* * * * *
=John G. Saxe, 1816-.= (Manual, p. 523, 531.)
From "Early Rising."
"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"So Sancho Panza said, and so say I:And bless him, also, that he didn't keepHis great discovery to himself; nor tryTo make it—as the lucky fellow might—A close monopoly by patent-right!
* * * * *
'Tis beautiful to leave the world a whileFor the soft visions of the gentle night;And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,To live as only in the angels' sight,In Sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!
So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.I like the lad, who, when his father thoughtTo clip his morning nap by hackneyed praiseOf vagrant worm by early songster caught,Cried, "Served him right!—it's not at all surprising;The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"
* * * * *
Right jollie is ye tailyor-manAs annie man may be;And all ye daye, upon ye bencheHe worketh merrilie.
And oft, ye while in pleasante wiseHe coileth up his lymbes,He singeth songs ye like whereofAre not in Watts his hymns.
And yet he toileth all ye whileHis merrie catches rolle;As true unto ye needle asYe needle to ye pole.
What cares ye valiant tailyor-manFor all ye cowarde fears?Against ye scissors of ye Fates,He points his mightie shears.
He heedeth not ye anciente jestsThat witless sinners use;What feareth ye bolde tailyor-manYe hissinge of a goose?
He pulleth at ye busie threade,To feede his lovinge wifeAnd eke his childe; for unto themIt is the threade of life.
He cutteth well ye rich man's coate,And with unseemlie pride,He sees ye little waistcoate InYe cabbage bye his side,
Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife,To labor nothing loth,Sits bye with readie hande to basteYe urchin, and ye cloth.
Full happie is ye tailyor-manYet is he often tried,Lest he, from fullness of ye dimes,Wax wanton in his pride.
Full happie is ye tailyor-man,And yet he hath a foe,A cunning enemie that noneSo well as tailyors knowe.
It is ye slipperie customerWho goes his wicked wayes,And wears ye tailyor-man his coate,But never, never payes!
* * * * *
From "The Money King."
In olden times,—if classic poets sayThe simple truth, as poets do to-day,—When Charon's boat conveyed a spirit o'erThe Lethean water to the Hadean shore,The fare was just a penny,—not too great,The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate.Now, for a shilling, he will cross the stream,(His paddles whirling to the force of steam!)And bring, obedient to some wizard power,Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour,Than Brooklyn's famous ferry could convey,Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day!Time was when men bereaved of vital breath,Were calm and silent in the realms of Death;When mortals dead and decently inurnedWere heard no more; no traveler returned,Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand,To whisper secrets of the spirit-land,—Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul—Among the tombs might wander on parole,—A well-bred ghost, at night's bewitching noon,Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon,Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white,(The only rapping of an ancient sprite!)Stalked round in silence till the break of day,Then from the Earth passed unperceived away.Now all is changed: the musty maxim fails,And dead mendorepeat the queerest tales!Alas, that here, as in the books, we seeThe travelers clash, the doctors disagree!Alas, that all, the further they explore,For all their search are but confused the more!Ye great departed!—men of mighty mark,—Bacon and Newton, Adams, Adam Clarke,Edwards and Whitefield, Franklin, Robert Hall,Calhoun, Clay, Channing, Daniel Webster,—allYe great quit-tenants of this earthly ball,—If in your new abodes ye cannot rest,But must return, O, grant us this request:Come with a noble and celestial air,To prove your title to the names ye bear!Give some clear token of your heavenly birth;Write as good English as ye wrote on earth!Show not to all, in ranting prose and verse,The spirit's progress is from bad to worse;And, what were once superfluous to advise,Don't tell, I beg you, such, egregious lies!—Or if perchance your agents are to blame,Don't let them trifle with your honest fame;Let chairs and tables rest, and "rap" instead,Ay, "knock" your slippery "Mediums" on the head!
* * * * *
=395.= "Boys"
"The proper study of mankind is man,"—The most perplexing one, no doubt, is woman,The subtlest study that the mind can scan,Of all deep problems, heavenly or human!
But of all studies in the round of learning,From nature's marvels down to human toys,To minds well fitted for acute discerning,The very queerest one is that of boys!
If to ask questions that would puzzle Plato,And all the schoolmen of the Middle Age,—If to make precepts worthy of old Cato,Be deemed philosophy, your boy's a sage!
If the possession of a teeming fancy,(Although, forsooth, the younker doesn't know it,)Which he can use in rarest necromancy,Be thought poetical, your boy's a poet!
If a strong will and most courageous bearing,If to be cruel as the Roman Nero;If all that's chivalrous, and all that's daring,Can make a hero, then the boy's a hero!
But changing soon with his increasing stature,The boy is lost in manhood's riper age,And with him goes his former triple nature,—No longer Poet, Hero, now, nor Sage!
