Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader / Being Selections from the Chief American Writers

by Benj. N. Martin

POETS.

=Francis Hopkinson,[75] 1737-1791.=

From "The Battle of the Kegs.[76]"

=316.=

Gallants, attend, and hear a friend
Trill forth harmonious ditty;
Strange things I'll tell, which late befell
In Philadelphia city.

'Twas early day, as poets say,
Just when the sun was rising,
A soldier stood on a log of wood,
And saw a thing surprising.

As in amaze he stood to gaze,—
The truth can't be denied, sir,—
He spied a score of kegs, or more,
Come floating down the tide, sir.

A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,
This strange appearance viewing,
First rubbed his eyes, in great surprise,
Then said some mischief's brewing.

* * * * *

Some fire cried, which some denied,
But said the earth had quakéd;
And girls and boys, with hideous noise,
Ran through the streets half naked.

* * * * *

The royal band now ready stand,
All ranged in dread array, sir,
With stomach stout, to see it out,
And make a bloody day, sir.

The cannons roar from shore to shore;
The small arms make a rattle;
Since wars began, I'm sure no man
E'er saw so strange a battle.

A hundred men, with each a pen,
Or more,—upon my word, sir,
It is most true,—would be too few
Their valor to record, sir.

[Footnote 75: A prominent author of the revolutionary era.]

[Footnote 76: In the revolutionary war, while the British held Philadelphia, some floating torpedoes were one day sent down the river to destroy their vessels, and this novel mode of attack caused the alarm described by the poet.]

* * * * *

=John Trumbull, 1750-1831.= (Manual, pp. 490, 512.)

From "McFingal."

=317.=

Though this, not all his time was lost on,
He fortified the town of Boston,
Built breastworks that might lend assistance
To keep the patriots at a distance;
For, howsoe'er the rogues might scoff,
He liked them best the farthest off;
Works of important use to aid
His courage when he felt afraid.

* * * * *

For Providence, disposed to tease us,
Can use what instruments it pleases;
To pay a tax, at Peter's wish,
His chief cashier was once a fish.

* * * * *

An English bishop's cur of late
Disclosed rebellions 'gainst the State;
So frogs croaked Pharaoh to repentance,
And lice delayed the fatal sentence:
And Heaven can rain you at pleasure,
By Gage, as soon as by a Caesar.
Yet did our hero in these days
Pick up some laurel-wreaths of praise;
And as the statuary of Seville
Made his cracked saint an excellent devil.
So, though our war small triumph brings,
We gained great fame in other things.
Did not our troops show great discerning,
And skill, your various arts in learning?
Outwent they not each native noodle
By far, in playing Yankee-doodle?
Which, as 'twas your New England tune,
'Twas marvellous they took so soon.
And ere the year was fully through,
Did they not learn to foot it too,
And such a dance as ne'er was known
For twenty miles on end lead down?
Did they not lay their heads together,
And gain your art to tar and feather,
When Colonel Nesbitt, thro' the town,
In triumph bore the country-clown?
Oh! what a glorious work to sing
The veteran troops of Britain's king,
Adventuring for th'heroic laurel
With bag of feathers and tar-barrel!
To paint the cart where culprits ride,
And Nesbitt marching at its side.
Great executioner and proud,
Like hangman high, on Holborn road;
And o'er the slow-drawn rumbling car,
The waving ensigns of the war!

* * * * *

=Philip Freneau, 1752-1832.= (Manual, pp. 486, 511.)

From "An Indian Burying-ground."

=318.=

In spite of all the learned have said,
I still my old opinion keep;
The posture that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands;—
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.

His imaged birds, and painted bowl,
And venison, for a journey dressed,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,—
Activity, that wants no rest.

His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of bone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.

* * * * *

Here still a lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace,
Now wasted half by wearing rains,
The fancies of a ruder race.

* * * * *

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In vestments for the chase arrayed.
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer—a shade.

* * * * *

=David Humphreys, 1783-1818.= (Manual, p. 512.)

From "The Happiness of America."

=319.= RECOLLECTIONS OF THE WAR.

I too, perhaps, should Heaven prolong my date,
The oft-repeated tale shall oft relate;
Shall tell the feelings in the first alarms,
Of some bold enterprise the unequalled charms;
Shall tell from whom I learnt the martial art,
With what high chiefs I played my early part—
With Parsons first—

* * * * *
Death-daring Putnam—then immortal Greene—
Then how great Washington my youth approved,
In rank preferred, and as a parent loved.
With him what hours on warlike plains I spent,
Beneath the shadow of th' imperial tent;
With him how oft I went the nightly round
Through moving hosts, or slept on tented ground;
From him how oft—(nor far below the first,
In high behests and confidential trust)—
From him how oft I bore the dread commands,
Which destined for the fight the eager bands;
With him how oft I passed the eventful day,
Bode by his side, as down the long array
His awful voice the columns taught to form,
To point the thunders and direct the storm.
But, thanks to Heaven! those days of blood are o'er;
The trumpet's clangor, the loud cannon's roar.

* * * * *

No more this hand, since happier days succeed,
Waves the bright blade, or reins the fiery steed.
No more for martial fame this bosom burns;
Now white-robed Peace to bless a world returns;
Now fostering Freedom all her bliss bestows,
Unnumbered blessings for unnumbered woes.

* * * * *

=Samuel J. Smith,[77] 1771-1835.=

=320.= PEACE, BE STILL.

When, on his mission from his home in heaven,
In the frail bark the Saviour deigned to sleep,
The tempest rose—with headlong fury driven,
The wave-tossed vessel whirled along the deep:
Wild shrieked the storm amid the parting shrouds,
And the vexed billows dashed the darkening clouds.

Ah! then how futile human skill and power,—
"Save us! we perish in the o'erwhelming wave!"
They cried, and found in that tremendous hour,
"An eye to pity, and an arm to save."
He spoke, and lo! obedient to His will,
The raging waters, and the winds were still.

And thou, poor trembler on life's stormy sea,
Where dark the waves of sin and sorrow roll,
To Him for refuge from the tempest flee,—
To Him, confiding, trust the sinking soul;
For O, He came to calm the tempest-tossed,
To seek the wandering, and to save the lost.

For thee, and such as thee, impelled by love,
He left the mansions of the blessed on high;
Mid sin, and pain, and grief, and fear, to move,
With lingering anguish, and with shame to die.
The debt to Justice, boundless Mercy paid,
For hopeless guilt, complete atonement made.

O, in return for such surpassing grace,
Poor, blind, and naked, what canst thou impart?
Canst thou no offering on his altar place?
Yes, lowly mourner; give him all thy heart:
That simple offering he will not disown,—
That living incense may approach his throne.

[Footnote 77: A gentleman of fortune and literary culture; a life-long resident in the country, in his native State, New Jersey.]

* * * * *

=William Clifton, 1772-1790.= (Manual, p. 512.)

From lines "To Fancy."

=321.= PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION.

Is my lonely pittance past?
Fleeting good too light to last?
Lifts my friend the latch no more?
Fancy, thou canst all restore;
Thou canst, with thy airy shell,
To a palace raise my cell.

* * * * *

With thee to guide my steps, I'll creep
In some old haunted nook to sleep,
Lulled by the dreary night-bird's scream,
That flits along the wizard stream,
And there, till morning 'gins appear,
The tales of troubled spirits hear.

Sweet's the dawn's ambiguous light,
Quiet pause 'tween day and night,
When afar the mellow horn
Chides the tardy gaited morn,
And asleep is yet the gale
On sea-beat mount, and rivered vale.
But the morn, though sweet and fair;
Sweeter is when thou art there;
Hymning stars successive fade,
Fairies hurtle through the shade,
Lovelorn flowers I weeping see,
If the scene is touched by thee.

* * * * *
Thus through life with thee I'll glide,
Happy still what'er betide,
And while plodding sots complain
Of ceaseless toil and slender gain,
Every passing hour shall be
Worth a golden age to me.

* * * * *

=Robert Treat Paine, 1773-1811.= (Manual, p. 512.)

From "The Ruling Passion."

=322.= THE MISER.

Next comes the miser; palsied, jealous, lean,
He looks the very skeleton of Spleen!
'Mid forests drear, he haunts, in spectred gloom,
Some desert abbey or some druid's tomb;
Where hearsed in earth, his occult riches lay,
Fleeced from the world, and buried from the day.
With crutch in hand, he points his mineral rod,
Limps to the spot, and turns the well-known sod.
While there, involved in night, he counts his store
By the soft tinklings of the golden ore,
He shakes with terror lest the moon should spy,
And the breeze whisper, where his treasures lie.

This wretch, who, dying, would not take one pill,
If, living, he must pay a doctor's bill,
Still clings to life, of every joy bereft;
His God is gold, and his religion theft!
And, as of yore, when modern vice was strange,
Could leathern money current pass on 'change,
His reptile soul, whose reasoning powers are pent
Within the logic bounds of cent per cent,
Would sooner coin his ears than stocks should fall,
And cheat the pillory, than not cheat at all!

* * * * *

=John Blair Linn,[78] 1777-1804.=

From "The Powers of Genius."

=323.= WRETCHEDNESS OF SAVAGE LIFE.

The human fabric early from its birth,
Feels some fond influence from its parent earth;
In different regions different forms we trace,
Here dwells a feeble, there an iron race;
Here genius lives, and wakeful fancies play,
Here noiseless stupor sleeps its life away.
* * * * *
Chill through his trackless pines the hunter passed,
His yell arose upon the howling blast;
Before him fled, with all the speed of fear,
His wealth—and victim, yonder helpless deer.
Saw you the savage man, how fell and wild,
With what grim pleasure, as he passed, he smiled?
Unhappy man! a wretched wigwam's shed
Is his poor shelter, some dry skins his bed;
Sometimes alone upon the woodless height
He strikes his fire, and spends his watchful night;
His dog with howling bays the moon's red beam,
And starts the wild deer in his nightly dream.
Poor savage man! for him no yellow grain
Waves its bright billows o'er the fruitful plain;
For him no harvest yields its full supply,
When winter hurls his tempest through the sky.
No joys he knows but those which spring from strife,
Unknown to him the charms of social life.
Rage, malice, envy, all his thoughts control,
And every dreadful passion burns his soul.
Should culture meliorate his darksome home,
And cheer those wilds where he is wont to roam;
* * * * *
Should fields of tillage yield their rich increase,
And through his wastes walk forth the arts of peace,
His sullen soul would feel a genial glow,
Joy would break in upon the night of woe;
Knowledge would spread her mild, reviving ray,
And on his wigwam rise the dawn of day.

[Footnote 78: A Presbyterian clergyman, who died prematurely; an associate and connection of Charles Brockden Brown. Has left several poems of merit. A native of Pennsylvania.]

* * * * *

=Francis S. Key, 1779-1843.= (Manual, p. 523.)

=324.= THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed, at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming;
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there:

On that shore, dimly seen through the mist of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
'Tis the Star-Spangled Banner; O, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where are the foes who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war, and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

O thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation;
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just;
And this be our motto, "In God is our trust;"
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

* * * * *

=Washington Alston, 1779-1843.= (Manual, pp. 504. 510.)

From the "Sylphs of the Seasons."

=325.=

Methought, within a desert cave,
Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave,
I suddenly awoke.
It seemed of sable night the cell
Where, save when from the ceiling fell
An oozing drop, her silent spell
No sound had ever broke.

There motionless I stood alone,
Like some strange monument of stone
Upon a barren wild;
Or like (so solid and profound
The darkness seemed that walled me round)
A man that's buried under ground,
Where pyramids are piled.

* * * * *

Then spake the Sylph of Spring serene,
"'Tis I thy joyous heart, I ween.
With sympathy shall move:
For I with living melody
Of birds in choral symphony,
First waked thy soul to poesy,
To piety and love.

"When thou, at call of vernal breeze,
And beckoning bough of budding trees,
Hast left thy sullen fire;
And stretched thee in some mossy dell,
And heard the browsing wether's bell,
Blithe echoes rousing from their cell
To swell the tinkling choir:

"Or lured by some fresh-scented gale
That wooed the moored fisher's sail
To tempt the mighty main,
Hast watched the dim, receding shore,
Now faintly seen the ocean o'er,
Like hanging cloud, and now no more
To bound the sapphire plain.

"Then, wrapped in night, the scudding bark,
(That seemed, self-poised amid the dark,
Through upper air to leap,)
Beheld, from thy most fearful height,
The rapid dolphin's azure light
Cleave, like a living meteor bright,
The darkness of the deep."

* * * * *

=John Pierpont, 1785-1866.= (Manual, p. 513.)

=326.= A TEMPERANCE SONG.

In Eden's green retreats,
A water-brook—that played
Between soft, mossy seats,
Beneath a plane tree's shade,
Whose rustling leaves
Danced o'er its brink—
Was Adam's drink,
And also Eve's.

* * * * *

And, when the man of God
From Egypt led his flock,
They thirsted, and his rod
Smote the Arabian rock,
And forth a rill
Of water gushed,
And on they rushed,
And drank their fill.

Had Moses built a still,
And dealt out to that host
To every man his gill,
And pledged him in a toast,
Would cooler brains,
Or stronger hands,
Have braved the sands
Of those hot plains?

If Eden's strength and bloom,
Gold water thus hath given,
If e'en beyond the tomb,
It is the drink of heaven,
Are not good wells
And crystal springs
The very things
for our Hotels?

* * * * *

=327.= THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

The Pilgrim Fathers,—where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray,
As they break along the shore:
Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day
When the Mayflower moor'd below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists, that wrapp'd the Pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide;
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale
When the heavens look'd dark, is gone;—
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The Pilgrim exile,—sainted name!
The hill, whose icy brow
Rejoiced when he came, in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now.
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,
Still lies where he laid his houseless head;—
But the Pilgrim,—where is he?

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest.
When summer's throned on high,
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dress'd
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallow'd spot is cast;
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled;
It walks in the noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With their holy stars, by night.
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.

* * * * *

=James G. Percival, 1786-1856.= (Manual, p. 515.)

=328.= THE CORAL GROVE.

Deep in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove;
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with the falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks, the sea-plants lift
Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,
For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air.
There, with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter.
There, with a light and easy motion,
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea,
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea,
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone.

* * * * *

=Richard H. Dana, 1787-.= (Manual, pp. 501, 504, 514.)

From "The Buccaneer."

=329.=

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.

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 angels sung.

* * * * *

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 sit him down,
Watching the swaying weeds; another day,
And he'll have gone far hence that dreadful way.

To-night the charméd number's told.
"Twice have I come for thee," it said.
"Once more, and none shall thee behold.
Come, live one, to the dead!"
So hears his soul, and fears the coming night,
Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light.

Again he sits within that 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, haunted by remorse,
Poor, shattered wretch, there waits he that pale horse.

* * * * *

=Richard Henry Wilde, 1789-.= (Manual, pp. 521, 501.)

=330.= MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die;
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews, of night are shed,
As if she wept such waste to see;
But none shall drop a tear for me.

My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail, its state is brief,
Restless, and soon to pass away;
But when that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree;
But none shall breathe a sigh, for me.

My life is like the print which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
Their track will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea;
But none shall thus lament for me.

* * * * *

=James A. Hillhouse, 1789-1844.= (Manual, p. 487.)

From "Hadad."

=331.=

Hadad. Confide in me.
I can transport thee, O, to a paradise
To which this Canaan is a darksome span.
Beings shall welcome, serve thee, lovely as angels;
The elemental powers shall stoop, the sea
Disclose her wonders, and receive thy feet
Into her sapphire chambers; orbéd clouds
Shall chariot thee from zone to zone, while earth,
A dwindled, islet, floats beneath thee. Every
Season and clime shall blend for thee the garland.
The Abyss of time shall cast its secrets, ere
The flood marred primal nature, ere this orb
Stood in her station. Thou shalt know the stars,
The houses of eternity, their names,
Their courses, destiny—all marvels high.

