CHAPTER IV

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,