THE DREAMER.

———

BY ALICE G. LEE.

———

I dream the only happiness I know.Mrs. Butler.

Oneyear ago my heart, like thine, sweet friend,Thrilled to the music of the rustling leaves,And loved all gentle harmonies that blendIn one low chorus, when the bosom heavesWith long drawn sighs of tremulous delight,As slowly fades the day to deeper night.And I have sat as now in this lone wood,At twilight hour to commune with my heart,All wilder thoughts at rest, a dreamy moodStole o’er my spirit; sorrow had no partIn those still musings, but to breathe, to live,Did such exceeding pleasure to me give.One little year! Oh, heart, thy throbbing cease!How much of life was crowded in its span!My daily paths were pleasantness, and peace,When with swift round this circling year began,But now a shadow rests on earth and sky,Day after day still passes wearily.I meant not to complain; for I have learnedIn life each hath a sorrow to conceal.I would but tell thee that from earth I turned;I may not even to my friend revealWhy one who is a very child in yearsHath drank so deeply at the fount of tears.Thank God for gentle sleep! I close mine eyes,And though all fevered fancies round me throng—Though doubts that almost madden will arise—She hath a power more subtil, and more strong.Her blessed hand is on my forehead pressed,Then comes forgetfulness, and I am blessed.Forgetfulness of care—for oh, I moveIn happier worlds, and live a purer life;Scorn may not enter there, nor envy proveDiscord to melody—unholy strifeAfar is banished—joy’s unclouded beamsEver illumine that fair land of dreams.Then wonder not I seek this forest dell,Although mine ears are closed to nature’s voice,A hush, a twilight ’neath the branches dwell;So I have made the summer woods my choice,And sleeping with the shadows through the day,Forget the world, and dream my life away.

Oneyear ago my heart, like thine, sweet friend,

Thrilled to the music of the rustling leaves,

And loved all gentle harmonies that blend

In one low chorus, when the bosom heaves

With long drawn sighs of tremulous delight,

As slowly fades the day to deeper night.

And I have sat as now in this lone wood,At twilight hour to commune with my heart,All wilder thoughts at rest, a dreamy moodStole o’er my spirit; sorrow had no partIn those still musings, but to breathe, to live,Did such exceeding pleasure to me give.

And I have sat as now in this lone wood,

At twilight hour to commune with my heart,

All wilder thoughts at rest, a dreamy mood

Stole o’er my spirit; sorrow had no part

In those still musings, but to breathe, to live,

Did such exceeding pleasure to me give.

One little year! Oh, heart, thy throbbing cease!How much of life was crowded in its span!My daily paths were pleasantness, and peace,When with swift round this circling year began,But now a shadow rests on earth and sky,Day after day still passes wearily.

One little year! Oh, heart, thy throbbing cease!

How much of life was crowded in its span!

My daily paths were pleasantness, and peace,

When with swift round this circling year began,

But now a shadow rests on earth and sky,

Day after day still passes wearily.

I meant not to complain; for I have learnedIn life each hath a sorrow to conceal.I would but tell thee that from earth I turned;I may not even to my friend revealWhy one who is a very child in yearsHath drank so deeply at the fount of tears.

I meant not to complain; for I have learned

In life each hath a sorrow to conceal.

I would but tell thee that from earth I turned;

I may not even to my friend reveal

Why one who is a very child in years

Hath drank so deeply at the fount of tears.

Thank God for gentle sleep! I close mine eyes,And though all fevered fancies round me throng—Though doubts that almost madden will arise—She hath a power more subtil, and more strong.Her blessed hand is on my forehead pressed,Then comes forgetfulness, and I am blessed.

Thank God for gentle sleep! I close mine eyes,

And though all fevered fancies round me throng—

Though doubts that almost madden will arise—

She hath a power more subtil, and more strong.

Her blessed hand is on my forehead pressed,

Then comes forgetfulness, and I am blessed.

Forgetfulness of care—for oh, I moveIn happier worlds, and live a purer life;Scorn may not enter there, nor envy proveDiscord to melody—unholy strifeAfar is banished—joy’s unclouded beamsEver illumine that fair land of dreams.

Forgetfulness of care—for oh, I move

In happier worlds, and live a purer life;

Scorn may not enter there, nor envy prove

Discord to melody—unholy strife

Afar is banished—joy’s unclouded beams

Ever illumine that fair land of dreams.

Then wonder not I seek this forest dell,Although mine ears are closed to nature’s voice,A hush, a twilight ’neath the branches dwell;So I have made the summer woods my choice,And sleeping with the shadows through the day,Forget the world, and dream my life away.

Then wonder not I seek this forest dell,

Although mine ears are closed to nature’s voice,

A hush, a twilight ’neath the branches dwell;

So I have made the summer woods my choice,

And sleeping with the shadows through the day,

Forget the world, and dream my life away.

THE DEMON OF THE MIRROR.

———

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

———

Itwas sunset on the mountain,It was twilight on the plain;And the Night was slowly creeping,Like a captive from his keeping,Up the Fading East again,Where on rosy shores of sunlight broke the surges of his main.Where the orange branches mingledOn the sunny garden-side,In a rare and rich pavilionSat the beautiful Sicilian—Sat the Count Alberto’s bride,Musing sadly on his absence, in the balmy eveningtide.Like a star, in ocean mirrored,Beamed her liquid, tender eye;But within her bearing queenly,Deepest passion slept serenelyAs the flame in summer’s sky,Which to fiercest being wakens, when we dream it least is nigh!She had grown, in soul and beauty,Like her own delicious clime—With the warmth and radiance showeredOn its gardens, citron-bowered,And its winds that woo in rhyme:With its fiery tropic fervors, and its Etna-throes sublime!Near her stood the fair Bianca,Once a shepherd’s humble child,Who with tender hand was twiningThrough her tresses, raven-shining,Pearls of lustre pure and mild;And the lady in the mirror saw their braided gleam, and smiled.Falling over brow and bosom,Swept her dark and glossy hair;And the flash on Etna faded,As Bianca slowly braidedWith her fingers small and fair,While a deeper shadow gathered o’er the chamber’s scented air.On the jeweled mirror gazing,Spoke the lady not a word,When, within its picture certain,Slowly moved the silken curtain,Though the breezes had not stirred,And its faintly falling rustle on the marble was unheard.Breathless, o’er her tender musingCame a strange and sudden fear.With a nameless, chill foreboding,All her fiery spirit goading,Listened she with straining ear;Through the dusky laurel foliage, all was silent, far and near!Not a stealthy footfall soundedOn the tesselated floor;Yet she saw, with secret terror,Count Alberto, in the mirror,Stealing through the curtained door,Like a fearful, shadowy spirit, whom a curse is hanging o’er.What! so soon from far Palermo?Has he left the feast of pride—Has he left the knightly tourneyFor the happy homeward journeyAnd the greeting of his bride?Coldly, darkly, in her bosom, the upspringing rapture died!With a glance of tender meaningOn the maid he softly smiled,And the answering smile, and tokenIn her glowing blushes spoken,Well betrayed the shepherd’s child!To her gaze, within the mirror, stood that picture dim and wild!Moved again the silken curtain,As he passed without a sound;Then the sunset’s fading emberDied within the lonely chamber,And the darkness gathered round,While in passion’s fierce delirium was the lady’s bosom bound.Threat’ning shadows seemed to gatherIn the twilight of the room,And the thoughts, vibrating changefulThrough her spirit, grew revengefulWith their whisperings of doom:Starting suddenly, she vanished far amid the deep’ning gloom.In the stillness of the forestFalls a timid, trembling gleam,With a ruby radiance sparklingOn the rill that ripples darklingThrough the thicket, like a dream:’Tis from out the secret chamber, where are met the Holy Vehm![3]Wizard rocks around the entranceDark and grim, like sentries, stand;And within the ghostly grottoSits the gloomy Baron Otto,Chieftain of the dreaded band,Who in darkness and in secret ruled Sicilia’s Sunny land.As in sable vestments shroudedSat the ministers of doom,Came a step by terror fleetened,And the dank, foul air was sweetenedWith the orange-buds’ perfume,And the starry eyes of jewels shone amid the sullen gloom!Then uprose the gloomy Otto—Sternly wrinkled was his brow;“Why this sudden, strange intrusionOn the Holy Vehm’s seclusion?Why thus wildly comest thou,Noble lady, claiming vengeance from the Brothers of the Vow?”“There is one among your orderWhom I dare to sue for aid:Will a brother’s dagger falter,When the bridegroom from the altarHath his bosom’s vow betrayed,And the princely bride is slighted for a low-born peasant maid?”Straight the summoned one departedOut into the starry air;Cold the silence seemed, and dreary,And the moments grew more weary,While the lady waited thereWith a deep, uncertain anguish, which her spirit scarce could bear.Mingled thoughts of love and vengeanceMadly battled in her brain;All her bosom’s passionate feelingStruggled with the dread revealing,Till her eyes o’ergushed in rain—Then anon they flashed and kindled, and her soul grew stern again!Once a sweet and happy visionNigh her fiery will had won—When the silver lamp of HesperTwinkled through the silent vesper,And their bosoms beat as one,Thrilling o’er with too much fervor, like a blossom in the sun.Olden words in music echoedThrough her heart’s forsaken bowers;But its buds of love were rifled,And the spirit voice was stifled,Which would tell of tender hours;Nevermore may second sunshine bid re-bloom its perished flowers!Still that dark foreboding lingeredOver all her pride and hate,Like a stifling mist, that everHangs above a burning riverWith its dull and stagnant weight:Slowly o’er the spectral Future crept the shadows of her fate!Now the eastern stars had mounted,And the midnight watch was o’er,When the long suspense was brokenBy a hasty watchword spoken,And a dark form passed the door.Blood was on his golden scabbard, and the sable robe he wore.“By this blade, most noble lady,Have I done thy will aright!”Then, upstarting from her languor,Cried she, in returning anger:“Where reposed the trait’rous knight?Didst thou tear him fromherclasping—strike him down before her sight?”“Nay, not so: in bright Palermo,Where the tourney’s torches shine—In the gardens of the palace,Did the green earth, from its chalice,Drink his bosom’s brightest wine,And the latest name that faltered on his dying lips, wasthine!”With a scream, as agonizingIn its horror and despair,As if life’s last hold were started,Ere the soul in torture parted,Stood she, pale and shuddering, there,With her face of marble lifted in the cavern’s noisome air.“God of Heaven! that fearful image,On the mirror’s surface thrown!Not Alberto, but a demon,Looked on her as on a leman,And the guilt is mine alone!Now that demon-shadow haunts me, and its curse is made my own!“See! its dead, cold eyes are glaringThrough the darkness, steadily;And it holds a cloudy mirror,Imaging that scene of terror,Which was bloody death tothee!Mocking now thy noble features, turns its fearful gaze on me!“And I see, beneath their seeming,How the demon features glow!Ghastly shadows rise before me,And the darkness gathers o’er me,With its never-ending wo—Now I feel, avenging spirits! how your spells of madness grow!”With a shriek, prolonged and painful,Through the wood she fled afar,Where the air was awed and fearful,And between the boughs the tearfulShining of a dewy starPierced alone the solid darkness which enclosed her as a bar.Night by night, in gloom and terror,From the crag and from the glenCame those cries, the quiet breaking,Till the shepherd-dogs, awaking,Bayed in loud and mournful pain,And the vintager, benighted, trembled on the distant plain.Years went by, and stranger footstepsRang in castle, bower and hall;Yet the shrieks, at midnight ringing,Spoke the curse upon it clinging,And they left it to its fall,And an utter desolation slowly settled over all.Still, when o’er the brow of EtnaLivid shades begin to roll,Tell the simple herdsmen, dauntedBy the twilight, terror-haunted,How she felt the fiend’s control,And they sign the cross in saying—“God in mercy keep her soul!”

