LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN oiEeo <^ r P O E M S AND PROSE WRITINGS. BV RICHARD HENRY DANA. IN TWO VOLUMES, VOLUME I. N E \V ^ ( » K K : )i A K i; li A .\ I) S (■ U I U \ K H M ii< II' r Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by Richard Henry Dana, in the Clerlv's OfSce of the District Court of tlie District of Massachusetts. CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED BY METCALF AND COMPANY, PRINTED BT EDWARD O. JENKINS, 114 NASSAU STREET, NEW TORS!. PREFACE The first of these volumes includes all that was in the for- mer edition of Poems and Prose Writings, with the addition to the Poems of a few short pieces. That edition contained all that was in the small volume of Poems published in 1827. For particulars respecting this last-mentioned volume, the reader is referred to its Preface, here republished. To the prose of this first volume I have restored its old title, The Idle Man. Of the work under that title, published in New York in 1821-22, The Writer of the Idle Man to his Old Friends will tell my readers as much as they will care to know. The Contents to the second volume show when and in what works the Essays first appeared. Of the remaining ai-ticles, this information is given at the beginning of each. I have republished most of my Reviews, mainly because I thought there was a probability that, if I did not, some one would when I was gone. In anticipating this, and revising these articles for the press, I believe I have done no more than my duty to myself In the revision I have made slight changes, but have not felt at liberty to do any thing that would affect the gonnrai character of the Reviews : had I so felt, I might, per- haps, have freed them from many faults. The only changes which, it sf.'cms to me, arc of importance cnougii lo hu partic- iv PREFACE. ularly mentioned, — and these take the character of extension, or growth, rather than of superaddition,— are those in the re- view of Hazlitt, which are spoken of at the head of that article. And this reminds me, that what is there said respecting Hazlitt's productions and Uterary rank after that review was written, is equally applicable to Mr. Irving and the review of The Sketch Book. For although Mr. Irving was better known when the review of him appeared, and more highly estimated both at home and abroad than was Mr. Hazlitt in our country when the article on his Lectures was published, Mr. Irving has also gone on rising in reputation, and giving proofs of the variety, strength, and beauty of his mind. Besides this, he has revised his works, bringing to the revision the helps of long-matured thought and taste. The review of The Sketch Book, therefore, is preserved more for the sake of conformity with my general purpose, and for the historical interest it may possess, than for any applicability to the works of Mr. Irving at this time. In the Reviews much is said upon the state of American literature, and the notions then more or less prevalent about literature and literary men, which must have a strange aspect to those who have grown up since they were written. Yet it is as true as things of so general a character usually can be. With this in mind, they should be read as a part of our liter- ary history. If looked at in this light, I may be allowed to say, they will be deserving of some attention, and in it will probably be found to lie their chief interest to people of this day. For in the changes which the literary world has undergone within the last thirty years, much that was once held to be presumptu- ous novelty (though in fact only restoration) must now be looked upon as little better than commonplace. Boston, November 1, 1849. CON T E N T S TO VOLUME FIRST POEMS. PAGE PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THE POEMS . . . ix PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION OF THE POEMS . . XU THE BUCCANEER ......... 3 THE CHANGES OF HOME ....... 35 FACTITIOUS LIFE ........ 59 THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL ....... 85 THE HUSBAND AND WIFe's GRAVE ...... 97 THE DYING RAVEN ........ 101 FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE ....... 106 THE PLEASURE-BOAT . . . . . . . . Ill THE EARLY SPRING BROOK . . . . . . .114 "THE CHANTING CHERUBS " ...... 119 THE M0.S3 SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET .... 121 A CLUMP OF DAISIES ........ 125 CHANTREY's WASHINGTON ....... 127 THK LITTLE nEACH-UHll) .... . . 129 -REENOUIjH's STATUE OF MEPORA 131 VOL. I. a* VI CONTENTS. TO A GAKDEN-KLOWER SENT ME BY A LADY . . . 133 I SAW HER ONCE ........ 134 ON RECEIVING FLOWERS, DURING ILLNESS, FROM A LADY . 135 THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON ALLSTON 137 DAYBREAK 139 NOTES 143 THE IDLE MAN. THE WRITER OF THE IDLE MAN TO HIS OLD FRIENDS . . 147 TOM THORNTON . 153 EDWARD AND MARY 222 PAUL FELTON 270 THE SON 375 KEAN's ACTING 387 A LETTER FROM TOWN 405 A SECOND LETTER FROM TOWN ...... 417 DOMESTIC LIFE 425 MUSINGS 435 POEMS. PREFACE TO TTTF, FIRST EDITION OF THE POEMS It is not without hesitation that! give this small volume to the public ; for no one can be more sensible than I am how much is necessary to the production of what may be rightly callerl poetry. It is true that something resembling it is oftentimes borne into instant and turbulent popularity, while a work of genuine character may be lying neglected by all except the poets. But the tide of time flows on, and the former begins to settle to the bottom, while the hitter rises slowly and steadily to the surface, and moves forward, for a spirit is in it. h is a poor ambition to be anxious after the distinction of a day in that which, if it be fit to live at all, is to live for ages. It is wiser than all, so to love one's art that its distinctions shall be but secondary : and, indeed, he who is not so absorbed m it as to think of his fame only as one of its accidents had better save himself his toil ; for the true power is not in him. Yet the most self-dependent are stirred lo livelier action by the hope of fame-, and there are none who can go on with vigour, without the sympathy of some few minds which they respect. I will not say of my first talc, as Miss Edgeworth sometimes does of her iin[)robabilities, " This is a fact" ; but thus nuich I may say : there are few facts so well vouched for, and few trutlis so fully believed in, as the account ujion which I have grounded my story. 1 shall not nam*; the island ofl' our New England coast upon X PREFACE. which these events happened, and these strange appearances were seen ; for islanders are the most sensitive creatures in the world in all that relates to their places of abode. I have changed the time of the action — which was before the war of our Revolution — to that of the great contest in Spain ; as the reader will see, in my making use of the Chris- tian name of Lord Wellington in a way to allude to the popular belief, during the early ages, in the return of King Arthur to the world. — In putting my hero on horseback, in not allowing him to die quietly in his bed, and, indeed, in whatever I thought might heighten the poetical effect of the tale, I have not hesi- tated to depart from the true account. Nor am I even certain that I have not run two stories into one ; it being many years since these wonderful events were told to me. I mention this here, lest the islanders might be unnecessarily provoked at my departures from the real facts, when they come to read my tale, and the critics be put to the trouble of useless research in detecting mistakes. Of the second story I would only say, that, having in it noth- ing of the marvellous, and being of a less active character than the first, I shall not be disappointed though it should fail of be- ing generally estimated according to its relative merit. Of the remaining pieces, the first four have appeared in the New York Review, and are hei-n^v^published with the consent of my friend Bryant, who was the editor of that late work ; — The Husband and Wife's Grave, The Dying Raven, Fragment of an Epistle, and The Little Beach-Bird. The others arc, A Clump of Daisies, The Pleasure-Boat, and Daybreak. One of these, " Fragment of an Epistle," is taken from a letter which I wrote to amuse myself while recovering from a severe illness. I must be pardoned giving it as a fragment. The lines are much more broken than is usual in the octo- syllabic verse, though Milton has taken great liberties in this respect in his two exquisite little poems in the same measure. This he could have done neither tln'ough ignorance nor care- lessness. Lord Byron has justly spoken of " the fatal facility " PREFACE. XI of this measure ; and he might as truly have remarked upon its fatal monotony, unless varied in all possible ways. So far from abrupt pauses not being allowable in it, there is scarcely a measure in the language which becomes so wearisome with- out them ; as every one must have experienced in reading Scott, notwithstanding his rapidity and spirit. I am fullv aware of the truth of Sir Walter Raleigh's re- mark in the Preface to his History of the World : — " True it is, that the judgements of all men arc not agreeable ; nor (wliich is more strange) the affection of any one man stirred up alike with examples of like nature : But every one is touched most with that which most nearly seemcth to touch his own private ; or otherwise best suitclh with his apprehension." I therefore do not look to see all pleased, — content if enough are grati- fied to encourage me to undertake something more than this small beginning; which is of size sufficient, if it should fail to be thought well of, and large enough to build further upon, should it be liked. Let me end, then, in the words of old Cowell : — " That which a man saith well is not to be rejected because he hath some errours. No man, no book, is void of imperfections. And, therefore, reprehend who will in God's name, that is with sweetness and without reproach." Cambridge, 1827. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION OF THE POEMS. Although the additions here made to the first edition of the Poems are considerable, yet being in their poetical characteris- tics essentially the same, I will stop to make only a remark or two upon the principal of them, — " Factitious Life." Looking at the more serious cast of thought which it grad- ually takes, and particularly at the religious character of the close, some may think it would have been more self-consistent had there been less of a light manner and homely familiarity at the setting out. It would hardly have been more natural, however ; for, open our eyes where we may, they soon fall on the homely or trifling ; and as I did not aim at form, but simply at following on after life, making some passing observations and such re- flections as might flow from them, if tried by these, the poem will be found, I believe, in agreement with the run of circum- stances, and congruous in itself. The objection of others may lie against the close, as of too serious a character to grow naturally out of the rest ; for I am aware of the influence that the habitual course of our feelings and associations has over the perceptions ; and that, contrary to the course of them in this poem, the tlioughts of men are too apt to run from the serious to the light : I am sorry for it. In fine, there is nt) want of congruity in a reflecting mind, if, having first chanced upon the trifling, it falls gradually into PUKFACE. XUl the serious, and at last rests in that which should be the home of all our thoughts, the religious. The alterations now made in the poems of the first edition are of too minute a kind to deserve particular mention. Some of them were introduced in consequence of remarks which I occasionally met with in the public notices. Nor have I dis- tinguished between those which were made in a friendly and those made in a detracting spirit. Not to avail one's self of the suggestions of a friend argues a wilful pertinacity, and to re- fuse to gather good out of the censoriousness of an enemy savours of folly. Though it ill becomes an honest man to bestow public com- mendation through mere personal partiality, yet fairly intention- ed public praise affects him who receives it like an act of per- sonal kindness. Within the last few years I have had cause to feel this deeply; and without affecting humility, let me add, that, if attended with any pain, it has been from that sense of unworthiness which commendation oftentimes occasions. Cambridge, 1833. VOL. I. THE BUCCANEER. Buy with thy blac herd, I rede llial Ihoii blin, And gone set the to shrive, With sorrow of thi syn ; Ze met with the inerchandes And made them fid bare ; It es ^de reason and right That zc evill misfare. For when ze stode in sowre strenkith, Ze war all to stout. Laurence Minot. The island lies iiiiu; leagues away. Along its solitary shore, Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar, Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home. Her shrill cry coming through the .sparkling foam. But when the light winds lie at rest, And on the glassy, h'-aviiig sea, The black duck, with her glossy breast, Sits swinging silcntlv, — How beautiful I no ri|)j)les break the reach. And silvery waves go noiseless up tlic beach. 4 THE BUCCANEER. And inland rests the green, warm dell ; The brook comes tinkling down its side ; From out the trees the Sabbath bell Rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks, That feed about the vale among the rocks. Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat, In former days within the vale ; Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet ; Curses were on the gale ; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men ; Pirate and w^recker kept their revels then. But calm, low voices, words of grace, Now slowly fall upon the ear ; A quiet look is in each face, Subdued and holy fear ; Each motion gentle ; all is kindly done. — Come, listen how from crime the isle was won. THE BUCCANEER. I. Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee Held in this isle unquestioned sway ; A dark, low, brawny man was he ; His law, — " It is my way." Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light broke From small gray eyes ; his laugh a triumph spoke. II. Cruel of heart, and strong of arm, Loud in his sport, and keen for spoil, He little recked of good or iiarm, Fierce both in mirth and toil ; Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were ; Speak mildly, when he would, or look in fear. III. Amid the uproar of the storm. And by the lightning's sharp, red glare, Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form ; His axe glanced quick in air. Whose corpse at morn lies swinging in the sedge ? There 's blood and hair, Matt, on thy axe's edge. IV. " Ask him who floats there ; let him tell ; I make the brute, not man, my mark. Who walks the clifls, needs heed liiiii well! Last night was fearful dark. Think ve thi- lashing waves will spare or feel ? An ugly gash I — Thrsr rocks — Ihey cut like steel." 1- 6 THE BUCCANEER. V. He wiped his axe ; and turning round, Said with a cold and hardened smile, " The hemp is saved ; the man is drowned. Will let him float awhile ? Or give him Christian burial on the strand ? He '11 find his fellows peaceful under sand." VI. Lee's waste was greater than his gain. " I '11 try the merchant's ti-ade," he thought, " Though less the toil to kill than feign, — Things sweeter robbed than bought. But, then, to circumvent them at their arts ! " Ship manned, and spoils for cargo, Lee departs. VII. 'T is fearful, on the broad-backed waves. To feel them shake, and hear them roar : Beneath, unsounded, dreadful caves ; Around, no cheerful shore. Yet 'mid this solemn world what deeds are done ! The curse goes up, the deadly sea-fight 's won ; — VIII. And wanton talk, and laughter heard. Where sounds a deep and awful voice. There 's awe from that lone ocean-bird : Pray ye, when ye rejoice ! " licave prayers to priests," cries Lee : " I 'm ruler here ! These fellows know full well whom thev should (ear!" Tlir. UrtCANKER. IX. The ship works hai'd ; the seas run high ; Their white tops, Hashing through the night, Give to the eager, straining eye A wild and shifting liglit. " Hard at the pumps ! — The leak is gaining fast ! Lighten the ship I — The devil rode that blast ! " X. Ocean has swallowed for its food Spoils thou didst gain in murderous glee ; Matt, could its waters wash out blood, It had been well for thee. Crime fits for crime. And no repentant tear Hast thou for sin ? — Then wait thine hour of fear. XI. The sea has like a plaything tost That heavy hull the livelong night. The man of sin, — he is not lost : Soft breaks the morning light. Torn spars and sails, — her lading in the dee}), — The ship makes port with slow and labouring sweep. XII. Within a Spanish port she rides. Angry and soured, Lee walks her deck. " So, peaceful tradr a ciirsf betides? — And thou, good ship, a wreck! Ill luck ill cliaiiLjr I — Il(»l cliccr ye up. iiiv men I Rigged, and at sea, and, then, old work again!" 8 THE BUCCANEER. XIII. A sound is in the Pyrenees ! Whirling and dark comes roaring down A tide as of a thousand seas, Sweeping both cowl and crown : On field and vineyard, thick and red it stood ; Spain's streets and palaces are wet with blood. XIV. And wrath and terrour shake the land ; The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights ; Soon comes the tread of that stout band, — Bold Arthur and his knights. Awake ye, Merlin ! Hear the shout from Spain ! The spell is broke ! — Arthur is come again I — XV. Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride I The lips are cold, the brow is pale, That thou didst kiss in love and pride ; He cannot hear thy wail. Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound ; His couch is cold and lonely in the ground. XVI. He fell for Spain, — her Spain no more ; For he was gone who made it dear ; And she would seek some distant shore, Away from strife and fear. And wait amid her sorrows till the day His voice of love should call her thence away. TIIK BUCCANEER. XVII. Lee feigned him grieved, and bowed him low. "T would joy his heart, could he but aid So good a lady in her woe, He meekly, smoothly said. Witli wealtii and servants she is soon aboard, And tliat white steed slie rode beside her lord. XVIII. The sun goes down upon the sea ; The sliadows gather round her home. '• How like a pall are ye to me ! My home, how like a tomb ! O, blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head! Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead." XIX. And now the stars are burning bright ; Yet still she 's looking toward the shore Beyond the waters black in night. " I ne'er shall sec thee more ! Ye 're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow ; And I 'm alone, — scarce know I where I go." XX. Sleep, sleep, thou sad one on the sea ! The wash of waters hills thee now ; His arm no more will |)illow thee. Thy fingers on his brow. H(! is not near, to iinsh thee, or to save. The ground is his, the sea nnist be thv grave. 10 THE BUCCANEER. xxr. The moon comes up ; the night goes on. Why, in the shadow of the mast, Stands that dark, thoughtful man alone ? Thy pledge I — nay, keep it fast ! Bethink thee of her youth and sorrows, Lee ; Helpless, alone, — and, then, her trust in thee. XXII. When told the hardships thou hadst borne, Her words to thee were like a charm. With uncheered grief her heart is worn ; Thou wilt not do her harm ? He looks out on the sea that sleeps in light. And growls an oath, — " It is too still to-night I " XXIII. He sleeps ; but dreams of massy gold And heaps of pearl, — stretches his hands ; But hears a voice, — "111 man, withhold I " A pale one near him stands. Her breath comes deathly cold upon his cheek ; Her touch is cold ; he hears a piercing shriek ; — XXIV. He wakes ! — But no relentings wake Within his angered, restless soul. " What, shall a dream Matt's purpose shake ? The gold will make all whole. Thy merchant trade had nigh unmanned thee, lad ! What, balk my chance because a woman 's sad ? " THE BUCCANEER. 1% XXV. He cannot look on her mild eye ; Her patient words his spirit quell. Within that evil heart there lie Tlie hates and fears of hell. His si>eech is short ; he wears a surly brow. There 's none will hear the sluriek. What fear ye now ? xxvr. The workings of the soul ye fear ; Ye fear the power that goodness hath ; Ye fear the Unseen One ever near, Walking his ocean path. From out the silent void there comes a cry, — " Vengeance is mine I Thou, murderer, too, shalt die xxvii. Nor dread of ever-during woe, Nor the sea's a^vful solitude, Can make thee, ^vretch, thy crime forego. Then, bloody hand, — to blood I The scud is driving wildly overhead ; The stars burn dim ; the ocean moans its dead. XXVIII. Moan for the living ; moan our sins, — Tlif wralh of man more fierce than thine. Hark ! still thy waves! — The work begins, — Lee makes the deadly sign. The crew glid<; down like shadows. Eye and Iniiid iSpeak fearful meanings through lln- silcni Icnid. 12 The buccaneer. XXIX. They 're gone. — The helmsman stands alone ; And one leans idly o'er the bow. Still as a tomb the ship keeps on ; Nor sound nor stirring now. Hush, hark ! as from the centre of the deep, Shrieks, fiendish yells I They stab them in their sleep ! XXX. The scream of rage, the groan, the strife, The blow, the gasp, the horrid cry. The panting, throttled prayer for life, The dying's heaving sigh. The murderer's curse, the dead man's fixed, still glare. And fear's and death's cold sweat, — they all are there. XXXI. On pale, dead men, on burning cheek, On quick, fierce eyes, brows hot and damp, On hands that with the warm blood reek. Shines the dim cabin lamp. Lee looked. " They sleep so sound," he, laughing, said, " They '11 scarcely wake for mistress or for maid." XXXII. A crash ! They force the door, — and then One long, long, shrill, and piercing scream Comes thrilling 'bove the growl of men. 'T is hers ! — O God, redeem From worse than death thy suffering, helpless child! That dreadful shriek again, — sharp, sharp, and wild I THE BUCCANEER. 13 XXXIII. It ceased. — "With speed o' th' lightning's flash, A loose-robed form, with streaming hair, Shoots by. — A leap, — a quick, sliort splash ! 'T is gone I — and nothing there I The waves have swept away the bubbling tide. Bright-crested waves, how calmly on they ride I XXXIV. She 's sleeping in her silent cave, Nor hears the loud, stern roar above, Nor strife of man on land or w^ave. Young thing I her home of love She soon has reached I Fair, unpolluted thing ! They harmed her not I — Was dying suflering ? XXXV. O, no I — To live when joy was dead, To go with one, lone, pining thought, To mournful love her being wed, Feeling what death had wrt)ught ; To live the child of woe, nor shed a tear, Bear kindnes.s, and yet share not joy or fear ; XXXVI. To look on man, and deem it strange That he on things of earth should brood, When all the thronged and busy range To her was solitude, — O, this was bitterness I Deatli came and pressed Her wearied lids, and brought tlie sick heart rest, vol.. I. 2 14 THE BUCCANEER. XXXVII. "Why look ye on each other so, And speak no word ? — Ay, shalce the head ! She 's gone where ye can never go. What fear ye from the dead ? They tell no tales ; and ye are all true men ; — But wash away that blood ; then, home again ! XXXVIII. 'T is on your souls ; it will not out ! Lee, why so lost ? 'T is not like thee ! Come, where thy revel, oath, and shout ? " That pale one in the sea ! — I mind not blood. — But she, — I cannot tell ! A spirit was 't ? — It flashed like fires of hell I XXXIX. " And when it passed there was no tread ! It leaped the deck. — Who heard the sound ? I heard none ! — Say, what was it fled ? Poor girl ! and is she drowned ? — Went down these depths ? How dark they look, and cold! She 's yonder ! stop her ! — Now ! — there I — hold her ! hold!" XL. They gaze upon his ghastly face. " What ails thee, Lee ? and why that glare ? " " Look ! ha ! 't is gone, and not a trace ! No, no, she was not there ! — Who of you said ye heard her w^hen she feU ? 'T was strange !-I '11 not be fooled !— WiU no one tell ? " THE BUCCANEER. 15 XI, I. He paused. And soon the wildness passed. Then came the tingling flush of shame. Remorse and fear are gone as fast. '* The silly thing 's to blame To quit us so. ■ T is plain she loved us not ; Or she had stayed awhile, and shared my cot." XLII. And then the ribald laughed. The jest, Though old and foul, loud laughter drew ; And fouler yet came from the rest Of that infernal crew. Note, Heaven, their blasphemy, their broken trust ! Lust panders mturder ; miuder panders lust I XLIII. Now slowly up they bring the dead From out the silent, dim-lit room. No prayer at their quick burial said ; No friend to weep their doom. The Inmgry waves have seized them one by one ; And, swallowing down their prey, go roaring on. XLIV. Cries Lee, " We must not be betrayed ; 'T is but to add another corse ! Strange words, we 're told, an ass once brayed : 1 "11 iKVcr Inist :i horse I Out I throw him on the waves alive I — he '11 swim ; For once a horse shall ride; we all ride iiim." 16 THE BUCCANEER. XLV. Such sound to mortal ear ne'er came As rang far o'er the waters wide. It shook with fear the stoutest frame : The horse is on the tide ! As the waves leave, or lift him up, his cry Comes lower now, and now is near and high. XLVI. And through the swift wave's yesty crown His scared eyes shoot a fiendish light, And fear seems wrath. He now sinks down, Now heaves again to sight, Then drifts away ; and through the night they hear Far off that dreadful cry. — But morn is near. XLVII. O, hadst thou known what deeds were done, When thou wast shining far away, Wouldst thou let fall, calm-coming sun, Thy warm and silent ray ? The good are in their graves ; thou canst not cheer Their dark, cold mansions : Sin alone is here. XLVIII. " The deed 's complete ! The gold is ours ! There, wash away that bloody stain ! Pi-ay, who 'd refuse what fortune showers ? Now, lads, we lot our gain ! Must fairly share, you know, what 's fairly got ? A truly good night's work ! Who says 't was not ? " THE BUCCANEER. 17 . XLIX. There 's song, and oath, and gaming deep. Hot words, and laugliter, mad carouse ; There 's naught of jjrayer, and Httle sleep ; The devil keeps the house ! " Lee cheats I " cried Jack. Lee struck him to the heart. " Tliat 's foul ! " one muttered. — " Fool ! you take your part I — L. " The fewer heirs, the richer, man I Hold forth your palm, and keep your prate ! Our life, we read, is but a span. What matters soon or late ? " And when on shore, and asked. Did many die ? " Near half my crew, poor lads ! " he 'd say, and sigh. LI. Within the bay, one stormy night, 'I'lif isle-men saw boats make for shore, Willi here and there a dancing liglit. That (lashed on man and oar. When hailed, the rowing stopped, and all was dark. '' Ha I lantern-work I — We Ml home I They 're playing shark ! " I, II. Next day at noon, wiliiin the town. All stare and wonder much to see INIatt and his men come strolling down; Boys shouting, " Here comes Tjce ! " " Thy ship, good Lee ? " " Nol many leagues from shore ()iir >liip l)V eiiaMce l• A power williin, I must obey, cries, ' Mouni lln'c, man of sin'.'" 22 THE BUCCANEER. LXIX. He 's now upon the Spectre's back, With rein of silk and curb of gold. 'T is fearful speed ! — the rein is slack Within his senseless hold ; Borne by an unseen power, right on he rides. Yet touches not the Shadow-Beast he strides. LXX. He goes with speed ; he goes with dread ! And now they 're on the hanging steep ! And, now, the living and the dead. They '11 make the horrid leap ! The Horse stops short, — his feet are on the verge ! He stands, like marble, high above the sm-ge. LXXI. And, nigh, the tall ship 's burning on. With red, hot spars and crackling flame ; From hull to gallant, nothing 's gone ; — She burns, and yet 's the same ! Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night. On man and Horse, in then- cold, phosphor light. LXXII. Through that cold light the fearful man Sits looking on the burning ship. Wilt ever rail again, or ban ? How fast he moves the lip ! And yet he does not speak, or make a sound ! What see you, Lee ? the bodies of the drowned ? TFIE BUCCANEER. 23 LXXIII. " I look, where mortal man may not, — Down to the chambers of the deep. I see the dead, long, long forgot ; I see them in then- sleep. A dreadful power is mine, which none can know. Save he who leagues his soul with death and woe." LXXIV. Thou mild, sad mother, silent moon, Thy last, low, melancholy ray Shines towards him. Quit him not so soon! Mother, in mercy, stay I Despair and death are with him ; and canst thou, With that kind, earthward look, go leave him now ? I. XXV. O, thou wast born for worlds of love ; Making more lovely in thy shine AVliate'er thou look'st on : hosts above, In that soft light of thine. Burn softer ; earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven. Thou 'rt going down I — hast loft him nnforgiven i.xxvr. The far, low west is bright no more. How still it is I No sound is heard At sea, or all along the shore. But cry of passini; l)ir(l. Thou living thing, — ;iiiil dar'st tlioii come so lu-ar These wild and ghastly shapes of dealli jhwI Ii ar? 24 THE BUCCANEER. LXXVII. And long that thick, red light has shone On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still bay, On man and Horse that seem of stone, So motionless are they. But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns : The night is going, — faint, gray dawn returns. LXXVIII. That Spectre-Steed now slowly pales, Now changes like the moonlit cloud ; That cold, thin light now slowly fails, "Which wrapt them like a shroud. Both ship and Horse are fading into air. Lost, mazed, alone, see, Lee is standing there ! LXXIX. The morning air blows fresh on him ; The waves are dancing in his sight ; The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim. O blessed morning light ! He doth not hear their joyous call ; he sees No beauty in the wave, nor feels the breeze. LXXX. For he 's accursed from all that 's good ; He ne'er must know its healing power. The sinner on his sin shall brood, And wait, alone, his hour. A stranger to earth's beauty, human love, — No rest below for him, no hope above ! THE BUCCANEER. 25 LXXXI. The sun beats hot upon his head. He stands beneath the broad, fierce blaze, As stilt" and cold as one that 's dead : A troubled, dreamy maze Of some unearthly hoiTour, all he knows, — Of some wild hoiTour past, and coming woes. LXXXII. The gull has found her place on shore ; The sun gone down again to rest ; And all is still but ocean's roar : There stands the man unblest. But, see, he moves, — he turns, as asking where His mates : — Why looks he with that piteous stare ? LXXXIII. Go, get ye home, and end your mirth I Go, call the revellers again I They 're fled the isle ; and o'er the earth Are wanderers, like Cain. As he his door-stone passed, the air blew chill. The wine is on the board ; Lee, take your fill I LXXXIV. " There 's none to meet me, none to cheer : The seats are empty, — lights burnt out ; And I, alone, nmst sit me here : Would I conid hear their shout!" He ne'er shall lii;ir it more — more taste his wine I Silent h(; sits within the still moonshine. VOL. I. '.i 26 THE BUCCANEER. LXXXV. Day came again ; and up he rose, A weary man, from his lone board ; Nor merry feast, nor sweet repose, Did that long night afford. No shadowy-coming night, to bring him rest, — No dawn, to chase the darkness of his breast I Lxxxvr. He walks within the day's full glare, A darkened man. Where'er he comes. All shun him. Children peep and stare ; Then, frightened, seek their homes. Through all the crowd a thrilling horrour ran. They point and say, — > " There goes the wicked man Lxxxvn. He turns, and curses in his wrath Both man and child ; then hastes away Shoreward, or takes some gloomy path ; But there he cannot stay : Terrour and madness drive him back to men ; His hate of man to solitude again. LXXXVIII. Time passes on, and he grows bold ; His eye is fierce, his oaths are loud ; None dare from Lee the hand withhold ; He rules and scoffs the crowd. But still at heart there lies a secret fear ; For now the year's dread round is drawing near. »» THE BUCCANEER. 27 LXXXIX. He laughs, but he is sick at heart ; He swcar.-^, but he turns deadly pale ; His restless eye and sudden start, — They tell the dreadful tale 'i'lnit will be told : it needs no words from thee, 'i'liou self-sold slave to fear and misery. xc. Bond-slave of sin I again tlie light I " Ha I take me, take me from its blaze I " Nay, thou must ride the Steed to-night ! But other weary days And nights must siiine and darken o'er thy head, Ere thou shalt go with Him to meet the dead. xci. Again the ship lights all the land ; Again Lee strides the Spectre-Beast; Again upon the elitf they stand. This once is he released I — Gone ship and Horse ; but Lee's last hope is o'er ; \or Iniiirh, nor scoff, nor rage, can help him more. Xcil. His s|)iiit licard that Spirit say, " Listen I — I twice have come to thee. f)nc<' nion-, — and tln-n a dreadful way! And thou must go with me I" Ay, cling to earth as saih)r lo tlit- locK I Sea-swept, sucked down in tlir trriuciKlous shock, 28 THE BUCCANEER. XCIII. He goes ! — So thou must loose thy hold, And go with Death ; nor breathe the balm Of early air, nor light behold. Nor sit thee in the calm Of gentle thoughts, where good men wait their close. In life, or death, where look'st thou for repose ? xciv. Who 's sitting on that long, black ledge. Which makes so far out in the sea, Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge ? Poor, idle Matthew Lee ! So weak and pale ? A year and little more, And bravely did he lord it round the shore. xcv. And on the shingle now he sits, And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands ; Now walks the beach ; now stops by fits, And scores the smooth, wet sands ; Then tries each cliff, and cove, and jut, that bounds The isle ; then home from many weary rounds. xcvi. They ask him why he wanders so, From day to day, the uneven strand ? " I wish, I wish that I might go ! But I would go by land ; And there 's no way that I can find ; I 've tried All day and night ! " — He seaward looked, and sighed. TllK ULCCA.NEKR. 29 XCVII. It brought the tear to many an eye, That, once, his eye hatl made to quuil. '• Lee, go with us ; our sloop is nigh ; Come I help us hoist her sail." He shook. — " You know the Spirit- Horse I ride ! He '11 let me on the sea with none beside ! " XCVIII. He views the ships that come and go, Looking so like to living things. O I 't is a proud and gallant show Of bright and broad-spread wings. Making it light around them, as they keep Their course right onward through the unsounded deep. xcix. And where the far-off sand-bars lift Their backs in long and narrow line, The breakers shout, and leap, and shift. And loss the sparkling brine Into the air ; then rush to mimic strife : Glad creatures of the sea, and f.ill of life I — c. But not to Lee. He sits alone ; No fellowship nor joy for him ; Borne down by woe, — but not a moan, — Though tears will sometimes dim That asking eye. (), how his worn tiionghts crave — Nof joy again, t)ut rest within the grave. 3 * 30 THE BUCCANEER. CI. The rocks are dripping in the mist That lies so heavy oil the shore ; Scarce seen the running breakers ; — list Their dull and smothered roar ! Lee hearkens to their voice. — "I hear, I hear You call. — Not yet ! — I know my time is near I " CII. And now the mist seems taking shape, Forming a dim gigantic ghost, — Enormous thing ! There 's no escape ; 'T is close upon the coast. Lee kneels, but cannot pray. — Why mock him so ! The ship has cleared the fog, Lee, see her go ! cm. A sweet, low voice, in starry nights. Chants to his ear a plaining song; Its tones come winding up the heights. Telling of woe and wrong; And he must listen till the stars grow dim, The song that gentle voice doth sing to him. CIV. O, it is sad that aught so mild Should bind the soul with bands of fear ; That strains to soothe a little child, The man should dread to hear. But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace, — unstrung The harmonious chords to which the ansfels suno-. THE BLCCANKBR. 31 CV. Ill thick, iliirk nii^lits he 'd take his seat High up the clifls, and feel them shake, As s\\'nng the sea with heavy beat Below. — and hear it break With savage roar, then pause and gather strength, And, then, come tumbling in its swollen length. CVT. But he no more shall haunt the beach, Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown. Nor go the round of all that reach. Nor feebly ?it him down, Watching the swaying weeds : — another day, And he '11 have gone far hence that dreadful way. CVII. To-night the charmed number 's told. " Twice have I come for thee," It said. " Once more, and none shall thee behold. Come I live one I — to llic dead I " — So hears his soul, and fears the gathering night ; Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light. CVIII. Again he sits in that still room ; All day he leans at that still board ; None to bring comfort to his gloom. Or speak a friendly word. Weakened with fear, lone, haniiled by remorse, Poor, shattered wretch, there waits he that pale Horse. 32 THE BUCCANEEft. CIX. Not long he waits. Where now are gone Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood Beautiful, while the west sun shone, And bathed them in his flood Of airy glory ? — Sudden darkness fell ; And down they went, peak, tower, citadel. ex. The darkness, like a dome of stone, Ceils up the heavens. 'T is hush as death, — All but the ocean's dull, low moan. How hard he draws his breath ! He shudders as he feels the working Power. Arouse thee, Lee I up ! man thee for thine hour ! CXI. 'T is close at hand ; for there, once more, The burning ship. Wide sheets of flame And shafted fire she showed before ; — Twice thus she hither came ; — But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws A wasting light ; then settling, down she goes. CXII. And where she sank, up slowly came The Spectre- Horse from out the sea. And there he stands ! His pale sides flame. He '11 meet thee shortly, Lee. He treads the waters as a solid floor ; He 's moving on. I^ee waits him at the door. THi: BUCCANEKR. 33 CXIII. They 're met. — -I know iliou com'st lor me," Lee's spirit to the Specti*e said ; '• I know that I must go with thee : Take me not to the dead. It was not I alone that did the deed I " — Dreadful the eye of that still, Spectral Steed ! cxiv. Lee eannot tnrn. There is a force In that fixed eye, which holds him fast. How still thev stand, — the man and Horse I " Thine hour is almost past." " O, spare me," cries the wretch, '• thou fearful One " The time is come, — I must not go alone." I 55 cxv. " I 'm weak and faint. O, let me stay ! " " Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee ! " The Horse and man are on their way ; He bears him to the sea. Hard breathes the Spectre through the silent night ; Fierce from his nostrils streams a deathly light. cxvi. He 's on the beach ; but stops not there ; He 's on the sea, — that dreadful Horse! Lee flings and writhes in wild despair. In vain I The Spirit-Corse Molds him hy learful spell ; — In- eiuuiol leap : Within that horrid light he rides the deep. 34 THE BUCCANEER. cxvir. It lights the sea around then* track, — The curling comb, and steel-dark wave : And there sits Lee the Spectre's back ; — Gone ! gone ! and none to save ! They 're seen no more ; the night has shut them in. May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin ! CXVIII. The earth has washed away its stain ; The sealed-up sky is breaking forth, Mustering its glorious hosts again. From the far south and north ; The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea. — O, whither on its waters rideth Lee ? THE CHANGES OF HOME. If it he life to wear within myself This torreniiess of spirit, and to lie My own soul's sepulchre. Byron. For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye Was busy in the distance, shaping things That made her heart heat quick. Wordsworth. Pine not away for that which cannot be. The Pixner op Wakefield. The Vale was beautiful ; and, when a child, 1 lii:ini,'rr> kin. 'T i.-i thnic from crime and -itriow man i«- uJii, 4- 42 THE CHANGES OF HOME. To preach, woe came with sin ; yet kindly given To touch our hearts and lead us back to heaven : — For such thy garb bespeaks thee ; and though old, Thine air, thy talk, seem slowly to unfold One who within the Vale, in manhood's priine, Lifted the lowly soul to thoughts sublime." " And, stranger, who art thou, that in such tones Greet'st me as one who old acquaintance owns ? Thy face is as a book I cannot read ; Nor does thy voice my spirit backward lead. Stirring old thoughts." " Nay, nay, thou look'st in vain ! For on my face the sea's and desert's stain ; And yet, both boy and man, I 'm in thy mind. Canst nothing here of Harry Dalton find ? " He looked again. A gleam of joy arose. An instant gleam, then sank in sad repose ; For lines he saw of trouble, more than age. And words of grief thick written on the page. Then laughing eyes and cheeks of youthful glow Came to his mind, and grief that it was so That joy and youth so soon away should go. He gave his hand ; but nothing either said, And slowly turning, home in silence led. Low were the words at our repast, and few ; Each felt the silence to the other due. THE CHANGES OF HOME, 43 At length upon our thoughtful minds there stole Converse that gently won the saddened soul. Then toward the village we together walked, And of old friends and places much we talked. Who died, who left them, he went on to tell, And who within their fathers' mansions dwell. We reached a shop. No lettered sign displayed The owner's name, or told the world his trade. But on its door, cracked, rusty hinges swung ; And there a hook and well-worn horseshoe hung. The trough was dry ; the bellows gave no blast ; The hearth was cold ; nor sparks flew red and fast ; Labour's strong arm had rested. Where was he. Brawny and bare, who toiled, and sang so free ? But soon we came where sat an aged man. riis thin and snow-white hairs the breezes fan, While he his long staff' fingered, as he spoke [n sounds so low, they scarce the stillness broke. " Good father I " said my guide. He raised his head, As asking who had spoke ; yet nothing said. " The present is a dream to his worn brain ; And yet his mind will things long past retain." My friend then questioned him of former days, Min<:ling with what he asked some little praise. Mis old eyes cleared ; a smile around them played. As on my friend his shaking hand he laid, 44 THE CHANGES OF HOME. And spoke of early prowess. Friends he named ; And some he jjraised : they were but few he blamed. " Dost thou' remember Dalton?" asked my guide. " Dalton ? Full well ! His little son beside, — A waggish boy ! — It will not from my thought, — His curious look as I my iron wrought. And, as the fiery mass took shape, his smile Made me forget my labour for a wliile. Before he left us, and when older grown. He told of one who out from heaven was thrown^ Who forged huge bolts of thunder when he fell ; One-eyed his workmen, and his shop a hell ; So, called me Vulcan." " Vulcan, — John,— art thou ? What ! long-armed John, with moist and smutty brow ? " He gazed upon me, wondering and half lost ; Something it could not grasp his mind had crossed. A moment's sti'uggle in his face betrayed The effort of the brain ; and then he said, Eager and quick, — " What ! come ! — Where, where 's the boy ? And looks the same ? 'T will give his parents joy ! " Then talked he to himself. His eyes grew dead ; He felt his hands ; nor did he raise his head. Or miss us as we left him, on our way Along the street where the thick village lay. To pass the doors where I had welcomed been, And none but unknown voices hear within ; THE CHANGES OV HOME. 45 Strange, wondering faces at those windows see, Once lightly tapped, and, then, a nod tor me I — To walk lull cities and to teel alone, From day to day to listen to the moan Oi" mourning trees, — 't was sadder here unknown I The village passed, we came where stood aloof An asred cot with low and broken roof. The sun upon its walls in quiet slept ; Close by the door the stream in silence crept ; No rustling birds were heard among the trees, That high and silent stood, as slept the breeze. The cot wide open ; yet there came no sound Of busy steps : — 't was all in stillness bound : Solenni, yet lovely stillness, as a spell. On this sweet rest and mellow sunshine fell. And there, at the low door, so fixed is one. As if for years she 'd borne with rain and sun, All mindless of herself, and lost in thought Which to her soul a far-off image brought. About her shoulders hangs her long, white hair ; She clasps the post with fingers pale and spare. And forward leans. " What sees she in these hills ? " " 'T is a vain fancy that her vision fills. Or, rather, notiiing sees she. Hope delayed. Worn, feeble ho|)e, which long her uiind has swayed, — Born and to die in grid, — ilic liopr she knows; A soiuitiiiiig gathered, 'mid lier elierislu-d woes, 46 THE CHANGES OF HOME. From sad remembrances, from wishes vain, Dim fiction of the mind to ease its pain." " Her name, I pray thee » J) " Dost thou wish to hear Of two true lovers, Jane, and Edward Vere ? " " She, Jane ? and look so old ? — And can it be That woe has done so well time's work with thee ! " " It struck her in her youth, as doth the blast The opening flower ! and then she withered fast." " Her story let me hear." " It soon is told ; Simple though sad ; no mystery to unfold, Save that one great, dread mystery, the mind. Which thousands seek, but few, in part, can find. We 'U rest us here, beneath the broad tree's shade ; The sun is hot upon the open glade." " A little farther ! Let us not obtrude Upon her sorrows' sacred solitude." " She marks us not : The curious passer-by. Children who pause, and know not why they sigh, Unheeded all by that fixed, gleamy eye. But to her story. — She and that fair boy Shared with each other childhood's griefs and joy. Their studies one ; and as they homeward went With busv looks, on little schemes intent, THE CHANGES OF HOME. 47 Their earnest, happy voices might be heard Along the lane where sang the evening bird. '• Why slionld I speak of what you know so well ? What chanced wlicn you had left us let me tell. '• Time changes innocence to vh'tues strong, Or mars the man with passions foul and wrong ; To warm and new emotions time gives life, Fluttering the heart in strange yet pleasing strife. Filling the quickened mind with visions fair, — Hues like bright clouds, that rest, like clouds, on air, Deepening each feeling of ihe impassioned soul, Round one loved object gathering then the whole. So deepened, strengthened, formed, the love that grew From childhood up, and bound in one the two. So opened their fresh hearts, as to the sun Tlie young buds open : life was just begun. For this it is to live, — the stir to feel Of hopes, fears, wishes, sadness, joy, the zeal Tliat bands us one in life, death, woe, and weal. And life it is, when a soft, inward sense Pervades our being, when we draw from thence Delights unutterable, thoughts that throw Unearthly l)rightness round this world below ; Making each common day, each common thing. Something peculiar to our spirit bring." I saw in him a gentler sense, that played 'ADd saddened tliouL'tits f)n this once young, fair m;iid, As plays the little child, unconscious why The rich, black pall, and that long, tremulous sigh. 48 THE CHANGES OF HOME. " Thy talk of love," said T, " restores thy youth. I know, decay nor age awaits on truth ; And he who keeps a simple heart and kind May something there of early feelings find. For in all innocent and tender hearts A spirit dwells that cheerful thoughts imparts ; 'Midst sorrow^s, sunny blessings it bestows On those who think upon another's woes." My friend went on. " At length drew near the time That he must travel to some distant cUme In search of gain. ' A few short hours of life,' He fondly said, ' and thou wilt be my wife I Then long, bright days, all bright, without a cloud I ' - They never came ; and he is in his shroud. She gazed up in his hopeful face, and tried To share his hope; then hung on him and sighed. Her cheek turned pale, and her dark eye grew dim ; And then through tears again she 'd look on him. In his full, clear blue eye an answering tear Spoke comfort ; for it told that she was dear, That love was strong as hope ; that though it gi'ew 'Mid thoughts less sad than hers, 't was no less true, And that in his bold, free, and cheerful mind Her timid love its home would always find. " The last day came, — a long, sad, silent day It shone on two sick hearts ; he must away. And then he felt how hard it is to go From one so dear, and leave to lonely woe THE CHANGES OF HOME. 49 A spirit yearning lor lis place ol' rest, And kincUy sympathies, — a lover's breast. " And he is gone, gone o'er the dreadful wave. ' Spare him ye dark, wild waters ! Heaven him save ! ' So prayed she ; and the earnest prayer was heard. A year past by : he came before the third. " Then from the sealed-np heart joy gushed once more. For he had come, come from the stranger's shore, To his own Vale, far through the ocean's roar. " Ah I sweet it is to gaze upon the face Long seen but by the mind, to fondly trace Each look and smile again : 't is life renewed, — How fresh ! How dim was that by memory viewed ! And, O, how pines the soul ! how doth it crave Only a moment's look I 'T is in the grave, That lovely face ; no more to bless thine eyes. Nay, wait, thou 'It meet it soon in yonder skies. " The throbbing pulse beats calm again ; and they, Too deeply happy to be loud or gay, Tiirough all their childhood's walks — the lane, the grove. Along the silvery rill — would slowly move, Mingling their hopes' bright lights with softening shades That memory threw 'mong hill-tops, streams, and glades ; For love is meditative ; close it clings. And thouglitful, to earth's simple, silent things. VOL. I. 5 50 THE CHANGES OF HOME. " And thus they wandered ; nearer heart to heart ; For they had known how hard it is to part, To live in love, yet no communion hold, — Day following day, yet all we feel untold. " And she would listening sit, and hear him speak Of fierce and tawny Tm'k, and handsome Greek, Of the young crescent moon on sullen brow, — The Cross of Christ profaned and made to bow. — And what I Shall He, who hung above our head That gentle light, see that whereon He bled Bend to the image of the thing He framed ? Throng to the Cross ! Our Saviour's Cross is shamed I " He spoke of men of far more distant climes. Their idol worship stained with fearful crimes ; Of manners strange and dresses quaint would tell ; But most upon the sea he loved to dwell. Its deep, mysterious voice, its maddened roar. Its tall, strong waves, the white foam, and the shore, The curse that on its gloomy spmt hung, - — ' Thou ne'er shalt sleep I ' through all its chambers rung ; Till closer to his side she 'd trembling draw. As if some dim and fearful thing she saw ; — So would this awful mystery fold her round : She quailed as though she heard the very sound. " ' And must you on the heaving sea again, — Mighty destroyer, deep, broad grave of men ? ' ' This once ! ' said he, ' no more ! ' She raised her eyes To his : her voice upon her pale lip dies. Her first-felt sorrow came upon her mind, And back she shrunk, as shrinks he whom they bind THE CHANGES OF HOME. 51 Once more upon the rack : — poor, weakened wretch ! Save him ! O, not again its fiery stretch I '• Sharp our first pangs ; but in the mind is life ; J)ur hearts beat strong, and fit us for the strife ; A joyous sense still breatlies amid our grief, As shoots, in drooping boughs, a tender leaf. But when woe comes again, our spirits yield, Our hearts turn faint, we cannot lift the shield ; There is no strength in all our bones ; we fall. And call for mercy, — trembling, prostrate, call. " The sun was down, and softened was the glow On cloud and hill, — but now a joyous show. Quiet the air. Its light the young moon sent On this sad pair as up the Vale they went. O, gentle is thy silver ray, fair moon ! Meet guide art thou for those to part so soon ; There 's pity in thy look ; and we below Do love thee most, who feel the touch of woe. " And up among the distant hiUs are they, To meet the weekly coach upon its way. They lingered till was heard a rumbling sound, Which spread among the hills that lay around. Soon rung the smart-cracked whip ; and then the cheer, And quick, sharp tramp told the strong steeds were near. 'T was one imploring look; and then she fell Upon his neck ; they uttered no farewell ; One short, (tonvulsive clasp, one heart-sick groan ; No other look, — liiat one weak, bitter moan, — 52 THE CHANGES OF HOME. And then her arms fell from him. All is o'er ! Poor woe-struck girl, she never clasped him more ! " The coach which bore him sank behind the hill. The short, quick bustle passed, the earth is still ; The agony is over ; a dull haze Hangs round her mind, — upon the void her gaze. A fearful calm is on that fair, sad brow ! O, who shall gently part its dark locks now. Or press its saintly whiteness ? — He is gone Who, blessing, kissed thee ; thou must go alone, Alone must bear thy sorrows many an hour. Widowed of aU thy hopes, — thy grief thy dower ! " She sought amid her daily cares for ease. To lose all sense of self, and others please. The heart lay heavy. With her grief was fear. She thought a gloomy something always near. That o'er her like a mighty prophet stood. Uttering her doom, — ' For thee no more of good ! Thy joys are withered round thee ! Read the date Of all thy hopes ! Thou art set desolate ! ' ^ "A year went by. Another came and passed. ' This third,' her friends would say, ' must be the last ' ; Spake of his coming, then, and how he 'd look. She turned more pale ; her head she slowly shook. And something muttered, as in talk with one Whom no one saw ; then said, — ' It must be done ! ' " And when the tale was told, the ship had sailed. That nothing more was known, that hope had failed ; THE CHANGES OF HOME. 53 ' It is fulfilled ! ' she said ; ' Prophetic Power, Thou told'st me true ! 'T is come, — the fated hour I ' " Her look was now like cold and changeless stone. She left her home, for she would be alone ; Wandered the fields all o'er ; and up the hill, Wliere last they parted, stood at morning still, And far along that region gazed, as she In the blue distance saw the moving sea ; And of the far-off mountain-mist would frame Long spars, and sails, and speak the lost ship's name ; And watch with glee, to see how fast it neared ; Grow restless theji, — ' It ne'er will come,' she feared. " Soon rolls the mist away ; and she is left, Of sea, ship, lover, shaping hopes bereft. Through glistening tears she 'd look, and see them go ; Then to the Vale, to dwell upon her woe. And listen to the dark pine's murmuring, Thinking the spirit of the sea did sing Its sad, low song : for, ' Such,' would Edward say, ' Its mourning tones, where long sand-beaches lay.' " But when tlirough naked trees the strong wind went, Roaring and fierce, and their tossed arms were rent, — With sullen mutterings, then a moaning sigh, — ' ll(;ar them I ' she 'd shriek; 'the waves run mountain- high!— They 'n; mad I — They shake her in their wrath! — she 's down ! — Went to th(! bottom, said th('\ .' — Did all drown .' lie told me lu! would eom<;, and I should be llih own, own wile ! — There 's mercy in the sea ?' 54 THE CHANGES OF HOME. " The spring was come again. — There is a grief Finds soothing in the bud, and bird, and leaf; A grief there is of deeper, withering power, That feels death lurking in the springing flower, That stands beneath the sun, yet circled round By a strange darkness, — stands amid the sound Of happy things, and yet in silence bound ; Moves in a fearful void amid the throng. And deems that happy nature does it wi'ong ; Thinks joy unkind ; feels it must walk alone, That not on earth is one to hear its moan, Or bring assuaging sympathies, or bind A broken heart, or cheer a desert mind. — And thus she walks in silent loneliness ; Sounds come, and lovely sights around her press ; Yet all in vain ! She something sees and hears, But feels not, — dead to pangs, to joys, to fears ; Nor wishes aught. The mind, all waste and worn, Lives but to faintly know itself forlorn ; Remembrance of past joys wellnigh forgot, As if one changeless gloom had been her lot ; And, sure, had thought it strange that there should be Blessings in store for one so poor as she. " She wandered in this dull and fearful mood, A shadow 'mid the shadows of the wood ; Would sit the livelong day and watch the stream. And pore, when shed the moon its fainter beam, In di'eamy thought, upon its dreamy light. — How few of grief have felt, can feel, the might ! " Season of thought ! The leaves are dropping now, Tawny or red, from off their parent bough ; I THE CHANGES OF HOME. 55 Nor longer plays their glossy green in air, Over thy slender form and long, dark hair. Mvriads of gay ones fluttered over thee ; — Thon now look'st up at that bare, silent tree. Thou, too, art waste and silent : in thy spring The cold winds came, and struck thee blossoming I Nor sound, nor life, nor motion, in thy mind : All lost to sense, what would thy spirit find ? " They led her home. She went ; nor asked to stay. The same to her the wood, the house, the way. The talk goes on, the laugh, the daily tasks : She stands unmoved ; she nothing heeds nor asks. Above the fire, sea-shells, from distant lands. Once ranged by her, she feels with idle hands. And what the soul's communion none could trace: No gleamings of the past in tliat still face ! " They marked, when spring returned and warmer days. She stood, as now, on yonder hill her gaze. They thought not what it meant, nor cared to know 'i'he glinnnerings of a mind whose light was low. 'JMiry saw, as up the hill ilic hot steeds came, A strange and sudden shuddering take her frame ; And llicii a childish laugh; and ghiamed her eye. The c(«i(h went down, — they heard a scarce breathed sigh. A shade j)assed o'er her face, as (jiiickly go Shadows of sailing clouds on fields below; Tlu'ii all was clear and still; the niuneaning smile, The senseless look rtiunicd, whirli |l<-d awhile. 56 THE CHANGES OF HOME. And thus her dreamy days, months, years are gone : Not knowing ^vhy she looks, she yet looks on. — We '11 homeward now ! " Death is a mom*nful sight, But what is death, to this dread, living blight ! Thou who didst form us with mysterious powers. And give a conscious soul, and call it ours ; Thou who alone dost know the strife within Wilt kindly judge, nor name each weakness sin. Thou art not man, who only sees in part. Yet deals unsparing w^ith a brother's heart ; For Thou look'st in upon the struggling throng That war, — the good with ill, — the weak with strong. And those Thy hand hath wrought of finer frame, When grief o'erthrows the mind, Thou wilt not blame ; But say, " It is enough ! " — and pity show, — " Thy pain shall turn to joy, thou child of woe I Thy heart at rest, and dark mind cleared away, Heaven's light shall dawn on thee, a calmer day." The sun was nigh its set, as we once more, With saddened spirits, reached the good man's door. And there we rested, with a gorgeous sight Above our heads, — the elm in golden light. Thoughtful and silent for a while, he then Talked of my coming : — " Thou wilt not again From thine own Vale ? And we will make thy home Pleasant ; and it shall glad thee to have come." Then of my garden and my house he spoke, And well-ranged orchard on the sunny slope ; THK CHANGES OF HOME. 57 And grow more bright and happy in his talk Of social winter eve and summer walk. And, while I listened, to my sadder soul A sunnier, gentler sense in silence stole ; Nor iiad I heart to spoil the little plan Which cheered the spirit of the kind old man. At length I spake : — " No ! here I must not stay. I '11 rest to-night, — to-morrow go my way." He did not urge me. — Looking in my face, As he each feeling of the heart could trace. He pressed my hand, and prayed I might be blessed, Where'er I went, — that Heaven would give me rest. The silent night has passed into the prime Of day, — to thoughtful souls a solemn time. For man has wakened from his nightly death And shut-up sense, to morning's life and breath. He sees go out in heaven the stars, that kept Their glorious watch while he unconscious slept, — Feels God was round him while he knew it not, — Is awed, — then meets the world, and God 's forgot. So may I not forget thee, holy Power ! Be ever to me as at this calm hour. The tree-tops now are glittering in the sun : Away I 'T is time my journey was begun I Why shc^uld I stay, when all I loved an- lied, Strang*^ to the living, knowing hut the tlead, — 58 THE CHANGES OF HOME. A homeless wanderer through my early home, — Gone childhood's joy, and not a joy to come ! To pass each cottage, and to have it teU, Here did thy mother, here a playmate, dwell ! To think upon that lost one's girlish bloom, And see that sickly smile, and mark her doom, — It haunts me now, — her dim and wildered brain ; I would not look upon that eye again ! Let me go, rather, where I shall not find Aught that my former self will bring to mind. These old, familiar things, where'er I tread, Are round me like the mansions of the dead. No ! wide and foreign lands shall be my range : That suits the lonely soul, where aU is strange. Then, for the dashing sea, the broad, full sail ! And fare thee well, my own green, quiet Vale. FACTITIOUS LIFE The world is too much whU us ; late or soon, Gelling and spendin;;, we lay waste our powers : Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon. Wordsworth. But if his word once teach us, — shoot a ray Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal Tnilhs undiscerned but by thai holy light, — Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptized In the pure fountain of eternal love, Has eyes indeed. COWPER. The severe schooles shall never laugh me out of llie philosophy of Hcrme.s, that this visible world is but a picture of the invisible, wherein, as in a iwurtracl, things are not truly, but in eciuivocal shapes, and as they counterfeit some more real substance in that invisible Fabrick. Sir Thomas Browne. ScARCK two-score years are gone since life began, Yet many changes have I seen in man. But when I 'm seated in my easy chair, (My " stede of bras," ) and uj) through viewless air Go flying on by generations back, O, tlicn, what changes pass I in iny track! " Cambuscan bold" might course o'er many a clime; I in a moment compass earth and time, Seeing what is ami li:iili hrcn ; and I view Much very old, that sonic think very new. 60 FACTITIOUS LIFE. The grandam to the modern belle complains, You 've stole my waist. May you endure its pains, ■ Steel and the cord ! — In his fine dandy son The ghost of Squaretoes sees himself outdone. " PuU off my boots," he cries, with crazy Lear ; And squaretoed boots and Squaretoes disappear. — Fie, scant-robed ghost, to thus cut roundabout That modest miss, and so play " Pedler Stout." O, take no more than is thy own, — the train ; Shame to pure eyes! — the rest give back again. If on such errands you come back to earth. You '11 leave us all as naked as at birth. Wife, virgin, mother, see them, there they walk I Dress as they may, good Sir, you must not talk. For learn, in times like these you 're not to say What others do, though done in open day. Our language, not our conduct, marks the mind. Let that be pure, and this must be refined. Ophelia's words would shock a modern belle. Prince Hamlet, had Ophelia's robe that swell ? Did the wind sway it thus ? the janty tread ? What said Laertes at his parting, maid ? " The chariest maid is prodigal enough, If she unmask her beauties to " O, stuff! Have you no other subject for your song, Than whether we go dressed too short or long ? If such the theme on which you mean to prose, Excuse me, while you lecture, if I doze. FACTITIOUS LIFE. 61 Nav, I am done ! and rest on this as true : — Though Fashion 's absolute, she 's fickle too. E'en while I WTite, a transformation strange Is going on, and shows that all is change. And by the time these lines shall be in press, They '11 need a learned note, in prose, on dress. Not dress alone ; opinions have their day ; That is deposed, and this awhile bears sway ; That mounts the throne in glistering robes once more : They who adored, then scorned, again adore. To scorn again : in one thing constant still, — Themselves ne'er wrong, whoe'er the tlirone may fill. Be it opinion, notion, fancy, whim, — E'en what you wUl, — 't is all the same to him. The grave philosopher ; he wheels about His system to the crowd; then wheels it out. And shoves another in ; as at a show Trees, houses, castles, towns, move to and fro ; — Ransacks the lumber-room of ancient time. The older, better, best in farthest clime ; For farthest off less likely to be known The learned theft : tiie thing is all his own ! Old furniture, new varnished and new named, Serves all his ends ; the charlatan is lamed. O simple world, well gulled! he cries, with glee; Blest " second-hand originality ! " From Asia, Africa, Irom (^Jreece, Ijchold Rise from their anti(pi(> tombs tlu; sages old. This modern son of light descries, with dread. Their shadowy forms: They eonic, the mighty dead! vol.. I. (i 62 FACTITIOUS LIFE. For pardon, wronged ones, at your feet I fall. I own the theft ; but strip me not of all ! Leave me my name, at least, if nothing more ; Save one from general scorn whom men adore. The name, dishonored, keep, they with a frown Reply ; then turn, and to their graves go down. Although upon the shore of time we stand, And watch the ebb and flood along the strand ; Although what is has been, we yet may trace A silent change upon the world's wide face. 'Mid renovated philosophic schemes. And arts restored or lost, plans, fashions, dreams, That, idly eddying, jostle side by side, Down through them all there runs a steady tide Of subtile alteration, scarce perceived ; As age, of hope and youthful w^armth bereaved, But faintly notes a change so soft and slow; So gently dropped the leaves that lie below. But bring the extremes together ; let them greet, - The elastic boy, and man on tottering feet. We ask amazed. Can these indeed be one ? Yes, even so ; w^e see what Time has done, — That cunning craftsman, he that works alway. Makes and unmakes, nor stops for night nor day, (For they his bondmen are,) rules while he toils, And laughs to think what purposes he foils In vain, forecasting man ; that, fool or knave, ( All but the truly wise) he holds a slave. Thou universal Worker, thou hast wrought Vast changes in the world of heart and thought. FACTITIOUS LIFE. 63 Once flowed the stream of feeling, like a brook, In natnral windings ; now we feel by book. And once, as joy or sorrow moved the man, He langhed or wept, unguided by a plan Of ontward port ; for in his riper years The boy still lived ; and anger, love, and fears Spoke out in action vehement : — 't was sti'ength, Strong heart, strong thought ; thought, feeling, ran their length In a wild grandeur, or they passive lay, Like waters circled in a wooded bay, That take from some slow cloud the quivering lights Flung from its snowy rifts and glittering heights. Yes, free and ever-varying played the heart ; Great Nature schooled it ; life was not an art. And as the bosom heaved, so wrought the mind ; The thought put fortli in act ; and unconfined. The whole man lived his feelings. Time shall say If man 's the same in this our latter day. The same I I scarcely know my work ! For when I take my rounds among the throngs of men, E'en he who almost rivals me in years Apes youth so well, his head of hair appears So full and bright, I fain would hide my pate, Riil) out old scores, and st:u-t with fn-slicr date. Tlit- youth enacts the sage, contemns llic dead, Lauds liis own times, and cries. Go up, bald head I Misses and little masters read at school Abridged accounts of goveriunents aiid rule ; 64 FACTITIOUS LIFE. Word-wise, and knowing all things, nothing know ; — Would reap the harvest ere the ground they sow. The world 's reversed ; boy politicians spout ; And age courts youth, lest youth should tin:n him out. The chUd is grown as cautious as threescore ; Admits, on proof, that two and two are four. He to no aimless energies gives way ; No little fauy visions round him play ; He builds no towering castles in the sky, Longing to climb, his bosom beating high ; Is told that fancy leads but to destroy ; You have five senses ; follow them, my boy ! If feeling wakes, his parents' fears are such. They cry, Don't, dearest, you will feel too much. Does Time speak truth ? I think so. Let us take A single passion, for example's sake. They talk of Love, or, rather, once they did, When I was young : I 'm told 't is now forbid ; That love, with ghosts, is banished clean away, And heads well crammed, the system of the day ; That should you beg a maid her ear incline To your true love, she bids you love define ; Then talks of Dugald Stewart and of Brown, And with philosophy quite puts you down ; On mood synthetical, analysis. Descants awhile. — Most metaphysic Miss ! "Who 'd win her must not like a lover look, But grave philosopher, and woo by book. Gaze on her face, and swear her eyes are stars ; She talks of Venus, Jupiter, and Mars. I FACTITIOUS LIFK. 65 Spoak of the moon ; its phases and eclipse How caused, you hear from learned and ruby lips. Vow you will pour your heart out like a flood ; She treats on venous and arterial blood ; Drives you half mad, then talks of motive nerve, And nerves of sense, how they their purpose serve, And how expression to the face impart, How all-important to the painter's art. Then wonders that our eyes had seen so well Before we read about their nerves in Bell ; Thus, for love's mazes, leads you round about, Through arts and sciences, an endless route. O, no, it was not so when I was young ; No maiden answered love in such a tongue, Or cared for planets in conjunction hionght; With her, 'twas heart to heart, andthouglit to thought. She tell what blood her veins and arteries liil I Enough for her to feel its burning thrill. She gaze upon the moon, as if she took An observation I Love was in her look, All gentle as the moon. Herself perplex With light original, or light reflex I Enough lor her, " By thy pale beam," to say, " Alone and pensive, I delight to stray ; And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream." () maid, thrice lovelier than thy lovely dream .' And is the race extinct? ( )r where is hid She, with llif lihishiiig cheek ninl (low iiciist lid, 'JVemblingly delicate, and like ; then looks below ; Tlu'ii leaps; — the closing waves above her flow, Aiid down she smks for ever ? Verv true. But these the only dangers in your view ? — Or would you lay fair-flowering nature bare Because, forsooth, you fear a canker there ? If love may lure romantic minds astray, Will shrewder heads point out a surer way ? To live alone, cries one, how dull a life I I think I 'U marry ; and straight takes a wife. Soon tired of home, and finding life still dull. He joins his club, keeps horses and a trull ; Of jokes on loving husbands cracks a score. And coarse as heartless, votes a wife a bore. 'J'Ih; widow-wife secures, her loss to mend, A kinder husband in her husband's //•ie«(^ ; Or, unrestrained by love, yet held by vows. Though scarce more fond, less faithless than her spouse. One weds with age; and should she keep her truth, A> (tncc she sighed for wealth, now sighs ibr youth ; Looks on its mantling cheek, and Ijrown, crisp hair. Then turns to age and wrinkles, in despair ; Her husband's harlot, feigns love's playful wiles. So deals her bargained coaxings and her smiles, The dotard dreams she loves; — thus acts her part. And. robbed the joys of sin, still sins in heart. Hilt lir-re a youthful pair. What think you now? I'll'- liir-nds agreed; say, shall ihey take the vow? 68 FACTITIOUS LIFE. Connections quite respectable all round^ And ample property, and titles sound. Most certainly an eligible match, Estates so fit, like patch well set to patch. 'Tis strange none thought of it before ! My friend, How fit thek minds ? And do then* feelings blend ? 'o"- Why, as to these I have not yet inquired. What more than I have said can be desired ? They '11 learn to like each other by and by. 'T is not my business into hearts to pry After such whims. Besides, what them contents, Contents me too. Come, let us sum their rents. Houses in town, — say ten Nay, join their hands. Boggle at hearts ! We ne^er should join their lands ! Though rough and sharp below, what then, foi'sooth ? Custom and art will make the surface smooth To the world's eye, o'er this McAdam way Of wedded life. We '11 have no more delay, But join them straight. — The pair have made a trade, — Contract in lands and stocks 'twixt man and maid 1 Partners for life, club chances, — weal or woe ! Hang out the sign ! There, read ! — A. B. & Co. ! And do unsightly weeds choke up the gush Of early hearts ? Are all the feelings hush FACTITIors LIFK. 69 And lifeless now, that would have sent tiieir son ml In unison, where young hearts throb and bound ? Tear up the weeds and let the soul have play ; Open its sunless fountains to the day ; Let them How freely out : they make thy wealth. Bathe thy whole being in these streams of health, And feel new vigour in thy frame ! — A boy ! And weigh thy pelf with love I — against a joy That lifts the mind and speaks it noble, gives Beauty ethereal, in which it lives A life celestial here, on earth, — e'en here I What canst thou give for this, and call it dear ? O, it is past all count I Pray, throw thee by Thy tables ; trust the heart ; the tables lie. Let not thy fresh soul wither in its spring. Water its tender shoots, and they shall bring Shelter to age. Then sit and think how blest Have been thy days, thank God, and take thy rest. Sell not thy heart for gold, then, nor for lands ; 'Tis richer far than all Pactolus' sands; And where on earth would run the stream to lave The curse away, and thy starved soul to save ? But all arc reasoners, — father, mother, child; And every jiassioii 's numbered, labelled, filed, And taken down, discussed, and read upon. We read, last night. Mamma, through chapter one. And left the second in the midst. Shall we do through with that ? Tlic second .' Let me see! — Tlje second treats of (irid. — Read, child I 70 FACTITIOUS LIFE. Fourth head, Concerning grief, is sorrow for the dead. Know, happiness is duty. Then, be wise ; You 're not to grieve though one you care for dies. Have many friends, and then you '11 scarcely know When one departs, and save a world of woe. Nor do we now retke to mourn ; we live Only in taking pleasure, or to give. Is sorrow sin. Mamma? It is a waste. Sin, child ! How vulgar I Mind me ; say, bad taste. But what is pleasure ? Men have said of old, 'T is found in neither luxury, nor gold, Nor fashion, nor the throng ; but only true Where minds are calm, and friends are dear and few ; That life's swift whirl wears out our finer sense, Sucks down the good, and gives out nothing thence But a tossed wreck, which, once the comely frame Of some true joy, saves nothing but the name. And drifts, a shattered thing, upon the shore, Where lie the unsightly wrecks of thousands more. To flee from sorrow, and alone to keep The eye on happiness, leaves nothing deep E'en in our joys. To put aside in haste The cup of grief, makes vapid to the taste The cup of pleasure. Think not, then, to spare Thyself all sorrow, yet in joy to share. FACTITIOrS LIFF. 71 Take up thy many-stringed harp, and tlirum On that one chord, and with a single thumb. Now Thrill the fibres of thy soul ? or flow In sounds of varying measure, swift or slow, The full rich harmonies ? Nay, listen on ! Thy soul has myriad strings where this has one ! Wearied so soon ? Then take it up and play On all its strings, but let its notes be gay. Wearied again ? and glad to throw it by ? Yes, tired, in faith ; I long to hear it sigh ; I 'm worn with very glee. O, let me give One note to touch my heart, and feel it live I And thus the soul is framed ; that if, alone, We loose one chord, the harp ^vill fail its tone. The mighty harmonies within, around, Die all away, or send a jarring sound. Give over, then, and wisely use thy skill To tune each passion rightly, not to kill. To joy thee in the living, mourn the dead ; And know thou hast a heart, as well as head, — A heart that needs, at times, the softening powers Of grief, romantic love, and lonely hours, A.nd meditative twilight, and the balm Of falling dews, and evening stars, and calm. For, ever in the world, there forms a crust Abont thy soul, and all within 's adust. With sensr* beciondt-tj, and |)i'rvert('d taste, You toil abroad, and leave the lieart a waste; 72 FACTITIOUS LIFE. Dead while alive, and listless in the stir, See all awry, deem manner character ; Not sentient of the right, nor loathing wrong. You smile, and that call rude, which God calls strong ; No honest indignation in your breast, Nor ardent love, but all things well expressed ; Your manner, like your dress, a thing put on : The seen, not that beneath, your care alone. The dress has made the form by nature given Unlike aught ever seen in earth or heaven. Where, girl, thy flowing motion, easy sweep. Like waves that swing, nor break the glassy deep ? — All hard, and angular, and cased in steel ! And is it human ? Can it breathe and feel ? The bosom beautiful of mould, — alas ! Where, now, thy pillow, youth ? (but let it pass,) And shapes in freedom lovely ? I will bear Distorted forms, leave minds but free and fair. All, all alike conventional ; the mind Is tortured like the body, cramped, confined ; A thing made up by rules of art, for life ; Most perfect when with nature most at strife ; Till the strife ceases, and the thing of art. Forgetting nature, no more plays a part ; Sees truth in the factitious ; — pleasure's slave, — Its drudge, not lord ; in trifles only grave. And with the high brought low, the little raised, Nature forgotten, the factitious praised, The world a gaud, life's stream a shallow brawl, What, worldling, holds up virtue from a fall ? FACTITIOUS LIFE. 73 Virtue ? Nay, mock it not. There sits its Form : Thy hand upon its heart I Does 't beat ? Is 't warm ? No pulse I unci cold as death ! Then paint its face, And dress it up, and give the thing a grace, For sake of decency. Why, just look there! How like it is I And what a modish air ! How very proper ! Sure, it can't but pass. And serve in time to come for fashion's glass. With etiquette for virtue, heart subdued, The right betraying, lest you should be rude, Excusing wrong, lest you be thought precise, Li morals easy, and in manners nice ; To keep in with the world your only end. And with the world to censure or defend, To bend to it eacli passion, thought, deske, With it genteelly cold, or all on tire. What have you left to call your own, I i)ruy ? You ask. What says the world ? and that obey ; Where singularity alone is sin, Live uncondemned, and prostrate all within. You educate the manners, not the heart ; And morals make good-breeding and an art. Though coarse within, yet polished high without. And held by all respectable, no doubt, You think, concealed beneath these flimsy lies, 'J'o kci-p tlin»ni:Ii life th«^ set proprieties. All, lot)!, ji't Init a passion rise in war. Your mighty doors of (Jaza, po.sts and bar, VOL. I. 7 74 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 'T will wrench away. The Dalilah of old — Your harlot virtue — thought with withes to hold Her strong one captive ; the Philistines came ; He snapped the bands as tow, and freed his frame, And forth he walked. And think you, then, to bind With cords like these the Samsons of the mind. When tempters from abroad beset them ? Nay ! They '11 out, and tread like common dust your sway. You strive in vain against the eternal plan. Set free the sympathies, and be a man ; And let the tear bedew thine honest eye, When good ones suffer, and when loved ones die ; Deem not thy fellow as a creature made To serve thy turn in pleasure or in trade, And then thrown by. It breaks thy moral power To wrap the eternal up in one short hour, And ask what best will serve to help you on. Or furnish comforts till your life is done. And is it wise or safe to set at naught The finer feelings in our nature wrought. That throw a lovelier hue on innocence, And give to things of earth a life intense. Drawing a charmed circle round our home, That nothing gross or sensual there may come ? Yet, what makes virtue beauty you would bend To worldly purposes, — a prudent end ! From virtue take this beautiful regard, And leave her homely prudence, duty hard ; Let passions unrefined, fed appetites, Awake, and call aloud for gross delights ; FACTITIOUS LIFE. 75 Think you the paltry barriers you have bviilt Will stand the tug, and keep out shame and guilt ? Then leave your cold forecasting?, sharp, close strife For vantage ; quit tiie whirl you call your life, And see how God has ^\Tought. This earth was made For use of man, its lord, you hear it said. Yes, it is full of uses ; you may see How plainly made for use is yonder tree, To bear thee o'er the seas, or house thee dry. When rains beat hard, and winds are bleak and high. No, naught of this I But leaves, like fluttering wings, Flash light ; the gentle wind among them sings, Then stops, and they too stop ; and then the strain Begins anew ; and then they dance again. I see the tinted trunk of brown and gray, And rich, warm fungus, brighter for decay. Whence rays of light, as from a fountain, flow; I hear the mother robin talking low 111 notes afll'ctionate ; the wide-mouthed brood Chattering and eager for their far-sought food. The air is spread with beauty ; and the sky Is musical with sounds that rise, and die Till scarce the ear can catch them ; then they swell; Then send from far a low, sweet, sad farewell. My mind is filled with beauty, and my heart — With joy ? Not joy, — with what I would not part. It is not sorrow, yet almost subdues My soul to tears ; it saddms whilf it woos. My spirit brcatjics of love; I could not hate. ( ), 1 <talle(l tiecay ? 92 THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. Is it not glorious, then, from thy own heart To pour a stream of life ? to make a part With thy eternal spirit things that rot, — That, looked on for a moment, are forgot, But to thy opening vision pass to take New forms of life, and in new beauties wake ? To thee the falling leaf but fades to bear Its hues and odom's to a fresher air ; Some passing sound floats by to yonder sphere, That softly answers to thy listening ear. In one eternal round they go and come ; And where they travel, there hast thou a home For thy far-reaching thoughts. — O Power Divine ! Has this poor worm a spirit so like thine ? Unwrap its folds, and clear its wings to go ! Would I could quit earth, sin, and care, and woe ! Nay, rather let me use the world aright : Thus make me ready for my upward flight. Come, Brother, turn with me from pining thought. And all the inward ills that sin has wrought ; Come, send abroad a love for all who live, And feel the deep content in turn they give. Kind wishes and good deeds, — they make not poor ; They 'U home again, full laden, to thy door. The streams of love flow back where they begin ; For springs of outward joys lie deep within. E'en let them flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow-meu. Shouldst thou be sad, And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 1)3 More lonely for the past, thon then shalt hear The music of those waters running near ; And thy faint spirit cirink the cooling stream, And thine eye gladden with the playing beam, That now upon the water dances, now. Leaps uj) and dances in the hanging bough. Is it not lovely ? Tell me, where doth dwell The power that ^vTOught so beautiful a spell ? [n tliy own bosom, Brother ? Then, as thine, Guard with a reverent fear this power divine. And if, indeed, 't is not the outward state, But temper of the Soul, by which we rate Sadness or joy, e'en let thy bosom move With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love ; And let each feeling in thy breast be given All honest aim, which, sanctified by Heaven, And springing into act, new life imparts. Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts. Sin clouds the mind's clear vision ; man, not earth, Around the self-starved Soul has sjiread a dearth. The earth is full of lite: ihc living Hand Touched it with liir; and all its lonns expand Witli princij)les of being made to suit Man's varied powers, and raise him from the brute. And shall the earth of higher ends be lull. — Earth which tlum trcad'st, — and lliy i)oor mind be dull ? 'J'liou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep! I'liou " living dead man," l