Tam. Talk not so madly.

* * * * *

From "The Judgment."

=332.=

As, when from some proud capital that crowns
Imperial Ganges, the reviving breeze
Sweeps the dank mist, or hoary river fog
Impervious mantled o'er her highest towers,
Bright on the eye rush Bramah's temples, capp'd
With spiry tops, gay-trellised minarets,
Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnish'd domes,
Gilded, and glistening in the morning sun,
So from the hill the cloudy curtains roll'd,
And, in the lingering lustre of the eve,
Again the Saviour and his seraphs shone.
Emitted sudden in his rising, flash'd
Intenser light, as toward the right hand host
Mild turning, with a look ineffable,
The invitation he proclaim'd in accents
Which on their ravish'd ears pour'd thrilling, like
The silver sound of many trumpets, heard
Afar in sweetest jubilee: then, swift
Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left,
That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice
Clothed but in half its terrors, yet to them
Seem'd like the crush of heaven, pronounced the doom.
The sentence utter'd as with life instinct,
The throne uprose majestically slow;
Each angel spread his wings; in one dread swell
Of triumph mingling as they mounted, trumpets
And harps, and golden lyres, and timbrels sweet,
And many a strange and deep-toned instrument
Of heavenly minstrelsy unknown on earth,
And angels' voices, and the loud acclaim
Of all the ransom'd like a thunder shout,
Far through the skies melodious echoes roll'd
And faint hosannas distant climes return'd.

* * * * *

=John M. Harney,[79] 1789-1855.=

From "Crystallina: a Fairy Tale."

=333.=

On the stormy heath a ring they form;
They place therein the fearful maid,
And round her dance in the howling storm.
The winds beat hard on her lovely head:
But she clasped her hands, and nothing said.

O, 'twas, I ween, a ghastly sight
To see their uncouth revelry.
The lightning was the taper bright,
The thunder was the melody,
To which they danced with horrid glee.

The fierce-eyed owl did on them scowl,
The bat played round on leathern wing,
The coal-black wolf did at them howl,
The coal-black raven did croak and sing,
And o'er them flap his dusky wing.

An earthquake heaved beneath their feet,
Pale meteors revelled in the sky,
The clouds sailed by like a routed fleet,
The night-winds shrieked as they passed by,
The dark-red moon was eclipsed on high.

[Footnote 79: One of the earliest poets of the West, but a native of
Delaware.]

* * * * *

=Charles Sprague, 1791-.= (Manual, p. 514.)

From "Curiosity."

=334.= THE NEWSPAPER.

Turn to the Press—its teeming sheets survey,
Big with the wonders of each passing day;
Births, deaths, and weddings, forgeries, fires, and wrecks,
Harangues and hailstorms, brawls and broken necks;
Where half-fledged bards, on feeble pinions, seek
An immortality of near a week;
Where cruel eulogists the dead restore,
In maudlin praise, to martyr them once more;
Where ruffian slanderers wreak their coward spite,
And need no venomed dagger while they write.

* * * * *

Yet, sweet or bitter, hence what fountains burst,
While still the more we drink the more we thirst.
Trade hardly deems the busy day begun
Till his keen eye along the page has run;
The blooming daughter throws her needle by,
And reads her schoolmate's marriage with a sigh;
While the grave mother puts her glasses on,
And gives a tear to some old crony gone.
The preacher, too, his Sunday theme lays down.
To know what last new folly fills the town.
Lively or sad, life's meanest, mightiest things,
The fate of fighting cocks, or fighting kings—
Nought comes amiss; we take the nauseous stuff,
Verjuice or oil, a libel or a puff.

* * * * *

=Lydia H. Sigourney, 1791-1865.= (Manual, pp. 484, 523.)

=335.= THE WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL.

Deal gently, thou whose hand hath won
The young bird from its nest away,
Where, careless, 'neath a vernal sun,
She gayly carolled day by day;
The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve,
From where her timid wing doth soar
They pensive lisp at hush of eve,
Yet hear her gushing song no more.

Deal gently with her; thou art dear,
Beyond what vestal lips have told,
And, like a lamb from fountains clear,
She turns, confiding, to thy fold.
She round thy sweet, domestic bower
The wreath of changeless love shall twine,
Watch for thy step at vesper hour,
And blend her holiest prayer with thine.

Deal gently, thou, when, far away,
'Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove,
Nor let thy tender care decay;
The soul of woman lives in love.
And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear,
Unconscious, from her eyelids break,
Be pitiful, and soothe the fear
That man's strong heart may ne'er partake.

A mother yields her gem to thee,
On thy true breast to sparkle rare;
She places 'neath thy household tree
The idol of her fondest care;
And, by thy trust to be forgiven
When judgment wakes in terror wild,
By all thy treasured hopes of heaven,
Deal gently with the widow's child.

* * * * *

=William O. Sutler,[80] 1793-.=

From "The Boatman's Horn."

=336.=

O Boatman, wind that horn again;
For never did the listening air
Upon its lambent bosom bear
So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain.
What though thy notes are sad and few,
By, every simple boatman blown?
Yet is each pulse to nature true,
And melody in every tone.
How oft, in boyhood's joyous day,
Unmindful of the lapsing hours,
I've loitered on my homeward way,
By wild Ohio's bank of flowers,
While some lone boatman from the deck
Poured his soft numbers to that tide,
As if to charm from storm and wreck
The boat where all his fortunes ride!
Delighted Nature drank the sound,
Enchanted Echo bore it round
In whispers soft and softer still,
From hill to plain, and plain to hill.

[Footnote 80: A native of Kentucky; a favorite Western poet; at one time prominent as a politician.]

* * * * *

=337.= THE BATTLE-FIELD OF RAISIN.

The battle's o'er; the din is past;
Night's mantle on the field is cast;
The Indian yell is heard no more;
The silence broods o'er Erie's shore.
At this lone hour I go to tread
The field where valor vainly bled;
To raise the wounded warrior's crest,
Or warm with tears his icy breast;
To treasure up his last command,
And bear it to his native land.
It may one pulse of joy impart
To a fond mother's bleeding heart,
Or, for a moment, it may dry
The tear-drop in the widow's eye.
Vain hopes, away! The widow ne'er
Her warrior's dying wish shall hear.
The passing zephyr bears no sigh;
No wounded warrior meets the eye;
Death is his sleep by Erie's wave;
Of Raisin's snow we heap his grave.
How many hopes lie buried here—
The mother's joy, the father's pride,
The country's boast, the foeman's fear,
In 'wildered havoc, side by side!
Lend me, thou silent queen of night,
Lend me a while thy waning light,
That I may see each well-loved form
That sank beneath the morning storm.

* * * * *

=William Cullen Bryant, 1794-.= (Manual, pp. 487, 524.)

From his "Poems."

=338.= LINES TO A WATER FOWL.

Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,—
The desert and illimitable air,—
Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

* * * * *

From "The Antiquity of Freedom."

=339.= FREEDOM IRREPRESSIBLE.

O Freedom, thou art not, as poets dream,
A fair, young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap
With which the Roman master crowned his slave
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,
Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailéd hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred
With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs
Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee.
They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven.
Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep,
And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,
Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound,
The links are shivered, and the prison walls
Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth,
As springs the flame above a burning pile,
And shoutest to the nations, who return
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

* * * * *

From "Thanatopsis."

=340.= COMMUNION WITH NATURE, SOOTHING.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language: for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile,
An eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house.
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,—
Comes a still voice. Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground.
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

* * * * *

As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

* * * * *

=341.= THE LIVING LOST.

Matron! the children of whose love,
Each to his grave, in youth had passed,
and now the mould is heaped above
The dearest and the last!
Bride! who dost wear the widow's veil
Before the wedding flowers are pale!
Ye deem the human heart endures
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours.

Yet there are pangs of keener wo,
Of which the sufferers never speak,
Nor to the world's cold pity show
The tears that scald the cheek,
Wrung from their eyelids by the shame
And guilt of those they shrink to name,
Whom once they loved with cheerful will,
And love, though fallen and branded, still.

Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead;
Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve;
And reverenced are the tears ye shed.
And honored ye who grieve.
The praise of those who sleep in earth,
The pleasant memory of their worth,
The hope to meet when life is past,
Shall heal the tortured mind at last.

But ye, who for the living lost
That agony in secret bear,
Who shall with soothing words accost
The strength of your despair?
Grief for your sake is scorn for them
Whom ye lament, and all condemn;
And o'er the world of spirits lies
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.

* * * * *

=342.= THE SONG OF THE SOWER.

Brethren, the sower's task is done.
The seed is in its Winter bed.
Now let the dark-brown mould be spread,
To hide it from the sun,
And leave it to the kindly care
Of the still earth and brooding air.
As when the mother, from her breast,
Lays the hushed babe apart to rest,
And shades its eyes, and waits to see
How sweet its waking smile will be.
The tempest now may smite, the sleet
All night on the drowned furrow beat,
And winds that from the cloudy hold
Of winter, breathe the bitter cold,
Stiffen to stone the yellow-mould,
Yet safe shall lie the wheat;
Till, out of heaven's unmeasured blue,
Shall walk again the genial year,
To wake with warmth, and nurse with dew,
The germs we lay to slumber here.
O blessed harvest yet to be!
Abide thou with the love that keeps,
In its warm bosom tenderly,
The life which wakes, and that which sleeps.
The love that leads the willing spheres
Along the unending track of years,
And watches o'er the sparrow's nest,
Shall brood above thy winter rest,
And raise thee from the dust, to hold
Light whisperings with the winds of May;
And fill thy spikes with living gold,
From Summer's yellow ray.
Then, as thy garners give thee forth,
On what glad errands shalt thou go,
Wherever, o'er the waiting earth,
Roads wind, and rivers flow!
The ancient East shall welcome thee
To mighty marts beyond the sea;
And they who dwell where palm-groves sound
To summer winds the whole year round,
Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore,
The sails that bring thy glistening store.

* * * * *

=343.= THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.

Come, let us plant the apple-tree!
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;
Wide let its hollow bed be made;
There gently lay the roots, and there
Sift the dark mould with kindly care,
And press it o'er them tenderly,
As, round the sleeping infant's feet,
We softly fold the cradle-sheet:
So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in the apple-tree?
Buds, which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breast
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest.
We plant upon the sunny lea
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in the apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs,
To load the May-wind's restless wings,
When, from the orchard-row, he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors;
A world of blossoms for the bee;
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room;
For the glad infant, sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in the apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop as gentle airs come by
That fan the blue September sky;
While children, wild with noisy glee,
Shall scent their fragrance as they pass,
And search for them the tufted grass
At the foot of the apple-tree.

And when above this apple-tree
The winter stars are quivering bright,
And winds go howling through the night,
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,
Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,
And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the orange and the grape,
As fair as they in tint and shape,
The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree,
Winds, and our flag of stripe and star,
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;
And they who roam beyond the sea,
Shall look, and think of childhood's day,
And long hours passed in summer play
In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree
A broader flush of roseate bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower;
The years shall come and pass, but we
Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,
In the boughs of the apple-tree.

And time shall waste this apple tree.
Oh, when its aged branches throw
Thin shadows on the sward below,
Shall fraud and force and iron-will
Oppress the weak and helpless still?
What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?"
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them:
"A poet of the land was he.
Born in the rude, but good, old times;
'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes
On planting the apple-tree."

* * * * *

=Maria Brooks, 1795-1845.= (Manual, p. 523.)

=344.= MARRIAGE.

The bard has sung, God never formed a soul
Without its own peculiar mate, to meet
Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole
Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete!

But thousand evil things there are that hate
To look on happiness: these hurt, impede,
And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate,
Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine, and pant, and bleed.

And as the dove to far Palmyra flying,
From where her native founts of Antioch beam,
Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing,
Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream;

So, many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring,
Love's pure, congenial spring unfound, unquaffed,
Suffers, recoils, then thirsty and despairing
Of what it would, descends, and sips the nearest draught.

* * * * *

=Joseph Rodman Drake, 1795-1820.= (Manual, p. 517.)

From "The Culprit Fay."

=345.= THE FAY'S DEPARTURE.

* * * * *

The moon looks down on old Crow-nest,
She mellows the shades, on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge grey form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below;
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,
And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark—
Like starry twinkles that momently break,
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.

The stars are on the moving stream,
And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
A burnished length of wavy beam
In an eel-like, spiral line below;
The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid.
And naught is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katy-did;
And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will,
Who mourns unseen, and ceaseless sings,
Ever a note of wail and woe,
Till morning spreads her rosy wings,
And earth and sky in her glances grow.

The moth-fly, as he shot in air,
Crept under the leaf, and hid her there;
The katy-did forgot its lay,
The prowling gnat fled fast away,
The fell mosquito checked his drone
And folded his wings till the Fay was gone,
And the wily beetle dropped his head,
And fell on the ground as if he were dead;
They crouched them close in the darksome shade,
They quaked all o'er with awe and fear,
For they had felt the blue-bent blade,
And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear;
Many a time on a summer's night.
When the sky was clear, and the moon was bright,
They had been roused from the haunted ground,
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound;
They had heard the tiny bugle-horn,
They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string,
When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn,
And the nettle shaft through air was borne,
Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wing.
And now they deemed the courier-ouphe,
Some hunter sprite of the elfin ground;
And they watched till they saw him mount the roof
That canopies the world around;
Then glad they left their covert lair,
And freaked about in the midnight air.

* * * * *

=Fitz-Greene Halleck, 1795-1869.= (Manual, p. 515.)

=346.= MARCO BOZZARIS.

At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring:
Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platoea's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires that conquer'd there,
With arm to strike and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour pass'd on—the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke—to die, midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots, falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:
"Strike—till the last arm'd foe expires;
Strike—for your altars and your fires;
Strike—for the green graves of your sires:
God, and your native land!"

They fought—like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquer'd—but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw—
His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won:
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose
Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence, are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine;
And thou art terrible: the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought—
Come, with her laurel-leaf blood-bought—
Come, in her crowning hour—and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight
Of sky and stars to prison'd men:
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh,
To the world-seeking Genoese;
When the land-wind from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee—there is no prouder grave,
E'en in her own proud clime.
Site wore no funeral weeds for thee,
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
Like torn branch, from death's leafless tree,
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
The heartless luxury of the tomb:
But she remembers thee as one
Long loved and for a season gone,
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed:
For thee she rings the birth-day bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells,
For thine, her evening prayer is said
At palace couch, and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh:
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

* * * * *

From "Fanny."

=347.= THE BROKEN MERCHANT.

Fanny! 'twas with her name my song began;
'Tis proper and polite her name should end it;
If in my story of her woes, or plan
Or moral can be traced, 'twas not intended;
And if I've wronged her, I can only tell her
I'm sorry for it—so is my bookseller.

* * * * *

Her father sent to Albany a prayer
For office, told how fortune had abused him,
And modestly requested to be mayor—
The council very civilly refused him;
Because, however much they might desire it,
The "public good," it seems, did not require it.

Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll
Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils;
He felt that withering bitterness of soul,
Quaintly denominated the "blue devils;"
And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius,
Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius.

And envying the loud playfulness and mirth.
Of those who passed him, gay in youth and hope,
He took at Jupiter a shilling's worth
Of gazing, through the showman's telescope;
Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears,
He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres.

