VERSEFROM “THE PHANTOMS OF THE MIND”[First printed inBowdoin Portfolio, September, 1839.]I would not be a fragile flowerTo languish in a lady’s bower,A silken thing of texture rareThat fears to meet God’s blessed air;My life a water, stagnant, low,Without an ebb, without a flow;Chained like a captive to his oarTo toil on, on, forevermore!And supplicate with frantic cryFor the “poor privilege to die”;A smooth-faced boy, a harmless thing,A kitten playing with a string,A child without, a brute within,Without e’en energy to sin.Not thus, when erst that iron raceFrom whom our birth we proudly trace,No sculptured arras decked the bedWhereon reposed the patriot’s head;Nor proud device or motto woreThose stern-faced men that lived of yoreIn the good days of “auld lang syne,”When liberty, a feeble vine,Lay bruised and trailing on the ground,Nor yet a single trellis found;Gently they reared its drooping crest,They bade its tendrils twine,And many a traveller since hath blessedThe shadow of that vine.THE DEMON OF THE SEA[First printed inBowdoin Portfolio, November, 1839.]Ah! tell me not of your shady dells,Where the lilies gleam and the fountain wells,Where the reaper rests when his task is o’er,And the lake-wave sobs on the verdant shore,And the rustic maid with a heart all free,Hies to the well-known trysting-tree;For I’m the god of the rolling sea,And the charms of earth are nought to me.O’er the thundering chime of the breaking surge,On the lightning’s wing my course I urge,On the thrones of foam right joyous ride’Mid the sullen dash of the angry tide.I hear ye tell of music’s power,The rapture of a sigh,When beauty in her wizard bowerUnveils her languid eye.Of those who die in rugged fightAnd battling for their country’s rightWith the shivered brand in the “red right hand,”And the plaudits of a rescued land.Ye never knew the infernal fire,The withering curse, the scorching ire,That rages, maddens in the breastOf him who rules the billow’s crest.Heard ye that last despairing yellThat wailed Creation’s funeral knell,When young and old, the vile, the brave,Were circled in one common grave?While on my ear of driving foamBy moaning whirlwinds sped,O’er whatwasjoyous earth I roam,And trample on the dead.This is the music that my earThrills with stern ecstasy to hear!I love to view some lonely bark,The sport of storms, the lightning’s mark,Scarce struggling through the fresh’ning waveThat foams and yawns to be her grave!I saw a son and father fightFor a drifting spar their lives to save;The son he throttled his father gray,And tore the spar from his clutch away,Till he sank beneath the wave;And deemed it were a noble sight.I saw upon a shattered wreckAll swinging at the tempest’s beck,A mother lone, whose frenzied eyeWandered in hopeless agonyO’er that vast plain where naught was seen,The ocean and the sky between,And there all buried to the breastIn the hungry surf that round her prest—With feeble arms, in anguish wild,High o’er her head she raised her child,Endured of winds and waves the strife,To add a unit to its life.I whelmed that infant in the seaTo add a pang to her misery,And the wretched mother’s frantic yellCame o’er me like a soothing spell!Are ye so haughty in your pride,To deem of all the earth besideThat yours are fields and fragrant flowers,And lute-like voices in your bowers,And gold and gems of priceless worth,And all the glory of the earth?Ah, mean is all your pageantryTo that proud, fadeless blazonry,That waves in scathless beauty freeBeneath the blue, old rolling sea!For there are flowers that wither not,And leaves that never fall,Immortal forms in each wild grot,Still bright and changeless all.Decay is not on beauty’s bloom,No canker in the rose,No prescience of a future doomTo mar the sweet repose—There Proteus’ changeful form is seen,And Triton winds his shell,While through old Ocean’s valleys green,The tuneful echoes swell.But though a Demon rightly named,For terror more than mercy famed,—Yet demons e’en respect the powerThat nerves the heart in danger’s hour.And when the veteran of a hundred storms,Whom many a wild midnightI’ve girded with a thousand startling formsOf terror and affright,—When tempests roar and hell-fiends scream,The thunders crash, the lightnings gleam,’Mid biting cold and driving hailStill grasps the helm, still trims the sail,Nor deigns to utter coward cries,But as he lived, so fearless dies,—Mingles his last faint, bubbling sighWith the pealing tempest’s banner-cry;—Then winds are hushed, the billow fallsWhere storms were wont to be,As I bear him to the untrodden hallsOf the deep unfathomed sea!Now Triton sends a mournful strainThrough all that vast profound,—At once a bright immortal trainComes thronging at the sound.And on a shining pearly carThey place the honored dust,And Ocean’s chargers gently bearAlong the sacred trust,While far o’er all the glassy plainBy mighty Neptune led,In sadness moves that funeral train,—Thus Ocean wails her dead!And now the watch of life is past,The shattered hulk is moored at last,Nor e’en the tempest’s thrilling breathCan wake “the dull, cold ear of death.”No bitter thoughts of home and loved ones dartTheir untold anguish through the seaman’s heart.Peaceful be thy slumbers, brother,There’s no prouder grave for thee,Well may pine for thee a mother,Flower of ocean’s chivalry!PORTLANDStill may I love, beloved of thee,My own fair city of the sea!Where moulders back to kindred dustThe mother who my childhood nurst,And strove, with ill-requited toil,To till a rough, ungrateful soil;Yet kindly spared by Heaven to knowThat Faith’s reward is sure, though slow,And see the prophet’s mantle graceThe rudest scion of her race.And while around thy seaward shoreThe Atlantic doth its surges pour,(Those verdant isles, thy bosom-gems)May Temples be thy diadems;Spire after spire in beauty rise,Still pointing upward to the skies,Unwritten sermons, and rebukes of love,To point thy toiling throngs to worlds above.AN ODE[Written for the Semi-centennial Celebration at Bowdoin College, August 31, 1852.]From waves that break to break again,From winds that die to gather might,How pleasant on the stormy mainAppears the sailor’s native height.And sweet, I ween, the graceful tearsThat glisten in the wand’rer’s eye,As haunts and homes of early yearsBegemmed with morning’s dewdrops lie.Borne on the fragrant breath of morn,His lazy vessel stems the tideAmong the fields of waving cornThat nestle on the river’s side.His mother’s cottage through the leavesGleams like a rainbow seen at night,While all the visions fancy weavesAre stirring at the well-known sight.But sweeter memories cluster hereThan ever stirred a seaman’s breast,Than e’er provoked his grateful tear,Or wooed the mariner to rest.’Twas here our life of life began—The spirit felt its dormant power;’Twas here the child became a man—The opening bud became a flower.And from Niagara’s distant roarAnd homes beside the heaving sea,Rank upon rank thy children pour,And gather to thy Jubilee.On these old trees each nestling leaf,The murmur of yon flowing stream,Has power to stir a buried grief,Or to recall some youthful dream.Each path that skirts the tangled wood,Or winds amidst its secret maze,Worn by the feet of those we loved,Brings back the forms of other days.Of those whose smile was heaven to thee,Whose