Chapter V

The sun goes down, and shadows rest
On the gay scenes by morning blest;
The gathering clouds invest the air--
Yet one bright constant Star is there.
Onward we press, with heavy load,
O'er tangled path and rough'ning road,
For still that Star shines bright before;
But now it sinks, and all is o'er!

The Rose: to Ellen.

The sportive sylphs that course the air,
Unseen on wings that twilight weaves,
Around the opening rose repair,
And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves.

With sparkling cups of bubbles made,
They catch the ruddy beams of day,
And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade,
Their blushing favorite to array.

They gather gems with sunbeams bright,
From floating clouds and falling showers--
They rob Aurora's locks of light
To grace their own fair queen of flowers.

Thus, thus adorned, the speaking Rose,
Becomes a token fit to tell,
Of things that words can ne'er disclose,
And nought but this reveal so well.

Then take my flower, and let its leaves
Beside thy heart be cherished near,
While that confiding heart receives
The thought it whispers to thine ear!

The Maniac.

On a tall cliff that overhung the deep,
A maniac stood. He heeded not the sweep
Of the swift gale that lashed the troubled main,
And spread with showery foam the watery plain.
His reckless foot was on the dizzy line
That edged the rock, impending o'er the brine;
His form was bent, and leaning from the height,
Like the light gull whose wing is stretched for flight.
Far down beneath his feet, the surges broke;
Above his head the pealing thunders spoke;
Around him flashed the lightning's ruddy glare,
And rushing torrents swept along the air.
But nought he heeded, save a gallant sail
That on the sea was wrestling with the gale.
Far on the ocean's billowy verge she hung,
And strove to shun the storm that landward swung.
With many a tack she turned her bending side
To the rude blast, and bravely stemmed the tide.
In vain! the bootless strife with fate is o'er--
And the doomed vessel nears the iron shore.
A mighty bird, she seems, whose wing is rent
By the red shaft from heaven's fierce quiver sent.
Her mast is shivered and her helm is lashed,
Around her prow the kindled waves are dashed--
And as an eagle swooping in its might,
Toward the dark cliff she speeds her headlong flight.
She comes, she strikes! the trembling wave withdraws,
And the hushed elements a moment pause;
Then swelling high above their helpless prey,
The billows burst, and bear the wreck away!

One look to heaven the raptured Maniac cast,
One low breathed murmur from his bosom passed:
'God of the soul and sea! I read thy choice--
Told by the shipwreck and the whirlwind's voice.
In this dread omen I can trace my doom,
And hear thee bid me seek an ocean-tomb.
Like the lost ship my weary mind hath striven
With the wild tempest o'er my spirit driven;
That strife is done--and the dim caverned sea
Of this wrecked bosom must the mansion be.
Thou who canst bid the billows cease to roll,
Oh! smooth a pillow for my weary soul--
Watch o'er the pilgrim in his shadowy sleep,
And send sweet dreams to light the sullen deep!'

Thus spoke the maniac, while above he gazed,
And his pale hands beseechingly upraised;
Then on the viewless wind he swiftly sprung,
And far below his senseless form was flung;
A thin white spray told where he met the wave,
And battling surges thunder o'er his grave!

The Two Shades.

Along that gloomy river's brim,
Where Charon plies the ceaseless oar,
Two mighty Shadows, dusk and dim,
Stood lingering on the dismal shore.
Hoarse came the rugged Boatman's call,
While echoing caves enforced the cry--
And as they severed life's last thrall,
Each Spirit spoke one parting sigh.
"Farewell to earth! I leave a name,
Written in fire, on field and flood--

Wide as the wind, the voice of fame,
Hath borne my fearful tale of blood.
And though across this leaden wave,
Returnless now my spirit haste,
Napoleon's name shall know no grave,
His mighty deeds be ne'er erased.
The rocky Alp, where once was set
My courser's hoof, shall keep the seal,
And ne'er the echo there forget
The clangor of my glorious steel.
Marengo's hill-sides flow with wine--
And summer there the olive weaves,
But busy memory e'er will twine
The blood-stained laurel with its leaves.
The Danube's rushing billows haste
With the black ocean-wave to hide--
Yet is my startling story traced,
In every murmur of its tide.
The pyramid on Giseh's plain,
Its founder's fame hath long forgot--
But from its memory, time, in vain
Shall strive Napoleon's name to blot.
The bannered storm that floats the sky,
With God's red quiver in its fold,
O'er startled realms shall lowering fly,
A type of me, till time is told.
The storm--a thing of weal and woe,
Of life and death, of peace and power--
That lays the giant forest low,
Yet cheers the bent grass with its shower--
That, in its trampled pathway leaves,
The uptorn roots to bud anew,
And where the past o'er ruin grieves,
Bids fresher beauty spring to view:--
The storm--an emblem of my name,--
Shall keep my memory in the skies--
Its flash-wreathed wing, a flag of flame,
Shall spread my glory as it flies."

The Spirit passed, and now alone,
The darker Shadow trod the shore--
Deep from his breast the parting tone
Swept with the wind, the landscape o'er.
"Farewell! I will not speak of deeds,--
For these are written but in sand--
And, as the furrow choked with weeds,
Fade from the memory of the land.
The war-plumed chieftain cannot stay,
To guard the gore his blade hath shed--
Time sweeps the purple stain away,
And throws a veil o'er glory's bed.
But though my form must fade from view.
And Byron bow to fate resigned,--
Undying as the fabled Jew,
Harold's dark spirit stays behind!
And he who yet in after years,
Shall tread the vine-clad shores of Rhine,
In Chillon's gloom shall pour his tears,
Or raptured, see blue Leman shine--
He shall not--cannot, go alone--
Harold unseen shall seek his side:
Shall whisper in his ear a tone,
So seeming sweet, he cannot chide.
He cannot chide; although he feel,
While listening to the magic verse,
A serpent round his bosom steal,
He still shall hug the coiling curse.
Or if beneath Italian skies,
The wanderer's feet delighted glide,
Harold, in merry Juan's guise,
Shall be his tutor and his guide.
One living essence God hath poured
In every heart--the love of sway--
And though he may not wield the sword,
Each is a despot in his way.
The infant rules by cries and tears--
The maiden, with her sunny eyes--
The miser, with the hoard of years--
The monarch, with his clanking ties.
To me the will--the power--were given.
O'er plaything man to weave my spell,
And if I bore him up to heaven,
'Twas but to hurl him down to hell.
And if I chose upon the rack
Of doubt to stretch the tortured mind,
To turn Faith's heavenward footstep back,
Her hope despoiled--her vision, blind--
Or if on Virtue's holy brow,
A wreath of scorn I sought to twine--
And bade her minions mocking bow,
With sweeter vows at pleasure's shrine--
Or if I mirrored to the thought,
With glorious truth the charms of earth,
While yet the trusting fool I taught,
To scoff at Him who gave it birth--
Or if I filled the soul with light,
And bore its buoyant wing in air--
To plunge it down in deeper night,
And mock its maniac wanderings there--
I did but wield the wand of power,
That God intrusted to my clasp,
And not, the tyrant of an hour--
Will I resign it to Death's grasp!
The despot with his iron chain,
In idle bonds the limbs may bind--
He who would hold a sterner reign,
Must twine the links around the mind.
Thus I have thrown upon my race,
A chain that ages cannot rend--
And mocking Harold stays to trace,
The slaves that to my sceptre bend."

The Teacher's Lesson.

I saw a child some four years old,
Along a meadow stray;
Alone she went--unchecked--untold--
Her home not far away.

She gazed around on earth and sky--
Now paused, and now proceeded;
Hill, valley, wood,--she passed them by,
Unmarked, perchance unheeded.

And now gay groups of roses bright,
In circling thickets bound her--
Yet on she went with footsteps light,
Still gazing all around her.

And now she paused, and now she stooped,
And plucked a little flower--
A simple daisy 'twas, that drooped
Within a rosy bower.

The child did kiss the little gem,
And to her bosom pressed it;
And there she placed the fragile stem,
And with soft words caressed it.

I love to read a lesson true,
From nature's open book--
And oft I learn a lesson new,
From childhood's careless look.

Children are simple--loving--true;
'Tis Heaven that made them so;
And would you teach them--be so too--
And stoop to what they know.

Begin with simple lessons--things
On which they love to look:
Flowers, pebbles, insects, birds on wings--
These are God's spelling-book.

And children know His A, B, C,
As bees where flowers are set:
Would'st thou a skilful teacher be?--
Learn, then, this alphabet.

From leaf to leaf, from page to page,
Guide thou thy pupil's look,
And when he says, with aspect sage,
"Who made this wondrous book?"

Point thou with reverent gaze to heaven,
And kneel in earnest prayer,
That lessons thou hast humbly given,
May lead thy pupil there.

Perennials.

Life is a journey, and its fairest flowers
Lie in our path beneath pride's trampling feet;
Oh, let us stoop to virtue's humble bowers,
And gather those, which, faded, still are sweet.

These way-side blossoms amulets are of price;
They lead to pleasure, yet from dangers warn;--
Turn toil to bliss, this earth to Paradise,
And sunset death to heaven's eternal morn.

A good deed done hath memory's blest perfume,--
A day of self-forgetfulness, all given
To holy charity, hath perennial bloom
That goes, undrooping, up from earth to heaven.

Forgiveness, too, will flourish in the skies--
Justice, transplanted thither, yields fair fruit;
And if repentance, borne to heaven, dies,
'Tis that no tears are there to wet its root.

To a Lady who had been Singing.

The spirit-harp within the breast
A spirit's touch alone can know,--
Yet thine the power to wake its rest,
And bid its echoing numbers flow.

Yes,--and thy minstrel art the while,
Can blend the tones of weal and we,
So archly, that the heart may smile,
Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow.

And thus thy wizard skill can weave
Music's soft twilight o'er the breast,
As mingling day and night, at eve,
Robe the far purpling hills for rest.

Thy voice is treasured in my soul,
And echoing memory shall prolong
Those woman tones, whose sweet control
Melts joy and sorrow into song.

The tinted sea-shell, borne away
Far from the ocean's pebbly shore,
Still loves to hum the choral lay,
The whispering mermaid taught of yore.

The hollow cave, that once hath known
Echo's lone voice, can ne'er forget--
But gives--though parting years have flown--
The wild responsive cadence yet.

So shall thy plaintive melody,
Undying, linger in my heart,
Till the last string of memory,
By death's chill finger struck, shall part!

The Broken Heart.

Oh think not with love's soft token,
Or music my heart to thrill--
For its strings--its strings are broken,
And the chords would fain be still!

Oh think not to waken the measure
Of joy on a ruined lute--
Think not to waken pleasure,
Where grief sits mourning and mute.

The pearls that gleam in the billow,
But darken the gloom of the deep--
And laughter plants the pillow
With thorns, where sorrow would sleep.

The gems that gleam on the finger
Of her who is sleeping and cold,
But wring the hearts that linger.
And dream of the love they told.

My bosom is but a grave,
My breast a voiceless choir--
Speak not to the echoless cave,
Touch not the broken lyre!

The Star Of The West.

I.

The cannon is mute and the sword in its sheath--
Uncrimsoned the banner floats joyous and fair:
Yet beauty is twining an evergreen wreath,
And the voice of the minstrel is heard on the air.
Are these for the glory encircling a crown--
A phantom evoked but by tyranny's breath?
Are these for the conqueror's vaunted renown--
All ghastly with gore, and all tainted with death?
Bright Star of the West--broad Land of the Free,
The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!

II.

When Tyranny came, his fierce lions aloft
Told the instinct that burned in his cohorts of mail--
But our eagles swooped down, and the battle-field oft,
Was the grave of the foeman,--stern, ghastly and pale.
The cloud of the strife rolled darkly away--
And the carnage-fed wolves slunk back to their den--
While Peace shone around like the god of the day,
And shed her blest light on the children of men.
Bright Star of the West--broad Land of the Free!
The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!

III.

Thus Liberty dawned from the midnight of years;
And here rose her altar. Oh kneel at her shrine!
Her blessings unnumbered--ye children of tears,
Whatever be thy Fatherland--lo they are thine!
In faith and in joy, let us cherish the light,
That comes like the sunshine all warm from above,
For thus shall the Demons that sprung from the night
Of the Past fade away in the noontide of love.
Bright Star of the West--broad Land of the Free,
The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!

IV.

Stern Seer of the future, thy curtain unroll,
And show to long ages our empire of peace--
Where man never bent to the despot's control,
And the spirit of liberty never shall cease.
Our Stars and our Stripes 'mid battle's loud thunder,
Were bound by our sires in the wedlock of love--
Oh! ne'er shall the spirit of strife put asunder,
The UNION thus hallowed by spirits above.
Bright Star of the West--broad Land of the Free,
The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!

The Outcast.