He was mistaken, it was no such thing,
'Twas Yankee Doodle, played by Scudder's band;
He muttered, as he lingered listening,
Something of freedom and our happy land;
Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast,
This sentimental song—his saddest and his last.

* * * * *

=John G.C. Brainard, 1796-1828.= (Manual, p. 523.)

From Lines "To the Connecticut River."

=348.= THE PAST AND THE PRESENT.

From that lone lake, the sweetest of the chain,
That links the mountain to the mighty main,
Fresh from the rock and swelling by the tree,
Rushing to meet, and dare, and breast the sea—
Fair, noble, glorious river! in thy wave
The sunniest slopes and sweetest pastures lave;
The mountain torrent, with its wintry roar,
Springs from its home and leaps upon thy shore:
The promontories love thee—and for this
Turn their rough cheeks, and stay thee for thy kiss.

* * * * *

Dark as the forest leaves that strew the ground,
The Indian hunter here his shelter found;
Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true,
Here built his wigwam and his bark canoe,
Speared the quick salmon leaping up the fall,
And slew the deer without the rifle-ball.

* * * * *

What Art can execute, or Taste devise,
Decks thy fair course and gladdens in thine eyes—
As broader sweep the bendings of thy stream,
To meet the southern sun's more constant beam.
Here cities rise, and sea-washed commerce hails
Thy shores and winds with all her flapping sails,
From Tropic isles, or from the torrid main—
Where grows the grape, or sprouts the sugar-cane—
Or from the haunts where the striped haddock play,
By each cold northern bank and frozen bay.
Here, safe returned from every stormy sea,
Waves the striped flag, the mantle of the free—
That star-lit flag, by all the breezes curled
Of yon vast deep whose waters grasp the world.

* * * * *

=Robert C. Sands, 1799-1832.= (Manual, p. 504.)

From "Weehawken."

=349.= HISTORICAL REMINISCENCES.

Eve o'er our path is stealing fast:
Yon quivering splendors are the last
The sun will fling, to tremble o'er
The waves that kiss the opposing shore;
His latest glories fringe the height
Behind us, with their golden light.

* * * * *

Yet should the stranger ask what lore
Of by-gone days, this winding shore,
Yon cliffs, and fir-clad steeps, could tell
If vocal made by Fancy's spell,
The varying legend might rehearse
Fit themes for high romantic verse.

O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod
Oft hath the stalwart warrior trod;
Or peered with hunter's gaze, to mark
The progress of the glancing bark.
Spoils, strangely won on distant waves.
Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.

When the great strife for Freedom rose,
Here scouted oft her friends and foes,
Alternate, through the changeful war,
And beacon-fires flashed bright and far;
And here, when Freedom's strife was won,
Fell, in sad feud, her favored son;—

Her son,—the second of the band,
The Romans of the rescued land.
Where round yon capes the banks descend,
Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend;
There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh
There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.

There last he stood. Before his sight
Flowed the fair river, free and bright;
The rising Mart, and isles and bay,
Before him in their glory lay,—
Scenes of his love and of his fame,—
The instant ere the death-shot came.

* * * * *

=George W. Doane, 1799-1859.= (Manual, p. 523.)

From "Evening."

=350.=

Softly now the light of day
Fades upon my sight away;
Free from care, from labor free,
Lord, I would commune with thee.

Thou, whose all-pervading eye
Nought escapes, without, within,
Pardon each infirmity,
Open fault, and secret sin.

Soon for me the light of day
Shall forever pass away;
Then, from sin and sorrow free,
Take me, Lord, to dwell with thee!

Thou who sinless, yet hast known
All of man's infirmity;
Then, from thy eternal throne,
Jesus, look with pitying eye.

* * * * *

=George P. Morris, 1801-1864.= (Manual, p. 523.)

=351.= HIGHLANDS OF THE HUDSON.

Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands
Winds through the hills afar,
Old Crow-nest like a monarch stands,
Crowned with, a single star.
And there amid the billowy swells
Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth,
My fair and gentle Ida dwells,
A nymph of mountain birth.

The snow-flake that the cliff receives—
The diamonds of the showers—
Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves—
The sisterhood of flowers—
Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze—
Her purity define;—
But Ida's dearer far than these
To this fond breast of mine.

* * * * *

=George D. Prentice, 1802-1869.= (Manual, p. 487.)

From "The Mammoth Cave."

=352.= CONTRAST OF NATURE WITHOUT.

All day, as day is reckoned on the earth,
I've wandered in these dim and awful aisles,
Shut from the blue and breezy dome of heaven,
… And now
I'll sit me down upon yon broken rock,
To muse upon the strange and solemn things
Of this mysterious realm.
All day my steps
Have been amid the beautiful, the wild,
The gloomy, the terrific; crystal founts
Almost invisible in their serene
And pure transparency, high pillared domes
With stars and flowers, all fretted like the halls
Of Oriental monarchs—rivers dark,
And drear, and voiceless, as Oblivion's stream,
That flows through Death's dim vale of silence,—gulfs
All fathomless, down which the loosened rock
Plunges, until its far-off echoes come
Fainter and fainter, like the dying roll
Of thunders in the distance.
… Beautiful
Are all the thousand snow-white gems that lie
In these mysterious chambers, gleaming out
Amid the melancholy gloom, and wild
These rocky hills and cliffs, and gulfs, but far
More beautiful and wild, the things that greet
The wanderer in our world of light—the stars
Floating on high, like islands of the blest,—
The autumn sunsets glowing like the gate
Of far-off Paradise; the gorgeous clouds
On which the glories of the earth and sky
Meet, and commingle; earth's unnumbered flowers,
All turning up their gentle eyes to heaven;
The birds, with bright wings glancing in the sun,
Filling the air with rainbow miniatures;
The green old forests surging in the gale;
The everlasting mountains, on whose peaks
The setting sun burns like an altar-flame.

* * * * *

=Charles Constantine Pise, 1802-1866.= (Manual, p. 532.)

From "The Pleasures of Religion."

=353.= THE RAINBOW.

Mark, o'er yon wild, as melts the storm away,
The rainbow tints their various hues display;
Beauteous, though faint, though deeply shaded, bright,
They span the clearing heavens, and charm the sight.
Yes, as I gaze, methinks I view—the while,
Hope's radiant form, and Mercy's genial smile.
Who doth not see, in that sweet bow of heaven,
Circling around the twilight hills of even,
Religion's light, which o'er the wilds of life
Shoots its pure rays through misery and strife;
Soothes the lone bosom, as it pines in woe,
And turns to heaven this barren world below?
O, what were man, did not her hallowed ray
Disperse, the clouds that thicken on his way!
A weary pilgrim, left in cheerless gloom,
To grope his midnight journey to the tomb;
His life a tempest, death, a wreck forlorn,
In sorrow dying, as in sorrow born.

* * * * *

From "The Tourist"

=354.= VIEW AT GIBRALTAR.

And from this height, how beauteous to survey
The neighboring shores, the bright cerulean bay:
Myriads of sails are swelling on the deep,
And oars, in myriads, through the waters sweep.
Behold, in peace, all nations here unite,
Their various pennons streaming to the sight:
The red cross glows, the Danish crown appears,
The half-moon rises, and the lion rears,
But mark, bold-towering o'er the conscious wave,
The starry banners of my country brave,
Stream like a meteor to the wooing breeze,
And float all-radiant o'er the sunny seas!
Hail, native flag! for ever mayst thou blow—
Hope to the friend, and terror to the foe!
Again I hail thee, Calpe! on thy steep
I wandered high, and gazed upon the deep!
Nature's best fortress, which no warlike foe,
No martial scheme, can ever overthrow.
Art, too, had added strength, and given a grace
That smooths the rugged aspect of thy face.
What wondrous halls along the mountain made!
What trains of cannon in those halls arrayed!
They frown imperious from their lofty state,
Prepared around to deal the scourge of fate.

* * * * *

=Elijah P. Lovejoy,[81] 1802-1816.=

From "Lines to my Mother."

=355.=

There is a fire that burns on earth,
A pure and holy flame;
It came to men from heavenly birth,
And still it is the same
As when it burned the chords along
That bore the first-born seraph's song;
Sweet as the hymn of gratitude
That swelled to Heaven when "all was good."
No passion in the choirs above
Is purer than a mother's love.
* * * * *
My mother! I am far away
From home, and love, and thee;
And stranger hands may heap the clay
That soon may cover me;
Yet we shall meet—perhaps not here,
But in yon shining, azure sphere;
And if there's aught assures me more,
Ere yet my spirit fly,
That Heaven has mercy still in store
For such a wretch as I,
'Tis that a heart so good as thine
Must bleed, must burst, along with mine.

And life is short, at best, and time
Must soon prepare the tomb;
And there is sure a happier clime
Beyond this world of gloom.
And should it be my happy lot,
After a life of care and pain,
In sadness spent, or spent in vain,
To go where sighs and sin are not,
'Twill make the half my heaven to be,
My mother, evermore with thee.

[Footnote 81: Born in Maine, but lived at the West; was editor of a religions newspaper, which early assailed slavery as wrong; lost his life in defending his press against a mob at Alton, Illinois, July, 1836.]

* * * * *

=Edward Coate Pinkney, 1802-1828.= (Manual, p. 521.)

=356=. A HEALTH.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone;
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon,
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds;
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words.
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows,
As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns, the idol of past years.

Of her bright face, one glance will trace a picture on the brain,
And of her voice, in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;
But memory such as mine of her, so very much, endears
When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex, the seeming paragon.
Her health! and would on earth there stood some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

* * * * *

=Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-.= (Manual, pp. 478, 503, 531.)

=357.= HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone,
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

* * * * *

From "May Day."

=358.= DISAPPEARANCE OF WINTER.

Not for a regiment's parade,
Nor evil laws or rulers made,
Blue Walden rolls its cannonade,
But for a lofty sign
Which the Zodiac threw,
That the bondage-days are told,
And waters free as winds shall flow.
Lo! how all the tribes combine
To rout the flying foe.
See, every patriot oak-leaf throws
His elfin length upon the snows,
Not idle, since the leaf all day
Draws to the spot the solar ray,
Ere sunset quarrying inches down,
And half-way to the mosses brown;
While the grass beneath the rime
Has hints of the propitious time,
And upward pries and perforates
Through the cold slab a thousand gates,
Till the green lances peering through
Bend happy in the welkin blue,
* * * * *
The ground-pines wash their rusty green,
The maple-tops their crimson tint,
On the soft path each track is seen,
The girl's foot leaves its neater print.
The pebble loosened from the frost
Asks of the urchin to be tost.
In flint and marble beats a heart,
The kind Earth takes her children's part,
The green lane is the school-boy's friend,
Low leaves his quarrel apprehend,
The fresh ground loves his top and ball,
The air rings jocund to his call,
The brimming brook invites a leap,
He dives the hollow, climbs the steep.
The youth reads omens where he goes,
And speaks all languages, the rose.
The wood-fly mocks with tiny noise
The far halloo of human voice;
The perfumed berry on the spray
Smacks of faint memories far away.
A subtle chain of countless rings
The next unto the farthest brings,
And, striving to be man, the worm
Mounts through all the spires of form.

* * * * *

From "Voluntaries II."

=359.= INSPIRATION OF DUTY.

In an age of joys and toys,
Wanting wisdom, void of right,
Who shall nerve heroic boys
To hazard all in Freedom's fight,—
Break shortly off their jolly games,
Forsake their comrades gay,
And quit proud homes and youthful dames,
For famine, toil, and fray?
Yet on the nimble air benign
Speed nimbler messages,
That waft the breath of grace divine
To hearts in sloth and ease.
So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When duty whispers low, Thou must,
The youth replies, I can.
* * * * *
Stainless soldier on the walls,
Knowing this,—and knows no more,—
Whoever fights, whoever falls
Justice conquers evermore,
Justice after as before.—

* * * * *

=Thomas C. Upham,[82] 1799-1873.=

=360.= ON A SON LOST AT SEA.

Boy of my earlier days and hopes! Once more,
Dear child of memory, of love, of tears!
I see thee, as I saw in days of yore,
As in thy young, and in thy lovely, years.

The same in youthful look, the same in form;
The same the gentle voice I used to hear;
Though many a year hath passed, and many a storm
Hath dashed its foam around thy cruel bier.

Deep in the stormy ocean's hidden cave
Buried, and lost to human care and sight,
What power hath interposed to rend thy grave?
What arm hath brought thee thus to life and light?

I weep,—the tears my aged cheek that stain,
The throbs that once more swell my aching breast,
Embodying one of anxious thought and pain,
That wept and watched around that place of rest.

O leave me not, my child! Or, if it be,
That coming thus, thou canst not longer stay,
Yet shall this kindly visit's mystery
Give rise to hopes that never can decay.

Dear cherished image from thy stormy bed!
Child of my early woe, and early joy!
'Tis thus at last the sea shall yield her dead,
And give again my loved, my buried boy.

[Footnote 82: A philosophical and religious writer of much merit and earnestness; author of a volume of poems; for a long time professor of moral and mental philosophy in Bowdoin College. A native of New Hampshire.]

* * * * *

=Jacob Leonard Martin,[83] 1803-1848.=

=361=. THE CHURCH OF SANTA CROCE, FLORENCE.

Tomb of the mighty dead,[84] illustrious shrine,
Where genius, in the majesty of death,
Reposes solemn, sepulchred beneath,
Temple o'er every other fane divine!
Dark Santa Crocé, in whose dust recline
Their mouldering relics whose immortal wreath.
Blooms on, unfaded by Time's withering breath,
In these proud ashes what a prize is thine!
Sure it is holy ground I tread upon;
Nor do I breathe unconsecrated air,
As, rapt, I gaze on each undying name.
These monuments are fragments of the throne
Once reared by genius on this spot so fair,
When Florence was the seat of arts and early fame.

[Footnote 83: A native of North Carolina; best known in political life, but meritorious in literature.]

[Footnote 84: In this church repose Galileo, Michael Angelo, Alfieri, and other illustrious Italians.]

* * * * *

=Geo. W. Bethune, 1803-1862.= (Manual, p. 487.)

Invocation.

=362.= MYTHOLOGY GIVES PLACE TO CHRISTIANITY.

Hushed is their song; from long-frequented grove,
Pale Memory, are thy bright-eyed daughters gone;
No more in strains of melody and love,
Gush forth thy sacred waters, Helicon;
Prostrate on Egypt's plain, Aurora's son,
God of the sunbeam and the living lyre,
No more shall hail thee with mellifluous tone;
Nor shall thy Pythia, raving from thy fire,
Speak of the future sooth to those who would inquire.

No more at Delos, or at Delphi now,
Or e'en at mighty Ammon's Lybian shrine,
The white-robed priests before the altar bow,
To slay the victim and to pour the wine,
While gifts of kingdoms round each pillar twine;
Scarce can the classic pilgrim, sweeping free
From fallen architrave the desert vine.
Trace the dim names of their divinity—
Gods of the ruined temples, where, oh where! are ye?

The Naiad bathing in her crystal spring,
The guardian Nymph of every leafy tree,
The rushing Aeolus on viewless wing,
The flower-crowned Queen of every cultured lea,
And he who walked, with monarch-tread, the sea,
The awful Thunderer, threatening them aloud,
God! were their vain imaginings of Thee,
Who saw Thee only through the illusive cloud
That sin had flung around their spirits, like a shroud.

As fly the shadows of uncertain night,
On misty vapors of the early day,
When bursts o'er earth the sun's resplendent light—
Fantastic visions! they have passed away,
Chased by the purer Gospel's orient ray.
My soul's bright waters flow from out thy throne,
And on my ardent breast thy sunbeam's play;
Fountain of thought! True Source of light! I own
In joyful strains of praise, thy sovereign power alone.

