“Theodora, my Theodora, I am the happiest of mortals! Wherever I turn I see nothing but happiness and joy. The sky is clear and blue above me, and you love me and will always love me. You have repelled me, but indeed you knew me not. You have left my ring in the hands of vice, but how could you know it? Did I not myself doubt my own identity when I first saw him? Is not that vile fellow, Rodel, my perfect double? But all is right again, and I have your ring upon my finger. Hear how it all came about. The day after you left, I went to the promenade overwhelmed with agony at your departure, and your manner toward me. There I saw the detestable gambler, Rodel, and a ray of light from his finger caught my eye. I looked at it more attentively—it was the very ring that I had given you. I felt that I must instantly know how he came by it, and perhaps it would unravel the mystery.“ ‘Sir,’ said I, turning to him, ‘you have a fine stone there.’“ ‘Do you like it?’ said the fellow with assumed nonchalance, ‘ma foi, it does not look amiss, and from a fair one too.’“ ‘I controlled myself, followed him to his room, and stepping up to him, said coldly and seriously—“ ‘Mr. Rodel, be pleased to tell me upon this spot how you came by that ring.’“ ‘En vérité mon enfant,’ laughed he, ‘you are very amusing, but I am not in a joking humor, what do you want of me?’“ ‘The ring,’ replied I, ‘and an open confession of how you came by it.’“ ‘I can easily tell you that, the more readily as I think you already guess the truth. I received it from my lady fair, Miss Theodora S——. Ah! my dear fellow, she isun morceau de prince.’“Your name, dear love, sounded to my heart like a thunderclap, but only because such lips dared to pronounce it, for I never for an instant supposed that he owed the ring to any thing but some miserable fraud. Without allowing myself to be outwardly disturbed by the man’s impudence, ‘no more of this,’ I said, ‘give me the ring this moment, or I will immediately inform Gen. B—— of the ingenious trick by which he lost his two thousand louis d’ors yesterday. You may have seen me before? I have also seen you, and although yesterday it was none of my business, and I did not feel myself called upon to act as guardian to your dupes, to-day the office suits me exactly. So choose—the ring, and an explanation, or the general’s whip, and my pistols.’ Pale and trembling, the wretch drew the ring from his finger and handed it to me with your father’s note. I hastened away with my heart filled with happiness. All was clear to me—only your grief in being so deceived troubled me. No, my Theodora, I am not unworthy of you. Tell every thing to your father, and commend me to his love. I would write to him but I cannot. Yes, Theodora, there is mystery still, the time for explanation is not yet arrived, but I can see nothing but joy in store for us. Trust in my fervent eternal love as I trusted in yours. It is impossible for you to answer this, for you do not know where I am; I, myself do not know where I may be to-morrow. But soon I shall be with you, never to leave you but to be always your own,Robert.”
“Theodora, my Theodora, I am the happiest of mortals! Wherever I turn I see nothing but happiness and joy. The sky is clear and blue above me, and you love me and will always love me. You have repelled me, but indeed you knew me not. You have left my ring in the hands of vice, but how could you know it? Did I not myself doubt my own identity when I first saw him? Is not that vile fellow, Rodel, my perfect double? But all is right again, and I have your ring upon my finger. Hear how it all came about. The day after you left, I went to the promenade overwhelmed with agony at your departure, and your manner toward me. There I saw the detestable gambler, Rodel, and a ray of light from his finger caught my eye. I looked at it more attentively—it was the very ring that I had given you. I felt that I must instantly know how he came by it, and perhaps it would unravel the mystery.
“ ‘Sir,’ said I, turning to him, ‘you have a fine stone there.’
“ ‘Do you like it?’ said the fellow with assumed nonchalance, ‘ma foi, it does not look amiss, and from a fair one too.’
“ ‘I controlled myself, followed him to his room, and stepping up to him, said coldly and seriously—
“ ‘Mr. Rodel, be pleased to tell me upon this spot how you came by that ring.’
“ ‘En vérité mon enfant,’ laughed he, ‘you are very amusing, but I am not in a joking humor, what do you want of me?’
“ ‘The ring,’ replied I, ‘and an open confession of how you came by it.’
“ ‘I can easily tell you that, the more readily as I think you already guess the truth. I received it from my lady fair, Miss Theodora S——. Ah! my dear fellow, she isun morceau de prince.’
“Your name, dear love, sounded to my heart like a thunderclap, but only because such lips dared to pronounce it, for I never for an instant supposed that he owed the ring to any thing but some miserable fraud. Without allowing myself to be outwardly disturbed by the man’s impudence, ‘no more of this,’ I said, ‘give me the ring this moment, or I will immediately inform Gen. B—— of the ingenious trick by which he lost his two thousand louis d’ors yesterday. You may have seen me before? I have also seen you, and although yesterday it was none of my business, and I did not feel myself called upon to act as guardian to your dupes, to-day the office suits me exactly. So choose—the ring, and an explanation, or the general’s whip, and my pistols.’ Pale and trembling, the wretch drew the ring from his finger and handed it to me with your father’s note. I hastened away with my heart filled with happiness. All was clear to me—only your grief in being so deceived troubled me. No, my Theodora, I am not unworthy of you. Tell every thing to your father, and commend me to his love. I would write to him but I cannot. Yes, Theodora, there is mystery still, the time for explanation is not yet arrived, but I can see nothing but joy in store for us. Trust in my fervent eternal love as I trusted in yours. It is impossible for you to answer this, for you do not know where I am; I, myself do not know where I may be to-morrow. But soon I shall be with you, never to leave you but to be always your own,
Robert.”
Theodora’s eyes now sparkled with love and joy, but her father silently folded the letter again and gave it to her.
“How, father?” she asked, “you say nothing!”
“What can I say?” replied her father. “He has acted nobly, and that he really loves you is clear to me. But, beware my child, the tempter goeth about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.”
But a new life had begun for Theodora. She soon knew the dear letter by heart, and thought only ofhisreturn. Thus a week passed away, and another, when the post again brought a letter for her father, markedprivate.
“From my dear friend, Dr. S——, of the springs at A——, said he, as he locked himself into his study, and seating himself in his arm-chair, read the following—
“Dear old Friend,—I have so little time for writing any thing but prescriptions in this busy place, that you will be surprised indeed to receive this. But your happiness is mine, and I can no longer keep secret what I know is in store for you. The twenty dollars that you in your simple benevolence slipped into the hands of the old gray-coat, has brought you interest indeed. That shabby was Sir William C——, therich English banker, who diseased in body, and plunged into insane misanthrophy by the death of his wife, and of all save one of four children, to whom he was devotedly attached, spent this summer at the springs. At the urgent solicitation of his only son, a young man of most prepossessing manners and appearance, I had been for some time attending him, when you met him in the garden. Your kindness to him when you could not know him, his conversation with you, and your warm, humane nature made the greatest impression upon him, and so moved him that he was immediately afterward seized with a violent attack of illness, which proved a favorable crisis, and his health both of body and mind is completely restored. His gratitude to you knows no bounds. He is now, by my advice, traveling through Italy previous to coming to R——, where he intends to present himself at your door in his former shabby dress, and require at your hands the friendship you so generously proffered him. As for his son, ask your daughter, Theodora, she can tell you far more about him than I can. All this I should not have told you, but how could I help it? With the warmest congratulations, and repeated injunctions laid upon you to keep the secret from your wife and children better than I have been able to keep it from you, believe me, my dear old friend, truly yours,Herman A——.”