* * * * *
Inglorious friend! most confident I amThy life is one of very little ease;Albeit men mock thee with their similes,And prate of being "happy as a clam!"What though thy shell protects thy fragile headFrom the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,And bear thee off,—as foemen take their spoil,—Far from thy friends and family to roam;Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,To meet destruction in a foreign broil!Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bardDeclares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!
* * * * *
=Lucy Hooper, 1816-1841.= (Manual, p. 524.)
A voice is on mine ear—a solemn voice:I come, I come, it calls me to my rest;Faint not, my yearning heart; rejoice, rejoice;Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest:On the bright waters there, the living streams,Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary bark,Waked by rude waves no more from gentle dreams,Sadly to feel that earth to thee is dark—Not bright as once; O, vain, vain memories, cease,I cast your burden down—I strive for peace.
I heed the warning voice: oh, spurn me not,My early friend; let the bruised heart go free:Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lotHath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee;Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile,Thinking o'er wasted hours, a weary train,Cheered by the moon's soft light, the sun's glad smile,Watching the blue sky o'er my path of pain,Waiting nay summons: whose shall be the eyeTo glance unkindly—I have come to die!
Sweet words—to die! O, pleasant, pleasant sounds,What bright revealings to my heart they bring;What melody, unheard in earth's dull rounds,And floating from the land of glorious SpringThe eternal home! my weary thoughts revive,Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love,Gentle and kindly thoughts for all that live,Fanned by soft breezes from the world above:And pausing not, I hasten to my rest—Again, O, gentle summons, thou art blest!
* * * * *
=Catharine Ann Warfield.=
Unfold the silent gates,The Lord of Ashland waitsPatient without, to enter his domain;Tell not who sits within,With sad and stricken mien,That he, her soul's beloved, hath come again.
Long hath she watched for him,Till hope itself grew dim,And sorrow ceased to wake the frequent tear;But let these griefs depart,Like shadows from her heart—Tell her, the long expected host is here.
He comes—but not alone,For darkly pressing on,The people pass beneath his bending trees,Not as they came of yore,When torch and banner boreTheir part amid exulting harmonies.
But still, and sad, they sweepAmid the foliage deep,Even to the threshold of that mansion gray,Whither from life's unrest,As an eagle seeks his nest,It ever was his wont to flee away.
And he once more hath comeTo that accustomed home,To taste a calm, life never offered yet;To know a rest so deep,That they who watch and weep,In this vain world may well its peace regret.
[Footnote 85: The home of Henry Clay.]
* * * * *
=Arthur Cleveland Coxe, 1818-.= (Manual, p. 523.)
In the silent midnight watches,List thy bosom door;How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,Knocketh evermore!Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating;'Tis thy heart of sin;'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth,"Rise, and let me in."
Death comes down with reckless footstepTo the hall and hut;Think you Death will tarry knockingWhere the door is shut?Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth;But thy door is fast.Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth;Death breaks in at last.
Then 'tis thine to stand entreatingChrist to let thee in,At the gate of heaven beating,Wailing for thy sin.Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,Hast thou then forgot?Jesus waited long to know thee,—Now he knows thee not.
* * * * *
=William Ross Wallace, 1819-.= (Manual, p. 523.)
Noble was the old North Edda,Filling many a noble grave,That for "man the one thing needfulIn his world is to be brave."
This, the Norland's blue-eyed motherNightly chanted to her child,While the Sea-King, grim and stately,Looked upon his boy and smiled.
* * * * *
Let us learn that old North EddaChanted grandly on the grave,Still for man the one thing needfulIn his world is to be brave.
Valkyrs yet are forth and choosingWho must be among the slain;Let us, like that grim old Sea-King,Smile at Death upon the plain,—
Smile at tyrants leagued with falsehood,Knowing Truth, eternal, standsWith the book God wrote for FreedomAlways open in her hands,—
Smile at fear when in our duty,Smile at Slander's Jotun-breath,Smile upon our shrouds when summonedDown the darkling deep of death.
Valor only grows a manhood;Only this upon our sod,Keeps us in the golden shadowFalling from the throne of God.
* * * * *
=Walter Whitman, 1819-.[86]=
From Leaves of Grass.
I too, many and many a time cross'd the river, the sun half an hourhigh;I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls—I saw them high inthe air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating theirbodies,I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies,and left the rest in strong shadow,I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging towardthe south.
I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shapeof my head, in the sun-lit water,Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,Look'd towards the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships atanchor,The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,The round masts, the swimming motion of the hulls, the slenderserpentine pennants,The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in theirpilot-houses,The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirlof the wheels,The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, thefrolicsome crests and glistening,The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray wallsof the granite store-houses by the docks,On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closelyflank'd on each side by the barges—the hay-boat, thebelated lighter,On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneysburning high and glaringly into the night.Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red andyellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into theclefts of streets.
These and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;I project myself a moment to tell you—also I return.
[Footnote 86: Was born in New York in 1819, and has been printer, teacher, and later, an official at Washington. His poetry, though irregular in form, and often coarse in sentiment, is decidedly original and vigorous.]
