No more at Delos, or at Delphi now,Or e'en at mighty Ammon's Lybian shrine,The white-robed priests before the altar bow,To slay the victim and to pour the wine,While gifts of kingdoms round each pillar twine;Scarce can the classic pilgrim, sweeping freeFrom fallen architrave the desert vine.Trace the dim names of their divinity—Gods of the ruined temples, where, oh where! are ye?
The Naiad bathing in her crystal spring,The guardian Nymph of every leafy tree,The rushing Aeolus on viewless wing,The flower-crowned Queen of every cultured lea,And he who walked, with monarch-tread, the sea,The awful Thunderer, threatening them aloud,God! were their vain imaginings of Thee,Who saw Thee only through the illusive cloudThat sin had flung around their spirits, like a shroud.
As fly the shadows of uncertain night,On misty vapors of the early day,When bursts o'er earth the sun's resplendent light—Fantastic visions! they have passed away,Chased by the purer Gospel's orient ray.My soul's bright waters flow from out thy throne,And on my ardent breast thy sunbeam's play;Fountain of thought! True Source of light! I ownIn joyful strains of praise, thy sovereign power alone.
O breathe upon my soul thy Spirit's fire,That I may glow like seraphim on high,Or rapt Isaiah kindling o'er his lyre;And sent by Thee, let holy Hope be nigh,To fill with prescient joy my ravished eye,And gentle Love; to tune each jarring stringAccordant with the heavenly harmony;Then upward borne, on Faith's aspiring wing,The praises of my God to listening earth, I sing.
* * * * *
=Charles Fenno Hoffman, 1806-.= (Manual, pp. 487, 505, 519.)
From "The Vigil of Faith."
White man! I say not that they lieWho preach a faith so dark and drear,That wedded hearts in yon cold skyMeet not as they were mated here.But scorning not thy faith, thou mustStranger, in mine have equal trust,—The Red man's faith, by Him implanted,Who souls to both our bodies granted.Thou know'st in life we mingle not;Death cannot change our different lot!He who hath placed the White man's heavenWhere hymns in vapory clouds are chanted,To harps by angel fingers play'd,Not less on his Red children smiles,To whom a land of souls is given,Where in the ruddy West array'd.Brighten our blessed hunting isles.
* * * * *
Those blissful ISLANDS OF THE WEST!I've seen, myself, at sunset time,The golden lake in which they rest;Seen, too, the barks that bear The Blest,Floating toward that fadeless clime:First dark, just as they leave our shore,Their sides then brightening more and more,Till in a flood of crimson lightThey melted from my straining sight.And she who climb'd the storm-swept steep,She who the foaming wave would dare,So oft love's vigil here to keep,—Stranger, albeit thou think'st I dote,I know, I know she watches there!Watches upon that radiant strand,Watches to see her lover's boatApproach The Spirit-Land.
He ceased, and spoke no more that night,Though oft, when chillier blew the blast,I saw him moving in the lightThe fire, that he was feeding, cast;While I, still wakeful, ponder'd o'erHis wondrous story more and more.I thought, not wholly waste the mindWhere Faith so deep a root could find,Faith which both love and life could save,And keep the first, in age still fond.Thus blossoming this side the graveIn steadfast trust of fruit beyond.And when in after years I stoodBy INCA-PAH-CHO'S haunted water,Where long ago that hunter woo'dIn early youth its island daughter,And traced the voiceless solitudeOnce witness of his loved one's slaughter—At that same season of the leafIn which I heard him tell his grief,—I thought some day I'd weave in rhyme,That tale of mellow autumn time.
* * * * *
=William Gilmore Simms, 1806-1870.= (Manual, pp. 523, 490, 510.)
From "The Cassique of Accabee."
It was a night of calm. O'er Ashley's watersCrept the sweet billows to their own soft tune,While she, most bright of Keawah's fair daughters,Whose voice might spell the footsteps of the moon,As slow we swept along,Poured forth her own sweet song—A lay of rapture not forgotten soon.
Hushed was our breathing, stayed the lifted oar,Our spirits rapt, our souls no longer free,While the boat, drifting softly to the shore,Brought us within the shades of Accabee."Ah!" sudden cried the maid,In the dim light afraid,"'Tis here the ghost still walks of the old Yemassee."