Itwas sunset on the mountain,

It was twilight on the plain;

And the Night was slowly creeping,

Like a captive from his keeping,

Up the Fading East again,

Where on rosy shores of sunlight broke the surges of his main.

Where the orange branches mingledOn the sunny garden-side,In a rare and rich pavilionSat the beautiful Sicilian—Sat the Count Alberto’s bride,Musing sadly on his absence, in the balmy eveningtide.

Where the orange branches mingled

On the sunny garden-side,

In a rare and rich pavilion

Sat the beautiful Sicilian—

Sat the Count Alberto’s bride,

Musing sadly on his absence, in the balmy eveningtide.

Like a star, in ocean mirrored,Beamed her liquid, tender eye;But within her bearing queenly,Deepest passion slept serenelyAs the flame in summer’s sky,Which to fiercest being wakens, when we dream it least is nigh!

Like a star, in ocean mirrored,

Beamed her liquid, tender eye;

But within her bearing queenly,

Deepest passion slept serenely

As the flame in summer’s sky,

Which to fiercest being wakens, when we dream it least is nigh!

She had grown, in soul and beauty,Like her own delicious clime—With the warmth and radiance showeredOn its gardens, citron-bowered,And its winds that woo in rhyme:With its fiery tropic fervors, and its Etna-throes sublime!

She had grown, in soul and beauty,

Like her own delicious clime—

With the warmth and radiance showered

On its gardens, citron-bowered,

And its winds that woo in rhyme:

With its fiery tropic fervors, and its Etna-throes sublime!

Near her stood the fair Bianca,Once a shepherd’s humble child,Who with tender hand was twiningThrough her tresses, raven-shining,Pearls of lustre pure and mild;And the lady in the mirror saw their braided gleam, and smiled.

Near her stood the fair Bianca,

Once a shepherd’s humble child,

Who with tender hand was twining

Through her tresses, raven-shining,

Pearls of lustre pure and mild;

And the lady in the mirror saw their braided gleam, and smiled.

Falling over brow and bosom,Swept her dark and glossy hair;And the flash on Etna faded,As Bianca slowly braidedWith her fingers small and fair,While a deeper shadow gathered o’er the chamber’s scented air.

Falling over brow and bosom,

Swept her dark and glossy hair;

And the flash on Etna faded,

As Bianca slowly braided

With her fingers small and fair,

While a deeper shadow gathered o’er the chamber’s scented air.

On the jeweled mirror gazing,Spoke the lady not a word,When, within its picture certain,Slowly moved the silken curtain,Though the breezes had not stirred,And its faintly falling rustle on the marble was unheard.

On the jeweled mirror gazing,

Spoke the lady not a word,

When, within its picture certain,

Slowly moved the silken curtain,

Though the breezes had not stirred,

And its faintly falling rustle on the marble was unheard.

Breathless, o’er her tender musingCame a strange and sudden fear.With a nameless, chill foreboding,All her fiery spirit goading,Listened she with straining ear;Through the dusky laurel foliage, all was silent, far and near!

Breathless, o’er her tender musing

Came a strange and sudden fear.

With a nameless, chill foreboding,

All her fiery spirit goading,

Listened she with straining ear;

Through the dusky laurel foliage, all was silent, far and near!

Not a stealthy footfall soundedOn the tesselated floor;Yet she saw, with secret terror,Count Alberto, in the mirror,Stealing through the curtained door,Like a fearful, shadowy spirit, whom a curse is hanging o’er.

Not a stealthy footfall sounded

On the tesselated floor;

Yet she saw, with secret terror,

Count Alberto, in the mirror,

Stealing through the curtained door,

Like a fearful, shadowy spirit, whom a curse is hanging o’er.

What! so soon from far Palermo?Has he left the feast of pride—Has he left the knightly tourneyFor the happy homeward journeyAnd the greeting of his bride?Coldly, darkly, in her bosom, the upspringing rapture died!

What! so soon from far Palermo?

Has he left the feast of pride—

Has he left the knightly tourney

For the happy homeward journey

And the greeting of his bride?

Coldly, darkly, in her bosom, the upspringing rapture died!

With a glance of tender meaningOn the maid he softly smiled,And the answering smile, and tokenIn her glowing blushes spoken,Well betrayed the shepherd’s child!To her gaze, within the mirror, stood that picture dim and wild!

With a glance of tender meaning

On the maid he softly smiled,

And the answering smile, and token

In her glowing blushes spoken,

Well betrayed the shepherd’s child!

To her gaze, within the mirror, stood that picture dim and wild!

Moved again the silken curtain,As he passed without a sound;Then the sunset’s fading emberDied within the lonely chamber,And the darkness gathered round,While in passion’s fierce delirium was the lady’s bosom bound.

Moved again the silken curtain,

As he passed without a sound;

Then the sunset’s fading ember

Died within the lonely chamber,

And the darkness gathered round,

While in passion’s fierce delirium was the lady’s bosom bound.

Threat’ning shadows seemed to gatherIn the twilight of the room,And the thoughts, vibrating changefulThrough her spirit, grew revengefulWith their whisperings of doom:Starting suddenly, she vanished far amid the deep’ning gloom.