* * * * *
=Amelia B. Welby, 1819-1852.= (Manual, p. 523.)
It is a still and lovely spotWhere they have laid thee down to rest;The white rose and forget-me-notBloom sweetly on thy breast,And birds and streams with liquid lullHave made the stillness beautiful.
And softly through the forest barsLight, lovely shapes, on glossy plumes,Float ever in, like winged stars,Amid the purpling glooms.Their sweet songs, borne from tree to tree,Thrill the light leaves with melody.
Alas! too deep a weight of thoughtHad filled thy heart in youth's sweet hour;It seemed with love and bliss o'erfraught;As fleeting passion-flowerUnfolding 'neath a southern sky,To blossom soon, and soon to die.
Alas! the very path I trace,In happier hours thy footsteps made;This spot was once thy resting place,Within the silent shade.Thy white hand trained the fragrant boughThat drops its blossoms o'er me now.
* * * * *
Yet in those calm and blooming bowersI seem to feel thy presence still,Thy breath seems floating o'er the flowers,Thy whisper on the hill;The clear, faint starlight, and the sea,Are whispering to my heart of thee.
No more thy smiles my heart rejoice,Yet still I start to meet thy eye,And call upon the low, sweet voice,That gives me no reply—And list within my silent doorFor the light feet that come no more.
* * * * *
=Rebecca S. Nichols,= about =1820-.= (Manual, pp. 503, 524.)
From "Musings."
=403.=
How like a conquerer the king of dayFolds back the curtains of his orient couch,Bestrides the fleecy clouds, and speeds his wayThrough skies made brighter by his burning touch;For, as a warrior from the tented fieldVictorious, hastes his wearied limbs to rest,So doth the sun his brazen sceptre yield,And sink, fair Night, upon thy gentle breast.
* * * * *
Fair Vesper, when thy golden tresses gleamAmid the banners of the sunset sky,Thy spirit floats on every radiant beamThat gilds with beauty thy sweet home on high;Then hath my soul its hour of deepest bliss,And gentle thoughts like angels round me throng,Breathing of worlds (O, how unlike to this!)Where dwell eternal melody and song.
* * * * *
=Alice Cary.=
"The Old House."
My little birds, with backs as brownAs sand, and throats as white as frost,I've searched the summer up and down,And think the other birds have lostThe tunes, you sang so sweet, so low,About the old house, long ago.
My little flowers, that with your bloomSo hid the grass you grew upon,A child's foot scarce had any roomBetween you,—are you dead and gone?I've searched through fields and gardens rare,Nor found your likeness any where.
My little hearts, that beat so highWith love to God, and trust in men,Oh come to me, and say if IBut dream, or was I dreaming then,What time we sat within the glowOf the old house-hearth, long ago?
My little hearts, so fond, so true,I searched the world all far and wide,And never found the like of you:God grant we meet the other sideThe darkness 'twixt us, now that stands,In that new house not made with hands!
* * * * *
=Sidney Dyer,=[87] about =1820-.=
However humble be the bard who sings,If he can touch one chord of love that slumbers,His name, above the proudest line of kings,Shall live immortal in his truthful numbers.
The name of him who sung of "Home, sweet home,[88]"Is now enshrined with every holy feeling;And though he sleeps beneath no sainted dome,Each heart a pilgrim at his shrine is kneeling.
The simple lays that wake no tear when sung,Like chords of feeling from the music taken,Are, in the bosom of the singer, strung,Which every throbbing heart-pulse will awaken.
[Footnote 87: A Baptist clergyman, who has lived for many years atIndianapolis, Indiana; the author of numerous songs.]
[Footnote 88: John Howard Payne.]
* * * * *
=Austin T. Earle,[89] 1821-.=
From "Warm Hearts had We."
=406.=
The autumn winds were damp and cold,And dark the clouds that swept along,As from the fields, the grains of goldWe gathered, with the husker's song.Our hardy forms, though thinly clad,Scarce felt the winds that swept us by,For she a child, and I a lad,Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.
We heaped the ears of yellow corn,More worth than bars of gold to view:The crispy covering from it torn,The noblest grain that ever grew;Nor heeded we, though thinly clad,The chilly winds that swept us by;For she a child, and I a lad,Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.
[Footnote 89: Was born in Tennessee; a well-known Western writer of both verse and prose.]
* * * * *
=Thomas Buchanan Read, 1822-1872.= (Manual, p. 523.)
From "Sylvia, or the Last Shepherd."
* * * * *
Thus sang the shepherd crowned at noonAnd every breast was heaved with sighs;—Attracted by the tree and tune,The winged singers left the skies.
Close to the minstrel sat the maid;His song had drawn her fondly near:Her large and dewy eyes betrayedThe secret to her bosom dear.
The factory people through the fields,Pale men and maids and children pale,Listened, forgetful of the wheel,Till the last summons woke the vale.
And all the mowers rising said,"The world has lost its dewy prime;Alas! the Golden age is dead,And we are of the Iron time!