And sure the spot was haunted by a powerTo fix the pulses in each youthful heart;Never was moon more gracious in a bower,Making delicious fancy-work for art,Weaving so meekly brightHer pictures of delight,That, though afraid to stay, we sorrowed to depart.
"If these old groves are haunted"—sudden then,Said she, our sweet companion,—"it must beBy one who loved, and was beloved again,And joy'd all forms of loveliness to see:—Here, in these groves they went,Where love and worship, blent,Still framed the proper God for each idolatry.
"It could not be that love should here be stern,Or beauty fail to sway with sov'reign might;These from so blesséd scenes should something learn,And swell with tenderness, and shape delight:These groves have had their power,And bliss, in by-gone hour,Hath charm'd with sight and song the passage of the night."
"It were a bliss to think so;" made replyOur Hubert—"yet the tale is something old,That checks us with denial;—and our sky,And these brown woods that, in its glittering fold,Look like a fairy clime,Still unsubdued by time,Have evermore the tale of wrong'd devotion told."
"Give us thy legend, Hubert;" cried the maid;—And, with down-dropping oars, our yielding prowShot to a still lagoon, whose ample shadeDroop'd from the gray moss of an old oak's brow:The groves, meanwhile, lay bright,Like the broad stream, in light,Soft, sweet as ever yet the lunar loom display'd.
* * * * *
=Nathaniel Parker Willis, 1807-1867.= (Manual, pp. 504, 519.)
From the "Sacred Poems."
* * * * *The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rose upIn the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.The cattle of the hills were in the shade,And the bright plumage of the Orient layOn beating bosoms in her spicy trees.It was an hour of rest; but Hagar foundNo shelter in the wilderness, and onShe kept her weary way, until the boyHung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lipsFor water; but she could not give it him.She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,—For it was better than the close, hot breathOf the thick pines,—and tried to comfort him,—But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyesWere dim and bloodshot, and he could not knowWhy God denied him water in the wild.
She sat a little longer, and he grewGhastly and faint, as if he would have died.It was too much for her, she lifted him,And bore him further on, and laid his headBeneath 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 brookUpon 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 wert 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.
"O, no! and when I watch'd by thee the while,And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,And thought of the dark streamIn my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,How pray'd I that my father's land might beAn heritage for thee!
"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee,And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press;And, O, my last caressMust feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd thereUpon his clustering hair!"
She stood beside the well her God had givenTo gush in that deep wilderness, and bathedThe forehead of her child until he laugh'dIn his reviving happiness, and lisp'dHis infant thought of gladness at the sightOf the cool plashing of his mother's hand.
* * * * *
The shadows lay along Broadway,—'Twas near the twilight tide,—And slowly there, a lady fairWas waiting in her pride.Alone walked she, yet viewlesslyWalked spirits at her side.
Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,And honor charmed the air,And all astir looked kind on her,And called her good as fair;For all God ever gave to her,She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare,From lovers warm and true;For her heart was cold to all but gold,And the rich came not to woo.Ah, honored well, are charms to sell,When priests the selling do!
Now, walking there, was one more fair—A slight girl, lily pale,And she had unseen companyTo make the spirit quail;'Twixt want and scorn, she walked forlorn,And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her browFor this world's peace to pray;For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,Her woman's heart gave way,And the sin forgiven by Christ in heavenBy man is cursed alway.
* * * * *
=Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-.= (Manual, pp. 503, 505, 519, 531.)
There is no flock, however watched and tendedBut one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside, howso'er defended,But has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying,And mournings for the dead;The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! these severe afflictionsNot from the ground arise,But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;Amid these earthly damps,What seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition.This life of mortal breathIs but a suburb of the life elysian,Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doingIn those bright realms of air;Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbrokenThe bond which nature gives,Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child;
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,Clothed with celestial grace;And beautiful with all the soul's expansionShall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotionAnd anguish long suppressed,The swelling heart heaves, moaning like the ocean,That cannot be at rest,—
We will be patient, and assuage the feelingWe may not wholly stay;By silence sanctifying, not concealing,The grief that must have way.
* * * * *
From "The Seaside and The Fireside."