Threat’ning shadows seemed to gather

In the twilight of the room,

And the thoughts, vibrating changeful

Through her spirit, grew revengeful

With their whisperings of doom:

Starting suddenly, she vanished far amid the deep’ning gloom.

In the stillness of the forestFalls a timid, trembling gleam,With a ruby radiance sparklingOn the rill that ripples darklingThrough the thicket, like a dream:’Tis from out the secret chamber, where are met the Holy Vehm![3]

In the stillness of the forest

Falls a timid, trembling gleam,

With a ruby radiance sparkling

On the rill that ripples darkling

Through the thicket, like a dream:

’Tis from out the secret chamber, where are met the Holy Vehm![3]

Wizard rocks around the entranceDark and grim, like sentries, stand;And within the ghostly grottoSits the gloomy Baron Otto,Chieftain of the dreaded band,Who in darkness and in secret ruled Sicilia’s Sunny land.

Wizard rocks around the entrance

Dark and grim, like sentries, stand;

And within the ghostly grotto

Sits the gloomy Baron Otto,

Chieftain of the dreaded band,

Who in darkness and in secret ruled Sicilia’s Sunny land.

As in sable vestments shroudedSat the ministers of doom,Came a step by terror fleetened,And the dank, foul air was sweetenedWith the orange-buds’ perfume,And the starry eyes of jewels shone amid the sullen gloom!

As in sable vestments shrouded

Sat the ministers of doom,

Came a step by terror fleetened,

And the dank, foul air was sweetened

With the orange-buds’ perfume,

And the starry eyes of jewels shone amid the sullen gloom!

Then uprose the gloomy Otto—Sternly wrinkled was his brow;“Why this sudden, strange intrusionOn the Holy Vehm’s seclusion?Why thus wildly comest thou,Noble lady, claiming vengeance from the Brothers of the Vow?”

Then uprose the gloomy Otto—

Sternly wrinkled was his brow;

“Why this sudden, strange intrusion

On the Holy Vehm’s seclusion?

Why thus wildly comest thou,

Noble lady, claiming vengeance from the Brothers of the Vow?”

“There is one among your orderWhom I dare to sue for aid:Will a brother’s dagger falter,When the bridegroom from the altarHath his bosom’s vow betrayed,And the princely bride is slighted for a low-born peasant maid?”

“There is one among your order

Whom I dare to sue for aid:

Will a brother’s dagger falter,

When the bridegroom from the altar

Hath his bosom’s vow betrayed,

And the princely bride is slighted for a low-born peasant maid?”

Straight the summoned one departedOut into the starry air;Cold the silence seemed, and dreary,And the moments grew more weary,While the lady waited thereWith a deep, uncertain anguish, which her spirit scarce could bear.

Straight the summoned one departed

Out into the starry air;

Cold the silence seemed, and dreary,

And the moments grew more weary,

While the lady waited there

With a deep, uncertain anguish, which her spirit scarce could bear.

Mingled thoughts of love and vengeanceMadly battled in her brain;All her bosom’s passionate feelingStruggled with the dread revealing,Till her eyes o’ergushed in rain—Then anon they flashed and kindled, and her soul grew stern again!

Mingled thoughts of love and vengeance

Madly battled in her brain;

All her bosom’s passionate feeling

Struggled with the dread revealing,

Till her eyes o’ergushed in rain—

Then anon they flashed and kindled, and her soul grew stern again!

Once a sweet and happy visionNigh her fiery will had won—When the silver lamp of HesperTwinkled through the silent vesper,And their bosoms beat as one,Thrilling o’er with too much fervor, like a blossom in the sun.

Once a sweet and happy vision

Nigh her fiery will had won—

When the silver lamp of Hesper

Twinkled through the silent vesper,

And their bosoms beat as one,

Thrilling o’er with too much fervor, like a blossom in the sun.

Olden words in music echoedThrough her heart’s forsaken bowers;But its buds of love were rifled,And the spirit voice was stifled,Which would tell of tender hours;Nevermore may second sunshine bid re-bloom its perished flowers!

Olden words in music echoed

Through her heart’s forsaken bowers;

But its buds of love were rifled,

And the spirit voice was stifled,

Which would tell of tender hours;

Nevermore may second sunshine bid re-bloom its perished flowers!

Still that dark foreboding lingeredOver all her pride and hate,Like a stifling mist, that everHangs above a burning riverWith its dull and stagnant weight:Slowly o’er the spectral Future crept the shadows of her fate!

Still that dark foreboding lingered

Over all her pride and hate,

Like a stifling mist, that ever

Hangs above a burning river

With its dull and stagnant weight:

Slowly o’er the spectral Future crept the shadows of her fate!

Now the eastern stars had mounted,And the midnight watch was o’er,When the long suspense was brokenBy a hasty watchword spoken,And a dark form passed the door.Blood was on his golden scabbard, and the sable robe he wore.

Now the eastern stars had mounted,

And the midnight watch was o’er,

When the long suspense was broken

By a hasty watchword spoken,

And a dark form passed the door.

Blood was on his golden scabbard, and the sable robe he wore.

“By this blade, most noble lady,Have I done thy will aright!”Then, upstarting from her languor,Cried she, in returning anger:“Where reposed the trait’rous knight?Didst thou tear him fromherclasping—strike him down before her sight?”

“By this blade, most noble lady,

Have I done thy will aright!”

Then, upstarting from her languor,

Cried she, in returning anger:

“Where reposed the trait’rous knight?

Didst thou tear him fromherclasping—strike him down before her sight?”

“Nay, not so: in bright Palermo,Where the tourney’s torches shine—In the gardens of the palace,Did the green earth, from its chalice,Drink his bosom’s brightest wine,And the latest name that faltered on his dying lips, wasthine!”

“Nay, not so: in bright Palermo,

Where the tourney’s torches shine—

In the gardens of the palace,

Did the green earth, from its chalice,

Drink his bosom’s brightest wine,

And the latest name that faltered on his dying lips, wasthine!”

With a scream, as agonizingIn its horror and despair,As if life’s last hold were started,Ere the soul in torture parted,Stood she, pale and shuddering, there,With her face of marble lifted in the cavern’s noisome air.

With a scream, as agonizing

In its horror and despair,

As if life’s last hold were started,

Ere the soul in torture parted,

Stood she, pale and shuddering, there,

With her face of marble lifted in the cavern’s noisome air.

“God of Heaven! that fearful image,On the mirror’s surface thrown!Not Alberto, but a demon,Looked on her as on a leman,And the guilt is mine alone!Now that demon-shadow haunts me, and its curse is made my own!

“God of Heaven! that fearful image,

On the mirror’s surface thrown!

Not Alberto, but a demon,

Looked on her as on a leman,

And the guilt is mine alone!

Now that demon-shadow haunts me, and its curse is made my own!

“See! its dead, cold eyes are glaringThrough the darkness, steadily;And it holds a cloudy mirror,Imaging that scene of terror,Which was bloody death tothee!Mocking now thy noble features, turns its fearful gaze on me!

“See! its dead, cold eyes are glaring

Through the darkness, steadily;

And it holds a cloudy mirror,

Imaging that scene of terror,

Which was bloody death tothee!

Mocking now thy noble features, turns its fearful gaze on me!

“And I see, beneath their seeming,How the demon features glow!Ghastly shadows rise before me,And the darkness gathers o’er me,With its never-ending wo—Now I feel, avenging spirits! how your spells of madness grow!”

“And I see, beneath their seeming,

How the demon features glow!

Ghastly shadows rise before me,

And the darkness gathers o’er me,

With its never-ending wo—

Now I feel, avenging spirits! how your spells of madness grow!”

With a shriek, prolonged and painful,Through the wood she fled afar,Where the air was awed and fearful,And between the boughs the tearfulShining of a dewy starPierced alone the solid darkness which enclosed her as a bar.

With a shriek, prolonged and painful,

Through the wood she fled afar,

Where the air was awed and fearful,

And between the boughs the tearful

Shining of a dewy star

Pierced alone the solid darkness which enclosed her as a bar.

Night by night, in gloom and terror,From the crag and from the glenCame those cries, the quiet breaking,Till the shepherd-dogs, awaking,Bayed in loud and mournful pain,And the vintager, benighted, trembled on the distant plain.

Night by night, in gloom and terror,

From the crag and from the glen

Came those cries, the quiet breaking,

Till the shepherd-dogs, awaking,

Bayed in loud and mournful pain,

And the vintager, benighted, trembled on the distant plain.

Years went by, and stranger footstepsRang in castle, bower and hall;Yet the shrieks, at midnight ringing,Spoke the curse upon it clinging,And they left it to its fall,And an utter desolation slowly settled over all.

Years went by, and stranger footsteps

Rang in castle, bower and hall;

Yet the shrieks, at midnight ringing,

Spoke the curse upon it clinging,

And they left it to its fall,

And an utter desolation slowly settled over all.

Still, when o’er the brow of EtnaLivid shades begin to roll,Tell the simple herdsmen, dauntedBy the twilight, terror-haunted,How she felt the fiend’s control,And they sign the cross in saying—“God in mercy keep her soul!”

Still, when o’er the brow of Etna

Livid shades begin to roll,

Tell the simple herdsmen, daunted

By the twilight, terror-haunted,

How she felt the fiend’s control,

And they sign the cross in saying—“God in mercy keep her soul!”

[3]The author is aware that the name of the Holy Vehm—that dreaded order of the middle ages—belongs properly to Germany; but as its influence extended over Italy and Sicily, he has retained the title, and given a German name to the chieftain.

[3]

The author is aware that the name of the Holy Vehm—that dreaded order of the middle ages—belongs properly to Germany; but as its influence extended over Italy and Sicily, he has retained the title, and given a German name to the chieftain.

A NEW WAY TO COLLECT AN OLD DEBT.

———

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

———

Earlyin life Mr. Jenkins had been what is called unfortunate in business. Either from the want of right management, or from causes that he could not well control, he became involved, and was broken all to pieces. It was not enough that he gave up every dollar he possessed in the world. In the hope that friends would interfere to prevent his being sent to jail, some of his creditors pressed eagerly for the balance of their claims, and the unhappy debtor had no alternative but to avail himself of the statute made and provided for the benefit of individuals in his extremity. It was a sore trial for him; but any thing rather than to be thrown into prison.

After this tempest of trouble and excitement, there fell upon the spirits of Mr. Jenkins a great calm. He withdrew himself from public observation for a time, but his active mind would not let him remain long in obscurity. In a few months he was again in business, though in a small way. His efforts were more cautiously directed than before, and proved successful. He made something above his expenses during the first year, and after that accumulated money rapidly. In five or six years Mr. Jenkins was worth some nine or ten thousand dollars.

But with this prosperity came no disposition on the part of Mr. Jenkins to pay off his old obligations. “They used the law against me,” he would say, when the subject pressed itself upon his mind, as it would sometimes do, “and now let them get what the law will give them.”

There was a curious provision in the law by which Jenkins had been freed from all the claims of his creditors against him; and this provision is usually incorporated in all similar laws, though for what reason it is hard to tell. It is only necessary to promise to pay a claim thus annulled, to bring it in full force against the debtor. If a man owes another a hundred dollars, and by economy and self-denial succeeds in saving twenty dollars and paying it to him, he becomes at once liable for the remaining eighty dollars, unless the manner of doing it be very guarded, and is in danger of a prosecution, although unable to pay another cent. A prudent man, who has once been forced into the unhappy alternative of taking the benefit of the insolvent law, is always careful, lest, in an unguarded moment, he acknowledge his liability to some old creditor, before he is fully able to meet it. Anxious as he is to assure this one and that one of his desire and intention to pay them if ever in his power, and to say to them that he is struggling early and late for their sakes as well as his own, his lips must remain sealed. A word of his intentions and all his fond hopes of getting fairly on his feet again are in danger of shipwreck.

Understanding the binding force of a promise of this kind, made in writing, or in the presence of witnesses, certain of the more selfish or less manly and honorable class of creditors, are ever seeking to extort by fair or foul means, from an unfortunate debtor who has honestly given up every thing, an acknowledgment of his indebtedness to them, in order that they may reap the benefit of his first efforts to get upon his feet again. Many and many an honest but indiscreet debtor, has been thrown upon his back once more, from this cause, and all his hopes in life blasted forever. The means of approach to a debtor in this situation are many and various. “Do you think you will ever be able to do any thing on that old account?” blandly asked, in the presence of a third party, is answered by, “I hope so. But, at present, it takes every dollar I can earn for the support of my family.” This is sufficient—the whole claim is in full force. In the course of a month or two, perhaps in a less period, a sheriff’s writ is served, and the poor fellow’s furniture, or small stock in trade, is seized, and he broken all up again. To have replied—“You have no claim against me,” to the insidious question, seemed in the mind of the poor, but honest man, so much like a public confession that he was a rogue, that he could not do it. And yet this was his only right course, and he should have taken it firmly. Letters are often written, calling attention to the old matter, in which are well timed allusions to the debtor’s known integrity of character, and willingness to pay every dollar he owes in the world, if ever able. Such letters should never be answered, for the answer will be almost sure to contain something, that, in a court of justice, will be construed into an acknowledgment of the entire claim. In paying off old accounts that the law has canceled, which we think every man should do if in his power, the acknowledgment of indebtedness never need go further than the amount paid at any time. Beyond this, no creditor who does not wish to oppress, will ask a man to go. If any seek a further revival of the old claim, let the debtor beware of them; and also, let him be on his guard against him who, in any way, alludes either in writing or personally, to the previous indebtedness.

But we have digressed far enough. Mr. Jenkins, we are sorry to say, was not of that class of debtors who never consider an obligation morally canceled. The law once on his side, he fully made up his mind to keep it forever between him and all formertransactions. Sundry were the attempts made to get old claims against him revived, after it was clearly understood that he was getting to be worth money, but Jenkins was a rogue at least, and rogues are always more wary than honest men.

Among the creditors of Jenkins was a man named Gooding, who had loaned him five hundred dollars, and lost three hundred of it—two-fifths being all that was realized from the debtor’s effects. Gooding pitied sincerely the misfortunes of Jenkins, and pocketed his loss without saying a hard word, or laying the weight of a finger upon his already too heavily burdened shoulders. But it so happened that as Jenkins commenced going up in the world, Gooding began to go down. At the time when the former was clearly worth ten thousand dollars, he was hardly able to get money enough to pay his quarterly rent bills. Several times he thought of calling the attention of his old debtor to the balance still against him, which, as it was for borrowed money, ought certainly to be paid. But it was an unpleasant thing to remind a friend of an old obligation, and Gooding, for a time, chose to bear his troubles, as the least disagreeable of the two alternatives. At last, however, difficulties pressed so hard upon him, that he forced himself to the task.

Both he and Jenkins lived about three quarters of a mile distant from their places of business, in a little village beyond the suburbs of the city. Gooding was lame, and used to ride to and from his store in a small wagon, which was used for sending home goods during the day. Jenkins usually walked into town in the morning, and home in the evening. It not unfrequently happened that Gooding overtook the latter, while riding home after business hours, when he always invited him to take a seat by his side, which invitation was never declined.

They were riding home in this way one evening, when Gooding, after clearing his throat two or three times, said, with a slight faltering in his voice,

“I am sorry, neighbor Jenkins, to make any allusion to old matters, but as you are getting along very comfortably, and I am rather hard pressed, don’t you think you could do something for me on account of the three hundred dollars due for borrowed money? If it had been a regular business debt, I would never have said a word about it, but—”

“Neighbor Gooding,” said Jenkins, interrupting him, “don’t give yourself a moment’s uneasiness about that matter. It shall be paid, every dollar of it; but I am not able, just yet, to make it up for you. But you shall have it.”

This was said in the blandest way imaginable, yet in a tone of earnestness.

“How soon do you think you can do something for me?” asked Gooding.

“I don’t know. If not disappointed, however, I think I can spare you a little in a couple of months.”

“My rent is due on the first of October. If you can let me have, say fifty dollars, then, it will be a great accommodation.”

“I will see. If in my power, you shall certainly have at least that amount.”

Two months rolled round, and Gooding’s quarter day came. Nothing more had been said by Jenkins on the subject of the fifty dollars, and Gooding felt very reluctant about reminding him of his promise; but he was short in making up his rent, just the promised sum. He waited until late in the day, but Jenkins neither sent nor called. As the matter was pressing, he determined to drop in upon his neighbor, and remind him of what he had said. He accordingly went round to the store of Jenkins, and found him alone with his clerk.

“How are you to-day?” said Jenkins, smiling.

“Very well. How are you?”

“So—so.”

Then came a pause.

“Business rather dull,” remarked Jenkins.

“Very,” replied Gooding, with a serious face, and more serious tone of voice. “Nothing at all doing. I never saw business so flat in my life.”

