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TWILIGHT HOURS. 
 
TWILIGHT HOURS: 
 
 OR 
 
 LEISUEE MOMENTS OF AN AKTIST. 
 
 BY E. A. BRACKETT. 
 
 " What, art thou critical ? " quoth lie, 
 Eschew that heart s disease 
 
 That seeketh for displeasure, where 
 The intent hath been to please ! " 
 
 Soitthey. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PRINTED BY FREEMAN AND BOLLES. 
 1845. 
 
. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by 
 E. A. BRACKETT, in the Clerk s Office of the District Court 
 of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 AT the request of a few friends, I consented 
 to the printing of this little volume for private 
 circulation. As it may fall into less friendly 
 hands, a few words of explanation may not be 
 inappropriate. The principal part of the book 
 was written, during the last year, in those in 
 tervals from study and labor which fall to the 
 lot of every artist, and with no expectation that 
 
 942023 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 it would be read beyond my own fire-side. 
 The enthusiasm which every artist brings to his 
 profession, not unfrequently finds vent in other 
 things. These outbreakings may be termed his 
 waste thoughts, and he should be thankful that 
 they take no worse direction than that of writ 
 ing verse, though ever so humble its character. 
 " The Old Man " is a part of an unfinished 
 Poem which may hereafter be completed. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Evening 11 
 
 The Old Man 17 
 
 The Beggar Boy 31 
 
 The Lone Wood 39 
 
 The Wind 41 
 
 The Face that Looketh up from the Stream . 43 
 
 To One in Heaven 45 
 
 Lines Suggested on Finishing a Bust of Allston 48 
 
 The Brook 51 
 
 The Return 52 
 
 To Amanda 55 
 
 The Traveller and Maiden 56 
 
 The Pee- Wee 60 
 
 The Kennebec , 62 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Annabelle 65 
 
 The Water Lily 67 
 
 Sleep and Death gg 
 
 The Wreck of the Slave Ship .... 71 
 
 Lay thy Palm upon my Brow 75 
 
 The Poet X (I ( 77 
 
 A Walk by the River Side 79 
 
 Autumn g 5 
 
 The Blacksmith gg 
 
 The Dream 90 
 
 Morning . q Q 
 
EVENING. 
 
EVENING. 
 
 THE twilight Hours, fair winged hours, 
 
 Now with the fading light 
 All silently do usher in 
 
 Their elder sister, Night, 
 The shrouded queen, through whose deep veil 
 
 The smiling stars gleam bright. 
 
 How soft their misty forms glide up 
 
 The spacious vault of blue ; 
 They clothe the hills and vales and plains 
 
 In robes of dusky hue, 
 While from their marble urns descends 
 
 On earth the glistening dew. 
 

 EVENING. 
 
 A changing flood of crimson light 
 Moves slowly down the west, 
 
 Before the stately march of her 
 Who bears upon her breast 
 
 A shield inlaid with stars, and on 
 Her head a silver crest. 
 
 A drowsy hum steals on the air 
 From ocean s ceaseless flow, 
 
 As when the mountain peasant hears 
 In murmurs strong, yet low, 
 
 The voice of some great multitude 
 Far in the vale below. 
 
 The robin s dirge to parting light 
 Hath ceased upon the hill ; 
 
 The laughing brook, that all the day 
 Rolled down with hearty will, 
 
 Beneath the dusky wings of night 
 No longer turns the mill. 
 
EVENING. 13 
 
 At such an hour as this men flee 
 
 From care and bitter strife, 
 To seek, beside the social hearth, 
 
 With love and beauty rife, 
 That calm which true affection throws 
 
 Around the toils of life. 
 
 For love likes not the glare of day ; 
 
 But as a gentle flower 
 That fainting droops its head beneath 
 
 The heat of noon-day hour, 
 It sweetly glows when evening mild 
 
 Comes with its soothing power. 
 
 The poor and honest man, whose form 
 
 Beneath oppression bends, 
 Feels life leap through his care-worn limbs, 
 
 Such strength to him love lends ; 
 He half forgets his daily task, 
 
 As home he lightly wends. 
 
14 EVENING. 
 
 E en I, whose path lies far away 
 From man s accustomed wrong, 
 
 Who seldom mingle with the mass, 
 The fevered thoughtless throng, 
 
 That hurrying sweep unceasingly 
 The pent-up streets along, 
 
 Now greet with joy, O gentle Night, 
 Thy calm and full control ; 
 
 For through the firmament of thought, 
 That strange, yet perfect whole, 
 
 Like stars at night, the rays of truth 
 Look in upon the soul. 
 
THE OLD MAN. 
 
17 
 
 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 T WAS autumn, and a mellow light 
 In beauty clothed the scene, 
 
 A lengthened train of shadows lay 
 Upon the swarthy green, 
 
 Where fell the rays of setting sun 
 Like golden bars between, 
 
 When Walter Gray a thoughtless man, 
 
 Who dwelt in forest wild, 
 Returning down the woodland glade, 
 
 Spoke harshly to his child. 
 " Now wherefore shouldst thou angrily 
 
 Thus chide thy little one ? 
 Methinks t were more a parent s part 
 
 To speak in gentler tone. 
 
18 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 " Nay, smooth thy brow, I m weak and old. 
 
 But let me take thy boy, 
 His sunny face and laughing eye 
 
 Dilate my breast with joy." 
 So part in anger, part in shame, 
 
 Corrected Walter stood. 
 " Now who art thou, with long gray beard, 
 
 That seek st this lonely wood ? " 
 
 " Would st listen to an old man s talk ? 
 