O breathe upon my soul thy Spirit's fire,
That I may glow like seraphim on high,
Or rapt Isaiah kindling o'er his lyre;
And sent by Thee, let holy Hope be nigh,
To fill with prescient joy my ravished eye,
And gentle Love; to tune each jarring string
Accordant with the heavenly harmony;
Then upward borne, on Faith's aspiring wing,
The praises of my God to listening earth, I sing.

* * * * *

=Charles Fenno Hoffman, 1806-.= (Manual, pp. 487, 505, 519.)

From "The Vigil of Faith."

=363.= THE RED MAN'S HEAVEN.

White man! I say not that they lie
Who preach a faith so dark and drear,
That wedded hearts in yon cold sky
Meet not as they were mated here.
But scorning not thy faith, thou must
Stranger, in mine have equal trust,—
The Red man's faith, by Him implanted,
Who souls to both our bodies granted.
Thou know'st in life we mingle not;
Death cannot change our different lot!
He who hath placed the White man's heaven
Where hymns in vapory clouds are chanted,
To harps by angel fingers play'd,
Not less on his Red children smiles,
To whom a land of souls is given,
Where in the ruddy West array'd.
Brighten our blessed hunting isles.

* * * * *

Those blissful ISLANDS OF THE WEST!
I've seen, myself, at sunset time,
The golden lake in which they rest;
Seen, too, the barks that bear The Blest,
Floating toward that fadeless clime:
First dark, just as they leave our shore,
Their sides then brightening more and more,
Till in a flood of crimson light
They melted from my straining sight.
And she who climb'd the storm-swept steep,
She who the foaming wave would dare,
So oft love's vigil here to keep,—
Stranger, albeit thou think'st I dote,
I know, I know she watches there!
Watches upon that radiant strand,
Watches to see her lover's boat
Approach The Spirit-Land.

He ceased, and spoke no more that night,
Though oft, when chillier blew the blast,
I saw him moving in the light
The fire, that he was feeding, cast;
While I, still wakeful, ponder'd o'er
His wondrous story more and more.
I thought, not wholly waste the mind
Where Faith so deep a root could find,
Faith which both love and life could save,
And keep the first, in age still fond.
Thus blossoming this side the grave
In steadfast trust of fruit beyond.
And when in after years I stood
By INCA-PAH-CHO'S haunted water,
Where long ago that hunter woo'd
In early youth its island daughter,
And traced the voiceless solitude
Once witness of his loved one's slaughter—
At that same season of the leaf
In which I heard him tell his grief,—
I thought some day I'd weave in rhyme,
That tale of mellow autumn time.

* * * * *

=William Gilmore Simms, 1806-1870.= (Manual, pp. 523, 490, 510.)

From "The Cassique of Accabee."

=364.= NATURE INSPIRES SENTIMENT.

It was a night of calm. O'er Ashley's waters
Crept the sweet billows to their own soft tune,
While she, most bright of Keawah's fair daughters,
Whose voice might spell the footsteps of the moon,
As slow we swept along,
Poured forth her own sweet song—
A lay of rapture not forgotten soon.

Hushed was our breathing, stayed the lifted oar,
Our spirits rapt, our souls no longer free,
While the boat, drifting softly to the shore,
Brought us within the shades of Accabee.
"Ah!" sudden cried the maid,
In the dim light afraid,
"'Tis here the ghost still walks of the old Yemassee."

And sure the spot was haunted by a power
To fix the pulses in each youthful heart;
Never was moon more gracious in a bower,
Making delicious fancy-work for art,
Weaving so meekly bright
Her pictures of delight,
That, though afraid to stay, we sorrowed to depart.

"If these old groves are haunted"—sudden then,
Said she, our sweet companion,—"it must be
By one who loved, and was beloved again,
And joy'd all forms of loveliness to see:—
Here, in these groves they went,
Where love and worship, blent,
Still framed the proper God for each idolatry.

"It could not be that love should here be stern,
Or beauty fail to sway with sov'reign might;
These from so blesséd scenes should something learn,
And swell with tenderness, and shape delight:
These groves have had their power,
And bliss, in by-gone hour,
Hath charm'd with sight and song the passage of the night."

"It were a bliss to think so;" made reply
Our Hubert—"yet the tale is something old,
That checks us with denial;—and our sky,
And these brown woods that, in its glittering fold,
Look like a fairy clime,
Still unsubdued by time,
Have evermore the tale of wrong'd devotion told."

"Give us thy legend, Hubert;" cried the maid;—
And, with down-dropping oars, our yielding prow
Shot to a still lagoon, whose ample shade
Droop'd from the gray moss of an old oak's brow:
The groves, meanwhile, lay bright,
Like the broad stream, in light,
Soft, sweet as ever yet the lunar loom display'd.

* * * * *

=Nathaniel Parker Willis, 1807-1867.= (Manual, pp. 504, 519.)

From the "Sacred Poems."

=365.= HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.

* * * * *
The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rose up
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.
The cattle of the hills were in the shade,
And the bright plumage of the Orient lay
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees.
It was an hour of rest; but Hagar found
No shelter in the wilderness, and on
She kept her weary way, until the boy
Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips
For water; but she could not give it him.
She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,—
For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines,—and tried to comfort him,—
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes
Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know
Why God denied him water in the wild.

She sat a little longer, and he grew
Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
It was too much for her, she lifted him,
And bore him further on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;
And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch where he could see her not,
Till he should die; and watching him, she mourned:

"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy!
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
Upon thy brow to look,
And see death settle on my cradle-joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!
And could I see thee die?

"I did not dream of this when thou wert straying,
Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers;
Or wearing rosy hours,
By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
So beautiful and deep.

"O, no! and when I watch'd by thee the while,
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,
And thought of the dark stream
In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,
How pray'd I that my father's land might be
An heritage for thee!

"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee,
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press;
And, O, my last caress
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there
Upon his clustering hair!"

She stood beside the well her God had given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laugh'd
In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

* * * * *

=366.= UNSEEN SPIRITS.

The shadows lay along Broadway,—
'Twas near the twilight tide,—
And slowly there, a lady fair
Was waiting in her pride.
Alone walked she, yet viewlessly
Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
And honor charmed the air,
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair;
For all God ever gave to her,
She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare,
From lovers warm and true;
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo.
Ah, honored well, are charms to sell,
When priests the selling do!

Now, walking there, was one more fair—
A slight girl, lily pale,
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail;
'Twixt want and scorn, she walked forlorn,
And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way,
And the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
By man is cursed alway.

* * * * *

=Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-.= (Manual, pp. 503, 505, 519, 531.)

=367.= LINES TO RESIGNATION.

There is no flock, however watched and tended
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howso'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! these severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps,
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition.
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—
But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves, moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,—

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.

* * * * *

From "The Seaside and The Fireside."

=368.= THE WEDDING; THE LAUNCH; THE SHIP.

The prayer is said,
The service read,
The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
And in tears the good old Master
Shakes the brown hand of his son,
Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek
In silence, for he cannot speak,
And ever faster
Down his own the tears begin to run.
The worthy pastor—
The Shepherd of that wandering flock,
That has the ocean for its wold,
That has the vessel for its fold,
Leaping ever from rock to rock—
Spake, with accents mild and clear,
Words of warning, words of cheer,
But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.

* * * * *

Then the Master,
With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand;
And at the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs!
She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!

And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean, seemed to say,—
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth and all her charms!"
How beautiful she is! How fair
She lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Sail forth into the sea of life,
O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
And safe from all adversity
Upon the bosom of that sea
Thy comings and thy goings be!
For gentleness and love and trust
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
And in the wreck of noble lives
Something immortal still survives!

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union strong and great!
Humanity with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what master laid thy keel,
What workman wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
'Tis of the wave and not the rock;
'Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest-roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee,—are all with thee.

* * * * *

From "Evangeline."

=369.= SONG OF THE MOCKING-BIRD, AT SUNSET.

Softly the evening came. The sun, from the western horizon,
Like a magician, extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;
Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless
water.
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around
her.
Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of
singers,
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,
Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,
That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent
to listen.
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness,
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.
Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;
Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the
branches.
With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with
emotion,
Slowly they entered the Têche, where it flows through the green
Opelousas,
And through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,
Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;—
Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.

* * * * *

From "The Song of Hiawatha."

=370.= HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE.

On the shore stood Hiawatha,
Turned and waved his hand at parting;
On the clear and luminous water
Launched his birch canoe for sailing,
From the pebbles of the margin
Shoved it forth into the water;
Whispered to it, "Westward! westward!"
And with speed it darted forward.
And the evening sun descending
Set the clouds on fire with redness,
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,
Left upon the level water
One long track and trail of splendor,
Down whose streams, as down a river,
Westward, westward Hiawatha
Sailed into the fiery sunset,
Sailed into the purple vapors,
Sailed into the dusk of evening.
And the people from the margin
Watched him floating, rising, sinking,
Till the birch canoe seemed lifted
High into that sea of splendor,
Till it sank into the vapors
Like the new moon slowly, slowly
Sinking in the purple distance.
And they said, "Farewell for ever!"
Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the forests, dark and lonely,
Moved through all their depth of darkness,
Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the waves upon the margin
Rising, rippling on the pebbles,
Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the heron, the Shu-shuh-gah,
From her haunts among the fen-lands,
Screamed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
Thus departed Hiawatha,
Hiawatha the beloved,
In the glory of the sunset,
In the purple mists of evening,
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin,
To the islands of the Blessed,
To the kingdom of Ponemah,
To the land of the Hereafter!

* * * * *

=William D. Gallagher, 1808-.= (Manual, p. 523.)

=371.= THE LABORER.

Stand up—erect! Thou hast the form,
And likeness of thy God!—who more?
A soul as dauntless mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure, as breast e'er bore.

What then?—Thou art as true a Man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the Great plan
That with creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy? the high
In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye?
Nay! nurse not such belief.

* * * * *

No:—uncurbed passions—low desires—
Absence of noble self-respect—
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high Nature which aspires
For ever, till thus checked:

* * * * *

True, wealth thou hast not: 'tis but dust!
Nor place; uncertain as the wind!
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust
Of both—a noble mind.

With this and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then—that thy little span
Of life, may be well trod!

* * * * *

=John G. Whittier, 1808-.= (Manual, pp. 490, 522.)

=372.= WHAT THE VOICE SAID.

Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil,
"Lord," I cried in sudden ire,
"From thy right hand, clothed with thunder,
Shake the bolted fire!

"Love is lost, and Faith is dying;
With the brute, the man is sold;
And the dropping blood of labor
Hardens into gold."

* * * * *

"Thou, the patient Heaven upbraiding,"
Spake a solemn Voice within;
"Weary of our Lord's forbearance,
Art thou free from sin?"

* * * * *

"Earnest words must needs be spoken
When the warm heart bleeds or burns
With its scorn of wrong, or pity
For the wronged, by turns.

"But, by all thy nature's weakness,
Hidden faults and follies known,
Be thou, in rebuking evil,
Conscious of thine own.

"Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty
To thy lips her trumpet set,
But with harsher blasts shall mingle
Wailings of regret."

Cease not, Voice of holy speaking,
Teacher sent of God, be near,
Whispering through the day's cool silence,
Let my spirit hear!

So, when thoughts of evil doers
Waken scorn, or hatred move,
Shall a mournful fellow-feeling
Temper all with love.

* * * * *

From "The Tent on the Beach."

=373.= THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH.

O lonely bay of Trinity,
O dreary shores, give ear!
Lean down unto the white-lipped sea
The voice of God to hear!

From world to world his couriers fly,
Thought-winged, and shod with fire;
The angel of his stormy sky
Rides down the sunken wire.

What saith the herald of the Lord?
"The world's long strife is done;
Close wedded by that mystic cord,
Its continents are one.

"And one in heart, as one in blood,
Shall all her peoples be;
The hands of human brotherhood
Are clasped beneath the sea.

"Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plain
And Asian mountains borne,
The vigor of the Northern brain
Shall nerve the world outworn.

"From clime to clime, from shore to shore,
Shall thrill the magic thread;
The new Prometheus steals once more
The fire that wakes the dead."

Throb on, strong pulse of thunder! beat
From answering beach to beach;
Fuse nations in thy kindly heat,
And melt the chains of each!

Wild terror of the sky above,
Glide tamed and dumb below!
Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove,
Thy errands to and fro.

Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord,
Beneath the deep so far,
The bridal robe of earth's accord,
The funeral shroud of war!

For lo! the fall of Ocean's wall,
Space mocked, and time outrun;
And round the world the thought of all
Is as the thought of one!

The poles unite, the zones agree,
The tongues of striving cease;
As on the sea of Galilee,
The Christ is whispering, Peace!

* * * * *

From Snow-Bound.

=374.= DESCRIPTION OF A SNOW STORM.

The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon,
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east: we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.

* * * * *

Unwarmed by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
A zigzag wavering to and fro
Crossed and recrossed the wingéd snow:
And ere the early bed-time came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And, through the glass, the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.

So all night long the storm rolled on:
The morning broke without a sun;
In tiny spherule traced with lines
Of Nature's geometric signs,
In starry flake and pellicle,
All day the hoary meteor fell;
And, when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below,—
A universe of sky and snow!

* * * * *

From "The Pennsylvania Pilgrim."

=375.= THE QUAKER'S CREED.

* * * * *

Gathered from many sects, the Quaker brought
His old beliefs, adjusting to the thought
That moved his soul, the creed his fathers taught.

One faith alone, so broad that all mankind
Within themselves its secret witness find,
The soul's communion with the Eternal Mind,

The Spirit's law, the Inward Rule and Guide,
Scholar and peasant, lord and serf, allied,
The polished Penn, and Cromwell's Ironside.

As still in Hemskerck's Quaker meeting, face
By face, in Flemish detail, we may trace
How loose-mouthed boor, and fine ancestral grace,

Sat in close contrast,—the clipt-headed churl,
Broad market-dame, and simple serving-girl,
By skirt of silk and periwig in curl!

For soul touched soul; the spiritual treasure-trove
Made all men equal, none could rise above,
Nor sink below, that level of God's love.

So, with his rustic neighbors sitting down,
The homespun frock beside the scholar's gown,
Pastorius, to the manners of the town

Added the freedom of the woods, and sought
The bookless wisdom by experience taught,
And learned to love his new-found home, while not

Forgetful of the old; the seasons went
Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lent
Of their own calm and measureless content.

Glad even to tears, he heard the robin sing
His song of welcome to the Western spring,
And bluebird borrowing from the sky his wing.

And when the miracle of autumn came,
And all the woods with many-colored flame
Of splendor, making summer's greenness tame,

Burned unconsumed, a voice without a sound
Spake to him from each kindled bush around
And made the strange, new landscape holy ground.

* * * * *

=Albert Pike, 1809-.= (Manual, p. 523.)

From "Lines on the Rocky Mountains."

=376.= THE EVERLASTING HILLS.

The deep, transparent sky is full
Of many thousand glittering lights—
Unnumbered stars that calmly rule
The dark dominions of the night.
The mild, bright moon has upward risen,
Out of the gray and boundless plain,
And all around the white snows glisten,
Where frost, and ice, and silence, reign,—
While ages roll away, and they unchanged remain.

These mountains, piercing the blue sky
With their eternal cones of ice,—
The torrents dashing from on high,
O'er rock, and crag, and precipice,—
Change not, but still remain as ever,
Unwasting, deathless, and sublime,
And will remain while lightnings quiver,
Or stars the hoary summits climb,
Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time.

* * * * *

=Anne C. Lynch Botta.=

From her "Poems."

=377.= THE DUMB CREATION.

