Hark! what soft Aeolian numbers
Gem the blushes of the morn!
Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,
Nature's ringlets deck the thorn.
Ha! I hear the strain erratic
Dimly glance from pole to pole;
Raptures sweet, and dreams ecstatic
Fire my everlasting soul.
Where is Cupid's crimson motion?
Billowy ecstasy of woe,
Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow.
Blood in every vein is gushing,
Vixen vengeance lulls my heart,
See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!
Never, never, let us part!
WHAT IS LIFE BY "ONE OF THE FANCY." BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE
And do you ask me, "What is LIFE?"
And do you ask me, "What is pleasure?"
My muse and I are not at strife,
So listen, lady, to my measure:—
Listen amid thy graceful leisure,
To what is LIFE, and what IS pleasure.
'Tis LIFE to see the first dawn stain
With sallow light the window-pane:
To dress—to wear a rough drab coat,
With large pearl buttons all afloat
Upon the waves of plush: to tie
A kerchief of the King-cup dye
(White spotted with a small bird's-eye)
Around the neck, and from the nape
Let fall an easy fan-like cape:
To quit the house at morning's prime,
At six or so—about the time
When watchmen, conscious of the day
Puff out their lantern's rush-light ray;
Just when the silent streets are strewn
With level shadows, and the moon
Takes the day's wink and walks aside
To nurse a nap till eventide.
'Tis LIFE to reach the livery stable,
Secure the RIBBONS and the DAY-BILL,
And mount a gig that had a spring
Some summer's back: and then take wing
Behind (in Mr. Hamlet's tongue)
A jade whose "withers are unwrung;"
Who stands erect, and yet forlorn,
And from a HALF-PAY life of corn,
Showing as many POINTS each way
As Martial's Epigrammata,
Yet who, when set a-going, goes
Like one undestined to repose.
'Tis LIFE to revel down the road,
And QUEER each o'erfraught chaise's load,
To rave and rattle at the GATE,
And shower upon the gatherer's pate
Damns by the dozens, and such speeches
As well betokens one's SLANG riches:
To take of Deady's bright STARK NAKED
A glass or so—'tis LIFE to take it!
To see the Hurst with tents encampt on;
Lurk around Lawrence's at Hampton;
Join the FLASH crowd (the horse being led
Into the yard, and clean'd and fed);
Talk to Dav' Hudson, and Cy' Davis
(The last a fighting rara avis),
And, half in secret, scheme a plan
For trying the hardy GAS-LIGHT-MAN.
'Tis LIFE to cross the laden ferry,
With boon companions, wild and merry,
And see the ring upon the Hurst
With carts encircled—hear the burst
At distance of the eager crowd.
Oh, it is LIFE! to see a proud
And dauntless man step, full of hopes,
Up to the P. C. stakes and ropes,
Throw in his hat, and with a spring,
Get gallantly within the ring;
Eye the wide crowd, and walk awhile,
Taking all cheerings with a smile:
To see him skip—his well-trained form,
White, glowing, muscular, and warm,
All beautiful in conscious power,
Relaxed and quiet, till the hour;
His glossy and transparent frame,
In radiant plight to strive for fame!
To look upon the clean shap'd limb
In silk and flannel clothed trim;
While round the waist the 'kerchief tied,
Makes the flesh glow in richer pride.
'Tis more than LIFE, to watch him hold
His hand forth, tremulous yet bold,
Over his second's, and to clasp
His rival's in a quiet grasp;
To watch the noble attitude
He takes—the crowd in breathless mood:
And then to see, with adamant start,
The muscles set, and the great heart
Hurl a courageous splendid light
Into the eye-and then-the FIGHT!
FRAGMENTS. [BY A FREE-LOVER.] BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 1823
They were not married by a muttering priest,
With superstitious rites, and senseless words,
Out-snuffled from an old worm-eaten book,
In a dark corner (railed off like a sheep-pen)
Of an old house, that fools do call a CHURCH!
THEIR altar was the flowery lap of earth—
The starry empyrean their vast temple—
Their book each other's eyes—and Love himself
Parson, and Clerk, and Father to the bride!—
Holy espousals! whereat wept with joy
The spirit of the universe.—In sooth
There was a sort of drizzling rain that day,
For I remember (having left at home
My parapluie, a name than UMBRELLA,
Far more expressive) that I stood for shelter
Under an entry not twelve paces off
(It might be ten) from Sheriff Waithman's shop
For half an hour or more, and there I mused
(Mine eyes upon the running kennel fixed,
That hurried as a het'rogenous mass
To the common sewer, it's dark reservoir),
I mused upon the running stream of LIFE!
But that's not much to the purpose—I was telling
Of these most pure espousals.—Innocent pair!
Ye were not shackled by the vulgar chains
About the yielding mind of credulous youth,
Wound by the nurse and priest—YOUR energies,
Your unsophisticated impulses,
Taught ye to soar above their "settled rules
Of Vice and Virtue." Fairest creature! He
Whom the world called thy husband, was in truth
Unworthy of thee.-A dull plodding wretch!
With whose ignoble nature thy free spirit
Held no communion.—'T was well done, fair creature!
T' assert the independence of a mind
Created-generated I would say—
Free as "that chartered libertine, the air."
Joy to thy chosen partner! blest exchange!
Work of mysterious sympathy I that drew
Your kindred souls by * * * *
* * * * * *
There fled the noblest spirit—The most pure,
Most sublimated essence that ere dwelt
In earthly tabernacle. Gone thou art,
Exhaled, dissolved, diffused, commingled now
Into and with the all-absorbing frame
Of Nature, the great mother. Ev'n in life,
While still, pent-up in flesh, and skin, and bones,
My thoughts and feelings like electric flame
Shot through the solid mass, toward the source,
And blended with the general elements,
When thy young star o'er life's horizon hung
Far from it's zenith yet low lagging clouds
(Vapors of earth) obscured its heaven-born rays—
Dull joys of prejudice and superstition
And vulgar decencies begirt thee round;
And thou didst wear awhile th' unholy bonds
Of "holy matrimony!" and didst vail
Awhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat.—
But reason came-and firm philosophy,
And mild philanthropy, and pointed out
The shame it was-the crying, crushing shame,
To curb within a little paltry pale
The love that over all created things
Should be diffusive as the atmosphere.
Then did thy boundless tenderness expand
Over all space—all animated things
And things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart,
A ready tear for all.—The dying whale,
Stranded and gasping—ripped up for his blubber
By Man the Tyrant.—The small sucking pig
Slain for his riot.—The down-trampled flower
Crushed by his cruel foot.—ALL, EACH, and ALL
Shared in thy boundless sympathies, and then—
(SUBLIME perfection of perfected LOVE)
Then didst thou spurn the whimp'ring wailing thing
That dared to call THEE "husband," and to claim,
As her just right, support and love from THEE—
Then didst thou * * * *
* * * * * * *
THE CONFESSION. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE
There's somewhat on my breast father,
There's somewhat on my breast!
The live-long day I sigh, father,
At night I can not rest;
I can not take my rest, father,
Though I would fain do so,
A weary weight oppresseth me—
The weary weight of woe!