 Then sit thee by my side." 
 And, swayed by light or deeper tones, 
 
 The old man thus replied : 
 " Due westward, where the setting sun 
 
 Gleams on the mountain s brow, 
 Full twenty years I saw it, sir, 
 
 As we do see it now. 
 
THE OLD MAN. 19 
 
 " And where yon tall and leafless pine 
 
 Towers upward from the vale, 
 Its limbs and bark by lightning shorn, 
 
 Now standing ghostly pale, 
 An humble dwelling once I reared 
 
 Upon the land I tilled : 
 It was not framed for foolish show 
 
 Such as in pride ye build ; 
 
 " But massive logs together piled 
 
 With clay and straw between, 
 And o er the low-thatched roof there crept 
 
 Woodbine and evergreen. 
 There bloomed the wind-flower and the rose 
 
 Beside the buttercup, 
 The velvet pink that gently folds 
 
 At eve its petals up. 
 
20 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 " The sweetbriar and the violet 
 
 In silent beauty grew, 
 And in the morning s rosy light 
 
 I saw them smiling through, 
 With looks as lovely as a child s, 
 
 The pearly drops of dew. 
 
 " A tiny brook, a laughing rill, 
 
 Danced ever by the door, 
 And kissed the moss and little vines 
 
 That wrapt the cold stones o er. 
 The trees, the flowers, the running brook, 
 
 The gentle song of birds, 
 To me a heavenly music spoke, 
 
 1 More eloquent than words. 
 
THE OLD MAN. 21 
 
 " The flowers, like childhood s happy thoughts, 
 
 Pass quietly away : 
 They bloom in spring, in Autumn winds 
 
 They wither and decay. 
 But then a fairer, nobler flower 
 
 To my young heart was given : 
 I do believe, as Christ doth live, 
 
 T is blooming now in heaven. 
 
 " That lovely lady of the vale 
 
 Had eyes like thine, my child, 
 Through which the soul in beauty breathed 
 
 A language ever mild. 
 And she a blessed mother was ; 
 
 With reverence be it said, 
 Earth never held a fairer form, 
 
 Than that dear mother dead. 
 
22 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 " Alas ! that we should feel such blight, 
 
 That all our joys are brief! 
 Nay, nay, be seated still, my friend, 
 
 I soon shall find relief. 
 I cannot choose but let them flow, 
 
 These tokens of my grief. 
 
 " Albeit there are those whose hearts 
 By sorrow have been steeled ; 
 
 For grief full oft benumbs the mind 
 Till every spring is sealed ; 
 
 With them the rays of love and truth 
 No kindly influence yield. 
 
 " But I must weep, as back I turn 
 To years that long have passed, 
 
 Years that have seen my brighest hopes 
 To dark oblivion cast, 
 
 Swept, as the trembling leaves are swept 
 By chill November s blast. 
 
THE OLD MAN. 23 
 
 " And all must weep whose hearts are framed 
 
 To nature s plaintive tones ; 
 Its voice is in the passing breeze, 
 
 The leafless forest moans, 
 And yonder bird with music sweet 
 
 A sadder feeling owns. 
 
 " But these are melancholy strains, 
 
 Soft as the breathing lute 
 Attuned by nature s boundless love, 
 
 The lonely heart to suit : 
 To thoughtless mirth and foolish pride 
 
 The heavens are always mute. 
 
 " It is a mournful thing to those 
 
 Who love kind nature s face, 
 And in her varied features learn 
 
 A heavenly power to trace, 
 To see how man of thoughtless mind 
 
 Her beauty doth deface. 
 
24 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 "Ah, why is he a thing accursed ? 
 
 Why shrinks he from the light 
 That from the inner man should flow 
 
 And guide his steps aright ? 
 Why turns he down the rugged path 
 
 That leads to darkest night ? 
 
 " Pride, selfish pride his eye hath dimmed 
 
 And led his soul astray : 
 He scarcely hears the still small voice 
 
 That bids him ever pray, 
 Nor sees the deep overwhelming gulf 
 
 That skirts his thorny way. 
 
 " If man to man were always kind, 
 These tears would never flow, 
 
 Nor had I cause to feel the grief 
 That rends my bosom so, 
 
 Which, through a long and cheerless life 
 Hath bowed my spirit low. 
 
THE OLD MAN. 25 
 
 " Look on the golden harvest-fields 
 
 Now bathed in smoky light ; 
 And hark ! the sound of yonder stream 
 
 That greets the coming night ; 
 With silvery voice, a low sweet tune 
 
 It singeth with delight. 
 
 " O nature, with thy ceaseless voice, 
 
 Thy kind maternal face, 
 How dost thou ever strive to woo 
 
 Man from his wild embrace 
 Of wrong, of hate, and reckless strife, 
 
 To God s exceeding grace ! 
 
 " There s beauty in the changing scene, 
 When Autumn s hand hath spread 
 
 Her mantle, o er the forest trees, 
 Of yellow, brown, and red ; 
 
 Wild music in the dance of leaves, 
 By viewless fairies led ; 
 3 
 
26 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 " A fragrance in the fading flower 
 That meekly droops its head ; 
 
 Reward in heaven for those who watch 
 Around the sick one s bed ; 
 
 A holy calm for those who love 
 The memory of the dead. 
 
 " Here sleeps, within the silent grave, 
 
 That form so dear to me ; 
 The forest trees above her wave, 
 
 Murmuring pleasantly. 
 A tinkling brook, with mournful sound, 
 
 Is ever hymning there, 
 And gentle flowers hang o er the mound, 
 
 Like saints that bend in prayer. 
 