“Dear old Friend,—I have so little time for writing any thing but prescriptions in this busy place, that you will be surprised indeed to receive this. But your happiness is mine, and I can no longer keep secret what I know is in store for you. The twenty dollars that you in your simple benevolence slipped into the hands of the old gray-coat, has brought you interest indeed. That shabby was Sir William C——, therich English banker, who diseased in body, and plunged into insane misanthrophy by the death of his wife, and of all save one of four children, to whom he was devotedly attached, spent this summer at the springs. At the urgent solicitation of his only son, a young man of most prepossessing manners and appearance, I had been for some time attending him, when you met him in the garden. Your kindness to him when you could not know him, his conversation with you, and your warm, humane nature made the greatest impression upon him, and so moved him that he was immediately afterward seized with a violent attack of illness, which proved a favorable crisis, and his health both of body and mind is completely restored. His gratitude to you knows no bounds. He is now, by my advice, traveling through Italy previous to coming to R——, where he intends to present himself at your door in his former shabby dress, and require at your hands the friendship you so generously proffered him. As for his son, ask your daughter, Theodora, she can tell you far more about him than I can. All this I should not have told you, but how could I help it? With the warmest congratulations, and repeated injunctions laid upon you to keep the secret from your wife and children better than I have been able to keep it from you, believe me, my dear old friend, truly yours,
Herman A——.”
It was long before the worthy pastor became convinced that all this was no dream, but when the reality burst upon him, he folded his hands, and his heart was filled with love and gratitude to God. “But,” said he to himself, “how can I keep all this from my dear Catharine? Heaven grant that that for the first time in my life I may keep my tongue between my teeth, and not betray every thing as my old friend here has done.”
“Father,” said his wife at supper, “your face shines like Moses, when he came down from the mount. What did the doctor write about?”
“Oh!—he—why of course about every thing that is going on at the springs, about the flowers, and myBanksia serrata.”
“And nothing,” asked Theodora, “of the old man and—and—”
“Why, what should he know of them?” said her father. “Doubtless the young fellow has forgotten our existence, dear Dora, but don’t be troubled, we are so happy here.” And then he bit his lips, and swallowed the secret as best he could, and as he was obliged to do fifty times a day.
Thus the autumn passed, the winter came, and with it that joyous time, which, for the sake of the dear child born long ago in Bethlehem, makes children of us all. But no news of the absent ones; only the intelligence from the capital that the count had sold his castle of R——, and that the new lord would take possession at Christmas.
“Well, well,” said the pastor, “the new lord can hardly be worse than the old one, and very easily better and more generous, so we may in future have a merrier Christmas than this will be, for this time, children, affairs look rather gloomy.”
“Ah! we know, father,” cried the joyous children. “You always say so—you always try to frighten us with the idea of no Christmas, but it always turns out well. Didn’t Ursula slip in yesterday evening, at the back-door, with a splendid Christmas tree? We didn’t see it, to be sure, but we heard it. And didn’t mother and Dora gild the apples and nuts, and cut out the stars yesterday evening? You thought we were in bed, but we peeped.”
“Well, well,” laughed their father; “to-morrow will be Christmas-eve, and of course you will go to bed bright and early, that you may be up in time the next morning.”
“No, no,” shouted the children; “to-morrow evening is just the time when the Christ-child comes to us. Have we not just seen Ursula making our Christmas-cake? Oh, dear, angel of a father, we will be so good.”
The next day all without was dreary and stormy; the heavy snow-flakes fell all day long, but within it was bright and cheerful. Ursula had swept and dusted every nook and corner of the house, and the fires all burned brightly. In the study the father and mother were busy all the morning; the children, meanwhile, looked wisely at one another, and tried to keep back the smiles that would dimple out every moment.
At three o’clock, according to the custom of the house, the holyday began. The fragrance of the fresh Christmas-cake was wafted through the house, mother and children were all dressed in their holyday attire, and the father, easy and happy that the morrow’s sermon was prepared, sat and smoked in his arm-chair. At four o’clock Theodora came in from the gardener’s, where she had been in all the storm to carry a slice of the Christmas-cake, with the intelligence that strangers had arrived at the village inn.
This news made the good pastor restless, and after pacing up and down the room, he went to the window, and rubbing the moisture from the pane, looked out. And there, just round the corner, crept the old man in the gray coat, with his hands behind him, as formerly, and he walked up the steps and knocked at the door. “Courage,” said the pastor to himself, and hastened out to meet him.
“Here I am,” said the old man, in a hollow voice, his looks bent on the ground, “I have fortunately arrived here at last, but I am weary and ill, and I have no one to pity me. Do you remember your kind words; will you take me in? What! No reply?”
The honest pastor could not reply. This was what he had so long looked forward to, and now he was really grieved that the kind heart of the old man could not enjoy the brief pleasure of his little surprise. But as he stood silently there, the old man raised his eyes, met that look of love and sorrow, and threw himself into his arms.
“No,” cried he, “no longer bent with age, but erect and strong—away with dissimulation! O my benefactor, I am—”
“Stay!” interrupted the pastor, “there shall indeed be no dissembling in this happy moment. SirWilliam C——, I know you. The doctor wrote me all about you.”
“Take me, then, to your wife and children; they are mine, you are mine, but you must take me for payment, and keep me for the rest of my life.”
“Hush!” said the pastor, “my wife and children know nothing of the secret, now see what they will say. Come in, dear guest, come in.”
“Ah!” cried Theodora, joyfully, “our old man from A——.”
The children gathered round, the mother welcomed him cordially, and seated him in the arm-chair by the bright fire.
Speechless he looked round upon them all, but kept Theodora’s hand in his while his gaze rested with evident satisfaction upon her lovely face.
“Light the colored Christmas candles, Catharine,” said the father, “and seat yourselves all round the table.”
Then he opened his desk, took from it the doctor’s letter, stroked his wife’s cheek, and said—
“Ah, Catharine, all this has weighed upon me like a mountain, but now all that I know, you, dear ones, shall know, too, and our guest here shall tell us whether it be true or no.”
And then he read the doctor’s letter. Let whoever can, imagine the variety of emotions that overcame all the listeners; the astonishment of the mother, the gentle emotion of the guest, the alternate red and white that overspread Theodora’s cheek, and the delight of the little ones.
“Here I am, dear ones,” said the old man, at the end of the reading, “and here I shall stay, in dear, cheerful Germany.”
“Where then is—is—” stammered Theodora.
But just then the door was flung open, and there stood Robert, his eyes beaming with love and joy.
“Oh, Robert! my Robert!” she cried, and would have rushed toward him, but overcome by her happiness, she sank into her mother’s arms. The old man took his son’s hand, and turning to the pastor, said,
“May I woo your daughter for my noble son?”
“May I,” continued Robert, “be your son, O, dear friend?”
“And may I say,” interrupted his father, “that I have bought the castle yonder, and that I beg your daughter’s acceptance of it as a bridal gift?”
“My son! my daughter!” cried the weeping parents, and embraced the lovers, while the children crowded round the old man.
“But now for supper!” cried the pastor, “if there is any one here who can ever eat again; and, mamma, pray see that it is a real Christmas feast.”
And then they seated themselves round the table, and the old man, looking round upon the happy faces about him, told how he had finished the tour of Italy, and had determined to live for the rest of his life in beautiful Germany. Then raising his glass, he drank a heartfelt toast to them all. “And I have ordered every thing for your comfort at the castle at Lee & Hammersmith’s, London; and for you, dear friend,” turning to the pastor, “the choicest collection of plants will arrive shortly.”