voice a richer music madeThan brooks that murmur to the sea,Or birds that warble in the shade.Around these ancient altar firesWe cluster with a joyous heart,While ardent youth and hoary siresAlike sustain a grateful part.A HYMN[Written for the Celebration of the Twenty-eighth Anniversary of the Boston Seaman’s Friend Society, at Music Hall, Boston, May 28, 1856.]I was not reared where heaves the swellOf surf on coasts remote and drear,But grew with roses, in a dell,And waked with bird-notes in my ear.Glad hours on golden pinions sped,As folded to her throbbing breast,A mother’s lips their fragrance shed,And lulled me with a prayer to rest.The red has faded from my cheek,And bronzed and scarred the boyish face;Affection’s eye might vainly seekOne lingering lineament to trace.Shipwrecked, the Sailor’s Home I sought,My raiment gone, my shipmates dead,Through poverty reluctant brought,And there a sober life I led.But when the evening prayer was said,It brought the unaccustomed tear,A mother’s hand was on my head,Her voice was thrilling in mine ear.Old memories waked that long had slept,They forced the spirit’s brazen crust;I wept and prayed, I prayed and wept,Till anguish ripened into trust.Blest be the hands that reared thy domeThe wandering seaman’s step to greet;Guiding the homeless to a home,And sinners to a mercy-seat.TRUE POETRY’S TASKWhen first the human clay, instinct with thought,Doth feel the motions of those hidden firesThat by a subtle alchemy sublimeThe crude contexture of its grosser powers,It is not life—rather capacityOf life and power hereafter to be given.Life lies beyond us, as an Orphic taleOf things mysterious and dimly seen,A gorgeous phantom, but a phantom stillThat ever is, and ever is without.We dwell amid the border flowers that bloomTo bless and cheer life’s brier-planted paths,Its dusty turnpikes, and its scorching noons;And thus our primal being is a dreamAnd most mysterious to the dreamer,E’en as the dim and iron forms that frownFrom the dark walls of some old corridorOn which the moonbeams thro’ the crumbling towersBestow expression and inform with lifeDelicious but delight indefinite.The finer tissues of that wondrous webThat doth so strangely link spirit to senseMatter to mind, are all unwoven yet;Those subtle telegraphs that make reportOf outward action to the inward lifeStill in the secret caves of being sleep.The soul is conscious of no other tieTo nature than to love its beautyAnd with an open sense luxuriateIn woods and fields with animal delight.For as the sturdy trunk and massive limbsOf the gigantic oak, lie deftly hidWithin the acorn’s small periphery,Till in the pregnant bosom of the earth,Warmed by the sun, moistened with summer dews,It bursts its coffin and leaps forth to light;Thus when the soul is in its progress brought,Led on by nature’s genial processes,To touch reality and outward life,There is a stirring, from its inmost depths,Of yearning thoughts and deathless energies,Seeking the outward vesture that confersA definite existence and a form.Strong roots shoot forth and fibres more minuteThat by mysterious alchemy impartSubstance to shadow, breath to lifeless forms.Life is no more a pageant to admire;Since with a yearning for a higher life,The power to struggle, and the thirst to know,Awakes a bitter principle to sin,Breeding intestine war and conflict fierce,Till powers are marshalled in the mind itselfThat with itself chaotic warfare wage.Henceforth man’s life is conflict, and his doomBy conflict to grow stronger, to contendFrom the rude cross within some Alpine gorgeTo the proud blazon of ancestral tombs.In eastern myths and Christian chronicles,In heathen temples, and in holy shrinesThe same stern truth is graven on them all—That conflict only doth ennoble man.But man is not sufficient to himselfIn this great conflict, therefore God has givenA twofold revelation to his faith.Subjective, one to reason makes appeal;The other to the grosser sense explainsStern truths by most persuasive images,Graving dread mandates on the shifting clouds,Weaving of wild flowers and of foliage greenA genial symbol for a genial faith.This is the task to Poetry assigned:Of life divine to be the messenger.As to the sorrow-stricken soul of himWho knelt and prayed in lone GethsemaneThe angel choir did gently minister,E’en thus true Poetry doth nerve the soulUpon its Alpine passage to communeWith truths that quicken and with thoughts that stir.It is the soul’s sheet-anchor in the strife.Elijah Kellogg at Eighty-six.1899.
[First printed inBowdoin Portfolio, September, 1839.]
I would not be a fragile flowerTo languish in a lady’s bower,A silken thing of texture rareThat fears to meet God’s blessed air;My life a water, stagnant, low,Without an ebb, without a flow;Chained like a captive to his oarTo toil on, on, forevermore!And supplicate with frantic cryFor the “poor privilege to die”;A smooth-faced boy, a harmless thing,A kitten playing with a string,A child without, a brute within,Without e’en energy to sin.Not thus, when erst that iron raceFrom whom our birth we proudly trace,No sculptured arras decked the bedWhereon reposed the patriot’s head;Nor proud device or motto woreThose stern-faced men that lived of yoreIn the good days of “auld lang syne,”When liberty, a feeble vine,Lay bruised and trailing on the ground,Nor yet a single trellis found;Gently they reared its drooping crest,They bade its tendrils twine,And many a traveller since hath blessedThe shadow of that vine.
I would not be a fragile flowerTo languish in a lady’s bower,A silken thing of texture rareThat fears to meet God’s blessed air;My life a water, stagnant, low,Without an ebb, without a flow;Chained like a captive to his oarTo toil on, on, forevermore!And supplicate with frantic cryFor the “poor privilege to die”;A smooth-faced boy, a harmless thing,A kitten playing with a string,A child without, a brute within,Without e’en energy to sin.Not thus, when erst that iron raceFrom whom our birth we proudly trace,No sculptured arras decked the bedWhereon reposed the patriot’s head;Nor proud device or motto woreThose stern-faced men that lived of yoreIn the good days of “auld lang syne,”When liberty, a feeble vine,Lay bruised and trailing on the ground,Nor yet a single trellis found;Gently they reared its drooping crest,They bade its tendrils twine,And many a traveller since hath blessedThe shadow of that vine.
I would not be a fragile flowerTo languish in a lady’s bower,A silken thing of texture rareThat fears to meet God’s blessed air;My life a water, stagnant, low,Without an ebb, without a flow;Chained like a captive to his oarTo toil on, on, forevermore!And supplicate with frantic cryFor the “poor privilege to die”;A smooth-faced boy, a harmless thing,A kitten playing with a string,A child without, a brute within,Without e’en energy to sin.Not thus, when erst that iron raceFrom whom our birth we proudly trace,No sculptured arras decked the bedWhereon reposed the patriot’s head;Nor proud device or motto woreThose stern-faced men that lived of yoreIn the good days of “auld lang syne,”When liberty, a feeble vine,Lay bruised and trailing on the ground,Nor yet a single trellis found;Gently they reared its drooping crest,They bade its tendrils twine,And many a traveller since hath blessedThe shadow of that vine.
