Chapter IV: Poets (3)

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--never--more!'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheel'd a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining which the lamp-light gloated o'er
_She_ shall press, ah, never more!

Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent
thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore,
Desolate, though all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted--never more.

* * * * *

=_Alfred B. Street, 1811-._= (Manual, pp. 522, 531.)

From his "Poems."

=_385._= AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE.

Overhead
There is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky;
A silvery sheet, with spaces of soft hue;
A trembling veil of gauze is stretched athwart
The shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks;
A soothing quiet broods upon the air,
And the faint sunshine winks with drowsiness.
Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark,
The bleat, the tinkle, whistle, blast of horn,
The rattle of the wagon-wheel, the low,
The fowler's shot, the twitter of the bird,
And even the hue of converse from the road.

* * * * *

The sunshine flashed on streams,
Sparkled on leaves, and laughed on fields and woods.
All, all was life and motion, as all now
Is sleep and quiet. Nature in her change
Varies each day, as in the world of man
She moulds the differing features. Yea, each leaf
Is variant from its fellow. Yet her works
Are blended in a glorious harmony,
For thus God made his earth. Perchance His breath
Was music when He spake it into life,
Adding thereby another instrument
To the innumerable choral orbs
Sending the tribute of their grateful praise
In ceaseless anthems towards His sacred throne.

* * * * *

From "Drawings and Tintings."

=_386._= THE FALLS OF THE MONGAUP.

Struggling along the mountain path,
We hear, amid the gloom,
Like a roused giant's voice of wrath,
A deep-toned, sullen boom:
Emerging on the platform high,
Burst sudden to the startled eye
Rocks, woods, and waters, wild and rude--
A scene of savage solitude.

Swift as an arrow from the bow;
Headlong the torrent leaps,
Then tumbling round, in dazzling snow
And dizzy whirls it sweeps;
Then, shooting through the narrow aisle
Of this sublime cathedral pile,
Amidst its vastness, dark and grim,
It peals its everlasting hymn.

Pyramid on pyramid of rock
Towers upward, wild and riven,
As piled by Titan hand, to mock
The distant smiling heaven.
And where its blue streak is displayed,
Branches their emerald net-work braid
So high, the eagle in his flight
Seems but a dot upon the sight.

Here column'd hemlocks point in air
Their cone-like fringes green;
Their trunks hang knotted, black and bare,
Like spectres o'er the scene;
Here lofty crag and deep abyss,
And awe-inspiring precipice;
There grottoes bright in wave-worn gloss,
And carpeted with velvet moss.

No wandering ray e'er kissed with light
This rock-walled sable pool,
Spangled with foam-gems thick and white,
And slumbering deep and cool;
But where yon cataract roars down,
Set by the sun, a rainbow crown
Is dancing, o'er the dashing strife--
Hope glittering o'er the storm of life.

Beyond, the smooth and mirror'd sheet
So gently steals along,
The very ripples, murmuring sweet,
Scarce drown the wild bee's song;
The violet from the grassy side
Dips its blue chalice in the tide;
And, gliding o'er the leafy brink,
The deer, unfrightened, stoops to drink.

Myriads of man's time-measured race
Have vanished from the earth,
Nor left a memory of their trace,
Since first this scene had birth;
These waters, thundering now along,
Joined in Creation's matin-song;
And only by their dial-trees
Have known the lapse of centuries!

* * * * *

=_Laura M.H. Thurston, 1812-1842._= (Manual, P. 524.)

=_387._= LINES ON CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES.

I hail thee, Valley of the West,
For what thou yet shalt be!
I hail thee for the hopes that rest
Upon thy destiny!
Here from this mountain height, I see
Thy bright waves floating rapidly,
Thine emerald fields outspread;
And feel that in the book of fame,
Proudly shall thy recorded name
In later days be read.

Oh! brightly, brightly glow thy skies
In Summer's sunny hours!
The green earth seems a paradise
Arrayed in summer flowers!
But oh! there is a land afar,
Whose skies to me all brighter are,
Along the Atlantic shore!
For eyes beneath their radiant shrine
In kindlier glances answered mine:
Can these their light restore?

Upon the lofty bound I stand,
That parts the East and West;
Before me lies a fairy land;
Behind--_a home of rest!_
_Here_, Hope her wild enchantment flings,
Portrays all bright and lovely things,
My footsteps to allure--
But _there_, in memory's light I see
All that was once most dear to me--
My young heart's cynosure!

* * * * *

=_Francis S. Osgood, 1812-1850_= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_388._= "The Parting."

I looked not, I sighed not, I dared not betray
The wild storm of feeling that strove to have way,
For I knew that each sign of the sorrow _I_ felt
_Her_ soul to fresh pity and passion would melt,
And calm was my voice, and averted my eyes,
As I parted from all that in being I prize.

I pined but one moment that form to enfold.
Yet the hand that touched hers, like the marble was cold,--
I heard her voice falter a timid farewell,
Nor trembled, though soft on my spirit it fell,
And she knew not, she dreamed not, the anguish of soul
Which only my pity for her could control.