Deal kindly with those speechless ones,
That throng our gladsome earth;
Say not the bounteous gift of life
Alone is nothing worth.

What though with mournful memories
They sigh not for the past?
What though their ever joyous now
No future overcast.

No aspirations fill their breast
With longings undefined;
They live, they love, and they are blest
For what they seek they find.

They see no mystery in the stars,
No wonder in the plain,
And Life's enigma wakes in them,
No questions dark and vain.

To them earth is a final home,
A bright and blest abode;
Their lives unconsciously flow on
In harmony with God.

To this fair world our human hearts
Their hopes and longings bring,
And o'er its beauty and its bloom,
Their own dark shadows fling.

Between the future and the past
In wild unrest we stand,
And ever as our feet advance,
Retreats the promised land.

And though Love, Fame, and Wealth, and Power
Bind in their gilded bond,
We pine to grasp the unattained—
The something still beyond.

And, beating on their prison bars,
Our spirits ask more room,
And with unanswered questionings,
They pierce beyond the tomb.

Then say thou not, oh, doubtful heart!
There is no life to come:
That in some tearless, cloudless land;
Thou shalt not find thy home.

* * * * *

=Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-.= (Manual, pp. 478, 520.)

From his Poems.

=378.= THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

My grandmamma has said,—
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago,—
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back.
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,—
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

* * * * *

From "The Professor at the Breakfast Table."

=379.= A MOTHER'S SECRET.

* * * * *

They reach the holy place, fulfill the days
To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise.
At last they turn, and far Moriah's height
Melts into southern sky and fades from sight.
All day the dusky caravan has flowed
In devious trails along the winding road,—
(For many a step their homeward path attends,
And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.)
Evening has come,—the hour of rest and joy;—
Hush! hush! that whisper,—"Where is Mary's boy?"
O weary hour! O aching days that passed,
Filled with strange fears, each wilder than the last:
The soldier's lance,—the fierce centurion's sword,—
The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord,—
The midnight crypt that sucks the captive's breath,—
The blistering sun on Hinnom's vale of death!
Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light,
Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night,
Crouched by some porphyry column's shining plinth,
Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth.
At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more
The Temple's porches, searched in vain before;
They found him seated with the ancient men,—
The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,—
Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near,
Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear,
Lost In half-envious wonder and surprise
That lips so fresh should utter words so wise.
And Mary said,—as one who, tried too long,
Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong.—
"What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done?
Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son!"
Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone,—
Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown;
Then turned with them and left the holy hill,
To all their mild commands obedient still.
The tale was told to Nazareth's sober men,
And Nazareth's matrons told it oft again;
The maids retold it at the fountain's side;
The youthful shepherds doubted or denied;
It passed around among the listening friends,
With all that fancy adds and fiction lends,
Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown
Of Joseph's son, who talked the Rabbies down.
But Mary, faithful to its lightest word,
Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard,
Till the dread morning rent the Temple's veil,
And shuddering Earth confirmed the wondrous tale.

Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall;
A mother's secret hope outlives them all.

* * * * *

=Willis Gaylord Clark, 1810-1841.= (Manual, pp. 503, 523.)

From his "Literary Remains."

=380.= AN INVITATION TO EARLY PIETY.

Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing—
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die;
Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throwing,
Fade like the sunset of a summer sky;
Life hath but shadows, save a promise given,
Which lights the future with a fadeless ray;
O, touch the sceptre—win a hope in heaven—
Come—turn thy spirit from the world away.

Then will the crosses of this brief existence,
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul;
And shining brightly in the forward distance,
Will of thy patient race appear the goal;
Home of the weary! where in peace reposing,
The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss,
Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing—
Who would not early choose a lot like this?

* * * * *

=James Russell Lowell, 1819-.= (Manual, p. 520.)

From his "Miscellaneous Poems," &c.

=381.= A SONG.

Violet! sweet violet!
Thine eyes are full of tears;
Are they wet
Even yet,
With the thought of other years?
Or with gladness are they full,
For the night so beautiful,
And longing for those far-off spheres?

Loved-one of my youth thou wast,
Of my merry youth,
And I see,
Tearfully,
All the fair and sunny past,
All its openness and truth,
Ever fresh and green in thee
As the moss is in the sea.

Thy little heart, that hath with love
Grown colored like the sky above,
On which thou lookest ever,—
Can it know
All the woe
Of hope for what returneth never,
All the sorrow and the longing
To these hearts of ours belonging?

Out on it! no foolish pining
For the sky
Dims thine eye,
Or for the stars so calmly shining;
Like thee let this soul of mine
Take hue from that wherefor I long,
Self-stayed and high, serene and strong,
Not satisfied with hoping—but divine.

Violet! dear violet!
Thy blue eyes are only wet
With joy and love of him who sent thee,
And for the fulfilling sense
Of that glad obedience
Which made thee all that Nature meant thee!

* * * * *

From "The Present Crisis."

=382.= IMPORTANCE OF A NOBLE DEED.

When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast
Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb
To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime
Of a century, bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.

* * * * *

Once, to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;
Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,
Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,
And the choice goes by for ever, twist that darkness and that light.

* * * * *

We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great,
Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate,
But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,
List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,—
"They enslave their children's children, who make compromise with sin."

* * * * *

From The Atlantic Monthly.

=383.= THE SPANIARDS' GRAVES AT THE ISLES OF SHOALS.

O sailors, did sweet eyes look after you,
The day you sailed away from sunny Spain?
Bright eyes that followed fading ship and crew,
Melting in tender rain?

Did no one dream of that drear night to be,
Wild with the wind, fierce with the stinging snow,
When, on yon granite point that frets the sea,
The ship met her death-blow?

Fifty long years ago these sailors died:
(None know how many sleep beneath the waves:)
Fourteen gray head-stones, rising side by side,
Point out their nameless graves,—

Lonely, unknown, deserted, but for me,
And the wild birds that flit with mournful cry,
And sadder winds, and voices of the sea
That moans perpetually.

Wives, mothers, maidens, wistfully, in vain
Questioned the distance for the yearning sail,
That, leaning landward, should have stretched again
White arms wide on the gale,

To bring back their beloved. Year by year,
Weary they watched, till youth and beauty passed,
And lustrous eyes grew dim, and age drew near,
And hope was dead at last.

Still summer broods o'er that delicious land,
Rich, fragrant, warm with skies of golden glow:
Live any yet of that forsaken band
Who loved so long ago?

O Spanish women, over the far seas,
Could I but show you where your dead repose!
Could I send tidings on this northern breeze,
That strong and steady blows!

Dear dark-eyed sisters, you remember yet
These you have lost, but you can never know
One stands at their bleak graves whose eyes are wet
With thinking of your woe!

* * * * *

=Edgar Allen Poe.= (Manual, p. 510.)

From his Works.

=384.= "THE RAVEN."

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door;
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door,—
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow,
From my books, surcease of sorrow,—sorrow for the lost Lenore,—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there,—and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word, "Lenore!"
This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
"Surely," said I,—"surely that is something at my window-lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,—
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or staid he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then, this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber door,—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,—
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he utter'd; not a feather then he flutter'd—
Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before,"
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never—never—more!'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheel'd a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining which the lamp-light gloated o'er
She shall press, ah, never more!

Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent
thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore,
Desolate, though all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
upstarting—
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted—never more.

* * * * *

=Alfred B. Street, 1811-.= (Manual, pp. 522, 531.)

From his "Poems."

=385.= AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE.

Overhead
There is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky;
A silvery sheet, with spaces of soft hue;
A trembling veil of gauze is stretched athwart
The shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks;
A soothing quiet broods upon the air,
And the faint sunshine winks with drowsiness.
Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark,
The bleat, the tinkle, whistle, blast of horn,
The rattle of the wagon-wheel, the low,
The fowler's shot, the twitter of the bird,
And even the hue of converse from the road.

* * * * *

The sunshine flashed on streams,
Sparkled on leaves, and laughed on fields and woods.
All, all was life and motion, as all now
Is sleep and quiet. Nature in her change
Varies each day, as in the world of man
She moulds the differing features. Yea, each leaf
Is variant from its fellow. Yet her works
Are blended in a glorious harmony,
For thus God made his earth. Perchance His breath
Was music when He spake it into life,
Adding thereby another instrument
To the innumerable choral orbs
Sending the tribute of their grateful praise
In ceaseless anthems towards His sacred throne.

* * * * *

From "Drawings and Tintings."

=386.= THE FALLS OF THE MONGAUP.

Struggling along the mountain path,
We hear, amid the gloom,
Like a roused giant's voice of wrath,
A deep-toned, sullen boom:
Emerging on the platform high,
Burst sudden to the startled eye
Rocks, woods, and waters, wild and rude—
A scene of savage solitude.

Swift as an arrow from the bow;
Headlong the torrent leaps,
Then tumbling round, in dazzling snow
And dizzy whirls it sweeps;
Then, shooting through the narrow aisle
Of this sublime cathedral pile,
Amidst its vastness, dark and grim,
It peals its everlasting hymn.

Pyramid on pyramid of rock
Towers upward, wild and riven,
As piled by Titan hand, to mock
The distant smiling heaven.
And where its blue streak is displayed,
Branches their emerald net-work braid
So high, the eagle in his flight
Seems but a dot upon the sight.

Here column'd hemlocks point in air
Their cone-like fringes green;
Their trunks hang knotted, black and bare,
Like spectres o'er the scene;
Here lofty crag and deep abyss,
And awe-inspiring precipice;
There grottoes bright in wave-worn gloss,
And carpeted with velvet moss.

No wandering ray e'er kissed with light
This rock-walled sable pool,
Spangled with foam-gems thick and white,
And slumbering deep and cool;
But where yon cataract roars down,
Set by the sun, a rainbow crown
Is dancing, o'er the dashing strife—
Hope glittering o'er the storm of life.

Beyond, the smooth and mirror'd sheet
So gently steals along,
The very ripples, murmuring sweet,
Scarce drown the wild bee's song;
The violet from the grassy side
Dips its blue chalice in the tide;
And, gliding o'er the leafy brink,
The deer, unfrightened, stoops to drink.

Myriads of man's time-measured race
Have vanished from the earth,
Nor left a memory of their trace,
Since first this scene had birth;
These waters, thundering now along,
Joined in Creation's matin-song;
And only by their dial-trees
Have known the lapse of centuries!

* * * * *

=Laura M.H. Thurston, 1812-1842.= (Manual, P. 524.)

=387.= LINES ON CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES.

I hail thee, Valley of the West,
For what thou yet shalt be!
I hail thee for the hopes that rest
Upon thy destiny!
Here from this mountain height, I see
Thy bright waves floating rapidly,
Thine emerald fields outspread;
And feel that in the book of fame,
Proudly shall thy recorded name
In later days be read.

Oh! brightly, brightly glow thy skies
In Summer's sunny hours!
The green earth seems a paradise
Arrayed in summer flowers!
But oh! there is a land afar,
Whose skies to me all brighter are,
Along the Atlantic shore!
For eyes beneath their radiant shrine
In kindlier glances answered mine:
Can these their light restore?

Upon the lofty bound I stand,
That parts the East and West;
Before me lies a fairy land;
Behind—a home of rest!
Here, Hope her wild enchantment flings,
Portrays all bright and lovely things,
My footsteps to allure—
But there, in memory's light I see
All that was once most dear to me—
My young heart's cynosure!

* * * * *

=Francis S. Osgood, 1812-1850= (Manual, p. 523.)

=388.= "The Parting."

I looked not, I sighed not, I dared not betray
The wild storm of feeling that strove to have way,
For I knew that each sign of the sorrow I felt
Her soul to fresh pity and passion would melt,
And calm was my voice, and averted my eyes,
As I parted from all that in being I prize.

I pined but one moment that form to enfold.
Yet the hand that touched hers, like the marble was cold,—
I heard her voice falter a timid farewell,
Nor trembled, though soft on my spirit it fell,
And she knew not, she dreamed not, the anguish of soul
Which only my pity for her could control.

It is over—the loveliest dream of delight
That ever illumined a wanderer's night!
Yet one gleam of comfort will brighten my way,
Though mournful and desolate ever I stray:
It is this—that to her, to my idol, I spared
The pang that her love could have softened and shared!

* * * * *

=Harriet Beecher Stowe.= (Manual, p. 484.)

From the "Religious Poems."

=389.= THE PEACE OF FAITH.

When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,
And billows wild contend with angry roar,
'Tis said, far down, beneath the wild commotion,
That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.

Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth,
And silver waves chime ever peacefully,
And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,
Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.

So to the heart that knows Thy love, O Purest!
There is a temple, sacred evermore,
And all the babble of life's angry voices
Dies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door.

Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth,
And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully,
And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,
Disturbs that soul that dwells, O Lord, in Thee.

O Rest of rests! O Peace, serene, eternal!
Thou ever livest, and Thou changest never;
And in the secret of Thy presence dwelleth
Fullness of joy, for ever and for ever.

* * * * *

=390.= "ONLY A YEAR."

One year ago,—a ringing voice,
A clear blue eye,
And clustering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.

Only a year,—no voice, no smile,
No glance of eye,
No clustering curls of golden hair,
Fair but to die!

One year ago,—what loves, what schemes
Far into life!
What joyous hopes, what high, resolves,
What generous strife!

The silent picture on the wall,
The burial stone,
Of all that beauty, life, and joy
Remain alone!

One year,—one year,—one little year,
And so much gone!
And yet the even flow of life
Moves calmly on.

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,
Above that head;
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
Says he is dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds
That sing above,
Tells us how coldly sleeps below
The form we love.

Where hast thou been this year, beloved?
What hast thou seen?
What visions fair, what glorious life,
Where thou hast been?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!
'Twixt us and thee;
The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,
But present still,
And waiting for the coming hour
Of God's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear!
We lay in silence at thy feet
This sad, sad year!

* * * * *

=Henry T. Tuckerman.=

From his "Poems."

=391.= THE STATUE OF WASHINGTON.

The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung,
Has peopled earth with grace,
Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,
A bright and peerless race,
But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before,
A shape of loftier name
Than his, who, Glory's wreath with meekness wore,
The noblest son of fame
Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stained;
His gaze around is cast,
As if the joys of Freedom, newly gained,
Before his vision passed;
As if a nation's shout of love and pride
With music filled the air,
And his calm soul was lifted on the tide
Of deep and grateful prayer;
As if the crystal mirror of his life
To fancy sweetly came,
With scenes of patient toil and noble strife,
Undimmed by doubt or shame;
As if the lofty purpose of his soul
Expression would betray—
The high resolve Ambition to control,
And thrust her crown away!
O, it was well in marble, firm and white,
To carve our hero's form,
Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight,
Our star amid the storm;
Whose matchless truth has made his name divine,
And human freedom sure,
His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine,
While man and time endure!
And it is well to place his image there,
Beneath, the dome he blest;
Let meaner spirits who its councils share,
Revere that silent guest!
Let us go up with high and sacred love,
To look on his pure brow,
And as, with solemn grace, he points above,
Renew the patriot's vow!

* * * * *

=John G. Saxe, 1816-.= (Manual, p. 523, 531.)

From "Early Rising."

=392.= THE BLESSING OF SLEEP.

"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I:
And bless him, also, that he didn't keep
His great discovery to himself; nor try
To make it—as the lucky fellow might—
A close monopoly by patent-right!

* * * * *

'Tis beautiful to leave the world a while
For the soft visions of the gentle night;
And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
To live as only in the angels' sight,
In Sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.
I like the lad, who, when his father thought
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed praise
Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,
Cried, "Served him right!—it's not at all surprising;
The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"

* * * * *

=393.= "YE TAILYOR-MAN; A CONTEMPLATIVE BALLAD."

