GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XX. March, 1842 No. 3.

Contents

[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.

J. G. Chapman. R. Hinshelwood.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XX. PHILADELPHIA: MARCH, 1842. No. 3.

THE CROWNING OF POWHATAN.

The settlement at Jamestown was begun in 1606. Among the earliest of the adventurers was the chivalrous Captain Smith, whose life was a romance even in those romantic days. He soon came to be the leader of the colonists, and it was through his exertions that the settlement was kept up, amid privations and dangers almost incredible. The story of his capture by the Indians, and his preservation from death by Pocahontas, has become a national tradition, and poets have sung, orators declaimed, and novelists penned volumes to record the bravery of the Captain, and the love of the Indian maid. But, perhaps, nowhere is the story told with such effect as in the “Generall Historie” of the gallant Smith himself, a work published in 1624, and still to be met with in the libraries of the curious. The book is a rarity. It is adorned with maps,—not the most correct, to be sure—and with engravings setting forth the various perilous situations of the author, over which a book-worm would gloat for a month. The narrative is written in a plain, frank, unassuming style, and the author is always spoken of in the third person. To this book we are indebted for an account of the crowning of Powhatan, and our only regret is that our limits will not suffer us to give the quaint language of Smith.

This singular ceremony took place in 1608, and was performed at the instigation of the council at home, who sent over the necessary insignia by Capt. Newport from London. The object of the ceremony was to propitiate Powhatan, and induce him to guide the colonists to the country of the Monacons, whom the dreamy adventurers, exaggerating the casual hints of the Indians, had pictured to themselves as a people of boundless wealth. It is evident, from the “Generall Historie,” that Smith did not approve of the measure, for he says appositely—“As for the coronation of Powhatan, and his presents of Basin and Ewer, Bed, Bedstead, Clothes, &c., and such costly novelties, they had been much better spared than so ill spent, for we had his favor much better only for a plain piece of copper.” The measure had been resolved on at home, however, and Captain Smith had no alternative but to obey. Accordingly, he sent a messenger to Powhatan to come and receive his presents; but the Indian monarch, with the spirit of an Alexander, replied, “If your King have sent me presents, I also am a King, and this is my land: eight days I will stay to receive them. Your father is to come to me, not I to him.” The Captain now sent the presents “a hundred miles by river,” as he tells us, to Powhatan. Here a masked ball and other festivities came off, in which the Captain seems to have been quite a favorite with the Indian belles. At length the ceremony of the coronation was performed, but, if the bold Captain speaks aright, it must have been a sorry crowning. He says, “But a sore trouble there was to make him kneel to receive his crown, he neither knowing the majesty nor meaning of a crown, nor bending of the knee, endured as many persuasions, examples and instructions as enraged them all. At last, by bearing hard on his shoulders, he a little stooped, and those having the crown in their hands put it on his head, when by the warning of a pistol, the boats were prepared with such a volley of shot, that the King started up with a horrible fear, till he saw all was well.” A graphic picture. A sturdy old republican was Powhatan, having no notion of their crown! We imagine we can see the perturbation of the good Captain and his followers when they found that the old warrior would not kneel, and the glee with which they regarded their success, when, by pressing hard on the royal shoulders, they surprised him into being duly crowned.

The honor, however, failed of its object. Powhatan would give no aid to the colonists in their designs on the Monacons, although that people was a sworn enemy to his race. He proudly said that he needed no ally—that he could conquer his foes alone. The only return he made for the gifts of the council was a present of an old pair of slippers and a mantle to Capt. Newport. The picture, by Chapman, graphically pourtrays the ceremony.

GERMAN WRITERS.

HEINRICH HEINE.

———

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

———

Ludwig Börne, the well-known author of Letters from Paris, once said, that Voltaire was only the John the Baptist of Antichrist, but that Heine was Antichrist himself. Perhaps he paid Heine too great a compliment yet the remark is true so far as this, that it points him out as the leader of that new school in Germany which is seeking to establish a religion of sensuality, and to build a palace of Pleasure on the ruins of the church.

This school is known under the name of Young Germany. It is skeptical, and sensual; and seems desirous of trying again the experiment so often tried before, but never with any success, of living without a God. Heine expresses this in phrases too blasphemous or too voluptuous to repeat; and Gutzkow, his follower exclaims: “Let the only Priest, that weds our hearts, be a moment of rapture, not the church, with her ceremonies, and her servants with parted hair;” and again with a sigh: “Alas! had the world known nothing of God, it would have been happier!”

Thus the old and oft-repeated follies of mankind come up and are lived over again by young men, who despise the wisdom of the Past, and imagine themselves wiser than their own generation. Nor are these young men without their admirers and advocates. Madame Dacier, of classic memory, defended Sappho’s morals, and in reply to the hereditary scandal against her, coldly said: “Sappho had her enemies.” Nearly in the same way is Young Germany defended; and even theologians have not been wanting, to palliate, excuse and justify.

In this country, there are certain persons, who seem disposed to enact this same tragic farce; for we too, have our Young America, which mocks the elder prophets, and cries “Go up, bald-head!”—Young ladies read with delight such books as Festus, and think the Elective Affinities “religious almost to piety.” Young men, who profess to be Christians, like the Pagan of Lafontaine, believe in God by a kind of patent-right,—par bénéfice d’inventaire. Nature, we are told, must not be interfered with in any way, at any time; and so much is said about this, that many respectable people begin to say with old Voss, “Dear Nature! thou seemest to me quite too natural!”

I do not, however, propose to discuss these points in the following sketch; nor to consider Heine’s plans for regenerating society, which, at best, are but vague opinions thrown out recklessly and at random, like fire-brands, that set in a flame whatever light matter they fall upon. It is the Author only, that I shall attempt to sketch.

Henry Heine was born in 1797 at Düsseldorf on the Rhine; and studied at the Universities of Bonn, Berlin, and Göttingen. He afterwards resided in Hamburg, Berlin and Munich; and since 1830 has lived in Paris. His principal writings are Buch der Lieder, a collection of lyrical poems; two tragedies, Almansor and Radcliff; the four volumes of Reisebilder; the Beiträge zur Geschichte der neuern schönen Literatur in Deutschland; the Frangësische Zustände; and Der Salon,—the last two being collections of his various contributions to the German newspapers. The most popular of his writings is the Reisebilder, (Pictures of Travel.) The Beiträge has been translated into English, by Geo. W. Haven, under the title of Letters auxiliary to the History of modern Polite Literature in Germany, Boston, 1836. The same work, with many additions, has been published in Paris, under the title of De l’Allemagne.

The style of Heine is remarkable for vigor, wit and brilliancy; but is wanting in taste and refinement. To the recklessness of Byron he adds the sentimentality of Sterne. The Reisebilder is a kind of Don Juan in prose, with passages from the Sentimental Journey. He is always in extremes, either of praise or censure; setting at nought the decencies of life, and treating the most sacred things with frivolity. Throughout his writings you see traces of a morbid, ill-regulated mind; of deep feeling, disappointment and suffering. His sympathies seem to have died within him, like Ugolino’s children in the tower of Famine. With all his various powers, he wants the one great power—the power of truth! He wants, too, that ennobling principle of all human endeavors, the aspiration “after an ideal standard, that is higher than himself.” In a word, he wants sincerity and spirituality.

In the highest degree reprehensible, too, is the fierce, implacable hatred with which Heine pursues his foes. No man should write of another as he permits himself to do at times. In speaking of Schlegel, as he does in his German Literature, he is utterly without apology. And yet to such remorseless invectives, to such witty sarcasms, he is indebted in a great degree for his popularity. It was not till after he had bitten the heel of Hercules, that the Crab was placed among the constellations.

The following passages from the Reisebilder, will give the reader a general idea of Heine’s style; exhibiting at once his beauties and defects—his poetic feeling—his spirit—his wit—his want of taste. The first is from his description of a Tour to the Harz Mountains; the second from his Journey from Munich to Genoa.

——

SCENE ON THE BROCKEN.

In the dining-room of the inn I found all life and motion; students from various Universities; some just arrived, are refreshing themselves, others are preparing for their departure, buckling their knapsacks, writing their names in the Album, receiving Brocken-bouquets from the servant girl; there is pinching of cheeks, singing, dancing, shouting; questions are asked, answers given,—fine weather,—footpath,—God bless you—good bye. Some of the departing are a little jolly, and take double delight in the beautiful view, because a man when he is drunk sees all things double.

When I had somewhat refreshed myself, I ascended the observatory, and found there a little gentleman with two ladies, one of them young, the other oldish. The young lady was very beautiful. A glorious figure,—upon her curling tresses a helm-like hat of black satin, with whose white feathers the wind sported;—her delicate limbs so closely wrapped in a black silk mantle, that the noble outlines were distinctly seen;—and her free, large eye quietly gazing forth into the free, large world.

I sought without more ado to engage the beautiful lady in conversation; for one does not truly enjoy the beauties of Nature, unless he can express his feelings at the moment. She was not intellectual, but attentive, sensible. Of a truth, most aristocratic features. I do not mean that common, stiff, negative aristocratic bearing, that knows exactly what must be let alone; but that rare, free, positive aristocratic bearing, which tells us clearly what we may do, and gives us with the greatest freedom of manners, the greatest social security. To my own astonishment, I displayed considerable geographical knowledge; told the curious fair one all the names of the towns that lay before us; found and showed her the same on my map, which I unfolded with true professional dignity, upon the stone table in the middle of the platform. Many of the towns I could not find, perhaps because I looked for them rather with my fingers, than with my eyes, which meanwhile were investigating the face of the gentle lady, and found more beautiful excursions there than Schierke and Elend. It was one of those faces that never excite, seldom fascinate, and always please. I love such faces, because they smile to sleep my turbulent heart.

In what relation the little gentleman, who accompanied the ladies, stood to them I could not guess. He was a thin, curious-looking figure; a little head, sparingly covered with little grey hairs, that came down over his narrow forehead as far as his green dragon-fly eyes, his crooked nose projecting to a great length, and his mouth and chin retreating anxiously towards the ears. This funny little face seemed to be made of a soft, yellowish clay, such as sculptors use in forming their first models, and when the thin lips were pressed together, a thousand fine, semi-circular wrinkles covered his cheeks. Not one word did the little gentleman say; and only now and then, when the elderly lady whispered something pleasant in his ear, he smiled like a poodle-dog with a cold in his head.

The elderly lady was the mother of the younger, and likewise possessed the most aristocratic form and feature. Her eye betrayed a morbid, sentimental melancholy; about her mouth was an expression of rigid piety; and yet it seemed to me, as if once it had been very beautiful, had laughed much, and taken and given many a kiss. Her face resembled a Codex palympsestus, where, beneath the recent, black, monkish copy of a homily of one of the Fathers of the Church, peeped forth the half effaced verses of some ancient Greek love-poet. Both of the ladies, with their companion, had been that year in Italy, and told me all kinds of pretty things about Rome, Florence and Venice. The mother had a great deal to say of Raphael’s paintings at St. Peter’s; the daughter talked more about the opera and the Teatro Fenice.

While we were speaking it began to grow dark; the air grew colder, the sun sank lower, and the platform was filled with students, mechanics, and some respectable cockneys, with their wives and daughters, all of whom had come to see the sun set. It is a sublime spectacle, which attunes the soul to prayer. A full quarter of an hour stood we all solemnly silent, and saw how that beauteous ball of fire by slow degrees sank in the west; our faces were lighted by the ruddy glow of evening,—our hands folded themselves involuntarily;—it was as if we stood there, a silent congregation in the nave of a vast cathedral, and the Priest were elevating the Body of the Lord, and the eternal choral of Palestrina flowing down from the organ!

As I stood thus absorbed in devotion, I heard some one say close beside me,

“Generally speaking, how very beautiful nature is!”

These words came from the tender heart of my fellow lodger, the young shop-keeper. They brought me back again to my work-day mood, and I was just in the humor to say several very polite things to the ladies about the sunset, and quietly conduct them back to their room, as if nothing had happened. They permitted me to sit and talk with them another hour. As the earth itself, so revolved our conversation round the sun. The mother remarked, that the sun, sinking in vapors, had looked like a red, blushing rose, which the Heaven in its gallantry had thrown down upon the broad-spreading, white bridal veil of his beloved Earth! The daughter smiled, and expressed herself of the opinion, that too great familiarity with the appearances of nature weakened their effect. The mother corrected this erroneous view by a passage from Göthe’s Reisebriefen, and asked me if I had read the Sorrows of Werther. I believe we talked also about Angola cats, Etruscan vases, Cashmire shawls, macaroni and Lord Byron, from whose poems the elderly lady, prettily lisping and sighing, recited some passages on sunsets. To the younger lady, who did not understand English, but wanted to read Byron, I recommended the translations of my fair and gifted country-woman, the Baronese Elise von Hohenhausen; and availed myself of the opportunity, as I always do with young ladies, to express myself with warmth upon Byron’s ungodliness, unloveliness and unhappiness.

Reisebilder, Vol. 1.

——

STREET MUSICIANS.

When I returned to the Locanda della Grande Europa, when I had ordered a good Pranzo, I was so sad at heart that I could not eat,—and that means a great deal. I seated myself before the door of the neighboring Botega, refreshed myself with an ice, and said within myself:

“Capricious Heart! thou art now forsooth in Italy—why singest thou not like the lark? Perhaps the old German Sorrows, the little serpents, that hid themselves deep within thee have come with us into Italy, and are making merry now, and their common jubilee awakens in my breast that picturesque sorrow, which so strangely stings and dances and whistles? And why should not the old sorrows make merry for once? Here in Italy it is indeed so beautiful, suffering itself is here so beautiful,—in these ruinous marble palaces sighs sound far more romantically, than in our neat brick houses,—beneath yon laurel trees one can weep far more voluptuously, than under our surly, jagged pines,—and gaze with looks of far sweeter longing at the ideal cloud-landscapes of celestial Italy, than at the ash-gray, German work-day heaven, where the very clouds wear the looks of decent burghers, and yawn so tediously down upon us! Stay then in my heart, ye sorrows! Nowhere will you find a better lodging. You are dear and precious to me; and no man knows better how to father and cherish you, than I; and I confess to you, you give me pleasure. And after all, what is pleasure? Pleasure is nothing else than a highly agreeable Pain.”

I believe that the music, which, without my taking note of it, sounded before the Botega, and had already drawn round itself a circle of spectators, had melo-dramatically accompanied this monologue. It was a strange trio, consisting of two men, and a young girl, who played the harp. One of the men, warmly clad in a white shaggy coat, was a robust fellow, with a dark-red bandit-face, that gleamed from his black hair and beard, like a portentous comet; and between his legs he held a monstrous bass-viol, upon which he sawed as furiously, as if he had thrown down a poor traveller in the Abruzzi, and was in haste to fiddle his windpipe in two. The other was a tall, meagre graybeard, whose mouldering bones shook in their thread-bare, black garments, and whose snow-white hair formed a lamentable contrast with his buffo song and his foolish capers. It is sad enough, when an old man must barter for bread the respect we owe to his years, and give himself up to buffoonery; but more melancholy still, when he does this before or with his own child! For that girl was the daughter of the old Buffo, and accompanied with the harp the lowest jests of her gray-headed father; or, laying her harp aside sang with him a comic duet, in which he represented an amorous old dotard and she the young coquettish inamorata. Moreover the girl seemed hardly to have passed the threshold of childhood; as if the child, before it had grown to maidenhood, had been made a woman, and not an honest woman. Hence that pallid, faded look, and the expression of nervous discontent in her beautiful face, whose proudly rounded features as it were disdained all show of compassion;—hence the secret sorrowfulness of the eyes, that from beneath their black, triumphal arches flashed forth such challenges;—hence the deep mournful voice, that so strangely contrasted with the laughing, beautiful lips, from which it fell;—hence the debility of those too delicate limbs, around which a short, anxious-looking robe of violet-colored silk, fluttered as low as it possibly could. In addition to this, gay, variegated satin ribbands flaunted from her faded straw hat, and emblematic of herself, her breast was adorned with an open rose-bud, which seemed rather to have been rudely torn open, than to have bloomed forth from its green sheath by its own natural growth. Still in this unhappy girl, in this Spring which Death had already breathed upon and blasted,—lay an indescribable charm, a grace, which revealed itself in every look, in every motion, in every tone. The bolder her gestures became, the deeper grew my compassion; and when her voice rose from her breast so weak and wondrous, and as it were implored forgiveness; then triumphed in my breast the little serpents, and bit their tails for joy. The Rose likewise seemed to look at me imploringly; once I saw it tremble and grow pale,—but at the same moment rose the trills of the girl so much the more laughingly aloft, the old man wooed still more amorously, and the red comet-face murdered his viol so grimly, that it uttered the most terrifically droll sounds, and the spectators shouted more madly than ever.

* * * *

The little harper must have remarked, that while she was singing and playing, I looked often at the rose upon her breast; and as I afterwards threw upon the tin plate, with which she collected her honorarium, a piece of gold, and not of the smallest, she smiled slily, and asked me secretly, if I wanted her rose.

* * * *

Think no evil, dear reader. It had grown dark, and the stars looked so pure and pious down into my heart. In that heart itself, however, trembled the memory of the dead Maria. I thought again of that night, when I stood beside the bed, where lay her beautiful, pale form, with soft, still lips—I thought again of the strange look the old woman cast at me, who was to watch by the dead body, and surrendered her charge to me for a few hours—I thought again of the night-violet, that stood in a glass upon the table, and smelt so strangely. Again I shuddered with the doubt, whether it were really a draft of wind, that blew the lamp out?—or whether there were a third person in the chamber!

Reisebilder, Vol. 3.

——

The minor poems of Heine, like most of his prose writings, are but a portrait of himself. The same melancholy tone,—the same endless sigh,—pervades them. Though they possess the highest lyric merit they are for the most part fragmentary;—expressions of some momentary state of feeling,—sudden ejaculations of pain or pleasure, of restlessness, impatience, regret, longing, love. They profess to be songs, and as songs must they be judged, and as German Songs. Then these imperfect expressions of feeling,—these mere suggestions of thought,—this “luminous mist,” that half reveals, half hides the sense,—this selection of topics from scenes of every day life, and in fine this prevailing tone of sentimental sadness, will not seem affected, misplaced nor exaggerated. At the same time it must be confessed that the trivial and common-place recur too frequently in these songs. Here, likewise, as in the prose of Heine, the lofty aim is wanting; we listen in vain for the spirit-stirring note—for the word of power—for those ancestral melodies, which, amid the uproar of the world, breathe in our ears forever-more the voices of consolation, encouragement and warning. Heine is not sufficiently in earnest to be a great poet.

TO ONE DEPARTED.

———

BY EDGAR A. POE.

———

Seraph! thy memory is to me

Like some enchanted far-off isle

In some tumultuous sea—

Some ocean vexed as it may be

With storms; but where, meanwhile,

Serenest skies continually

Just o’er that one bright island smile.

For ’mid the earnest cares and woes

That crowd around my earthly path,

(Sad path, alas, where grows

Not even one lonely rose!)

My soul at least a solace hath

In dreams of thee; and therein knows

An Eden of bland repose.

DRAWN BY T. HAYTER. ENGRAVED BY H. S. SADD, N.Y.

THE YOUNG WIDOW.

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A MINIATURE.

By the splendor of thine eyes,

Flashing in their ebon light

As a star across the skies

On the sable noon of night!

By the glory of that brow,

In its calm sublimity,⁠—

With thee, or away, as now,

I worship thee!

Sorrow has been thine, alas!

Once thou wert a happy bride;

Joy is like a brittle glass:

It was shivered at thy side.

Shall I love thee less for this?

Only be as true to me,

And I’ll glory in the bliss,

The bliss of thee!

Are thy lashes wet with tears?

Canst thou never more be gay?

Chase afar these foolish fears⁠—

I will kiss thy dread away!

We are parted—’till we meet,

Time shall pass how wearily!

Yet I’ll make each hour more fleet

By thoughts of thee!

In the solitude of night,

In the tumult of the day,

By the gloamin’ fire’s light,

In the mazy dance and gay,

By the silver-sounding streams,

Underneath the rustling tree,

In my waking, or in dreams,

I’ll think of thee!

When in ev’ry flower cup

Fairies dance the night away,

When the queenly moon is up,

Moving on her stately way,

When the stars upon the shore

Silence e’en the sounding sea⁠—

Ever till we part no more,

I’ll think of thee!

A. A. I.

THE FRESHET.

A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARE.

———

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

———

March hath unlocked stern Winter’s chain,

Nature is wrapp’d in misty shrouds,

And ceaselessly the drenching rain

Drips from the gray sky-mantling clouds;

The deep snows melt, and swelling rills

Pour through each hollow of the hills;

The river from its rest hath risen,

And bounded from its shattered prison;

The huge ice-fragments onward dash

With grinding roar and splintering crash;

Swift leap the floods upon their way,

Like war-steeds thundering on their path,

With hoofs of waves and manes of spray

Restrainless in their mighty wrath.

Wild mountains stretch in towering pride

Along the river’s either side;

Leaving between it and their walls

Narrow and level intervals.

When Summer glows, how sweet and bright

The landscape smiles upon the sight!

Here, the deep golden wheat-fields vie

With the rich carpets of the rye,

The buckwheat’s snowy mantles, there,

Shed honied fragrance on the air;

In long straight ranks, the maize uprears

Its silken plumes and pennon’d spears,

The yellow melon, underneath,

Plump, ripening, in its viny wreath:

Here, the thick rows of new-mown grass,

There, the potato-plant’s green mass;

All framed by woods—each limit shown

By zigzag rail, or wall of stone;

Contrasting here, within the shade,

The axe a space hath open laid

Cumber’d with trees hurl’d blended down,

Their verdure chang’d to wither’d brown;

There, the soil ashes-strew’d, and black,

Shows the red flame’s devouring track;

The fire-weed shooting thick where stood

The leafy monarchs of the wood:

A scene peculiar to one land

Which Freedom with her magic wand

Hath touch’d, to clothe with bloom, and bless

With peace, and joy, and plenteousness.

The rains have ceas’d—the struggling glare

Of sunset lights the misty air,

The fierce wind sweeps the myriad throng

Of broken ragged clouds along,

From the rough saw-mill, where hath rung

Through all the hours, its grating tongue,

The raftsman sallies, as the gray

Of evening tells the flight of day:

And slowly seeks with loitering stride,

His cabin by the river-side.

As twilight darkens into night,

Still dash the waters in their flight,

Still the ice-fragments, thick and fast,

Shoot like the clouds before the blast.

Beyond—the sinuous channel wends

Through a deep narrow gorge, and bends

With curve so sharp, the drilling ice,

Hurl’d by the flood’s tremendous might,

Piles the opposing precipice,

And every fragment swells the height;

Hour after hour uprears the wall,

Until a barrier huge and tall

Breasts the wild waves that vain upswell

To overwhelm the obstacle:

They bathe the alder on the verge,

The leaning hemlock now they merge,

The stately elm is dwindling low

Within the deep engulfing flow,

Till curb’d thus in its headlong flight,

With its accumulated might,

The river turning on its track,

Rolls its wide-spreading volumes back.

Slumbers the raftsman—through his dream

Distorted visions wildly stream,

Now in the wood his axe he swings,

And now his sawmill’s jarring rings;

Now his huge raft is shooting swift

Cochecton’s white tumultuous rift,

Now floats it on the ebon lap

Of the grim shadow’d Water Gap,

And now it’s tossing on the swells

Fierce dashing down the slope of Wells,

The rapids crash upon his ear,

The deep sounds roll more loud and near,

They fill his dream—he starts—he wakes!

The moonlight through the casement falls,

Ha! the wild sight that on him breaks,

The floods sweep round his cabin-walls,

Beneath their bounding thundering shocks,

The frail log fabric groans and rocks;

Crash, crash! the ice-bolts round it shiver,

The walls like blast-swept branches quiver,

His wife is clinging to his breast,

The child within his arms is prest,

He staggers through the chilly flood

That numbs his limbs, and checks his blood,

On, on, he strives—the waters lave

Higher his form with every wave,

They steep his breast, on each side dash

The splinter’d ice with thundering crash

A fragment strikes him—ha! he reels,

That shock in every nerve he feels,

Faster, bold raftsman, speed thy way,

The waves roar round thee for their prey,

Thy cabin totters—sinks—the flood

Rolls its mad surges where it stood:

Before thy straining sight, the hill

Sleeps in the moonlight, bright and still,

Falter not, falter not, struggle on,

That goal of safety may be won,

Heavily droops thy wife with fear,

Thy boy’s shrill shriekings fill thine ear;

Urge, urge thy strength to where out-fling

Yon cedar branches for thy cling.

Joy, raftsman joy! thy need is past,

The wish’d for goal is won at last,

Joy, raftsman joy! thy quick foot now

Is resting on the hill’s steep brow:

Praise to high heaven, each knee is bending,

Each heart’s warm incense is ascending,

Praise to high heaven, each humble prayer

Oh, finds it not acceptance there?

MARCHES FOR THE DEAD.

———

BY WM. WALLACE, AUTHOR OF “JERUSALEM,” “STAR LYRA,” ETC.

———

A march for the Dead—the dreamless Dead

Of the tomb and the chancel aisle,

Where the cypress bends or the banner-spread

Waves round in the holy pile:⁠—

Let the chimes be low as the awful breath

Of the midnight winds that creep,

With a pulse as faint as the step of Death,

O’er the chambers of the deep,

When the stars are in a solemn noon

Like o’er-wearied watchers there,

And a seraph-glory from the moon

Floats down through the sleeping air.

A march for the Dead—the lovely Dead

Whose voices still we hear,

Like a spirit-anthem, mournfully

Around a brother’s bier:

Their eyes still beam, as of old, on ours⁠—

And their words still cheer the soul⁠—

And their smiles still shine, like star-lit bow’rs,

Where the tides of Being roll.

Then, oh! minstrel strike your sweetest lyre,

Let its notes to feeling true,

Be warm as the sacred Eastern fire,

But, still, as chastened too:

And Sorrow there will incline her head,

While Hope sits fondly by⁠—

With one hand pointing to the Dead,

The other to the sky.

A march for the Dead—the holy Dead⁠—

They hallowed every sod

Like the rainbows resting on our earth⁠—

But soaring towards God.

But, oh! what a diapason there

From the thrilling chords should start!

Like the lightning leaping from its lair

To wither Nature’s heart?

Like the Thunder when the Tempest’s hand

Unveils his giant form,

And strikes, with all his cloudy band,

The organs of the storm?