It is over--the loveliest dream of delight
That ever illumined a wanderer's night!
Yet one gleam of comfort will brighten my way,
Though mournful and desolate ever I stray:
It is this--that to her, to my idol, I spared
The pang that her love could have softened and shared!

* * * * *

=_Harriet Beecher Stowe._= (Manual, p. 484.)

From the "Religious Poems."

=_389._= THE PEACE OF FAITH.

When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,
And billows wild contend with angry roar,
'Tis said, far down, beneath the wild commotion,
That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.

Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth,
And silver waves chime ever peacefully,
And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,
Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.

So to the heart that knows Thy love, O Purest!
There is a temple, sacred evermore,
And all the babble of life's angry voices
Dies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door.

Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth,
And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully,
And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,
Disturbs that soul that dwells, O Lord, in Thee.

O Rest of rests! O Peace, serene, eternal!
Thou ever livest, and Thou changest never;
And in the secret of Thy presence dwelleth
Fullness of joy, for ever and for ever.

* * * * *

=_390._= "ONLY A YEAR."

One year ago,--a ringing voice,
A clear blue eye,
And clustering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.

Only a year,--no voice, no smile,
No glance of eye,
No clustering curls of golden hair,
Fair but to die!

One year ago,--what loves, what schemes
Far into life!
What joyous hopes, what high, resolves,
What generous strife!

The silent picture on the wall,
The burial stone,
Of all that beauty, life, and joy
Remain alone!

One year,--one year,--one little year,
And so much gone!
And yet the even flow of life
Moves calmly on.

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,
Above that head;
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
Says he is dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds
That sing above,
Tells us how coldly sleeps below
The form we love.

Where hast thou been this year, beloved?
What hast thou seen?
What visions fair, what glorious life,
Where thou hast been?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!
'Twixt us and thee;
The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,
But present still,
And waiting for the coming hour
Of God's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear!
We lay in silence at thy feet
This sad, sad year!

* * * * *

=_Henry T. Tuckerman._=

From his "Poems."

=_391._= THE STATUE OF WASHINGTON.

The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung,
Has peopled earth with grace,
Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,
A bright and peerless race,
But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before,
A shape of loftier name
Than his, who, Glory's wreath with meekness wore,
The noblest son of fame
Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stained;
His gaze around is cast,
As if the joys of Freedom, newly gained,
Before his vision passed;
As if a nation's shout of love and pride
With music filled the air,
And his calm soul was lifted on the tide
Of deep and grateful prayer;
As if the crystal mirror of his life
To fancy sweetly came,
With scenes of patient toil and noble strife,
Undimmed by doubt or shame;
As if the lofty purpose of his soul
Expression would betray--
The high resolve Ambition to control,
And thrust her crown away!
O, it was well in marble, firm and white,
To carve our hero's form,
Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight,
Our star amid the storm;
Whose matchless truth has made his name divine,
And human freedom sure,
His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine,
While man and time endure!
And it is well to place his image there,
Beneath, the dome he blest;
Let meaner spirits who its councils share,
Revere that silent guest!
Let us go up with high and sacred love,
To look on his pure brow,
And as, with solemn grace, he points above,
Renew the patriot's vow!

* * * * *

=_John G. Saxe, 1816-._= (Manual, p. 523, 531.)

From "Early Rising."

=_392._= THE BLESSING OF SLEEP.

"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I:
And bless him, also, that he didn't keep
His great discovery to himself; nor try
To make it--as the lucky fellow might--
A close monopoly by patent-right!

* * * * *

'Tis beautiful to leave the world a while
For the soft visions of the gentle night;
And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
To live as only in the angels' sight,
In Sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.
I like the lad, who, when his father thought
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed praise
Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,
Cried, "Served him right!--it's not at all surprising;
The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"

* * * * *

=_393._= "YE TAILYOR-MAN; A CONTEMPLATIVE BALLAD."

Right jollie is ye tailyor-man
As annie man may be;
And all ye daye, upon ye benche
He worketh merrilie.

And oft, ye while in pleasante wise
He coileth up his lymbes,
He singeth songs ye like whereof
Are not in Watts his hymns.

And yet he toileth all ye while
His merrie catches rolle;
As true unto ye needle as
Ye needle to ye pole.

What cares ye valiant tailyor-man
For all ye cowarde fears?
Against ye scissors of ye Fates,
He points his mightie shears.

He heedeth not ye anciente jests
That witless sinners use;
What feareth ye bolde tailyor-man
Ye hissinge of a goose?

He pulleth at ye busie threade,
To feede his lovinge wife
And eke his childe; for unto them
It is the threade of life.

He cutteth well ye rich man's coate,
And with unseemlie pride,
He sees ye little waistcoate In
Ye cabbage bye his side,

Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife,
To labor nothing loth,
Sits bye with readie hande to baste
Ye urchin, and ye cloth.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man
Yet is he often tried,
Lest he, from fullness of ye dimes,
Wax wanton in his pride.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man,
And yet he hath a foe,
A cunning enemie that none
So well as tailyors knowe.

It is ye slipperie customer
Who goes his wicked wayes,
And wears ye tailyor-man his coate,
But never, never payes!