Right jollie is ye tailyor-man
As annie man may be;
And all ye daye, upon ye benche
He worketh merrilie.

And oft, ye while in pleasante wise
He coileth up his lymbes,
He singeth songs ye like whereof
Are not in Watts his hymns.

And yet he toileth all ye while
His merrie catches rolle;
As true unto ye needle as
Ye needle to ye pole.

What cares ye valiant tailyor-man
For all ye cowarde fears?
Against ye scissors of ye Fates,
He points his mightie shears.

He heedeth not ye anciente jests
That witless sinners use;
What feareth ye bolde tailyor-man
Ye hissinge of a goose?

He pulleth at ye busie threade,
To feede his lovinge wife
And eke his childe; for unto them
It is the threade of life.

He cutteth well ye rich man's coate,
And with unseemlie pride,
He sees ye little waistcoate In
Ye cabbage bye his side,

Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife,
To labor nothing loth,
Sits bye with readie hande to baste
Ye urchin, and ye cloth.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man
Yet is he often tried,
Lest he, from fullness of ye dimes,
Wax wanton in his pride.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man,
And yet he hath a foe,
A cunning enemie that none
So well as tailyors knowe.

It is ye slipperie customer
Who goes his wicked wayes,
And wears ye tailyor-man his coate,
But never, never payes!

* * * * *

From "The Money King."

=394.= ANCIENT AND MODERN GHOSTS CONTRASTED.

In olden times,—if classic poets say
The simple truth, as poets do to-day,—
When Charon's boat conveyed a spirit o'er
The Lethean water to the Hadean shore,
The fare was just a penny,—not too great,
The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate.
Now, for a shilling, he will cross the stream,
(His paddles whirling to the force of steam!)
And bring, obedient to some wizard power,
Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour,
Than Brooklyn's famous ferry could convey,
Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day!
Time was when men bereaved of vital breath,
Were calm and silent in the realms of Death;
When mortals dead and decently inurned
Were heard no more; no traveler returned,
Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand,
To whisper secrets of the spirit-land,—
Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul—
Among the tombs might wander on parole,—
A well-bred ghost, at night's bewitching noon,
Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon,
Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white,
(The only rapping of an ancient sprite!)
Stalked round in silence till the break of day,
Then from the Earth passed unperceived away.
Now all is changed: the musty maxim fails,
And dead men do repeat the queerest tales!
Alas, that here, as in the books, we see
The travelers clash, the doctors disagree!
Alas, that all, the further they explore,
For all their search are but confused the more!
Ye great departed!—men of mighty mark,—
Bacon and Newton, Adams, Adam Clarke,
Edwards and Whitefield, Franklin, Robert Hall,
Calhoun, Clay, Channing, Daniel Webster,—all
Ye great quit-tenants of this earthly ball,—
If in your new abodes ye cannot rest,
But must return, O, grant us this request:
Come with a noble and celestial air,
To prove your title to the names ye bear!
Give some clear token of your heavenly birth;
Write as good English as ye wrote on earth!
Show not to all, in ranting prose and verse,
The spirit's progress is from bad to worse;
And, what were once superfluous to advise,
Don't tell, I beg you, such, egregious lies!—
Or if perchance your agents are to blame,
Don't let them trifle with your honest fame;
Let chairs and tables rest, and "rap" instead,
Ay, "knock" your slippery "Mediums" on the head!

* * * * *

=395.= "Boys"

"The proper study of mankind is man,"—
The most perplexing one, no doubt, is woman,
The subtlest study that the mind can scan,
Of all deep problems, heavenly or human!

But of all studies in the round of learning,
From nature's marvels down to human toys,
To minds well fitted for acute discerning,
The very queerest one is that of boys!

If to ask questions that would puzzle Plato,
And all the schoolmen of the Middle Age,—
If to make precepts worthy of old Cato,
Be deemed philosophy, your boy's a sage!

If the possession of a teeming fancy,
(Although, forsooth, the younker doesn't know it,)
Which he can use in rarest necromancy,
Be thought poetical, your boy's a poet!

If a strong will and most courageous bearing,
If to be cruel as the Roman Nero;
If all that's chivalrous, and all that's daring,
Can make a hero, then the boy's a hero!

But changing soon with his increasing stature,
The boy is lost in manhood's riper age,
And with him goes his former triple nature,—
No longer Poet, Hero, now, nor Sage!

* * * * *

=396.= SONNET TO A CLAM.

Inglorious friend! most confident I am
Thy life is one of very little ease;
Albeit men mock thee with their similes,
And prate of being "happy as a clam!"
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head
From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?
Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off,—as foemen take their spoil,—
Far from thy friends and family to roam;
Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil!
Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard
Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

* * * * *

=Lucy Hooper, 1816-1841.= (Manual, p. 524.)

=397.= "THE DEATH-SUMMONS."

A voice is on mine ear—a solemn voice:
I come, I come, it calls me to my rest;
Faint not, my yearning heart; rejoice, rejoice;
Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest:
On the bright waters there, the living streams,
Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary bark,
Waked by rude waves no more from gentle dreams,
Sadly to feel that earth to thee is dark—
Not bright as once; O, vain, vain memories, cease,
I cast your burden down—I strive for peace.

I heed the warning voice: oh, spurn me not,
My early friend; let the bruised heart go free:
Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lot
Hath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee;
Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile,
Thinking o'er wasted hours, a weary train,
Cheered by the moon's soft light, the sun's glad smile,
Watching the blue sky o'er my path of pain,
Waiting nay summons: whose shall be the eye
To glance unkindly—I have come to die!

Sweet words—to die! O, pleasant, pleasant sounds,
What bright revealings to my heart they bring;
What melody, unheard in earth's dull rounds,
And floating from the land of glorious Spring
The eternal home! my weary thoughts revive,
Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love,
Gentle and kindly thoughts for all that live,
Fanned by soft breezes from the world above:
And pausing not, I hasten to my rest—
Again, O, gentle summons, thou art blest!

* * * * *

=Catharine Ann Warfield.=

=398.= "THE RETURN TO ASHLAND.[85]"

Unfold the silent gates,
The Lord of Ashland waits
Patient without, to enter his domain;
Tell not who sits within,
With sad and stricken mien,
That he, her soul's beloved, hath come again.

Long hath she watched for him,
Till hope itself grew dim,
And sorrow ceased to wake the frequent tear;
But let these griefs depart,
Like shadows from her heart—
Tell her, the long expected host is here.

He comes—but not alone,
For darkly pressing on,
The people pass beneath his bending trees,
Not as they came of yore,
When torch and banner bore
Their part amid exulting harmonies.

But still, and sad, they sweep
Amid the foliage deep,
Even to the threshold of that mansion gray,
Whither from life's unrest,
As an eagle seeks his nest,
It ever was his wont to flee away.

And he once more hath come
To that accustomed home,
To taste a calm, life never offered yet;
To know a rest so deep,
That they who watch and weep,
In this vain world may well its peace regret.

[Footnote 85: The home of Henry Clay.]

* * * * *

=Arthur Cleveland Coxe, 1818-.= (Manual, p. 523.)

=399.= THE HEART'S SONG.

In the silent midnight watches,
List thy bosom door;
How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,
Knocketh evermore!
Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating;
'Tis thy heart of sin;
'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth,
"Rise, and let me in."

Death comes down with reckless footstep
To the hall and hut;
Think you Death will tarry knocking
Where the door is shut?
Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth;
But thy door is fast.
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth;
Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand entreating
Christ to let thee in,
At the gate of heaven beating,
Wailing for thy sin.
Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,
Hast thou then forgot?
Jesus waited long to know thee,—
Now he knows thee not.

* * * * *

=William Ross Wallace, 1819-.= (Manual, p. 523.)

=400.= THE NORTH EDDA.

Noble was the old North Edda,
Filling many a noble grave,
That for "man the one thing needful
In his world is to be brave."

This, the Norland's blue-eyed mother
Nightly chanted to her child,
While the Sea-King, grim and stately,
Looked upon his boy and smiled.

* * * * *

Let us learn that old North Edda
Chanted grandly on the grave,
Still for man the one thing needful
In his world is to be brave.

Valkyrs yet are forth and choosing
Who must be among the slain;
Let us, like that grim old Sea-King,
Smile at Death upon the plain,—

Smile at tyrants leagued with falsehood,
Knowing Truth, eternal, stands
With the book God wrote for Freedom
Always open in her hands,—

Smile at fear when in our duty,
Smile at Slander's Jotun-breath,
Smile upon our shrouds when summoned
Down the darkling deep of death.

Valor only grows a manhood;
Only this upon our sod,
Keeps us in the golden shadow
Falling from the throne of God.

* * * * *

=Walter Whitman, 1819-.[86]=

From Leaves of Grass.

=401.= THE BROOKLYN FERRY AT TWILIGHT.

I too, many and many a time cross'd the river, the sun half an hour
high;
I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls—I saw them high in
the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their
bodies,
I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies,
and left the rest in strong shadow,
I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward
the south.

I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,
Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,
Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape
of my head, in the sun-lit water,
Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,
Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
Look'd towards the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at
anchor,
The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,
The round masts, the swimming motion of the hulls, the slender
serpentine pennants,
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their
pilot-houses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl
of the wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the
frolicsome crests and glistening,
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls
of the granite store-houses by the docks,
On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely
flank'd on each side by the barges—the hay-boat, the
belated lighter,
On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys
burning high and glaringly into the night.
Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and
yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the
clefts of streets.

These and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;
I project myself a moment to tell you—also I return.

[Footnote 86: Was born in New York in 1819, and has been printer, teacher, and later, an official at Washington. His poetry, though irregular in form, and often coarse in sentiment, is decidedly original and vigorous.]

* * * * *

=Amelia B. Welby, 1819-1852.= (Manual, p. 523.)

=402.= "THE BEREAVED."

It is a still and lovely spot
Where they have laid thee down to rest;
The white rose and forget-me-not
Bloom sweetly on thy breast,
And birds and streams with liquid lull
Have made the stillness beautiful.

And softly through the forest bars
Light, lovely shapes, on glossy plumes,
Float ever in, like winged stars,
Amid the purpling glooms.
Their sweet songs, borne from tree to tree,
Thrill the light leaves with melody.

Alas! too deep a weight of thought
Had filled thy heart in youth's sweet hour;
It seemed with love and bliss o'erfraught;
As fleeting passion-flower
Unfolding 'neath a southern sky,
To blossom soon, and soon to die.

Alas! the very path I trace,
In happier hours thy footsteps made;
This spot was once thy resting place,
Within the silent shade.
Thy white hand trained the fragrant bough
That drops its blossoms o'er me now.

* * * * *

Yet in those calm and blooming bowers
I seem to feel thy presence still,
Thy breath seems floating o'er the flowers,
Thy whisper on the hill;
The clear, faint starlight, and the sea,
Are whispering to my heart of thee.

No more thy smiles my heart rejoice,
Yet still I start to meet thy eye,
And call upon the low, sweet voice,
That gives me no reply—
And list within my silent door
For the light feet that come no more.

* * * * *

=Rebecca S. Nichols,= about =1820-.= (Manual, pp. 503, 524.)

From "Musings."

=403.=

How like a conquerer the king of day
Folds back the curtains of his orient couch,
Bestrides the fleecy clouds, and speeds his way
Through skies made brighter by his burning touch;
For, as a warrior from the tented field
Victorious, hastes his wearied limbs to rest,
So doth the sun his brazen sceptre yield,
And sink, fair Night, upon thy gentle breast.

* * * * *

Fair Vesper, when thy golden tresses gleam
Amid the banners of the sunset sky,
Thy spirit floats on every radiant beam
That gilds with beauty thy sweet home on high;
Then hath my soul its hour of deepest bliss,
And gentle thoughts like angels round me throng,
Breathing of worlds (O, how unlike to this!)
Where dwell eternal melody and song.

* * * * *

=Alice Cary.=

"The Old House."

=404.= ATTRACTIONS OF OUR EARLY HOME.

My little birds, with backs as brown
As sand, and throats as white as frost,
I've searched the summer up and down,
And think the other birds have lost
The tunes, you sang so sweet, so low,
About the old house, long ago.

My little flowers, that with your bloom
So hid the grass you grew upon,
A child's foot scarce had any room
Between you,—are you dead and gone?
I've searched through fields and gardens rare,
Nor found your likeness any where.

My little hearts, that beat so high
With love to God, and trust in men,
Oh come to me, and say if I
But dream, or was I dreaming then,
What time we sat within the glow
Of the old house-hearth, long ago?

My little hearts, so fond, so true,
I searched the world all far and wide,
And never found the like of you:
God grant we meet the other side
The darkness 'twixt us, now that stands,
In that new house not made with hands!

* * * * *

=Sidney Dyer,=[87] about =1820-.=

=405.= THE POWER OF SONG.

However humble be the bard who sings,
If he can touch one chord of love that slumbers,
His name, above the proudest line of kings,
Shall live immortal in his truthful numbers.

The name of him who sung of "Home, sweet home,[88]"
Is now enshrined with every holy feeling;
And though he sleeps beneath no sainted dome,
Each heart a pilgrim at his shrine is kneeling.

The simple lays that wake no tear when sung,
Like chords of feeling from the music taken,
Are, in the bosom of the singer, strung,
Which every throbbing heart-pulse will awaken.

[Footnote 87: A Baptist clergyman, who has lived for many years at
Indianapolis, Indiana; the author of numerous songs.]

[Footnote 88: John Howard Payne.]

* * * * *

=Austin T. Earle,[89] 1821-.=

From "Warm Hearts had We."

=406.=

The autumn winds were damp and cold,
And dark the clouds that swept along,
As from the fields, the grains of gold
We gathered, with the husker's song.
Our hardy forms, though thinly clad,
Scarce felt the winds that swept us by,
For she a child, and I a lad,
Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.

We heaped the ears of yellow corn,
More worth than bars of gold to view:
The crispy covering from it torn,
The noblest grain that ever grew;
Nor heeded we, though thinly clad,
The chilly winds that swept us by;
For she a child, and I a lad,
Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.

[Footnote 89: Was born in Tennessee; a well-known Western writer of both verse and prose.]

* * * * *

=Thomas Buchanan Read, 1822-1872.= (Manual, p. 523.)

From "Sylvia, or the Last Shepherd."

=407.= THE MOURNFUL MOWERS.

* * * * *

Thus sang the shepherd crowned at noon
And every breast was heaved with sighs;—
Attracted by the tree and tune,
The winged singers left the skies.

Close to the minstrel sat the maid;
His song had drawn her fondly near:
Her large and dewy eyes betrayed
The secret to her bosom dear.

The factory people through the fields,
Pale men and maids and children pale,
Listened, forgetful of the wheel,
Till the last summons woke the vale.

And all the mowers rising said,
"The world has lost its dewy prime;
Alas! the Golden age is dead,
And we are of the Iron time!

"The wheel and loom have left our homes,—
Our maidens sit with empty hands,
Or toil beneath yon roaring domes,
And fill the factory's pallid bands,

"The fields are swept as by a war,
Our harvests are no longer blythe;
Yonder the iron mower's-car,
Comes with his devastating scythe.

"They lay us waste by fire and steel,
Besiege us to our very doors;
Our crops before the driving wheel
Fall captive to the conquerors.

"The pastoral age is dead, is dead!
Of all the happy ages chief;
Let every mower bow his head,
In token of sincerest grief.

"And let our brows be thickly bound
With every saddest flower that blows;
And all our scythes be deeply wound
With every mournful herb that grows."

Thus sang the mowers; and they said,
"The world has lost its dewy prime;
Alas! the Golden age is dead,
And we are of the Iron time!"

Each wreathed his scythe and twined his head;
They took their slow way through the plain:
The minstrel and the maiden led
Across the fields the solemn train.