The prayer is said,The service read,The joyous bridegroom bows his head;And in tears the good old MasterShakes the brown hand of his son,Kisses his daughter's glowing cheekIn silence, for he cannot speak,And ever fasterDown his own the tears begin to run.The worthy pastor—The Shepherd of that wandering flock,That has the ocean for its wold,That has the vessel for its fold,Leaping ever from rock to rock—Spake, with accents mild and clear,Words of warning, words of cheer,But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.
* * * * *
Then the Master,With a gesture of command,Waved his hand;And at the word,Loud and sudden there was heard,All around them and below,The sound of hammers, blow on blow,Knocking away the shores and spurs.And see! she stirs!She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feelThe thrill of life along her keel,And, spurning with her foot the ground,With one exulting, joyous bound,She leaps into the ocean's arms!
And lo! from the assembled crowdThere rose a shout, prolonged and loud,That to the ocean, seemed to say,—"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,Take her to thy protecting arms,With all her youth and all her charms!"How beautiful she is! How fairShe lies within those arms, that pressHer form with many a soft caressOf tenderness and watchful care!Sail forth into the sea, O ship!Through wind and wave, right onward steer!The moistened eye, the trembling lip,Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
Sail forth into the sea of life,O gentle, loving, trusting wife,And safe from all adversityUpon the bosom of that seaThy comings and thy goings be!For gentleness and love and trustPrevail o'er angry wave and gust;And in the wreck of noble livesSomething immortal still survives!
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O Union strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!We know what master laid thy keel,What workman wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge and what a heatWere shaped the anchors of thy hope!Fear not each sudden sound and shock,'Tis of the wave and not the rock;'Tis but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest-roar,In spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee.
* * * * *
From "Evangeline."
Softly the evening came. The sun, from the western horizon,Like a magician, extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forestSeemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionlesswater.Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feelingGlowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters aroundher.Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest ofsingers,Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silentto listen.Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness,Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-topsShakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on thebranches.With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed withemotion,Slowly they entered the Têche, where it flows through the greenOpelousas,And through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;—Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.
* * * * *
From "The Song of Hiawatha."
On the shore stood Hiawatha,Turned and waved his hand at parting;On the clear and luminous waterLaunched his birch canoe for sailing,From the pebbles of the marginShoved it forth into the water;Whispered to it, "Westward! westward!"And with speed it darted forward.And the evening sun descendingSet the clouds on fire with redness,Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,Left upon the level waterOne long track and trail of splendor,Down whose streams, as down a river,Westward, westward HiawathaSailed into the fiery sunset,Sailed into the purple vapors,Sailed into the dusk of evening.And the people from the marginWatched him floating, rising, sinking,Till the birch canoe seemed liftedHigh into that sea of splendor,Till it sank into the vaporsLike the new moon slowly, slowlySinking in the purple distance.And they said, "Farewell for ever!"Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the forests, dark and lonely,Moved through all their depth of darkness,Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the waves upon the marginRising, rippling on the pebbles,Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the heron, the Shu-shuh-gah,From her haunts among the fen-lands,Screamed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"Thus departed Hiawatha,Hiawatha the beloved,In the glory of the sunset,In the purple mists of evening,To the regions of the home-wind,Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin,To the islands of the Blessed,To the kingdom of Ponemah,To the land of the Hereafter!
* * * * *
=William D. Gallagher, 1808-.= (Manual, p. 523.)
Stand up—erect! Thou hast the form,And likeness of thy God!—who more?A soul as dauntless mid the stormOf daily life, a heart as warmAnd pure, as breast e'er bore.
What then?—Thou art as true a ManAs moves the human mass among;As much a part of the Great planThat with creation's dawn began,As any of the throng.
Who is thine enemy? the highIn station, or in wealth the chief?The great, who coldly pass thee by,With proud step and averted eye?Nay! nurse not such belief.
* * * * *
No:—uncurbed passions—low desires—Absence of noble self-respect—Death, in the breast's consuming fires,To that high Nature which aspiresFor ever, till thus checked:
* * * * *
True, wealth thou hast not: 'tis but dust!Nor place; uncertain as the wind!But that thou hast, which, with thy crustAnd water, may despise the lustOf both—a noble mind.
With this and passions under ban,True faith, and holy trust in God,Thou art the peer of any man.Look up, then—that thy little spanOf life, may be well trod!