THE OLD MAN. 27 
 
 " Yet doth her spirit sometimes deign 
 
 My weary path to cheer, 
 To soothe the heart s unceasing pain 
 
 And dry the silent tear. 
 A presence still of her, I know, 
 
 Doth guide my thoughts aright, 
 And lead me on towards the flow 
 
 Of heaven s unchanging light. 
 
 " But see ! the sun goes down the west, 
 
 The sky is flaked with red, 
 And o er the grass and fading flowers 
 
 The glistening dew is spread. 
 How calmly steals the twilight round 
 
 The mansions of the dead ! " 
 
28 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 Thus talked awhile that aged man ; 
 
 His eye, though dimmed with tears, 
 Spoke of the earnest, trustful hope 
 
 Of one who ever hears 
 The music of eternal peace 
 
 Borne on the tide of coming years. 
 
THE BEGGAR BOY 
 
THE BEGGAR BOY. 
 
 " Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
 Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
 Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
 
 Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! " 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 I. 
 
 I SAW a ragged beggar boy, 
 
 A fair and gentle child, 
 Approach a rich and haughty man, 
 
 And say, in accents mild, 
 
32 THE BEGGAR BOY. 
 
 " I have no home to shelter me, 
 My parents both are dead ; 
 
 O wilt thou not in charity 
 Give me a little bread ? " 
 
 A scowl was on the rich man s brow, 
 As on the child he gazed, 
 
 And, turning scornfully away, 
 In pride his Maker praised, 
 
 That he was not that famished wight, 
 
 All helpless and forlorn, 
 Cast on this rude unfeeling world, 
 
 To luckless misery born. 
 
 The child in bitter anguish wept, 
 His heart was torn with grief; 
 
 While in the bleak and searching wind 
 He trembled like a leaf. 
 
THE BEGGAR BOY. 
 
 Night s heavy shades came thick and fast, 
 The wintry winds shrieked wild, 
 
 As in their viewless arms they bore 
 A white robe for the child. 
 
 II. 
 
 The joyous sound of song and dance, 
 
 Of barbiton and lyre, 
 With thoughtless mirth and revelry 
 
 In rich and gay attire, 
 
 Had met within a banquet hall, 
 
 Upon that gloomy night, 
 Where sparkling wine and costly gems 
 
 Flashed in a flood of light. 
 
34 THE BEGGAR BOY. 
 
 And beauty with her witching eye, 
 
 Oft stole a thrilling glance 
 From those whose hearts beat light and free, 
 
 Amid the whirling dance. 
 
 There tinted rays, from chandeliers, 
 Lit locks of golden hair, 
 
 And music, mirth, and revelry, 
 Swelled on the midnight air. 
 
 Cold avarice, with selfish aim, 
 To pampered wealth allied, 
 
 Had gathered, in that festival, 
 The nation s shame and pride. 
 
 Still faster whirled the giddy dance, 
 Each heart o erflowed with joy ; 
 
 Still louder shrieked the ruthless blast 
 Above the beggar boy. 
 
THE BEGGAR BOY. 35 
 
 III. 
 
 The sound of dance and revelry 
 No longer woke the night ; 
 
 For stealing slowly up the sky 
 Soft came the morning light. 
 
 A bridal robe of spotless white, 
 Upon the cold earth lay, 
 
 And dome, and spire, and capital, 
 Gleamed in the sunlit ray. 
 
 A thousand gems of crystal hue 
 From drooping branches hung, 
 
 And in the clear and frosty air 
 Like fairy castles swung. 
 
36 THE BEGGAR BOY. 
 
 A laborer with the morn s first beam, 
 Sought his accustomed toil, 
 
 To mingle in the hardened strife, 
 The city s rough turmoil. 
 
 With pallid cheek and haggard brow, 
 
 He went upon his way, 
 And passing by a mouldering wall, 
 
 Where ruined columns lay, 
 
 He found beneath a frosty heap 
 The stormy blasts had piled, 
 
 Cold as the stones that round him lay, 
 That poor and friendless child ! 
 
THE BEGGAR BOY. 37 
 
 IV. 
 
 T was noon in heaven ; the angel choirs, 
 
 By ever-gushing springs, 
 Amid the amaranthine groves 
 
 Had spread their snowy wings, 
 
 And soaring mid- way in the air, 
 Hung o er the living stream 
 
 That from the golden city flows, 
 Like morning s starry beam. 
 
 Winding amid the silent worlds, 
 Far through the upper sky, 
 
 Along the path-way of the sun. 
 Bright visions met the eye. 
 
38 THE BEGGAR BOY. 
 
 On through the eternal sea of light, 
 Mid swelling strains of joy, 
 
 An angel host, on golden wings 
 Bore home the BEGGAR BOY. 
 
 Joy ! joy ! to thee, thou helpless one ! 
 
 Thy home was not of earth, 
 No more thy little feet in vain 
 
 Shall seek the rich man s hearth ; 
 
 Nor shalt thou, in the wintry storm, 
 For food and raiment pine ; 
 
 In radiant robes of beauty clothed, 
 The bread of life is thine. 
 
THE LONE WOOD. 
 
 I KNOW a path, a silent path, 
 O erhung with forest wild ; 
 
 So deep, so dark, the sun s fair light 
 Hath never on it smiled. 
 
 It winds around a little lake, 
 Where waving cedars grow ; 
 
 And dark old pines in stately pride 
 Their branches upward throw. 
 
40 THE LONE WOOD. 
 
 No flowerets deck its lonely side, 
 Or scent the cooling breeze ; 
 
 No cheerful song of happy birds 
 Is heard among the trees. 
 
 The rippling waves along the shore 
 Send fcfrth a mournful sound 
 
 Blent with the noise of rustling leaves 
 That dance upon the ground. 
 
