Book > ■' '. * L THE COMING OF THE MAMMOTH OTHER POEMS ^ e ^ e>U *£, \W , £# , <&.**-. /fg ?L°, S.' THE COMING OF THE MAMMOTH, THE FUNERAL OF TIME, OTHER POEMS. BY HENRY B. HIRST Pro me : si rnerear, in me. Trajan. BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY PHILLIPS & SAMPSON. MDCCCXLV. Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1845, BY PHILLIPS & SAMPSON, in the Clerk's office of the District Court for the Eastern Dis- trict of Massachusetts. bli* PREFACE. Most of the following poems were written during the intervals of a prepara- tion for the Bar. Those among them which have already enjoyed their hour of notoriety in magazines or more ephemeral productions, appeared to deserve some further notice from their parent ; and they have received it, in order that they may be launched upon the waste of literary waters with somewhat better hope of riding the ripple of the coast, whatever may be their fate among the billows of the broader sea. Whether whelmed in the storm of criticism, or returned to port with some small cargo of renown, the issue is of little consequence to the author — whose all is not invested in this single adventure. I* (5) VI PREFACE. The Coming of the Mammoth is almost strictly a poetical version of the ancient Indian legend of the last of the Mastodons ; and if any uncouthness should be apparent in the style, it must be attributed rather to the nature of the subject than the taste of the writer. To have rendered it more spiritual, would have been, to make a sacrifice of the graphic to poetical beauty, beyond the extent allowed by poetical license. Several of the longer poems, as well as some of the sonnets, were originally pub- lished under a nom de plume; but the public, it is hoped, will not consider them the less worthy, that they have now re- claimed their proper paternity. Philadelphia, June, 1845. CONTENTS Page The Coming of the Mammoth 11 EARLY POEMS. The Funeral of Time 31 Isabelle 37 Geraldine 48 The Unseen River ^ 53 The Burial of Eros 60 The Sea of the Mind 64 The Birth of a Poet 70 Everard Grey 74 The Fringilla Melodia 76 The Coming of Autumn 80 The Autumn Wind 82 Eleanore 85 Mary 88 To an Old Oak 92 The Passage of the Birds 95 To a Ruined Fountain 97 To E , with a withered Rose 99 The Death-Song of the Nightingale 100 Eulalie Vere 104 To the American Sky-Lark 106 Ellena 108 Coming on of Night Ill Violet 113 A Gift 116 (vii) Vlll CONTENTS. The Owl 118 Song 120 Mutius Scsevola 122 The Forsaken 125 The Lament of Adam 127 The Statue-Love 129 May 132 Dramatic Fragments 135 The Song of the Scald, Biorne 137 Summer 143 SONNETS. The Minds of Eld 149 Life 150 Loneliness 151 Endurance 152 Moon-light. .\ . 153 Indian Summer 154 On a Misty Morning in May 155 Alpheus 156 The Desolated 157 The Poet's Grave 158 Lydia 159 Posthumous Fame 160 The Poet's Soul. . '. 161 Dead-Man's Island , 162 Bethlehem 163 To Keats 164 Heart-Land 165 Natal Stars 166 The Poet 167 Astarte 168 COMING OF THE MAMMOTH ( 9 ) THE COMING OF THE MAMMOTH Slow sank the Sun-God down the sky, As rose the snowy mists of even, And tranquilly, with placid eye, The Moon illumed the eastern heaven ; And Night, on wings of ebon hue, Sailed circling over the welkin blue. In groups before each wigwam door We sat ; while, 'neath the Night-Queen's light, Our children, on the river shore, Pursued the game of mimic fight, Or leaped along in lengthened race, Or practised for the woodland chase. 12 COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. With happy hearts we gazed around, Marking their agile figures pass, In many a frolic, fawn-like bound, Sportively o'er the dewy grass, When, suddenly, a sulphurous shade Fell gloomily on glen and glade : And, from the distance, wild, and strange, And clangorous clamours eddied past, As, hurrying on this boding change, Arose the murmurs of the blast; And heavy clouds swept down and round. Whirling, like marsh-mists, o'er the ground. We stood appalled — aghast with dread — The tumult shaking earth and air- When, over Alleghany's head, Appeared a faint and flickering glare. And groans, as though its peaks were riven. Swelled terriblv from earth to heaven. COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. 13 Then came a deeper, dreader sound. Crash echoed crash so loud and fast, We deemed a whirlwind swept the ground, Crushing the forests as it passed ; And quaked the earth ; and luridly Coursed the swift lightning through the sky. The wild birds fled the creaking woods, The cougar rushed from glade to glade And, fluttering from the swelling floods, The herons sought the cypress shade, But left it for the blackening skies, Stunning the air with clamorous cries. Onward and on, a myriad forms, Unearthly in their savage mien, Each, like a mountain crowned with storms. Came thundering through the forests green ; While, flickering on the eyes of night, Around them rolled a lambent light. 2 14 COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. With snake like trunk and hide of steel, And tusks like primal sycamores, Making the earth in passing reel, They hastened toward the Atlantic shores, The loftiest trees beneath their tread Sinking like rushes — black and dead. On, like the hurricane, they came ! On, like the hurricane, they passed ! An instant — and the air was flame, And rushing round us, roared the blast ! Another — and their forms had gone O'er the far forests, surging on ! That weary night we knelt in prayer, While, loudly on our wondering ears Their roars re-echoed through the air, — A fiendish mockery of our fears : At last, along the eastern way All slowly crept the light of day. COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. 15 And then that lovely land of ours, Studded with sunny vales and streams And pleasant bowers and beauteous flowers, As seems our Spirit-Home in dreams, Where, frolicking in green-wood shade, The elk and deer together played, 'T was changed ; and such a fearful change ! For rock and tree and forest lay Around the ruined scene in strange And wild and terrible array. The night — and all was verdure green — The morn — not even the grass was seen ! We sat, for days, like men asleep : The sense of evil, like a weight, Lay on our souls, where horror deep Reclined in dark and dismal state, 'Till bowing down in apathy We recked not what our fates might be. 16 COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. We saw them hunt the buffalo, And crush them with their teeth of steel, The mountains rocking to and fro, Like trees that in the tempest reel, When passed their herds ; and lake and river A draught of theirs made dry for ever. Our sons waxed weak ; our daughters paled, Like flowers before the autumnal breeze ; Our terror-stricken warriors quailed When rang their roaring through the trees We lived and moved — scarce drawing breath, Dreading this desolating death. At last, elate with new-born pride, Our braves went forth to slay the foe : Filing along the mountain side, They entered on the plain below: But never one of them came back, Nor dared we seek their distant track. COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. 17 Days — weeks — moons past, and direr still These monsters' ravages became, Until we deemed Moneddo's will Had given us to these sons of Flame — The fearful instruments on whom Devolved a haughty people's doom. Starving, we sought the distant deer, While round our perishing children lay, A.nd wives and fathers — young and sere — Breathed blessings on the hunter's way. We sought, and found, half-hidden with stones And blackened earth, our brothers' bones ! God of my fathers ! 'T was a sight To quench the courage of the bold ! Green mosses fringing all the white And shattered limbs with slimy fold, They slept ; while, bleaching in the air, Their eveless skulls lay crushed and bare. 2* 18 COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. We dug them on the spot a grave, And laid them in the soddened ground, And, slowly gathering, sadly gave Our nation's death-song o'er the mound Then turned, in agony of pain, And sought our desolate homes again. At last, we reached them : there was not A sign of life ; no murmur broke The silence of that tomb-like spot ; No single voice a welcome spoke. We looked upon each other — read Each other's faces — all were dead. Dumb with the depth of our despair, We stood : a freezing torpor crept Upon us, and the very air Around us, like a sick man, slept ; While, slowly fading, day by day, We wasted in our pride away. COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. 19 Moneddo ! 'T is a fearful thing To see the strong man hourly quiver With pallid fear, yet closely cling To hope, with heart as strong as ever ; — To view his form convulsed with grief, And know that nought can bring relief. But we had grown so cold, we wist No longer for such sights as these, For none would to the other list ; But each in his own miseries Enshrined himself, and sat alone, Hardening himself to senseless stone. Moon after moon rolled slowly on, And, sad in spirit, crushed in heart, We knew not how the time had gone, Save when we saw some friend depart, And, when we laid him down to sleep, We sighed to share a rest as deep. 20 COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. Around us everywhere was waste, Strange weeds about our pathways grew, And feeble Famine slowly paced, Grim, gaunt and ghastly, in our view ; Then rose the prayer from madness riven, To great Moneddo throned in Heaven. He heard ; and, gazing o'er the land, — A desolate desert, black and bare, — Waved through the heavens his awful hand In answer to our frantic prayer, And sent the storm. Then flashed on high His bolts of vengeance through the sky. We knelt — all breathless — dumb with dread; The sun waxed like a globe of fire; Then sunk ; roaring the tempest spread : Earth shook; the surging heaven grew nigher ; While roar on roar, with thundering din, Went up from meadow, marsh and glen. COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. 21 Sternly, magnificently grand, In ruin's awful majesty, Lay the wild chaos of the land, Looming afar from sea to sea ; While Darkness, like a giant, wound His ebon arms the earth around. Intense and fathomless, the cloud Spread o'er our wildly straining sight, Save when its almost palpable shroud, Rent by the levin's vivid light, An instant severed ; closing o'er The scene more densely than before. Then, valley, stream, and mountain stood, Lit by the lightning's lurid gleam, In bold relief; while through the wood, Blasted and bare, its vivid beam Flashed, like the fire-lights of the North, When Winter rules the frozen earth. 22 COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. Moneddo ! Then our mighty foes, Like mountains in the earthquake's shock, Or ocean in its wildest throes, Swept over vale and wood and rock, In wild despair, while hill and lea Heaved 'neath them like the billowy sea Bolt rushed on bolt, 'till, one by one, Howling in agony, they died : Save him — the fiercest ! And alone He stood ; — almost a God in pride — Then, with a loud, defying yell, Leapt, like a shaft, o'er hill and dell. Our sires, upon his adamant brow, Saw the red levin strike and shiver, And yet, amid the infernal glow, He battled, fierce and firm as ever, Slowly retreating toward the west, With haughty front and dauntless crest. COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. 23 For hours the conflicts din arose. Though trembling, on his desolate track, Our warriors rushed. Came — even close And darkness : yet they turned not back. Day woke again — morn, noon, and night — And still they followed on his flight. Morass and forest rose before, And opening swiftly, closed behind : They heard the mountain torrent roar, — The avalanche fall ; but, like the wind, They hurried on toward where, ahead, The dissonant din of battle spread. For months, while they untired pursued The Mammoth's steps, Moneddo flashed His dreadful bolts ; but, unsubdued, His savage foe, though round him crashed The thunder ; though about him plashed The surging storm ; undaunted, dashed 24 COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. Majestic onwards. Sweeping by, Turbid and swollen with autumn rains, Red Mississippi rushed : — his eye Grasped the stern scene : beyond, the plains, Broad, bright and green. One leap — his last 1 The wide, wild-swelling stream was past ! Before him, far as eye could view, The prairie lay ; but, as he sprang Again to flight, the lightning flew Around him, and the thunder rang. The wild grass flashed to flame : a sea Of burning billows swept the lea. Flame o'er him — round him — 'neath him, still He kept his western path, 'till lay The Rocky Mountains, hill on hill, A granite barrier in his way, And, at their base, he turned again, While on him lightning fell like rain. COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. 25 Tearing up trees and rocks, he flung Them fiercely in the face of God. Drowning the thunder, loudly rung His yells, and still defying, he trod The blackened ground, with dauntless eye Daring the Highest of the High. Gathering his utmost strength, and wild At meeting from the thing he made Such savage scorn, Moneddo piled Chaotic masses, and arrayed The Spirits of the Storm, while fell Blackness, like that which reigns in hell. On earth and air. The Mammoth turned And unsubdued, with new T -born might. While fiercer yet his eye-balls burned, Sprang toward the mountain's giddy height. Mocking, as on he rushed unriven, The innocuous bolts of mighty heaven. 26 COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. Leaps forth the lightning ! Swells the blast. Howling around him ! From his throne Moneddo dashes thick and fast His gathered weapons, — tree and stone And rock and thunder — but in vain — The Mammoth treads the summit plain. And there, above the distant flood, Half-shrouded by the clouds, alone He moved, and like a monarch, stood — Those mighty hills his massive throne — A monument for endless time, Majestic, motionless, sublime ! Moneddo gazed, and ordering forth His mightiest spirits, bade them dash His rude insulter to the earth. They heard ! With one tremendous crash Down on the Mammoth's forehead came A surging sea of withering flame. COMING OF THE MAMMOTH. 27 Earth trembled to its core ; and weak, But unsubdued, the Mammoth leapt Furiously from that lofty peak To where the dark blue ocean slept. Down! down! The startled waters sever; Then roll above him — and forever! FUNEEAL OF TIME, AND OTHER POEMS. (29) 3* 31 THE FUNERAL OF TIME. Lo ! through a shadowy valley, March, with measured step and tread, A long array of Phantoms wan And pallid as the dead — The white and waxen dead ! With a crown on every head And a torch in every hand, To fright the sheeted ghosts away, That guard its portals night and day They seek the Shadow-Land. 32 EARLY POEMS. On as the pale procession stalks, The clouds around divide, Raising themselves in giant shapes And gazing down in pride On the spectres as they glide Through the valley long and wide — On the spectres all so pale, In vestments whiter than the snow As through the dim defile they go With melancholy wail. On tramps the funeral file ; and now The weeping ones have passed, A throng succeeding, loftier And statelier than the last — The Monarchs of the Past ! And, upon the solemn blast, Wave their plumes and pennons high, And loud their mournful marches sweep Up from the valley dark and deep To the over-arching sky. THE FUNERAL OF TIME. 33 And now the Cycle-buried years Stride on in stern array : Before each band the Centuries With beards of silver grey — The Marshals of the Day !— In silence pass away ; And behind them come the Hours And Minutes, who, as on they go, Are swinging steadily to and fro The incense round in showers. Behold the bier — the ebony bier ! — On sinewy shoulders borne Of many a dim, forgotten Year From Primal Times forlorn. All weary and all worn, With their ancient garments torn And their beards as white as Lear's, Lo ! how they tremble as they tread, Mourning above the marble dead, In agonies of tears. 34 EARLY POEMS. How very wan the old man looks ! As wasted and as pale As some dim ghost of shadowy days In legendary tale. God give the sleeper, hail ! And the world hath much to Wail That his ears no more may hear ; For, with his palms across his breast He lieth in eternal rest Along his stately bier. How thin his hair ! How white his beard ! How waxen-like his hands, Which never more may turn the glass That on his bosom stands — The glass whose solemn sands Were won from Stygian strands ; — For his weary work is done, And he has reaped his latest field, And none that scythe of his can wield 'Neath the dim, descending sun. THE FUNERAL OF TIME. 35 At last they reach the Shadow-Land, And, with an eildritch cry, The guardian ghosts sweep wailingly Athwart the troubled sky, Like meteors flashing by, As asunder crashing fly With a wild and clangorous din, The gates, before the funeral train, Filing along the dreary plain And marching slow 7 ly in. Lo ! 'tis a temple ! and around, Tall ebony columns rise Up from the withering earth, and bear Aloft the shrivelling skies, Where the tempest trembling sighs, And the ghostly moonlight dies 'Neath a lurid comet's glare, That over the mourners' plumed heads And on the Dead a lustre sheds From its crimson floating hair ! 36 EARLY POEMS. The rites are read — the requiem sung ; And, as the echoes die, The Shadow Chaos rises — With a wild, unearthly cry — A giant, to the sky ! His arms out-stretched on high Over Time that dead doth lie ; And with a voice that shakes the spheres. He shouts to the mourners mad with fears, "Depart ! Lo! here am I!" Down, showering fire, the comet sweeps : Shivering, the pillars fall; And, lightning-like, the red flames rush. A whirlwind, over all ! And Silence spreads her pall — Like pinions over the hall — Over the temple overthrown — Over the dying and the unburied dead — And, with a heavily-drooping head. Sits — statue-like — alone ! 37 ISABELLE. A lustrous maid was Isabelle, And quiet as a brooding bird ; She never thought of passion's spell — Of love she never heard ; But in her lonely chamber sat, Sighing the weary hours away, From morn, 'till flitting of the bat Around the turrets gray, And trembling with a strange unrest, A yearning for — she knew not what She only knew her heaving breast Was heavy with its lot. 38 EARLY POEMS. And so she spent her maiden days, With neither heart to laugh nor sing— With neither heart for earthly ways. Nor hope from earthly thing: But lived a being wrapt in dreams Of passion and of Paradise — An earthly one, lit up by gleams Beaming from loving eyes. At last she passed to womanhood, And sat her down on Beauty's throne. A statue with a beating heart Beneath a breast of stone. And then a blue-eyed page there came Smiling along her lonely way ; And Isabelle was all aflame And wild as bird in May. ISABELLE. 39 Her lustrous eyes grew large with love ; Her cheeks, with passion, flushed and bright : Her lips, whereon no bee might rove Tndrunken with delight, Were ever apart and jewelled o'er With diamonds of nectarian dew ; Her fair and faultless features wore A spiritual hue; Her step grew certain with the firm, Full knowledge she had passed the night Of woman's life, and reached the term, Where, henceforth, all was light. She felt she had not lived in vain ; She saw the Eden of her dreams Close round her, and she stood again Beside its silver streams. 40 EARLY POEMS. The seed of love, God's hand had sown, With life, within her woman's soul, Had swollen to leaf, and, sudden, grown Beyond her will's control — Grown to a tall and stately tree, Whose shadows fell (as shadows fall) Upon her life, and she was free From sorrow's solemn thrall. She sighed no more at even-tide, She sighed no more at night or morn, She knew not in the world so wide A single thing forlorn. And ever she sung her lightest lays. And never she shed a single tear, But roamed about in woodland ways As merry as the deer. ISABELLE. 41 Her father watched her as she passed, And said her mother's step was there ; Her mother's features in her glassed — She had her mother's hair. The servants followed her with their eyes, And prayed the Virgin that her hours Might ever pass under azure skies, And over parterres of flowers. But shadows fall from angel wings, And happiest moments welcome woe ; No joy is born but brings its stings, And nought is bliss below. Her father, wrapped in study's spell, At last awoke, and saw the change That time had wrought in Isabelle, And thought it passing strange ! 4 * 42 EARLY POEMS. And instant, out he called his train, And forth, with hawk and hound, at noon He rode, and when he came again There came Prince Ethelrune — Prince Ethelrune, a knight whose fame Shone ever fairest in field or hall, Came circled with his shining name At lady's feet to fall. He wooed the maid with courtly word. Bowing to her his royal pride, And said, (with pain the lady heard,) He sought her as his bride. And Isabelle rose like the moon, And bent the full light of her eyes Upon the kneeling Ethelrune, And, sighing, bade him rise. ISABELLE. 43 " My hand," said she, " I may not keep ; My heart, sir knight, is not my own ; And 'till in abbey-vault I sleep, It owns but one alone. "And, as thou art an honest knight, Strive not my plighted faith to move Thy hand may clasp another's right, But cannot grasp my love. " No ! choose a better — nobler part ; My true knight and my brother be, And let a sister's loving heart Beat in my breast for thee." The gentle knight arose and said, " Lady, I krss thy snowy hand ; The maiden loth, I would not wed The loftiest in the land. 44 EARLY POEMS. "And tell me, who is he so blest With love that I would die to win; For be he knight of noteless crest, Or princely paladin, " In hall or field to none I '11 yield A sovereign's right to bear him on, Until his lip his love has sealed On thine, and thou art won." "A noble knight," said she, " art thou Our Lady's blessing on thy head ! And had I never plighted vow None other would I wed. "A simple page, my love is bight, But fair ; and braver than the best That bears on high in knightly fight An unattainted crest." ISABELLE. 45 "A simple page !" the lover said ; " Why Lady, this can never be ! A maid like thee may never wed A man of mean degree. " But I will make thy page a knight, And forth beside me he shall go, And gather glory in the fight From crest of Paynim foe. •'And I will give him house and land, And shape his rank to favour thine, And then, together ye shall stand Before the sacred shrine. The lady raised her azure eyes, Like violets, gleaming with the dew Of glistening tears, and said, with sighs, " I yield my fate to you." 46 EARLY POEMS. " Then bring the page, for I would see The lover who hath won so well Despite her haughty, high degree, The Lady Isabelle. The gentle-hearted maid is gone ; The noble knight in sorrow stands ; For well he loves the dove-like one He yields to other hands. But little time hath he for woe — The sound of gentle footsteps fell Upon his ears, and smiling, lo ! The page and Isabelle ! And now he stands in mute amaze : And now he drops his wondering eyes. As though afraid again to gaze On what before him lies. ISABELLE. 47 Up spake the page, " It is no dream ; Brother ! I am a thing of earth ; — And, Lady, not the churl I seem, But one of lofty birth." Then quoth the Prince in merry glee, " Sure Fortune never smiled so well On maiden as she has on thee, Sweet sister Isabelle !" 48 GERALDINE. The martins twitter round the eaves, The swifts adown the chimney glide, The bees are humming mid the leaves Along the garden side : The robin whistles in the wood, The linnet on the vane, And down the alder-margined lane The throstle sings, and by the flood The plover pipes again. GERALDINE. 49 But ah — alas! alas! no more Their merry melodies delight : No more along the river's shore I watch the swallow's flight: And bees may hum, and birds may sing. And silver streamlets shine, But on the rocks I sit and pine Unheeding all ; for thought will cling To nought but Geraldine. Oh, Geraldine ! my life, my love ! I only wander where we met In emerald days — when blue above The skies were o'er us set — Along the glen, and o'er the vale, And by the willow tree I wander, where at even with thee I suns the song and told the tale Of olden chivalry. 5 50 EARLY POEMS. I stand beneath the sombre pines That darken all thy father's hall, Begirt with noisome ivy vines That shroud me like a pall. Aye, there — where ruin frowns around ! Until the cock doth crow, I watch, thy window-panes below, Upon the sodden, blackened ground, Where nothing good will grow I 've watched thy lattice as before, To see the glimmer dimly pass, When thou wouldst open thy chamber door, Of lamp-light on the glass; But none from out thy lattice peeps, And all within is gloom, And silent as a vacant tomb, Save when a bat affrighted cheeps In some deserted room. GERALDINE. 51 Why comest thou not ? Night after night, For many a long and weary year, 'Neath many and many a May-moon's light, I 've waited for thee here. Aye, blackest night and wildest storm, When frowning in the sky, Have looked on me with lightning eye, And charnel figures round my form Have gleamed and hurried by. Why comest thou not ? or wilt thou soon ? The crimson sun doth wax and wane Day after day ; the yellow moon Gildeth thy casement pane Night after night ; the stars are pale Expecting thee ; the breeze, Rustling among the dreary trees Sighs for thee with a woful wail, Who art beyond the seas. EARLY POEMS. They tell me thou wilt never come : Alas ! that thou art cold and dead And slumbering in the green sea-foam Upon some coral bed: — That shriekingly thy ship went down Beneath the wailing wave, And none were near to hear or save , And then they weep to see me frown — To hear me groan and rave. Thou dead ! no, no, — it cannot be ! For, if thou wast, thy ghost had kept The solemn trist thou madest with me When all, save passion, slept : — Thy ghost had come and greeted me And bade me be at rest ; And long ere this, upon my breast The clod had lain ; and I with thee Were roaming 'mid the blest. 53 THE UNSEEN RIVER. Through a valley green and golden, In the purple time and olden, When the East was growing grey ; When the mists were star-ward creeping — Weeping — being woke from sleeping By the anthems of the Day ; — While, like vapour o'er a city, fluctuating stil they lay ; 5* 54 EARLY POEMS. Walking through their shrouding shadows, Over daisy-dimpled meadows, Moved a proud and princely youth, With a foot-fall light and airy As the sylphid step of fairy, And a forehead stamped with truth : — An Apollo ! incarnating lofty scorn and loving ruth. From the valley, — from a river, — Which, with many a silver quiver, Through the landscape stole in light :— From the bushes, shrubs and blossoms, — Flowers unfolding fragrant bosoms, — Curled the shadows out of sight ; Fading, like a ghost, in air. And ever the river rippled bright. THE UNSEEN RIVER. Fruits of crimson — purple — azure — Thrilled his Poet-soul with pleasure Which, from all, new glory won ; While around him birds were chaunting, — Birds that fairy valley haunting, — Such as Mother Earth had none And like gems their pinions glistened, glancing in the aspiring sun. In a sweet excitement swimming, All his soul with beauty brimming, While the morning grew to noon In that glorious valley — listening To the music — by the glistening River — sung with lulling tune, While his heart throbbed echo 'neath Lethean languor born of June — 56 EARLY POEMS. Carelessly the youth went straying Like a merry child a-Maying. And the river rippled on. While now that a thirst pursued him, And the noon-tide heat subdued him, And he felt him weak and wan, Thinking of the stream, he turned him, fevered ; but the stream was gone! Searching for it, on he wandered Hour by hour ; and sadly pondered As to where its waves might be : And the valley slowly faded To a primal forest, shaded By full many a mossy tree. Still, he could not see the stream meandering through the meadowy lea. THE UNSEEN RIVER. 57 But the murmur of the river, Rippling, running, plashing ever, Floated on his yearning ear : Still before he heard it flowing — Heard it kiss the rocks while going, Seeming, as he heard it, near; Whispering nearer, flowing onward, gurgling every instant freer. More luxuriant, greener, brighter, Glossier, loftier, and lighter Grew the foliage where it seemed; And the woodland birds sang clearer, And the waters near and nearer Murmured, till he thought they gleamed ; And, between the emerald leaves, he dreamed the silver wavelets beamed. 58 EARLY POEMS. Through the trees, among the bushes, Looking for the river rushes, Onward, onward, still he went, Listening to the water's plashing — Listening to the eddies dashing In their crystal merriment: But he found it not, though stooping — gazing, 'till his form grew bent. All around grew dark and dreary, And our wanderer, very weary, Tottered feebly, full of pain, From the forest; with his figure Robbed of all its youthful vigour : — And the sun was on the wane — And night's swarthy, solemn shadows slowly gathered round the plain. THE UNSEEN RIVER. 59 And — among those shades lamenting, — Urged by old Time unrelenting, — Where was never else but gloom — From the sight the wanderer faded, By chaotic blackness shaded, While the silence of the tomb Wrapped him, shroud-like; and that silence was the requiem of his doom. 00 THE BURIAL OF EROS. Love lieth in his halls a corpse, While, mourning round his coffin, stand The wan and pallid Feelings, like Dim spectres from the Shadow-land. His nose is pinched, his lips are blue, His once round cheeks are sunken and thin. And heavily sleep his clotted locks Along his yellow, waxen skin. " Poor Love, dear Love," the mourners say, " 'Tis sad that one so young should die ! Poor Love, dear Love ! Ah, dreary day That seeth him in cold earth lie !" THE BURIAL OF EROS. 01 " He was a merry wight,'' saith one ; " But fond of mischief," saith another; " And yet, despite his wayward ways," Quoth Hope, " I loved him like a brother. He used to laugh and chat with me And seemed to live upon my smiles, Whilst I was heedless of his tricks, — There was such magic in his wiles. " Poor Love, dear Love," the mourners say, " He was too good a lad to die !" And then arose from every lip A wild and weird and wailing cry. " I never shall forgive myself," Quoth Hope, " that I forsook the boy ; Had I remained, those sightless eyes Would now be lit with life and joy." Quoth Grief, " no sooner had you gone, Than down he came and sat with me, Crying and sighing night and day, A very baby at my knee." 62 EARLY POEMS. " Poor Love, dear Love," the mourners say, " 'T was wrong in Hope to leave the boy ! Had she remained, this dreary day Would be a day of golden joy. Then spoke Despair, "from Grief he came To me, his eyes agape and wild : I bore him in and cherished him, But soon a maniac grew the child ; And then I took his quivering form And on my bosom made his bed, Nursing him with a mother's love Until he slumbered with the dead." " Poor Love, dear Love," the mourners say, " A weary vigil was Despair's ! Hers was the mother's gentle watch, And hers the mother's many cares. They screwed Love's coffin cover down With many a sigh and many a tear, And placed him, heavily of heart, Upon his plumed, ebon bier, THE BURIAL OF EROS. 63 And ranging them in double line, (How did the plumes and weepers wave !) They bore him from his lonely home And laid him in his silent grave. The bell is tolled — the mass is o'er — The prayers are said — the service done — And all are gone, save Hope, who weeps By Love's untimely tomb alone. 64 THE SEA OF THE MIND. To the eyes of man forbidden, where seraphic shadows be, Under a mountain summit hidden, flows a pure, pellucid sea; — Ever glowing, ever gleaming, with a mystic, magic light, Though in secret caverns shrouded — shrouded in a seeming night: — Yet, around its crystal waters, woods and valleys lie dispread, — Decked with trees of emerald verdure, that a sweet aroma shed ; — THE SEA OF THE MIND. (55 Birds of gay and gorgeous plumage, shaped as never birds were seen, Purple, scarlet, amethyst, azure, flutter through their foliage green. Blossoms everywhere are blooming — blossoms trail from every tree, While their fragrance, zephyr-scattered, cloud- like, floats on every lea : — Butterflies on every floweret, wave their multi- coloured wings, And from every rocklet running, flow a myriad murmuring springs. Silvery the ocean singeth over sands of pearly glow; Under its surface shapes are gliding, — gliding fast or sailing slow — Shapes of strange supernal beauty, floating through a fairy wave — Fairer, purer, lovelier, brighter than the streams that Irani lave. 6* titi EARLY POEMS. Fair the rocks that over-arch it ! — bright the gems that 'neath it rest ! Brighter, fairer yet the vessels, sailing on its silver breast — Vessels, fairy-like in beauty, silken-sailed and bannered gay, Wreathed with glorious garlands — breathing all the balmy breath of May: — Others gorgeous, grand, majestic; — royal vessels fretted round With golden figures ; — ebon-masted, and with ribs of iron bound. Others fearfully — fiercely featured — built as if by barbarous hands, Like the Arabesquely-shapen barks of Cartha- ginian lands. Some are full of youths and maidens, — bright Bacchantes fair as day: Others carry bearded warriors — warriors swart, and grim and grey. THE SEA OF THE MIND. 67 Some with kings and queens are laden, robed in robes of Tyrian dye, While, in others, hideous Satyrs stalk the decks or sleeping lie. Some upon the bubbling billows slowly, softly, lightly slide; Others swiftly sweep and madly o'er the wounded waters stride. Oftentimes these barks conflicting, hurl the weaker far beneath Waves that seem so purely peaceful, none would deem they shrouded death. Stalactitic islands ever rise from out the waves around ; — Sapphire, diamond, emerald, ruby, glittering over the magic ground : — Islands bright with bowers of crystal — fanci- fully, featly made, Of the rarest architecture, with the richest gems inlaid. 68 EARLY POEMS. Beautifully bland this ocean's silver surface mostly seems, But as bright as was the beauty of the fiery Sappho's dreams; Yet, a storm may come, and fearful, terrible, and black, and strange Roll its billows, and its vessels, rudderless and courseless range. When appears this tempest, ever vanishes its mystic light, And above it reigns a solemn, dreadful and chaotic night. Then the mountain slowly topples — falls ! and withering wanes away, — All its grandeur — all its beauties, mingling in a dull decay. Thus some Poet, quaint and olden, in the ancient, primal days, Wrote of Man, his soaring spirit and its won- der-working wavs : — THE SEA OF THE MIND. 69 Telling tales of thoughts of Eros ; Paphian, others ; — others, rude ; — Others, sweet and dove-like ; — others, regal ; — others, guilt-imbrued. So, we took his strange old poem, graven w T ith an iron pen, And with mystic figures pictured all the magic thoughts of men ; And the mountain — Man — arose, like Thebac's walls at Amphion's breath, Swelled the silver sea of Mind and burst the terrible tempest — Death ! 70 THE BIRTH OF A POET. The air was all afloat with light, That down upon the house-tops came In shining showers, and solemn night Seemed in a silver flame. The arching azure over head Was flaked with gems ; the Orient With Dian at her full, lay spread Where'er the eye was bent: THE BIRTH OF A POET. 71 With fleecy clouds that glided by, Like swimming swans along a lake, Whose glassy surface, like the sky, No breeze occurred to break. The roofs, the spires, the steeple-vanes Seemed swimming in the silver mist Which was the air; the window-panes The floating glory kissed. And all was still — a holy calm Lay dreaming on the sleeper's eyes, Filling his slumbering soul with balm Exhaled from Paradise — A holy calm, like that which falls In vast cathedrals, when the last Low organ tone along the walls In melody hath passed. 72 EARLY POEMS. Such was the stillness ; not a note Of bird or cricket stirred the air ; Yet fairy music seemed to float In eddies everywhere. Music, like what in nightly dreams, Visions to us the glowing shore Whose flowering fields and flowing streams Shall glad us evermore : — Music like what the poet hears When, wrapt in harmony, he wings His soul away through argent spheres, And back their melody brings. The silver sounds of lyre and lute. And trumpet's bray and clarion's call With flowing notes of fife and flute Rose on the breeze — to fall. THE BIRTH OF A POET. 73 Loudly they pealed, or wild, or weird, As grandly through the purple sky, The forms of wizard wights appeared, And marched, like shadows, by. Such portents shook the souls of Rome When mighty Caesar, madly brave, Forsook Calphurnia and his home To find — a tyrant's grave. But this was not of these ; the sound Foretold no deed of deadly wrong, But heralded to earthly ground, A simple son of song. 74 EVERARD GREY. Under a lattice encircled with flowers, Dim with the dew of the moon-litten hours, Singing to night, like a linnet in June, His heaving heart beating the time to his tune, Everard Grey in an ecstasy poured His passion in song to the maid he adored. " Lady," he sang, " when the clarion shall sound, Far from thy favour thy knight will be found. Long in the distance, in camp and in field, His falchion his fortune, his valour his shield, Everard Grey shall bestir him to make A name and a fame that are fair for thy sake." EVERARD GREY. 75 Loud on the silence the shrill signal rang ; Swift to his saddle the troubadour sprang ; Waving his hand, down the valley he rode, Gazing his last on his lady's abode — On the lattice he left, and the fairy face there, Beaming out, like a moon, on the mid-summer air. Time — it has passed ; and the lady is pale — Pale as the lily that lolls on the gale ; Weary and worn she hath waited for years, Keeping her grief ever green with her tears : — Years will she tarry ; for cold is the clay Fettering the form of her Everard Grey. 76 THE FRINGILLA MELODIA. Happy Song-sparrow, that on woodland side, Or by the meadow sits, and, ceaseless, sings His mellow roundelay in russet pride, Owning no care between his wings. He has no tax to pay, nor work to do : His round of life is ever a pleasant one ; For they are merry that may naught but woo From yellow dawn till set of sun. The verdant fields, — the river-side, — the road ; The cottage garden, and the orchard green, When Spring with breezy footstep stirs abroad, His modest, mottled form have seen. THE FRINGILLA MELODIA. 77 The cedar, at the cottage door, contains His nest ; the lilac by the walk as well ; From whence arise his silver-swelling strains, That echo loudly down the dell. And when at dewy eve the farmer lies Before his door, his children all around, From twig to twig the simple sparrow flies, Frightened to hear their laughter's sound. Or, when the farm-boy, with his shining spade. Freshening the mould around the garden flowers, Disturbs him, timid, but not yet afraid, He chirps about him there for hours. And when, his labour o'er, the urchin leaves The haunted spot, he seeks some lofty spray, And there, with ruffled throat, delighted weaves, Gushing with joy, his lovely lay. 78 EARLY POEMS. Perchance, his nest discovered, children come, And peer, with curious eyes, where lie the young And callow brood, and then with ceaseless hum, He, shrew-like, scolds with double tongue. A little while, and on the gravelled walk The nestlings hop, or peer between the grass, While he sits watching on some blossom stalk, Lest danger might toward them pass. He sees the cat with stealthy step, and form Pressed closely to the ground, come creeping through The white-washed fence, and with a loud alarm He flies ; and they — they swift pursue. So passes Summer ; and when Autumn treads With sober step the yellowing woods and vales, A mellower song the gentle sparrow sheds. From orchard tree or garden pales. THE FR1NGILLA MELODIA. 79 And, as the nights grow cold and woodlands dim, He seeks, with many a kin, a w r armer clime, And perching there, along some river's rim, Fills up with song the solemn time. But, with the sun of March, his little soul, Warm with the love of home, impels him where, In bygone hours, he owned love's sweet control ; And soon he breathes his native air. And then again his merry song rings out, And meadow, orchard, valley, wood and plain Ring with his bridal notes, that seem to flout Dull echo with their silver strain. And so his round of life runs ever on ; Happy, contented, in his humble sphere He lives, loves, sings ; and when the day is gone Slumbers and dreams, devoid of fear. 80 THE COMING OF AUTUMN. Hurrah for brown Autumn, hurrah ! hurrah ! He hastens o'er valley and plain, And the withering wind is his shout of war, And many, alas, are the slain. He has wreathed him a robe from the crimson leaves, And a crown from the ivy green ; In his hand he holdeth a stoup of wine — He 's a jolly old fellow I ween. The poet may sing of the pleasures of spring, And prate of the season of love ; But ho ! for the hour when Autumn throws His armies o'er meadow and grove. And the wail of the wind is the song for me, With its wild and sudden cry; For it feeleth the tread of his heels so red, And shrieks as he gallops by. THE COMING OF AUTUMN. 81 Hurrah for brown Autumn, hurrah ! hurrah ! He maketh the blossoms decay, And driveth the birds from the wood-side brown To the tropical islets away. But he gives in their stead the ruddy fruit, And the reaper's rolicking song, And the hunter's horn on the naked hill, As he chases the fox along. Hurrah for brown Autumn, hurrah ! hurrah ! He rides over valley and plain As a conqueror rides through the carnage of war, When trampling the breasts of the slain. With the loud tempest shout for his battle-cry, And the sleet for his sharp-edged sword, He maketh the oak and the blossom to fall In the dust, at the feet of their Lord ! 82 THE AUTUMN WIND. Whether thou comest from the mountain brow, Or surgest from the melancholy north, Wind of the Autumn ! that around me now Sendest sad music to my lonely hearth, I know not, yet I give thee, gladly, hail ! Tracing God's voice within thy solemn wail. Sad to the rest, but sweet to me thy song, — Thou, who hast revelled where the cygnet soars, And boreal breezes bear the strains along That rises ever over Lapland's shores ! And thou hast freshness in thy fitful sweep, Gathered all freely from the northern deep ; THE AUTUMN WIND. 83 And bearest on thy wings the pine's wild shriek As it soughed 'neath thee, whirling swiftly past; And the old oak-tree's quivering branches creak Again around me, in thy groaning blast ; And far above me, in the gusty sky, The broad-winged eagle screams while soaring by. Thou hast been sweeping o'er the sleeping lake, Tossing its waves all mountainous on high ; And thou hast eddyed through the tangled brake, Mocking all scornfully the panther's cry ; And swiftly rushed along the rolling river Whose falling shakes the sturdy rock for ever. And thou hast passed o'er gardens ; for thy sigh Is fragrant with the delicate scent of flowers ; 84 EARLY POEMS. Or where the gentian and the aster lie Beside the brooklet in the forest bowers. Whose mossy trunks and limbs, grown sere and grey, Mourn o'er their offspring that upon thee play. And thou wilt pass o'er other lands along, As now thou passest sadly over mine, And the poor man shall sorrow at thy song, And weak and worn, at hearing thee repine, Hailing thee, weeping, as the courier grim Announcing winter and its wants to him. Wind of the Autumn ! Welcome and farewell ! But not forgotten shall thy coming be, For thou hast wound around my heart a spell Of solemn sadness in thy memory, And after hours shall on its surface find The impress of thy visit, Autumn Wind ! 85 ELEANORE. There's a lustre in thine eye, Eleanore, Mellow music in thy sigh, Eleanore ; But the radiance, falling free, And the sigh — are not for me, Eleanore. Bland as breathings of the breeze, Eleanore, Sounds thy step among the trees, Eleanore ; But when me thou com'st to meet. Fall like lead thy tiny feet, Eleanore. 8 86 EARLY POEMS. Gladly rings thy singing out, Eleanore, Like a fairy's frolic shout, Eleanore ; But the song when sung for me Hath the moaning of the sea, Eleanore. Falls thy hair in braids of light, Eleanore, O'er thy beaming brow of white, Eleanore ; But for me they were not made, And I sorrow in their shade, Eleanore. When I came of old, thy glance, Eleanore, Seemed with loving light to dance, Eleanore ; But thy glances now are ever Far the brighter when we sever, Eleanore. ELEANORE. 87 I am lone without thy love, Eleanore, And my life with grief is wove, Eleanore ; While the scorn thy glances dart Makes a winter in my heart, Eleanore ! MARY There were no laurels on her girlish brow, When first in childhood's holy hours they met ; There were no words of love, no whispered vow, No trembling tones to cause his wild regret. She was too innocent to dream of love, And, — thinking — hoping not, he thought her fair: — Passed on ; while he, in solemn silence, wove The thoughts that wrought him all his future care. MARY. »9 They met again: — The girl had passed away, And, in her place, the lovely woman stood ; There was deep love within her eyes of grey, And in her heart a magic, merry mood ; There were sweet graces in her ways, that stole — Like winds that pilfer from unknowing flowers Their balmy breaths, — the worship of his soul, His heart, his hopes, the lightness of his hours. He saw her fairy form in dreams by day, He felt the pressure of her hand at even, And heard her voice of melody, and lay Like one who hears, entranced, the hymns of heaven. He watched each motion of her rustling dress, Each lustrous movement of her liquid eyes, Envied the air its undisturbed caress Of her, whose presence was his Paradise. 8* 90 EARLY POEMS. And Time rolled on — and things, they had their change ; He saw she loved him, but too poor to claim Her hand with honour, — with a wild and strange Stern passion taught the maid to hate his name Taught her to hate him — when his heart was all One world, of which she was the single sun & j Taught her to hate him — And the heavy pall Fell on his hopes — his day of joy was done! She was a child of song ! Her heart was bred In love of God and God's most lovely things ; Her lofty soul to passion's dreams was wed, And, Sappho-like, she felt its serpent stings ; But, unlike Sappho, with a secret scorn Of him who left her, lived in silence on, Her hope the future — her remaining morn Stained with no thought of one so coldly ijone. MARY. 91 And he grew rich, and they were yet apart She knowing, dreaming not he loved her still- That he had ever loved her — that his heart Was yet the utter plaything of her will ; For they were friendless of the kind of friends Whose single word had torn the veil away That kept from these two hearts the love that lends The light to life — that changes night to day. And Time still passed — and Fortune, who had rent The twain asunder, with a smiling eye. Again her glances on their pathways bent; And heard with pitying ear each lingering sigh; And, like two streams that through a waste had crept For weary leagues, in sight but yet apart. Their tides of love together ran, and slept — The peaceful ocean of a common heart. 92 TO AN OLD OAK. Shake, shake thy head in the wind, And wave thy locks, old tree, That men, when they think of thy glories gone, Shall feel for thy fall with me. But they never can feel for thee, Old Oak, as the passionate Poet can ; For he hath the heart that loves old friends, And they have the heart of man — TO AN OLD OAK. 93 The cold and stern and stony heart, And the stolid soul within That owns no God save the Idol Self — Nor priest but the priests of sin. Now, the Poet's heaving heart is warm, And spurns the taint of the clod — Is warm with the love of the good of Life, And fresh from the hand of God. And he will say, thou ancient Oak, That, though so grim and grey, Thy branches sung a gleesome song In the merry month of May — That, likewise, in the hot July, They made a pleasant shade For the wayworn wanderer, as he strode Along *the sweltering glade — 94 EARLY POEMS. That August saw the cattle sleep Beneath thy branches green, Where the warbling wood-bird fed its young In the depth of their emerald sheen. And he will sing, old honest Oak, Of a thousand things like these, And spread thy fame on the wings of song Away o'er an hundred seas — And he will love thee long and well, And a Poet's love is worth The purest pearls and the reddest gold, And the richest gems of earth. So, shake thy head in the wind, And rustle and whistle, old tree, To the withering blast as it surges by, A note of thy olden glee. 95 THE PASSAGE OF THE BIRDS. They are passing, they are passing, Their sylvan songs are gone, And wood and vale, and bosky dale, Are wailing them alone — Wailing alone, their leafless trees Quivering before the blast That bears the dying echo Of their latest warblings past. Gone are the murmurs of their wings: No single sound I hear, Save one, the falling of the leaves Within the forest sere — 96 EARLY POEMS. The low, faint fall, as one by one, Each sinks to seek its mate That lies upon the frozen ground, In ruin desolate. 'Tis sad to bid the birds farewell, The birds that all the spring Fluttered among our leafy trees, For ever on the wing — That, in the summer, built their nests Before our very eyes, And taught us how above all art Were nature's harmonies. But they have passed, and now the blast Sweeps shrieking through the boughs, Where, every morn and eve, their sweet And silver songs arose. But winter hath an end ; and then Mine ears shall hail the strain — The magic, mellow melodies Of my summer friends — again. 97 TO A RUINED FOUNTAIN, In a green Arcadian valley, Grey, with lichen overgrown, Where the blandest breezes dally, Chaunting, ever musically, Roundelays with silvery tone, Stands a mossy fountain, broken, Of the ancient day a token. On the basin-sides are graven Forms of chiefs and maidens bright, Whom the never-dying raven Hath forgotten, — nameless even In the poet's lay of might; — With Bacchantic figures glowing, Through the crystal waters flowing. 98 EARLY POEMS. On the ground beneath it, sleeping, Lies some quaintly sculptured God, O'er the scene no vigil keeping; While the willow, on it weeping, Trails its leaves along the sod, And the ivy climbs beside it, Seeking from the sight to hide it. Fountain ! Old and grey and hoary ! Like an aged man you sit In that home of song and story, Where the relics of old glory (Dreamy visions !) hallow it, With your sweetly mournful singing, Back its faded memories bringing. 99 TO E , WITH A WITHERED ROSE. The rose you gave me, love, has lost The beauty of its blooming hour, But still, a fairy fragrance clings Around the ruined flower : And so, the smile you gave me, love, Shone but an instant on my sight, And yet, its memory remains To thrill me with delight. And now I give the rose again, Content that memory should be The only thing to call me back To thought of love and thee, For lo ! our lots are set apart, And mine is all too sad a way To shadow with its cypress boughs The morning of thy May. 100 DEATH-SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE. [" One of the admired nightingales, we spoke a few days ago of having been invited to hear, sang itself to death one or two mornings since. The two were in separate cages, sus- pended, one in the porch, the other in an adjacent room. They appeared to be engaged in a trial of their musical powers, and were exerting all their strength, rustling their wings, ruffling their feathers, jumping about their cages, varying and swelling their songs until the whole air seemed filled with the sweet volumes they uttered. This they con- tinued for some time, when one of them fainted away and died. His little heart seemed to have swelled with the spirit of song until it bursted, and his soul passed away."] Richmond Compiler. Forth on that last glad strain — Thy swelling soul sprang forth and fled away, While on the earth reposed Thy breathless clay. DEATH-SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 101 'T was sweet — full sweet to die Amid the music of thine own glad heart ; To burst the chords of life.. And so depart. But whither, sweet one, where Hath flown thy gentle soul ? Unto that heaven, Where rose thy happy hymns At close of even ? Or in some kindred form Reposes it, till twilight's quiet hour Shall call it forth again With freshened power I Or, through the scenes so loved, Dost thou now wander on ethereal wing, And 'mid the moon-lit groves Flit sorrowing? — 9* 102 EARLY POEMS. When, in the dim midnight, My steps have wandered 'neath the arching trees, Oft have I heard sweet sounds Float on the breeze. And then, enwrapt, I thought Them lays of disembodied souls of those Whose sylvan songs to God All pure uprose. Perchance, when ever again I seek the woods, upon my wondering ear May fall thy spirit-song, In cadence clear. Thine was a hapless end; For, like to fire, thy love of song consumed Thine own high heart, and thou Did'st die self-doomed ! DEATH-SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 103 Thine was the death of those Who seek for earthly fame, and wildly crave Men's worship here, to find An early grave. Better to look on high, With hopes and thoughts to One, Almighty, given ; Then, immortality Is thine in heaven ! 104 EULALIE VERE. With an eye, like the eagle's, bewilderingly bright, With tresses as black as the pinions of Night, With cheeks where the loveliest of lustres reposes On valleys of lilies and mountains of roses, She walks in her beauty, the May of the year, The queen of the season, young Eulalie Vere. EULALIE VERE. 105 Though the days of the tourney are over; though dust Concealeth the helmet, half-eaten with rust ; Though the falchion is sheathed, and the pen- oncel furled ; Though knighthood hath waned, like a dream, from the world : — Yet the troubadour lives to entitle her peer To the proudest in loveliness, — Eulalie Vere. And though she is scornful as beauteous, and cold As the ice of the poles, she may bow to the bold; For the heart that is coldest burns fiercest when fired, Like the soul of the Poet by passion inspired ; And so, though she scorn me, despising all fear. I will win me and wear me, this Eulalie Vere. 106 TO THE AMERICAN SKY-LARK. (After Bryant's "Water-Fowl.") Far, far away, With the blue heavens around thee, in the light The red sun sheds upon thy plumage grey, Thou tak'st thy flight. And, like a strain Of music poured from lips of seraphim, Thy song descends upon the smiling plain, A heavenly hymn. And there thy mate, Amid the springing spears of emerald grass, Sits on her nest, whilst thou, with heart elate, Dost upward pass, TO THE AMERICAN SKY-LARK. 10? Waiting the hour : When, with her gentle young, she '11 seek again, With swelling soul and wing of freshened power. The azure plain. Sweet bird, farewell — Thine is the flight of Genius, that awhile, Lark-like, ascends beneath Fame's sunny spell And Fortune's smile. But soon the storm ! Then, with the swiftness of thy downward flight, It passes from the vision^ and its charm Is lost in night. 108 ELLENA. She stood alone, though crowds were round, — Lone as a lovely summer isle Which ever was enchanted ground — And there was music in her smile That made my throbbing pulses bound, And my heart trembled at her sigh's sweet sound. She sang, and all w T ere breathless. Bright And lovely shadows floated by ; The air was full of mellow light, And full of melody the sky ; — A new sphere came to grace my night, Her sisters hailing her with wild delight. ELLENA. 109 She glided by me : All I ever heard Or dreamed of loveliness was hers : She was a fawn — a flower — a bird — The fairest things were ministers To make her bright ; and at her word The hushed air shook, — with human passion stirred. She spoke to me : her radiant eyes, Glowing with sunshine, gazed on me; I felt the presence of her sighs As angel things, and bowed the knee. What could I else 1 Our quiet skies Never before beheld such planet rise. She passed : there was nor sun, nor moon. Nor stars, but chaos dark and dim ; The air was like an August noon, Alive with heat ; and, from the rim Of slumbrous clouds, a maniac tune Rang in mine ears, like songs sung in a swoon. 10 110 EARLY POEMS. Lethe's a dream, a fable ! borne By shadows from the shadowy Past, — A feather, by the Ages worn And on the solemn Present cast, — A relic of what was; for torn I sought its waves, but found them not, and mourn ! Ill TH£ COMING ON OF NIGHT. Down drops the dying sun : The low breeze floats among the nodding boughs, And o'er the shutting flowrets gently flows. Night cometh, robed in dun. Her quiet step is heard, Like the far echo of some trickling spring, Or the faint murmur of the downy wing Of some up-springing bird. And from the dreamy sky The moonbeams fall, and luminously shiver Among the ripples of the silver river Meandering slowly by. 1 12 EARLY POEMS. And from the sleeping stream The mirrored stars, a spiritual light Fling hazily o'er grove and rock and height, That smile beneath their beam. Forest and field are still ; Nature seems wrapt in slumber; wholly dumb, Save, when the frog's deep bass or beetle's hum, Or wailing whip-poor-will, Disturb her weary ear; Or the far falling of the rippling rill That sings while leaping down the silent hill, Her dreamless sleep to cheer. It is a night of love ! Oh blessed Night ! that comes to rich and poor Alike; bringing us dreams that lure Our hearts to One above. 113 VIOLET. Violet — sweet Violet, Thy raven tresses were a net To mesh young hearts; — Thy radiant eyes (The mightiest of all mysteries, Those eyes !) Shot roseate darts, As free as Dian's glances fall; While lashes — heavy as the pall That o'er them lies — Shadowed a cheek of white and red, Where Love, love-lorn, had made his bed. 10* 114 EARLY POEMS. And Thou art cold — all icy cold — Wrapped in the shroud's funereal fold ; And none are by, Save me, to keep The solemn vigil o'er thy sleep — Sad sleep ! — Whence not a sigh Breaks on the slumberous silence, while I gaze upon thy rigid smile, Yet, dare not weep, Lest thou might wake, and chide the one Who sent thy soul where it hath gone. Thy present bed — thy virgin bed, On which thou liest cold and dead, Shall lose thee soon; And worms will mate And frolic — mirthfully elate — (Sad fate!) In death's dull noon, VIOLET. 115 Upon thy lovely limbs, and creep Where sweetest odours loved to sleep; — While, soon and late, Above thy grass-grown grave I pray To God to wash my sin away! 116 A GIFT. I give thee all I may, love, A heart whose hopes are dead — A ruined altar! grey, love, With ashes overspread, And cold as is the clay, love, Whence life a day hath fled. It was not always so, love; That heart hath had its fire ; But many a week of woe, love, And many a wild desire Have quenched its youthful glow, love, And bade its flame expire. 117 I am standing all alone, love, A blighted, blasted tree, That to the winds doth groan, love, In helpless agony — To the winds whose maniac moan, love, Floats round it fitfully. It was not always so, love ; That tree was once as green As thy young way ; but lo ! love, No more its pride is seen ; Nor spring, nor summer's glow, love, Can change its wintry mien. That shrine again can burn, love, That heart with hope beat fast, That tree its blossoms turn, love, Defying to the blast, If thou wilt but inurn, love, The ashes of the past. 118 THE OWL. When twilight fades, and evening falls Alike o'er tree and tower, And Silence, like a pensive maid, Walks round each slumbering bower, — When fragrant flowrets fold their leaves, And all is still in sleep, The horned owl, on moon-lit wing, Flies from the donjon keep. And he calls aloud, " tu-whit, tu-whoo !" And the nightingale is still* And the pattering step of the nurrying hare Is hushed upon the hill ; THE OWL. I 19 And he crouches low in the dewy grass, As the lord of the night goes by, Not with a loudly whirring w r ing, But like a lady's sigh. About the wood the owlet floats, Like the breath of the evening wind: But scattering fear and leaving a drear And desolate dread behind: Up through the oak-tree's leafy crown, He seeks his slumbering prey, Or, dimly, down through the tangled dell. Glides, spectrally, away. But an honest bird 's the hated owl, Though many a heart he chills, And many an innocent breast with fear His midnight music thrills ! In russet garbed, he lives his life, With never the thought of change, So long as he has the leafy wood And the briery brake to range. 120 SONG. Moments were, but ah ! how fleeting ! When to love me thou didst deign: Then my tongue, at every greeting, Told what it may ne'er again : — Ah! how thrilling was the pleasure, When my lips, impressing thine, Tasted bliss thought ne'er could measure- Transport for which Gods might pine! SONG. 121 Though I laugh amid my sorrow. Know a lip oppressed with care Frequent will from pleasure borrow Smiles to hide the anguish there; But thy smile that, once undoing, Left my heart to writhe in pain, Though in luxury 't were wooing, Never may win it back again. 11 VZ2 MUTIUS SCiEVOLA. Three thousand cycles gone ! And yet A halo circles him, whose name Rang through the storied streets of Rome, The loudest on the lip of fame. And still his memory stirs the soul, As, proudly o'er the historic page Gathering new glory as it goes, His spirit stalks through every age. And dreamers o'er old tablets rise, With heaving hearts and eye-brows bent, When reading of the Roman youth Who sought the Etrurian tyrant's tent. MUTIUS SCEVOLA. 123 They view him lift his gleaming blade, And strike the seeming monarch down, Turning to meet his certain fate, With all a Roman freeman's frown ; Or, standing at the altar's side, Thrusting the hand which failed the aim Stern Freedom taught his soaring soul, Unquivering, in the scorching flame. And when that hand was all consumed, Dashing the shrivelled limb away, Smiling — with lip and eye of scorn— Upon the tyrant king's dismay. iVnd hear him, still defying, tell Porsenna, trembling on his throne, Old Rome had yet three hundred sons, Sworn to the deed he should have done: — 124 EARLY POEMS. To do ; but not to fail like him ; For which — his only fault — he sought Forgiveness of the Gods; but not To flee the death his deed had bought. They see Porsenna clasp the maimed But god-like Roman to his heart — Bidding the single-handed take His country's safety and depart — And joy, with throbbing breasts, to find That there were those, in Pagan days. To do the deeds which Christian men, Porsenna-like, can proudly praise; And feeling this, will pray, that when Their country needs, she may command As bold and brave a Roman heart, As Mutius of the single hand. 126 THE FORSAKEN. They tell me, in the giddy crowd No laugh is half so loud as thine, And that the homage of the proud Is frequent at thy shrine ; — That 'mid the dance, and in the song, And where the red wine freely flows. Thy step is light, thy voice is strong, Thy cheek with pleasure glows. 11* 126 EARLY POEMS. • it They tell me beauty joys to hear The magic music of thy tongue ; That when thou singest, the votive tear Falleth from old and young. They tell me this, and smile to see My heaving breast and heavy eye, Though well they know that, loving thee I love until I die. Well, go thy way ; and never wake The feeblest memory of me, To wring thy worthless heart ! I break Thy chains, and set thee free. Thou, to thy mirth ! I, to my gloom ! Health to the coldest of the twain ! And mine — not thine — the iron doom Of having loved in vain ! 127 LAMENT OF ADAM. Glad was our meeting ; thy glistening bosom 1 heard Beating on mine, like the heart of a timorous bird; Bright were thine eyes as the stars, and their glances as radiant as gleams Falling from eyes of the angels, when singing by Eden's purpureal streams ! 128 EARLY POEMS. > j( Happy as seraphs were we, for we wandered alone, Trembling with passionate thrills, when twi- light had flown. Even the echo was silent. Our kisses and whispers of love, Languished unheard and unknown, like the breath of the blossoming buds of the grove ! Life hath its pleasures — but perishing they as the flowers : Sin hath its sorrows, and sighing, we turned from those bowers : Bright were the angels behind, with their falchions of heavenly flame : — Dark was the desolate desert before us, but darker the depth of our shame ! 129 THE STATUE-LOVE. When first he knew her, she was all A statue — beautiful but cold.. And passionless as though her eyes. Her lips, and all her mould Were Parian marble; — yet he knelt To that wherein such beauty dwelt. He taught her how to love, and what Love was : — unveiled its mystic light Made of her heart a Paradise. And gave her day for night — Yea, and a mind ; and bade her be Like others — owning power to see. 130 EARLY POEMS. «' To feel and know ; — and then she stepped From lovely girlhood into all The breathing woman, making man The creature of her call; And physically lovely, bent Above him — beauty's ornament. But there she paused. He could not make Her spiritual, or erect The proud perfection that he sought From such an intellect As hers: and so, beneath this blight, His passion faded in a night. And still they met, and he had wed The marble whom his touch had given The attributes Promethean His hand had stolen from heaven; But that her novel love declined, Like his, and vanished down the wind — THE STATUE-LOVE. 131 And falling, like a falling star, As brilliant, but as icy cold — The drapery on her breast asleep In many a fluted fold — She stood, serenely stern, at last, — A marble Pallas of the Past. He smiled, and went his way. Of old His very dreams were given to her And, like Pygmalion, he had stood A statue's worshipper: He could not cling to stolid stone, And went as he had come — alone! 132 MAY. The dainty May is come, with steps like pauses Between melodious cadences, and glances Gleaming with smiles ; — a robe of emerald gauzes Draping her delicate limbs. A glory dances, Halo-like, round her, and the plain is bright From the excess of that luxurious light. O'er earth — their cradle — wave the trembling tresses Of gorgeous grasses : fairy flowers inwoven With many-coloured hues — whence fragrance presses MAY. 138 (When the warm sun their radiant buds hath cloven,) In silver mist, wave over wave, to heaven — Drink beauty, star-like, from the dews of even. Old mossy oaks, Druids decayed and hoary, Arise from dreams — and, while the twittering swallow Hovers above them, don their ancient glory : The spotted fawn careers along the hollow : And many a bird fills the soft wind's fine ear With heavenly harmonies that it thrills to hear. Deep in the dingle — singing, gurgling, plashing O'er wave- worn stones — the rippling stream- let murmurs; While through its light the brighter trout is flashing. The air is full of bees — ethereal hummers ! Fays of the atmosphere, that love to bosom Themselves, like Oberon, in some bright blos- som! 12 184 EARLY POEMS. •, An olden Dryad, May, art thou, oerflowing (As stars with light) with primal tender- nesses, And clasping thee, the passionate bard and glowing, Wanders away through sylvan lonelinesses, Alive with love, — his heart a silver river On which the swan of song floats gracefully for ever. iar> DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. She grew beneath the kiss of love — Yes! grew — Like flowers beneath the kisses of the sun ; And as the buds put forth their petals, she Unfolded newer beauties every hour, Until the gazer, mute and wondering, knelt In speechless adoration of her charms. What ! In the hour when sorrow crossed thy path Did she forsake thee 1 Then she never loved ! Love, like the ivy, clasps the ruin, not Forsakes the soil on which it sprang to life. 136 EARLY POEMS. . ,, Love smiles the brightest when affliction shakes The shades of sorrow from her raven wings, But never, viper-like, destroys the hand That gave it birth and being. Love has its phantasies. To-day, 'Tis warm and glowing as the summer sun ; To-morrow, cold and wintry as the blast When dark December rules the fettered earth. Who seeks to keep it hath a weary task : He must rise early as the matin lark, And go to bed when the owl goes— at dawn. 'Tis a strange thing, this love !— a wayward thing, And changeful as the wind : — it never blows More than two hours alike ! 137 THE SONG OF THE SCALD, BIORNE. [Biorne, Biarne, or as it is more properly written in the Norse dialect, Bjorn Grimolfson, a scald or bard, and at the same time, a Viking, or sea-king, was one of the earliest of the Norsemen who landed on the shores of America. Eric Rauda, or Eric the Red, was the first. The story of the Scald is somewhat romantically told in the following ballad. But a sequel still remains. Nearly thirty years afterward, in 1026, an Icelander, named Gudliep, sailed for Dublin, but, blown about by adverse winds, was driven upon our northern shores. He, with his crew, were immediately seized by the savages and borne into the interior. There, to their great surprise, they were accosted in their own tongue by a war-worn chief, who, by dint of his influence in the tribe, saved them from the clubs of the natives. They were more astonished, when, on their embarkation, he inquired after several individuals in Iceland, and made them the bearers of a gold ring and sword, the one to Thurida, the sister of a celebrated Viking, Snorre Godc, and the other to her son. She had subsequently married. He refused to disclose his name, but, on their arrival home, no doubt was entertained that he was the Scald Bjorn, Thurida's Poet-lover, who had fled from Iceland in 998.] To the winds with my flag ! Let it tremble with ire As it streams from the mast, like a meteor of fire: 12* 138 EARLY POEMS. Let it leap at one bound, like a god, into life, The herald of danger and desperate strife ; And cloud on our canvass, and, Vikingirs all, O'er the seas, like gyr-falcons, to conquer or fall ! Ho ! away ; for what care we for country or home ? We can find others fairer, where'er we may roam ! There are yellow-haired maidens and riches in store For us, who can gather, on ocean and shore ; There are lands, where the sun never ceases to shine, Where the rivers run gold and the forests bear wine ; There are lands where our snow-fields and ice- bergs would be A wonder — a terror — a horror to see ; THE SOKG OF THE SCALD, BIORNE. 139 Where the landscapes have flowers like the hues of their skies, And as fragrant with sweets as their own maidens' sighs ; Where seraph-like birds sing from dawn until night, And even breathe music, till morning breathes light ! And there, the sleek Lords of the South hold their sway, O'er a people as timid and feeble as they : And these — the weak cowards, who pale at the sight Of a Norseman's fierce falchion, that flames in the fight- Shall they revel like gods on such treasures as these, When the war-worn Vikingir commands on the seas ? 140 EARLY POEMS. Thurida, Thurida, thou false one, farewell ! That the Scald has adored thee shall history tell : — That he scorned thee at last shall be written as red As his fame, when he lies, like a Jarl, with the dead. And when Odin receives him, his song shall declare Thou wert lovely as light, but as fickle as fair. He will sing how the Poet — God's heaven-born son ! — Bowed his loftiest soul to earth's loveliest one ; And how, when he tendered his love, she returned But her scorn for the hopes in his bosom inurned, And told her base vassals, with fire-flashing eye, " Let the song-singing lover, the rude Runer, die !" THE SONG OF THE SCALD, BIORNE. 141 Oh, Odin ! 'twas pleasure — 'twas passion! to see Her serfs sweep like wolves on a lambkin like me ! With one surge of my steel how their heads rolled around, Like tree-tops the hurricane hurls to the ground ! Like oaks 'neath the lightning they cumbered the land, Falling limbless and shorn 'neath my death- bearing brand. And she, the proud maiden, when toward her I strode, In the glittering gleam of her golden abode, How she trembled, her breasts heaving high, as she felt My iron hand on her arm, when before her I knelt, And with that red right hand uplifted, I swore To carry her falsehood from shore unto shore ! 142 EARLY POEMS. ,, I pressed her pale lips — twas the kiss of young hate ! And I left her to Odin, to conscience and fate : I left her — her brother's proud palace in flame — I left her — to linger the chosen of shame 1 And I laughed a loud laugh as I strode through the dark, When that flame had gone down, to my iron- bound bark. Ho ! Warriors, Vikingirs, and Jarls of the North ! Our flag 's on the wind, and our canvass is forth ; Hoist anchor; now, Iceland! Cold country! adieu ! For we go, iron-handed, our fortune to woo, And we sweep, like the eagles — we children of war — With fire-flashing eyes, to our harvest : — Hurrah ! 143 SUMMER. Summer sits on the landscape. Softly stealing Athwart my senses creeps a delicate scent, — The breath of blossoms — kindling eager feeling To leave my city home, and pitch my tent Beside the cool blue sea, or in some glade, Where I can loll me in the oaken shade, And hear the far-off hum of waters, falling With silvery plash from rock to rock ; or see The warbling wood-bird, to his partner calling, Among the foliage of some mossy tree, Where he flits round, with song of sylvan pleasure, While she sits brooding o'er her callow treasure ; 144 EARLY POEMS. Or, climbing some high mountain-peak, to view The earth beneath me like a picture lie, Dim as a dream, till the horizon's blue Makes it a portion of the placid sky, That girds the prospect, like a mother's arm Shielding her babe even from the fear of harm: Or, looking on the sunrise, to behold Its glories soar above the glowing clouds, Beneath whose veil of crimson, rimmed with gold, He for awhile his burning splendour shrouds. Like a young maid who veils her lustrous eyes And opes them, joying in her love's surprise : And there to feel the fragrant morning breeze Kiss my warm cheek, and winnow through my hair, While far below, the waving Titan trees Rustle, like grasses, in the delicate air, Which, with Aurora's rising, from the sea. Chariots itself along o'er wood and lea. SUMMER. 145 These are thy joys, ! Summer ! These — thy spells, To woo the poet-seer, who in thy smiles Basks as in sunlight : for within thee dwells, — In thy low languishment, — thy winning wiles — A foretaste of that Eden his soaring soul Sees in his dreams, and leaps to as its goal. J 3 SONNETS. 149 THE MINDS OF ELD. The wise, the learned, and the great of Eld In iron days have written with pens of iron High histories, that, halo-like, environ Their names with holy glory. Some have held These sacred relics of these noble souls As heathen dreams ; but then the purely wise Know that from out the Past great thoughts arise, With might to crumble even the adamant poles. For me, go bring a goblet all embossed With flowers, and Fauns, and Hebes ruby- lipped, Dug out from some old pyramidal crypt, And from the light of life for ages lost, — That, with an Io Paean, I may pour Libation to those Titan minds of Yore. 13 150 LIFE. Alas, alas, alas ! and what is life ? A dreaming of dim dreams and their forget- ting! A princely planet in its rising, setting ! A white plume seen, and sinking in the strife Of hoping — yearning for what Time will sweep Away unheeding; and no more — no more We walk the earth ! But on the shadowy shore Beyond the stars — beyond the azure deep — Beyond the purple verge of infinite space — The immortal soul of Man shall live a^ain ! Live where its glories never more may wane, And where its nobler memories will efface All thoughts which rend the solemn pall away That shrouds the meanness of its primal clay ! 151 LONELINESS. It is a sad, sad thing to be alone — Alone within a world so bright as this — To meet at night no light and welcome kiss, And hear no answer to our heavy moan, Save, loud without, the solemn organ-tone Of the wild, wintry winds about the eaves, Or rustling in the woods the withering leaves. x\las, alas ! for early hopes — they 've flown ! Their song aroused no echo and — they died ! Died, like an infant sinking into rest, And seeking heaven from its mother's breast ; Leaving me nothing but my iron pride — Pride, which I wrap around me, as I tread The ways of life : yet, to its pleasures — dead. 152 ENDURANCE. Some writhe — some sink — some die, in this rude world, Beneath the rough blows of their brother man; But there are those that scorn his envious ban, Who, with high hearts and lips serenely curled In honest hate, laugh at the slanders hurled Against the armour of their honesties — Who, flinging out their banners on the breeze, March on; their noble eyes with tears impearled That flesh should be so base — who, as they go, Scatter the seeds of honour o'er the land, Knowing that after times will see them stand Tall trees, whence shades shall fall and music flow, To glad some way-worn brother's heart — some soul Who seeks, with trust in Truth, Fame's golden goal. 15;^ MOONLIGHT. A yellow halo swims around the moon, The air is slumbrous with the scent of buds, And wakening, rises in the quiet woods The linnet — flooding echo with his tune. A languor fitted to a night in June Hangs, palsying them, upon the restless hours ; And heavily slumbering on the dreaming flowers The breeze lies ; — breathing like the air of noon. Such time, unquiet fancies come and go, Recalling memories of days gone by Before the Poet's second-sighted eye, Teaching him what no common soul may know : Such hour, he snatches from the grasp of Time, The deathless wonders of his golden rhyme. 154 INDIAN SUMMER. The air is warm — warm as in June — the sky As blue as June's, and yet I hear no song, Nor even the chirp of birds ; and far along, Stirred by the light wind, or the passer-by, The crimson leaves are crackling; and the cry Of hunters' hounds sweeps o'er the yellow hill. Choked in its bed, in silence sleeps the rill ; The rabbit leaves his form ; and far on high, On the tall hickory, the squirrel springs From limb to limb, and yet the woods are bare; And though the air is June's, the forests wear A wintry aspect ; while the silence brings My thoughts to times when I, if living, sere, May yearn for hours as bright, when all around is drear. 155 ON A MISTY MORNING IN MAY. The morn is cloudy, and a dampness chills My bones, as though the air were full of death : The leaves are still ; the wind has hushed its breath, And but that in yon oak a vireo shrills, Bringing me with his song to murmuring rills And grassy fields — to mossy oaks and flowers, I were as one aweary of his hours ; But now I tread on ferned and laurelled hills. Although the sky bends, like a ghost, and waves Her white arms o'er me; and the fleecy clouds Lie, like the dead wrapped in their snowy shrouds, Waiting the sun to light them to their graves : And Nature, dropping tears that men call rain. Weeps o'er the sombrous gloom of grove and plain. 15(5 ALPHEUS. What art thou, sweet ? — A Dryad of the trees, Or Nymph from some unkindest Satyr flown, Or seventh Pleiad, who o'er earth alone Wanderest, — wasting thy music on the breeze '. Not fairer, Dian when her heaving breast She bared to kisses of the bright Endymion — Not sweeter, Psyche when her beauty won Young Eros to a languid, luscious rest On her ripe lips — not warmer, Venus when She melted in the embraces of Adonis, Nor rosier Io, 'neath the fiery kiss Of flaming Jove, than thou, as through the glen Thou fly'st thy Alpheus. Arethusa, stay ! Or I shall, ghost-like, wane and waste away. 157 THE DESOLATED. " One step to the white death-bed, And one to the bier, And one to the charnel — and one, oh, where V Shelley's " Gincvra." Rest, weary heart, and sleepless spirit, rest; Not long, not long, thy steps shall linger here : The darkened room, the death-bed, and the bier Follow most closely ; and thy lofty crest, O ! mortal body, by the passer pressed, Shall fret not at his scorning; nor, O! soul, Shalt thou glance backward from the glorious To which thou sprangest, as toward his nest Flies the freed dove, for words that stain alone Thy earthly fetters : — No ! for bright ahead, Beyond the Vale of Shadows, lie dispread The spirit-lands, to angels only known ; And there, the immortal halo round thy brow. Thou shalt not heed the carks that sting thee now. 14 158 THE POET'S GRAVE. Build me no vault, with sculptured marble, crowned, For death seems darkest with the coffined dead ; But form a broken column for my head, And lay me gently in the grassy ground ; And o'er me let a green Ailanthus grow, That shadows from the Tree of Heaven may glide Like spirits round me ; and, if aught of pride Lurk in thy tender breast for priest so low In Nature's temple, on the pillared stone Inscribe, — " Here sleeps a Poet," — with my name: Then, if Time gives its simple sound to fame, To those who loved me living shall be known My sepulchre ; and those who knew me not Shall pause with solemn hearts and ponder at the spot. 159 LYDIA. The Ideal of a dream wast thou, — a vision That should have been when earth was fresh and young, And innocent; when morning songs were sung By truthful lips — when Virtue made Elysian Delights of all she saw — when in the grove Pan sat i' the cool at noon, and watched his herds, And even in streams, and stars, and flowers, and birds, Men worshipped God — when what we now call love Was so sublimed, it made of earth a heaven, And mortals angels: then thou shouldst have been, — And haply, — wandering through some valley green, A God had seen thee, (for old lore has given Such dreams t'the Gods,) and for a nectared kiss From lips like thine, foregone Olympian bliss. 160 POSTHUMOUS FAME. Who striveth for the far-off Future, feeds Upon the empty echo of the breath That issues from the charnel lips of death, And soweth in the fields of Time the seeds (For what are memories of mighty deeds?) Whose harvest other men shall reap, — the while, Reaping, they sneer and scoff, and scornfully smile At him who grew for them ungracious weeds. Learning soars ever onward ; — what to-day Is great and glorious, cycles hence shall be, To children of that time, the A, B, C, Which were so simple in our childish way ; For scorning what is past — what path it trod — The soul progresses steadily toward God. 10] THE POETS SOUL. The Poet's soul was never yet alone : What time the body sleeps, it walks, in dreams, Through shadowy vales, and by ethereal streams, Toward dim Eternity's adamantine throne. The spirits of the many-memoried dead, — The hoary-headed seers of primal days — Companion it beneath the ancient rays Of wan Astarte: those whom death has led From lesser spheres are wandering at its side ; And gazing back, on what we cannot see, And forward, knowing what we next shall be, It graspeth lore to common men denied : — Then with the dawn it seeks its prison clay, And ever after yearns to soar away. 14* 162 DEAD-MAN'S ISLAND. A lonely islet, stretching far away Through the blue distance — where the sea- fowl sit Along the wind-ribbed sands, or, shrieking, flit As ghosts around me, when, like one, I stray Among their haunts — where rolls the restless surf, Making sad music ; while the screaming tern Frights from his food the solitary hern, Or brooding black-duck from her nest of turf In the tall sedge. Half hidden in drifted sand, Sea-weeded, mossy, black with age, are bones Of mighty barks, by which the ocean moans : And "neath that dim, primeval, solemn strand, Unseen, forgotten, where the stranger's tread Disturbs them not, repose the Ocean-Dead. 163 BETHLEHEM. A little town, embraced by happy trees, Around which sleeps an atmosphere as sweet As airs of Paradise ; where fairy feet Tinkle at midnight on a balmier breeze Than ever blew o'er Ceylon's spicy seas. And where, throughout the long and languid day, Poised on the poplar's silver-rinded spray, The Oriole blows his clarion-sounding glees. Far brighter spots may beam beneath the sun, But none so bland in beauty — none so calm With heaven's own quiet, which, distilling balm, Dreams in its streets — and like a kneeling nun Hearing high mass, it looks with reverent eyes Through clasping greenery on the tranquil skies. 104 TO KEATS. Grown languid with excess of sweetness, Keats, Like one intoxicate with scents that creep From jasmine buds, I sank in tranced sleep ; And then with thee, along a dell where dates Ruffled their feathered leaves, and all was green With dewy grasses, took my dreaming way. " Here," said thy flute-like voice, " here, where we stray, Strayed Dian — here, amid this scene ! And in these meadows, by these gleaming streams, In ancient cycles fed the flocks of Pan : Here sported Nymphs, and there the Satyr ran : — Alas ! alas ! that these were only dreams !" And they were dreams — dreams that these latter days May wonder at, ne'er equal, but must praise. 165 HEART-LAND. A slumbrous valley lies in every breast, — A fairy spot o'ergrown with fragrant flowers, Where, ever flowing through the halcyon hours, Are ruby rivers, thrilled with strange unrest ; And where, all round, a forest grows, whose crest Is green and gold, about which, singing, sail Delicious birds, w r hose music lulls the gale ; And there are mossy meadows, lightly prest By gentle Feelings, that at altars grand Kneel on the lily-sprinkled sod, and pray Or chaunt harmonious hymns the undying day To Love, the ruler of that radiant land, Who, listening, with his Psyche hand in hand, Crowns, one by one, the brightest of the band. 166 NATAL STARS. How frail the fable, that the stars which rule The life of men wane at their death away! Those glorious, golden spheres abhor decay : They live and live for ever ! 'T was a fool Who taught such doctrine. At my birth, a star — A star that had for cycles jewelled space — Looked from its sapphire throne upon my face: It marked me then, has ruled me since, and far, Where crimson Mars reins in his neighing steeds, It watches now ; and, when along my brow The death-damps creep and fall, its golden glow Will burn as brightly : so, my spirit feeds The thought, that when its earthly ring is riven, That planet is its own — its destined heaven. 1G7 THE POET. God makes the Poet, and the Poet makes Himself a god ; for with an adamant pen He writes his name upon the hearts of men ; And, with a more than Sampson strength, he shakes, As through the clouds of common life he breaks, A golden glory from his vigorous wings. Not his the life of myriad meaner things, Nor his their death ; for when he dies he wakes In heaven, but leaves behind him, glowing here, A second immortality, — his own, — The work of his own hands — his royal throne. Reared on the wide world's love, and not its fear; And here, that second soul, in every age, Thrills the proud spirits of the purely sage. 168 ASTARTE. Thy lustre, heavenly star, shines ever on me ! T, trembling, like Endymion over-bent By dazzling Dian, when with wonderment He saw her crescent light the Latmian lea ; And, like a Naiad's, sailing on the sea, Floats thy fair form before me: the azure air Is all ambrosial with thy hyacinth hair ; While round thy lips the moth, in airy glee Hovers, and hums in dim and dizzy dreams — Drunken with odorous breath : thy argent eyes, — Twin planets, swimming through love's lustrous skies, — Are mirrored in my heart's serenest streams — Such eyes saw Shakspeare — flashing bold and bright, When queenly Egypt, rode the Nile at night. ft VJ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS unman, 016 112 640 8 .... ■ ■ I ■4H-