* * * * *
=John G. Whittier, 1808-.= (Manual, pp. 490, 522.)
Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil,"Lord," I cried in sudden ire,"From thy right hand, clothed with thunder,Shake the bolted fire!
"Love is lost, and Faith is dying;With the brute, the man is sold;And the dropping blood of laborHardens into gold."
* * * * *
"Thou, the patient Heaven upbraiding,"Spake a solemn Voice within;"Weary of our Lord's forbearance,Art thou free from sin?"
* * * * *
"Earnest words must needs be spokenWhen the warm heart bleeds or burnsWith its scorn of wrong, or pityFor the wronged, by turns.
"But, by all thy nature's weakness,Hidden faults and follies known,Be thou, in rebuking evil,Conscious of thine own.
"Not the less shall stern-eyed DutyTo thy lips her trumpet set,But with harsher blasts shall mingleWailings of regret."
Cease not, Voice of holy speaking,Teacher sent of God, be near,Whispering through the day's cool silence,Let my spirit hear!
So, when thoughts of evil doersWaken scorn, or hatred move,Shall a mournful fellow-feelingTemper all with love.
* * * * *
From "The Tent on the Beach."
O lonely bay of Trinity,O dreary shores, give ear!Lean down unto the white-lipped seaThe voice of God to hear!
From world to world his couriers fly,Thought-winged, and shod with fire;The angel of his stormy skyRides down the sunken wire.
What saith the herald of the Lord?"The world's long strife is done;Close wedded by that mystic cord,Its continents are one.
"And one in heart, as one in blood,Shall all her peoples be;The hands of human brotherhoodAre clasped beneath the sea.
"Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plainAnd Asian mountains borne,The vigor of the Northern brainShall nerve the world outworn.
"From clime to clime, from shore to shore,Shall thrill the magic thread;The new Prometheus steals once moreThe fire that wakes the dead."
Throb on, strong pulse of thunder! beatFrom answering beach to beach;Fuse nations in thy kindly heat,And melt the chains of each!
Wild terror of the sky above,Glide tamed and dumb below!Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove,Thy errands to and fro.
Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord,Beneath the deep so far,The bridal robe of earth's accord,The funeral shroud of war!
For lo! the fall of Ocean's wall,Space mocked, and time outrun;And round the world the thought of allIs as the thought of one!
The poles unite, the zones agree,The tongues of striving cease;As on the sea of Galilee,The Christ is whispering, Peace!
* * * * *
From Snow-Bound.
The sun that brief December dayRose cheerless over hills of gray,And, darkly circled, gave at noonA sadder light than waning moon,Slow tracing down the thickening skyIts mute and ominous prophecy,A portent seeming less than threat,It sank from sight before it set.A chill no coat, however stout,Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,A hard, dull bitterness of cold,That checked, mid-vein, the circling raceOf life-blood in the sharpened face,The coming of the snow-storm told.The wind blew east: we heard the roarOf Ocean on his wintry shore,And felt the strong pulse throbbing thereBeat with low rhythm our inland air.
* * * * *
Unwarmed by any sunset lightThe gray day darkened into night,A night made hoary with the swarmAnd whirl-dance of the blinding storm,A zigzag wavering to and froCrossed and recrossed the wingéd snow:And ere the early bed-time cameThe white drift piled the window-frame,And, through the glass, the clothes-line postsLooked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
So all night long the storm rolled on:The morning broke without a sun;In tiny spherule traced with linesOf Nature's geometric signs,In starry flake and pellicle,All day the hoary meteor fell;And, when the second morning shone,We looked upon a world unknown,On nothing we could call our own.Around the glistening wonder bentThe blue walls of the firmament,No cloud above, no earth below,—A universe of sky and snow!
* * * * *
From "The Pennsylvania Pilgrim."
* * * * *
Gathered from many sects, the Quaker broughtHis old beliefs, adjusting to the thoughtThat moved his soul, the creed his fathers taught.
One faith alone, so broad that all mankindWithin themselves its secret witness find,The soul's communion with the Eternal Mind,
The Spirit's law, the Inward Rule and Guide,Scholar and peasant, lord and serf, allied,The polished Penn, and Cromwell's Ironside.