 It is a lone and quiet place, 
 
 Most fit for musing mood ; 
 And he that loves not pensive thought, 
 
 Likes not that dark old wood. 
 
41 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 THROUGH the trees with hollow voice, 
 Roars the wild and ruthless wind, 
 
 Whirling up the crisped leaves 
 On the ground all thickly lined. 
 
 At the window now it calleth 
 With a harsh yet mournful cry, 
 
 Like the wail of evil spirits 
 As they sweep the ebon sky. 
 4 
 
42 THE WIND. 
 
 Cruel wind, that thus complaineth 
 Of thy hard and wayward lot, 
 
 Thinkest thou yon houseless beggar 
 All thy rudeness hath forgot ? 
 
 With thy cold and piercing breath 
 Thou didst numb his pallid form, 
 
 In his wan and mournful face 
 
 Drov st the rough unfriendly storm ! 
 
 Cruel wind, that ever wailest 
 To the night thy misery telling, 
 
 Seek thy dark and lonely caves, 
 
 Come not round our humble dwelling. 
 
43 
 
 THE FACE THAT LOOKETH UP 
 
 FROM THE STREAM. 
 
 THOU happy child, so full of life, 
 Wilt thou not dally here awhile ? 
 
 Bend o er this stream, and thou shalt see 
 A sunny face look up and smile. 
 
 O ! father ! 7 t is a pleasant face 
 That kindly looketh up to me ; 
 
 It seemeth like my mother s form, 
 Yet here I know she cannot be. 
 
44 FACE ON THE RUNNING STREAM. 
 
 T is true, my child, she is not here ; 
 
 But look again, and thou shalt trace 
 Upon the brow this rosy wreath, 
 
 And see ! my hand is on the face. 
 
 And yet so like thy mother dear, 
 I see thy youthful features beam, 
 
 I almost think it is her face, 
 
 Thus painted on the running stream. 
 
45 
 
 TO ONE IN HEAVEN. 
 
 I HAVE not seen the silent place, 
 Where thy dear form was laid ; 
 
 I followed not the mournful train, 
 That bore thee in death s shade, 
 
 Where thoughtless hands had scooped a grave, 
 
 Beside Ohio s murmuring wave. 
 
46 TO ONE IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Ah me ! what bitter grief was mine ! 
 
 If grief it may be called, 
 When deep unutterable woe 
 
 The shrinking soul hath palled, 
 And dark despair hath like a tomb 
 Sealed up the heart in speechless gloom. 
 
 But oh ! if in that world of light, 
 
 To thee the power is given 
 To feel, to read our earthly thoughts 
 
 From records kept in heaven, 
 Thou knowest with what heartfelt prayer, 
 I ve thanked thee for thy tender care 
 
 To thy poor child, whose wayward steps 
 Thy boundless love hath staid 
 
 From those wild paths which lead astray , 
 That he might seek for aid 
 
 To free his soul from passion s strife, 
 
 And meekly bear the ills of life. 
 
TO ONE IN HEAVEN. 47 
 
 Not all in vain my tears were shed 
 
 O er thy untimely fate ; 
 For I have learned with patient thought 
 
 My own sad hour to wait, 
 And firmly trust, as Christ doth live, 
 That he to my weak soul will give 
 A changeless home in realms above, 
 Where I shall know again thy love. 
 
48 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED ON FINISHING 
 A BUST OF ALLSTON. 
 
 UPWARDS unto the living light 
 Intensely thou dost gaze, 
 
 As if thy very soul would seek, 
 In that far distant maze, 
 
 Communion with those heavenly forms, 
 
 That, lifting to the sight 
 Their golden wings and snowy robes, 
 
 Float on a sea of light. 
 
THE BUST OF ALLSTON. 49 
 
 Anon, far, far away they glide, 
 Shooting through realms of bliss, 
 
 Till from the spirit s eye they fade 
 In Heaven s own bright abyss. 
 
 Such are the visions thou dost wake, 
 Such are the thoughts that rise 
 
 In him who, neath thy upturned brow, 
 Beholds thy searching eyes. 
 
 There is no stain upon that brow, 
 
 Where once the glow of life 
 With more than earthly beauty shone, 
 
 Within, no wasting strife. 
 
 How strangely have the swift hours flown, 
 
 As o er the shapeless pile 
 I poured the strength of my full soul, 
 
 Lost to all else the while. 
 
50 THE BUST OF ALLSTON. 
 
 When fell the last faint stroke which told, 
 
 That thou and I must part, 
 That all of life that I could give 
 
 Was thine, how throbbed my heart ! 
 
 Yet to this head that I have formed, 
 Should aught of praise belong, 
 
 Not unto me the merit due, 
 But Him who made me strong. 
 
 Who, ever lent His fostering care, 
 
 My wayward steps to guide 
 Through paths of flowers in beauty clothed, 
 
 Along life s sunny tide. 
 
 Thou who wast kind, and good, and great, 
 
 Thy task on earth is done ; 
 Of those that walked in beauty s light, 
 
 Thou wast the chosen one. 
 
51 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 O, SWEET to me yon brooklet s play ; 
 Its merry voice is heard 
 
 Through all the day, 
 
 So light and gay, 
 Singing the sweetest roundelay, 
 That e er a maiden s bosom stirred. 
 
 And wild it leaps adown the hill 
 Among the rocks to stray ; 
 
 Around the mill 
 
 With voice so shrill, 
 The wild, the merry, laughing rill, 
 Bounds o er the rocks and far away. 
 
THE RETURN. 
 
 THE setting sun had closed the day, 
 The warm light still was glowing, 
 
 As winding on my lonely way 
 By streamlet s gentle flowing, 
 
 I met a maiden fair to see, 
 Beside the rippling water ; 
 
 So beautiful she seemed to me, 
 I fain with her would loiter. 
 