The air was rife with clamorous sounds,
Of clattering factory-thundering forge,—
Conveyed from the remotest bounds
Of smoky plain and mountain gorge.

Here, with a sudden shriek and roar,
The rattling engine thundered by;
A steamer past the neighboring shore
Convulsed the river and the sky.

The brook that erewhile laughed abroad,
And o'er one light wheel loved to play,
Now, like a felon, groaning trod
Its hundred treadmills night and day.

The fields were tilled with steeds of steam,
Whose fearful neighing shook the vales;
Along the road there rang no team,—
The barns were loud, but not with flails.

And still the mournful mowers said,
"The world has lost its dewy prime;
Alas! the Golden age is dead,
And we are of the Iron time!"

* * * * *

From "The Closing Scene."

=408.=

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low;
As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed
His winter log, with many a muffled blow.

* * * * *

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew,
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before,
Silent, till some replying warder blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young,
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
By every light wind, like a censer, swung.

* * * * *

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Plied the swift wheel, and, with her joyless mien,
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

* * * * *

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And twice war bowed to her his sable plume,
Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall—

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew,
And struck for Liberty its dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed;
Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene;
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,
While death and winter closed the autumn scene.

* * * * *

=Margaret M. Davidson, 1823-1837.= (Manual, p. 523.)

From Lines in Memory of her Sister Lucretia.

=409.=

O thou, so early lost, so long deplored!
Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near;
And, while I touch this hallowed harp of thine,
Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear.

For thee I pour this unaffected lay;
To thee these simple numbers all belong:
For though thine earthly form has passed away,
Thy memory still inspires my childish song.

Take, then, this feeble tribute; 'tis thine own;
Thy fingers sweep my trembling heartstrings o'er,
Arouse to harmony each buried tone,
And bid its wakened music sleep no more.

Long has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre
Hung o'er thy grave, in death's unbroken rest;
But when its last sweet tones were borne away,
One answering echo lingered in my breast.

O thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near,
Accept these lines, unworthy though they be,
Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine,
By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee.

* * * * *

=John R. Thompson,[90] 1823-1873.=

=410.= MUSIC IN CAMP.

Two armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure,
And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its hid embrazure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made
No forest leaf to quiver,
And the smoke of the random cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.

And now, where circling hills looked down,
With cannon grimly planted,
O'er listless camp and silent town
The golden sunset slanted.

When on the fervid air there came
A strain—now rich and tender;
The music seemed itself aflame
With day's departing splendor.

And yet once more the bugles sang
Above the stormy riot;
No shout upon the evening rang—
There reigned a holy quiet,

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;
All silent now the Yankees stood,
And silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,
So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain
In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished, as the strain
And daylight died together.

But memory, waked by music's art,
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of music shines,
That bright, celestial creature,
Who still 'mid war's embattled lines,
Gave this one touch of Nature.

[Footnote 90: Received a liberal education and relinquishing his profession—the law—for literature, was for some years editor of the Southern Literary Messenger. Has written chiefly for the magazines and for the newspapers. A native of Virginia.]

* * * * *

=George Henry Boker, 1824-.= (Manual, p. 520.)

From the "Ode to a Mountain Oak."

=411.= THE OAK AN EMBLEM.

Type of unbending Will!
Type of majestic self-sustaining Power!
Elate in sunshine, firm when tempests lower,
May thy calm strength my wavering spirit fill!
Oh! let me learn from thee,
Thou proud and steadfast tree,
To bear unmurmuring what stern Time may send;
Nor 'neath life's ruthless tempests bend:
But calmly stand like thee,
Though wrath and storm shake me,
Though vernal hopes in yellow Autumn end,
And, strong in truth, work out my destiny.
Type of long-suffering Power!
Type of unbending Will!
Strong in the tempest's hour,
Bright when the storm is still;
Rising from every contest with an unbroken heart,
Strengthen'd by every struggle, emblem of might thou art!
Sign of what man can compass, spite of an adverse state,
Still from thy rocky summit, teach us to war with Fate!

* * * * *

=412.= DIRGE FOR A SAILOR.

Slow, slow! toll it low,
As the sea-waves break and flow;
With the same dull slumberous motion.
As his ancient mother, Ocean,
Rocked him on, through storm and calm,
From the iceberg to the palm:
So his drowsy ears may deem
That the sound which breaks his dream
Is the ever-moaning tide
Washing on his vessel's side.

Slow, slow! as we go.
Swing his coffin to and fro;
As of old the lusty billow
Swayed him on his heaving pillow:
So that he may fancy still,
Climbing up the watery hill,
Plunging in the watery vale,
With her wide-distended sail,
His good ship securely stands
Onward to the golden lands.

Slow, slow! heave-a-ho!—
Lower him to the mould below;
With the well-known sailor ballad,
Lest he grow more cold and pallid
At the thought that Ocean's child,
From his mother's arms beguiled.
Must repose for countless years,
Reft of all her briny tears,
All the rights he owned by birth,
In the dusty lap of earth.

* * * * *

=William Allen Butler, 1825-.= (Manual, p. 521.)

From "Nothing to Wear."

=413.=

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side,
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt
Their children have gathered, their city have built;
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,
Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,
Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,
Half-starved, and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold.
See those skeleton limbs, and those frost-bitten feet,
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor,
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell,
As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door;
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,
Spoiled children of Fashion—you've nothing to wear!

And O, if perchance there should be a sphere,
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,

* * * * *

Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence,
Must be clothed for the life and the service above,
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;
O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest in that upper realm, you have nothing to wear!

* * * * *

=Bayard Taylor, 1825-.= (Manual, pp. 523, 531.)

From "The Atlantic Monthly."

=414.= "THE BURDEN OF THE DAY."

I.

Who shall rise and cast away,
First, the Burden of the Day?
Who assert his place, and teach
Lighter labor, nobler speech,
Standing firm, erect, and strong,
Proud as Freedom, free as song?

II.

Lo! we groan beneath the weight
Our own weaknesses create;
Crook the knee and shut the lip,
All for tamer fellowship;
Load our slack, compliant clay
With the Burden of the Day!

III.

Higher paths there are to tread;
Fresher fields around us spread;
Other flames of sun and star
Flash at hand and lure afar;
Larger manhood might we share,
Surer fortune, did we dare!

IV.

In our mills of common thought
By the pattern all is wrought:
In our school of life, the man
Drills to suit the public plan,
And through labor, love and play,
Shifts the Burden of the Day.

V.

Power of all is right of none!
Right hath each beneath the sun
To the breadth and liberal space
Of the independent race,—
To the chariot and the steed,
To the will, desire, and deed!

VI.

Ah, the gods of wood and stone
Can a single saint dethrone,
But the people who shall aid
'Gainst the puppets they have made?
First they teach and then obey:
'Tis the Burden of the Day.

VII.

Thunder shall we never hear
In this ordered atmosphere?
Never this monotony feel
Shattered by a trumpet's peal?
Never airs that burst and blow
From eternal summits, know?

VIII.

Though no man resent his wrong,
Still is free the poet's song:
Still, a stag, his thought may leap
O'er the herded swine and sheep,
And in pastures far away
Lose the burden of the Day!

* * * * *

=John Townsend Trowbridge,[91] 1827-.=

From the Atlantic Monthly.

=415.= "DOROTHY IN THE GARRET."

In the low-raftered garret, stooping
Carefully over the creaking boards,
Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping
Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards;
Seeking some bundle of patches, hid
Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage,
Or satchel hung on its nail, amid
The heir-looms of a by-gone age.

There is the ancient family chest,
There the ancestral cards and hatchel;
Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest,
Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel.
Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom
Of the chimney, where, with swifts and reel,
And the long-disused, dismantled loom,
Stands the old-fashioned spinning wheel.

She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen,
A part of her girlhood's little world;
Her mother is there by the window, stitching;
Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirled
With many a click; on her little stool
She sits, a child by the open door,
Watching, and dabbling her feet in the pool
Of sunshine spilled on the gilded floor.

Her sisters are spinning all day long;
To her wakening sense, the first sweet warning
Of daylight come, is the cheerful song
To the hum of the wheel, in the early morning.
Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy,
On his way to school, peeps in at the gate;
In neat, white pinafore, pleased and coy,
She reaches a hand to her bashful mate;

And under the elms, a prattling pair,
Together they go, through glimmer and gloom
It all comes back to her, dreaming there
In the low-raftered garret room;
The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather
The heart's first trouble, and love's beginning,
Are all in her memory linked together;
And now it is she herself that is spinning.

With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip,
Turning the spokes with the flashing pin,
Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip,
Stretching it out and winding it in,
To and fro, with a blithesome tread,
Singing she goes, and her heart is full,
And many a long-drawn golden thread
Of fancy, is spun with the shining wool.

[Footnote 91: After struggling through many early discouragements has attained high repute, both in prose and verse. Has written several novels. New York is his native State.]

* * * * *

=Henry Timrod,[92] 1829-1867.=

From his "Poems."

=416.= THE UNKNOWN DEAD.

The rain is plashing on my sill,
But all the winds of Heaven are still;
And so it falls with that dull sound
Which thrills us in the church-yard ground,
When the first spadeful drops like lead
Upon the coffin of the dead.
Beyond my streaming window-pane,
I cannot see the neighboring vane,
Yet from its old familiar tower
The bell comes, muffled, through the shower
What strange and unsuspected link
Of feeling touched, has made me think—
While with a vacant soul and eye
I watch that gray and stony sky—
Of nameless graves on battle-plains
Washed by a single winter's rains,
Where—some beneath Virginian hills,
And some by green Atlantic rills,
Some by the waters of the West—
A myriad unknown heroes rest?
Ah! not the chiefs, who, dying, see
Their flags in front of victory,
Or, at their life-blood's noble cost
Pay for a battle nobly lost,
Claim from their monumental beds
The bitterest tears a nation sheds.
Beneath yon lonely mound—the spot
By all save some fond few, forgot—
Lie the true martyrs of the fight
Which strikes for freedom and for right.
Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,
The lofty faith that with them died,
No grateful page shall farther tell
Than that so many bravely fell;
And we can only dimly guess
What worlds of all this world's distress,
What utter woe, despair, and dearth,
Their fate has brought to many a hearth.
Just such a sky as this should weep
Above them, always, where they sleep;
Yet, haply, at this very hour
Their graves are like a lover's bower;
And Nature's self, with eyes unwet,
Oblivious of the crimson debt
To which she owes her April grace,
Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place.

[Footnote 92: A native of South Carolina. He has a fine poetic sentiment, with much beauty of expression, and is an especial favorite in the South.]

* * * * *

=Susan A. Talley Von Weiss,=[93] about =1830-.=

=417.= THE SEA-SHELL.

Sadly the murmur, stealing
Through the dim windings of the mazy shell,
Seemeth some ocean-mystery concealing
Within its cell.

And ever sadly breathing,
As with the tone of far-off waves at play,
That dreamy murmur through the sea-shell wreathing
Ne'er dies away.

It is no faint replying
Of far-off melodies of wind and wave,
No echo of the ocean billow, sighing
Through gem-lit cave.

It is no dim retaining
Of sounds that through the dim sea-caverns swell
But some lone ocean spirit's sad complaining,
Within that cell.

* * * * *

I languish for the ocean—
I pine to view the billow's heaving crest;
I miss the music of its dream-like motion,
That lulled to rest.

How like art thou, sad spirit,
To many a one, the lone ones of the earth!
Who in the beauty of their souls inherit
A purer birth;

* * * * *

Yet thou, lone child of ocean,
May'st never more behold thine ocean-foam,
While they shall rest from each wild, sad emotion,
And find their home!

[Footnote 93: A native of Virginia; her poetical pieces have been much admired.]

* * * * *

=Albert Sutliffe,[94] 1830-.=

=418.= "MAY NOON."

The farmer tireth of his half-day toil,
He pauseth at the plough,
He gazeth o'er the furrow-lined soil,
Brown hand above his brow.

He hears, like winds lone muffled 'mong the hills,
The lazy river run;
From shade of covert woods, the eager rills
Bound forth into the sun.

The clustered clouds of snowy apple-blooms,
Scarce shivered by a breeze,
With odor faint, like flowers in feverish rooms,
Fall, flake by flake, in peace.

'Tis labor's ebb; a hush of gentle joy,
For man, and beast, and bird;
The quavering songster ceases its employ;
The aspen is not stirred.

But Nature hath no pause; she toileth still;
Above the last-year leaves
Thrusts the lithe germ, and o'er the terraced hill
A fresher carpet weaves.

From many veins she sends her gathered streams
To the huge-billowed main,
Then through the air, impalpable as dreams,
She calls them back again.

She shakes the dew from her ambrosial locks,
She pours adown the steep
The thundering waters; in her palm, she rocks
The flower-throned bee to sleep.

Smile in the tempest, faint and fragile man,
And tremble in the calm!
God plainest shows what great. Jehovah can,
In these fair days of balm.

[Footnote 94: A native of Connecticut, but has lived for many years in the West, and latterly in Minnesota.]

* * * * *

=Elijah E. Edwards,[95] 1831-.=

=419.= "LET ME REST."

"Let me rest!"
It was the voice of one
Whose life-long journey was but just begun.
With genial radiance shone his morning sun;
The lark sprang up rejoicing from her nest,
To warble praises in her Maker's ear;
The fields were clad in flower-enamelled vest,
And air of balm, and sunshine clear,
Failed not to cheer
That yet unweary pilgrim; but his breast
Was harrowed with a strange, foreboding fear;
Deeming the life to come, at best,
But weariness, he murmured, "Let me rest."

* * * * *

"Let me rest!"
But not at morning's hour,
Nor yet when clouds above my pathway lower;
Let me bear up against affliction's power,
Till life's red sun has sought its quiet west,
Till o'er me spreads the solemn, silent night,
When, having passed the portals of the blessed,
I may repose upon the Infinite,
And learn aright
Why He, the wise, the ever-loving, traced
The path to heaven through a desert waste.
Courage, ye fainting ones! at His behest
Ye pass through labor unto endless rest.

[Footnote 95: Born in Ohio; of late professor of ancient languages in
Minnesota; a contributor in prose and verse to various magazines.]

* * * * *

=Paul Hamilton Hayne,[96] 1831-.=

=420.= "OCTOBER."

The passionate summer's dead! the sky's aglow
With roseate flushes of matured desire;
The winds at eve are musical and low
As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre,
Far up among the pillared clouds of fire,
Whose pomp in grand procession upward grows,
With gorgeous blazonry of funereal shows,
To celebrate the summer's past renown.
Ah, me! how regally the heavens look down,
O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods,
And harvest-fields with hoarded incense brown,
And deep-toned majesty of golden floods,
That lift their solemn dirges to the sky,
To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.

[Footnote 96: A poet and critic of much Note; a native of South
Carolina.]

* * * * *

=Rosa V. Johnson Jeffrey=[97] about =1832-.=

=421.= ANGEL WATCHERS.

Angel faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my sleep,—
And upon the winds of midnight, shining pinions round me sweep;
Floating downward on the starlight, two bright infant-forms I see—
They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from heaven to visit me.

Earthly children smile upon me, but those little ones' above,
Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother's deathless love,
And, as now they watch my slumber, while their soft eyes on me shine,
God forgive a mortal yearning still to call his angels mine.

Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice can seem
Sweet as those that whisper "Mother!" 'mid the glories of my dream;
Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease perchance to lisp my name;
But my angel babies' accents shall be evermore the same.

And the bright band now around me, from their home perchance will rove,
In their strength no more depending on my constant care and love;
But my first-born still shall wander, from the sky in dreams to rest
Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly mother's breast.

Time may steal away the freshness, or some 'whelming grief destroy
All the hopes that erst had blossomed, in my summer-time of joy;
Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends perhaps betray,
Every tie that now unites me to this life may pass away;—

But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their blest immortal home,
Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my darkened dreams shall come;
And I cannot feel forsaken, for, though 'reft of earthly love,
Angel children call me "Mother," and my soul will look above.

[Footnote 97: A native of Mississippi, but of late a resident of
Kentucky; the author of several novels, and of many poetical pieces.]

* * * * *

=Sarah J. Lippincott.=

From Putnam's Magazine.

=422.= "ABSOLUTION."

The long day waned, when spent with pain, I seemed
To drift on slowly toward the restful shore,—
So near, I breathed in balm, and caught faint gleams
Of Lotus-blooms that fringe the waves of death,
And breathless Palms that crown the heights of God.

Then I bethought me how dear hands would close
These wistful eyes in welcome night, and fold
These poor, tired hands in blameless idleness.
In tender mood I pictured forth the spot
Wherein I should be laid to take my rest.

"It shall be in some paradise of graves,
Where Sun and Shade do hold alternate watch;
Where Willows sad trail low their tender green,
And pious Elms build arches worshipful,
O'ertowered by solemn Pines, in whose dark tops
Enchanted storm-winds sigh through summer-nights;
The stalwart exile from fair Lombardy,
And slender Aspens, whose quiet, watchful leaves
Give silver challenge to the passing breeze,
And softly flash and clash like fairy shields,
Shall sentinel that quiet camping ground;
The glow and grace of flowers will flood those mounds
An ever-widening sea of billowy bloom;
And not least lovely shall my grave-sod be,
With Myrtles blue, and nestling Violets,
And Star-flowers pale with watching—Pansies, dark,
With mourning thoughts, and Lilies saintly pure;
Deep-hearted Roses, sweet as buried love,
And Woodbine-blossoms dripping honeyed dew
Over a tablet and a sculptured name.
There little song-birds, careless of my sleep,
Shall shake fine raptures from their throats, and thrill
With life's triumphant joy the ear of Death;
And lovely, gauzy creatures of an hour
Preach immortality among the graves.
The chime of silvery waters shall be there—
A pleasant stream that winds among the flowers,
But lingers not, for that it ever hears,
Through leagues of wood and field and towered town,
The great sea calling from his secret deeps."

'Twas here, methought or dreamed, an angel came
And stood beside my couch, and bent on me
A face of solemn questioning, still and stern,
But passing beautiful, and searched my soul
With steady eyes, the while he seemed to say.

What hast thou done here, child, that thy poor dust
Should lie embosomed in such loveliness?
Why should the gracious trees stand guard o'er thee?
Hast thou aspired, like them, through all thy life,
And rest and healing with thy shadow cast?
Have deeds of thine brightened the world like flowers,
And sweetened it with holiest charities?

* * * * *

=Edmund Clarence Stedman,[98] 1833-.=

From "The Blameless Prince and other Poems."

=423.= THE MOUNTAINS.

Two thousand feet in air it stands
Betwixt the bright and shaded lands,
Above the regions it divides
And borders with its furrowed sides.
The seaward valley laughs with light
Till the round sun o'erhangs this height;
But then, the shadow of the crest
No more the plains that lengthen west
Enshrouds, yet slowly, surely creeps
Eastward, until the coolness steeps
A darkling league of tilth and wold,
And chills the flocks that seek their fold.

Not like those ancient summits lone,
Mont Blanc on his eternal throne,—
The city-gemmed Peruvian, peak,—
The sunset portals landsmen seek,
Whose train, to reach the Golden Land,
Crawls slow and pathless through the sand,—
Or that whose ice-lit beacon guides
The mariner on tropic tides,
And flames across the Gulf afar,
A torch by day, by night a star,—
Not thus to cleave the outer skies.
Does my serener mountain rise.
Nor aye forget its gentle birth
Upon the dewey, pastoral earth.

But ever, in the noonday light,
Are scenes whereof I love the sight,—
Broad pictures of the lower world
Beneath my gladdened eyes unfurled.
Irradiate distances reveal
Fair nature wed to human weal;
The rolling valley made a plain;
Its chequered squares of grass and grain;
The silvery rye, the golden wheat,
The flowery elders where they meet,—
Ay, even the springing corn I see,
And garden haunts of bird and bee;
And where, in daisied meadows, shines
The wandering river through its vines,
Move, specks at random, which I know
Are herds a-grazing to and fro.

[Footnote 98: Was born in Connecticut but has long resided in New York, where he has combined an active business life with literary pursuits—a favorite contributor to that magazines.]

* * * * *

=John James Piatt,[99] 1835-.=

From "Landmarks and other Poems."

=424.= LONG AGO.

Though for the soul a lovely Heaven awaits,
Through years of woe,
The Paradise with angels in its gates
Is Long Ago.

The heart's lost Home! Ah, thither winging ever,
In silence, show
Vanishing faces! but they vanish never
In Long Ago!

Ye toil'd through desert sands to reach To-morrow,
With footsteps slow,
Poor Yesterdays! Immortal gleams ye borrow
In Long Ago.

The world is dark: backward our thoughts are yearning,
Our eyes o'erflow:
Sweet Memories, angels to our tears returning,
Leave Long Ago.

We climb: child-roses to our knees are climbing,
From valleys low;
To call us back, dear birds and brooks are rhyming
In Long Ago.

Hands clasp'd, tears shed, sad songs are sung!—the fair
Beloved ones, lo!
Shine yonder, through the angel gates of air,
In Long Ago.

[Footnote 99: Of Western birth and education. His verse though somewhat crude, has a flow of tenderness and freshness.]

* * * * *

=Celia Thaxter,[100] 1835-.=

From The Atlantic Monthly.

=425.= "REGRET."

Softly Death touched her, and she passed away,
Out of this glad, bright world she made more fair;
Sweet as the apple blossoms, when in May,
The orchards flush, of summer grown aware.

All that fresh delicate beauty gone from sight,
That gentle, gracious presence felt no more!
How must the house be emptied of delight!
What shadows on the threshold she passed o'er!

She loved me. Surely I was grateful, yet
I could not give her back all she gave me,—
Ever I think of it with vain regret,
Musing upon a summer by the sea:

Remembering troops of merry girls who pressed
About me, clinging arms and tender eyes,
And love, light scent of roses. With the rest
She came to fill my heart with new surprise.

The day I left them all and sailed away,
While o'er the calm sea, 'neath the soft gray sky
They waved farewell, she followed me to say
Yet once again her wistful, sweet "good by."

At the boat's bow she drooped; her light green dress
Swept o'er the skiff in many a graceful fold,
Her glowing face, bright with a mute caress,
Crowned with her lovely hair of shadowy gold:

And tears she dropped into the crystal brine
For me, unworthy, as we slowly swung
Free of the mooring. Her last look was mine,
Seeking me still the motley crowd among.

O tender memory of the dead I hold
So precious through the fret and change of years!
Were I to live till Time itself grew old,
The sad sea would be sadder for those tears.

[Footnote 100: A native of New Hampshire; long resident on the Isles of Shoals, and remarkable for her vivid pictures of ocean life, in both prose and verse.]

* * * * *

=Theophilus H. Hill.[101] 1836-.=

From "The Song of the Butterfly."

=426.=

When the shades of evening fall,
Like the foldings of a pall,—
When the dew is on the flowers,
And the mute, unconscious hours,
Still pursue their noiseless flight
Through the dreamy realms of night,
In the shut or open rose
Ah, how sweetly I repose!

* * * * *

And Diana's starry train,
Sweetly scintillant again,
Never sleep while I repose
On the petals of the rose.
Sweeter couch hath who than I?
Quoth the brilliant Butterfly.

Life is but a summer day,
Gliding languidly away;
Winter comes, alas! too soon,—
Would it were forever June!
Yet though brief my flight may be,
Fun and frolic still for me!
When the summer leaves and flowers,
Now so beautiful and gay,
In the cold autumnal showers,
Droop and fade, and pine away,
Who would not prefer to die?
What were life to such as I?
Quoth the flaunting Butterfly.

[Footnote 101: Born in North Carolina; in the intervals of his law practice has published a volume of poems.]

* * * * *

=Thomas Hailey Aldrich.[102] 1836-.=

From his "Poems."

=427.= THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS.

Kind was my friend who, in the Eastern land,
Remembered me with such a gracious hand,
And sent this Moorish Crescent which has been
Worn on the tawny bosom of a queen.

No more it sinks and rises in unrest
To the soft music of her heathen breast;
No barbarous chief shall bow before it more,
No turbaned slave shall envy and adore!

I place beside this relic of the Sun
A cross of Cedar brought from Lebanon,
Once 'borne, perchance, by some pale monk who trod
The desert to Jerusalem—and his God!

Here do they lie, two symbols of two creeds,
Each meaning something to our human needs,
Both stained with blood, and sacred made by faith,
By tears, and prayers, and martyrdom, and death.

That for the Moslem is, but this for me!
The waning Crescent lacks divinity:
It gives me dreams of battles, and the woes
Of women shut in hushed seraglios.

But when this Cross of simple wood I see,
The Star of Bethlehem shines again for me,
And glorious visions break upon my gloom—
The patient Christ, and Mary at the Tomb!

[Footnote 102: Born in New Hampshire, but long connected with the press in New York. Has produced several volumes of poetry of unusual beauty and finish.]

* * * * *

=Francis Bret Harte.=

From his "Poems."

=428.= DICKENS IN CAMP.

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river ran below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health,
On haggard face, and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure,
To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,—for the reader
Was youngest of them all,—
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar,
A silence seemed to fall.

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows,
Wandered, and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes—o'ertaken
As by some spell divine—
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp I and wasted all its fire:
And he who wrought that spell?—
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths intwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,—
This spray of Western pine!

* * * * *

From "East and West Poems."

=429.= THE TWO SHIPS.

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest,
Looking over the ultimate sea,
In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,
And one sails away from the lea:
One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track,
With pennant and sheet flowing free;
One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,—
The ship that is waiting for me!

But lo, in the distance the clouds break away!
The Gate's glowing portals I see;
And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay
The song of the sailors in glee:
So I think of the luminous footprints that bore
The comfort o'er dark Galilee,
And wait for the signal to go to the shore,
To the ship that is waiting for me.

* * * * *

=Charles Dimitry,[103] 1838-.=

=430.= "THE SERGEANT'S STORY."

Our army lay,
At break of day,
A full league from the foe away.
At set of sun,
The battle done,
We cheered our triumph, dearly won.

* * * * *

All night before,
We marked the roar
Of hostile guns that on us bore;
And 'here and there,
The sudden blare
Of fitful bugles smote the air.

No idle word
The quiet stirred
Among us as the morning neared;
And brows were bent,
As silent went
Unto its post each regiment.

Blank broke the day,
And wan and gray
The drifting clouds went on their way.
So sad the morn,
Our colors torn,
Upon the ramparts drooped forlorn!

At early sun,
The vapors dun
Were lifted by a nearer gun;
At stroke of nine,
Auspicious sign
The sun shone out along the line.

Then loud and clear,
From cannoneer
And rifleman arose a cheer;
For as the gray
Mists cleared away,
We saw the charging foe's array.

[Footnote 103: Of a Louisiana family: is considered one of the most promising of the young writers of the South. The present is a favorable specimen of the poetry of the secession writers.]

* * * * *

=John Hay.=[104]

From "Pike County Ballads."

=431.= THE PRAIRIE.

The skies are blue above my head,
The prairie green below,
And flickering o'er the tufted grass
The shifting shadows go,
Vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds
Fleck white the tranquil skies,
Black javelins darting where aloft
The whirring pheasant flies.

A glimmering plain in drowsy trance
The dim horizon bounds,
Where all the air is resonant
With sleepy summer sounds,—
The life that sings among the flowers,
The lisping of the breeze,
The hot cicada's sultry cry,
The murmurous dream of bees.

The butterfly—a flying flower—
Wheels swift in flashing rings,
And flutters round his quiet kin
With brave flame-mottled wings.
The wild Pinks burst in crimson fire,
The Phlox' bright clusters shine,
And Prairie-cups are swinging free
To spill their airy wine.

* * * * *

Far in the East, like low-hung clouds
The waving woodlands lie;
Far in the West, the glowing plain
Melts warmly in the sky;
No accent wounds the reverent air,
No foot-print dints the sod,—
Lone in the light the prairie lies,
Rapt in a dream of God.

[Footnote 104: Born in Indiana. Gave up the practice of the law to become
Secretary and Aide-de-camp to President Lincoln. Served briefly in the
Rebellion war with the rank of Colonel, and was afterward Secretary of
Legation at Paris and Madrid, and for some months, Chargé d'Affaires at
Vienna. Subsequently applied himself to literature and journalism.]

* * * * *

=Joaquin Miller.=[105]

From "Songs of the Sierras."

=432.= THE FUTURE OF CALIFORNIA.

Dared I but say a prophecy,
As sang the holy men of old,
Of rock-built cities yet to be
Along those shining shores of gold,
Crowding athirst into the sea,
What wondrous marvels might be told!
Enough to know that empire here
Shall burn her brightest, loftiest star;
Here art and eloquence shall reign,
As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old;
Here learn'd and famous from afar,
To pay their noble court, shall come,
And shall not seek or see in vain,
But look on all, with wonder dumb.

Afar the bright Sierras lie,
A swaying line of snowy white,
A fringe of heaven hung in sight
Against the blue base of the sky.

I look along each gaping gorge,
I near a thousand sounding strokes,
Like giants rending giant oaks,
Or brawny Vulcan at his forge;
I see pick-axes flash and shine,
And great wheels whirling in a mine.
Here winds a thick and yellow thread,
A moss'd and silver stream instead;
And trout that leap'd its rippled tide
Have turn'd upon their sides and died.

Lo! when the last pick in the mine
Is rusting red with idleness,
And rot yon cabins in the mould,
And wheels no more croak in distress,
And tall pines reassert command,
Sweet bards along this sunset shore
Their mellow melodies will pour;
Will charm as charmers very wise,
Will strike the harp with master-hand,
Will sound unto the vaulted skies
The valor of these men of old—
The mighty men of 'Forty-nine;
Will sweetly sing and proudly say,
Long, long agone, there was a day
When there were giants in the land.

[Footnote 105: Cincinnatus Heine Miller, commonly known by his assumed name of Joaquin Miller. Born in Indiana, but was taken when very young to Oregon. After a wild career in Oregon and California, he at length studied for the law. His poetry, like his life, is of an eccentric cast.]

* * * * *

=Joel Chandler Harris,[106] 1846-.=

=433.= "AGNES."

She has a tender, winning way,
And walks the earth with gentle grace,
And roses with the lily play
Amid the beauties of her face.

When'er she tunes her voice to sing,
The song-birds list, with anxious looks,
For it combines the notes of spring
With all the music of the brooks.

Her merry laughter, soft and low,
Is as the chimes of silver bells,—
That like sweet anthems float, and flow
Through woodland groves and bosky dells,

And when the violets see her eyes,
They flush and glow—with love and shame,
They meekly droop with sad surprise,
As though unworthy of the name.

But still they bloom where'er she throws
Her dainty glance and smiles so sweet.
And e'en amid stern winter's snows
The daisies spring beneath her feet.

She wears a crown of Purity,
Full set with woman's brightest gem,—
A wreath of maiden modesty,
And Virtue is the diadem.

And when the pansies bloom again,
And spring and summer intertwine.
Great joys will fall on me like rain,
For she will be for ever mine!

[Footnote 106: A native of Georgia; is deemed one of the best of the younger poets of the South.]