<emph rend="bold">Poems: Descriptive, Dramatic, Legendary and Contemplative, by William Gilmore Simms, Esq. In Two Volumes: Vol. II. I. Southern Passages and Pictures; II. Historical and Dramatic Sketches; III. Scripture Legends; IV. Francesca Da Rimini:</emph> Electronic Edition.

]> <emph rend="bold">Poems: Descriptive, Dramatic, Legendary and Contemplative, by William Gilmore Simms, Esq. In Two Volumes: Vol. II. I. Southern Passages and Pictures; II. Historical and Dramatic Sketches; III. Scripture Legends; IV. Francesca Da Rimini:</emph> Electronic Edition. Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870. Funding from the University of North Carolina Library supported the electronic publication of this title. Text transcribed by Apex Data Services, Inc. Images scanned by Brian Deitz Text encoded by Apex Data Services, Inc., and Sarah Ficke First edition, 2006 ca. 620K University Library, UNC-Chapel Hill University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2006.

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Poems: Descriptive, Dramatic, Legendary and Contemplative, by William Gilmore Simms, Esq. In Two Volumes: Vol. II. I. Southern Passages and Pictures; II. Historical and Dramatic Sketches; III. Scripture Legends; IV. Francesca Da Rimini Simms' Poetical Works Vol. II. Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870. [5], 6-360, [361-372] p. Charleston, S. C. Published By John Russell 1853 Call number PS2845 .P6 1853 (Rare Book Collection, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)

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POEMS DESCRIPTIVE, DRAMATIC, LEGENDARY AND CONTEMPLATIVE BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ. IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. II. I. SOUTHERN PASSAGES AND PICTURES II. HISTORICAL AND DRAMATIC SKETCHES III. SCRIPTURE LEGENDS IV. FRANCESCA DA RIMINI CHARLESTON, S. C. PUBLISHED BY JOHN RUSSELL 1853 ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, By W. GILMORE SIMMS. in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. SOUTHERN PASSAGES AND PICTURES. FLIGHT TO NATURE. SICK of the crowd, the toil, the strife, Sweet Nature, how I turn to thee, Seeking for renovated life, By brawling brook and shady tree! I knew thy rocks had spells of old, To soothe the wanderer's woe to calm, And in thy waters, clear and cold, My fev'rish brow would seek for balm. I've bent beneath thy ancient oak, And sought for slumber in its shade, And, as the clouds above me broke, I dream'd to find the boon I pray'd; For light—a blessed light—was given, Wide streaming round me from above, And in the deep, deep vaults of heaven, There shone, methought, a look of love. And, through the long, long summer hours, When every bird had won its wing, How sweet to think, amidst thy flowers, That youth might yet renew its spring;— That sacred season of the heart, When every pulse with hope is strong, And, still untaught by selfish art, Truth fears no guile, and love no wrong. And who, but nature's self, could yield The blessing in the prayer I made, Throned in her realm of wood and field, Of rocky realm and haunted shade? Who, but that magic queen, whose sway Drives winter from his path of strife, Whilst all her thousand fingers play, With bud and bird, in games of life! With these a kindred life I ask,— Not wealth that mortals vainly seek; But, in heaven's sunshine let me bask, My heart as glowing as my cheek;— An idle heart, that would not heed That chiding voice, when duty comes, To drag the soul, but freshly freed, Back to cold toils and weary glooms. No lure she finds in mortal schemes, Which wiser fancies still reprove,— Far happier in her woodland dreams, With one sweet teacher, taught by love! Thou, Nature, that magician be, Restore each dream that taught the boy, That warm'd his hope, that made him free, While wisdom took the shape of joy; And I will bless thee with a song, As fond as hers, that idle bird, That sings above me all day long, As if she knew I watch'd and heard. THE BROOKLET. A LITTLE farther on there is a brook, Where the breeze loiters ever. The great oaks Have roof'd it with their arms and affluent leaves, So that the sunbeam rifles not its fount, While the shade cools it. You may hear it now, A low faint murmur, as through pebbly paths, In soft and sinuous progress it flows on, In streams that make division as they go, Still parting, still uniting, in one song, The sweetest mortals know, of constancy. Thither, ah, thither, if thy heart be sad!— That song will bring thee solace. Or, if hope That may not yet find name for what it seeks, Inspires thee with a dream whose essence brings Fruition in its keeping,—still, the strain That's murmur'd by yon brooklet, is the best,— Having a voice for fancy at its birth, That keeps it wakeful on its own sweet wings. And thou wilt gather, for whatever mood That makes thee fond or thoughtful, a sweet tone Beguiling thy best sympathies, and still Leaving in thy keeping, as thou seek'st thy home, A kindlier sense of what is in thy path. Beside these banks, through the whole livelong day, Ere yet I noted much the flight of time, And knew him but in ballad books and songs, Nor cared to know him better,—I have lain, Nursing delicious reveries that made All being but a circle of bright flowers, With love the centre, sov'ran of that realm, And I a happy inmate, with the rest. There, with sweet thoughts, all liquid like the stream That still inspired their progress, clear and bright, I lay as one who slept, through happy hours, Unvex'd by din of duty, unrebuked By chiding counsellor to youthful cares, That ever seeks to plant on boyish brow The winter that has silver'd all its own. And thus, in long delight, with the rapt soul Shaping its own elysium of the peace That harbor'd in the solitude, the eye Grew momently familiar with sweet forms, That offer'd to the genius of the place, Making all consecrate to gentleness. How came the thrush to whistle as he drank, Heeding not me, and darting through the copse, Only to bring his loved one on his wing, To gather like refreshment? Squirrels dropt Their nuts adown the bankside where I lay, And, leaping to recover them, ere yet They rolled into the brooklet and away, Swept over me, and with fantastic play Drew up the feathery brush above their heads,— And their gray orbs, with bright intelligence, Cast round them, while from hand to hand they frisk'd The prize, which none might covet but to feed Such nimble harlequins. The dove at noon Couch'd in thick bristly covering of the pine, Sought here its sweet siesta, wooing sleep, By plaintive iteration of sad notes, That might be still a sensible happiness:— And sometimes, meek intruder on my realm, Through yonder thick emerging, half in light And half in shadow, stole the timid fawn, That came down to the basin's edge to drink, Now lapping, and now turning to the bank, Cropping the young blade of the coming spring And heedless, as I lay along unstirr'd, Of any stranger—sauntering through the shade, Even where I crouch'd,—having a quiet mood, And not disturbing, while beholding mine. Thou smil'st; and on thy lip the speaking thought Looks still like censure—deems my hours misspent, And saddens into warning. A shrewd thought, I will not combat with an argument, But leave the worldly policy to boast, That such an errantry as this life of mine, Hath found its fit sarcasm, well rebuked. And yet there is a something in the life Thou mock'st, as idle still and profligate, Something to life compensative, and dear To feelings that are fashion'd not by man. Ah! the delicious sadness of the hours, Spent by this brooklet—ah! the dreams they brought, Of other hopes and beings—the sweet truths, That still subdued the heart to patientness, And made all flexible in the youthful will, That else had been most passionate and rash. I know the toils that gather on my path, And I will grapple them with a strength that shows A love for the encounter, not the less For hours thus wasted in the solitude, And fancies born of dreams—and 'twill not more Impair the resolute courage of my heart, Wrestling with toil, in conflicts of the race, If still, in pauses of the fight, I dream Of this dear idlesse,—gazing on that brook So sweet in shade, thus singing on its way, Like some dear child, all thoughtless, as it goes From shadow into sunlight and is lost. SABBATH IN THE FOREST. 1. FREEDOM OF THE SABBATH. LET us escape! This is our holiday— God's day, devote to rest; and, through the wood We'll wander, and, perchance, find heavenly food: So, profitless, it shall not pass away. 'Tis life, but with sweet difference, methinks, Here, in the forest;—from the crowd set free, The spirit, like escaping song-bird, drinks Fresh sense of music from its liberty. Thoughts crowd about us with the trees—the shade Holds teachers that await us: in our ear, Unwonted, but sweet voices do we hear, That with rare excellence of tongue persuade: They do not chide our idlesse,—were content, If all our walks were half so innocent. FLOWERS AND TREES. MARCH is profuse in violets—at our feet They cluster,—not in pride, but modesty; The damsel pauses as she passes by, Plucks them with smiles, and calls them very sweet. But such beguile me not! The trees are mine, These hoary-headed masters;—and I glide, Humbled, beneath their unpresuming pride, And wist not much what blossoms bud or shine. I better love to see you grandsire oak, Old Druid-patriarch, lone among his race,— With blessing, out-stretch'd arms, as giving grace When solemn rites are said, or bread is broke: Decay is at his roots,—the storm has been Among his limbs,—but the old top is green. 