"The wheel and loom have left our homes,—Our maidens sit with empty hands,Or toil beneath yon roaring domes,And fill the factory's pallid bands,
"The fields are swept as by a war,Our harvests are no longer blythe;Yonder the iron mower's-car,Comes with his devastating scythe.
"They lay us waste by fire and steel,Besiege us to our very doors;Our crops before the driving wheelFall captive to the conquerors.
"The pastoral age is dead, is dead!Of all the happy ages chief;Let every mower bow his head,In token of sincerest grief.
"And let our brows be thickly boundWith every saddest flower that blows;And all our scythes be deeply woundWith every mournful herb that grows."
Thus sang the mowers; and they said,"The world has lost its dewy prime;Alas! the Golden age is dead,And we are of the Iron time!"
Each wreathed his scythe and twined his head;They took their slow way through the plain:The minstrel and the maiden ledAcross the fields the solemn train.
The air was rife with clamorous sounds,Of clattering factory-thundering forge,—Conveyed from the remotest boundsOf smoky plain and mountain gorge.
Here, with a sudden shriek and roar,The rattling engine thundered by;A steamer past the neighboring shoreConvulsed the river and the sky.
The brook that erewhile laughed abroad,And o'er one light wheel loved to play,Now, like a felon, groaning trodIts hundred treadmills night and day.
The fields were tilled with steeds of steam,Whose fearful neighing shook the vales;Along the road there rang no team,—The barns were loud, but not with flails.
And still the mournful mowers said,"The world has lost its dewy prime;Alas! the Golden age is dead,And we are of the Iron time!"
* * * * *
From "The Closing Scene."
=408.=
All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued,The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low;As in a dream, the distant woodman hewedHis winter log, with many a muffled blow.
* * * * *
The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew,Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before,Silent, till some replying warder blewHis alien horn, and then was heard no more.
Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest,Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young,And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,By every light wind, like a censer, swung.
* * * * *
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,Plied the swift wheel, and, with her joyless mien,Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.
* * * * *
While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,Her country summoned, and she gave her all;And twice war bowed to her his sable plume,Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall—
Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew,And struck for Liberty its dying blow;Nor him who, to his sire and country true,Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;Long, but not loud, the memory of the goneBreathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.
At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed;Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene;And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,While death and winter closed the autumn scene.
* * * * *
=Margaret M. Davidson, 1823-1837.= (Manual, p. 523.)
From Lines in Memory of her Sister Lucretia.
=409.=
O thou, so early lost, so long deplored!Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near;And, while I touch this hallowed harp of thine,Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear.
For thee I pour this unaffected lay;To thee these simple numbers all belong:For though thine earthly form has passed away,Thy memory still inspires my childish song.
Take, then, this feeble tribute; 'tis thine own;Thy fingers sweep my trembling heartstrings o'er,Arouse to harmony each buried tone,And bid its wakened music sleep no more.
Long has thy voice been silent, and thy lyreHung o'er thy grave, in death's unbroken rest;But when its last sweet tones were borne away,One answering echo lingered in my breast.
O thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near,Accept these lines, unworthy though they be,Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine,By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee.
* * * * *
=John R. Thompson,[90] 1823-1873.=
Two armies covered hill and plain,Where Rappahannock's watersRan deeply crimsoned with the stainOf battle's recent slaughters.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tentsIn meads of heavenly azure,And each dread gun of the elementsSlept in its hid embrazure.
The breeze so softly blew, it madeNo forest leaf to quiver,And the smoke of the random cannonadeRolled slowly from the river.
And now, where circling hills looked down,With cannon grimly planted,O'er listless camp and silent townThe golden sunset slanted.
When on the fervid air there cameA strain—now rich and tender;The music seemed itself aflameWith day's departing splendor.
And yet once more the bugles sangAbove the stormy riot;No shout upon the evening rang—There reigned a holy quiet,
The sad, slow stream, its noiseless floodPoured o'er the glistening pebbles;All silent now the Yankees stood,And silent stood the Rebels.
No unresponsive soul had heardThat plaintive note's appealing,So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirredThe hidden founts of feeling.
Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees,As by the wand of fairy,The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,The cabin by the prairie.
Or cold or warm, his native skiesBend in their beauty o'er him;Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,His loved ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rainIn April's tearful weather,The vision vanished, as the strainAnd daylight died together.
But memory, waked by music's art,Expressed in simplest numbers,Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,Made light the Rebel's slumbers.
And fair the form of music shines,That bright, celestial creature,Who still 'mid war's embattled lines,Gave this one touch of Nature.
[Footnote 90: Received a liberal education and relinquishing his profession—the law—for literature, was for some years editor of the Southern Literary Messenger. Has written chiefly for the magazines and for the newspapers. A native of Virginia.]
* * * * *
=George Henry Boker, 1824-.= (Manual, p. 520.)
From the "Ode to a Mountain Oak."