As still in Hemskerck's Quaker meeting, faceBy face, in Flemish detail, we may traceHow loose-mouthed boor, and fine ancestral grace,
Sat in close contrast,—the clipt-headed churl,Broad market-dame, and simple serving-girl,By skirt of silk and periwig in curl!
For soul touched soul; the spiritual treasure-troveMade all men equal, none could rise above,Nor sink below, that level of God's love.
So, with his rustic neighbors sitting down,The homespun frock beside the scholar's gown,Pastorius, to the manners of the town
Added the freedom of the woods, and soughtThe bookless wisdom by experience taught,And learned to love his new-found home, while not
Forgetful of the old; the seasons wentTheir rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lentOf their own calm and measureless content.
Glad even to tears, he heard the robin singHis song of welcome to the Western spring,And bluebird borrowing from the sky his wing.
And when the miracle of autumn came,And all the woods with many-colored flameOf splendor, making summer's greenness tame,
Burned unconsumed, a voice without a soundSpake to him from each kindled bush aroundAnd made the strange, new landscape holy ground.
* * * * *
=Albert Pike, 1809-.= (Manual, p. 523.)
From "Lines on the Rocky Mountains."
The deep, transparent sky is fullOf many thousand glittering lights—Unnumbered stars that calmly ruleThe dark dominions of the night.The mild, bright moon has upward risen,Out of the gray and boundless plain,And all around the white snows glisten,Where frost, and ice, and silence, reign,—While ages roll away, and they unchanged remain.
These mountains, piercing the blue skyWith their eternal cones of ice,—The torrents dashing from on high,O'er rock, and crag, and precipice,—Change not, but still remain as ever,Unwasting, deathless, and sublime,And will remain while lightnings quiver,Or stars the hoary summits climb,Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time.
* * * * *
=Anne C. Lynch Botta.=
From her "Poems."
Deal kindly with those speechless ones,That throng our gladsome earth;Say not the bounteous gift of lifeAlone is nothing worth.
What though with mournful memoriesThey sigh not for the past?What though their ever joyous nowNo future overcast.
No aspirations fill their breastWith longings undefined;They live, they love, and they are blestFor what they seek they find.
They see no mystery in the stars,No wonder in the plain,And Life's enigma wakes in them,No questions dark and vain.
To them earth is a final home,A bright and blest abode;Their lives unconsciously flow onIn harmony with God.
To this fair world our human heartsTheir hopes and longings bring,And o'er its beauty and its bloom,Their own dark shadows fling.
Between the future and the pastIn wild unrest we stand,And ever as our feet advance,Retreats the promised land.
And though Love, Fame, and Wealth, and PowerBind in their gilded bond,We pine to grasp the unattained—Thesomethingstill beyond.
And, beating on their prison bars,Our spirits ask more room,And with unanswered questionings,They pierce beyond the tomb.
Then say thou not, oh, doubtful heart!There is no life to come:That in some tearless, cloudless land;Thou shalt not find thy home.
* * * * *
=Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-.= (Manual, pp. 478, 520.)
From his Poems.
I saw him once before,As he passed by the door,And againThe pavement stones resound,As he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.
My grandmamma has said,—Poor old lady, she is deadLong ago,—That he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow.
But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff,And a crook is in his back.And a melancholy crackIn his laugh.
I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here;But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches, and all that,Are so queer!
And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,—Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.
* * * * *
From "The Professor at the Breakfast Table."
* * * * *
They reach the holy place, fulfill the daysTo solemn feasting given, and grateful praise.At last they turn, and far Moriah's heightMelts into southern sky and fades from sight.All day the dusky caravan has flowedIn devious trails along the winding road,—(For many a step their homeward path attends,And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.)Evening has come,—the hour of rest and joy;—Hush! hush! that whisper,—"Where is Mary's boy?"O weary hour! O aching days that passed,Filled with strange fears, each wilder than the last:The soldier's lance,—the fierce centurion's sword,—The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord,—The midnight crypt that sucks the captive's breath,—The blistering sun on Hinnom's vale of death!Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light,Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night,Crouched by some porphyry column's shining plinth,Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth.At last, in desperate mood, they sought once moreThe Temple's porches, searched in vain before;They found him seated with the ancient men,—The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,—Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near,Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear,Lost In half-envious wonder and surpriseThat lips so fresh should utter words so wise.And Mary said,—as one who, tried too long,Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong.—"What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done?Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son!"Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone,—Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown;Then turned with them and left the holy hill,To all their mild commands obedient still.The tale was told to Nazareth's sober men,And Nazareth's matrons told it oft again;The maids retold it at the fountain's side;The youthful shepherds doubted or denied;It passed around among the listening friends,With all that fancy adds and fiction lends,Till newer marvels dimmed the young renownOf Joseph's son, who talked the Rabbies down.But Mary, faithful to its lightest word,Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard,Till the dread morning rent the Temple's veil,And shuddering Earth confirmed the wondrous tale.
Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall;A mother's secret hope outlives them all.
* * * * *
=Willis Gaylord Clark, 1810-1841.= (Manual, pp. 503, 523.)
From his "Literary Remains."
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing—Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die;Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throwing,Fade like the sunset of a summer sky;Life hath but shadows, save a promise given,Which lights the future with a fadeless ray;O, touch the sceptre—win a hope in heaven—Come—turn thy spirit from the world away.
Then will the crosses of this brief existence,Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul;And shining brightly in the forward distance,Will of thy patient race appear the goal;Home of the weary! where in peace reposing,The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss,Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing—Who would notearlychoose a lot like this?
* * * * *
=James Russell Lowell, 1819-.= (Manual, p. 520.)
From his "Miscellaneous Poems," &c.
Violet! sweet violet!Thine eyes are full of tears;Are they wetEven yet,With the thought of other years?Or with gladness are they full,For the night so beautiful,And longing for those far-off spheres?
Loved-one of my youth thou wast,Of my merry youth,And I see,Tearfully,All the fair and sunny past,All its openness and truth,Ever fresh and green in theeAs the moss is in the sea.
Thy little heart, that hath with loveGrown colored like the sky above,On which thou lookest ever,—Can it knowAll the woeOf hope for what returneth never,All the sorrow and the longingTo these hearts of ours belonging?
Out on it! no foolish piningFor the skyDims thine eye,Or for the stars so calmly shining;Like thee let this soul of mineTake hue from that wherefor I long,Self-stayed and high, serene and strong,Not satisfied with hoping—but divine.
Violet! dear violet!Thy blue eyes are only wetWith joy and love of him who sent thee,And for the fulfilling senseOf that glad obedienceWhich made thee all that Nature meant thee!
* * * * *
From "The Present Crisis."
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breastRuns a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climbTo the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublimeOf a century, bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.
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Once, to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide,In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,And the choice goes by for ever, twist that darkness and that light.
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We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great,Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate,But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,—"They enslave their children's children, who make compromise with sin."
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From The Atlantic Monthly.
O sailors, did sweet eyes look after you,The day you sailed away from sunny Spain?Bright eyes that followed fading ship and crew,Melting in tender rain?
Did no one dream of that drear night to be,Wild with the wind, fierce with the stinging snow,When, on yon granite point that frets the sea,The ship met her death-blow?
Fifty long years ago these sailors died:(None know how many sleep beneath the waves:)Fourteen gray head-stones, rising side by side,Point out their nameless graves,—
Lonely, unknown, deserted, but for me,And the wild birds that flit with mournful cry,And sadder winds, and voices of the seaThat moans perpetually.
Wives, mothers, maidens, wistfully, in vainQuestioned the distance for the yearning sail,That, leaning landward, should have stretched againWhite arms wide on the gale,
To bring back their beloved. Year by year,Weary they watched, till youth and beauty passed,And lustrous eyes grew dim, and age drew near,And hope was dead at last.
Still summer broods o'er that delicious land,Rich, fragrant, warm with skies of golden glow:Live any yet of that forsaken bandWho loved so long ago?
O Spanish women, over the far seas,Could I but show you where your dead repose!Could I send tidings on this northern breeze,That strong and steady blows!
Dear dark-eyed sisters, you remember yetThese you have lost, but you can never knowOne stands at their bleak graves whose eyes are wetWith thinking of your woe!
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=Edgar Allen Poe.= (Manual, p. 510.)
From his Works.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,—While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door;"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door,—Only this, and nothing more."
Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow,From my books, surcease of sorrow,—sorrow for the lost Lenore,—For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,—Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;Darkness there,—and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word, "Lenore!"This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word, "Lenore!"Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before."Surely," said I,—"surely that is something at my window-lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,—Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;—'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or staid he;But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,—Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,—Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then, this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure nocraven,Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore—Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber door,—Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,—With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he utter'd; not a feather then he flutter'd—Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown before—On the morrowhewill leave me, as my Hopes have flown before,"Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore—Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden boreOf 'Never—never—more!'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheel'd a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, anddoor;Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining which the lamp-light gloated o'erSheshall press, ah, never more!
Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath senttheeRespite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, O quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"Quoth the Raven, "Never more."
"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!—Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore,Desolate, though all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"Quoth the Raven, "Never more."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"Quoth the Raven, "Never more."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,upstarting—"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"Quoth the Raven, "Never more."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor,Shall be lifted—never more.
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=Alfred B. Street, 1811-.= (Manual, pp. 522, 531.)
From his "Poems."
OverheadThere is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky;A silvery sheet, with spaces of soft hue;A trembling veil of gauze is stretched athwartThe shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks;A soothing quiet broods upon the air,And the faint sunshine winks with drowsiness.Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark,The bleat, the tinkle, whistle, blast of horn,The rattle of the wagon-wheel, the low,The fowler's shot, the twitter of the bird,And even the hue of converse from the road.
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The sunshine flashed on streams,Sparkled on leaves, and laughed on fields and woods.All, all was life and motion, as all nowIs sleep and quiet. Nature in her changeVaries each day, as in the world of manShe moulds the differing features. Yea, each leafIs variant from its fellow. Yet her worksAre blended in a glorious harmony,For thus God made his earth. Perchance His breathWas music when He spake it into life,Adding thereby another instrumentTo the innumerable choral orbsSending the tribute of their grateful praiseIn ceaseless anthems towards His sacred throne.
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From "Drawings and Tintings."
Struggling along the mountain path,We hear, amid the gloom,Like a roused giant's voice of wrath,A deep-toned, sullen boom:Emerging on the platform high,Burst sudden to the startled eyeRocks, woods, and waters, wild and rude—A scene of savage solitude.
Swift as an arrow from the bow;Headlong the torrent leaps,Then tumbling round, in dazzling snowAnd dizzy whirls it sweeps;Then, shooting through the narrow aisleOf this sublime cathedral pile,Amidst its vastness, dark and grim,It peals its everlasting hymn.
Pyramid on pyramid of rockTowers upward, wild and riven,As piled by Titan hand, to mockThe distant smiling heaven.And where its blue streak is displayed,Branches their emerald net-work braidSo high, the eagle in his flightSeems but a dot upon the sight.
Here column'd hemlocks point in airTheir cone-like fringes green;Their trunks hang knotted, black and bare,Like spectres o'er the scene;Here lofty crag and deep abyss,And awe-inspiring precipice;There grottoes bright in wave-worn gloss,And carpeted with velvet moss.
No wandering ray e'er kissed with lightThis rock-walled sable pool,Spangled with foam-gems thick and white,And slumbering deep and cool;But where yon cataract roars down,Set by the sun, a rainbow crownIs dancing, o'er the dashing strife—Hope glittering o'er the storm of life.
Beyond, the smooth and mirror'd sheetSo gently steals along,The very ripples, murmuring sweet,Scarce drown the wild bee's song;The violet from the grassy sideDips its blue chalice in the tide;And, gliding o'er the leafy brink,The deer, unfrightened, stoops to drink.
Myriads of man's time-measured raceHave vanished from the earth,Nor left a memory of their trace,Since first this scene had birth;These waters, thundering now along,Joined in Creation's matin-song;And only by their dial-treesHave known the lapse of centuries!
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=Laura M.H. Thurston, 1812-1842.= (Manual, P. 524.)
I hail thee, Valley of the West,For what thou yet shalt be!I hail thee for the hopes that restUpon thy destiny!Here from this mountain height, I seeThy bright waves floating rapidly,Thine emerald fields outspread;And feel that in the book of fame,Proudly shall thy recorded nameIn later days be read.
Oh! brightly, brightly glow thy skiesIn Summer's sunny hours!The green earth seems a paradiseArrayed in summer flowers!But oh! there is a land afar,Whose skies to me all brighter are,Along the Atlantic shore!For eyes beneath their radiant shrineIn kindlier glances answered mine:Can these their light restore?
Upon the lofty bound I stand,That parts the East and West;Before me lies a fairy land;Behind—a home of rest!Here, Hope her wild enchantment flings,Portrays all bright and lovely things,My footsteps to allure—Butthere, in memory's light I seeAll that was once most dear to me—My young heart's cynosure!
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=Francis S. Osgood, 1812-1850= (Manual, p. 523.)
=388.= "The Parting."
I looked not, I sighed not, I dared not betrayThe wild storm of feeling that strove to have way,For I knew that each sign of the sorrowIfeltHersoul to fresh pity and passion would melt,And calm was my voice, and averted my eyes,As I parted from all that in being I prize.
I pined but one moment that form to enfold.Yet the hand that touched hers, like the marble was cold,—I heard her voice falter a timid farewell,Nor trembled, though soft on my spirit it fell,And she knew not, she dreamed not, the anguish of soulWhich only my pity for her could control.
It is over—the loveliest dream of delightThat ever illumined a wanderer's night!Yet one gleam of comfort will brighten my way,Though mournful and desolate ever I stray:It is this—that to her, to my idol, I sparedThe pang that her love could have softened and shared!
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=Harriet Beecher Stowe.= (Manual, p. 484.)
From the "Religious Poems."
When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,And billows wild contend with angry roar,'Tis said, far down, beneath the wild commotion,That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.
Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth,And silver waves chime ever peacefully,And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.
So to the heart that knows Thy love, O Purest!There is a temple, sacred evermore,And all the babble of life's angry voicesDies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door.
Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth,And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully,And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,Disturbs that soul that dwells, O Lord, in Thee.
O Rest of rests! O Peace, serene, eternal!Thou ever livest, and Thou changest never;And in the secret of Thy presence dwellethFullness of joy, for ever and for ever.
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One year ago,—a ringing voice,A clear blue eye,And clustering curls of sunny hair,Too fair to die.
Only a year,—no voice, no smile,No glance of eye,No clustering curls of golden hair,Fair but to die!
One year ago,—what loves, what schemesFar into life!What joyous hopes, what high, resolves,What generous strife!
The silent picture on the wall,The burial stone,Of all that beauty, life, and joyRemain alone!
One year,—one year,—one little year,And so much gone!And yet the even flow of lifeMoves calmly on.
The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,Above that head;No sorrowing tint of leaf or spraySays he is dead.
No pause or hush of merry birdsThat sing above,Tells us how coldly sleeps belowThe form we love.
Where hast thou been this year, beloved?What hast thou seen?What visions fair, what glorious life,Where thou hast been?
The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!'Twixt us and thee;The mystic veil! when shall it fall,That we may see?
Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,But present still,And waiting for the coming hourOf God's sweet will.
Lord of the living and the dead,Our Saviour dear!We lay in silence at thy feetThis sad, sad year!
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=Henry T. Tuckerman.=
From his "Poems."
The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung,Has peopled earth with grace,Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,A bright and peerless race,But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before,A shape of loftier nameThan his, who, Glory's wreath with meekness wore,The noblest son of fameSheathed is the sword that Passion never stained;His gaze around is cast,As if the joys of Freedom, newly gained,Before his vision passed;As if a nation's shout of love and prideWith music filled the air,And his calm soul was lifted on the tideOf deep and grateful prayer;As if the crystal mirror of his lifeTo fancy sweetly came,With scenes of patient toil and noble strife,Undimmed by doubt or shame;As if the lofty purpose of his soulExpression would betray—The high resolve Ambition to control,And thrust her crown away!O, it was well in marble, firm and white,To carve our hero's form,Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight,Our star amid the storm;Whose matchless truth has made his name divine,And human freedom sure,His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine,While man and time endure!And it is well to place his image there,Beneath, the dome he blest;Let meaner spirits who its councils share,Revere that silent guest!Let us go up with high and sacred love,To look on his pure brow,And as, with solemn grace, he points above,Renew the patriot's vow!