 She knelt in robes all snowy white, 
 Her face was turned to heaven ; 
 
 And there, amid the rosy light, 
 This prayer was meekly given : 
 
THE RETURN. 53 
 
 " O Father, guide my steps aright ; 
 
 And with thine eye all seeing, 
 O, watch thou through the cheerless night, 
 
 A poor and helpless being ! " 
 
 She turned her to a little mound, 
 The vines were o er it creeping, 
 
 For there in death s cold chains were bound 
 The loved ones neath it sleeping. 
 
 " I strew these flowers upon this grave 
 Where silent sleeps my mother ; 
 
 And this I cast upon the wave, 
 To him, my long lost brother." 
 
 Her silver voice it died away, 
 
 Her eyes with tears were streaming, 
 
 Reflecting back the starlit ray 
 That from the sky was beaming. 
 
54 THE RETURN. 
 
 I bowed me to the lady fair, 
 The while her bosom trembled 
 
 Beneath a flood of sunny hair, 
 That golden light resembled. 
 
 " He sleeps not in the dark blue wave, 
 Though here may sleep my mother ; 
 
 For He, whose hands alone could save, 
 Has sent thee back thy Brother !" 
 
55 
 
 TO AMANDA. 
 
 THE happy smiles of thy sweet face 
 Have found a never-changing place 
 
 Within my heart. 
 Where evermore the seraph song 
 Of whispering thoughts, shall gather strong 
 
 And hold a part 
 
 In all my weary wanderings. 
 My soul from inward ponderings 
 Looks forth upon the cold, cold world, 
 And sees, as when in gloom of night, 
 One lonely star is shining bright, 
 No other form than thine. 
 
56 
 
 THE TRAVELLER AND MAIDEN, 
 
 MAIDEN. 
 
 TRAVELLER, with fatigue opprest, 
 In our dwelling there is rest ; 
 Wilt partake our homely fare ? 
 That we have we freely share. 
 
 TRAVELLER. 
 
 Thanks to thee, thou gentle maiden, 
 Lend thy hand, for I am laden ; 
 Help to move this heavy pack, 
 Firmly bound upon my back. 
 
THE TRAVELLER AND MAIDEN. 57 
 
 MAIDEN. 
 
 To what distant land dost thou, 
 Weak and old, with care-worn brow, 
 Wend thy way, thou hoary sage 
 In the twilight of thy age ? 
 
 TRAVELLER. 
 
 Maiden, by the forest yonder, 
 Where the mountain parts asunder, 
 There a silver streamlet glides, 
 Down the mossy vale it slides. 
 
 MAIDEN. 
 
 Yes, and by its side the flowers, 
 Like the mem ry of bright hours, 
 To the heart refreshment lend 
 As worn travellers o er them bend. 
 5 
 
58 THE TRAVELLER AND MAIDEN. 
 
 TRAVELLER. 
 
 Bloom they still upon the shore 
 Brightly as in days of yore, 
 When the pilgrim s faithful band 
 Worshipped in this happy land ? 
 
 MAIDEN. 
 
 Father told, that when a boy, 
 Then they filled his heart with joy ; 
 Now they smile above his head, 
 Where he sleepeth with the dead. 
 
 TRAVELLER. 
 
 Stands the cottage now as then 
 Far within the rocky glen, 
 Where the foamy waters leap 
 Down the dark and craggy steep ? 
 
THE TRAVELLER AND MAIDEN. 59 
 
 MAIDEN. 
 
 Moss-grown stands the cottage now 
 There beneath the mountain s brow, 
 Not as when I was a child ; 
 T is a ruin lone and wild. 
 
 TRAVELLER. 
 
 Heaven bless thee, I must go, 
 May st thou never live to know 
 Half the changes here I find, 
 As I call past scenes to mind. 
 
60 
 
 THE PEE-WEE. 
 
 WITH sound of woe, all chill and cold. 
 
 The drifting snow along is rolled, 
 
 The threatening storm is gathering fast ; 
 
 I hear, sweet bird, amid the blast, 
 
 Thy little song, " pee-wee, pee-wee," 
 
 Come dwell with me, come dwell with me. 
 
 In forest lone, through winter s storm, 
 Where bleak winds moan, thy tiny form 
 Is ever seen ; from rock and glen 
 Sweet echo sendeth back again 
 Thy simple strain, " pee-wee pee-wee," 
 Come dwell with me, come dwell with me. 
 
THE PEE-WEE. 61 
 
 And thou, fair maid, with rosy cheek 
 
 And lids that shade thy eyes so meek, 
 
 When sadder thoughts by gloom are stirred, 
 
 Forget not thou yon little bird : 
 
 Above the storm his voice is free, 
 
 Come dwell with me, come dwell with me. 
 
 In passion s strife, when joy hath fled, 
 And o er thy life no ray is shed, 
 When dark despair is gathering strong, 
 Then list ! thou It hear a gentle song, 
 A still small voice will call to thee, 
 Come dwell with me, come dwell with me. 
 
THE KENNEBEC. 
 
 THOU art lovely, noble river, 
 Flowing to thy dark blue home ; 
 
 Borne upon thee, flowerets floating 
 Mingle with the sparkling foam. 
 
 I have watched at morn thy ripples 
 Dancing in the sunny beam, 
 
 And beneath tall trees at twilight 
 Laid me on thy banks to dream. 
 
THE KENNEBEC. 63 
 
 As in thoughtful mood I gazed, 
 
 Thou wast ever unto me 
 As the current of my thoughts 
 
 Heaving, struggling to be free. 
 
