TO A SKETCH OF J. BAYARD TAYLOR, IN HIS ALPINE COSTUME.
BY GEO. W. DEWEY.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
The inspiration of thy smile,
Thou minstrel of the wayside song,
Yet lingers on thy face the while
I see thee climb the Alps along;
As if thy harp's unwearied lay
Sustained thee on thy rugged way.
There dwells within thy poet-eyes
The spirit of the ancient bards—
A soul in which no shadow lies—
A glance forever heavenwards;
As though the thoughts thy dreams unfurled
Hung, star-like, o'er a watching world.
Methinks the bard who saw at night,
Amid the glacier's snow and ice,
A youth ascend the spectral height,
Unfurling there "the strange device,"
Did, with a prophet's pen, foreshow
Thy form upon those mounts of snow.
And when the mists have valeward rolled,
Below thy pathway, hard and long,
Stern Death shall find thee, pale and cold,
Upon the highest peak of Song—
Still grasping, with a frozen hand,
The banner of that Alpine Land!
GAUTAMA'S SONG OF REST.
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
[The Hindoo philosopher Gautama, now worshiped under the name of Buddha, lived in the fifth century before Christ. He taught the unity of God and Nature, or rather, that the physical and spiritual worlds are merely different conditions of an eternal Being. In the spiritual state, this Being exists in perfect and blissful rest, whose emanations and over-flowings enter the visible world, first in the lowest forms of nature, but rising through gradual and progressive changes till they reach man, who returns after death to the original rest and beatitude.]
How long, oh! all-pervading Soul of Earth,
Ere Thy last toils on this worn being close,
And trembling with its sudden glory-birth,
Its wings are folded in the lost repose?
Thy doom, resistless, on its travel lies
Through weary wastes of labor and of pain,
Where the soul falters, as its Paradise
In far-off mirage fades and flies again.
From that pure realm of silence and of joy,
The quickening glories of Thy slumber shine,
Kindling to birth the lifeless world's alloy,
Till its dead bosom bears a seed divine.
Through meaner forms the spirit slowly rose,
Which now to meet its near elysium burns;
Through toilsome ages, circling towards repose,
The sphere of Being on its axle turns!
Filled with the conscious essence that shall grow,
Through many-changed existence, up to Man,
The sighing airs of scented Ceylon blow,
And desert whirlwinds whelm the caravan.
On the blue bosom of th' eternal deep
It moves forever in the heaving tide;
And, throned on giant Himalaya's steep,
It hurls the crashing avalanche down his side!
The wing of fire strives upward to the air,
Bursting in thunder rock-bound hills apart,
And the deep globe itself complains to bear
The earthquake beatings of its mighty heart!
Even when the waves are wearied out with toil,
And in their caverns swoon the winds away,
A thousand germs break through the yielding soil,
And bees and blossoms charm the drowsy day.
In stillest calms, when Nature's self doth seem
Sick for the far-off rest, the work goes on
In deep old forests, like a silent dream,
And sparry caves, that never knew the dawn.
From step to step, through long and weary time,
The struggling atoms rise in Nature's plan,
Till dust instinctive reaches mind sublime—
Till lowliest being finds its bloom in Man!
Here, on the borders of that Realm of Peace,
The gathered burdens of existence rest,
And like a sea whose surges never cease,
Heaves with its care the weary human breast.
Oh! bright effulgence of th' Eternal Power,
Break the worn band, and wide thy portals roll!
With silent glory flood the solemn hour
When star-eyed slumber welcomes back the soul!
Then shall the spirit sink in rapture down,
Like some rich blossom drunk with noontide's beam,
Or the wild bliss of music, sent to crown
The wakening moment of a midnight dream.
Through all the luminous seas of ether there,
Stirs not a trembling wave, to break the rest;
But fragrance, and the silent sense of prayer,
Charm the eternal slumber of the Blest!
MY FATHER'S GRAVE.
BY S. D. ANDERSON.
It is a sweet and shady spot
Beneath the aged trees,
Where perfumed wild flowers lowly bend
Unto the passing breeze;
And joyous song-birds warble there
Rich music to the sunny air,
And many a golden-tinted beam
Fails on the spot like childhood's dream.
The moss-clad church is standing there,
The stream goes laughing by,
Sending its gurgling music out
Along a summer sky;
The rose has found a dwelling here
Beside the coffin and the bier;
And here the lily rears its head,
Within this Eden of the dead.
The sunlight glances on the scene
With many a sombre hue,
Caught from the cypress near the stream,
Or from the funeral yew;
And, spirit-like, above each stone
Is heard the night-wind's whispered tone,
As if the spirit lingered there,
Enchanted with a scene so fair.
The wild bee revels 'mid the flowers
That climb the ruined wall,
And, gently drooping, shroud the tomb
With Nature's fairest pall;
And dirge-like sings the trickling rill,
At evening's hour when all is still;
Whilst echo answers back again
In mimic notes the plaintive strain.
But moonlight gilds the scene anew,
Now all is hushed and calm;
The very winds seem sunk to rest,
O'erladen with their balm;
The stars, pale watchers of the night,
Look brightly out on such a sight;
Whilst from the hill the bird's low wail
Is wafted on the evening gale.
Be mine the lot, when life's dull day
Has drawn unto a close,
And dreams of Love, and hopes of Fame,
Have sunk to calm repose,
By all forgot, to rest my head
Unmarked beside the silent dead;
Hushed by the murmurs of the wave
That moans around my Father's Grave.