Gazed on his face with troubled brow,
And ’twas for him escaped the sigh,
And sprang the teardrop from his eye;
’Twas hard to part from Selim there,
Where all was woe, and blank despair.
XXIII.
’Tis sad to see proud manhood lie
As weak as helpless infancy!
Not one in all that caravan
With stronger heart their march began,
Than he, whose long drawn, gasping breath
Was wavering ’twixt life and death.
XXIV.
So is it often here below,
The strongest are the first to bow
Beneath the ruthless storms of life;
The proud man sinks--the gentle wife
Uprises ’mid the stormy blast,
And smiles until its rage be past.
XXV.
The father turned his failing eye
Upon his boy--he rais’d on high
His trembling hand, and faintly said,
“Allah protect him when I’m dead!”
Then laid his hand upon his breast,
And sigh’d, “I soon shall be at rest.”
XXVI.
“O! die not thus, my father! no!
I would not have thee perish so!”
Thus spake the boy, then made a sign
To those around; “You know ’tis mine,”
He said, “to promise wealth, ’tis yours
To gain it--now the richest stores
XXVII.
“I’ll give to him who brings me first,
A draught to quench this dying thirst;
My noble father must not die;
Who brings me water, thus will buy
The princely wealth I have to give--
Haste then, and bid my father live.”
XXVIII.
But all are silent--there they stand
Like statues, all that turban’d band;
For who could do his bidding, who?
When they were nearly dying too?
They now prepare to travel on,
Ere life’s last energy is gone.
XXIX.
“And must I leave my father here?”
Cried out the boy, in wild despair;
“It must not be; he is not dead,
And I will hope till life has fled;
I’ll bear him in my bosom, where
Sweet water gushes, bright and clear.”
XXX.
He said, and rais’d his father’s form;
He found his heart still beating warm;
The hope of saving him at length
Endued him with a giant’s strength;
And while the patient camel knelt,
Tumultuous joy young Selim felt.
XXXI.
Now onward moves the caravan;
The movement wakes the dying man;
The houdah[20] is a place of rest,
For he reclines on Selim’s breast;
A faint breeze comes, and seems to give
New life, and bid the dying live.
XXXII.
He softly murmurs in his dreams,
Of cooling shades, and flowing streams;
Perhaps he sees, that dying man,
The fountain in his own divan;
And while he hears its gurgling sound,
He sees his loved ones all around.
XXXIII.
Dream on--dream on--for never more
Thou’lt pass the threshold of thy door.
Smile not, young Selim! death is near,
Though Hope is whisp’ring in thine ear!
No--Selim--no--’tis but the strife
When mortals bid adieu to life.
XXXIV.
The panting beast, with ling’ring tread,
Bears on the dying and the dead;
For Selim’s father breaths no more,
And Selim bows to sorrow’s power.
How oft, when hope is prostrate laid,
Oblivion lends her friendly aid!
XXXV.
And now the wild Arabian
Watches the weakened caravan;
He knows when death has done its work
On many a proud and wealthy Turk;
And there are signs he knows full well,
Which tales of suffering weakness tell;
XXXVI.
When deep despair has seized on all;
And every jaded animal
But creeps his weary way along,
And jest, and laugh, and merry song
Are hush’d--and all is silent there,
Save the deep sigh, or mutter’d prayer.
XXXVII.
A palm tree in the desert--ho!
Now see how cheerily they go!
For Hope has lit her sparkling light,
And every sadden’d eye grows bright.
Farewell to every boding fear!
The palm tree marks a streamlet near!
XXXVIII.
The baffled robber wheels around,
And fast his steed flies o’er the ground;
For men who but an hour before
Were faint and weak, are weak no more!
Who knows what mortals can endure,
When hope leads on, and help is sure?
XXXIX.
’Tis reach’d at length--the blessed spot!
But son and father heed it not.
O’er one oblivion’s wing is spread,
And one is numbered with the dead:
And O! ’twould save most bitter pain,
Could Selim never wake again!
XL.
Now, prostrate bending to the wave,
How drink the master and the slave!
And ’tis the most delicious draught
That ever weary traveler quaff’d!
With blessings on the purling rill,
Each toil-worn pilgrim drinks his fill.
XLI.
But, fainting nature satisfied,
They now repair to Selim’s side;
And there, within the houdah, see
A picture of mortality!
And, struck with sorrow, every one
Bewails the father and the son.
XLII.