 With the shadows of the past 
 
 Comes a train of silver light 
 Telling of those happy days, 
 
 When my heart was free from blight ; 
 
 When the rushing pulses beat 
 
 To the joyous dance of youth, 
 When the face unconsciously 
 
 Mirrored back the rays of truth. 
 
 By thy side I oft have greeted 
 Friends that I may meet no more ; 
 
 She, the loved, whose heart was plighted, 
 Sleepeth by thy pebbly shore. 
 
64 THE KENNEBEC. 
 
 There the wild rose sweetly growing 
 Sheds its leaves o er hallowed graves ; 
 
 There forever gently breathing, 
 Chimes the music of thy waves. 
 
 Thou art like, O gentle river, 
 To life s deep un fathomed tide, 
 
 And the flowers are lovely visions, 
 That adown its surface glide. 
 
65 
 
 ANNABELLE. 
 
 SWEET Annabelle, dear Annabelle, 
 When thou wast weak and pale, 
 
 And leaning on my arm, we went 
 Adown the lonely vale, 
 
 I well remember thou didst tell 
 
 That I should lose thee, Annabelle. 
 
 A long and weary time has past, 
 The spring has come again, 
 
 The laurel blooms upon the hill, 
 The daisy on the plain, 
 
 I wander lonely through the dell ; 
 
 But where art thou, sweet Annabelle ? 
 
66 ANNABELLE. 
 
 The little birds call to their mates 
 
 From every shady nook, 
 And, rushing down the woodland side, 
 
 I hear the gurgling brook ; 
 To me it seems to ring thy knell, 
 For thou art dead, dear Annabelle. 
 
 Sweet Annabelle, dear Annabelle, 
 When thou wast weak and pale, 
 
 And leaning on my arm, we went 
 Adown the lonely vale ; 
 
 I well remember thou didst tell 
 
 That I should lose thee, Annabelle. 
 
67 
 
 THE WATER LILY. 
 
 How bright, upon the rippling tide, 
 The snow-white lilies bloom ! 
 
 As, swaying there in stately pride, 
 They smile above the gloom ! 
 
 See, like the joyous things of life, 
 Their upturned faces glow, 
 
 Regardless of the water s strife, 
 Its dark and sullen flow. 
 
68 THE WATER LILY. 
 
 As pure as snow-flakes from the skies. 
 The buds, expanding wide, 
 
 Upon the surface gently rise 
 And sway above the tide. 
 
 Lo ! nature lifts her fairest flower 
 From out the dark steel wave, 
 
 The rainbow shines amid the shower, 
 The rose blooms o er the grave. 
 
 Thus sweetly in the morn of life 
 Hope s fairest flowerets bloom, 
 
 Unmindful of the bitter strife, 
 
 That shrouds the heart in gloom. 
 
69 
 
 SLEEP AND DEATH. 
 
 AN ILLUSTRATION OF A GROUP OF SCULPTURE, 
 
 LIKE an infant laid to rest, 
 Rosy Sleep with dewy eye 
 
 Unto Death his warm cheek pressed ;- 
 " Thou shalt ever by me lie." 
 
 Sleep doth nestle by his side, 
 Even as the wooing dove ; 
 
 Death is cold and filmy-eyed, 
 
 And the world doth hate his love. 
 
70 SLEEP AND DEATH. 
 
 Coming from the silent land, 
 Over life they have control, 
 
 Ever wandering hand in hand, 
 Speaking only to the soul. 
 
 Death and Sleep twin brothers are ; 
 
 Death is folded to the breast ; 
 Gentle Sleep he soothes life s care, 
 
 Death doth give eternal rest. 
 
THE WRECK OF THE SLAVE SHIP. 
 
 THERE s a huge black cloud, like a midnight 
 shroud, 
 
 Stretched out on the ocean s verge, 
 Where the sea and sky to mortal eye 
 
 In one vast concave merge ; 
 The wind doth blow, yet with motion slow 
 
 A ship rolls on with the surge. 
 
 From the gunwale trail her masts and sail, 
 
 No helm her course to check ; 
 Around her beams the white foam gleams, 
 
 The waves leap o er her deck ; 
 Through the heaving sea, all fearfully 
 
 She comes a shattered wreck. 
 
72 WRECK OF THE SLAVE SHIP. 
 
 On, on she steers, nor tacks nor veers ; 
 
 The sailors weep and pray ; 
 The angry main heeds not their pain, 
 
 But sweeps them down the bay ; 
 With heavy crash on rocks they dash, 
 
 The timbers float away. 
 
 Clenched in the sand his bony hand, 
 
 One strives with might and main, 
 Lest the heaving swell that o er him fell 
 
 Should bear him back again ! 
 For with deafening roar against the shore, 
 
 Breaks up the foamy train ; 
 Like an Arab steed, when, at full speed, 
 
 The rider checks the rein. 
 
 No power can save ; the maddening wave 
 
 Hath swept him out to sea ; 
 At times his form, amid the storm, 
 
 Looks up imploringly ; 
 Then sinks away from light of day, 
 
 Down, down eternally ! 
 
WRECK OF THE SLAVE SHIP. 73 
 
 High up the sky, with mournful cry, 
 
 The sea-bird wends her course ; 
 Nor cares to gaze on eyes deep glazed 
 
 By death s unyielding force ; 
 For everywhere, with floating hair, 
 
 The sea heaves up a corse. 
 
 From the water s edge a long black ledge 
 
 Shoots out athwart the bay ; 
 In its craggy sides the fierce shark hides, 
 
 To seize upon his prey ; 
 
 Through the foam-built wreath he 11 gnash his 
 teeth, 
 
 Nor want for food to-day. 
 
 Why o er that crew, thou shrill curlew, 
 
 Is heard thy little song ? 
 Thou bearest not man s wayward lot, 
 
 His passions wild and strong ; 
 For he of might assumes the right, 
 
 His brother man to wrong. 
 6 
 
74 WRECK OF THE SLAVE SHIP. 
 
 The storm-lit sea, that angrily 
 Now swallows up the dead, 
 
 Is yet more kind than they who bind 
 On man a yoke of lead, 
 
 Till, like a serf, he licks the turf, 
 Where ruthless tyrants tread. 
 
75 
 
 LAY THY PALM UPON MY BROW, 
 
 COME lay thy palm upon my brow, 
 
 Sit closer by my side ; 
 Thou hast been very kind to me, 
 
 I would those tears were dried. 
 
 Oh Mary, Mary, cease to weep, 
 
 I would it were not so ; 
 Two happy months have scarcely flown, 
 
 And it is hard to know, 
 
76 LAY THY PALM UPON MY BROW, 
 
 While in the very morn of life, 
 That we in grief must part, 
 
 For I have felt the hand of death 
 Press heavy on my heart. 
 
 Then lay thy palm upon my brow, 
 
 Sit closer by my side ; 
 Thou hast been very kind to me, 
 
 I would those tears were dried. 
 
77 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 THE poet sighs, the poet sings, 
 Ah wherefore should he sigh, 
 
 Who breathes such notes of melody, 
 Whose thoughts may never die. 
 
 Go ask the flower, whose rich perfume 
 
 Upon the air is borne ; 
 Is not its breath more fragrant, when 
 
 By rude hands it is torn ? 
 
78 THE POET. 
 
 w 
 
 Ask why above yon silvery lake 
 A strain of music floats ; 
 
 It is the snow-white swan, whose life 
 Is parting with its notes. 
 
 Go ask the sweet ^Eolian harp, 
 Why its soft music flows ; 
 
 It only sings, when o er the chords 
 The chill wind harshly blows. 
 
 Then ask not why the poet sighs, 
 Or why he sweetly sings ; 
 
 For like the harp his heart is strung, 
 And sadness moves the strings. 
 
79 
 
 
 A WALK BY THE RIVER SIDE. 
 
 MY friend and I walked arm in arm 
 
 Along the river s side ; 
 He was a man of thoughtful mind, 
 
 And scarce to me replied, 
 
 As I, with lightsome heart, rehearsed 
 A tale of by-gone times, -: Mi 
 
 Which some poor bard in frantic mood 
 Had woven into rhyme s. 
 
80 A WALK BY THE RIVER SIDE. 
 
 A simple story of a youth 
 
 Who climbed a mountain s crest, 
 To rob an eagle, that had built 
 
 Upon its top her nest, 
 
 Who daily sought among his flocks 
 To seize upon her prey, 
 
 And ever, as his back was turned, 
 Would bear the lambs away 
 
 To feed her young, until the ledge 
 With chalky bones was white, 
 
 And, like a spectre mountain, loomed 
 Up through the pale moon light. 
 
 I scarce had reached the closing verse, 
 Which told with wondrous skill, 
 
 How manfully he battled long 
 That war-like bird to kill, 
 
A WALK BY THE RIVER SIDE. 81 
 
 When Arthur turned to me and said, 
 
 While pointing up the sky : 
 See far away yon bird, that seems 
 
 No larger than a fly. 
 
 How fast he nears, and now we see 
 His broad wings waving wide, 
 
 And now he hangs all motionless 
 Above the rolling tide. 
 
 Anon he folds his massive wings ; 
 
 Then, with a sudden sweep, 
 Swift as a falling star, he shot 
 
 Far down the swelling deep. 
 
 So heavily he seemed to plunge 
 Beneath the dark blue wave, 
 
 I well nigh thought the crazy bird 
 Had found a watery grave ; 
 
2 A WALK BY THE RIVER SIDE. 
 
 But soon he rose with motion slow 
 From out the glistening spray, 
 
 And in his talons firmly grasped, 
 He held his finny prey. 
 
 A short way up the stream there grew 
 
 A dark old forest wood, 
 Where on a dry and blasted limb 
 
 A white-head eagle stood, 
 
 And eyed the fish-hawk, as he rose 
 
 High up the pathless sky ; 
 Then, leaping from the trembling limb, 
 
 With wild discordant cry 
 
 Pursued the hawk that frightened fled, 
 Till forced to yield his prey, 
 
 Which that fierce eagle seized upon, 
 And proudly bore away. 
 
A WALK BY THE RIVER SIDE. 83 
 
 Then Arthur turned again and said : 
 
 " How like yon tireless bird, 
 The artist soars through realms of light, 
 
 By heavenly beauty stirred, 
 
 " Till prompted by unyielding want, 
 
 He plunges into strife, 
 And veils his God-like nature neath 
 
 The turbid stream of life. 
 
 " And ever as he rises up 
 
 With heavy earth-stained wings, 
 There follows him an ugly fiend 
 
 That, like the eagle, springs 
 
 " To rob him of the paltry mite 
 Which he has fought to gain, 
 
 And he must needs with patient thought 
 Live on, nor e er complain. 
 
84 A WALK BY THE RIVER SIDE. 
 
 " 3 T is naught that his warm heart should heave 
 
 With agonizing woe, 
 While thousand thoughtless souls glide on, 
 
 Nor wish or care to know, 
 
 " How sad a thing it is to feel 
 The heavy moveless chain, 
 
 That fetters the immortal mind, 
 And renders life all vain." 
 