“Oh, heaven!” sighed the pastor, “How have I deserved this—theBanksia serrata, Plumeria, and divineStrelitzia.”
“How?” said his guest, holding up the purse which Seidelman had slipped into his hand at the springs; “see your twenty dollars here—the purse shall always remain in the family, and our posterity shall read what is embroidered upon it—‘Charity brings interest.’ But what makes the little ones so restless?”
“Ah!” said their father, “they want to go to bed;” and he and his wife quietly left the room.
“No, no!” cried the children, “now the holy child is coming, wait until we hear his little bell, and then we shall go, and you, brother Robert, and all.”
And soon the longed-for bell sounded, the children rushed into the study, and bore along the older ones with them.
There was the Christmas heaven before them, with its shining lights and stars. Theodora sprang forward to take from the table her new white dress, and forgot her castle. Hermine danced round hernew work-box, Ernst round his tool-chest, and Paul was immediately absorbed with his terrific cannon, and new troops of soldiers.
The mother, coming behind the pastor, slipped on him his new dressing-gown, and he uncovered the corner of the table, where were her pretty slippers and muff.
“O, ye happy ones,” said Sir William, with tears of real feeling, “how easy would it be for me to cover this table with gold, and say, ‘Take it—it is all yours,’ but could it give you one moment of the happiness that these simple gifts of love afford you. O let me be a child with you!”
“Yes, yes, we will all be children,” cried they, and embraced each other, while the pastor raised his eyes to heaven, and blessed them, saying, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
SONNET.—LIGHT.
How beauteous art thou, sacred light! How sweetTo view thee gushing from the golden sun,As he his morning race begins to run!Than time or thought alone, thou art less fleet—Where shall we seek thy primal dwelling-place?About His throne, who ever girt with thee,Lay on the bosom of eternity;Who lit the stars, which radiate through space—Lo! from the east in billowy tide thou flowest,Gilding the hill-tops and the heavenly spires—Empurpling ocean with a myriad fires—Great light, thou sun! o’er heaven thou proudly goest;Nor ever standest still, as once, of old,Till setting thou hast bathed all with thy molten gold.A.
How beauteous art thou, sacred light! How sweetTo view thee gushing from the golden sun,As he his morning race begins to run!Than time or thought alone, thou art less fleet—Where shall we seek thy primal dwelling-place?About His throne, who ever girt with thee,Lay on the bosom of eternity;Who lit the stars, which radiate through space—Lo! from the east in billowy tide thou flowest,Gilding the hill-tops and the heavenly spires—Empurpling ocean with a myriad fires—Great light, thou sun! o’er heaven thou proudly goest;Nor ever standest still, as once, of old,Till setting thou hast bathed all with thy molten gold.A.
How beauteous art thou, sacred light! How sweetTo view thee gushing from the golden sun,As he his morning race begins to run!Than time or thought alone, thou art less fleet—Where shall we seek thy primal dwelling-place?About His throne, who ever girt with thee,Lay on the bosom of eternity;Who lit the stars, which radiate through space—Lo! from the east in billowy tide thou flowest,Gilding the hill-tops and the heavenly spires—Empurpling ocean with a myriad fires—Great light, thou sun! o’er heaven thou proudly goest;Nor ever standest still, as once, of old,Till setting thou hast bathed all with thy molten gold.A.
How beauteous art thou, sacred light! How sweetTo view thee gushing from the golden sun,As he his morning race begins to run!Than time or thought alone, thou art less fleet—Where shall we seek thy primal dwelling-place?About His throne, who ever girt with thee,Lay on the bosom of eternity;Who lit the stars, which radiate through space—Lo! from the east in billowy tide thou flowest,Gilding the hill-tops and the heavenly spires—Empurpling ocean with a myriad fires—Great light, thou sun! o’er heaven thou proudly goest;Nor ever standest still, as once, of old,Till setting thou hast bathed all with thy molten gold.A.
How beauteous art thou, sacred light! How sweet
To view thee gushing from the golden sun,
As he his morning race begins to run!
Than time or thought alone, thou art less fleet—
Where shall we seek thy primal dwelling-place?
About His throne, who ever girt with thee,
Lay on the bosom of eternity;
Who lit the stars, which radiate through space—
Lo! from the east in billowy tide thou flowest,
Gilding the hill-tops and the heavenly spires—
Empurpling ocean with a myriad fires—
Great light, thou sun! o’er heaven thou proudly goest;
Nor ever standest still, as once, of old,
Till setting thou hast bathed all with thy molten gold.
A.
UNSPOKEN.
———
BY A. J. REQUIER.
———
As, sometimes, the tumultuary deepSinks to serene repose,When sunset visions o’er its bosom creepAs o’er a couch of rose;So, sometimes, the bright Caspian of the soulIs sudden hushed and stilled,As with the glow of some wild hope as goalIts trancéd depths are filled.“Maid of the twilight eyes! that musest lateWhat star breaks on thy browWith the resplendence of a Heavenly Gate,Greeting its angel now?”The humid azure of her virgin dream,Spanned from the realms aboveBy an all-dazzling Iris! thought—trust—theme—Life-consecration—Love!Come with me to the rustic paths and seeA mute scene eloquent;That rude cot, reared where the daisied leaIs with the mountain blent.A form of lovely womanhood which bendsO’er a much daintier thing—Eyes fixed with something that so far transcendsThe strength of shattered suffering.Armed Cæsar, with his legions, dared not breakTheir concentration wild;Life ventured—periled on a single stake!And won:—her first born child!Come with me where the artist-hand hath wroughtThe crown of all its toil—The spiritual idol madly soughtIn the hot brain’s turmoil;Come where the monumental dead have laidTheir thrice-anointed dust—Where priest and martyr, bard and sage, have paidThe debt all mortals must;Come where the spells of wizard Nature wrestSublimity from sod—Where Lohmon gleams in paradisal rest,Niagara preaches God;Come thou and learn, the inmost glow of soulHath no terrestial token;And that, while Polar Oceans freeze and roll,It never can be spoken!
As, sometimes, the tumultuary deepSinks to serene repose,When sunset visions o’er its bosom creepAs o’er a couch of rose;So, sometimes, the bright Caspian of the soulIs sudden hushed and stilled,As with the glow of some wild hope as goalIts trancéd depths are filled.“Maid of the twilight eyes! that musest lateWhat star breaks on thy browWith the resplendence of a Heavenly Gate,Greeting its angel now?”The humid azure of her virgin dream,Spanned from the realms aboveBy an all-dazzling Iris! thought—trust—theme—Life-consecration—Love!Come with me to the rustic paths and seeA mute scene eloquent;That rude cot, reared where the daisied leaIs with the mountain blent.A form of lovely womanhood which bendsO’er a much daintier thing—Eyes fixed with something that so far transcendsThe strength of shattered suffering.Armed Cæsar, with his legions, dared not breakTheir concentration wild;Life ventured—periled on a single stake!And won:—her first born child!Come with me where the artist-hand hath wroughtThe crown of all its toil—The spiritual idol madly soughtIn the hot brain’s turmoil;Come where the monumental dead have laidTheir thrice-anointed dust—Where priest and martyr, bard and sage, have paidThe debt all mortals must;Come where the spells of wizard Nature wrestSublimity from sod—Where Lohmon gleams in paradisal rest,Niagara preaches God;Come thou and learn, the inmost glow of soulHath no terrestial token;And that, while Polar Oceans freeze and roll,It never can be spoken!