3. THE SAME SUBJECT. THE pine with its green honors; cypress gray, Bedded in waters; crimsoning with bloom The maple, that, irreverently gay, Too soon, methinks, throws off his winter gloom; The red bud, lavish in its every spray, Glowing with promise of the exulting spring; And over all, the laurel, like some king, Conscious of strength and stature, born for sway. I care not for their species—never look For class or order in pedantic book,— Enough that I behold them—that they lead To meek retreats of solitude and thought, Declare me from the world's day-labors freed, And bring me tidings books have never brought. 4. RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. THE mighty and the massy of the wood Compel my worship: satisfied I lie, With naught in sight but forest, earth, and sky, And give sweet sustenance to precious mood!— 'Tis thus from visible but inanimate things, We gather mortal reverence. They declare In silence, a persuasion we must share, Of hidden sources, spiritual springs, Fountains of deep intelligence, and powers, That man himself implores not; and I grow From wonder into worship, as the show, Majestic, but unvoiced, through noteless hours, Imposes on my soul, with musings high, That, like Jacob's Ladder, lifts them to the sky! 5. SOLACE OF THE WOODS. WOODS, waters, have a charm to soothe the ear, When common sounds have vex'd it. When the day Grows sultry, and the crowd is in thy way, And working in thy soul much coil and care— Betake thee to the forests. In the shade Of pines, and by the side of purling streams That prattle all their secrets in their dreams, Unconscious of a listener—unafraid— Thy soul shall feel their freshening, and the truth Of nature then, reviving in thy heart, Shall bring thee the best feelings of thy youth, When in all natural joys thy joy had part, Ere lucre and the narrowing toils of trade Had turn'd thee to the thing thou wast not made. 6. POETRY OF THE FOREST. THESE haunts are sacred,—for the vulgar mood Loves not seclusion. Here the very day Seems in a Sabbath dreaminess to brood: The groves breathe slumber—the great tree-tops sway Drowsily, with the idle-going wind; And sweetest images before my mind Persuade me into pleasure with their play. Here, fancies of the present and the past Delight to mingle, 'till the palpable seems Inseparate from the glory in my dreams, And golden with the halo round it cast; Thus do I live with Rosalind, thus stray With Jacques; and churning o'er some native rhyme, Persuade myself it smacks of the old time. THE LOST PLEIAD. I. NOT in the sky, Where it was seen So long in eminence of light serene,— Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave, Nor down, in mansions of the hidden deep, Though beautiful in green And crystal, its great caves of mystery,— Shall the bright watcher have Her place, and, as of old, high station keep! II. Gone! gone! Oh! never more, to cheer The mariner, who holds his course alone On the Atlantic, through the weary night, When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep, Shall it again appear, With the sweet-loving certainty of light, Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep! III. The upward-looking shepherd on the hills Of Chaldea, night-returning, with his flocks, He wonders why his beauty doth not blaze, Gladding his gaze,— And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous ways! How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze, Much wondering, while the drowsy silence fills The sorrowful vault!—how lingers, in the hope that night May yet renew the expected and sweet light, So natural to his sight! IV. And lone, Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone, Brood the once happy circle of bright stars: How should they dream, until her fate was known, That they were ever confiscate to death? That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars, And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, That they should fall from high; Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die,— All their concerted springs of harmony Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone! V. Ah! still the strain Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky; The sister stars, lamenting in their pain That one of the selectest ones must die,— Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest! Alas! 'tis ever thus the destiny. Even Rapture's song hath evermore a tone Of wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone. The hope most precious is the soonest lost, The flower most sweet is first to feel the frost. Are not all short-lived things the loveliest? And, like the pale star, shooting down the sky, Look they not ever brightest, as they fly From the lone sphere they blest! FIRST DAY OF SPRING. OH! thou bright and beautiful day, First bright day of the virgin spring, Bringing the slumbering life into play, Giving the leaping bird his wing. Thou art round me now in all thy hues, Thy robe of green, and thy scented sweets, In thy bursting buds, in thy blessing dews, In every form that my footstep meets. I hear thy voice in the lark's clear note, In the cricket's chirp at the evening hour; In the zephyr's sighs that around me float, In the breathing bud and the opening flower. I see thy forms o'er the parting earth, In the tender shoots of the grassy blade, In the thousand plants that spring to birth, On the valley's side in the home of shade. I feel thy promise in all my veins, They bound with a feeling long suppress'd, And, like a captive who breaks his chains, Leap the glad hopes in my heaving breast. There are life and joy in thy coming, Spring, Thou hast no tidings of gloom and death, But buds thou shakest from every wing, And sweets thou breathest with every breath. BALLAD. BY the brooklet, grove and meadow, Where together once we stray'd, Do I wander, fond as ever, Haunting still each secret shade; And, that thus content I wander, Where such precious joys were mine, Do I know that thou art with me, And my spirit walks with thine. In the murmur of the brooklet, Still thy well-known voice I hear, And the whisper in the tree-top, Tells me that thy form is near; Thou hast left me, at departing, All that earth could never take, And, still comforted, I wander Through these shadows for thy sake. Were I guilty of a passion Which thy beauty could survive, Still I feel thy gentle presence Must the earthly fancy shrive; And, discoursing with thy spirit, Oh! I feel that earth has naught To compensate the forgetting Of the sweetness thou hast taught. SONNET.—BY THE SWANANNOA. Is it not lovely, while the day flows on Like some unnoticed water through the vale, Sun-sprinkled,—and, across the fields, a gale, Ausonian, murmurs out an idle tale, Of groves deserted late, but lately won? How calm the silent mountains, that, around, Bend their blue summits, as if group'd to hear Some high ambassador from foreign ground,— To hearken, and, most probably, confound! While, leaping onward, with a voice of cheer, Glad as some schoolboy ever on the bound, The lively Swanannoa sparkles near;— A flash and murmur mark him as he roves, Now foaming white o'er rocks, now glimpsing soft through groves. TO TIME. GRAY monarch of the waste of years, Mine eyes have told thy steps in tears, Yet yield I not to feeble fears, In watching now thy flight: The pangs that follow'd still thy blow Have lost their edge with frequent woe, And stronger must the courage grow That's fed by constant fight. The neck long used to weighty yoke, The tree once shiver'd by the stroke, The heart by frequent torture broke— These fear no later blight. Oh! mine hath been a mournful song,— My neck hath felt the burden long,— My tree was shiver'd,—weak and strong, Beneath the bolt went down!— The Fate that thus took early sway, Hath spared of mine but little prey, For old and young were torn away, Ere manhood's wing had flown;— I saw the noble sire, who stood Majestic, as in crowded wood, The pine—and after him, the brood, All perish in thy frown. So, count my hopes—so, tell my fears, And ask what now this life endears, To him who gave, with many tears, Each blossom of his love; Whose store in heaven, so precious grown, He counts each earthly moment flown, As loss of something from his own, In treasures shrined above. Denied to seek—to see—his store, Yet daily adding more and more, Some precious plant, that, left before, The spoiler rends at last. Not hard the task to number now The few that live to feel the blow; The perish'd,—count them on my brow, With white hairs overcast. White hairs—while yet each limb is strong To help the right and crush the wrong— Ere youth, in manhood's struggling throng, Had well begun his way:— Thought premature, that still denied The boy's exulting sports—the pride, That, with the blood's unconscious tide, Knows but to shout and play; Youth, that in love's first gush was taught To see his best affection brought To tears, and woe, and death,— While yet the fire was in his eye, That told of passion's victory, And, in his ear, the first sweet sigh, From beauty's laboring breath. And manhood now,—and loneliness,— With, oh! how few to love and bless, Save those who, in their dear duresse, Look down from heaven's high towers; The stately sire, the gentle dame, The maid who first awoke the flame, That gave to both a mutual claim, Soon forfeited, as ours— And all those dearest buds of bloom, That simply sought on earth a tomb, From birth to death, with rapid doom, A bird-flight wing'd for fate: How thick the shafts!—how sure the aim!— What other passion wouldst thou tame, Oh! Time, within this heart of flame, Elastic, not elate? Is't pride?—methinks 'tis joy to bend;— My foe—he can no more offend;— My friend is false;—I love my friend;— I love my foeman too!— 'Tis man I love;—nor him alone, The brute, the bird,—its joy or moan, Not heedless, to my heart hath gone— I feel with all I view. Wouldst have me worthy?—make me so, By frequent bruise and overthrow;— But spare on other hearts the blow, Spare, from the cruel pang, the woe, My innocent—my bright! On me thy vengeance! 'Tis my crime That needs the scourge, and, in my prime, 'Twere fruitful of improving time, Thy hands should not be light. I bend me willing to the thrall, Whate'er the doom will bear it all,— Drink of the bitter cup of gall, Nor once complain of thee; Will poverty avail to chide, Or sickness bend the soul of pride, Or social scorn, still evil-eyed?— Have, then, thy will of me! But spare the woman and the child!— Let me not see their features mild Distorted,—hear their accents wild, In agonizing pain— Too much of this!—I thought me sure, In frequent pang and loss before;— I still have something to endure,— And tremble, and—refrain! On every shore they watch thy wing,— To some the winter, some the spring, Thou bring'st, or yet art doom'd to bring, In rapid-rolling years: How many seek thee, smiling now, Who soon shall look with clouded brow, Heart fill'd with bitter doubt and woe, And eyes with gathering tears!— But late, they fancied,—life's parade Still moving on,—that, not a shade Thou flung'st on bower and sunny glade, In which they took delight:— Sharp satirist—methinks I see Thy glance in sternest mockery;— They little think, not seeing thee, How fatal is thy flight;— What feathers grow beneath thy wing, What darts—how poison'd—from what spring Of sorrow, and how keen the sting,— How cureless still the blight. Enough!—the cry has had its way, As thou hast had!—'tis not the lay Of vain complaint,—no idle play Of fancy-dreaming care: A mocking bitter like thine own, Wells up from fountains, deep and lone, Where sorrow, by sepulchral stone, Sits watching thy career. Thou'st mock'd my hope and dash'd my joy, With keen rebuke and sad alloy— The father, son—the man, the boy, All, all! have felt the rod:— Perchance, not all thy work in vain, In softening soul, subduing brain, If, suffering, I submit to pain,— That minister of God. THE TRAVELLER'S REST. FOR hours we wander'd o'er the beaten track, A dreary stretch of sand, that, in the blaze Of noonday, seem'd to launch sharp arrows back, As fiery as the sun's. Our weary steeds Falter'd, with drooping heads, along the plain, Looking from side to side most wistfully, For shade and water. We could feel for them, Having like thirst; and, in a desperate mood, Gloomy with toil, and parching with the heat, I had thrown down my burden by the way, And slept, as man may never sleep but once, Yielding without a sigh,—so utterly Had the strong will, beneath the oppressive care, Fail'd of the needed energy for life,— When, with a smile, the traveller by my side, A veteran of the forest and true friend, Whose memory I recall with many a tear, Laid his rough hand most gently on mine own, And said, in accents still encouraging:— “Faint not,—a little farther we shall rest, And find sufficient succor from repose, For other travel: vigor will come back, And sweet forgetfulness of all annoy, With a siesta in the noontide hour, Shelter'd by ample oaks. A little while Will bring us to the sweetest spot in the woods, Named aptly, ‘Traveller's Rest.’ There, we shall drink Of the pure fountain, and beneath the shade Of trees, that murmur lessons of content To streams impatient as they glide from sight, Forget the long day's weariness, o'er steppes Of burning sand, with thirst that looks in vain For the cool brooklet. All these paths I know From frequent travail, when my pulse, like yours, Beat with an ardor soon discomfited, Unseason'd by endurance. Through a course Of toil, I now can think upon with smiles, Which brought but terror when I felt it first, I grew profound in knowledge of the route, Marking each wayside rock, each hill of clay, Blazed shaft, or blighted thick, and forked tree, With confidence familiar as you found In bookish lore and company. Cheer up, Our pathway soon grows pleasant. We shall reach— Note well how truly were my lessons conn'd,— A little swell of earth, which, on these plains, Looks proudly like a hill. This having pass'd, The land sinks suddenly—the groves grow thick, And, in the embrace of May, the giant wood Puts on new glories. Shade from these will soothe Thy overwearied spirit, and anon, The broad blaze on the trunk of a dark pine That strides out on the highway to our right, Will guide us where, in woodland hollow, keeps One lonely fountain; such as those of yore, The ancient poets fabled as the home, Each of its nymph; a nymph of chastity, Whose duty yet is love. A thousand times, When I was near exhausted as yourself, That gash upon the pine-tree strengthen'd me, As showing where the waters might be found, Otherwise voiceless. Thanks to the rude man— Rude in the manners of his forest life, But frank and generous,—whose benevolent heart— Good kernel in rough outside,—counsels him, As in the ages of the Patriarch, To make provision for the stranger's need. His axe, whose keen edge blazons on the tree Our pathway to the waters that refresh, Was in that office consecrate, and made Holier than knife, in hands of bearded priest, That smote, in elder days, the innocent lamb, In sacrifice to Heaven! “Now, as we glide, The forest deepens round us. The bald tracts, Sterile, or glittering but with profitless sands, Depart; and through the glimmering woods behold A darker soil, that on its bosom bears A nobler harvest. Venerable oaks, Whose rings are the successive records, scored By Time, of his dim centuries; pines that lift, And wave their coronets of green aloft, Highest to heaven of all the aspiring wood; And cedars, that with slower worship rise— Less proudly, but with better grace, and stand More surely in their meekness;—how they crowd, As if 'twere at our coming, on the path!— Not more majestic, not more beautiful, The sacred shafts of Lebanon, though sung By Princes, to the music of high harps, Midway from heaven;—for these, as they, attest HIS countenance who, to glory over all, Adds grace in the highest, and above these groves Hung brooding, when, beneath the creative word, They freshen'd into green, and towering grew, Memorials of his presence as his power! —Alas! the forward vision! a few years Will see these shafts o'erthrown. The profligate hands Of avarice and of ignorance will despoil The woods of their old glories; and the earth, Uncherish'd, will grow barren, even as the fields, Vast still, and beautiful once, and rich as these, Which, in my own loved home, half desolate, Attest the locust rule,—the waste, the shame, The barbarous cultivation—which still robs The earth of its warm garment and denies Fit succor, which might recompense the soil, Whose inexhaustible bounty, fitly kept, Was meant to fill the granaries of man, Through all earth's countless ages. “How the sward Thickens in matted green. Each tufted cone Gleams with its own blue jewel, dropt with white, Whose delicate hues and tints significant, Wake tenderness within the virgin's heart. In love's own season. In each mystic cup She reads sweet meaning, which commends the flower Close to her tremulous breast. Nor seems it there Less lovely than upon its natural couch, Of emerald bright,—and still its hues denote Love's generous spring-time, which, like generous youth, Clouds never the dear aspect of its green, With sickly doubts of what the autumn brings.” Boy as I was, and speaking still through books— Not speaking from myself—I said: “Alas! For this love's spring-time—quite unlike the woods, It never knows but one; and, following close, The long, long years of autumn, with her robes Of yellow mourning, and her faded wreath Of blighted flowers, that, taken from her heart, She flings upon the grave-heap where it rots!” “Ah! fie!” was straightway the reply of him, The old benevolent master, who had seen, Through thousand media yet withheld from me, The life I had but dream'd of—“this is false!— Love hath its thousand spring-times like the flowers, If we are dutiful to our own hearts, And nurse the truths of life, and not its dreams. But not in hours like this, with such a show Around us, of earth's treasures, to despond, To sink in weariness and to brood on death. Oh! be no churl, in presence of the Queen Of this most beautiful country, to withhold Thy joy,—when all her court caparison'd, Comes to her coronation in such suits Of holiday glitter. It were sure a sin In sight of Heaven, when now the humblest shrub By the maternal bounty is set forth, As for a bridal, with a jewell'd pomp Of flowers in blue enamel—lustrous hues Brightening upon their bosoms like sweet tints, Caught from dissolving rainbows, as the sun Rends with his ruddy shafts their violet robes,— When gay vines stretching o'er the streamlet's breast Link the opposing pines and arch the space, Between, with a bright canopy of charms, Whose very least attraction wears a look Of life and fragrance!—when the pathway gleams, As spread for march of Princess of the East, With gems of living lustre—ravishing hues Of purple, as if blood-dipp'd in the wounds Of Hyacinthus,—him Apollo loved, And slew though loving:—now, when over all The viewless nymphs that tend upon the streams, And watch the upward growth of April flowers, Wave ever, with a hand that knows not stint, Yet suffers no rebuke for profligate waste, Their aromatic censers, 'till we breathe With difficult delight;—not now to gloom With feeble cares and individual doubts, Of cloud to-morrow. It were churlish here, Ungracious in the sovereign Beauty's sight, Who rules this realm, the dove-eyed sovran, Spring! This hour to sympathy—to free release From toil, and sorrow, and doubt, and all the fears That hang about the horizon of the heart, Making it feel its sad mortality, Even when most sweet its joy—she hath decreed: Let us obey her, though no citizens. “How grateful grows the shade—mix'd shade of trees, And clouds, that drifting o'er the sun's red path, Curtain his awful brows! Ascend yon hill, And we behold the valley from whose breast Flows the sweet brooklet. Yon emblazon'd pine Marks the abrupt transition to the shade, Where, welling from the bankside, it steals forth, A voice without a form. Through grassy slopes, It wanders on unseen, and seems no more Than their own glitter; yet, behold it now, Where, jetting through its green spout, it bounds forth, Capricious, as if doubtful where to flow,— A pale white streak—a glimmering, as it were, Cast by some trembling moonbow through the woods! “Here let us rest. A shade like that of towers, Wrought by the Moor in matchless arabesque, Makes the fantastic ceiling,—leaves and stems, Half-form'd, yet flowery tendrils, that shoot out, Each wearing its own jewel,—that above O'erhangs; sustain'd by giants of the wood, Erect and high, like warriors gray with years, Who lift their massive shields of holiest green, On fearless arms, that still defy the sun, And foil his arrows. At our feet they fall, Harmless and few, and of the fresh turf make A rich mosaic. Tremblingly, they creep, Half-hidden only, to the blushing shoots Of pinks, that never were abroad before, And shrink from such warm instance. Here are flowers, Pied, blue, and white, with creepers that uplift Their green heads, and survey the world around— As modest merit, still ambitionless— Only to crouch again; yet each sustains Some treasure, which, were earth less profligate, Or rich, were never in such keeping left. And here are daisies, violets that peep forth When winds of March are blowing, and escape Their censure in their fondness. Thousands more,— Look where they spread around us—at our feet— Nursed on the mossy trunks of massive trees, Themselves that bear no flowers—and by the stream— Too humble and too numerous to have names! “There is no sweeter spot along the path, In all these western forests,—sweet for shade, Or beauty, or reflection—sights and sounds— All that can charm the wanderer, or o'ercome His cares of travel. Here we may repose, Subdued by gentlest murmurs of the noon, Nor feel its heat, nor note the flight of hours, That never linger here. How sweetly falls The purring prattle of the stream above, Where, roused by petty strife with vines and flowers, It wakes with childish anger, nor forbears Complaint, even when, beguiled by dear embrace, It sinks to slumber in its bed below! The red-bird's song now greets us from yon grove, Where, starring all around with countless flowers, Thick as the heavenly host, the dogwood glows, Array'd in virgin white. There, mid the frowns Of sombrous oaks, and where the cedar's glooms Tell of life's evening shades, unchidden shines The maple's silver bough, that seems to flash A sudden moonlight; while its wounded arms, Stream with their own pure crimson, strangely bound With yellow wreaths, flung o'er its summer hurts, By the lascivious jessamine, that, in turn, Capricious, creeps to the embrace of all. “The eye unpain'd with splendor—with unrest That mocks the free rapidity of wings, Just taught to know their uses and go forth, Seeking range but no employment—hath no quest That Beauty leaves unsatisfied. The lull Of drowsing sounds, from leaf, and stream, and tree Persuades each sense, and to forgetfulness Beguiles the impetuous thought. Upon the air Sweetness hangs heavy, like the incense cloud O'er the high altar, when cathedral rites Are holiest, and our breathing for a while Grows half suspended. Sullen, in the sky, With legions thick, and banners broad unfurl'd, The summer tempest broods. Below him wheels, Like some fierce trooper of the charging host, One fearless vulture. Earth beside us sleeps, Having no terror; though an hour may bring A thousand fiery bolts to break her rest. “How natural is the face of woods and vales, Trees, and the unfailing waters, spite of years, Time's changes, and the havoc made by storm! The change is all in man. Year after year, I look for the old landmarks on my route, And seldom look in vain. A darker moss Coats the rough outside of the old gray rock;— Some broad arm of the oak is wrench'd away, By storm and thunder—through the hill-side wears A deeper furrow,—and the streams descend, Sometimes, in wilder torrents than before— But still they serve as guides o'er ancient paths, For wearied wanderers. Still do they arise, In groups of grandeur, an old family, These great magnificent trees, that, as I look, Fill me with loftiest thoughts, such as one feels Beholding the broad wing of some strong bird, Poised on its centre, motionless in air, Yet sworn its master still. Not in our life, Whose limit, still inferior, mocks our pride, Reach they this glorious stature. At their feet, Our young, grown aged like ourselves, may find Their final couches, ere one vigorous shaft Yields to the stroke of time. Beneath mine eyes, All that makes beautiful this place of peace, Wears the peculiar countenance which first Won my delight and wonder as I came— Then scarcely free from boyhood,—wild as he, The savage Muscoghee, who, in that day, Was master of these plains. His hunting range Grasp'd the great mountains of the Cherokee, The Apalachian ridge—extended west By Talladega's valleys—by the streams Of Tallas-hatchie—through the silent woods Of gray Emuckfau, and where, deep in shades, Rise the clear brooks of Autossee that flow To Tallapoosa;—names of infamy In Indian chronicle! 'Twas here they fell, The numerous youth of Muscoghee,—the strong— Patriarchs of many a tribe—dark seers renown'd, As deeply read in savage mystery— The Prophet Monohoee—priest as famed, Among his tribe, as any that divined In Askelon or Ashdod;—stricken to the earth, Body and spirit, in repeated strife, With him, that iron-soul'd old chief, who came Plunging from Tennessee. “Below they stretch'd, In sovran mastery o'er the wood and stream, 'Till the last waves of Choctawhatchie slept, Subsiding, in the gulf. Such was the realm They traversed, in that season of my youth, When first beside this pleasant stream I sank, In noontide slumber. What is now their realm, And where are now their warriors? Streams that once Soothed their exhaustion, satisfied their thirst— Woods that gave shelter—plains o'er which they sped In mimic battle—battle-fields whereon Their bravest chieftains perish'd—trees that bore The fruits they loved but rear'd not;—these remain, But yield no answer for the numerous race,— Gone with the summer breezes—with the leaves Of perish'd autumn;—with the cloud that frowns This moment in the heavens, and, ere the night, Borne forward in the grasp of chainless winds, Is speeding on to ocean. “Wandering still— That sterile and most melancholy life,— They skirt the turbid streams of Arkansas, And hunt the buffalo to the rocky steeps Of Saladanha; and, on lonely nooks, Ridge-barrens, build their little huts of clay, As frail as their own fortunes. Dreams, perchance, Restore the land they never more shall see; Or, in meet recompense, bestow them tracts More lovely—vast, unmeasured tracts, that lie Beyond those peaks, that, in the northern heavens, Rise blue and perilous now. There, rich reserves Console them in the future for the past; And, with a Christian trust, the Pagan dreams His powerful gods will recompense his faith, By pleasures, in degree as exquisite As the stern suffering he hath well endured. His forest fancy, not untaught to soar, Already, in his vision of midnight, sees The fertile valleys; on his sight arise Herds of the shadowy deer; and, from the copse, Slow stealing, he beholds, with eager gaze, The spirit-hunter gliding toward his prey, In whose lithe form, and practised art, he views Himself!—a noble image of his youth That never more shall fail! “We may not share His rapture; for if thus the might of change Mocks the great nation, sweeps them from the soil Which bore, but could not keep—what is't with us, Who muse upon their fate? Darkly, erewhile, Thou spok'st of death and change, and I rebuked The mood that scorn'd the present good—still fond To brood above the past. Yet, in my heart, Grave feelings rise to chide the undesert, That knew not well to use the power I held, In craving that to come. Have these short years Wrought thus disastrously upon my strength, As on the savage? What have I done to build My better home of refuge; where the heart, By virtue taught, by conscience made secure, May safely find an altar, 'neath whose base The tempest rocks in vain? The red-man's fate Belong'd to his performance. They who know How to destroy alone, and not to raise, Leaving a ruin for a monument, Must perish as the brute. But I was taught The nobler lesson, that, for man alone, The maker gives the example of his power, That he may build on him. What work of life— The moral monument of the Christian's toil— Stands, to maintain my memory after death, Amongst the following footsteps? Sadly, the ear Receives his question, who, with sadder speech, Makes his own answer. Unperforming still, He yet hath felt the mighty change that moves, Progressive, as the march of mournful hours, Still hurrying to the tomb. 'Tis on his cheek, No more the cheek of boyhood—in his eye, That laughs not with its wonted merriment, And in his secret heart. 'Tis over all He sees and feels—o'er all that he hath loved, And fain would love, and must remember still! Those gray usurpers, Death and Change, have been Familiar in his household, and he stands, Of all that grew around his innocent hearth, Alone—the last! And this hath made him now An exile,—better pleased with woods and streams, Wild ocean, and the rocks that vex his waves, Than, sitting in the city's porch, to hear The hurry, and the thoughtless hum of trade! “The charm is broken and the ‘Traveller's Rest!’ The sun no longer beats with noonday heat Above the pathway, and the evening bird, Short wheeling through the air, on whirring wing, Counsels our flight with his. Another draught— And to these pleasant waters—to the groves That shelter'd—to the gentle breeze that soothed, Even as a breath from heaven—to all sweet sights, Melodious sounds and murmurs, that arise To cheer the sadden'd spirit at its need— Be thanks and blessing; gratitude o'er all, To God in the Highest! He it is who guides The unerring footstep—prompts the wayward heart To kindly office—shelters from the sun— Withholds the storm,—and, with his leaves and flowers, Sweet freshening streams and ministry of birds, Sustains, and succors, and invigorates;— To Him, the praise and homage—Him o'er all!” THE MOCK-BIRD. WHAT has winter left for thee, That, within the ancient tree, Thou dost linger, in thy gray, Sober vestments, like some friar, Haunting still the old abbaye, Wasted by the strife and fire? Wherefore house thee thus alone, When the other tribes have gone?— With them to the forest speed: Leave to human heart the grief, That in woe and dusky weed, When winter twilight's cold and brief, Walks sad with hooded Thought, through perish'd wood and leaf. Sure I know thee!—thou art he, That, with reckless minstrelsy, Lately sung—while all the grove, By the spring-buds won to joy, Bathed in fragrance, breathed of love— Ditty of a wild annoy; Mocking all with scornful strain, Till the passion grew to pain, And each humbler warbler fled, Silent, in his shame and fear, Thou the while, with wing outspread, Sweetly voiced in spite of sneer, Throned on the topmost bough, or darting wild through air. Thou hast pleasures. I have seen, When the buxom spring was green, How thy nest was tended—how Thou didst gather straw and blade, And, within the ancient bough, Sit, the stem and leaf to braid.— Patient was thy watch, and stern Lesson might the serpent learn,— Crawling where thy young ones lie, With his cruel, keen desire,— From thy eagle-raging eye, Showing all thy soul on fire, While talon, beak and wing declared the warrior's ire. Patient, as thy young ones grow, Use of feeble wings to show, How, to glide from bough to bough, How with gradual flight, to bear, Poised on spreading pinion now, Through the yielding heart of air; And, when free of wing, and high, Winging, singing, through the sky,— Then, with thy triumphant strain, Matchless in unmeasured might, As if born of madden'd brain, Ecstasied with deep delight, Whirling in voice aloft, in far, capricious flight. Why the cynic temper?—why Still that strain of mockery? Art thou truer? Dost thou sneer, As thou haply know'st that none Of the love songs spring must hear, Speaks fidelity but one? Thou art constant—that I know— To thy young ones,—to the foe,— To thy mate, and to the tree, That beside my window-sill, Many a year, has been to thee Cottage-home and empire still,— Thou wast the sovereign there, and ever hadst thy will. Still maintain it—thou alone, Of the birds, when summer's gone, Keep'st thy dwelling, hold'st thy place, As if in thy breast there grew Something, which, to human race, Kept thee dedicate and true. Cynical thy song, but mine Might be cynical like thine, Could I deem with thee, that all Of the vows in spring we hear, Were forgotten by the fall;— But I shrink from doubt so drear;— I yield my heart to faith, and love when thou wouldst sneer. AUTUMN TWILIGHT. THERE is a soft haze hanging on you hill, Tinged with a purple light. How beautiful, And yet, how cold! 'Tis the first robe put on, With gloomy foretaste of a gloomier hour, By the sad Autumn. Well may she repine,— With heavy dread of winter at her heart, Adverse to present sweetness as to hope, Which never cheers her fortunes. She is doom'd— Survivor of a race that left no heirs, And she, the mourner of the beautiful, Whose treasure, in the past to which she glides, Was but a bright decay, a perishing bloom, The bounty of a love whose dearest gifts Best show in desolation. The sweet green, The summer flush of love—the golden bloom That came with flowers in April, and brought sweets Whose purity might teach a faith that life Were also in their breathing—all are gone! The green grows pallid—the warm, virgin flush, That was in summer's eye, and on her cheek, A glory all too precious for a dream,— Too precious far for mortal certainty— Fleets all—as keen, the breezes from the hills Sweep icily o'er the meadows. All the bright hues, That graced the flowers and hemispheric crowns Of trees grown haughty in a birthday dress, Seem vanishing with the sunset. The last rays That drink their purple brightness with their lives, Fade upwards through the forest—a sad flush, That lothly leaves the twilight, and a while Lingers upon the hill-tops, as surveying The empires that it forfeits. Now the winds, Slow rising as from caverns of the night, With trailing robes of darkness, and broad arms, Stretched out, in action suited to the dirge That speaks the mournful ruin of their homes, Wail heavily through the branches; while the leaves, Saddest of mourners! flung on summer's grave, Lament her in the silence of true grief! Ah! mock me not that thus I mourn with them; The sad heart's wisdom is to weep enough!— I hear your lesson, but of what avail? Since, while it teaches worthlessness of grief, It still acknowledges the pregnant cause That, in the very uselessness of tears, Compels our tears most freely. You discourse, To feeling, with a counsel that prevents All feeling; and unless you stifle her, You teach most idly. Never yet was grief Fit moralist,—and that philosophy, Which will not take its color from the heart It seeks to fortify against the cloud, Reaches no sacred chord of sympathy, Responsive with sweet echoes. All your laws Teach sorrow when you teach her hopelessness. To bid the sacred current cease to flow, 'Tis needful first you freeze it; and what gain, To him with dear affections, o'er whose grave, He still encourages dear memories, That feeling should be made secure from hurt, By gross and cold insensibility? Foregoing nature, what do we acquire But forfeiture? As well persuade the flower To grow to stone, lest, rifled by the storm, Its premature bloom shall perish. If unwise To yield to sorrow the sole sovereignty, As little wise to substitute for this, The apathy, that, still rejecting grief, Grows ignorant of all rapture. You declaim— With the grave studied eloquence of books, Writ by cold monks in the ascetic cell, That life is full of changes.—Be it so! These changes ever are from joy to woe, And woe to joy again. To conquer one Is scarce to know the other. In your calm, 'Tis easy to declare that things of life, By the inevitable laws of things, Are also things of death; but not the less Find we a sacred certainty of grief, Even in this very knowledge. Death, you say, Still harvests forms that love, not less than forms That simply live; and folly 'tis to mourn, That the dear life whose presence was a joy And fragrance, that forever brought us joy, Is destined to as sure an apathy As the poor flowers we tread on. Happy he, Perchance—and yet I think not—who can thus Prose calmly over nature, and the fate Of her dear offspring in whatever fields. But mine is not this happiness;—nor mine, The thought that happiness may light her fire, From such dry chips of doctrine. The rich sap, May from the wounded tree gush forth in tears, The green rind feel its hurts, and something lose Of verdure in the injury which it feels. But teach the bough, how better were it lopt, And flung into the fire, than suffering thus, From the keen hurts of the too wanton axe The wound will heal. You point me to the scars; But while it still hath rind for newer hurts, And fresh sap still to flow from other wounds, The scars are but in proof of strength to bear, As well as hurts to suffer. Tears, for me, Bring sweet relief for what is lost or borne, As teaching still of sensibilities For future feeling; whether joy or woe, Or gain or loss;—and, in this consciousness, One finds a better solace for the past, Than in that cold philosophy which stills The too susceptible pulse, lest it should throb, Some day, with fever. Yet, that fever throb, Itself, declares the warm vitality Still looking forth with hope. And still you chide, That grief should waste upon inferior things, Leaves of the forest, flowers of the summer day, Fruits of a season's tribute, and frail fancies Born of the dew and sunshine, for the hour, The sorrows that might find excuse, if given For loss of human treasure—forms and greatness, Which fill society with sense of virtue, And still commend to love that fierce ambition That makes even love a sacrifice in turn! Alas! we know not what is worthy, what is great, And weep from fancy, rather than from law; And fancy is a law, and in our feelings Hath charter'd rights, and shapes them at her pleasure, To make us weep, if need be; tears and sorrows Being as much her proper properties, As sunshine and gay laughter, sport and flight. Yet have I something of a plea beyond, In the condition which has shut me out From much, that, in the common social life, Commends itself unto humanity, As only worth its care. Mine was a lot Peculiar in its loneliness of aim, If not distinction. Childhood found me first A sad bewilder'd orphan—one who stood Alone among his fellow,—and when wrong'd, Knew not the lap in which to hide his head, Nor friendly ear in which to pour complaint. I had no parent's tendance. Never mine A sister's lips have hallow'd while they press'd;— No brother call'd me his;—no natural ties Embraced, and train'd, and cherish'd my wild youth, Which still went erring into devious ways, Sorrowing as much as sinning, in a mood That craved love only for its guide to goodness;— And this alone it found not—or in vain!— And thus, with strong affections, still in exile, Denied where they sought favor, I have turn'd To the inanimate, unspeaking creatures, That grew about or wanton'd in my path— Having no scorn or hatred in their hearts— Having no voice of censure on their tongues— For that most needed sympathy of nature, Which answer'd best the hunger in my heart. Thus were my footsteps won into the forest, Thus did I seek these groves as if in worship, With regular tendance, and a meek observance, That suffer'd not the chant of winds, the sighing, That seem'd most human, in the pine's great branches,— The fall of leaf, the shadows of the thicket, Or flutter of the gay bird o'er the pathway,— To 'scape me;—moralizing at each motion, Something, that as it soothed the troubled feeling, Was surely not philosophy. My rambles Still brought me what I sought;—and these pale flowers, And the green leaves, now yellow, at our feet, Were something more to me than leaves and flowers. They were my kindred. Now, that they are gone, I weep them as a loss of family, And tread among them with a cautious step, A sad, slow motion, and with trembling heart, As I were reading, in some ancient church-yard, The names of dear ones precious to my childhood. BALLAD. OH! bury him quickly, and utter no word Of the memory sadden'd by sorrow so long; But when the cold stranger shall say that he err'd, Then tell the dark tale of his crueller wrong. We may not approve, but when others condemn, 'Twere crime that defence of his heart to forbear, And show that his faults were all prompted by them,— They could goad him to danger, then fly from him then You saw him for many long days ere he fell, In chains and in solitude, sad but serene; 'Tis grateful to know that he battled it well, While his spirit grew strong in the gloom of the scene. They thought him all callous to feeling and shame,— Ah! little they knew him;—the spirit he bore Once aim'd at, and sigh'd for, as lofty a fame As shines on the pages of history's lore. But pile the dank sod which no stone shall adorn, No hand ever freshen with shrub or with flower; We bury him coldly—we leave him forlorn— And midnight was never more dark than this hour. It is but a year since all proudly he stood, Brave, bright, unassuming—the sought, the preferr'd— Upheld by the strong, and beloved by the good— Now—bury him quickly, and utter no word! HAST THOU A SONG FOR A FLOWER. I. HAST thou a song for a flower, Such as, if breathed in its ear, Would waken in beauty's own bower The spirit most fit to be there? Then, minstrel, I challenge thy power— Such song, if thou hast, sing it here!— Here, where the breeze o'erwearied, With his travel o'er ocean creeps, And on the green leaf by her lattice, Sinks languidly down and sleeps. II. For her the sweet music thou bringest Must in a true spirit be wrought, And the passion of mine thou singest Must be pure as the child's first thought. If none such within thee springest, Away, for thy presence is naught. Far better the breeze, at waking, Should tell her that hopeless I come, With itself, to the leaf at her lattice, And laid me down, dreaming but dumb. ENIGMA. I AM most potent of all earthly powers, Save one. I penetrate the loftiest towers, As freely as the cottage, in all hours; I paralyze the strongest with a spell; Soothe the most suffering; shut the fatal knell From out the ears of misery; beguile The saddest mourner to a hopeful smile; Bring cheerful guests into the solitude, That minister unto the sufferer's mood, So that he straight forgets what gave him pain, And wins the strength and hope of youth again. No will can combat mine, no might withstand; And man before me bows throughout the land, As at a tyrant's progress; yet with joy, For that I sway to succor, not destroy. Yet, do I arm myself with terrors still, When they are needful. I can bring the thrill, Of fear or horror, to the guilty soul, And make him hear the far-off thunders roll, As at his feet; can swift around him group, Even at a whisper, a most terrible troop Of his assailing enemies. My spell, Most strong when softest, is invincible. You strive with me in vain. I stretch a wing, Unseen above you. In your ears I sing, In most unnoted accents. Round your neck I weave such subtle chains as never break, Save with my satisfied purpose. Your white breast, You do unfold me, whether as a guest, Obtrusive, or implored and much caress'd. You may not shut from me your secret thought, Your passion or your guilt. Unask'd, unsought, You whisper to me your best hope and fear, What you endure of grief, what joys endear, And whom you love and hate. And I, who hear, Still keep your secret;—to your service bound, Still faithful, still unbidden, I am found, Whene'er the season calls me, or the place; An angel you may hold me, or a grace; Devoted as the first, and as the last, Still blessing—though the sights I bring may blast! My bond of service never shall be broke, Till I no more may spell, or thou invoke, Then, when perforce I leave thee, I resign Thy charge to one, a kinswoman of mine, Of greater powers, but hostile still to thine. SONNET. SYMPATHY BETWEEN THE PAST AND FUTURE. WOULD we go forward boldly, and gain heart For farther progress, we must pause a while, And gaze upon the path, for many a mile, We follow'd when we first grew bold to start;— That so much has been traversed, is a goad To fresh endeavor; and the eye grows bright, With expectation, as the baffled sight Would vainly compass all the o'er-trodden road;— The pathways of the future will grow clear, When the first fresh beginnings of the march Lie bright beneath the broad and sheltering arch; And, repossess'd of childhood, we are near Heaven's sources,—for the true humanity Keeps past and future still in either eye. TO THE BREEZE. AFTER A PROTRACTED CALM IN THE GULF OF MEXICO. I. THOU com'st at last! Our sorrow is at end; Thou com'st, and hast our blessing, pleasant breeze. Yet where hast thou been wandering, fickle friend? Where, when the midnight gather'd to her brow Her pale and silent minister, wast thou? On what far, sullen, solitary seas, Piping the mariner's requiem, didst thou tend The home-returning bark, Curling the white foam o'er her plunging prow,— White, when the rolling waves about her all were dark? II. Ah! thou didst woo her sweetly as she lay, Still idly rocking on the unconscious deep; Thou sought'st her with a breath Of spicy odor from Sonora's vales; And, with the sweetest of imploring gales, That seem'd like life to death, Filling her yellow sails, Beguiled her on her way. With sudden voice, like that of mountain bird Singing, thou wok'st her from her dreary sleep, Until her every pulse of life grew stirr'd: Her fluttering pennant was the first to fly, Then the great vans swell'd out delightedly, And, with the song of land he loves to hear, Thou bad'st the mariner cheer! III. Oh! well thou know'st the mission that is thine, And, when in sluggish bonds old ocean slept, Making of life no sign,— While the faint moaning o'er his breast that crept Seem'd like the breathings of eternity Above the grave of the unburied Time,— Then didst thou clothe thyself in wings of prime, Then speed thy work of mercy.—How the tar, His form reclined along the burning deck, Stretch'd ever more his eager eye afar, Still watching for thy coming—for the speck, Marking thy shadow, from some giant steep, Down darting to the embraces of the deep! IV. Late, but not faithless to thy charge, thy flight Soon came to bless his sight. So long a fond and watching worshipper, He knew to hail thy coming, nor to err, No matter what thy shape, or whence thy wing. Thou wert his passion. By the dearest names He did implore thy presence: “My sweet breeze, Whither! oh whither!”—I have heard him sing Rudely, but with a strength that feeling tames To fondness in rough natures—“My delight! Where art thou—where, oh! beauty of the seas,— My breeze, my pleasant breeze!” V. Were all the charms by mortal passion sung As worthy of the tongue! Ah! breath of life to nature, thou art sure The image of that ever young and pure, Superior spirit, which, when all was dim, Ere yet creation sang her choral hymn, And darkness brooded o'er the stagnant deep, Moved on the waters, waking them from sleep, And rousing them to purposes of Him For whom all wings have flight! Born in the solemn night, Ere skies had birth in bright, With uncreated watchers for the sight,— Thine was the music, through the firmament By the fond nature sent, To hail the happy birth, And guide to sea and earth The glorious wing, the blessing eye of light! VI. Music to us no less, Thou com'st in our distress, To ope the pathway, all made clear by thee, Through the wide waste of sea! Soothing, thou bring'st to him who goes alone Unwatch'd and unremember'd o'er the wave, Perchance his grave! Should he there perish, to thy simple moan What hope to add, from human tenderness, One fond imploring tone! VII. I bless thee, gentle breeze! Sweet minister to many a fond desire, Thou bear'st me to my sire, Thou, and these rolling seas! What, O dear God of this great element, Are we before thee, that its breath is sent, Obedient to young love and eager hope? But that its pinion with our path is blent, We had been doom'd, blind, weak, and dark, to grope, Where plummet's cast is vain, and human art Lacking all chart! LYRICAL BALLAD. IF the fruit of the tree was delicious, Yet how keen was the bitter it brought; As the zephyr, though sweet, is capricious, With blight as with luxury fraught: Who roves in a garden, ungrateful For the tendance that nourish'd its bloom? Better fly to the wilderness hateful, Where nothing is false but the gloom! We are still the vain creatures of vision, Where the eyes only torture the soul; Our worship still meets with derision, And we gain, but by flying the goal. He dreams not, the victim, self-banish'd From the shrine which has mock'd at his prayer, That 'tis only when pleasure has vanish'd He safely may harbor with Care! The doubt that still hangs o'er the dreaming, Spoils the rapture that follows its show; As the flash of the lightning, whose gleaming Reveals the deep blackness below: The spirit of Love, thus, in flying, Still glooms the sad Being it woos, And finds its best solace in sighing, With a doubt of the heart it subdues! THE NEW MOON. “BEND thy bow, Dian! shoot thy silver shaft Through the dark bosom of yon murky cloud, That, like a shroud, Hangs heavy o'er the dwelling of sweet night!” And the sky laugh'd, Even as I spake the words; and, in the west, The columns of her mansion shone out bright! A glory hung above Eve's visible brow, The maiden empress!—and she glided forth In beauty, looking down on the tranced earth, So fondly, that its rivulets below Gush'd out to hail her, as if then first blest With the soft motion of their voiceless birth. A sudden burst of brightness o'er me broke— The rugged crags of the dull cloud were cleft By her sharp arrow, and the edges left,— How sweetly wounded!—silver'd with the stroke; Thus making a fit pathway for her march Through the blue arch! FOREST REVERIE BY STARLIGHT. THE night has settled down. A dewy hush Hangs o'er the forest, save when fitful gusts Vex the tall pines with murmurs. Spring is here, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, And voice of many minstrels. Balmy airs Creep gently to my bosom, and beguile Each feeling into freshness. I will forth, And gaze upon the stars—the uncounted stars— Holding high watch in heaven—still high, still bright, Though the storm gathers round the sacred hill, And shakes the cottage roof-tree. There they shine, In well-remember'd youth. They bear me back, With strange persuasiveness, to the old time And happy hours of boyhood. There's no change In all their virgin glory. Clouds that roll, And congregate in the azure deeps of heaven, In wild debate and darkness, pass away, Leaving them bright in the same beauty still, Defying, in the progress of the years, All change; and rising ever from the night, In soft and dewy splendor as at first, When, golden footprints of the Eternal steps, They paved the walks of heaven, and grew to eyes Beckoning the feet of man. Ah! would his eyes Behold them, with meet yearning to pursue The holy heights they counsel! Would his soul Claim kindred with the happy forms that now Walk by their blessed guidance—walk in heaven, In paths of the Good Shepherd! Then were earth Deserving of their beauty: then were man, Already following, step by step, their points To the One Presence—at each onward step Leaving new lights that cheer his brother on, In a like progress. Happily they shine, As in his hours of music and of youth, When every breath of the fresh-coming breeze, And every darting vision of the cloud, Gleam of the day and glimmer of the night, Brought to the craving spirit harmony, And bless'd each fond assurance of the hope With sweetest confirmation. Still they shine, And dear the story of their early prime— And his—the conscious worshipper may read In their enduring presence. Happiest tales Of innocence and joy, events and hours, That never more return. These they record, Renew and hallow, with their own pure rays, When blight of age is on the frame—when grief Weighs the vex'd heart to earth—when all beside, The father, and the mother, and the friend, Speak in decaying syllables—dread proof Of worse decay!—and that sad chronicler, Feeble and failing in excess of years, Old Memory, tottering from his mossy cell, Stops with the imperfect legend on his lips, And drowses into dream. No change like this Falls on their golden-eyed veracity, Takes from the silvery truths that line their lips, Or stales their lovely aspects. Well they know The years they never feel; see, without dread, The storm that rises and the bolt that falls, The age that chills, the apathy that chokes, The death that withers all that blooms below, Yet smile they on as ever, sweetly bright, Serene, in their security from all The change that troubles man! Yet, hill and tree Change with the season—with the alter'd heart, And weak and withering muscle. Ancient groves, That shelter'd me in childhood, have given place To gaudy gardens; and the solemn oaks, That heard the first prayers of my youthful heart For greatness, and a life beyond their own— Lo! in their stead, a maiden's slender hand Tutors green vines, and purple buds, and flowers, As frail as her own fancies. At each step I miss some old companion of my walks, Memorial of the happy hours of youth, Whose presence had brought back a thousand joys, And images that took the shape of joys— The loveliest masquers, and all innocent— That vanish'd with the rest. I would recall, But vainly, each lost presence; and the sigh That mourns the dear memorials now no more, Counsels desires that to the mortal eye Commend no mortal images. The thought Grasps vainly, right and left, whereon to hold, And droops, as one grown hopeless of support, That once, with native strength for every strife, Scorn'd succor from without. The earth denies Her bosom for repose—the shade is gone That offer'd grateful shelter to the eye; And the dear aspects, which had each its birth Twinn'd with some proud affection,—they depart, In mournful robes of shadow that disguise Each lineament of love. Ah! not with these, The perishing things that suffer from decay, Seek we the sweet memorials of our youth— The youth that seem'd immortal—youth that bloom'd With hues and hopes of heaven,—firing its heart With aspirations for eternal life, Perpetual triumphs, and the ambitious thirst Still for new fields and empires of domain! In tokens of the soul—that craving thirst That earth supplies not—in the undying things, That man can never change—that mock his fate With never-changing sweet serenity, Assured of a security that builds Upon the steadfast rock, 'gainst which the storm Beats through successive ages, but to prove How fast its bulwarks—how eternally Sunk in the innate principle of things, It draws, as to the inevitable heart, Its growth from all the rest!—to these we turn For the memorials precious to our youth:— That season when the Fancy is a god— Hope a conviction—Love an instinct—Truth, The generous friend that ever by our side, Hath still the sweetest story for the ear, And wins us on our way! Ah! stars,—though taught, That ye too, in the inevitable doom, Must perish like the rest—grow dim and fade, Having no eyes of beauty for the eyes That look to ye in beauty—yet your light Brings back all boyhood's blessings! In my heart Stand up the old divinities anew. I hear their well-known voices, see their eyes Shining once more in mine, and straight forget That I have wept their loss in many tears, Mix'd with reproaches—bitter, sad regrets, Self-chidings, and the memory of wrongs, Endured, inflicted, suffer'd, and avenged! As I behold ye now, ye bring me back The treasures of my boyhood. All is mine That I had once surrender'd. Scarce a scene Of childish prank or merriment, but comes, With all the freshness of the infant time, Back to my recollection. The old school, The noisy rabble, the tumultuous cries— The green, remember'd in the wintry day, For the encounter of the flying ball— The marble play, the hoop, the top, the kite, And, when the ambition prompted higher games, The battle-array and conflict—friends and foes Mix'd in the wild melée, with shouts of might Triumphant o'er the clamors of retreat! These, in their regular seasons, with their deeds, Their incidents of happiness or pain, In the revival of old memories, Your lovely lights restore: nor these alone! The chroniclers of riper years ye grow, And loftier thoughts and fancies; when my heart First took ye for sweet counsellors, and loved To wander in your evening lights, and dream Of other eyes that watch'd ye from afar, At the same hour—and of another heart That gush'd in yearning sympathy with mine! And, as the years flew by—as I became Warier, yet more devoted—fix'd and strong— Growing in the affections and the thoughts When growth had ceased in stature—then, when life, Wing'd with impetuous passions, darted by— And voices grew into a spell, that hung, Through the dim hours of night, about the heart, Making it tremble strangely;—when dark eyes Were planets, having power upon the soul, As fated, dimly, at nativity;— And older men were monitors too dull For passionate youth,—and all our oracles Were still mysterious counsellors to love, And faith, and confident trust for all who brought The meet credential of a faith like ours, Gushing with sweetest overflow, and fond Of its own tears and weaknesses.—Ah! then, How precious was your language! What dear strains Of promise ye pour'd forth,—in sounds that made The impatient soul leap upward into flight, The skies stoop down and yield to every wish, While earth, embraced by heaven, instinct with love, And blessing, had forgot all fears of death! The brightness of your age, in every change, Mocks that which palsies man. Dim centuries That saw your fresh beginnings with delight, Are swallow'd in the ocean-flood of years, Or crowd with ruin the gray sands of Time, Who still, with appetite and thirst unslaked— Active but unappeased—voracious still, Must swallow what remains. Sweet images, Whose memories wake our song—whose forms abide— The heart's ideal standards of delight— Are gone to people those dim realms of shade, Where rules the Past—that sovereign, single-eyed, Whose back is on the sun! Ah! when all these— The joys we have recorded, and the forms Whose very names were blessings—forms of youth, Of childhood, and the hours we know not twice, Which won us first, and carried us away To strange conceits of coming happiness, But to be thought on as delusions all, Yet such delusions as we still must love!— When these have parted from us—when the sky Hath lost the charm of its ethereal blue, And the nights lose their freshness—and the trees No longer have a welcome shade for love— And the moon wanes into a paler bright, And all the poetry that stirr'd the leaves, And all the perfume that was on the flowers— Music upon the winds—wings in the void— The carpeted valley's wealth of green—the dew That morning flings on the enamell'd moss— The hill-side, the acclivity, the grove— Sweeter that Solitude is sleeping there!— Are gone, as the last hope of misery:— When the last dream of a deluded life Hath left us to awaken—not to feel The golden morning, but the appalling night, When sight itself is weariness, and hope No longer rifles from the barren path One flower of promise!—when disease is nigh, And every bone is racking—and the thought Is of dry, nauseous, ineffectual drugs, Which we must painfully swallow—but in vain— And not a hand is nigh to quench the thirst With one poor cup of water,—or our prayer Is answer'd with indifferent mood, that shows The moderate service irksome—when the eye Strains for the closing heavens, and the fair sky Which it is losing,—and dread images, Meetly successive, of the sable pall, The melancholy carriage, and the clod, Make us to shudder with a stifling fear;— When we have bade adieu to earthly things, Fought through that long last struggle, still the worst, Wrestling with self,—and winning that best boon, Of resignation to the sovereign will, We may no longer baffle or delude,— And offer'd up our prayer of penitence, Doubtful of its acceptance, yet prepared, As well as our condition will admit, For the last change in an unhappy life!— Oh! then methinks 'twould still rejoice mine eyes, Would they throw wide my casement, and permit A last fond gaze upon the placid sky, And all the heavenly watchers which have seen My fair beginning, and my rising youth, And my tall manhood. Oh! dear friend that hear'st This chant—thy office may be soon to ask, How shall I soothe the suffering which I see?— With what sweet service to the friend I love, But have not power to save, prepare his couch, And robe him for his rest? Think of this song, And of thy own sweet thoughts and sympathies. Give him to see the blessed skies—the Night— Her azure garments glowing with great eyes, That look on him with love;—and, at the hour Which brings thee to thy parting, it will glad Thy heart, in that sad struggle, to behold Their sweet serene of smiles. 'Twill bear thee back, With all the current of thy better thoughts, To the pure practice of thy innocent years.— Repentant, then, of errors, evil deeds, Imaginings of darkness, thou wilt weep Over thy recollections; and thy tears, The purest tribute of thy contrite heart, Will be as a sweet prayer sent up to heaven! INSCRIPTION FOR THERMOPYLÆ. STRANGER! thou stand'st upon Thermopylæ! The pass that led into the heart of Greece, But gave no passage save through greater hearts: They keep it still.—Their graves are at thy feet. BY THE EDISTO. RIVER, that still go'st brightly, Though sweeping to the sea, And chantest daily, nightly, Thy own dirge-melody; Methinks thy murmur strengthens The purpose in my soul, And, as thy progress lengthens, I seem to see my goal. I seek, as thou, the ocean, Great sea of human life, Won by its wild commotion, And striving with its strife: Vainly, we fondly linger Where green shades woo our stay; We both obey a finger That points us on our way. Yet, downward as thou rovest, How glad thy waters make The green banks which thou lovest, And the zephyrs where they wake! They wake among thy willows, And they laugh with welcome still, As thy downward-lapsing billows Lift their lilies with a thrill. The blue-bird stoops to carol, As thy glittering streams go by, And the bay-tree and the laurel Bend above thee with a sigh; But the sigh is of a pleasure That may take no wilder voice; And the great pines share the treasure, And, to welcome thee, rejoice. If thus my course may gladden While I hurry to the deep, Sure my heart shall never sadden When 'tis swallow'd up in sleep; I, too, shall hear sweet voices, That requite me as I run, And the pleasant thought rejoices, I shall only grieve when gone. THE APPROACH OF SUMMER. Now, darting through green leaves, and bringing flowers, Fresh blooming, borrow'd from a thousand bowers Where nature fills her lap with fruits, and gleams The carpet of the prairies, stars and streams,— Comes forth, all wantoning in joyous dreams, With eye that laughs in beauty, golden hair, Curling and floating o'er a neck as fair As the young moon, when in the dusky vale She lifts her virgin crescent, soft and pale,— The flush'd and revelling Summer. At her glance Sinks the old wizard, Winter, into trance; No more the mighty potentate, who shook His icy sceptre over field and brook, But, tottering into apathy, that goes, Soulless and sad, to polar home of snows; The realm usurp'd made glad in his decline, Made free to bourgeon in its flower and vine; The steel-bound waters rescued where he lay, And leaping, flashing, to the smiles of day, With all their little billows out at play;— Birds gladsome singing round the cottage tree, And hope and heart, for once, at liberty, Mingling in joyous anthems which make air All musical with love, that might be prayer. Give the heart freedom! Let the soul take wing With the soft promise of the golden Spring; From book and study, forth;—uplift the eye To the blue beauties in the morning sky; Forget that Toil hath had his task decreed, The daily labor, for the daily need; Give Hope new charm in respite from its chain, Thought fresher impulse in unlaboring brain; No duty rules that Drudgery shall not find Some moments grateful to the unfetter'd mind; The heart's sweet Sabbath must not be denied, Now, when boon Nature smiles on all beside! Where the winds play,—where great green branches wave. And lilies softly lapse upon the wave,— Forth with the Sun, with heart that sings within, In sense of joy that hath no taint of sin; A song of Summer born, that feels, instinct, How near with Earth the soul of man is link'd, And thus through earth with heaven, that still foreshows, In bright, sweet symbols, how the future glows, How freshly, gladsomely, and purely Bliss May yet, in man's true life, atone for this! Spirits of holiest gift have been at range, O'er stream and forest, to effect this change;— What potent spells, what breath of balm, they brought, By which the magic of this birth was wrought;— How did they whisper on the bankside, where Lurk'd all the hooded flowers, in shame and fear; Hush'd through long months of winter, while the sway Of that cold tyrant threaten'd still his prey, 'Till that warm whisper to the clod which hid, Brought each sweet virgin to unclose her lid, And won the nun-like daisy from her cell, In sweet obedience to the grateful spell,— Blessing the shrine that shelter'd her so well! What legions of bright angels, far and wide, Have sped, that earth should waken up in pride; A single breath, one short sweet night—the moon Of April only watching through its noon— And, with the dawn, how wondrous was the show That hail'd the sun from thousand plains below; With song,—though faint, how sweet!—and scents so rare, As if the flowers were wedded to the air, That nothing did but drink of the delight, With wings diffused in never-resting flight, As conscious, in the rapture of such taste, Of no fatigue, in all that world of waste. Oh! with a range as wide as his, we speed To each fair empire of the newly freed; With hearts as free as any of the race, That glow and gladden in the sun's embrace. How spreads the various picture as we go! Hills greenly stretch aloft, and vales below; The mountain wears no more the brow of age, And nature flies her gloomy hermitage, Now desolate no longer,—to abide, With birds and blossoms, by the brooklet's side; How prattle the glad waters, as she brings, Her gayest buds to nurture at their springs; Pleased with the song of kindred, which declares Her joy in these, and all her beauties theirs! Banks, on each side, slope down with fringe of green