 
85 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 COME thou amid the starlight dim, 
 Where blows the fresh south wind, 
 
 And, falling from the forest trees, 
 The leaves the ground have lined ; 
 
 And we will tread yon rugged path 
 
 Along the upland lea, 
 And listen to the plaintive voice, 
 
 That cometh from the sea. 
 
86 AUTUMN. 
 
 The sea it answereth to the wail 
 
 Of winds upon the hill, 
 Where, leaping o er its pebbly bed, 
 
 Is heard the gurgling rill. 
 
 The leaves lie pale upon the ground. 
 They tremble in the breeze ; 
 
 For cold the hand, that has been laid 
 Upon the mighty trees. 
 
 A voice of sadness fills the air, 
 All nature seems to weep, 
 
 The pine-trees bow their stately heads, 
 As o er the strong winds sweep. 
 
 The flowers lie faded neath our feet ; 
 
 For Autumn hath been here, 
 And, with his cold and withering breath, 
 
 Hath left them pale and sere. 
 
AUTUMN. 87 
 
 The dying flowers ! their breath we breathe, 
 
 Their spirits glide on high, 
 Careering through the eternal blue 
 
 Along the starlit sky. 
 

 88 
 
 THE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 THE Smith stands by, with small blue eye 
 That shines beneath a forehead high, 
 His sinewy form is strongly made, 
 And speaks him master of his trade. 
 
 He moves the break, the live coals shake, 
 He turns them o er with iron rake, 
 And from the hot and glowing pile 
 He draws the spike and checkered file. 
 
THE BLACKSMITH. 89 
 
 With heavy sounds the sledge rebounds, 
 A massive weight of many pounds ; 
 His brawny arm with ease doth ply, 
 While round about the sparkles fly. 
 
 The sickle made, a curving blade 
 With sharp and jagged teeth inlaid, 
 To serve the hardy sun-burnt hand 
 That reaps the harvest of the land. 
 
 Thus day and night a lurid light 
 
 From forge and anvil glistens bright, 
 
 On bony arm and swarthy brow 
 
 Of him who moulds the scythe and plough, 
 
 For man doth fret, and toil, and sweat, 
 Till care with iron hand hath set 
 Upon his brow her wrinkled seal, 
 
 And moulds him as he moulds the steel. 
 
 7 
 
90 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 COME gently lay thy cheek to mine, 
 Thy hand upon my brow ; 
 
 For I am lonely and would have 
 Thee, sister, with me now. 
 
 This seat is thine ; now sit thee down. 
 
 Didst see me when I slept ? 
 I had a dream, sweet dream, so soft 
 
 The vision o er me crept. 
 
THE DREAM. 91 
 
 I deemed that I was still awake, 
 
 Still heard thy evening song 
 Poured forth in strains of tenderness ; 
 
 And my weak heart grew strong. 
 
 While round thy notes of music stole, 
 Unearthly beauty filled my soul ; 
 And ever present to my sight, 
 Seemed floating on a sea of light 
 An Angel form. 
 
 ^aJ^^^:^ ittftlE : 
 
 Dear Jane, in thee I fondly trace 
 The image of thy mother s face, 
 And sure I am thy mother dear 
 In spirit form was hovering near, 
 And called to me. 
 
 With motion graceful as a child, 
 She beckoned me with look so mild, 
 I could not choose but look that way, 
 And oft in whispers heard her say ; 
 O come with me. 
 
92 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 THE sombre queen lifts up her veil. 
 
 The stars that shone so bright 
 Through all the silent hours of rest, 
 
 From that far distant height, 
 How have they striven to woo my soul 
 
 To worlds of living light ! 
 
 Now waning slow, with tearful eyes 
 
 I see them fade away, 
 Till one by one the silvery mist 
 
 Has veiled each heavenly ray ; 
 While in the east a deep dull red 
 
 Proclaims the coming day. 
 
MORNING. 
 
 93 
 
 The gushing sound of laughing rills, 
 
 The lowing of the herds, 
 As down the grassy lane they go, 
 
 The gentle song of birds 
 That call from leafy groves with notes 
 
 More musical than words, 
 
 Are borne upon the fresh south wind, 
 That fans my pallid cheek 
 
 And calms my fevered brow, as one 
 Who, with affection meek, 
 
 Bends o er my couch with tender eyes 
 That all too plainly speak 
 
 To my faint heart, and bid me learn 
 
 To love all simple things. 
 Yet am I sad. The rosy morn 
 
 Nought but affliction brings ; 
 For haggard want, with fiendish look, 
 
 Forever round me clings. 
 
94 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 O call it not a weakness, if, 
 In this hard world, which teems 
 
 With countless host of selfish souls, 
 Who live in fevered dreams 
 
 Of worthless dross, whose only joy 
 From hoarded lucre gleams, 
 
 And that wrung from the honest toil 
 Of those they proudly spurn 
 
 As things accursed by God and man, - 
 I mournfully return 
 
 To my own roof, and from the night 
 A kinder lesson learn. 
 
 That which I should be, I am not ; 
 
 The stream is turned aside. 
 Think not the visions of my youth 
 
 O er which I dwelt with pride, 
 Have, like a fair but tender plant, 
 
 For want of culture died ; 
 
MORNING. 95 
 
 But rather, like the flower which springs 
 Where strong winds ceaseless blow, 
 
 Whirling the leaves with wailing sound 
 As round and round they go, 
 
 Till bruised and torn, at last they hurl 
 It down the vale below. 
 
 Be calm, ye troubled thoughts, that through 
 
 My dizzy brain are whirled ! 
 For up the sky, in golden light, 
 
 The robes of day unfurled, 
 Speak of a dawn beyond the grave, 
 
 Light in the spirit world. 
 
942023 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY