Chapter I: Preface

In introducing this volume to the Public, the Author would simply remark, that it was written at different periods of a college life, which has just expired; (the Scripture Sketches at a very early part of it.) He has no intention of screening its faults, either of feeling or style, beneath his ‘score of summers;’ but as prefaces are the fashion, he has thought the mention of the fact would not be amiss in the promotion of a proper understanding between himself and his readers.

CONTENTS.

SKETCHES.

The Sacrifice of Abraham 9 Absalom 14 Hagar in the Wilderness 20 Jephthah’s Daughter 26 Idleness 32 Dreams 34 October 38 Boyhood 41 Night Sketches 44 Twilight 49 Dawn 51 Scraps from a Journal 53 Better Moments 61 The Hindoo Mother 65 Waiting for the Harvesters 75

FUGITIVE PIECES.

The Soldier’s Widow 79 The Burial of Arnold 81 To Laura W---- 84 Sonnets 87, 88, 89 Extract from a Poem Delivered at the Departure of the Senior Class of Yale College in 1826 90 Notes 95

SKETCHES.

THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM.

Morn breaketh in the east. The purple clouds
Are putting on their gold and violet,
To look the meeter for the sun’s bright coming.
Sleep is upon the waters and the wind;
And nature, from the tremulous forest leaf
To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet
There is no mist upon the deep blue sky,
And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms
Of crimson roses, in a holy rest.
How hallowed is the hour of morning! meet,
Aye, beautifully meet, for the pure prayer.

The patriarch standeth at his tented door,
With his white locks uncovered. ’Tis his wont
To gaze upon the gorgeous orient;
And at that hour the awful majesty
Of one who talketh often with his God,
Is wont to come again and clothe his brow
As at his fourscore strength. But now he seemeth
To be forgetful of his vigorous frame,
And boweth to his staff as at the hour
Of noontide sultriness; and that bright sun!
He looketh at its pencilled messengers,
Coming in golden raiment, as if light
Were opening a fearful scroll in heaven.
Ah! he is waiting till it herald in
The hour to sacrifice his much loved son!

Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands,
Watching the steps of Abraham and her child
Along the dewy sides of the far hills,
And praying that her sunny boy faint not.
Would she have watched their path so silently,
If she had known that he was going up,
Even in his fair-haired beauty, to be slain
As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod
Together onward, patriarch and child;
The bright sun throwing back the old man’s shade,
In straight and fair proportions, as of one
Erect in early vigor. He stood up
Firm in his better strength, and like a tree
Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not.
His thin, white hairs had yielded to the wind,
And left his brow uncovered; and his face,
Impressed with the stern majesty of grief,
Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth
Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime.
But the young boy, he of the laughing eye
And ruby lip, the pride of life was on him.
He seemed to drink the morning. Sun and dew,
And the aroma of the spicy trees,
And all that giveth the delicious East
Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light
Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts
With love and beauty. Every thing he met,
Floating or beautiful, the lightest wing
Of bird or insect, or the palest dye
Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path;
And joyously broke forth his tiny shout,
As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung
Away to some green spot or clustering vine,
To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree
And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place,
And he would crouch till the old man came by,
Then bound before him with his childish laugh,
Stealing a look behind him playfully,
To see if he had made his father smile.

The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up
Like a light veil from nature, and the heat
Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves,
And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams.
Still trod the patriarch on with that same step,
Firm and unfaltering, turning not aside
To seek the olive shades, or lave his lips
In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells,
Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness
Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot
To toss his sunny hair from off his brow,
And spring for the light wings and gaudy flowers,
As in the early morning; but he kept
Close by his father’s side, and bent his head
Upon his bosom like a drooping bud,
Lifting it not, save now and then to steal
A look up to the face whose sternness awed
His childishness to silence.

It was noon;
And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself,
And buried up his face, and prayed for strength.
He could not look upon his son and pray;
But with his hand upon the clustering curls
Of the fair, kneeling boy, he prayed that God
Would nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was made
For the stern conflict. In a mother’s love
There is more tenderness; the thousand cords
Woven with every fibre of her heart,
Complain, like delicate harp strings, at a breath;
But love in man is one deep principle,
Which, yielding not to lighter influence,
Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid
The wood upon the altar. All was done.
He stood a moment, and a vivid flush
Passed o’er his countenance; and then he nerved
His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke:
‘Isaac! my only son!’ The boy looked up,
And Abraham turned his face away, and wept.
‘Where is the lamb, my father?’ Oh! the tones,
The sweet, the thrilling music of a child!
How it doth agonize at such an hour!
It was the last, deep struggle. Abraham held
His loved, his beautiful, his only son,
And lifted up his arm, and called on God--
And lo! God’s Angel stayed him; and he fell
Upon his face and wept.

ABSALOM.

The waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung low
On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still
Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream. The willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way
And leaned in graceful attitudes to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a perfect world!

King David’s limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem, and now he stood
With his faint people for a little rest
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner’s covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full, when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery, how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently; he prayed for those
Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones
Grew tremulous; but oh! for Absalom!
For his estranged, misguided Absalom--
The proud, bright being who had burst away,
In all his princely beauty, to defy
The heart that cherished him--for him he poured,
In agony that would not be controlled,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The hosts were numbered. At Mahanaim’s gate
Sat David, as the glittering thousands passed
Forth to the battle. With a troubled eye
He looked upon their pomp, and as the helms
Bent low before him, and the banners swayed
Like burnished wings to do him reverence,
His look grew restless, and he did not wear
The lofty sternness of a monarch’s brow.
The leader of the host came by. His form
Was like a son of Anak, and he strode
Majestically on, and bore his crest
As men were waters, and his frame a rock.
The king rose up to Joab, and came near,
As his tall helm was bowed; and by the love
He bore his master, he besought him there
That he would spare him Absalom alive.
He passed with his stern warriors on; the trump
And the loud cymbal died upon the ear;
And as the king turned off his weary gaze,
The last faint gleam had vanished, and the wood
Of Ephraim had received a thousand men,
To whom its pleasant shadows were a grave.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now
As when in hours of gentle dalliance bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid
Reversed beside him; and the jewelled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested like mockery on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle, and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside his bier
And gazed upon the dark pall stedfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command
In a low tone to his few followers,
And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe.

‘Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

‘Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill
When to my bosom I would try to press thee;
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet “My Father!” from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!

‘The grave hath won thee; I shall hear the gush
Of music and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!

‘And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart
Like a bruised reed is waiting to be broken;
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Long for thine ear to catch its dying token!
It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!

‘And now farewell! ’tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee.
And thy dark sin--oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee--
May God have called thee like a wanderer home,
My erring Absalom!’

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
About him decently, and left him there
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.

The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds
With a strange beauty. Earth received again
Its garment of a thousand dies; and leaves,
And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers,
And every thing that bendeth to the dew,
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.

All things are dark to sorrow; and the light
And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad
To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth
Was pouring odors from its spicy pores,
And the young birds were caroling as life
Were a new thing to them; but oh! it came
Upon her heart like discord, and she felt
How cruelly it tries a broken heart,
To see a mirth in any thing it loves.
She stood at Abraham’s tent. Her lips were pressed
Till the blood left them; and the wandering veins
Of her transparent forehead, were swelled out,
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven,
Which made its language legible, shot back
From her long lashes, as it had been flame.
Her noble boy stood by her with his hand
Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet,
Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor,
Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up
Into his mother’s face until he caught
The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling
Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form
Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath,
As if his light proportions would have swelled,
Had they but matched his spirit, to the man.

Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now
Upon his staff so wearily? His beard
Is low upon his breast, and his high brow,
So written with the converse of his God,
Beareth the swollen vein of agony.
His lip is quivering, and his wonted step
Of vigor is not there, and though the morn
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes
Its freshness as it were a pestilence.
Oh! man may bear with suffering; his heart
Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp
Of pain that wrings mortality; but tear
One cord affection clings to, part one tie
That binds him to a woman’s delicate love,
And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed.

He gave to her the water and the bread,
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself
To look upon her face, but laid his hand
In silent blessing on the fair-haired boy,
And left her to her lot of loneliness.

Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn,
And as a vine the oak hath shaken off,
Bend lightly to her tendencies again?
Oh no! by all her loveliness, by all
That makes life poetry and beauty, no!
Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek
By needless jealousies; let the last star
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain;
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all
That makes her cup a bitterness--yet give
One evidence of love, and earth has not
An emblem of devotedness like hers.
But oh! estrange her once, it boots not how,
By wrong or silence, any thing that tells
A change has come upon your tenderness--
And there is not a high thing out of heaven
Her pride o’ermastereth not.

She went her way with a strong step and slow;
Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed,
As it had been a diamond, and her form
Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through.
Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed
His hand till it was pained; for he had caught,
As I have said, her spirit, and the seed
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.

The morning past, and Asia’s sun rode 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 opened his parched 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 farther 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 wast 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.

‘Oh no! and when I watched 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 deep Nile,
How prayed I that my fathers’ 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 oh! my last caress
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy, so pillowed 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 laughed
In his reviving happiness, and lisped
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother’s hand.

JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER.

She stood before her father’s gorgeous tent,
To listen for his coming. Her loose hair
Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud
Floating around a statue, and the wind,
Just swaying her light robe, revealed a shape
Praxiteles might worship. She had clasped
Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised
Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven,
Till the long lashes laid upon her brow.
Her lip was slightly parted, like the leaves
Of a half-blown pomegranate; and her neck,
Just where the cheek was melting to its curve,
With the unearthly beauty sometimes there,
Was shaded as if light had fallen off,
Its surface was so polished. She was quelling
Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose
Scarce moved upon her bosom as it swelled,
Like nothing but a wave of light in dreams,
To meet the arching of her queenly neck.
Her countenance was radiant with love.
She looked like one to die for it; a being
Whose whole existence was the pouring out
Of rich and deep affections. I have thought
A brother’s and a sister’s love was much.
I know a brother’s is, for I have loved
A trusting sister; and I know how broke
The heart may be with its own tenderness.
But the affection of a delicate child
For a fond father, gushing as it does
With the sweet springs of life, and living on
Through all earth’s changes like a principle,
Chastened with reverence, and made more pure
By early discipline of light and shade,--
It must be holier!

The wind bore on
The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes
Rang sharply on the ear at intervals;
And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts
Returning from the battle, poured from far,
Like the deep murmur of a restless sea.
They came, as earthly conquerors always come,
With blood and splendor, revelry and woe.
The stately horse treads proudly; he hath trod
The brow of death, as well. The chariot wheels
Of warriors roll magnificently on;
Their weight hath crushed the fallen. Man is there;
Majestic, lordly man, with his serene
And elevated brow and godlike frame,
Lifting his crest in triumph, for his heel
Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down!

The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on
Through Mizpeh’s streets. His helm was proudly set,
And his stern lip curled slightly, as if praise
Were for the hero’s scorn. His step was firm,
But free as India’s leopard; and his mail,
Whose shekels none in Israel might bear,
Was lighter than a tassel on his frame.
His crest was Judah’s kingliest, and the look
Of his dark, lofty eye and terrible brow,
Might quell the lion. He led on; but thoughts
Seemed gathering round which troubled him. The veins
Upon his forehead were distinctly seen;
And his proud lip was painfully compressed.
He trod less firmly; and his restless eye
Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill
He dared not meet, were there. His home was near;
And men were thronging, with that strange delight
They have in human passions, to observe
The struggle of his feelings with his pride.
He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs
Before his tent were motionless. The leaves
Of the spiced aloe, and the clustering vines
Which half concealed his threshold, met his eye
Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one,
The balsam with its sweet-distilling stems,
And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd
Of silent and familiar things, stole up
Like the recovered passages of dreams.
He strode on rapidly. A moment more,
And he had reached his home; when lo! there sprang
One with a bounding footstep, and a brow
Like light, to meet him. Oh! how beautiful!
Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem,
And her luxuriant hair--’twas like the sweep
Of a swift wing in visions! He stood still,
As if the sight had withered him. She threw
Her arms about his neck; he heeded not.
She called him ‘Father,’ but he answered not.
She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth?
There was no anger in that bloodshot eye.
Had sickness seized him? She unclasped his helm,
And laid her white hand gently on his brow,
And the large veins felt stiff and hard like cords.
The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands
And spoke the name of God in agony.
She knew that he was stricken, then, and rushed
Again into his arms, and with a flood
Of tears she could not bridle, sobbed a prayer
That he would tell her of his wretchedness.
He told her, and a momentary flush
Shot o’er her countenance; and then the soul
Of Jephthah’s daughter wakened, and she stood
Calmly and nobly up, and said ‘’Tis well--
And I will die!’

The sun had well nigh set.
The fire was on the altar, and the priest
Of the High God was there. A wasted man
Was stretching out his withered hands to heaven,
As if he would have prayed, but had no words;
And she who was to die--the calmest one
In Israel at that hour--stood up alone
And waited for the sun to set. Her face
Was pale, but very beautiful; her lip
Had a more delicate outline, and the tint
Was deeper; but her countenance was like
The majesty of angels!--The sun set,
And she was dead, but not by violence.

IDLENESS.

It was a leisure day, and I had shut
My door upon intrusion, and set down
With a true book to read. My study fire
Made music to my ear; the placid brow
Of my Madonna, and the shadowy tints
Of an old Flemish picture that I keep,
Might pass for company; and for relief
To weary eyes, a sweet geranium stood
In the half shuttered window, breathing out
Its odors with the pleasant smell of books;
And a soft landscape, given me by one
Who has a noble nature, hung in light,
Serving me as a ground for poetry.

I read a tale of Séville. It was when
Darkness was over Spain, and Christian hearts
Were standing out for truth, undauntedly.
The daily light brought martyrdom, and men
Of a pure life went faithfully to die,
For the rich hope hereafter. There was set
A scaffold on the ‘golden Guadalquivir;’
And in the greenest valley of the land,
With its bright shore and water tempting them
Like an affection, did they meekly die.
Nobles as just men perished, where their sires
Held the chivalric tournament; and one
Whose ancestors had been Castilia’s kings,
Died calmly. He had loved to come alone
And watch that stealing river, and ’tis told
That when the axe fell frequently, he went
Ever at evening there, that he might look
Upon its bloody evidence, and nerve
His spirit to the trial.

’Tis a tale
Of high and manly fortitude, and one
To elevate the nobler nature. I
Have told it to defend my idle time,
And prove that a companionship with books
Betters the spirit, and that gliding back
Upon these by-past histories reveals
Perfect example, and may teach sometimes,
How noble and how beautiful appears
The finer temper of humanity.

DREAMS.

‘I know it is dark; and though I have lain
Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,
I have not once opened the lids of my eyes,
But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.’
Coleridge.

And what is it to dream? It is to have
A spiritual being. ’Tis to loose
Th’ unsleeping mind from matter, and believe
Miraculous and godlike gifts our own.
It is to touch all nature with the wand
Of faery, and be true and beautiful
Amid a truer and more beautiful world.
It is to need no contrast that the light
About us may be visible, and joy
Mistaken not for sorrow. ’Tis to love
Dark eyes, and tones like a _secondo_ flute,
And then be irresistible; and living
In a sweet granite home, to find your love
The angel that she seemed in poetry.

And what is it to dream? It is to know
The talisman of motion, and soar on
To the high places of the upper air,
Like a superior spirit. ’Tis to glide
Out upon chainless wanderings, unchecked
By time, or distance, or the circumstance
Of waking reason. ’Tis to weave long years
Of a still, midnight hour, or crowd a life
Into a glowing moment; and amid
The measure and the harmony that float
About us like an element, to find
Ithuriel’s whisper--but a breakfast bell!

There’s purity in dreams. The passions lie,
With the dull qualities of earth, asleep;
And the low interests of life are changed
For the etherial vision. We erase
Dark feelings with fantastic incident;
And feel cool fingers laid upon the brow
Where the hot flush is burning. We retrace
All early time in dreams; and hear the low,
Deep cadences of prayer, and press the hand
That led us to our happy slumbers then.
We look on riper seasons with the eye
That painted them all sunshine, and forget
That we have found them shadows; and we trust
Life’s broken reed as lightly, and repeat
Our first young vow as movingly, again.
Such dreams refresh the feelings, like a pure
And high communion; for the spirit wears
No fetter of a poor, particular world,
And waits no cold and selfish reasoning,
To measure out its fervor; but goes back
Upon the purer memories, and lives o’er
The brighter past, alone; and when the heart
Hath buried an affection, it unclothes
Its image from the drapery of the grave,
And wins it to its olden tenderness.

I’ve read of one in story, who had laid
His young love in the grave. The seasons came
And went, like shadows over him, for years;
And then the world grew brighter, and he heard
A melody in nature’s goings on;
And a sweet cousin’s voice, that tempted him
Into the sunshine and the air, became
The music of his happiness, and so
He married her. One night she was awake,
And gazing on his features as the moon
Shone through the casement on them. A large tear
Stole from his eye, and as his lips were stirred
With the low murmur of his dream, she caught
The name of the departed. He awoke,
And she reproached him tearfully for love
Kept secret in his heart; and then he kissed
Her tears away, and told her that his love
Was faithfully her own, although in dreams
An angel came to him sometimes, and woke
A buried thought of one as beautiful.

OCTOBER.

‘----To the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering the whole spirit.’
Coleridge.

Summer has pleasant seasons, and the spring
Comes gaily on the senses; and ’tis sweet
To know the places of the shadiest trees,
And hunt the scented violet; but when these
Have mellowed into autumn, and the flowers
Sleep in their fragrant places, ’tis to me
A pleasanter and purer time to give
Close thought to its forgetfulness, and stray
By the serenest wave and greenest grass.

October had come in and I went forth
To breathe an air like June, and feel the nerve
Of the elastic temper which a frost
Gives to the sunshine. The transparent veil
Of morning’s exhalations had rolled up
Into white, silvery streakings, and the sky
Looked perfectly and deeply blue between,
Like a fixed element, and birds went up
And sang invisibly, the heavenly air
Wooed them above the earth so temptingly.
I never knew the streams so musical,
Or saw them half so clear; and for the leaves--
The maples were just turned, and brighter trees
Were never by the forest pencil drawn.
The hill-sides seemed to slumber, the warm sun
Shone on their slopes so softly; and I knew
One that was carpeted with moss, and leant
To the warm south so fitly, you would look
To find Endymion sleeping. ’Twas indeed
A pleasant place, and when I came to it
And told her, (did I say I was alone?)
That it was faery all, and only made
For her own lovely rest, she laughingly
Proclaimed herself a queen, and with the leaves
Bound her transparent temples for a crown,
And bade me kneel, and she would grant my boon
To half her fairy kingdom.

Could I paint
Her picture then! paint her voluptuous lip,
With its sweet curl of pride; the shaded eye
In its dark liquid lustre; the fair brow
With its light wandering veins, and raven braid
Contrasting with its whiteness; the faint blush
Upon her cheek, of maiden modesty,
And the rich outline, melting into grace,
Of her unmatched proportions; over all,
Could I but make the picture eloquent
With the deep, reedy music of her tone,
Or lend to you the golden leaf which bears
The sketch within my memory, you would know
How fairer than the summer, or the spring,
Should the October season seem to me.

BOYHOOD.

‘I was a boy; and she was fair
As you are when you smile,
And her voice came forth like the summer air,
With a tone that did beguile,
And her two blue eyes refreshing were
As two trees on an Indian isle.’
Etonian.

I love fresh feelings--it is so unlike
This olden world to meet them; and they come
Upon my heart like music so, or like
Some passage that is new in poetry.

I walked one eve by moonlight. I had seen
Some fourteen summers, and my cyphering
Was all the thought I had; and as the world
Had come to me so pleasantly, I took
A wayward temper for my manual,
And kept it to the letter. It was now
A mellow eve of summer, and a girl,
Who laughed forever like the birds and had
Long eyelashes and very dangerous eyes,
Was leaning on my arm. I did not know
I was in love; but it seemed natural
To think of all she said, and she’d a way
Of coming to one’s dreams; and then her name
Was always in the lesson like a word,
And half the time I studied it. This eve
We had been very gay, and I had watched
The deep, half shaded dimple in her cheek,
Till I forgot to answer; and as she
Of too much mirth grew serious, I began
To act the lover playfully. My cap
Was carelessly thrown back, and on my cheek
I shook some dew for tears, and as she curled
Her lip in mimic scorn, I knelt to her,
And begged for her sweet favor, touchingly.
She answered coldly first, and then relented,
As wiser maids have done; but with a look
Of something so like earnest, that I did
Her hand some violence; and then she blushed
And said I must not tell, but ladies’ lips,
By some, were counted prettier.

The moon
Shone just as soberly, and I went home
And kept the secret; but I do not know
That she would let me touch the seal again.

NIGHT SKETCHES.

‘----Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstacies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember----.’
Wordsworth.