Dim shadows these that come at Fancy's call--
Yet deeper scenes before the Patriot rise,
As fate's stern prophet lifts the fearful pall,
And shows the future to his straining eyes.
Oh! shall that vision paint this glorious vale
With happy millions o'er its bosom spread--
Or ghastly scenes where battle taints the gale
With brother's blood by brother's weapon shed?
Away, ye phantom fears--the scene is fair,
Down the long vista of uncounted years;
Bright harvests smile, sweet meadows scent the air,
And peaceful plenty o'er the scene appears.
The village rings with labor's jocund laugh,
The hoyden shout around the school-house door,
The old man's voice, as bending o'er his staff,
He waxes valiant in the tales of yore:
Far tapering spires from teeming cities rise,
The sabbath bell comes stealing on the air,
A holy anthem seeks the bending skies,
And earth and heaven seem fondly blended there!
Aye--and beyond, where distance spreads its blue,
Down the unfolding vale of future time,
A glorious vision rises on the view,
And wakes the bosom with a hope sublime.
Majestic Stream! at dim Creation's dawn,
Thou wert a witness of that glorious birth--
And thy proud waters still shall sweep the lawn
When Peace shall claim dominion of the earth.
Here in this vale for mighty empire made,
Perchance the glorious flag shall be unfurled,
And violence and wrong and ruin fade,
Before its conquering march around the world!
[Footnote A: We are told by the Geographers that the Missouri, which
rises in the glaciers of the Rocky Mountains, is properly the head stream
of the Mississippi, and it is thus regarded in these lines. In this view,
the Mississippi is the longest river in the world.]
[Footnote B: Habakkuk iii. 3.]
[Illustration: Vignette]
The Two Windmills.
[Illustration: The Two Windmills]
Two neighbors, living on a hill,
Had each--and side by side--a mill.
The one was Jones,--a thrifty wight--
Whose mill in every wind went right.
The storm and tempest vainly spent
Their rage upon it--round it went!
E'en when the summer breeze was light,
The whirling wings performed their flight;
And hence a village saying rose--
"As sure as Jones's mill, it goes."
Not so with neighbor Smith's--close by;
Full half the time it would not ply:
Save only when the wind was west,
Still as a post it stood at rest.
By every tempest it was battered,
By every thundergust 'twas shattered;
Through many a rent the rain did filter;
And, fair or foul, 'twas out of kilter;
And thus the saying came at last--
"Smith's mill is made for folks that fast."
Now, who can read this riddle right?
Two mills are standing on a height--
One whirling brisk, whate'er the weather,
The other, idle, weeks together!
Come, gentle reader, lend thine ear,
And thou the simple truth shalt hear;
And mark,--for here the moral lurks,--
Smith held to faith, but not to works;
While Jones believed in both, and so,
By faith and practice, made it go!
Smith prayed, and straight sent in his bill,
Expecting Heaven to tend his mill;
And grumbled sore, whene'er he found
That wheels ungreased would not go round.
Not so with Jones--for, though as prayerful,
To grease his wheels he e'er was careful,
And healed, with ready stitch, each rent
That ruthless time or tempest sent;
And thus, by works, his faith expressed,
Good neighbor Jones by Heaven was blessed.
The Ideal and the Actual.
My boat is on the bounding tide,
Away, away from surge and shore;
A waif upon the wave I ride,
Without a rudder or an oar.
Blow as ye list, ye breezes, blow--
The compass now is nought to me;
Flow as ye will, ye billows, flow,
If but ye bear me out to sea.
Yon waving line of dusky blue,
Where care and toil oppress the heart--
To thee I bid a long adieu,
And smile to feel that thus we part.
There let the sweating ploughman toil,
The yearning miser count his gain,
The fevered scholar waste his oil,
But I am bounding o'er the main!
How fresh these breezes to the brow--
How dear this freedom to the soul;
Bright ocean, I am with thee now,
So let thy golden billows roll!
* * * * *
But stay--what means this throbbing brain--
This heaving chest--these pulses quick?
Oh, take me to the land again,
_For I am very, very sick!_
The Golden Dream.
In midnight dreams the Wizard came,
And beckoned me away--
With tempting hopes of wealth and fame,
He cheered my lonely way.
He led me o'er a dusky heath,
And there a river swept,
Whose gay and glassy tide beneath,
Uncounted treasure, slept.
The wooing ripples lightly dashed
Around the cherished store,
And circling eddies brightly flashed
Above the yellow ore.
I bent me o'er the deep smooth stream,
And plunged the gold to get,--
But oh! it vanished with my dream--
And I got dripping wet!
O'er lonely heath and darksome hill,
As shivering home I went,
The mocking Wizard whispered shrill,
'Thou'dst better been content!'
The Gipsy's Prayer.
[Illustration: The Gipsy's Prayer]
Our altar is the dewy sod--
Our temple yon blue throne of God:
No priestly rite our souls to bind--
We bow before the Almighty Mind.
Oh, Thou whose realm is wide as air--
Thou wilt not spurn the Gipsies' prayer:
Though banned and barred by all beside,
Be Thou the Outcast's guard and guide.
Poor fragments of a Nation wrecked--
Its story whelmed in Time's neglect--
We drift unheeded on the wave,
If God refuse the lost to save.
Yet though we name no Fatherland--
And though we clasp no kindred hand--
Though houseless, homeless wanderers we--
Oh give us Hope, and Heaven with Thee!
Inscription for a Rural Cemetery.
Peace to the dead! The forest weaves,
Around your couch, its shroud of leaves;
While shadows dim and silence deep,
Bespeak the quiet of your sleep.
Rest, pilgrim, here! Your journey o'er,
Life's weary cares ye heed no more;
Time's sun has set, in yonder west--
Your work is done--rest, Pilgrim, rest!
Rest till the morning hour; wait
Here, at Eternity's dread gate,
Safe in the keeping of the sod,
And the sure promises of God.
Dark is your home--yet round the tomb,
Tokens of hope--sweet flowerets bloom;
And cherished memories, soft and dear,
Blest as their fragrance, linger here!
We speak, yet ye are dumb! How dread
This deep, stern silence of the Dead!
The whispers of the Grave, severe,
The listening Soul alone can hear!
Song: The Robin.
[Illustration: The Robin]
At misty dawn,
At rosy morn,
The Redbreast sings alone:
At twilight dim,
Still, still, his hymn
Hath a sad, and sorrowing tone.
Another day, his song is gay,
For a listening bird is near--
O ye who sorrow, come borrow, borrow,
A lesson of robin here!
Thoughts at Sea.
Here is the boundless ocean,--there the sky,
O'er-arching broad and blue--
Telling of God and heaven--how deep, how high,
How glorious and true!
Upon the wave there is an anthem sweet,
Whispered in fear and love,
Sending a solemn tribute to the feet
Of Him who sits above.
God of the waters! Nature owns her King!
The Sea thy sceptre knows;
At thy command the tempest spreads its wing,
Or folds it to repose.
And when the whirlwind hath gone rushing by,
Obedient to thy will,
What reverence sits upon the wave and sky,
Humbled, subdued, and still!
Oh! let my soul, like this submissive sea,
With peace upon its breast,
By the deep influence of thy Spirit be
Holy and hushed to rest.
And as the gladdening sun lights up the morn,
Bidding the storm depart,
So may the Sun of Righteousness adorn,
With love, my shadowed heart.
A Burial at Sea.
[Illustration: Burial at Sea]
The shore hath blent with the distant skies,
O'er the bend of the crested seas,
And the leaning ship in her pathway flies,
On the sweep of the freshened breeze.
Swift be its flight! for a dying guest
It bears across the billow,
And she fondly sighs in her native West
To find a peaceful pillow.
There, o'er the tide, her kindred sleep,
And she would sleep beside them--
It may not be! for the sea is deep,
And the waves--the waves divide them!
It may not be! for the flush is flown,
That lighted her lily cheek--
'Twas the passing beam, ere the sun goes down.--
Life's last and loveliest streak.
'Tis gone, and a dew is o'er her now--
The dew of the mornless eve--
No morrow will shine on that pallid brow,
For the spirit hath ta'en its leave.
* * * * *
The ship heaves to, and the funeral rite,
O'er the lovely form is said,
And the rough man's cheek with tears is bright,
As he lowers the gentle dead.
The corse sinks down, alone--alone,
To its dark and dreary grave,
And the soul on a lightened wing hath flown,
To the world beyond the wave.
* * * * *
'Tis a fearful thing in the sea to sleep
Alone in a silent bed--
'Tis a fearful thing on the shoreless deep
Of the spirit-world to tread!
The Dream of Youth.
[Illustration: The Dream of Youth]
In days of yore, while yet the world was new,
And all around was beautiful to view--
When spring or summer ruled the happy hours,
And golden fruit hung down mid opening flowers;
When, if you chanced among the woods to stray,
The rosy-footed dryad led the way,--
Or if, beside a mountain brook, your path,
You ever caught some naïad at her bath:
'Twas in that golden day, that Damon strayed.
Musing, alone, along a Grecian glade.
Retired the scene, yet in the morning light,
Athens in view, shone glimmering to the sight.
'Twas far away, yet painted on the skies,
It seemed a marble cloud of glorious dyes,
Where yet the rosy morn, with lingering ray,
Loved on the sapphire pediments to play.
But why did Damon heed the _distant_ scene?
For he was young, and all around was green:
A noisy brook was romping through the dell,
And on his ear the laughing echoes fell:
Along his path the stooping wild flowers grew,
And woo'd the very zephyrs as they flew.
Then why young Damon, heeding nought around,
Seemed in some thrall of distant vision bound,
I cannot tell--but dreamy grew his gaze,
And all his thought was in a misty maze.
Awhile he sauntered--then beneath a tree,
He sat him down, and there a reverie
Came o'er his spirit like a spell,--and bright,
A truth-like vision, shone upon his sight.
Around on every side, with glowing pinions,
A circling band, as if from Jove's dominions,
All wooing came, and sought with wily art,
To steal away the youthful dreamer's heart.
One offered wealth--another spoke of fame,
And held a wreath to twine around his name.
One brought the pallet, and the magic brush,
By which creative art bids nature blush,
To see her rival--and the artful boy,
His story told--the all-entrancing joy
His skill could give,--but well the rogue concealed
The piercing thorns that flourish, unrevealed,
Along the artist's path--the poverty, the strife
Of study, and the weary waste of life--
All these, the drawback of his wily tale,
The little artist covered with a veil.
Young Damon listened, and his heart beat high--
But now a cunning archer gained his eye--
And stealing close, he whispered in his ear,
A glowing tale, so musical and dear,
That Damon vowed, like many a panting youth,
To Love, eternal constancy and truth!
But while the whisper from his bosom broke,
A fearful Image to his spirit spoke:
With frowning brow, and giant arm he stood,
Holding a glass, as if in threatening mood,
He waited but a moment for the sand,
To sweep the idle Dreamer from the land!
Young Damon started, and his dream was o'er,
But to his soul, the seeming vision bore
A solemn meaning, which he could not spurn--
And Youth, perchance, may from our fable learn,
That while the beckoning passions woo and sigh,
TIME, with his ready scythe, stands listening by.