I would not be a fragile flower
To languish in a lady’s bower,
A silken thing of texture rare
That fears to meet God’s blessed air;
My life a water, stagnant, low,
Without an ebb, without a flow;
Chained like a captive to his oar
To toil on, on, forevermore!
And supplicate with frantic cry
For the “poor privilege to die”;
A smooth-faced boy, a harmless thing,
A kitten playing with a string,
A child without, a brute within,
Without e’en energy to sin.
Not thus, when erst that iron race
From whom our birth we proudly trace,
No sculptured arras decked the bed
Whereon reposed the patriot’s head;
Nor proud device or motto wore
Those stern-faced men that lived of yore
In the good days of “auld lang syne,”
When liberty, a feeble vine,
Lay bruised and trailing on the ground,
Nor yet a single trellis found;
Gently they reared its drooping crest,
They bade its tendrils twine,
And many a traveller since hath blessed
The shadow of that vine.
[First printed inBowdoin Portfolio, November, 1839.]
Ah! tell me not of your shady dells,Where the lilies gleam and the fountain wells,Where the reaper rests when his task is o’er,And the lake-wave sobs on the verdant shore,And the rustic maid with a heart all free,Hies to the well-known trysting-tree;For I’m the god of the rolling sea,And the charms of earth are nought to me.O’er the thundering chime of the breaking surge,On the lightning’s wing my course I urge,On the thrones of foam right joyous ride’Mid the sullen dash of the angry tide.I hear ye tell of music’s power,The rapture of a sigh,When beauty in her wizard bowerUnveils her languid eye.Of those who die in rugged fightAnd battling for their country’s rightWith the shivered brand in the “red right hand,”And the plaudits of a rescued land.Ye never knew the infernal fire,The withering curse, the scorching ire,That rages, maddens in the breastOf him who rules the billow’s crest.Heard ye that last despairing yellThat wailed Creation’s funeral knell,When young and old, the vile, the brave,Were circled in one common grave?While on my ear of driving foamBy moaning whirlwinds sped,O’er whatwasjoyous earth I roam,And trample on the dead.This is the music that my earThrills with stern ecstasy to hear!I love to view some lonely bark,The sport of storms, the lightning’s mark,Scarce struggling through the fresh’ning waveThat foams and yawns to be her grave!I saw a son and father fightFor a drifting spar their lives to save;The son he throttled his father gray,And tore the spar from his clutch away,Till he sank beneath the wave;And deemed it were a noble sight.I saw upon a shattered wreckAll swinging at the tempest’s beck,A mother lone, whose frenzied eyeWandered in hopeless agonyO’er that vast plain where naught was seen,The ocean and the sky between,And there all buried to the breastIn the hungry surf that round her prest—With feeble arms, in anguish wild,High o’er her head she raised her child,Endured of winds and waves the strife,To add a unit to its life.I whelmed that infant in the seaTo add a pang to her misery,And the wretched mother’s frantic yellCame o’er me like a soothing spell!Are ye so haughty in your pride,To deem of all the earth besideThat yours are fields and fragrant flowers,And lute-like voices in your bowers,And gold and gems of priceless worth,And all the glory of the earth?Ah, mean is all your pageantryTo that proud, fadeless blazonry,That waves in scathless beauty freeBeneath the blue, old rolling sea!For there are flowers that wither not,And leaves that never fall,Immortal forms in each wild grot,Still bright and changeless all.Decay is not on beauty’s bloom,No canker in the rose,No prescience of a future doomTo mar the sweet repose—There Proteus’ changeful form is seen,And Triton winds his shell,While through old Ocean’s valleys green,The tuneful echoes swell.But though a Demon rightly named,For terror more than mercy famed,—Yet demons e’en respect the powerThat nerves the heart in danger’s hour.And when the veteran of a hundred storms,Whom many a wild midnightI’ve girded with a thousand startling formsOf terror and affright,—When tempests roar and hell-fiends scream,The thunders crash, the lightnings gleam,’Mid biting cold and driving hailStill grasps the helm, still trims the sail,Nor deigns to utter coward cries,But as he lived, so fearless dies,—Mingles his last faint, bubbling sighWith the pealing tempest’s banner-cry;—Then winds are hushed, the billow fallsWhere storms were wont to be,As I bear him to the untrodden hallsOf the deep unfathomed sea!Now Triton sends a mournful strainThrough all that vast profound,—At once a bright immortal trainComes thronging at the sound.And on a shining pearly carThey place the honored dust,And Ocean’s chargers gently bearAlong the sacred trust,While far o’er all the glassy plainBy mighty Neptune led,In sadness moves that funeral train,—Thus Ocean wails her dead!And now the watch of life is past,The shattered hulk is moored at last,Nor e’en the tempest’s thrilling breathCan wake “the dull, cold ear of death.”No bitter thoughts of home and loved ones dartTheir untold anguish through the seaman’s heart.Peaceful be thy slumbers, brother,There’s no prouder grave for thee,Well may pine for thee a mother,Flower of ocean’s chivalry!
Ah! tell me not of your shady dells,Where the lilies gleam and the fountain wells,Where the reaper rests when his task is o’er,And the lake-wave sobs on the verdant shore,And the rustic maid with a heart all free,Hies to the well-known trysting-tree;For I’m the god of the rolling sea,And the charms of earth are nought to me.O’er the thundering chime of the breaking surge,On the lightning’s wing my course I urge,On the thrones of foam right joyous ride’Mid the sullen dash of the angry tide.I hear ye tell of music’s power,The rapture of a sigh,When beauty in her wizard bowerUnveils her languid eye.Of those who die in rugged fightAnd battling for their country’s rightWith the shivered brand in the “red right hand,”And the plaudits of a rescued land.Ye never knew the infernal fire,The withering curse, the scorching ire,That rages, maddens in the breastOf him who rules the billow’s crest.Heard ye that last despairing yellThat wailed Creation’s funeral knell,When young and old, the vile, the brave,Were circled in one common grave?While on my ear of driving foamBy moaning whirlwinds sped,O’er whatwasjoyous earth I roam,And trample on the dead.This is the music that my earThrills with stern ecstasy to hear!I love to view some lonely bark,The sport of storms, the lightning’s mark,Scarce struggling through the fresh’ning waveThat foams and yawns to be her grave!I saw a son and father fightFor a drifting spar their lives to save;The son he throttled his father gray,And tore the spar from his clutch away,Till he sank beneath the wave;And deemed it were a noble sight.I saw upon a shattered wreckAll swinging at the tempest’s beck,A mother lone, whose frenzied eyeWandered in hopeless agonyO’er that vast plain where naught was seen,The ocean and the sky between,And there all buried to the breastIn the hungry surf that round her prest—With feeble arms, in anguish wild,High o’er her head she raised her child,Endured of winds and waves the strife,To add a unit to its life.I whelmed that infant in the seaTo add a pang to her misery,And the wretched mother’s frantic yellCame o’er me like a soothing spell!Are ye so haughty in your pride,To deem of all the earth besideThat yours are fields and fragrant flowers,And lute-like voices in your bowers,And gold and gems of priceless worth,And all the glory of the earth?Ah, mean is all your pageantryTo that proud, fadeless blazonry,That waves in scathless beauty freeBeneath the blue, old rolling sea!For there are flowers that wither not,And leaves that never fall,Immortal forms in each wild grot,Still bright and changeless all.Decay is not on beauty’s bloom,No canker in the rose,No prescience of a future doomTo mar the sweet repose—There Proteus’ changeful form is seen,And Triton winds his shell,While through old Ocean’s valleys green,The tuneful echoes swell.But though a Demon rightly named,For terror more than mercy famed,—Yet demons e’en respect the powerThat nerves the heart in danger’s hour.And when the veteran of a hundred storms,Whom many a wild midnightI’ve girded with a thousand startling formsOf terror and affright,—When tempests roar and hell-fiends scream,The thunders crash, the lightnings gleam,’Mid biting cold and driving hailStill grasps the helm, still trims the sail,Nor deigns to utter coward cries,But as he lived, so fearless dies,—Mingles his last faint, bubbling sighWith the pealing tempest’s banner-cry;—Then winds are hushed, the billow fallsWhere storms were wont to be,As I bear him to the untrodden hallsOf the deep unfathomed sea!Now Triton sends a mournful strainThrough all that vast profound,—At once a bright immortal trainComes thronging at the sound.And on a shining pearly carThey place the honored dust,And Ocean’s chargers gently bearAlong the sacred trust,While far o’er all the glassy plainBy mighty Neptune led,In sadness moves that funeral train,—Thus Ocean wails her dead!And now the watch of life is past,The shattered hulk is moored at last,Nor e’en the tempest’s thrilling breathCan wake “the dull, cold ear of death.”No bitter thoughts of home and loved ones dartTheir untold anguish through the seaman’s heart.Peaceful be thy slumbers, brother,There’s no prouder grave for thee,Well may pine for thee a mother,Flower of ocean’s chivalry!
Ah! tell me not of your shady dells,Where the lilies gleam and the fountain wells,Where the reaper rests when his task is o’er,And the lake-wave sobs on the verdant shore,And the rustic maid with a heart all free,Hies to the well-known trysting-tree;For I’m the god of the rolling sea,And the charms of earth are nought to me.O’er the thundering chime of the breaking surge,On the lightning’s wing my course I urge,On the thrones of foam right joyous ride’Mid the sullen dash of the angry tide.I hear ye tell of music’s power,The rapture of a sigh,When beauty in her wizard bowerUnveils her languid eye.Of those who die in rugged fightAnd battling for their country’s rightWith the shivered brand in the “red right hand,”And the plaudits of a rescued land.Ye never knew the infernal fire,The withering curse, the scorching ire,That rages, maddens in the breastOf him who rules the billow’s crest.Heard ye that last despairing yellThat wailed Creation’s funeral knell,When young and old, the vile, the brave,Were circled in one common grave?While on my ear of driving foamBy moaning whirlwinds sped,O’er whatwasjoyous earth I roam,And trample on the dead.This is the music that my earThrills with stern ecstasy to hear!I love to view some lonely bark,The sport of storms, the lightning’s mark,Scarce struggling through the fresh’ning waveThat foams and yawns to be her grave!I saw a son and father fightFor a drifting spar their lives to save;The son he throttled his father gray,And tore the spar from his clutch away,Till he sank beneath the wave;And deemed it were a noble sight.I saw upon a shattered wreckAll swinging at the tempest’s beck,A mother lone, whose frenzied eyeWandered in hopeless agonyO’er that vast plain where naught was seen,The ocean and the sky between,And there all buried to the breastIn the hungry surf that round her prest—With feeble arms, in anguish wild,High o’er her head she raised her child,Endured of winds and waves the strife,To add a unit to its life.
Ah! tell me not of your shady dells,
Where the lilies gleam and the fountain wells,
Where the reaper rests when his task is o’er,
And the lake-wave sobs on the verdant shore,
And the rustic maid with a heart all free,
Hies to the well-known trysting-tree;
For I’m the god of the rolling sea,
And the charms of earth are nought to me.
O’er the thundering chime of the breaking surge,
On the lightning’s wing my course I urge,
On the thrones of foam right joyous ride
’Mid the sullen dash of the angry tide.
I hear ye tell of music’s power,
The rapture of a sigh,
When beauty in her wizard bower
Unveils her languid eye.
Of those who die in rugged fight
And battling for their country’s right
With the shivered brand in the “red right hand,”
And the plaudits of a rescued land.
Ye never knew the infernal fire,
The withering curse, the scorching ire,
That rages, maddens in the breast
Of him who rules the billow’s crest.
Heard ye that last despairing yell
That wailed Creation’s funeral knell,
When young and old, the vile, the brave,
Were circled in one common grave?
While on my ear of driving foam
By moaning whirlwinds sped,
O’er whatwasjoyous earth I roam,
And trample on the dead.
This is the music that my ear
Thrills with stern ecstasy to hear!
I love to view some lonely bark,
The sport of storms, the lightning’s mark,
Scarce struggling through the fresh’ning wave
That foams and yawns to be her grave!
I saw a son and father fight
For a drifting spar their lives to save;
The son he throttled his father gray,
And tore the spar from his clutch away,
Till he sank beneath the wave;
And deemed it were a noble sight.
I saw upon a shattered wreck
All swinging at the tempest’s beck,
A mother lone, whose frenzied eye
Wandered in hopeless agony
O’er that vast plain where naught was seen,
The ocean and the sky between,
And there all buried to the breast
In the hungry surf that round her prest—
With feeble arms, in anguish wild,
High o’er her head she raised her child,
Endured of winds and waves the strife,
To add a unit to its life.
I whelmed that infant in the seaTo add a pang to her misery,And the wretched mother’s frantic yellCame o’er me like a soothing spell!Are ye so haughty in your pride,To deem of all the earth besideThat yours are fields and fragrant flowers,And lute-like voices in your bowers,And gold and gems of priceless worth,And all the glory of the earth?Ah, mean is all your pageantryTo that proud, fadeless blazonry,That waves in scathless beauty freeBeneath the blue, old rolling sea!For there are flowers that wither not,And leaves that never fall,Immortal forms in each wild grot,Still bright and changeless all.Decay is not on beauty’s bloom,No canker in the rose,No prescience of a future doomTo mar the sweet repose—There Proteus’ changeful form is seen,And Triton winds his shell,While through old Ocean’s valleys green,The tuneful echoes swell.But though a Demon rightly named,For terror more than mercy famed,—Yet demons e’en respect the powerThat nerves the heart in danger’s hour.And when the veteran of a hundred storms,Whom many a wild midnightI’ve girded with a thousand startling formsOf terror and affright,—When tempests roar and hell-fiends scream,The thunders crash, the lightnings gleam,’Mid biting cold and driving hailStill grasps the helm, still trims the sail,Nor deigns to utter coward cries,But as he lived, so fearless dies,—Mingles his last faint, bubbling sighWith the pealing tempest’s banner-cry;—Then winds are hushed, the billow fallsWhere storms were wont to be,As I bear him to the untrodden hallsOf the deep unfathomed sea!Now Triton sends a mournful strainThrough all that vast profound,—At once a bright immortal trainComes thronging at the sound.And on a shining pearly carThey place the honored dust,And Ocean’s chargers gently bearAlong the sacred trust,While far o’er all the glassy plainBy mighty Neptune led,In sadness moves that funeral train,—Thus Ocean wails her dead!And now the watch of life is past,The shattered hulk is moored at last,Nor e’en the tempest’s thrilling breathCan wake “the dull, cold ear of death.”No bitter thoughts of home and loved ones dartTheir untold anguish through the seaman’s heart.
I whelmed that infant in the sea
To add a pang to her misery,
And the wretched mother’s frantic yell
Came o’er me like a soothing spell!
Are ye so haughty in your pride,
To deem of all the earth beside
That yours are fields and fragrant flowers,
And lute-like voices in your bowers,
And gold and gems of priceless worth,
And all the glory of the earth?
Ah, mean is all your pageantry
To that proud, fadeless blazonry,
That waves in scathless beauty free
Beneath the blue, old rolling sea!
For there are flowers that wither not,
And leaves that never fall,
Immortal forms in each wild grot,
Still bright and changeless all.
Decay is not on beauty’s bloom,
No canker in the rose,
No prescience of a future doom
To mar the sweet repose—
There Proteus’ changeful form is seen,
And Triton winds his shell,
While through old Ocean’s valleys green,
The tuneful echoes swell.
But though a Demon rightly named,
For terror more than mercy famed,—
Yet demons e’en respect the power
That nerves the heart in danger’s hour.
And when the veteran of a hundred storms,
Whom many a wild midnight
I’ve girded with a thousand startling forms
Of terror and affright,—
When tempests roar and hell-fiends scream,
The thunders crash, the lightnings gleam,
’Mid biting cold and driving hail
Still grasps the helm, still trims the sail,
Nor deigns to utter coward cries,
But as he lived, so fearless dies,—
Mingles his last faint, bubbling sigh
With the pealing tempest’s banner-cry;—
Then winds are hushed, the billow falls
Where storms were wont to be,
As I bear him to the untrodden halls
Of the deep unfathomed sea!
Now Triton sends a mournful strain
Through all that vast profound,—
At once a bright immortal train
Comes thronging at the sound.
And on a shining pearly car
They place the honored dust,
And Ocean’s chargers gently bear
Along the sacred trust,
While far o’er all the glassy plain
By mighty Neptune led,
In sadness moves that funeral train,—
Thus Ocean wails her dead!
And now the watch of life is past,
The shattered hulk is moored at last,
Nor e’en the tempest’s thrilling breath
Can wake “the dull, cold ear of death.”
No bitter thoughts of home and loved ones dart
Their untold anguish through the seaman’s heart.
Peaceful be thy slumbers, brother,There’s no prouder grave for thee,Well may pine for thee a mother,Flower of ocean’s chivalry!
Peaceful be thy slumbers, brother,
There’s no prouder grave for thee,
Well may pine for thee a mother,
Flower of ocean’s chivalry!
Still may I love, beloved of thee,My own fair city of the sea!Where moulders back to kindred dustThe mother who my childhood nurst,And strove, with ill-requited toil,To till a rough, ungrateful soil;Yet kindly spared by Heaven to knowThat Faith’s reward is sure, though slow,And see the prophet’s mantle graceThe rudest scion of her race.And while around thy seaward shoreThe Atlantic doth its surges pour,(Those verdant isles, thy bosom-gems)May Temples be thy diadems;Spire after spire in beauty rise,Still pointing upward to the skies,Unwritten sermons, and rebukes of love,To point thy toiling throngs to worlds above.
Still may I love, beloved of thee,My own fair city of the sea!Where moulders back to kindred dustThe mother who my childhood nurst,And strove, with ill-requited toil,To till a rough, ungrateful soil;Yet kindly spared by Heaven to knowThat Faith’s reward is sure, though slow,And see the prophet’s mantle graceThe rudest scion of her race.And while around thy seaward shoreThe Atlantic doth its surges pour,(Those verdant isles, thy bosom-gems)May Temples be thy diadems;Spire after spire in beauty rise,Still pointing upward to the skies,Unwritten sermons, and rebukes of love,To point thy toiling throngs to worlds above.
Still may I love, beloved of thee,My own fair city of the sea!Where moulders back to kindred dustThe mother who my childhood nurst,And strove, with ill-requited toil,To till a rough, ungrateful soil;Yet kindly spared by Heaven to knowThat Faith’s reward is sure, though slow,And see the prophet’s mantle graceThe rudest scion of her race.
Still may I love, beloved of thee,
My own fair city of the sea!
Where moulders back to kindred dust
The mother who my childhood nurst,
And strove, with ill-requited toil,
To till a rough, ungrateful soil;
Yet kindly spared by Heaven to know
That Faith’s reward is sure, though slow,
And see the prophet’s mantle grace
The rudest scion of her race.
And while around thy seaward shoreThe Atlantic doth its surges pour,(Those verdant isles, thy bosom-gems)May Temples be thy diadems;Spire after spire in beauty rise,Still pointing upward to the skies,Unwritten sermons, and rebukes of love,To point thy toiling throngs to worlds above.
And while around thy seaward shore
The Atlantic doth its surges pour,
(Those verdant isles, thy bosom-gems)
May Temples be thy diadems;
Spire after spire in beauty rise,
Still pointing upward to the skies,
Unwritten sermons, and rebukes of love,
To point thy toiling throngs to worlds above.
[Written for the Semi-centennial Celebration at Bowdoin College, August 31, 1852.]
From waves that break to break again,From winds that die to gather might,How pleasant on the stormy mainAppears the sailor’s native height.And sweet, I ween, the graceful tearsThat glisten in the wand’rer’s eye,As haunts and homes of early yearsBegemmed with morning’s dewdrops lie.Borne on the fragrant breath of morn,His lazy vessel stems the tideAmong the fields of waving cornThat nestle on the river’s side.His mother’s cottage through the leavesGleams like a rainbow seen at night,While all the visions fancy weavesAre stirring at the well-known sight.But sweeter memories cluster hereThan ever stirred a seaman’s breast,Than e’er provoked his grateful tear,Or wooed the mariner to rest.’Twas here our life of life began—The spirit felt its dormant power;’Twas here the child became a man—The opening bud became a flower.And from Niagara’s distant roarAnd homes beside the heaving sea,Rank upon rank thy children pour,And gather to thy Jubilee.On these old trees each nestling leaf,The murmur of yon flowing stream,Has power to stir a buried grief,Or to recall some youthful dream.Each path that skirts the tangled wood,Or winds amidst its secret maze,Worn by the feet of those we loved,Brings back the forms of other days.Of those whose smile was heaven to thee,Whose voice a richer music madeThan brooks that murmur to the sea,Or birds that warble in the shade.Around these ancient altar firesWe cluster with a joyous heart,While ardent youth and hoary siresAlike sustain a grateful part.
From waves that break to break again,From winds that die to gather might,How pleasant on the stormy mainAppears the sailor’s native height.And sweet, I ween, the graceful tearsThat glisten in the wand’rer’s eye,As haunts and homes of early yearsBegemmed with morning’s dewdrops lie.Borne on the fragrant breath of morn,His lazy vessel stems the tideAmong the fields of waving cornThat nestle on the river’s side.His mother’s cottage through the leavesGleams like a rainbow seen at night,While all the visions fancy weavesAre stirring at the well-known sight.But sweeter memories cluster hereThan ever stirred a seaman’s breast,Than e’er provoked his grateful tear,Or wooed the mariner to rest.’Twas here our life of life began—The spirit felt its dormant power;’Twas here the child became a man—The opening bud became a flower.And from Niagara’s distant roarAnd homes beside the heaving sea,Rank upon rank thy children pour,And gather to thy Jubilee.On these old trees each nestling leaf,The murmur of yon flowing stream,Has power to stir a buried grief,Or to recall some youthful dream.Each path that skirts the tangled wood,Or winds amidst its secret maze,Worn by the feet of those we loved,Brings back the forms of other days.Of those whose smile was heaven to thee,Whose voice a richer music madeThan brooks that murmur to the sea,Or birds that warble in the shade.Around these ancient altar firesWe cluster with a joyous heart,While ardent youth and hoary siresAlike sustain a grateful part.
From waves that break to break again,From winds that die to gather might,How pleasant on the stormy mainAppears the sailor’s native height.
From waves that break to break again,
From winds that die to gather might,
How pleasant on the stormy main
Appears the sailor’s native height.
And sweet, I ween, the graceful tearsThat glisten in the wand’rer’s eye,As haunts and homes of early yearsBegemmed with morning’s dewdrops lie.
And sweet, I ween, the graceful tears
That glisten in the wand’rer’s eye,
As haunts and homes of early years
Begemmed with morning’s dewdrops lie.
Borne on the fragrant breath of morn,His lazy vessel stems the tideAmong the fields of waving cornThat nestle on the river’s side.
Borne on the fragrant breath of morn,
His lazy vessel stems the tide
Among the fields of waving corn
That nestle on the river’s side.
His mother’s cottage through the leavesGleams like a rainbow seen at night,While all the visions fancy weavesAre stirring at the well-known sight.
His mother’s cottage through the leaves
Gleams like a rainbow seen at night,
While all the visions fancy weaves
Are stirring at the well-known sight.
But sweeter memories cluster hereThan ever stirred a seaman’s breast,Than e’er provoked his grateful tear,Or wooed the mariner to rest.
But sweeter memories cluster here
Than ever stirred a seaman’s breast,
Than e’er provoked his grateful tear,
Or wooed the mariner to rest.
’Twas here our life of life began—The spirit felt its dormant power;’Twas here the child became a man—The opening bud became a flower.
’Twas here our life of life began—
The spirit felt its dormant power;
’Twas here the child became a man—
The opening bud became a flower.
And from Niagara’s distant roarAnd homes beside the heaving sea,Rank upon rank thy children pour,And gather to thy Jubilee.
And from Niagara’s distant roar
And homes beside the heaving sea,
Rank upon rank thy children pour,
And gather to thy Jubilee.
On these old trees each nestling leaf,The murmur of yon flowing stream,Has power to stir a buried grief,Or to recall some youthful dream.
On these old trees each nestling leaf,
The murmur of yon flowing stream,
Has power to stir a buried grief,
Or to recall some youthful dream.
Each path that skirts the tangled wood,Or winds amidst its secret maze,Worn by the feet of those we loved,Brings back the forms of other days.
Each path that skirts the tangled wood,
Or winds amidst its secret maze,
Worn by the feet of those we loved,
Brings back the forms of other days.
Of those whose smile was heaven to thee,Whose voice a richer music madeThan brooks that murmur to the sea,Or birds that warble in the shade.
Of those whose smile was heaven to thee,
Whose voice a richer music made
Than brooks that murmur to the sea,
Or birds that warble in the shade.
Around these ancient altar firesWe cluster with a joyous heart,While ardent youth and hoary siresAlike sustain a grateful part.
Around these ancient altar fires
We cluster with a joyous heart,
While ardent youth and hoary sires
Alike sustain a grateful part.
[Written for the Celebration of the Twenty-eighth Anniversary of the Boston Seaman’s Friend Society, at Music Hall, Boston, May 28, 1856.]
I was not reared where heaves the swellOf surf on coasts remote and drear,But grew with roses, in a dell,And waked with bird-notes in my ear.Glad hours on golden pinions sped,As folded to her throbbing breast,A mother’s lips their fragrance shed,And lulled me with a prayer to rest.The red has faded from my cheek,And bronzed and scarred the boyish face;Affection’s eye might vainly seekOne lingering lineament to trace.Shipwrecked, the Sailor’s Home I sought,My raiment gone, my shipmates dead,Through poverty reluctant brought,And there a sober life I led.But when the evening prayer was said,It brought the unaccustomed tear,A mother’s hand was on my head,Her voice was thrilling in mine ear.Old memories waked that long had slept,They forced the spirit’s brazen crust;I wept and prayed, I prayed and wept,Till anguish ripened into trust.Blest be the hands that reared thy domeThe wandering seaman’s step to greet;Guiding the homeless to a home,And sinners to a mercy-seat.
I was not reared where heaves the swellOf surf on coasts remote and drear,But grew with roses, in a dell,And waked with bird-notes in my ear.Glad hours on golden pinions sped,As folded to her throbbing breast,A mother’s lips their fragrance shed,And lulled me with a prayer to rest.The red has faded from my cheek,And bronzed and scarred the boyish face;Affection’s eye might vainly seekOne lingering lineament to trace.Shipwrecked, the Sailor’s Home I sought,My raiment gone, my shipmates dead,Through poverty reluctant brought,And there a sober life I led.But when the evening prayer was said,It brought the unaccustomed tear,A mother’s hand was on my head,Her voice was thrilling in mine ear.Old memories waked that long had slept,They forced the spirit’s brazen crust;I wept and prayed, I prayed and wept,Till anguish ripened into trust.Blest be the hands that reared thy domeThe wandering seaman’s step to greet;Guiding the homeless to a home,And sinners to a mercy-seat.
I was not reared where heaves the swellOf surf on coasts remote and drear,But grew with roses, in a dell,And waked with bird-notes in my ear.
I was not reared where heaves the swell
Of surf on coasts remote and drear,
But grew with roses, in a dell,
And waked with bird-notes in my ear.
Glad hours on golden pinions sped,As folded to her throbbing breast,A mother’s lips their fragrance shed,And lulled me with a prayer to rest.
Glad hours on golden pinions sped,
As folded to her throbbing breast,
A mother’s lips their fragrance shed,
And lulled me with a prayer to rest.
The red has faded from my cheek,And bronzed and scarred the boyish face;Affection’s eye might vainly seekOne lingering lineament to trace.
The red has faded from my cheek,
And bronzed and scarred the boyish face;
Affection’s eye might vainly seek
One lingering lineament to trace.
Shipwrecked, the Sailor’s Home I sought,My raiment gone, my shipmates dead,Through poverty reluctant brought,And there a sober life I led.
Shipwrecked, the Sailor’s Home I sought,
My raiment gone, my shipmates dead,
Through poverty reluctant brought,
And there a sober life I led.
But when the evening prayer was said,It brought the unaccustomed tear,A mother’s hand was on my head,Her voice was thrilling in mine ear.
But when the evening prayer was said,
It brought the unaccustomed tear,
A mother’s hand was on my head,
Her voice was thrilling in mine ear.
Old memories waked that long had slept,They forced the spirit’s brazen crust;I wept and prayed, I prayed and wept,Till anguish ripened into trust.
Old memories waked that long had slept,
They forced the spirit’s brazen crust;
I wept and prayed, I prayed and wept,
Till anguish ripened into trust.
Blest be the hands that reared thy domeThe wandering seaman’s step to greet;Guiding the homeless to a home,And sinners to a mercy-seat.
Blest be the hands that reared thy dome
The wandering seaman’s step to greet;
Guiding the homeless to a home,
And sinners to a mercy-seat.
When first the human clay, instinct with thought,Doth feel the motions of those hidden firesThat by a subtle alchemy sublimeThe crude contexture of its grosser powers,It is not life—rather capacityOf life and power hereafter to be given.Life lies beyond us, as an Orphic taleOf things mysterious and dimly seen,A gorgeous phantom, but a phantom stillThat ever is, and ever is without.We dwell amid the border flowers that bloomTo bless and cheer life’s brier-planted paths,Its dusty turnpikes, and its scorching noons;And thus our primal being is a dreamAnd most mysterious to the dreamer,E’en as the dim and iron forms that frownFrom the dark walls of some old corridorOn which the moonbeams thro’ the crumbling towersBestow expression and inform with lifeDelicious but delight indefinite.The finer tissues of that wondrous webThat doth so strangely link spirit to senseMatter to mind, are all unwoven yet;Those subtle telegraphs that make reportOf outward action to the inward lifeStill in the secret caves of being sleep.The soul is conscious of no other tieTo nature than to love its beautyAnd with an open sense luxuriateIn woods and fields with animal delight.For as the sturdy trunk and massive limbsOf the gigantic oak, lie deftly hidWithin the acorn’s small periphery,Till in the pregnant bosom of the earth,Warmed by the sun, moistened with summer dews,It bursts its coffin and leaps forth to light;Thus when the soul is in its progress brought,Led on by nature’s genial processes,To touch reality and outward life,There is a stirring, from its inmost depths,Of yearning thoughts and deathless energies,Seeking the outward vesture that confersA definite existence and a form.Strong roots shoot forth and fibres more minuteThat by mysterious alchemy impartSubstance to shadow, breath to lifeless forms.Life is no more a pageant to admire;Since with a yearning for a higher life,The power to struggle, and the thirst to know,Awakes a bitter principle to sin,Breeding intestine war and conflict fierce,Till powers are marshalled in the mind itselfThat with itself chaotic warfare wage.Henceforth man’s life is conflict, and his doomBy conflict to grow stronger, to contendFrom the rude cross within some Alpine gorgeTo the proud blazon of ancestral tombs.In eastern myths and Christian chronicles,In heathen temples, and in holy shrinesThe same stern truth is graven on them all—That conflict only doth ennoble man.But man is not sufficient to himselfIn this great conflict, therefore God has givenA twofold revelation to his faith.Subjective, one to reason makes appeal;The other to the grosser sense explainsStern truths by most persuasive images,Graving dread mandates on the shifting clouds,Weaving of wild flowers and of foliage greenA genial symbol for a genial faith.This is the task to Poetry assigned:Of life divine to be the messenger.As to the sorrow-stricken soul of himWho knelt and prayed in lone GethsemaneThe angel choir did gently minister,E’en thus true Poetry doth nerve the soulUpon its Alpine passage to communeWith truths that quicken and with thoughts that stir.It is the soul’s sheet-anchor in the strife.
When first the human clay, instinct with thought,Doth feel the motions of those hidden firesThat by a subtle alchemy sublimeThe crude contexture of its grosser powers,It is not life—rather capacityOf life and power hereafter to be given.Life lies beyond us, as an Orphic taleOf things mysterious and dimly seen,A gorgeous phantom, but a phantom stillThat ever is, and ever is without.We dwell amid the border flowers that bloomTo bless and cheer life’s brier-planted paths,Its dusty turnpikes, and its scorching noons;And thus our primal being is a dreamAnd most mysterious to the dreamer,E’en as the dim and iron forms that frownFrom the dark walls of some old corridorOn which the moonbeams thro’ the crumbling towersBestow expression and inform with lifeDelicious but delight indefinite.The finer tissues of that wondrous webThat doth so strangely link spirit to senseMatter to mind, are all unwoven yet;Those subtle telegraphs that make reportOf outward action to the inward lifeStill in the secret caves of being sleep.The soul is conscious of no other tieTo nature than to love its beautyAnd with an open sense luxuriateIn woods and fields with animal delight.For as the sturdy trunk and massive limbsOf the gigantic oak, lie deftly hidWithin the acorn’s small periphery,Till in the pregnant bosom of the earth,Warmed by the sun, moistened with summer dews,It bursts its coffin and leaps forth to light;Thus when the soul is in its progress brought,Led on by nature’s genial processes,To touch reality and outward life,There is a stirring, from its inmost depths,Of yearning thoughts and deathless energies,Seeking the outward vesture that confersA definite existence and a form.Strong roots shoot forth and fibres more minuteThat by mysterious alchemy impartSubstance to shadow, breath to lifeless forms.Life is no more a pageant to admire;Since with a yearning for a higher life,The power to struggle, and the thirst to know,Awakes a bitter principle to sin,Breeding intestine war and conflict fierce,Till powers are marshalled in the mind itselfThat with itself chaotic warfare wage.Henceforth man’s life is conflict, and his doomBy conflict to grow stronger, to contendFrom the rude cross within some Alpine gorgeTo the proud blazon of ancestral tombs.In eastern myths and Christian chronicles,In heathen temples, and in holy shrinesThe same stern truth is graven on them all—That conflict only doth ennoble man.But man is not sufficient to himselfIn this great conflict, therefore God has givenA twofold revelation to his faith.Subjective, one to reason makes appeal;The other to the grosser sense explainsStern truths by most persuasive images,Graving dread mandates on the shifting clouds,Weaving of wild flowers and of foliage greenA genial symbol for a genial faith.This is the task to Poetry assigned:Of life divine to be the messenger.As to the sorrow-stricken soul of himWho knelt and prayed in lone GethsemaneThe angel choir did gently minister,E’en thus true Poetry doth nerve the soulUpon its Alpine passage to communeWith truths that quicken and with thoughts that stir.It is the soul’s sheet-anchor in the strife.
When first the human clay, instinct with thought,Doth feel the motions of those hidden firesThat by a subtle alchemy sublimeThe crude contexture of its grosser powers,It is not life—rather capacityOf life and power hereafter to be given.Life lies beyond us, as an Orphic taleOf things mysterious and dimly seen,A gorgeous phantom, but a phantom stillThat ever is, and ever is without.We dwell amid the border flowers that bloomTo bless and cheer life’s brier-planted paths,Its dusty turnpikes, and its scorching noons;And thus our primal being is a dreamAnd most mysterious to the dreamer,E’en as the dim and iron forms that frownFrom the dark walls of some old corridorOn which the moonbeams thro’ the crumbling towersBestow expression and inform with lifeDelicious but delight indefinite.The finer tissues of that wondrous webThat doth so strangely link spirit to senseMatter to mind, are all unwoven yet;Those subtle telegraphs that make reportOf outward action to the inward lifeStill in the secret caves of being sleep.The soul is conscious of no other tieTo nature than to love its beautyAnd with an open sense luxuriateIn woods and fields with animal delight.For as the sturdy trunk and massive limbsOf the gigantic oak, lie deftly hidWithin the acorn’s small periphery,Till in the pregnant bosom of the earth,Warmed by the sun, moistened with summer dews,It bursts its coffin and leaps forth to light;Thus when the soul is in its progress brought,Led on by nature’s genial processes,To touch reality and outward life,There is a stirring, from its inmost depths,Of yearning thoughts and deathless energies,Seeking the outward vesture that confersA definite existence and a form.Strong roots shoot forth and fibres more minuteThat by mysterious alchemy impartSubstance to shadow, breath to lifeless forms.Life is no more a pageant to admire;Since with a yearning for a higher life,The power to struggle, and the thirst to know,Awakes a bitter principle to sin,Breeding intestine war and conflict fierce,Till powers are marshalled in the mind itselfThat with itself chaotic warfare wage.Henceforth man’s life is conflict, and his doomBy conflict to grow stronger, to contendFrom the rude cross within some Alpine gorgeTo the proud blazon of ancestral tombs.In eastern myths and Christian chronicles,In heathen temples, and in holy shrinesThe same stern truth is graven on them all—That conflict only doth ennoble man.But man is not sufficient to himselfIn this great conflict, therefore God has givenA twofold revelation to his faith.Subjective, one to reason makes appeal;The other to the grosser sense explainsStern truths by most persuasive images,Graving dread mandates on the shifting clouds,Weaving of wild flowers and of foliage greenA genial symbol for a genial faith.This is the task to Poetry assigned:Of life divine to be the messenger.As to the sorrow-stricken soul of himWho knelt and prayed in lone GethsemaneThe angel choir did gently minister,E’en thus true Poetry doth nerve the soulUpon its Alpine passage to communeWith truths that quicken and with thoughts that stir.It is the soul’s sheet-anchor in the strife.
When first the human clay, instinct with thought,
Doth feel the motions of those hidden fires
That by a subtle alchemy sublime
The crude contexture of its grosser powers,
It is not life—rather capacity
Of life and power hereafter to be given.
Life lies beyond us, as an Orphic tale
Of things mysterious and dimly seen,
A gorgeous phantom, but a phantom still
That ever is, and ever is without.
We dwell amid the border flowers that bloom
To bless and cheer life’s brier-planted paths,
Its dusty turnpikes, and its scorching noons;
And thus our primal being is a dream
And most mysterious to the dreamer,
E’en as the dim and iron forms that frown
From the dark walls of some old corridor
On which the moonbeams thro’ the crumbling towers
Bestow expression and inform with life
Delicious but delight indefinite.
The finer tissues of that wondrous web
That doth so strangely link spirit to sense
Matter to mind, are all unwoven yet;
Those subtle telegraphs that make report
Of outward action to the inward life
Still in the secret caves of being sleep.
The soul is conscious of no other tie
To nature than to love its beauty
And with an open sense luxuriate
In woods and fields with animal delight.
For as the sturdy trunk and massive limbs
Of the gigantic oak, lie deftly hid
Within the acorn’s small periphery,
Till in the pregnant bosom of the earth,
Warmed by the sun, moistened with summer dews,
It bursts its coffin and leaps forth to light;
Thus when the soul is in its progress brought,
Led on by nature’s genial processes,
To touch reality and outward life,
There is a stirring, from its inmost depths,
Of yearning thoughts and deathless energies,
Seeking the outward vesture that confers
A definite existence and a form.
Strong roots shoot forth and fibres more minute
That by mysterious alchemy impart
Substance to shadow, breath to lifeless forms.
Life is no more a pageant to admire;
Since with a yearning for a higher life,
The power to struggle, and the thirst to know,
Awakes a bitter principle to sin,
Breeding intestine war and conflict fierce,
Till powers are marshalled in the mind itself
That with itself chaotic warfare wage.
Henceforth man’s life is conflict, and his doom
By conflict to grow stronger, to contend
From the rude cross within some Alpine gorge
To the proud blazon of ancestral tombs.
In eastern myths and Christian chronicles,
In heathen temples, and in holy shrines
The same stern truth is graven on them all—
That conflict only doth ennoble man.
But man is not sufficient to himself
In this great conflict, therefore God has given
A twofold revelation to his faith.
Subjective, one to reason makes appeal;
The other to the grosser sense explains
Stern truths by most persuasive images,
Graving dread mandates on the shifting clouds,
Weaving of wild flowers and of foliage green
A genial symbol for a genial faith.
This is the task to Poetry assigned:
Of life divine to be the messenger.
As to the sorrow-stricken soul of him
Who knelt and prayed in lone Gethsemane
The angel choir did gently minister,
E’en thus true Poetry doth nerve the soul
Upon its Alpine passage to commune
With truths that quicken and with thoughts that stir.
It is the soul’s sheet-anchor in the strife.
Elijah Kellogg at Eighty-six.1899.
Elijah Kellogg at Eighty-six.1899.