Type of unbending Will!Type of majestic self-sustaining Power!Elate in sunshine, firm when tempests lower,May thy calm strength my wavering spirit fill!Oh! let me learn from thee,Thou proud and steadfast tree,To bear unmurmuring what stern Time may send;Nor 'neath life's ruthless tempests bend:But calmly stand like thee,Though wrath and storm shake me,Though vernal hopes in yellow Autumn end,And, strong in truth, work out my destiny.Type of long-suffering Power!Type of unbending Will!Strong in the tempest's hour,Bright when the storm is still;Rising from every contest with an unbroken heart,Strengthen'd by every struggle, emblem of might thou art!Sign of what man can compass, spite of an adverse state,Still from thy rocky summit, teach us to war with Fate!
* * * * *
Slow, slow! toll it low,As the sea-waves break and flow;With the same dull slumberous motion.As his ancient mother, Ocean,Rocked him on, through storm and calm,From the iceberg to the palm:So his drowsy ears may deemThat the sound which breaks his dreamIs the ever-moaning tideWashing on his vessel's side.
Slow, slow! as we go.Swing his coffin to and fro;As of old the lusty billowSwayed him on his heaving pillow:So that he may fancy still,Climbing up the watery hill,Plunging in the watery vale,With her wide-distended sail,His good ship securely standsOnward to the golden lands.
Slow, slow! heave-a-ho!—Lower him to the mould below;With the well-known sailor ballad,Lest he grow more cold and pallidAt the thought that Ocean's child,From his mother's arms beguiled.Must repose for countless years,Reft of all her briny tears,All the rights he owned by birth,In the dusty lap of earth.
* * * * *
=William Allen Butler, 1825-.= (Manual, p. 521.)
From "Nothing to Wear."
=413.=
O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny dayPlease trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,And the temples of Trade which tower on each side,To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and GuiltTheir children have gathered, their city have built;Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stairTo the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,Half-starved, and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold.See those skeleton limbs, and those frost-bitten feet,All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swellFrom the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor,Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell,As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door;Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,Spoiled children of Fashion—you've nothing to wear!
And O, if perchance there should be a sphere,Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,
* * * * *
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence,Must be clothed for the life and the service above,With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!Lest in that upper realm, you have nothing to wear!
* * * * *
=Bayard Taylor, 1825-.= (Manual, pp. 523, 531.)
From "The Atlantic Monthly."
Who shall rise and cast away,First, the Burden of the Day?Who assert his place, and teachLighter labor, nobler speech,Standing firm, erect, and strong,Proud as Freedom, free as song?
Lo! we groan beneath the weightOur own weaknesses create;Crook the knee and shut the lip,All for tamer fellowship;Load our slack, compliant clayWith the Burden of the Day!
Higher paths there are to tread;Fresher fields around us spread;Other flames of sun and starFlash at hand and lure afar;Larger manhood might we share,Surer fortune, did we dare!
In our mills of common thoughtBy the pattern all is wrought:In our school of life, the manDrills to suit the public plan,And through labor, love and play,Shifts the Burden of the Day.
Power of all is right of none!Right hath each beneath the sunTo the breadth and liberal spaceOf the independent race,—To the chariot and the steed,To the will, desire, and deed!
Ah, the gods of wood and stoneCan a single saint dethrone,But the people who shall aid'Gainst the puppets they have made?First they teach and then obey:'Tis the Burden of the Day.
Thunder shall we never hearIn this ordered atmosphere?Never this monotony feelShattered by a trumpet's peal?Never airs that burst and blowFrom eternal summits, know?
Though no man resent his wrong,Still is free the poet's song:Still, a stag, his thought may leapO'er the herded swine and sheep,And in pastures far awayLose the burden of the Day!
* * * * *
=John Townsend Trowbridge,[91] 1827-.=
From the Atlantic Monthly.
In the low-raftered garret, stoopingCarefully over the creaking boards,Old Maid Dorothy goes a-gropingAmong its dusty and cobwebbed hoards;Seeking some bundle of patches, hidFar under the eaves, or bunch of sage,Or satchel hung on its nail, amidThe heir-looms of a by-gone age.
There is the ancient family chest,There the ancestral cards and hatchel;Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest,Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel.Ghosts of faces peer from the gloomOf the chimney, where, with swifts and reel,And the long-disused, dismantled loom,Stands the old-fashioned spinning wheel.
She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen,A part of her girlhood's little world;Her mother is there by the window, stitching;Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirledWith many a click; on her little stoolShe sits, a child by the open door,Watching, and dabbling her feet in the poolOf sunshine spilled on the gilded floor.
Her sisters are spinning all day long;To her wakening sense, the first sweet warningOf daylight come, is the cheerful songTo the hum of the wheel, in the early morning.Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy,On his way to school, peeps in at the gate;In neat, white pinafore, pleased and coy,She reaches a hand to her bashful mate;
And under the elms, a prattling pair,Together they go, through glimmer and gloomIt all comes back to her, dreaming thereIn the low-raftered garret room;The hum of the wheel, and the summer weatherThe heart's first trouble, and love's beginning,Are all in her memory linked together;And now it is she herself that is spinning.
With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip,Turning the spokes with the flashing pin,Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip,Stretching it out and winding it in,To and fro, with a blithesome tread,Singing she goes, and her heart is full,And many a long-drawn golden threadOf fancy, is spun with the shining wool.
[Footnote 91: After struggling through many early discouragements has attained high repute, both in prose and verse. Has written several novels. New York is his native State.]
* * * * *
=Henry Timrod,[92] 1829-1867.=
From his "Poems."
The rain is plashing on my sill,But all the winds of Heaven are still;And so it falls with that dull soundWhich thrills us in the church-yard ground,When the first spadeful drops like leadUpon the coffin of the dead.Beyond my streaming window-pane,I cannot see the neighboring vane,Yet from its old familiar towerThe bell comes, muffled, through the showerWhat strange and unsuspected linkOf feeling touched, has made me think—While with a vacant soul and eyeI watch that gray and stony sky—Of nameless graves on battle-plainsWashed by a single winter's rains,Where—some beneath Virginian hills,And some by green Atlantic rills,Some by the waters of the West—A myriad unknown heroes rest?Ah! not the chiefs, who, dying, seeTheir flags in front of victory,Or, at their life-blood's noble costPay for a battle nobly lost,Claim from their monumental bedsThe bitterest tears a nation sheds.Beneath yon lonely mound—the spotBy all save some fond few, forgot—Lie the true martyrs of the fightWhich strikes for freedom and for right.Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,The lofty faith that with them died,No grateful page shall farther tellThan that so many bravely fell;And we can only dimly guessWhat worlds of all this world's distress,What utter woe, despair, and dearth,Their fate has brought to many a hearth.Just such a sky as this should weepAbove them, always, where they sleep;Yet, haply, at this very hourTheir graves are like a lover's bower;And Nature's self, with eyes unwet,Oblivious of the crimson debtTo which she owes her April grace,Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place.
[Footnote 92: A native of South Carolina. He has a fine poetic sentiment, with much beauty of expression, and is an especial favorite in the South.]
* * * * *
=Susan A. Talley Von Weiss,=[93] about =1830-.=
Sadly the murmur, stealingThrough the dim windings of the mazy shell,Seemeth some ocean-mystery concealingWithin its cell.
And ever sadly breathing,As with the tone of far-off waves at play,That dreamy murmur through the sea-shell wreathingNe'er dies away.
It is no faint replyingOf far-off melodies of wind and wave,No echo of the ocean billow, sighingThrough gem-lit cave.
It is no dim retainingOf sounds that through the dim sea-caverns swellBut some lone ocean spirit's sad complaining,Within that cell.
* * * * *
I languish for the ocean—I pine to view the billow's heaving crest;I miss the music of its dream-like motion,That lulled to rest.
How like art thou, sad spirit,To many a one, the lone ones of the earth!Who in the beauty of their souls inheritA purer birth;
* * * * *
Yet thou, lone child of ocean,May'st never more behold thine ocean-foam,While they shall rest from each wild, sad emotion,And find their home!
[Footnote 93: A native of Virginia; her poetical pieces have been much admired.]
* * * * *
=Albert Sutliffe,[94] 1830-.=
The farmer tireth of his half-day toil,He pauseth at the plough,He gazeth o'er the furrow-lined soil,Brown hand above his brow.
He hears, like winds lone muffled 'mong the hills,The lazy river run;From shade of covert woods, the eager rillsBound forth into the sun.
The clustered clouds of snowy apple-blooms,Scarce shivered by a breeze,With odor faint, like flowers in feverish rooms,Fall, flake by flake, in peace.
'Tis labor's ebb; a hush of gentle joy,For man, and beast, and bird;The quavering songster ceases its employ;The aspen is not stirred.
But Nature hath no pause; she toileth still;Above the last-year leavesThrusts the lithe germ, and o'er the terraced hillA fresher carpet weaves.
From many veins she sends her gathered streamsTo the huge-billowed main,Then through the air, impalpable as dreams,She calls them back again.
She shakes the dew from her ambrosial locks,She pours adown the steepThe thundering waters; in her palm, she rocksThe flower-throned bee to sleep.
Smile in the tempest, faint and fragile man,And tremble in the calm!God plainest shows what great. Jehovah can,In these fair days of balm.
[Footnote 94: A native of Connecticut, but has lived for many years in the West, and latterly in Minnesota.]
* * * * *
=Elijah E. Edwards,[95] 1831-.=
"Let me rest!"It was the voice of oneWhose life-long journey was but just begun.With genial radiance shone his morning sun;The lark sprang up rejoicing from her nest,To warble praises in her Maker's ear;The fields were clad in flower-enamelled vest,And air of balm, and sunshine clear,Failed not to cheerThat yet unweary pilgrim; but his breastWas harrowed with a strange, foreboding fear;Deeming the life to come, at best,But weariness, he murmured, "Let me rest."
* * * * *
"Let me rest!"But not at morning's hour,Nor yet when clouds above my pathway lower;Let me bear up against affliction's power,Till life's red sun has sought its quiet west,Till o'er me spreads the solemn, silent night,When, having passed the portals of the blessed,I may repose upon the Infinite,And learn arightWhy He, the wise, the ever-loving, tracedThe path to heaven through a desert waste.Courage, ye fainting ones! at His behestYe pass through labor unto endless rest.
[Footnote 95: Born in Ohio; of late professor of ancient languages inMinnesota; a contributor in prose and verse to various magazines.]
* * * * *
=Paul Hamilton Hayne,[96] 1831-.=
The passionate summer's dead! the sky's aglowWith roseate flushes of matured desire;The winds at eve are musical and lowAs sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre,Far up among the pillared clouds of fire,Whose pomp in grand procession upward grows,With gorgeous blazonry of funereal shows,To celebrate the summer's past renown.Ah, me! how regally the heavens look down,O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods,And harvest-fields with hoarded incense brown,And deep-toned majesty of golden floods,That lift their solemn dirges to the sky,To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.
[Footnote 96: A poet and critic of much Note; a native of SouthCarolina.]
* * * * *
=Rosa V. Johnson Jeffrey=[97] about =1832-.=
Angel faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my sleep,—And upon the winds of midnight, shining pinions round me sweep;Floating downward on the starlight, two bright infant-forms I see—They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from heaven to visit me.
Earthly children smile upon me, but those little ones' above,Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother's deathless love,And, as now they watch my slumber, while their soft eyes on me shine,God forgive a mortal yearning still to call his angels mine.
Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice can seemSweet as those that whisper "Mother!" 'mid the glories of my dream;Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease perchance to lisp my name;But my angel babies' accents shall be evermore the same.
And the bright band now around me, from their home perchance will rove,In their strength no more depending on my constant care and love;But my first-born still shall wander, from the sky in dreams to restTheir soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly mother's breast.
Time may steal away the freshness, or some 'whelming grief destroyAll the hopes that erst had blossomed, in my summer-time of joy;Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends perhaps betray,Every tie that now unites me to this life may pass away;—
But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their blest immortal home,Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my darkened dreams shall come;And I cannot feel forsaken, for, though 'reft of earthly love,Angel children call me "Mother," and my soul will look above.
[Footnote 97: A native of Mississippi, but of late a resident ofKentucky; the author of several novels, and of many poetical pieces.]
* * * * *
=Sarah J. Lippincott.=
From Putnam's Magazine.
The long day waned, when spent with pain, I seemedTo drift on slowly toward the restful shore,—So near, I breathed in balm, and caught faint gleamsOf Lotus-blooms that fringe the waves of death,And breathless Palms that crown the heights of God.
Then I bethought me how dear hands would closeThese wistful eyes in welcome night, and foldThese poor, tired hands in blameless idleness.In tender mood I pictured forth the spotWherein I should be laid to take my rest.
"It shall be in some paradise of graves,Where Sun and Shade do hold alternate watch;Where Willows sad trail low their tender green,And pious Elms build arches worshipful,O'ertowered by solemn Pines, in whose dark topsEnchanted storm-winds sigh through summer-nights;The stalwart exile from fair Lombardy,And slender Aspens, whose quiet, watchful leavesGive silver challenge to the passing breeze,And softly flash and clash like fairy shields,Shall sentinel that quiet camping ground;The glow and grace of flowers will flood those moundsAn ever-widening sea of billowy bloom;And not least lovely shall my grave-sod be,With Myrtles blue, and nestling Violets,And Star-flowers pale with watching—Pansies, dark,With mourning thoughts, and Lilies saintly pure;Deep-hearted Roses, sweet as buried love,And Woodbine-blossoms dripping honeyed dewOver a tablet and a sculptured name.There little song-birds, careless of my sleep,Shall shake fine raptures from their throats, and thrillWith life's triumphant joy the ear of Death;And lovely, gauzy creatures of an hourPreach immortality among the graves.The chime of silvery waters shall be there—A pleasant stream that winds among the flowers,But lingers not, for that it ever hears,Through leagues of wood and field and towered town,The great sea calling from his secret deeps."
'Twas here, methought or dreamed, an angel cameAnd stood beside my couch, and bent on meA face of solemn questioning, still and stern,But passing beautiful, and searched my soulWith steady eyes, the while he seemed to say.
What hast thou done here, child, that thy poor dustShould lie embosomed in such loveliness?Why should the gracious trees stand guard o'er thee?Hast thou aspired, like them, through all thy life,And rest and healing with thy shadow cast?Have deeds of thine brightened the world like flowers,And sweetened it with holiest charities?
* * * * *
=Edmund Clarence Stedman,[98] 1833-.=
From "The Blameless Prince and other Poems."
Two thousand feet in air it standsBetwixt the bright and shaded lands,Above the regions it dividesAnd borders with its furrowed sides.The seaward valley laughs with lightTill the round sun o'erhangs this height;But then, the shadow of the crestNo more the plains that lengthen westEnshrouds, yet slowly, surely creepsEastward, until the coolness steepsA darkling league of tilth and wold,And chills the flocks that seek their fold.
Not like those ancient summits lone,Mont Blanc on his eternal throne,—The city-gemmed Peruvian, peak,—The sunset portals landsmen seek,Whose train, to reach the Golden Land,Crawls slow and pathless through the sand,—Or that whose ice-lit beacon guidesThe mariner on tropic tides,And flames across the Gulf afar,A torch by day, by night a star,—Not thus to cleave the outer skies.Does my serener mountain rise.Nor aye forget its gentle birthUpon the dewey, pastoral earth.
But ever, in the noonday light,Are scenes whereof I love the sight,—Broad pictures of the lower worldBeneath my gladdened eyes unfurled.Irradiate distances revealFair nature wed to human weal;The rolling valley made a plain;Its chequered squares of grass and grain;The silvery rye, the golden wheat,The flowery elders where they meet,—Ay, even the springing corn I see,And garden haunts of bird and bee;And where, in daisied meadows, shinesThe wandering river through its vines,Move, specks at random, which I knowAre herds a-grazing to and fro.
[Footnote 98: Was born in Connecticut but has long resided in New York, where he has combined an active business life with literary pursuits—a favorite contributor to that magazines.]
* * * * *
=John James Piatt,[99] 1835-.=
From "Landmarks and other Poems."
Though for the soul a lovely Heaven awaits,Through years of woe,The Paradise with angels in its gatesIs Long Ago.
The heart's lost Home! Ah, thither winging ever,In silence, showVanishing faces! but they vanish neverIn Long Ago!
Ye toil'd through desert sands to reach To-morrow,With footsteps slow,Poor Yesterdays! Immortal gleams ye borrowIn Long Ago.
The world is dark: backward our thoughts are yearning,Our eyes o'erflow:Sweet Memories, angels to our tears returning,Leave Long Ago.
We climb: child-roses to our knees are climbing,From valleys low;To call us back, dear birds and brooks are rhymingIn Long Ago.
Hands clasp'd, tears shed, sad songs are sung!—the fairBeloved ones, lo!Shine yonder, through the angel gates of air,In Long Ago.
[Footnote 99: Of Western birth and education. His verse though somewhat crude, has a flow of tenderness and freshness.]
* * * * *
=Celia Thaxter,[100] 1835-.=
From The Atlantic Monthly.
Softly Death touched her, and she passed away,Out of this glad, bright world she made more fair;Sweet as the apple blossoms, when in May,The orchards flush, of summer grown aware.
All that fresh delicate beauty gone from sight,That gentle, gracious presence felt no more!How must the house be emptied of delight!What shadows on the threshold she passed o'er!
She loved me. Surely I was grateful, yetI could not give her back all she gave me,—Ever I think of it with vain regret,Musing upon a summer by the sea:
Remembering troops of merry girls who pressedAbout me, clinging arms and tender eyes,And love, light scent of roses. With the restShe came to fill my heart with new surprise.
The day I left them all and sailed away,While o'er the calm sea, 'neath the soft gray skyThey waved farewell, she followed me to sayYet once again her wistful, sweet "good by."
At the boat's bow she drooped; her light green dressSwept o'er the skiff in many a graceful fold,Her glowing face, bright with a mute caress,Crowned with her lovely hair of shadowy gold:
And tears she dropped into the crystal brineFor me, unworthy, as we slowly swungFree of the mooring. Her last look was mine,Seeking me still the motley crowd among.
O tender memory of the dead I holdSo precious through the fret and change of years!Were I to live till Time itself grew old,The sad sea would be sadder for those tears.
[Footnote 100: A native of New Hampshire; long resident on the Isles of Shoals, and remarkable for her vivid pictures of ocean life, in both prose and verse.]
* * * * *
=Theophilus H. Hill.[101] 1836-.=
From "The Song of the Butterfly."
=426.=
When the shades of evening fall,Like the foldings of a pall,—When the dew is on the flowers,And the mute, unconscious hours,Still pursue their noiseless flightThrough the dreamy realms of night,In the shut or open roseAh, how sweetly I repose!
* * * * *
And Diana's starry train,Sweetly scintillant again,Never sleep while I reposeOn the petals of the rose.Sweeter couch hath who than I?Quoth the brilliant Butterfly.
Life is but a summer day,Gliding languidly away;Winter comes, alas! too soon,—Would it were forever June!Yet though brief my flight may be,Fun and frolic still for me!When the summer leaves and flowers,Now so beautiful and gay,In the cold autumnal showers,Droop and fade, and pine away,Who would not prefer to die?What were life tosuch as I?Quoth the flaunting Butterfly.