* * * * *

From "The Money King."

=_394._= ANCIENT AND MODERN GHOSTS CONTRASTED.

In olden times,--if classic poets say
The simple truth, as poets do to-day,--
When Charon's boat conveyed a spirit o'er
The Lethean water to the Hadean shore,
The fare was just a penny,--not too great,
The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate.
_Now_, for a shilling, he will cross the stream,
(His paddles whirling to the force of steam!)
And bring, obedient to some wizard power,
Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour,
Than Brooklyn's famous ferry could convey,
Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day!
Time was when men bereaved of vital breath,
Were calm and silent in the realms of Death;
When mortals dead and decently inurned
Were heard no more; no traveler returned,
Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand,
To whisper secrets of the spirit-land,--
Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul--
Among the tombs might wander on parole,--
A well-bred ghost, at night's bewitching noon,
Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon,
Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white,
(The only rapping of an ancient sprite!)
Stalked round in silence till the break of day,
Then from the Earth passed unperceived away.
Now all is changed: the musty maxim fails,
And dead men _do_ repeat the queerest tales!
Alas, that here, as in the books, we see
The travelers clash, the doctors disagree!
Alas, that all, the further they explore,
For all their search are but confused the more!
Ye great departed!--men of mighty mark,--
Bacon and Newton, Adams, Adam Clarke,
Edwards and Whitefield, Franklin, Robert Hall,
Calhoun, Clay, Channing, Daniel Webster,--all
Ye great quit-tenants of this earthly ball,--
If in your new abodes ye cannot rest,
But must return, O, grant us this request:
Come with a noble and celestial air,
To prove your title to the names ye bear!
Give some clear token of your heavenly birth;
Write as good English as ye wrote on earth!
Show not to all, in ranting prose and verse,
The spirit's progress is from bad to worse;
And, what were once superfluous to advise,
Don't tell, I beg you, such, egregious lies!--
Or if perchance your agents are to blame,
Don't let them trifle with your honest fame;
Let chairs and tables rest, and "rap" instead,
Ay, "knock" your slippery "Mediums" on the head!

* * * * *

=_395._= "Boys"

"The proper study of mankind is man,"--
The most perplexing one, no doubt, is woman,
The subtlest study that the mind can scan,
Of all deep problems, heavenly or human!

But of all studies in the round of learning,
From nature's marvels down to human toys,
To minds well fitted for acute discerning,
The very queerest one is that of boys!

If to ask questions that would puzzle Plato,
And all the schoolmen of the Middle Age,--
If to make precepts worthy of old Cato,
Be deemed philosophy, your boy's a sage!

If the possession of a teeming fancy,
(Although, forsooth, the younker doesn't know it,)
Which he can use in rarest necromancy,
Be thought poetical, your boy's a poet!

If a strong will and most courageous bearing,
If to be cruel as the Roman Nero;
If all that's chivalrous, and all that's daring,
Can make a hero, then the boy's a hero!

But changing soon with his increasing stature,
The boy is lost in manhood's riper age,
And with him goes his former triple nature,--
No longer Poet, Hero, now, nor Sage!

* * * * *

=_396._= SONNET TO A CLAM.

Inglorious friend! most confident I am
Thy life is one of very little ease;
Albeit men mock thee with their similes,
And prate of being "happy as a clam!"
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head
From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?
Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off,--as foemen take their spoil,--
Far from thy friends and family to roam;
Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil!
Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard
Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

* * * * *

=_Lucy Hooper, 1816-1841._= (Manual, p. 524.)

=_397._= "THE DEATH-SUMMONS."

A voice is on mine ear--a solemn voice:
I come, I come, it calls me to my rest;
Faint not, my yearning heart; rejoice, rejoice;
Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest:
On the bright waters there, the living streams,
Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary bark,
Waked by rude waves no more from gentle dreams,
Sadly to feel that earth to thee is dark--
Not bright as once; O, vain, vain memories, cease,
I cast your burden down--I strive for peace.

I heed the warning voice: oh, spurn me not,
My early friend; let the bruised heart go free:
Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lot
Hath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee;
Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile,
Thinking o'er wasted hours, a weary train,
Cheered by the moon's soft light, the sun's glad smile,
Watching the blue sky o'er my path of pain,
Waiting nay summons: whose shall be the eye
To glance unkindly--I have come to die!

Sweet words--to die! O, pleasant, pleasant sounds,
What bright revealings to my heart they bring;
What melody, unheard in earth's dull rounds,
And floating from the land of glorious Spring
The eternal home! my weary thoughts revive,
Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love,
Gentle and kindly thoughts for all that live,
Fanned by soft breezes from the world above:
And pausing not, I hasten to my rest--
Again, O, gentle summons, thou art blest!

* * * * *

=_Catharine Ann Warfield._=

=_398._= "THE RETURN TO ASHLAND.[85]"

Unfold the silent gates,
The Lord of Ashland waits
Patient without, to enter his domain;
Tell not who sits within,
With sad and stricken mien,
That he, her soul's beloved, hath come again.

