirth, and careleas rambles in the woods, and careless songs and rhymes ; and I earnestly believe that he throws away more poetic timber during each passing year than would form an ordinary poet's reputation. I have caught a few bits that struck me as peculiar. One that seems droll enough for a wild German's fancv, I shall call 148 LETTERS TO DON BROWN. JENNY MAYNE. May I love you, Jenny Mayne — May I love, just a bit? As the sun loves the day — When night frowns I will quit; As the shades love the forest, As the forest loves me, As all nature must love, Jenny Mayne, I'll love thee. II. 0! no, Jenny, do not frown; *Tis my right to love all That is fiiir, sweet, or blithe, In this dark world of gall ! I do not ask you, Jenny, To love back again: But — let me love you, Jane! I must — frowns are vain. III. Jenny, I have loved you Through long dreary years; You are smiling now, you dove, you, You are smiling through your tears. I do not ask you, Jenny, To love back again. Yet — if you will, Jenny, It shall never be in vain! Very likely imperfect, even from his careless mus- ings as they are either drawn from memory or hasty CHATHAM AS HOME. 149 pencil sketches — yet you will make allowance for that. I like his description of TWILIGHT. The sun has set in the dewy west, And night has curtained his place of rest With gorgeous fabrics of twilight woof. That float in rich folds from the golden roof; While spangles like stars Flash from deepening bars, And pictures, like shadows of dreamy trees, Hang around where the curtains commingle with these; And the winds, from surging o'er troubled seas And barren strands, Clap their mystic hands. And hasten to gambol o'er nature's keys! Also an exclamation on worldly fame — is it not strong? Greatness! And is there nothing more of this Than what we see in w