As, sometimes, the tumultuary deepSinks to serene repose,When sunset visions o’er its bosom creepAs o’er a couch of rose;
As, sometimes, the tumultuary deep
Sinks to serene repose,
When sunset visions o’er its bosom creep
As o’er a couch of rose;
So, sometimes, the bright Caspian of the soulIs sudden hushed and stilled,As with the glow of some wild hope as goalIts trancéd depths are filled.
So, sometimes, the bright Caspian of the soul
Is sudden hushed and stilled,
As with the glow of some wild hope as goal
Its trancéd depths are filled.
“Maid of the twilight eyes! that musest lateWhat star breaks on thy browWith the resplendence of a Heavenly Gate,Greeting its angel now?”
“Maid of the twilight eyes! that musest late
What star breaks on thy brow
With the resplendence of a Heavenly Gate,
Greeting its angel now?”
The humid azure of her virgin dream,Spanned from the realms aboveBy an all-dazzling Iris! thought—trust—theme—Life-consecration—Love!
The humid azure of her virgin dream,
Spanned from the realms above
By an all-dazzling Iris! thought—trust—theme—
Life-consecration—Love!
Come with me to the rustic paths and seeA mute scene eloquent;That rude cot, reared where the daisied leaIs with the mountain blent.
Come with me to the rustic paths and see
A mute scene eloquent;
That rude cot, reared where the daisied lea
Is with the mountain blent.
A form of lovely womanhood which bendsO’er a much daintier thing—Eyes fixed with something that so far transcendsThe strength of shattered suffering.
A form of lovely womanhood which bends
O’er a much daintier thing—
Eyes fixed with something that so far transcends
The strength of shattered suffering.
Armed Cæsar, with his legions, dared not breakTheir concentration wild;Life ventured—periled on a single stake!And won:—her first born child!
Armed Cæsar, with his legions, dared not break
Their concentration wild;
Life ventured—periled on a single stake!
And won:—her first born child!
Come with me where the artist-hand hath wroughtThe crown of all its toil—The spiritual idol madly soughtIn the hot brain’s turmoil;
Come with me where the artist-hand hath wrought
The crown of all its toil—
The spiritual idol madly sought
In the hot brain’s turmoil;
Come where the monumental dead have laidTheir thrice-anointed dust—Where priest and martyr, bard and sage, have paidThe debt all mortals must;
Come where the monumental dead have laid
Their thrice-anointed dust—
Where priest and martyr, bard and sage, have paid
The debt all mortals must;
Come where the spells of wizard Nature wrestSublimity from sod—Where Lohmon gleams in paradisal rest,Niagara preaches God;
Come where the spells of wizard Nature wrest
Sublimity from sod—
Where Lohmon gleams in paradisal rest,
Niagara preaches God;
Come thou and learn, the inmost glow of soulHath no terrestial token;And that, while Polar Oceans freeze and roll,It never can be spoken!
Come thou and learn, the inmost glow of soul
Hath no terrestial token;
And that, while Polar Oceans freeze and roll,
It never can be spoken!
TO A DANDELION.
———
BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.
———
Thyface, my friend, is beauty-pale,And doth a slender sweet exhale,And here is but a homely vale,And fancy drawsNo dearness out of song or tale,In thine applause;And some there are who only prizeThe blossoms wooed from foreign skies,In odors drenched and dewy dyes,But thou shalt beCompanion to my fonder eyes,And kin to me.When I shall praise a flower the moreBecause its gilded portals pourThe sweetness of a foreign shore,I’ll jog with thoseWho drop the rhyme’s laborious oar,And flow in prose.All themes that Love and Honor use,All tender, soul-inspiring views,And all the raptures of the muse,Howe’er we roam,Like the sweet Grace that shuns abuseBegin at home.And where my steps are frequent led—In beaten haunts—where’er I tread,Are seeds of wit and wisdom spread,That not abound,Only because my heart and headAre stony ground.Thou claimant of a mutual birthPoor kinsman of a fickle hearth,Flower of the bleak New England earth,I cannot deemYour modest crown so little worthIn my esteem.When spring returning, odor-sweet,Touches the turf with tinsel feet,Thy fresh rosette once more we meet,By sun or shade,Like Joy to smiles, with generous greet,Or just displayed.But soon thy little youth is gone,Thy ample-headed age comes on,And thou a standing wig dost don,Of seedy hair,Frayed by the winds, till bald as stone,Thy skull is bare.Ye sacred, sweet, sonorous Nine—Dear Floras of the bowers divine—Should Age discrown my sable twineOf hairy weed,Give me to say—This pate of mineHas gone to seed.
Thyface, my friend, is beauty-pale,And doth a slender sweet exhale,And here is but a homely vale,And fancy drawsNo dearness out of song or tale,In thine applause;And some there are who only prizeThe blossoms wooed from foreign skies,In odors drenched and dewy dyes,But thou shalt beCompanion to my fonder eyes,And kin to me.When I shall praise a flower the moreBecause its gilded portals pourThe sweetness of a foreign shore,I’ll jog with thoseWho drop the rhyme’s laborious oar,And flow in prose.All themes that Love and Honor use,All tender, soul-inspiring views,And all the raptures of the muse,Howe’er we roam,Like the sweet Grace that shuns abuseBegin at home.And where my steps are frequent led—In beaten haunts—where’er I tread,Are seeds of wit and wisdom spread,That not abound,Only because my heart and headAre stony ground.Thou claimant of a mutual birthPoor kinsman of a fickle hearth,Flower of the bleak New England earth,I cannot deemYour modest crown so little worthIn my esteem.When spring returning, odor-sweet,Touches the turf with tinsel feet,Thy fresh rosette once more we meet,By sun or shade,Like Joy to smiles, with generous greet,Or just displayed.But soon thy little youth is gone,Thy ample-headed age comes on,And thou a standing wig dost don,Of seedy hair,Frayed by the winds, till bald as stone,Thy skull is bare.Ye sacred, sweet, sonorous Nine—Dear Floras of the bowers divine—Should Age discrown my sable twineOf hairy weed,Give me to say—This pate of mineHas gone to seed.
Thyface, my friend, is beauty-pale,And doth a slender sweet exhale,And here is but a homely vale,And fancy drawsNo dearness out of song or tale,In thine applause;
Thyface, my friend, is beauty-pale,
And doth a slender sweet exhale,
And here is but a homely vale,
And fancy draws
No dearness out of song or tale,
In thine applause;
And some there are who only prizeThe blossoms wooed from foreign skies,In odors drenched and dewy dyes,But thou shalt beCompanion to my fonder eyes,And kin to me.
And some there are who only prize
The blossoms wooed from foreign skies,
In odors drenched and dewy dyes,
But thou shalt be
Companion to my fonder eyes,
And kin to me.
When I shall praise a flower the moreBecause its gilded portals pourThe sweetness of a foreign shore,I’ll jog with thoseWho drop the rhyme’s laborious oar,And flow in prose.
When I shall praise a flower the more
Because its gilded portals pour
The sweetness of a foreign shore,
I’ll jog with those
Who drop the rhyme’s laborious oar,
And flow in prose.
All themes that Love and Honor use,All tender, soul-inspiring views,And all the raptures of the muse,Howe’er we roam,Like the sweet Grace that shuns abuseBegin at home.
All themes that Love and Honor use,
All tender, soul-inspiring views,
And all the raptures of the muse,
Howe’er we roam,
Like the sweet Grace that shuns abuse
Begin at home.