Long hath she watched for him,
Till hope itself grew dim,
And sorrow ceased to wake the frequent tear;
But let these griefs depart,
Like shadows from her heart--
Tell her, the long expected host is here.

He comes--but not alone,
For darkly pressing on,
The people pass beneath his bending trees,
Not as they came of yore,
When torch and banner bore
Their part amid exulting harmonies.

But still, and sad, they sweep
Amid the foliage deep,
Even to the threshold of that mansion gray,
Whither from life's unrest,
As an eagle seeks his nest,
It ever was his wont to flee away.

And he once more hath come
To that accustomed home,
To taste a calm, life never offered yet;
To know a rest so deep,
That they who watch and weep,
In this vain world may well its peace regret.

[Footnote 85: The home of Henry Clay.]

* * * * *

=_Arthur Cleveland Coxe, 1818-._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_399._= THE HEART'S SONG.

In the silent midnight watches,
List thy bosom door;
How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,
Knocketh evermore!
Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating;
'Tis thy heart of sin;
'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth,
"Rise, and let me in."

Death comes down with reckless footstep
To the hall and hut;
Think you Death will tarry knocking
Where the door is shut?
Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth;
But thy door is fast.
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth;
Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand entreating
Christ to let thee in,
At the gate of heaven beating,
Wailing for thy sin.
Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,
Hast thou then forgot?
Jesus waited long to know thee,--
Now he knows thee not.

* * * * *

=_William Ross Wallace, 1819-._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_400._= THE NORTH EDDA.

Noble was the old North Edda,
Filling many a noble grave,
That for "man the one thing needful
In his world is to be brave."

This, the Norland's blue-eyed mother
Nightly chanted to her child,
While the Sea-King, grim and stately,
Looked upon his boy and smiled.

* * * * *

Let us learn that old North Edda
Chanted grandly on the grave,
Still for man the one thing needful
In his world is to be brave.

Valkyrs yet are forth and choosing
Who must be among the slain;
Let us, like that grim old Sea-King,
Smile at Death upon the plain,--

Smile at tyrants leagued with falsehood,
Knowing Truth, eternal, stands
With the book God wrote for Freedom
Always open in her hands,--

Smile at fear when in our duty,
Smile at Slander's Jotun-breath,
Smile upon our shrouds when summoned
Down the darkling deep of death.

Valor only grows a manhood;
Only this upon our sod,
Keeps us in the golden shadow
Falling from the throne of God.

* * * * *

=_Walter Whitman, 1819-.[86]_=

From Leaves of Grass.

=_401._= THE BROOKLYN FERRY AT TWILIGHT.

I too, many and many a time cross'd the river, the sun half an hour
high;
I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls--I saw them high in
the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their
bodies,
I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies,
and left the rest in strong shadow,
I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward
the south.

I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,
Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,
Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape
of my head, in the sun-lit water,
Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,
Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
Look'd towards the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at
anchor,
The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,
The round masts, the swimming motion of the hulls, the slender
serpentine pennants,
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their
pilot-houses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl
of the wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the
frolicsome crests and glistening,
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls
of the granite store-houses by the docks,
On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely
flank'd on each side by the barges--the hay-boat, the
belated lighter,
On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys
burning high and glaringly into the night.
Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and
yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the
clefts of streets.

These and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;
I project myself a moment to tell you--also I return.

[Footnote 86: Was born in New York in 1819, and has been printer, teacher, and later, an official at Washington. His poetry, though irregular in form, and often coarse in sentiment, is decidedly original and vigorous.]

* * * * *

=_Amelia B. Welby, 1819-1852._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_402._= "THE BEREAVED."

It is a still and lovely spot
Where they have laid thee down to rest;
The white rose and forget-me-not
Bloom sweetly on thy breast,
And birds and streams with liquid lull
Have made the stillness beautiful.

And softly through the forest bars
Light, lovely shapes, on glossy plumes,
Float ever in, like winged stars,
Amid the purpling glooms.
Their sweet songs, borne from tree to tree,
Thrill the light leaves with melody.

Alas! too deep a weight of thought
Had filled thy heart in youth's sweet hour;
It seemed with love and bliss o'erfraught;
As fleeting passion-flower
Unfolding 'neath a southern sky,
To blossom soon, and soon to die.

Alas! the very path I trace,
In happier hours thy footsteps made;
This spot was once thy resting place,
Within the silent shade.
Thy white hand trained the fragrant bough
That drops its blossoms o'er me now.

* * * * *

Yet in those calm and blooming bowers
I seem to feel thy presence still,
Thy breath seems floating o'er the flowers,
Thy whisper on the hill;
The clear, faint starlight, and the sea,
Are whispering to my heart of thee.

No more thy smiles my heart rejoice,
Yet still I start to meet thy eye,
And call upon the low, sweet voice,
That gives me no reply--
And list within my silent door
For the light feet that come no more.

* * * * *

=_Rebecca S. Nichols,_= about =_1820-._= (Manual, pp. 503, 524.)

From "Musings."

=_403._=

How like a conquerer the king of day
Folds back the curtains of his orient couch,
Bestrides the fleecy clouds, and speeds his way
Through skies made brighter by his burning touch;
For, as a warrior from the tented field
Victorious, hastes his wearied limbs to rest,
So doth the sun his brazen sceptre yield,
And sink, fair Night, upon thy gentle breast.

* * * * *

Fair Vesper, when thy golden tresses gleam
Amid the banners of the sunset sky,
Thy spirit floats on every radiant beam
That gilds with beauty thy sweet home on high;
Then hath my soul its hour of deepest bliss,
And gentle thoughts like angels round me throng,
Breathing of worlds (O, how unlike to this!)
Where dwell eternal melody and song.

* * * * *

=_Alice Cary._=

"The Old House."

=_404._= ATTRACTIONS OF OUR EARLY HOME.

My little birds, with backs as brown
As sand, and throats as white as frost,
I've searched the summer up and down,
And think the other birds have lost
The tunes, you sang so sweet, so low,
About the old house, long ago.

My little flowers, that with your bloom
So hid the grass you grew upon,
A child's foot scarce had any room
Between you,--are you dead and gone?
I've searched through fields and gardens rare,
Nor found your likeness any where.

My little hearts, that beat so high
With love to God, and trust in men,
Oh come to me, and say if I
But dream, or was I dreaming then,
What time we sat within the glow
Of the old house-hearth, long ago?

My little hearts, so fond, so true,
I searched the world all far and wide,
And never found the like of you:
God grant we meet the other side
The darkness 'twixt us, now that stands,
In that new house not made with hands!

* * * * *

=_Sidney Dyer,_=[87] about =_1820-._=

=_405._= THE POWER OF SONG.

However humble be the bard who sings,
If he can touch one chord of love that slumbers,
His name, above the proudest line of kings,
Shall live immortal in his truthful numbers.

The name of him who sung of "Home, sweet home,[88]"
Is now enshrined with every holy feeling;
And though he sleeps beneath no sainted dome,
Each heart a pilgrim at his shrine is kneeling.

The simple lays that wake no tear when sung,
Like chords of feeling from the music taken,
Are, in the bosom of the singer, strung,
Which every throbbing heart-pulse will awaken.

[Footnote 87: A Baptist clergyman, who has lived for many years at Indianapolis, Indiana; the author of numerous songs.]

[Footnote 88: John Howard Payne.]

* * * * *

=_Austin T. Earle,[89] 1821-._=

From "Warm Hearts had We."

=_406._=

The autumn winds were damp and cold,
And dark the clouds that swept along,
As from the fields, the grains of gold
We gathered, with the husker's song.
Our hardy forms, though thinly clad,
Scarce felt the winds that swept us by,
For she a child, and I a lad,
Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.

We heaped the ears of yellow corn,
More worth than bars of gold to view:
The crispy covering from it torn,
The noblest grain that ever grew;
Nor heeded we, though thinly clad,
The chilly winds that swept us by;
For she a child, and I a lad,
Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.

[Footnote 89: Was born in Tennessee; a well-known Western writer of both verse and prose.]

* * * * *

=_Thomas Buchanan Read, 1822-1872._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From "Sylvia, or the Last Shepherd."

=_407._= THE MOURNFUL MOWERS.

* * * * *

Thus sang the shepherd crowned at noon
And every breast was heaved with sighs;--
Attracted by the tree and tune,
The winged singers left the skies.

Close to the minstrel sat the maid;
His song had drawn her fondly near:
Her large and dewy eyes betrayed
The secret to her bosom dear.

The factory people through the fields,
Pale men and maids and children pale,
Listened, forgetful of the wheel,
Till the last summons woke the vale.

And all the mowers rising said,
"The world has lost its dewy prime;
Alas! the Golden age is dead,
And we are of the Iron time!

"The wheel and loom have left our homes,--
Our maidens sit with empty hands,
Or toil beneath yon roaring domes,
And fill the factory's pallid bands,

"The fields are swept as by a war,
Our harvests are no longer blythe;
Yonder the iron mower's-car,
Comes with his devastating scythe.

"They lay us waste by fire and steel,
Besiege us to our very doors;
Our crops before the driving wheel
Fall captive to the conquerors.

"The pastoral age is dead, is dead!
Of all the happy ages chief;
Let every mower bow his head,
In token of sincerest grief.

"And let our brows be thickly bound
With every saddest flower that blows;
And all our scythes be deeply wound
With every mournful herb that grows."

Thus sang the mowers; and they said,
"The world has lost its dewy prime;
Alas! the Golden age is dead,
And we are of the Iron time!"

Each wreathed his scythe and twined his head;
They took their slow way through the plain:
The minstrel and the maiden led
Across the fields the solemn train.

The air was rife with clamorous sounds,
Of clattering factory-thundering forge,--
Conveyed from the remotest bounds
Of smoky plain and mountain gorge.

Here, with a sudden shriek and roar,
The rattling engine thundered by;
A steamer past the neighboring shore
Convulsed the river and the sky.

The brook that erewhile laughed abroad,
And o'er one light wheel loved to play,
Now, like a felon, groaning trod
Its hundred treadmills night and day.

The fields were tilled with steeds of steam,
Whose fearful neighing shook the vales;
Along the road there rang no team,--
The barns were loud, but not with flails.

And still the mournful mowers said,
"The world has lost its dewy prime;
Alas! the Golden age is dead,
And we are of the Iron time!"

* * * * *

From "The Closing Scene."

=_408._=

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low;
As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed
His winter log, with many a muffled blow.

* * * * *

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew,
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before,
Silent, till some replying warder blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young,
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
By every light wind, like a censer, swung.

* * * * *

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Plied the swift wheel, and, with her joyless mien,
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

* * * * *

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And twice war bowed to her his sable plume,
Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall--

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew,
And struck for Liberty its dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed;
Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene;
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,
While death and winter closed the autumn scene.

* * * * *

=_Margaret M. Davidson, 1823-1837._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From Lines in Memory of her Sister Lucretia.

=_409._=

O thou, so early lost, so long deplored!
Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near;
And, while I touch this hallowed harp of thine,
Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear.

For thee I pour this unaffected lay;
To thee these simple numbers all belong:
For though thine earthly form has passed away,
Thy memory still inspires my childish song.

Take, then, this feeble tribute; 'tis thine own;
Thy fingers sweep my trembling heartstrings o'er,
Arouse to harmony each buried tone,
And bid its wakened music sleep no more.

Long has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre
Hung o'er thy grave, in death's unbroken rest;
But when its last sweet tones were borne away,
One answering echo lingered in my breast.

O thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near,
Accept these lines, unworthy though they be,
Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine,
By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee.

* * * * *

=_John R. Thompson,[90] 1823-1873._=

=_410._= MUSIC IN CAMP.

Two armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure,
And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its hid embrazure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made
No forest leaf to quiver,
And the smoke of the random cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.

And now, where circling hills looked down,
With cannon grimly planted,
O'er listless camp and silent town
The golden sunset slanted.

When on the fervid air there came
A strain--now rich and tender;
The music seemed itself aflame
With day's departing splendor.

And yet once more the bugles sang
Above the stormy riot;
No shout upon the evening rang--
There reigned a holy quiet,

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;
All silent now the Yankees stood,
And silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,
So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain
In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished, as the strain
And daylight died together.

But memory, waked by music's art,
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of music shines,
That bright, celestial creature,
Who still 'mid war's embattled lines,
Gave this one touch of Nature.

[Footnote 90: Received a liberal education and relinquishing his profession--the law--for literature, was for some years editor of the Southern Literary Messenger. Has written chiefly for the magazines and for the newspapers. A native of Virginia.]

* * * * *

=_George Henry Boker, 1824-._= (Manual, p. 520.)

From the "Ode to a Mountain Oak."

=_411._= THE OAK AN EMBLEM.

Type of unbending Will!
Type of majestic self-sustaining Power!
Elate in sunshine, firm when tempests lower,
May thy calm strength my wavering spirit fill!
Oh! let me learn from thee,
Thou proud and steadfast tree,
To bear unmurmuring what stern Time may send;
Nor 'neath life's ruthless tempests bend:
But calmly stand like thee,
Though wrath and storm shake me,
Though vernal hopes in yellow Autumn end,
And, strong in truth, work out my destiny.
Type of long-suffering Power!
Type of unbending Will!
Strong in the tempest's hour,
Bright when the storm is still;
Rising from every contest with an unbroken heart,
Strengthen'd by every struggle, emblem of might thou art!
Sign of what man can compass, spite of an adverse state,
Still from thy rocky summit, teach us to war with Fate!

* * * * *

=_412._= DIRGE FOR A SAILOR.

Slow, slow! toll it low,
As the sea-waves break and flow;
With the same dull slumberous motion.
As his ancient mother, Ocean,
Rocked him on, through storm and calm,
From the iceberg to the palm:
So his drowsy ears may deem
That the sound which breaks his dream
Is the ever-moaning tide
Washing on his vessel's side.

Slow, slow! as we go.
Swing his coffin to and fro;
As of old the lusty billow
Swayed him on his heaving pillow:
So that he may fancy still,
Climbing up the watery hill,
Plunging in the watery vale,
With her wide-distended sail,
His good ship securely stands
Onward to the golden lands.

Slow, slow! heave-a-ho!--
Lower him to the mould below;
With the well-known sailor ballad,
Lest he grow more cold and pallid
At the thought that Ocean's child,
From his mother's arms beguiled.
Must repose for countless years,
Reft of all her briny tears,
All the rights he owned by birth,
In the dusty lap of earth.

* * * * *

=_William Allen Butler, 1825-._= (Manual, p. 521.)

From "Nothing to Wear."

=_413._=

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side,
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt
Their children have gathered, their city have built;
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,
Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,
Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,
Half-starved, and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold.
See those skeleton limbs, and those frost-bitten feet,
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor,
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell,
As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door;
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,
Spoiled children of Fashion--you've nothing to wear!

And O, if perchance there should be a sphere,
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,

* * * * *

Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence,
Must be clothed for the life and the service above,
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;
O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest in that upper realm, you have nothing to wear!

* * * * *

=_Bayard Taylor, 1825-._= (Manual, pp. 523, 531.)