“Flat enough.”

Another pause.

“Ahem! Mr. Jenkins,” began Gooding, after a few moments, “do you think you can do any thing for me to-day?”

“If there is any thing I can do for you, it shall be done with pleasure,” said Jenkins, in a cheerful way. “In what can I oblige you?”

“You remember, you said that in all probability you would be able to spare me as much as fifty dollars to-day?”

“Isaid so?” Jenkins asked this question with an appearance of real surprise.

“Yes. Don’t you remember that we were riding home one evening, about two months ago, and I called your attention to the old account standing between us, and you promised to pay it soon, and said you thought you could spare me fifty dollars about the time my quarter’s rent became due?”

“Upon my word, friend Gooding, I have no recollection of the circumstance whatever,” replied Jenkins, with a smile. “It must have been some one else with whom you were riding. I never said I owed you any thing, or promised to pay you fifty dollars about this time.”

“Oh yes! but I am sure you did.”

“And I am just as sure that I did not,” returned Jenkins, still perfectly undisturbed, while Gooding, as might be supposed, felt his indignation just ready to boil over. But the latter controlled himself as best he could; and as soon as he could get away from the store of Jenkins, without doing so in a manner that would tend to close all intercourse between them, he left and returned to his own place of business, chagrined and angry.

On the same evening, as Gooding was riding home, he saw Jenkins ahead of him on the road. He soon overtook him. Jenkins turned his usual smiling face upon his old creditor, and said “Good evening,” in his usual friendly way. The invitationto get up and ride, that always was given on like occasions, was extended again, and in a few moments the two men were riding along side by side, as friendly, to all appearance, as if nothing had happened.

“Jenkins, how could you serve me such a scaly trick as you did?” Gooding said, soon after his neighbor had taken a seat by his side. “You know very well that you promised to pay my claim; and also promised to give me fifty dollars of it to-day, if possible.”

“I know I did. But it was out of my power to let you have any thing to-day,” replied Jenkins.

“But what was the use of your denying it, and making me out a liar or a fool in the presence of your clerk?”

“I had a very good reason for doing so. My clerk would have been a witness to my acknowledgment of your whole claim against me, and thus make me liable before I was ready to pay it. As my head is fairly clear of the halter, you cannot blame me for wishing to keep it so. A burnt child, you know, dreads the fire.”

“But you know me well enough to know that I never would have pressed the claim against you.”

“Friend Gooding, I have seen enough of the world to satisfy me that we don’t know any one. I am very ready to say to you, that your claim shall be satisfied to the full extent, whenever it is in my power to do so; but alegalacknowledgment of the claim I am not willing to make. You mustn’t think hard of me for what I did to-day. I could not, in justice to myself, have done any thing else.”

Gooding professed to be fully satisfied with this explanation, although he was not. He was very well assured that Jenkins was perfectly able to pay him the three hundred dollars if he chose to do so, and that his refusal to let him have the fifty dollars, conditionally promised, was a dishonest act.

More than a year passed, during which time Gooding made many fruitless attempts to get something out of Jenkins, who was always on the best terms with him, but put him off with fair promises, that were never kept. These promises were never made in the presence of a third person, and might, therefore, have just as well been made to the wind, so far as their binding force was concerned. Things grew worse and worse with Gooding, and he became poorer every day, while the condition of Jenkins as steadily improved.

One rainy afternoon, Gooding drove up to the store of his old friend, about half an hour earlier than he usually left for home. Jenkins was standing in the door.

“As it is raining, I thought I would call round for you,” he said, as he drew up his horse.

“Very much obliged to you, indeed,” returned Jenkins, quite well pleased. “Stop a moment until I lock up my desk, and then I will be with you.”

In a minute or two Jenkins came out, and stepped lightly into the wagon.

“It is kind in you, really, to call for me,” he said, as the wagon moved briskly away. “I was just thinking that I should have to get a carriage.”

“It is no trouble to me at all,” returned Gooding, “and if it were, the pleasure of doing a friend a kindness would fully repay it.”

“You smell strong of whisky here,” said Jenkins, after they had ridden a little way, turning his eyes toward the back part of the wagon as he spoke. “What have you here?”

“An empty whisky hogshead. This rain put me in mind of doing what my wife has been teasing me to do for the last six months—get her a rain barrel. I tried to get an old oil cask, but couldn’t find one. They make the best rain barrels. Just burn them out with a flash of good dry shavings, and they are clear from all oily impurities, and tight as a drum.”

“Indeed! I never thought that. I must look out for one, for our old rain hogshead is about tumbling to pieces.”

From rain barrels the conversation turned upon business, and at length Gooding brought up the old story, and urged the settlement of his claim as a matter of charity.

“You don’t know how much I need it,” he said. “Necessity alone compels me to press the claim upon your attention.”

“It is hard, I know, and I am very sorry for you,” Jenkins replied. “Next week I will certainly pay you fifty dollars.”

“I shall be very thankful. How soon after do you think you will be able to let me have the balance of the three hundred due me? Say as early as possible.”

“Within three months, at least, I hope,” replied Jenkins.

“Harry! Do you hear that?” said Gooding, turning his head toward the back part of the wagon, and speaking in a quick elated manner.

“Oh, aye!” came ringing from the bung-hole of the whisky hogshead.

“Who the dickens is that?” exclaimed Jenkins, turning quickly round.

“No one,” replied Gooding, with a quiet smile, “but my clerk, Harry Williams.”

“Where?”

“Here,” replied the individual named, pushing himself up through the loose head of the upright hogshead, and looking into the face of the discomfited Jenkins, with a broad smile of satisfaction upon his always humorous phiz.

“Whoa, Charley,” said Gooding, at this moment reigning up his horse before the house of Jenkins.

The latter stepped out, with his eyes upon the ground, and stood with his hand upon the wagon in thought for some moments; then looking up, he said, while the humor of the whole thing pressed itself so fully upon him, that he could not help smiling.

“See here, Gooding, if both you and Harry will promise me never to say a word about this confoundedtrick, I will give you a check for three hundred dollars on the spot.”

“No, I must have four hundred and twenty-six dollars, the principal and interest. Nothing less,” returned Gooding firmly. “You have acknowledged the debt in the presence of Mr. Williams, and if it is not paid by to-morrow twelve o’clock, I shall commence suit against you. If I receive the money before that time we will keep this little matter quiet; if suit is brought, all will come out on the trial.”

“As you please,” said Jenkins angrily, turning away and entering his house.

Before twelve o’clock on the next day, however, Jenkins’ clerk called in at the store of Gooding, and paid him four hundred and twenty-six dollars, for which he took his receipt in full for all demands to date. The two men were never afterward on terms of sufficient intimacy to ride in the same wagon together. Whether Gooding and his clerk kept the matter a secret, as they promised, we don’t know. It is very certain, that it was known all over town in less than a week, and soon after was told in the newspapers as a most capital joke.

THE LIFTED VEIL.

———

BY MISS H. E. GRANNIS.

———

A voiceof music, borne by fragrant gales,And echoing softly to the dimpled waves,Stole from the bosom of Hesperia’s vales,Whose jeweled sands the flashing water laves,’Mid shadowy banks, and bright enchanted isles,And fairy bowers, where joys own summer smiles.Sweet as a spirit’s song it rose and fellOn the rich air, o’erburdened with perfume;Each varying cadence, or voluptuous swell,Far-breathing o’er one wilderness of bloom,Through princely gardens ne’er by mortal drest,Amid the broad savannas of the west.A bark was gliding down the silvery streamThat claims its birth from far Itasca’s fount,And bids its waves o’er many a valley gleam,And join the well-springs of full many a mount,Till, proud, at length, Columbia’s wealth to drain,It sweeps, deep-freighted, to the Mexican main.About that vessel’s prow the foam-wreaths hung,And pearls were glancing in her wake behind;Fair silken curtains from her casements swung,And banners wooed aloft the balmy wind;And where rich lamps ’mid graceful arches gleamedO’er gilded walls, the gorgeous sunlight streamed.The turtle dove had hushed her plain on shore, —The whirring locusts of the woods were still —The listening willows leaned the waters o’er —While drooped the blue-eyed hare-bell with a thrillThrough all its filmy foliage, at the soundThat earth and wave in fond enchantment bound.Within that bark, where flowed the golden lightO’er velvet cushions, ’mid th’ enameled flowers,Flowed, mingling with those beams, the tresses brightFrom a fair brow of girlhood, where the hoursOf earthly life had not o’erhung the blissOf heaven’s existence with the clouds of this.Her hand, scarce resting from the strings it swept,Lay on a harp whose chords yet felt its thrill,And fain had breathed the strains that in them slept;And her half-parted lips were tremulous still,As on them lingered, fluttering to depart,Th’ unuttered burden of a gushing heart,The voiceful murmur of the waves below —The airs of balm that whispered through the leaves —The trill of fountains in their dazzling flow —The soul-born song the bright-winged wild bird weaves,The various tones of teeming nature, rifeWith the warm bliss of heaven-imparted life.Glimpses of cities through far vistas seen —Flashes of light from garden, bower and shrine —All forms and sounds of loveliness had beenTo eye and ear as messengers divine;And, to each glorious sight, and joyous tone,Answered a breathing melody of her own.But now her voice was hushed, and all unheardThe many tones that roused it; for a strainOf richer song her spirit’s depths had stirred;As if some angel harp that there had lain,Untouched as yet, were thrilled in every chord,And o’er her soul its wealth of music poured.We all have felt such wakenings; in our hearts’Deep treasure cells is many a gift from Heaven,To the commissioned spirit, ere it startsUpon earth’s pilgrimage, by seraph’s given,To cheer life’s shadows, and illume its shrine.With fadeless tokens of our birth divine.Sealed and forgot they lie, till some blest gleam,Or sacred note steal down those seals to break —As roses, kissed to life by day’s fond beam,Thrilled with the sense of their own beauty wake;Or hidden streams burst forth from earth’s dark caves,Wild at the brightness of their own sweet waves —So gush they o’er the soul; at gems so rareWe startle, wondering at their loveliness,But, of our heritage still unaware,We wist not whence those sights and sounds of bliss;And lightly recking of their priceless worth,Let the seals close, and bind our thoughts to earth.O, we might watch, for aye, the fountains brightOf Paradise; or list the moving strainsOf Eden’s harps; or revel in the lightOf gems that glisten on celestial plains,Did we but bend more anxious ear and eye,And learn to ope the heart-cells where they lie.Yet Eva listened; for her steps had trod,Fearless of clouds that rose her pathway o’er,Closer than some do to the walks of God;And, in her own warm heart, she ever boreA flowing urn, from whence a balm was shedO’er sorrows wounds, where’er her footsteps led.There had arisen from all created thingsAn anthem and an incense, and they came,Rousing in her own breast those hidden springs,With a mysterious power, that she might nameFragrance, or motion, beauty, light, or tone —So seemed each exquisite sense to blend in one.“O, life is bliss!” she murmured. “Let each breathRise with a warm thank-offering from my heartTo Him who gave it; the blue heavens beneath,All things a brightness and a joy impart;And earth’s harmonious melodies have beenRivaled but by the voice they wake within.“The skies bend fondly o’er me; the pure airSteals to my temples with a holy kiss;The bright stars watch me with a kindly care;And flowers, and streams, and birds, and winds expressTheir mingled joy, around, beneath, above,In tones whose chorus and whose freight is Love.“Love! Life’s gemmed key-stone! being’s single source!Creative power, that makes all creatures one —That speeds the rivers in their onward course,To bless the valleys that they gleam upon —That bids the fond birds woo the answering flowers,And dallying breezes kiss the leafy bowers.“They tell us of the shadow and the thorn,And care and grief—and, though the pearly dewsOf life’s young matin still my feet adorn,Ihave found thorns—the guardians of the roseI plucked unharmed—and at their terrors laughed,So light a touch could blunt the barbéd shaft.“Free potions have I drank of being’s cup,And found no bitterness; the sparkling tideHath grown but brighter as I quaffed it up,And if rank weeds have sprung its rim beside,Or serpents risen, its drops contain a spellTo blast the weed, or crush the monster fell.“Yet one thing lack I. I have sought the flowOf kindly sympathies, and vainly sought —Though human hearts are with me here belowTo which my own hath called, they answer not:Kind tones I’ve met, fond eyes have round me shone,But my soul’s holiest founts have gushed alone.“Fair, dove-eyed children at my feet have lainTheir young affections, as an offering pure;And when I wipe the clammy brow of painPale lips will bless me: gentle smiles may lureThe gay or sad around me; and I’ve yearnedTo breathe to them the speech my heart had learned —“The mystic speech of nature; but it seemedAs a strange language to them: Marble sealedTheir lips were, to the founts that ’neath them gleamed,And their cold, icy eyes have half congealedThe glowing tide that, in my heart, I feltStill struggling forth to bid those ice bonds melt.“Yet know I that man’s soul, born of the lightOf heavenly mansions, still must be divine;Perhaps I have not learned its language right,Or found the key that opes its holiest shrine,And they may deem my soul hath lost the gemWhose kindling rays I vainly sought from them.“But there’s a hollow seeming in their mirthThat chimes not with the joy my bosom feels;And the glad music of the teeming earth,From breasts that men call soulless, o’er me stealsWith more of sympathy than hath been givenBy those who claim the heritage of heaven.“Still hath my life led down a vale of Eden;Where mystic foot-prints marked the dewy sod;As if some angel’s steps had near me trodden,Bearing blest gifts from ’neath the throne of God;And low, sweet tones oft sooth me while I sleep,From the kind spirits that my vigils keep,“Like to the strain that now around me lingers,Roused, in my breast, from some long hidden string;While choirs of air-harps, swept by seraphs’ fingers,Upon my listening ear responsive ring —Lo! my eyes catch the flash of glancing wings,And half seen visions of all glorious things.”Half seen no longer—from the sky were rolledIts azure curtains, and a fragrant lightStole down, o’er glittering walks of gems and gold —The veil was lifted from her mortal sight,And one beside her stood, of air and mienFamiliar, like the forms our dreams have seen.“Mine own I claim thee; thou at length hast heardAnd known the voice with which I wooed thee first,In life’s young morn. Though oft thy soul hath stirred,Echoing the strains that from my lyre have burst,Still too forgetful of the world of bliss,Thou didst but hear them as the tones of this.“Though thy young heart had found no answering toneTo its o’erflowing gladness, knewest thou notThat Heaven ne’er sends commissioned souls alone,To bear the darkness of their earthly lot,But each frail pilgrim of the thorny land,Moves earthward with its kindred hand in hand?“Through Eden’s vales we had together trod,And quaffed its streams, before the mandate cameTo rear us temples of this earthly clod,And win from dull mortality the claimTo richer coronals; and with the flowOf mingled hearts we sought our homes below.“But we were severed, from terrestrial bowersThe angels called me early; yet was mineThe sweetest task, to watch thy path of flowers,And yield thee visions of a land divine;And even the veil that hid my form from theeOped the sealed fountains of thy heart to me.“I have been with thee still—at eventideFanning thy temples till thy soul was free,While the clay slept, to wander at my side;And to its bonds at dawn restoring thee,A child of earth, till, for a holier shrine,Thy wings at length are fledged, and thou art mine.”Thus spake the spirit, and the veil of light,That round him hung, o’er Eva’s form was cast:The bark that bore her, ne’er to mortal sightCame up the stream from whence its keel had passed.They watched her from the shore-girt river glide,And float far westward o’er the boundless tide:And where the wave is mingled with the sky,In the bright pathway of the dying day,’Mid clouds too luminous for human eye,She seemed to vanish on her airy way;While earth’s fair flowers, and ocean’s pearly shell,Breathed a low answer to some fond farewell.

A voiceof music, borne by fragrant gales,

And echoing softly to the dimpled waves,

Stole from the bosom of Hesperia’s vales,

Whose jeweled sands the flashing water laves,

’Mid shadowy banks, and bright enchanted isles,

And fairy bowers, where joys own summer smiles.

Sweet as a spirit’s song it rose and fellOn the rich air, o’erburdened with perfume;Each varying cadence, or voluptuous swell,Far-breathing o’er one wilderness of bloom,Through princely gardens ne’er by mortal drest,Amid the broad savannas of the west.

Sweet as a spirit’s song it rose and fell

On the rich air, o’erburdened with perfume;

Each varying cadence, or voluptuous swell,

Far-breathing o’er one wilderness of bloom,

Through princely gardens ne’er by mortal drest,

Amid the broad savannas of the west.

A bark was gliding down the silvery streamThat claims its birth from far Itasca’s fount,And bids its waves o’er many a valley gleam,And join the well-springs of full many a mount,Till, proud, at length, Columbia’s wealth to drain,It sweeps, deep-freighted, to the Mexican main.

A bark was gliding down the silvery stream

That claims its birth from far Itasca’s fount,

And bids its waves o’er many a valley gleam,

And join the well-springs of full many a mount,

Till, proud, at length, Columbia’s wealth to drain,

It sweeps, deep-freighted, to the Mexican main.

About that vessel’s prow the foam-wreaths hung,And pearls were glancing in her wake behind;Fair silken curtains from her casements swung,And banners wooed aloft the balmy wind;And where rich lamps ’mid graceful arches gleamedO’er gilded walls, the gorgeous sunlight streamed.

About that vessel’s prow the foam-wreaths hung,

And pearls were glancing in her wake behind;

Fair silken curtains from her casements swung,

And banners wooed aloft the balmy wind;

And where rich lamps ’mid graceful arches gleamed

O’er gilded walls, the gorgeous sunlight streamed.

The turtle dove had hushed her plain on shore, —The whirring locusts of the woods were still —The listening willows leaned the waters o’er —While drooped the blue-eyed hare-bell with a thrillThrough all its filmy foliage, at the soundThat earth and wave in fond enchantment bound.

The turtle dove had hushed her plain on shore, —

The whirring locusts of the woods were still —

The listening willows leaned the waters o’er —

While drooped the blue-eyed hare-bell with a thrill

Through all its filmy foliage, at the sound

That earth and wave in fond enchantment bound.

Within that bark, where flowed the golden lightO’er velvet cushions, ’mid th’ enameled flowers,Flowed, mingling with those beams, the tresses brightFrom a fair brow of girlhood, where the hoursOf earthly life had not o’erhung the blissOf heaven’s existence with the clouds of this.

Within that bark, where flowed the golden light

O’er velvet cushions, ’mid th’ enameled flowers,

Flowed, mingling with those beams, the tresses bright

From a fair brow of girlhood, where the hours

Of earthly life had not o’erhung the bliss

Of heaven’s existence with the clouds of this.

Her hand, scarce resting from the strings it swept,Lay on a harp whose chords yet felt its thrill,And fain had breathed the strains that in them slept;And her half-parted lips were tremulous still,As on them lingered, fluttering to depart,Th’ unuttered burden of a gushing heart,

Her hand, scarce resting from the strings it swept,

Lay on a harp whose chords yet felt its thrill,

And fain had breathed the strains that in them slept;

And her half-parted lips were tremulous still,

As on them lingered, fluttering to depart,

Th’ unuttered burden of a gushing heart,

The voiceful murmur of the waves below —The airs of balm that whispered through the leaves —The trill of fountains in their dazzling flow —The soul-born song the bright-winged wild bird weaves,The various tones of teeming nature, rifeWith the warm bliss of heaven-imparted life.

The voiceful murmur of the waves below —

The airs of balm that whispered through the leaves —

The trill of fountains in their dazzling flow —

The soul-born song the bright-winged wild bird weaves,

The various tones of teeming nature, rife

With the warm bliss of heaven-imparted life.

Glimpses of cities through far vistas seen —Flashes of light from garden, bower and shrine —All forms and sounds of loveliness had beenTo eye and ear as messengers divine;And, to each glorious sight, and joyous tone,Answered a breathing melody of her own.

Glimpses of cities through far vistas seen —

Flashes of light from garden, bower and shrine —

All forms and sounds of loveliness had been

To eye and ear as messengers divine;

And, to each glorious sight, and joyous tone,

Answered a breathing melody of her own.

But now her voice was hushed, and all unheardThe many tones that roused it; for a strainOf richer song her spirit’s depths had stirred;As if some angel harp that there had lain,Untouched as yet, were thrilled in every chord,And o’er her soul its wealth of music poured.

But now her voice was hushed, and all unheard

The many tones that roused it; for a strain

Of richer song her spirit’s depths had stirred;

As if some angel harp that there had lain,

Untouched as yet, were thrilled in every chord,

And o’er her soul its wealth of music poured.

We all have felt such wakenings; in our hearts’Deep treasure cells is many a gift from Heaven,To the commissioned spirit, ere it startsUpon earth’s pilgrimage, by seraph’s given,To cheer life’s shadows, and illume its shrine.With fadeless tokens of our birth divine.

We all have felt such wakenings; in our hearts’

Deep treasure cells is many a gift from Heaven,

To the commissioned spirit, ere it starts

Upon earth’s pilgrimage, by seraph’s given,

To cheer life’s shadows, and illume its shrine.

With fadeless tokens of our birth divine.

Sealed and forgot they lie, till some blest gleam,Or sacred note steal down those seals to break —As roses, kissed to life by day’s fond beam,Thrilled with the sense of their own beauty wake;Or hidden streams burst forth from earth’s dark caves,Wild at the brightness of their own sweet waves —

Sealed and forgot they lie, till some blest gleam,

Or sacred note steal down those seals to break —

As roses, kissed to life by day’s fond beam,

Thrilled with the sense of their own beauty wake;

Or hidden streams burst forth from earth’s dark caves,

Wild at the brightness of their own sweet waves —

So gush they o’er the soul; at gems so rareWe startle, wondering at their loveliness,But, of our heritage still unaware,We wist not whence those sights and sounds of bliss;And lightly recking of their priceless worth,Let the seals close, and bind our thoughts to earth.

So gush they o’er the soul; at gems so rare

We startle, wondering at their loveliness,

But, of our heritage still unaware,

We wist not whence those sights and sounds of bliss;

And lightly recking of their priceless worth,

Let the seals close, and bind our thoughts to earth.

O, we might watch, for aye, the fountains brightOf Paradise; or list the moving strainsOf Eden’s harps; or revel in the lightOf gems that glisten on celestial plains,Did we but bend more anxious ear and eye,And learn to ope the heart-cells where they lie.

O, we might watch, for aye, the fountains bright

Of Paradise; or list the moving strains

Of Eden’s harps; or revel in the light

Of gems that glisten on celestial plains,

Did we but bend more anxious ear and eye,

And learn to ope the heart-cells where they lie.

Yet Eva listened; for her steps had trod,Fearless of clouds that rose her pathway o’er,Closer than some do to the walks of God;And, in her own warm heart, she ever boreA flowing urn, from whence a balm was shedO’er sorrows wounds, where’er her footsteps led.

Yet Eva listened; for her steps had trod,

Fearless of clouds that rose her pathway o’er,

Closer than some do to the walks of God;

And, in her own warm heart, she ever bore

A flowing urn, from whence a balm was shed

O’er sorrows wounds, where’er her footsteps led.

There had arisen from all created thingsAn anthem and an incense, and they came,Rousing in her own breast those hidden springs,With a mysterious power, that she might nameFragrance, or motion, beauty, light, or tone —So seemed each exquisite sense to blend in one.

There had arisen from all created things

An anthem and an incense, and they came,

Rousing in her own breast those hidden springs,

With a mysterious power, that she might name

Fragrance, or motion, beauty, light, or tone —

So seemed each exquisite sense to blend in one.

“O, life is bliss!” she murmured. “Let each breathRise with a warm thank-offering from my heartTo Him who gave it; the blue heavens beneath,All things a brightness and a joy impart;And earth’s harmonious melodies have beenRivaled but by the voice they wake within.

“O, life is bliss!” she murmured. “Let each breath

Rise with a warm thank-offering from my heart

To Him who gave it; the blue heavens beneath,

All things a brightness and a joy impart;

And earth’s harmonious melodies have been

Rivaled but by the voice they wake within.

“The skies bend fondly o’er me; the pure airSteals to my temples with a holy kiss;The bright stars watch me with a kindly care;And flowers, and streams, and birds, and winds expressTheir mingled joy, around, beneath, above,In tones whose chorus and whose freight is Love.

“The skies bend fondly o’er me; the pure air

Steals to my temples with a holy kiss;

The bright stars watch me with a kindly care;

And flowers, and streams, and birds, and winds express

Their mingled joy, around, beneath, above,

In tones whose chorus and whose freight is Love.

“Love! Life’s gemmed key-stone! being’s single source!Creative power, that makes all creatures one —That speeds the rivers in their onward course,To bless the valleys that they gleam upon —That bids the fond birds woo the answering flowers,And dallying breezes kiss the leafy bowers.

“Love! Life’s gemmed key-stone! being’s single source!

Creative power, that makes all creatures one —

That speeds the rivers in their onward course,

To bless the valleys that they gleam upon —

That bids the fond birds woo the answering flowers,

And dallying breezes kiss the leafy bowers.

“They tell us of the shadow and the thorn,And care and grief—and, though the pearly dewsOf life’s young matin still my feet adorn,Ihave found thorns—the guardians of the roseI plucked unharmed—and at their terrors laughed,So light a touch could blunt the barbéd shaft.

“They tell us of the shadow and the thorn,

And care and grief—and, though the pearly dews

Of life’s young matin still my feet adorn,

Ihave found thorns—the guardians of the rose

I plucked unharmed—and at their terrors laughed,

So light a touch could blunt the barbéd shaft.

“Free potions have I drank of being’s cup,And found no bitterness; the sparkling tideHath grown but brighter as I quaffed it up,And if rank weeds have sprung its rim beside,Or serpents risen, its drops contain a spellTo blast the weed, or crush the monster fell.

“Free potions have I drank of being’s cup,

And found no bitterness; the sparkling tide

Hath grown but brighter as I quaffed it up,

And if rank weeds have sprung its rim beside,

Or serpents risen, its drops contain a spell

To blast the weed, or crush the monster fell.

“Yet one thing lack I. I have sought the flowOf kindly sympathies, and vainly sought —Though human hearts are with me here belowTo which my own hath called, they answer not:Kind tones I’ve met, fond eyes have round me shone,But my soul’s holiest founts have gushed alone.

“Yet one thing lack I. I have sought the flow

Of kindly sympathies, and vainly sought —

Though human hearts are with me here below

To which my own hath called, they answer not:

Kind tones I’ve met, fond eyes have round me shone,

But my soul’s holiest founts have gushed alone.

“Fair, dove-eyed children at my feet have lainTheir young affections, as an offering pure;And when I wipe the clammy brow of painPale lips will bless me: gentle smiles may lureThe gay or sad around me; and I’ve yearnedTo breathe to them the speech my heart had learned —

“Fair, dove-eyed children at my feet have lain

Their young affections, as an offering pure;

And when I wipe the clammy brow of pain

Pale lips will bless me: gentle smiles may lure

The gay or sad around me; and I’ve yearned

To breathe to them the speech my heart had learned —

“The mystic speech of nature; but it seemedAs a strange language to them: Marble sealedTheir lips were, to the founts that ’neath them gleamed,And their cold, icy eyes have half congealedThe glowing tide that, in my heart, I feltStill struggling forth to bid those ice bonds melt.

“The mystic speech of nature; but it seemed

As a strange language to them: Marble sealed

Their lips were, to the founts that ’neath them gleamed,

And their cold, icy eyes have half congealed

The glowing tide that, in my heart, I felt

Still struggling forth to bid those ice bonds melt.

“Yet know I that man’s soul, born of the lightOf heavenly mansions, still must be divine;Perhaps I have not learned its language right,Or found the key that opes its holiest shrine,And they may deem my soul hath lost the gemWhose kindling rays I vainly sought from them.

“Yet know I that man’s soul, born of the light

Of heavenly mansions, still must be divine;

Perhaps I have not learned its language right,

Or found the key that opes its holiest shrine,

And they may deem my soul hath lost the gem

Whose kindling rays I vainly sought from them.

“But there’s a hollow seeming in their mirthThat chimes not with the joy my bosom feels;And the glad music of the teeming earth,From breasts that men call soulless, o’er me stealsWith more of sympathy than hath been givenBy those who claim the heritage of heaven.

“But there’s a hollow seeming in their mirth

That chimes not with the joy my bosom feels;

And the glad music of the teeming earth,

From breasts that men call soulless, o’er me steals

With more of sympathy than hath been given

By those who claim the heritage of heaven.

“Still hath my life led down a vale of Eden;Where mystic foot-prints marked the dewy sod;As if some angel’s steps had near me trodden,Bearing blest gifts from ’neath the throne of God;And low, sweet tones oft sooth me while I sleep,From the kind spirits that my vigils keep,

“Still hath my life led down a vale of Eden;

Where mystic foot-prints marked the dewy sod;

As if some angel’s steps had near me trodden,

Bearing blest gifts from ’neath the throne of God;

And low, sweet tones oft sooth me while I sleep,

From the kind spirits that my vigils keep,

“Like to the strain that now around me lingers,Roused, in my breast, from some long hidden string;While choirs of air-harps, swept by seraphs’ fingers,Upon my listening ear responsive ring —Lo! my eyes catch the flash of glancing wings,And half seen visions of all glorious things.”

“Like to the strain that now around me lingers,

Roused, in my breast, from some long hidden string;

While choirs of air-harps, swept by seraphs’ fingers,

Upon my listening ear responsive ring —

Lo! my eyes catch the flash of glancing wings,

And half seen visions of all glorious things.”

Half seen no longer—from the sky were rolledIts azure curtains, and a fragrant lightStole down, o’er glittering walks of gems and gold —The veil was lifted from her mortal sight,And one beside her stood, of air and mienFamiliar, like the forms our dreams have seen.

Half seen no longer—from the sky were rolled

Its azure curtains, and a fragrant light

Stole down, o’er glittering walks of gems and gold —

The veil was lifted from her mortal sight,

And one beside her stood, of air and mien

Familiar, like the forms our dreams have seen.

“Mine own I claim thee; thou at length hast heardAnd known the voice with which I wooed thee first,In life’s young morn. Though oft thy soul hath stirred,Echoing the strains that from my lyre have burst,Still too forgetful of the world of bliss,Thou didst but hear them as the tones of this.

“Mine own I claim thee; thou at length hast heard

And known the voice with which I wooed thee first,

In life’s young morn. Though oft thy soul hath stirred,

Echoing the strains that from my lyre have burst,

Still too forgetful of the world of bliss,

Thou didst but hear them as the tones of this.

“Though thy young heart had found no answering toneTo its o’erflowing gladness, knewest thou notThat Heaven ne’er sends commissioned souls alone,To bear the darkness of their earthly lot,But each frail pilgrim of the thorny land,Moves earthward with its kindred hand in hand?

“Though thy young heart had found no answering tone

To its o’erflowing gladness, knewest thou not

That Heaven ne’er sends commissioned souls alone,

To bear the darkness of their earthly lot,

But each frail pilgrim of the thorny land,

Moves earthward with its kindred hand in hand?

“Through Eden’s vales we had together trod,And quaffed its streams, before the mandate cameTo rear us temples of this earthly clod,And win from dull mortality the claimTo richer coronals; and with the flowOf mingled hearts we sought our homes below.

“Through Eden’s vales we had together trod,

And quaffed its streams, before the mandate came

To rear us temples of this earthly clod,

And win from dull mortality the claim

To richer coronals; and with the flow

Of mingled hearts we sought our homes below.

“But we were severed, from terrestrial bowersThe angels called me early; yet was mineThe sweetest task, to watch thy path of flowers,And yield thee visions of a land divine;And even the veil that hid my form from theeOped the sealed fountains of thy heart to me.

“But we were severed, from terrestrial bowers

The angels called me early; yet was mine

The sweetest task, to watch thy path of flowers,

And yield thee visions of a land divine;

And even the veil that hid my form from thee

Oped the sealed fountains of thy heart to me.

“I have been with thee still—at eventideFanning thy temples till thy soul was free,While the clay slept, to wander at my side;And to its bonds at dawn restoring thee,A child of earth, till, for a holier shrine,Thy wings at length are fledged, and thou art mine.”

“I have been with thee still—at eventide

Fanning thy temples till thy soul was free,

While the clay slept, to wander at my side;

And to its bonds at dawn restoring thee,

A child of earth, till, for a holier shrine,

Thy wings at length are fledged, and thou art mine.”

Thus spake the spirit, and the veil of light,That round him hung, o’er Eva’s form was cast:The bark that bore her, ne’er to mortal sightCame up the stream from whence its keel had passed.They watched her from the shore-girt river glide,And float far westward o’er the boundless tide:

Thus spake the spirit, and the veil of light,

That round him hung, o’er Eva’s form was cast:

The bark that bore her, ne’er to mortal sight

Came up the stream from whence its keel had passed.

They watched her from the shore-girt river glide,

And float far westward o’er the boundless tide:

And where the wave is mingled with the sky,In the bright pathway of the dying day,’Mid clouds too luminous for human eye,She seemed to vanish on her airy way;While earth’s fair flowers, and ocean’s pearly shell,Breathed a low answer to some fond farewell.

And where the wave is mingled with the sky,

In the bright pathway of the dying day,

’Mid clouds too luminous for human eye,

She seemed to vanish on her airy way;

While earth’s fair flowers, and ocean’s pearly shell,

Breathed a low answer to some fond farewell.

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