And where my steps are frequent led—In beaten haunts—where’er I tread,Are seeds of wit and wisdom spread,That not abound,Only because my heart and headAre stony ground.
And where my steps are frequent led—
In beaten haunts—where’er I tread,
Are seeds of wit and wisdom spread,
That not abound,
Only because my heart and head
Are stony ground.
Thou claimant of a mutual birthPoor kinsman of a fickle hearth,Flower of the bleak New England earth,I cannot deemYour modest crown so little worthIn my esteem.
Thou claimant of a mutual birth
Poor kinsman of a fickle hearth,
Flower of the bleak New England earth,
I cannot deem
Your modest crown so little worth
In my esteem.
When spring returning, odor-sweet,Touches the turf with tinsel feet,Thy fresh rosette once more we meet,By sun or shade,Like Joy to smiles, with generous greet,Or just displayed.
When spring returning, odor-sweet,
Touches the turf with tinsel feet,
Thy fresh rosette once more we meet,
By sun or shade,
Like Joy to smiles, with generous greet,
Or just displayed.
But soon thy little youth is gone,Thy ample-headed age comes on,And thou a standing wig dost don,Of seedy hair,Frayed by the winds, till bald as stone,Thy skull is bare.
But soon thy little youth is gone,
Thy ample-headed age comes on,
And thou a standing wig dost don,
Of seedy hair,
Frayed by the winds, till bald as stone,
Thy skull is bare.
Ye sacred, sweet, sonorous Nine—Dear Floras of the bowers divine—Should Age discrown my sable twineOf hairy weed,Give me to say—This pate of mineHas gone to seed.
Ye sacred, sweet, sonorous Nine—
Dear Floras of the bowers divine—
Should Age discrown my sable twine
Of hairy weed,
Give me to say—This pate of mine
Has gone to seed.
WHY DO I WEEP FOR THEE?
WORDS BY
GEORGE LINLEY.
COMPOSED BY
W. V. WALLACE.
SUNG BY
MISS CATHARINE HAYES.
Published by permission of Lee & Walker, 162 Chestnut Street,
Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments.
Why do I weep for thee?Why weep in my sad dreams?Parted for aye are we,Yes! parted like mountain streams.
Why do I weep for thee?Why weep in my sad dreams?Parted for aye are we,Yes! parted like mountain streams.
Why do I weep for thee?Why weep in my sad dreams?Parted for aye are we,Yes! parted like mountain streams.
Why do I weep for thee?
Why weep in my sad dreams?
Parted for aye are we,
Yes! parted like mountain streams.
Yet with me lingers stillThat word, that one last word,Thy voice, thy voice yet seems to thrillThe heart’s fond chord.Why do I weep for thee?Why do I weep for thee?II.Once, ah! what joy to shareWith thee the noontide hour;Then, not a grief nor careHad canker’d the heart’s young flow’rThe sun seems not to shedA radiance o’er me now,Save mem’ry all seems dead,Since lost, since lost art thou.Why do I weep for thee?Why do I weep for thee?
Yet with me lingers stillThat word, that one last word,Thy voice, thy voice yet seems to thrillThe heart’s fond chord.Why do I weep for thee?Why do I weep for thee?II.Once, ah! what joy to shareWith thee the noontide hour;Then, not a grief nor careHad canker’d the heart’s young flow’rThe sun seems not to shedA radiance o’er me now,Save mem’ry all seems dead,Since lost, since lost art thou.Why do I weep for thee?Why do I weep for thee?
Yet with me lingers stillThat word, that one last word,Thy voice, thy voice yet seems to thrillThe heart’s fond chord.Why do I weep for thee?Why do I weep for thee?
Yet with me lingers still
That word, that one last word,
Thy voice, thy voice yet seems to thrill
The heart’s fond chord.
Why do I weep for thee?
Why do I weep for thee?
II.
II.
Once, ah! what joy to shareWith thee the noontide hour;Then, not a grief nor careHad canker’d the heart’s young flow’rThe sun seems not to shedA radiance o’er me now,Save mem’ry all seems dead,Since lost, since lost art thou.Why do I weep for thee?Why do I weep for thee?
Once, ah! what joy to share
With thee the noontide hour;
Then, not a grief nor care
Had canker’d the heart’s young flow’r
The sun seems not to shed
A radiance o’er me now,
Save mem’ry all seems dead,
Since lost, since lost art thou.
Why do I weep for thee?
Why do I weep for thee?
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
Aylmere, or the Bondman of Kent; and Other Poems. By Robert T. Conrad. 1 Vol. Philadelphia; E. H. Butler & Co.
Aylmere, or the Bondman of Kent; and Other Poems. By Robert T. Conrad. 1 Vol. Philadelphia; E. H. Butler & Co.
The author of this volume is one of those rare organizations, intellectually, which have the power of transmuting whatever they touch into gold. As an orator, he sways his audience at will; as a writer, he storms the reader’s judgment by logic and declamation welded into one; and as a poet, he now charms the fancy with the grace and delicacy of his imagery, and now makes the heart throb with his fiery and impassioned words.
“Aylmere” is a dramatic poem, originally written for Mr. Forrest, and still played, under the name of “Jack Cade,” by that eminent tragedian. Though parts of it may derive additional power, on the stage, from the magnificent bursts of the great actor for whom it was composed, the true beauty of the drama, we think, can only be enjoyed by those who peruse it, at leisure, in the closet. Many passages, indeed, are suppressed on the boards, in order to bring the play within accustomed limits; and the benefit of these the spectator loses entirely.
The drama of “Aylmere” is founded on the famous insurrection of 1450, in which the English peasantry were headed by a physician, known indifferently as Jack Cade, Aylmere, Mendall and Mortimer. The theme is one peculiarly fitted for a republican poet. Goaded by intolerable wrongs, social as well as political—insults to their women, contumely to themselves, public taxes that reaped them to the last stubble, and private exactions on the part of the nobility, that gleaned what little regal rapacity had left—the people, in which we comprise the yeomen and burghers, as well as the villeins, rose in a body, marched on London, exacted the death of the infamous lord-chamberlain, and procured a charter from the king, guarantying to the commonalty the rights and privileges demanded by their leader. But scarcely had these concessions been granted, when a collision, provoked probably by the royal party, occurred between the citizens of London and the followers of Cade: the insurgents met with a repulse; and the late terrified aristocracy rallying, a total defeat and dispersion of the peasantry ensued. Aylmere himself was hunted down, like a wild beast, and mercilessly put to death. The concessions granted were revoked. And, for centuries after, English historians in the interest of the upper classes, blackened the name and misrepresented the motives of the ill-fated Kentish reformer.
What nobler task could a republican poet set before himself, than to rescue the reputation of this martyred hero from obloquy and shame? Well, too, has Judge Conrad fulfilled his pious labor. The principal character of the play is Aylmere, of course; indeed he may be said, in one sense, to be the entire play. His lofty courage, his abhorrence of wrong, his high aspirations after liberty, and the fiery enthusiasm which he breathes into his followers, form, as it were, the deep undertone, whose thunders roll incessantly through this grand anthem of freedom. Other characters, however, contribute materially to the action of the piece, and furnish the author with opportunities to display his dramatic powers. The portrait of Marianne, the wife of Aylmere, is drawn with great tenderness of feeling, and delicacy of touch: she is, like her own native Italy, a vision of immortal beauty hallowed and sanctified by wo. The cruel, vindictive and insolent Say; the gay, careless, yet not wholly wicked Clifford; the friend of the people, Friar Lacy; and the yeomen, Wat Worthy and Will Mowbray, all stand prominently out from the canvas.