From "The Atlantic Monthly."

=_414._= "THE BURDEN OF THE DAY."

I.

Who shall rise and cast away,
First, the Burden of the Day?
Who assert his place, and teach
Lighter labor, nobler speech,
Standing firm, erect, and strong,
Proud as Freedom, free as song?

II.

Lo! we groan beneath the weight
Our own weaknesses create;
Crook the knee and shut the lip,
All for tamer fellowship;
Load our slack, compliant clay
With the Burden of the Day!

III.

Higher paths there are to tread;
Fresher fields around us spread;
Other flames of sun and star
Flash at hand and lure afar;
Larger manhood might we share,
Surer fortune, did we dare!

IV.

In our mills of common thought
By the pattern all is wrought:
In our school of life, the man
Drills to suit the public plan,
And through labor, love and play,
Shifts the Burden of the Day.

V.

Power of all is right of none!
Right hath each beneath the sun
To the breadth and liberal space
Of the independent race,--
To the chariot and the steed,
To the will, desire, and deed!

VI.

Ah, the gods of wood and stone
Can a single saint dethrone,
But the people who shall aid
'Gainst the puppets they have made?
First they teach and then obey:
'Tis the Burden of the Day.

VII.

Thunder shall we never hear
In this ordered atmosphere?
Never this monotony feel
Shattered by a trumpet's peal?
Never airs that burst and blow
From eternal summits, know?

VIII.

Though no man resent his wrong,
Still is free the poet's song:
Still, a stag, his thought may leap
O'er the herded swine and sheep,
And in pastures far away
Lose the burden of the Day!

* * * * *

=_John Townsend Trowbridge,[91] 1827-._=

From the Atlantic Monthly.

=_415._= "DOROTHY IN THE GARRET."

In the low-raftered garret, stooping
Carefully over the creaking boards,
Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping
Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards;
Seeking some bundle of patches, hid
Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage,
Or satchel hung on its nail, amid
The heir-looms of a by-gone age.

There is the ancient family chest,
There the ancestral cards and hatchel;
Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest,
Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel.
Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom
Of the chimney, where, with swifts and reel,
And the long-disused, dismantled loom,
Stands the old-fashioned spinning wheel.

She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen,
A part of her girlhood's little world;
Her mother is there by the window, stitching;
Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirled
With many a click; on her little stool
She sits, a child by the open door,
Watching, and dabbling her feet in the pool
Of sunshine spilled on the gilded floor.

Her sisters are spinning all day long;
To her wakening sense, the first sweet warning
Of daylight come, is the cheerful song
To the hum of the wheel, in the early morning.
Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy,
On his way to school, peeps in at the gate;
In neat, white pinafore, pleased and coy,
She reaches a hand to her bashful mate;

And under the elms, a prattling pair,
Together they go, through glimmer and gloom
It all comes back to her, dreaming there
In the low-raftered garret room;
The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather
The heart's first trouble, and love's beginning,
Are all in her memory linked together;
And now it is she herself that is spinning.

With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip,
Turning the spokes with the flashing pin,
Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip,
Stretching it out and winding it in,
To and fro, with a blithesome tread,
Singing she goes, and her heart is full,
And many a long-drawn golden thread
Of fancy, is spun with the shining wool.

[Footnote 91: After struggling through many early discouragements has attained high repute, both in prose and verse. Has written several novels. New York is his native State.]

* * * * *

=_Henry Timrod,[92] 1829-1867._=

From his "Poems."

=_416._= THE UNKNOWN DEAD.

The rain is plashing on my sill,
But all the winds of Heaven are still;
And so it falls with that dull sound
Which thrills us in the church-yard ground,
When the first spadeful drops like lead
Upon the coffin of the dead.
Beyond my streaming window-pane,
I cannot see the neighboring vane,
Yet from its old familiar tower
The bell comes, muffled, through the shower
What strange and unsuspected link
Of feeling touched, has made me think--
While with a vacant soul and eye
I watch that gray and stony sky--
Of nameless graves on battle-plains
Washed by a single winter's rains,
Where--some beneath Virginian hills,
And some by green Atlantic rills,
Some by the waters of the West--
A myriad unknown heroes rest?
Ah! not the chiefs, who, dying, see
Their flags in front of victory,
Or, at their life-blood's noble cost
Pay for a battle nobly lost,
Claim from their monumental beds
The bitterest tears a nation sheds.
Beneath yon lonely mound--the spot
By all save some fond few, forgot--
Lie the true martyrs of the fight
Which strikes for freedom and for right.
Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,
The lofty faith that with them died,
No grateful page shall farther tell
Than that so many bravely fell;
And we can only dimly guess
What worlds of all this world's distress,
What utter woe, despair, and dearth,
Their fate has brought to many a hearth.
Just such a sky as this should weep
Above them, always, where they sleep;
Yet, haply, at this very hour
Their graves are like a lover's bower;
And Nature's self, with eyes unwet,
Oblivious of the crimson debt
To which she owes her April grace,
Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place.

[Footnote 92: A native of South Carolina. He has a fine poetic sentiment, with much beauty of expression, and is an especial favorite in the South.]

* * * * *

=_Susan A. Talley Von Weiss,_=[93] about =_1830-._=

=_417._= THE SEA-SHELL.

Sadly the murmur, stealing
Through the dim windings of the mazy shell,
Seemeth some ocean-mystery concealing
Within its cell.

And ever sadly breathing,
As with the tone of far-off waves at play,
That dreamy murmur through the sea-shell wreathing
Ne'er dies away.

It is no faint replying
Of far-off melodies of wind and wave,
No echo of the ocean billow, sighing
Through gem-lit cave.

It is no dim retaining
Of sounds that through the dim sea-caverns swell
But some lone ocean spirit's sad complaining,
Within that cell.

* * * * *

I languish for the ocean--
I pine to view the billow's heaving crest;
I miss the music of its dream-like motion,
That lulled to rest.

How like art thou, sad spirit,
To many a one, the lone ones of the earth!
Who in the beauty of their souls inherit
A purer birth;

* * * * *

Yet thou, lone child of ocean,
May'st never more behold thine ocean-foam,
While they shall rest from each wild, sad emotion,
And find their home!

[Footnote 93: A native of Virginia; her poetical pieces have been much admired.]

* * * * *

=_Albert Sutliffe,[94] 1830-._=

=_418._= "MAY NOON."

The farmer tireth of his half-day toil,
He pauseth at the plough,
He gazeth o'er the furrow-lined soil,
Brown hand above his brow.

He hears, like winds lone muffled 'mong the hills,
The lazy river run;
From shade of covert woods, the eager rills
Bound forth into the sun.

The clustered clouds of snowy apple-blooms,
Scarce shivered by a breeze,
With odor faint, like flowers in feverish rooms,
Fall, flake by flake, in peace.

'Tis labor's ebb; a hush of gentle joy,
For man, and beast, and bird;
The quavering songster ceases its employ;
The aspen is not stirred.

But Nature hath no pause; she toileth still;
Above the last-year leaves
Thrusts the lithe germ, and o'er the terraced hill
A fresher carpet weaves.

From many veins she sends her gathered streams
To the huge-billowed main,
Then through the air, impalpable as dreams,
She calls them back again.

She shakes the dew from her ambrosial locks,
She pours adown the steep
The thundering waters; in her palm, she rocks
The flower-throned bee to sleep.

Smile in the tempest, faint and fragile man,
And tremble in the calm!
God plainest shows what great. Jehovah can,
In these fair days of balm.

[Footnote 94: A native of Connecticut, but has lived for many years in the West, and latterly in Minnesota.]

* * * * *

=_Elijah E. Edwards,[95] 1831-._=

=_419._= "LET ME REST."

"Let me rest!"
It was the voice of one
Whose life-long journey was but just begun.
With genial radiance shone his morning sun;
The lark sprang up rejoicing from her nest,
To warble praises in her Maker's ear;
The fields were clad in flower-enamelled vest,
And air of balm, and sunshine clear,
Failed not to cheer
That yet unweary pilgrim; but his breast
Was harrowed with a strange, foreboding fear;
Deeming the life to come, at best,
But weariness, he murmured, "Let me rest."

* * * * *

"Let me rest!"
But not at morning's hour,
Nor yet when clouds above my pathway lower;
Let me bear up against affliction's power,
Till life's red sun has sought its quiet west,
Till o'er me spreads the solemn, silent night,
When, having passed the portals of the blessed,
I may repose upon the Infinite,
And learn aright
Why He, the wise, the ever-loving, traced
The path to heaven through a desert waste.
Courage, ye fainting ones! at His behest
Ye pass through labor unto endless rest.

[Footnote 95: Born in Ohio; of late professor of ancient languages in Minnesota; a contributor in prose and verse to various magazines.]

* * * * *

=_Paul Hamilton Hayne,[96] 1831-._=

=_420._= "OCTOBER."

The passionate summer's dead! the sky's aglow
With roseate flushes of matured desire;
The winds at eve are musical and low
As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre,
Far up among the pillared clouds of fire,
Whose pomp in grand procession upward grows,
With gorgeous blazonry of funereal shows,
To celebrate the summer's past renown.
Ah, me! how regally the heavens look down,
O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods,
And harvest-fields with hoarded incense brown,
And deep-toned majesty of golden floods,
That lift their solemn dirges to the sky,
To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.

[Footnote 96: A poet and critic of much Note; a native of South Carolina.]

* * * * *

=_Rosa V. Johnson Jeffrey_=[97] about =_1832-._=

=_421._= ANGEL WATCHERS.

Angel faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my sleep,--
And upon the winds of midnight, shining pinions round me sweep;
Floating downward on the starlight, two bright infant-forms I see--
They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from heaven to visit me.

Earthly children smile upon me, but those little ones' above,
Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother's deathless love,
And, as now they watch my slumber, while their soft eyes on me shine,
God forgive a mortal yearning still to call his angels mine.

Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice can seem
Sweet as those that whisper "Mother!" 'mid the glories of my dream;
Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease perchance to lisp my name;
But my angel babies' accents shall be evermore the same.