But soon they know that Selim lives,
And each some prompt attention gives;
They bear him to a shaded place,
And bathe his pallid, deathlike face;
And now he heaves a deep drawn sigh,
And gazes round with languid eye.
XLIII.
“Young Selim! there is water near!
O, list thee now, and thou wilt hear
The murm’ring of a blessed stream;
Cheer up! it is no fev’rish dream!
See nature’s best restorative!
Poor fainting Selim! drink and live!”
XLIV.
But Selim hears not. On his brow
The damps of death are gath’ring now;
And, though no sound is plainly heard,
His lips pronounce some cherish’d word;
For while he goes through death’s lone shade,
His thoughts are with his dark eyed maid.
XLV.
And she, within her splendid home,
Will wonder why he does not come;
And, wand’ring through the marble halls,
Where many a tear in secret falls,
Will vainly hope from day to day,
While creep the tardy hours away.
XLVI.
And through the shady citron grove,
At morn and eve the maid will rove,
And, gazing on the verdant ground,
Will start at every rust’ling sound,
And, pale with mingled hope and fear,
Will look to see her love appear.
XLVII.
O! lady! Selim will not come--
Thou’lt never bid him “welcome home”--
With sick’ning pangs thou’lt weep apart,
Till hope forsakes thy fresh young heart;
And then, in silent agony,
That heart will break, and breaking, die!
FOOTNOTES
[17] In Turkish families the daughters are betrothed when quite young,
and very often do not see their destined husbands.
[18] “Hookah,” the Turkish pipe.
[19] “Simoom.” I believe I have good authority for the orthography of
this word, although it is oftener spelled “Simoon.”
[20] “Houdah.” A covered or open divan, placed on the back of the
camel, and either rudely or luxuriously furnished.
REAL COMFORT.
There! I have lock’d the door
’Gainst every senseless bore!
O! ’tis a blessing to retire,
And, drawing near my cheerful fire,
To feel I am alone--
Responsible to none--
My cares behind me thrown--
Hence! vanish every one!
Now for a cozy time with my sweet Muse!
Come, lady, wake! this is no time to snooze;
When we’re alone we’ve not an hour to lose,
We cannot always thus ourselves amuse.
I’ve laid my trappings by;
For now no envious eye
Looks on, my dress to criticise,
With strictures aye more nice than wise.
Clad in a flowing gown,
My hair I’ve taken down,
And, o’er my shoulders thrown,
It seeks my loosen’d zone;
Thus, free from all undue restraint, we sit,
My darling Muse and I, to try our wit,
While, author-like, our learned brows we knit,
And coax our brains bright sparkles to emit.
’Tis true, the silent night
Has darken’d round us quite;
But ’tis the time we love the best,
When earthly things are all at rest,
And sweet the hours glide
Down time’s fast flowing tide,
Nor daylight’s pomp, nor pride,
Invades our fireside;
And should, perchance, my fickle Muse be shy,
And choose to tarry in her native sky,
Why, even then, I’ll not to others fly;
I think myself the best of company.
But come, consenting Muse!
We’ll now a subject choose
From things below, or things above;
I have it then, it shall be--LOVE!
Which has its home, you know,
In earth and heaven too;
So, with no more ado,
I’ll sing of love to you:--
SONG.
_Love is a tyrant, with a silken chain_--
What! pouting, Miss? you toss your head in vain;
You know full well I’ve reason to complain,
Love serves me many a trick--Let’s try again.
But not of Love I’ll sing,
Who’s ever on the wing,
And will not stay a moment more
Than he’s caress’d, and fondled o’er;
I’ll choose some nobler theme,
Commanding more esteem;
Come, come, how dull you seem!
Rouse up, you surely dream!
I’ve rack’d my brains until they fairly ache;
Come, help me now, sweet Muse, for pity’s sake;
You know I can’t a single couplet make
Worth any thing, till you my genius wake.
What! art thou drowsy still?
Come now, I’ll take it ill,
If, at my need, you serve me so;
O! surely you don’t mean to go!
Fold up your tiny wing,
You darling little thing!
Forget the tyrant king,
And hear me while I sing:--
SONG.
_Sweet Poetry! thine influence o’er me shed,_
_For thou canst charm when other charms have fled_;
O! now you smile, and raise your lovely head;
Well, kiss me, dear! make friends; I’ll go to bed.
CHARLESTON, _February 8, 1841_.
SONG.
O! that I could ever live
Where the ocean waves do play,
And make delightful harmony,
Both night and day!
How they thrill upon the heart,
Murmurs of the restless wave,
When rolling waters gracefully
The fair beach lave!
In the stillness of the night,
How I love to hear the sound,
It seems to lull the daylight cares
To sleep profound!
When the storm is rising too,
When the startled waves run high,
Even then it seems to me
All melody!
So, ’twill please me well to live
Where the ocean waves do play,
And make delightful harmony,
Both night and day!
FEBRUARY 26, 1841.
SONG.
O! happy days of childhood!
Ye have left me all too soon,
When I wandered in the wildwood,
And sang sweet “Bonnie Doon.”
When merry voices ringing,
In the tones of childish glee,
Told that no sad cares were clinging
To my young friends or me.
Oft in the woodland hiding,
How we ran from tree to tree,
Or on young pine saplings riding,
We laughed in ecstasy!
Or in the waters wading,
On the smooth and sea-girt shore,
While the western sun was fading,
We frolick’d more and more.
O! happy days of childhood!
Ye will never more return;
For the waters and the wildwood,
In vain, in vain I yearn.
CHARLESTON, _February 26, 1841_.
TO MRS. WILLIAM H----.
Written after receiving from her a beautiful bunch of flowers.
I do thank thee, lovely lady,
For these bright and fragrant flowers;
O! how sweetly such mementos
Lend their charms to lonely hours!
Here are roses, freshly blooming,
Free from blight, and free from stain;
Time will mar their brilliant beauty,
But their fragrance will remain.
So, when time shall part us, lady,
Though I view thy charms no more,
Think not mem’ry will forsake me,
Nor thy smiles to me restore.
When my roses all have faded,
When life’s flowers are pale and dead,
When my spring has changed to winter,
When its frosts are on my head;
Like an evergreen shall flourish
All my memory of thee,
Or like roses, freshly blooming;
Shall these hours return to me.
_Love me_, lady, gentle lady,
All unworthy though I be;
’Twill be sweet to think hereafter
I was once beloved by THEE.
MCPHERSONVILLE, _April 22, 1841_.
THE DREAM OF THE SICK.
But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep!
Thou art all one world of affections deep.
MRS. HEMANS.
In the dim twilight of my darkened room,
When worn and wasted by long suffering,
I lay, and thought upon the past. No bloom
To my wan face could even mem’ry bring;
For fever’s fiery thirst had drunk my blood,
And stolen from my cheek the vital flood.
A breath of air--a zephyr from the west,
Came stealing through the latticed window frame;
To me, as comes a dear expected guest,
One long beloved and waited for, it came;
It bore a message to my fainting heart,
And caused sweet tears through my closed eyes to start.
It told my heart that love was ling’ring still
Around the places where I once did dwell;
In every grove--near every bubbling rill--
On every mound--in every peaceful dell--
The guardian spirit of the place was love;
I left it there, nor will it thence remove.
Well, as I said, it came; the zephyr’s breath
Came to my pillow from the far off west;
Twas a long journey through a world of death,
But, till it reach’d me, would it take no rest,
That messenger of love;--all spent it came;
A dying zephyr to a dying frame.
I felt the faint breeze wand’ring o’er my cheek,
Then sank to sleep; and as I slept, I dream’d;
And in that blessed dream I felt not weak
And dying; no! with youthful step I seem’d
O’er well remembered scenes again to roam,
Once more a tenant of my western home.
O! there I wandered as in days of yore,
And back to life came dear departed ones;
I saw them as I’ve seen them oft before,
My own, my best beloved! and setting suns
Threw their mild dying light on many a scene,
Where, in my dream, we roved through forests green.
How long I slept I know not. Long, long hours
I seem’d communing with the joyous past;
Sometimes I saw the brilliant summer flowers,
And sometimes heard the moaning winter blast.
Dreams are not bounded by the lapse of time,
Nor chain’d to place, mind in its flight sublime.
In peaceful paths we wander’d hand in hand,
We three, whose hearts had “melted into one;”
On flowery hills inhaled the breezes bland,
And silent watched the slow descending sun;
While, every moment, grew more soft, more faint,
The rosy hue that sunset loves to paint.
I woke. ’Twas but a dream; but dreams have power
To cheer the heart when real joys have fled;
And, while I thought of many a by-gone hour,
I to my throbbing heart this promise made:
“If e’er in distant lands again I roam,
I’ll speed me to that zephyr’s western home.”
CHARLESTON, _May 20, 1841_.
THE END.
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.
Italics are represented thus _italic_.