The drama is full of noble poetry. It would give us pleasure to quote more largely from it, in proof of this; but the quantity of books upon our table, requiring notice, forbids a monopoly of our limited space by one. We cannot, however, resist making a few extracts. Here is one, in which Aylmere, after his return from Italy, eloquently describes the bondage which he shared in common with his fellow-Englishmen.
Ten years of freedom have not made me free.I’ve throttled fortune till she yielded upHer brightest favors; I have wooed Ambition,Wooed with a fiery soul and dripping sword,Andwould notbe denied; I turned from her,And raked amid the ashes of the past,For the high thoughts that burn but cannot die,Until my spirit walked with those who nowAre hailed, as brethren, by archangels:—Yet,Have I come home a slave—a thing for chainsAnd scourges—ay, a dog,Crouching, and spurned, and spit upon.
Ten years of freedom have not made me free.I’ve throttled fortune till she yielded upHer brightest favors; I have wooed Ambition,Wooed with a fiery soul and dripping sword,Andwould notbe denied; I turned from her,And raked amid the ashes of the past,For the high thoughts that burn but cannot die,Until my spirit walked with those who nowAre hailed, as brethren, by archangels:—Yet,Have I come home a slave—a thing for chainsAnd scourges—ay, a dog,Crouching, and spurned, and spit upon.
Ten years of freedom have not made me free.I’ve throttled fortune till she yielded upHer brightest favors; I have wooed Ambition,Wooed with a fiery soul and dripping sword,Andwould notbe denied; I turned from her,And raked amid the ashes of the past,For the high thoughts that burn but cannot die,Until my spirit walked with those who nowAre hailed, as brethren, by archangels:—Yet,Have I come home a slave—a thing for chainsAnd scourges—ay, a dog,Crouching, and spurned, and spit upon.
Ten years of freedom have not made me free.I’ve throttled fortune till she yielded upHer brightest favors; I have wooed Ambition,Wooed with a fiery soul and dripping sword,Andwould notbe denied; I turned from her,And raked amid the ashes of the past,For the high thoughts that burn but cannot die,Until my spirit walked with those who nowAre hailed, as brethren, by archangels:—Yet,Have I come home a slave—a thing for chainsAnd scourges—ay, a dog,Crouching, and spurned, and spit upon.
Ten years of freedom have not made me free.
I’ve throttled fortune till she yielded up
Her brightest favors; I have wooed Ambition,
Wooed with a fiery soul and dripping sword,
Andwould notbe denied; I turned from her,
And raked amid the ashes of the past,
For the high thoughts that burn but cannot die,
Until my spirit walked with those who now
Are hailed, as brethren, by archangels:—Yet,
Have I come home a slave—a thing for chains
And scourges—ay, a dog,
Crouching, and spurned, and spit upon.
In fine contrast to this picture, is the following one of Italy,as Italy was four centuries ago.
’Tis free; and want, fear, shame, are aliens there.In that blest land the tiller is a prince.No ruffian lord breaks spring’s fair promises;And summer’s toils—for freedom watches o’er them—Are safe and happy; summer lapses by,In its own music;And pregnant Autumn, with a matron blush,Comes stately in, and with her, hand in hand,Labor, and busy Plenty. Then old Winter,With his stout glee, his junkets, and a laughThat shakes from his hoar beard the icicles,Makes the year gay again. There are no poorWhere freedom is.
’Tis free; and want, fear, shame, are aliens there.In that blest land the tiller is a prince.No ruffian lord breaks spring’s fair promises;And summer’s toils—for freedom watches o’er them—Are safe and happy; summer lapses by,In its own music;And pregnant Autumn, with a matron blush,Comes stately in, and with her, hand in hand,Labor, and busy Plenty. Then old Winter,With his stout glee, his junkets, and a laughThat shakes from his hoar beard the icicles,Makes the year gay again. There are no poorWhere freedom is.
’Tis free; and want, fear, shame, are aliens there.In that blest land the tiller is a prince.No ruffian lord breaks spring’s fair promises;And summer’s toils—for freedom watches o’er them—Are safe and happy; summer lapses by,In its own music;And pregnant Autumn, with a matron blush,Comes stately in, and with her, hand in hand,Labor, and busy Plenty. Then old Winter,With his stout glee, his junkets, and a laughThat shakes from his hoar beard the icicles,Makes the year gay again. There are no poorWhere freedom is.
’Tis free; and want, fear, shame, are aliens there.In that blest land the tiller is a prince.No ruffian lord breaks spring’s fair promises;And summer’s toils—for freedom watches o’er them—Are safe and happy; summer lapses by,In its own music;And pregnant Autumn, with a matron blush,Comes stately in, and with her, hand in hand,Labor, and busy Plenty. Then old Winter,With his stout glee, his junkets, and a laughThat shakes from his hoar beard the icicles,Makes the year gay again. There are no poorWhere freedom is.
’Tis free; and want, fear, shame, are aliens there.
In that blest land the tiller is a prince.
No ruffian lord breaks spring’s fair promises;
And summer’s toils—for freedom watches o’er them—
Are safe and happy; summer lapses by,
In its own music;
And pregnant Autumn, with a matron blush,
Comes stately in, and with her, hand in hand,
Labor, and busy Plenty. Then old Winter,
With his stout glee, his junkets, and a laugh
That shakes from his hoar beard the icicles,
Makes the year gay again. There are no poor
Where freedom is.
The whole of the following is in the same fine strain.
Worthy.Behold! He comes! he comes!EnterAylmere.Lacy.Thank Heaven! thou’rt free!Aylmere, (laughs.) Ay, once more free! within my grasp a sword,And round me freemen! Free! as is the stormAbout your hills; the surge upon your shore!Free as the sunbeams on the chainless air;Or as the stream that leaps the precipice,And in eternal thunder, shouts to Heaven,That it is free, and will be free forever!Straw.Now for revenge! Full long we’ve fed on wrong:Give us revenge!Aylmere.For you and for myself!England from all her hills, cries out for vengeance!The serf, who tills her soil, but tastes not ofHer fruit, the slave that in her dungeon groans,The yeoman plundered, and the maiden wronged,Echo the call in shrieks! The angry wavesReport the sound in thunder; and the heavens,From their blue vaults, roll back a people’s cryFor liberty and vengeance!Lacy.Wrong on wrong!Are there no bolts in heaven?Aylmere.No swords on earth?He’ll ever be a slave, who does not rightHimself. The heavens fight not for cravens. Let us strike,Strike for ourselves, and Heaven will strike for us.
Worthy.Behold! He comes! he comes!EnterAylmere.Lacy.Thank Heaven! thou’rt free!Aylmere, (laughs.) Ay, once more free! within my grasp a sword,And round me freemen! Free! as is the stormAbout your hills; the surge upon your shore!Free as the sunbeams on the chainless air;Or as the stream that leaps the precipice,And in eternal thunder, shouts to Heaven,That it is free, and will be free forever!Straw.Now for revenge! Full long we’ve fed on wrong:Give us revenge!Aylmere.For you and for myself!England from all her hills, cries out for vengeance!The serf, who tills her soil, but tastes not ofHer fruit, the slave that in her dungeon groans,The yeoman plundered, and the maiden wronged,Echo the call in shrieks! The angry wavesReport the sound in thunder; and the heavens,From their blue vaults, roll back a people’s cryFor liberty and vengeance!Lacy.Wrong on wrong!Are there no bolts in heaven?Aylmere.No swords on earth?He’ll ever be a slave, who does not rightHimself. The heavens fight not for cravens. Let us strike,Strike for ourselves, and Heaven will strike for us.
Worthy.Behold! He comes! he comes!EnterAylmere.Lacy.Thank Heaven! thou’rt free!Aylmere, (laughs.) Ay, once more free! within my grasp a sword,And round me freemen! Free! as is the stormAbout your hills; the surge upon your shore!Free as the sunbeams on the chainless air;Or as the stream that leaps the precipice,And in eternal thunder, shouts to Heaven,That it is free, and will be free forever!Straw.Now for revenge! Full long we’ve fed on wrong:Give us revenge!Aylmere.For you and for myself!England from all her hills, cries out for vengeance!The serf, who tills her soil, but tastes not ofHer fruit, the slave that in her dungeon groans,The yeoman plundered, and the maiden wronged,Echo the call in shrieks! The angry wavesReport the sound in thunder; and the heavens,From their blue vaults, roll back a people’s cryFor liberty and vengeance!Lacy.Wrong on wrong!Are there no bolts in heaven?Aylmere.No swords on earth?He’ll ever be a slave, who does not rightHimself. The heavens fight not for cravens. Let us strike,Strike for ourselves, and Heaven will strike for us.
Worthy.Behold! He comes! he comes!
Worthy.Behold! He comes! he comes!
EnterAylmere.
EnterAylmere.
Lacy.Thank Heaven! thou’rt free!
Lacy.Thank Heaven! thou’rt free!
Aylmere, (laughs.) Ay, once more free! within my grasp a sword,And round me freemen! Free! as is the stormAbout your hills; the surge upon your shore!Free as the sunbeams on the chainless air;Or as the stream that leaps the precipice,And in eternal thunder, shouts to Heaven,That it is free, and will be free forever!
Aylmere, (laughs.) Ay, once more free! within my grasp a sword,
And round me freemen! Free! as is the storm
About your hills; the surge upon your shore!
Free as the sunbeams on the chainless air;
Or as the stream that leaps the precipice,
And in eternal thunder, shouts to Heaven,
That it is free, and will be free forever!
Straw.Now for revenge! Full long we’ve fed on wrong:Give us revenge!
Straw.Now for revenge! Full long we’ve fed on wrong:
Give us revenge!
Aylmere.For you and for myself!England from all her hills, cries out for vengeance!The serf, who tills her soil, but tastes not ofHer fruit, the slave that in her dungeon groans,The yeoman plundered, and the maiden wronged,Echo the call in shrieks! The angry wavesReport the sound in thunder; and the heavens,From their blue vaults, roll back a people’s cryFor liberty and vengeance!
Aylmere.For you and for myself!
England from all her hills, cries out for vengeance!
The serf, who tills her soil, but tastes not of
Her fruit, the slave that in her dungeon groans,
The yeoman plundered, and the maiden wronged,
Echo the call in shrieks! The angry waves
Report the sound in thunder; and the heavens,
From their blue vaults, roll back a people’s cry
For liberty and vengeance!
Lacy.Wrong on wrong!Are there no bolts in heaven?
Lacy.Wrong on wrong!
Are there no bolts in heaven?
Aylmere.No swords on earth?He’ll ever be a slave, who does not rightHimself. The heavens fight not for cravens. Let us strike,Strike for ourselves, and Heaven will strike for us.
Aylmere.No swords on earth?
He’ll ever be a slave, who does not right
Himself. The heavens fight not for cravens. Let us strike,
Strike for ourselves, and Heaven will strike for us.
The ensuing are nervous and striking.
All would o’ertop their fellows;And every rank—the lowest—hath its heightTo which hearts flutter, with as large a hopeAs princes feel for empire! But in each,Ambition struggles with a sea of hate.He who sweats up the ridgy grades of life.Finds, in each station, icy scorn above,Below him hooting envy.My lord, if you seek power in this, remember,The greatness which is born of anarchy,And thrown aloft in tumult, cannot last.It mounts, like rocks hurled skyward by volcanoes,Flushes a guilty moment, and falls backIn the red earthquake’s bosom.
All would o’ertop their fellows;And every rank—the lowest—hath its heightTo which hearts flutter, with as large a hopeAs princes feel for empire! But in each,Ambition struggles with a sea of hate.He who sweats up the ridgy grades of life.Finds, in each station, icy scorn above,Below him hooting envy.My lord, if you seek power in this, remember,The greatness which is born of anarchy,And thrown aloft in tumult, cannot last.It mounts, like rocks hurled skyward by volcanoes,Flushes a guilty moment, and falls backIn the red earthquake’s bosom.
All would o’ertop their fellows;And every rank—the lowest—hath its heightTo which hearts flutter, with as large a hopeAs princes feel for empire! But in each,Ambition struggles with a sea of hate.He who sweats up the ridgy grades of life.Finds, in each station, icy scorn above,Below him hooting envy.My lord, if you seek power in this, remember,The greatness which is born of anarchy,And thrown aloft in tumult, cannot last.It mounts, like rocks hurled skyward by volcanoes,Flushes a guilty moment, and falls backIn the red earthquake’s bosom.
All would o’ertop their fellows;And every rank—the lowest—hath its heightTo which hearts flutter, with as large a hopeAs princes feel for empire! But in each,Ambition struggles with a sea of hate.He who sweats up the ridgy grades of life.Finds, in each station, icy scorn above,Below him hooting envy.
All would o’ertop their fellows;
And every rank—the lowest—hath its height
To which hearts flutter, with as large a hope
As princes feel for empire! But in each,
Ambition struggles with a sea of hate.
He who sweats up the ridgy grades of life.
Finds, in each station, icy scorn above,
Below him hooting envy.
My lord, if you seek power in this, remember,The greatness which is born of anarchy,And thrown aloft in tumult, cannot last.It mounts, like rocks hurled skyward by volcanoes,Flushes a guilty moment, and falls backIn the red earthquake’s bosom.
My lord, if you seek power in this, remember,
The greatness which is born of anarchy,
And thrown aloft in tumult, cannot last.
It mounts, like rocks hurled skyward by volcanoes,
Flushes a guilty moment, and falls back
In the red earthquake’s bosom.
The tragedy violates, in some of its details, the facts of history. Thus Aylmere, instead of being defeated and betrayed, as in the real story, perishes, in the drama, at the very hour that the charter is granted. The change enables the author to give a fine artistic scene as his closing one. Marianne, the wife, having been separated from her husband at the outset of the insurrection, falls into the power of Lord Say. While thus a prisoner she is accosted with dishonorable proposals by Lord Clifford, whom she stabs to escape indignity. For this heroic act she is thrown into the castle dungeon, scourged, and visited with other brutalities, till she loses her reason. Escaping eventually, she rejoins her husband. In Aylmere’s last interview with Lord Say, when the latter, dying, poniards the former, she rushes in, her intellect restored, as is often the case before death, and perishes with her lord. This furnishes the material for the closing scene, which is most dramatically conceived. Clasping the fair corpse in his arms, the hero is himself sinking into death, when suddenly loud huzzas in the street, call him back to life. He starts up with a wild cry of exultation, and asks eagerly what it means. The attendants reply, “the charter!” and, as they speak, the parchment, duly sealed, is brought triumphantly in. Aylmere rushes to it, kisses it, clasps it to his bosom, and exclaiming that the bondmen are avenged and England free, totters toward Marianne, falls, and dies.
But the drama is not the only poem in the volume, for some fifty fugitive pieces ensue, the chance contributions of a life devoted generally to pursuits more stern. Several of the last of these originally appeared in the pages of this magazine: we may mention “The Sons of the Wilderness,” and the “Sonnets on the Lord’s Prayer.” Generally they are distinguished by great felicity of expression, a vigorous imagination, touches of exquisite pathos, and a lofty scorn of whatever is base, cruel, or wrong. As examples of the gentler mood of the author’s muse, we would point out two poems, which evidently relate to a mother and her daughter: the first, “Lines on the death of a Young Married Lady,” and the second, “To Maggie.” The sonnet, “To My Wife,” is also very beautiful. As specimens of Judge Conrad’s more indignant mood, we refer to the sonnets, “On the Invasion of the Roman Republic,” and to “Fear.”
The poem, “To My Brother,” is one that would have made the author’s reputation, even if he had written nothing else; and “Freedom” contains stanzas that but few other living poets could have penned. To say that it exhibits the power of the fourth canto of “Childe Harold,” would imply imitation, of which certainly no one can accuse Judge Conrad. But we may remark that it has the same nervous style, the same exalted imagination, with an original conception that is all its own. In perusing this and other poems in this volume we instinctively regret that Judge Conrad has not devoted himself entirely to poetry. Such powers as his, concentrated on a pursuit so congenial to him, could not but have produced results that would have adorned American literature, not only temporarily, but throughout all time.
We cannot take leave of our author without going back to the dedication, which is addressed to the poet’s father, and which, though often quoted in print since the appearance of the book, we venture to quote again.
TO JOHN CONRAD, ESQ.How much that Young Time gave hath Old Time ta’en;Snatching his blessings back with churlish haste,And leaving life a wreck-encumbered waste!And yet I murmur not—for you remain!You and my mother, and the hoarded wealthOf home, and love, and high and hearted thought,Which Youth in Memory’s wizard woof enwrought.These are “laid up” where Time’s ungentle stealthCan reach them not. And ’tis a joy to bringThis humble garland, woven in the wild.Back to the hearth and roof-tree of the child:The wearied heart bears home its offering.If it relume the approving smile of yore—Guerdon and glory then—father, I crave no more.
TO JOHN CONRAD, ESQ.How much that Young Time gave hath Old Time ta’en;Snatching his blessings back with churlish haste,And leaving life a wreck-encumbered waste!And yet I murmur not—for you remain!You and my mother, and the hoarded wealthOf home, and love, and high and hearted thought,Which Youth in Memory’s wizard woof enwrought.These are “laid up” where Time’s ungentle stealthCan reach them not. And ’tis a joy to bringThis humble garland, woven in the wild.Back to the hearth and roof-tree of the child:The wearied heart bears home its offering.If it relume the approving smile of yore—Guerdon and glory then—father, I crave no more.
TO JOHN CONRAD, ESQ.How much that Young Time gave hath Old Time ta’en;Snatching his blessings back with churlish haste,And leaving life a wreck-encumbered waste!And yet I murmur not—for you remain!You and my mother, and the hoarded wealthOf home, and love, and high and hearted thought,Which Youth in Memory’s wizard woof enwrought.These are “laid up” where Time’s ungentle stealthCan reach them not. And ’tis a joy to bringThis humble garland, woven in the wild.Back to the hearth and roof-tree of the child:The wearied heart bears home its offering.If it relume the approving smile of yore—Guerdon and glory then—father, I crave no more.
TO JOHN CONRAD, ESQ.
TO JOHN CONRAD, ESQ.
How much that Young Time gave hath Old Time ta’en;Snatching his blessings back with churlish haste,And leaving life a wreck-encumbered waste!And yet I murmur not—for you remain!You and my mother, and the hoarded wealthOf home, and love, and high and hearted thought,Which Youth in Memory’s wizard woof enwrought.These are “laid up” where Time’s ungentle stealthCan reach them not. And ’tis a joy to bringThis humble garland, woven in the wild.Back to the hearth and roof-tree of the child:The wearied heart bears home its offering.If it relume the approving smile of yore—Guerdon and glory then—father, I crave no more.
How much that Young Time gave hath Old Time ta’en;
Snatching his blessings back with churlish haste,
And leaving life a wreck-encumbered waste!
And yet I murmur not—for you remain!
You and my mother, and the hoarded wealth
Of home, and love, and high and hearted thought,
Which Youth in Memory’s wizard woof enwrought.
These are “laid up” where Time’s ungentle stealth
Can reach them not. And ’tis a joy to bring
This humble garland, woven in the wild.
Back to the hearth and roof-tree of the child:
The wearied heart bears home its offering.
If it relume the approving smile of yore—
Guerdon and glory then—father, I crave no more.
Poems. By Richard Henry Stoddard. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.
Poems. By Richard Henry Stoddard. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.
It is impossible to open this volume at any page without feeling that the author is a poet, and a poet whose promise is very much greater even than his performance. Every poem is bright and warm with imagery and feeling—poetical expressions are showered with a liberal hand—the verse has that soft and fluent movement which indicates that the thoughts they convey come from a teeming mind in a gush of melodious sentiment—and the impression left on the reader’s imagination is of a singularly rich, sensuous, fertile and poetical nature. Every poem, almost every line, is a protest against the prose of thought and the prose of life, and all the objects of sense are studiously idealized and heightened into “something rich” if not into “something strange.” The author seems to dwell in a dream of life, peopled with beauties if not with Beauty, and sweetly abandoning himself to the soft and subtle sensations they imaginatively excite. Pleasure, but a pleasure more than mortal, seems to be his aim and aspiration, and infinitely provoked is he when the hard facts of life protrude their misshapen but solid substance into his meditations, and mock his luxurious illusion.
Now the mood out of which this profuse idealization of thoughts and sensations proceeds is undoubtedly poetical, but it should be exhibited in connection with higher and sterner qualities, and at best indicates the youth of the poetic vision and faculty. But, it must be admitted, that Mr. Stoddard has represented it in all its deliciousness, and no person can read his volume without being filled and stimulated with its sweetness and melody, and luxuriant fancy and opulence of sensuous forms and images. It indicates, to some extent, a sensitive and imaginative nature overmastered by the pleasant scenes and airy beings in which and with whom it revels—possessed instead of possessing—and therefore lacking that individual power which wields dominion over its own resources, selects, discriminates, rejects, governs, and, in the highest sense, combines and creates. Accordingly he does not inform objects, but is rather informed by them—does not pass into them by an internal force but is rather drawn into them by their external attraction—and thus leaves an impression rather of fertility than power. There is a great difference between the poet who merges himself in objects, and the poet who allows objects to immerge him. In the one case he is a victor, in the other a captive.
As a result of this exceeding sensitiveness to impressions, Mr. Stoddard is open to the influence of other poets; for when a poet once ceases to exercise a jealous guardianship over the individuality of his genius, he is liable to be overcome by the superior power of the natures with whom he sympathises. Now, Mr. Stoddard is no copyist or imitator, much less a plagiarist, but he evidently has an intense love for the genius of Shelley, Keats and Tennyson, and sympathises so deeply with them that he catches the tone and tune of their spirits—sometimes sets his own songs to their music—and thus gives us original thoughts and images thatsoundlike theirs because conceived in their spirit. Thus in the “Castle in the Air” there is an original line which still has the mark of Shelley’s individuality upon it: