[When the wind abated and the vessels were near enough, the admiral was seen constantly sitting in the stern, with a book in his hand. On the 9th of September he was seen for the last time, and was heard by the people of the Hind to say, "We are as near Heaven by sea as by land." In the following night the lights of the ship suddenly disappeared. The people in the other vessel kept a good look out for him during the remainder of the voyage. On the 22d of September they arrived, through much tempest and peril; at Falmouth. But nothing more was seen or heard of the admiral.Belknap's American Biography, I. 203.]
[When the wind abated and the vessels were near enough, the admiral was seen constantly sitting in the stern, with a book in his hand. On the 9th of September he was seen for the last time, and was heard by the people of the Hind to say, "We are as near Heaven by sea as by land." In the following night the lights of the ship suddenly disappeared. The people in the other vessel kept a good look out for him during the remainder of the voyage. On the 22d of September they arrived, through much tempest and peril; at Falmouth. But nothing more was seen or heard of the admiral.Belknap's American Biography, I. 203.]
Southward with his fleet of iceSailed the Corsair Death;Wild and fast, blew the blast,And the east-wind was his breath.His lordly ships of iceGlistened in the sun;On each side, like pennons wide,Flashing crystal streamlets run.His sails of white sea-mistDripped with silver rain;But where he passed there were castLeaden shadows o'er the main.Eastward from CampobelloSir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;Three days or more seaward he bore,Then, alas! the land wind failed.Alas! the land wind failed,And ice-cold grew the night;And nevermore, on sea or shore,Should Sir Humphrey see the light.He sat upon the deck,The book was in his hand;"Do not fear! Heaven is as near,"He said "by water as by land!"In the first watch of the night,Without a signal's sound,Out of the sea, mysteriously,The fleet of Death rose all around.The moon and the evening starWere hanging in the shrouds;Every mast, as it passed,Seemed to rake the passing clouds.They grappled with their prize,At midnight black and cold!As of a rock was the shock;Heavily the ground-swell rolled.Southward through day and dark,They drift in close embrace;With mist and rain to the Spanish main;Yet there seems no change of place.Southward, forever southward,They drift through dark and day;And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream,Sinking vanish all away.
Southward with his fleet of iceSailed the Corsair Death;Wild and fast, blew the blast,And the east-wind was his breath.
His lordly ships of iceGlistened in the sun;On each side, like pennons wide,Flashing crystal streamlets run.
His sails of white sea-mistDripped with silver rain;But where he passed there were castLeaden shadows o'er the main.
Eastward from CampobelloSir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;Three days or more seaward he bore,Then, alas! the land wind failed.
Alas! the land wind failed,And ice-cold grew the night;And nevermore, on sea or shore,Should Sir Humphrey see the light.
He sat upon the deck,The book was in his hand;"Do not fear! Heaven is as near,"He said "by water as by land!"
In the first watch of the night,Without a signal's sound,Out of the sea, mysteriously,The fleet of Death rose all around.
The moon and the evening starWere hanging in the shrouds;Every mast, as it passed,Seemed to rake the passing clouds.
They grappled with their prize,At midnight black and cold!As of a rock was the shock;Heavily the ground-swell rolled.
Southward through day and dark,They drift in close embrace;With mist and rain to the Spanish main;Yet there seems no change of place.
Southward, forever southward,They drift through dark and day;And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream,Sinking vanish all away.
The day, the bitter day, divides us, sweet—Tears from our souls the wings with which we soarTo Heaven. All things are cruel. We may meetOnly by stealth, to sigh—and all is o'er:We part—the world is dark again, and fleet;The phantoms of despair and doubt once morePursue our hearts and look into our eyes,Till Memory grows dismayed, and sweet Hope dies.But the still night, with all its fiery stars,And sleep, within her world of dreams apart—These, these are ours! Then no rude tumult marsThy image in the fountain of my heart—Then the faint soul her prison-gate unbarsAnd springs to life and thee, no more to part,Till cruel day our rapture disenchants,And stills with waking each fond bosom's pants.M. E. T.
The day, the bitter day, divides us, sweet—Tears from our souls the wings with which we soarTo Heaven. All things are cruel. We may meetOnly by stealth, to sigh—and all is o'er:We part—the world is dark again, and fleet;The phantoms of despair and doubt once morePursue our hearts and look into our eyes,Till Memory grows dismayed, and sweet Hope dies.
But the still night, with all its fiery stars,And sleep, within her world of dreams apart—These, these are ours! Then no rude tumult marsThy image in the fountain of my heart—Then the faint soul her prison-gate unbarsAnd springs to life and thee, no more to part,Till cruel day our rapture disenchants,And stills with waking each fond bosom's pants.M. E. T.
Merrily sings the fluttering Bob-o-link,Whose trilling song above the meadow floats;The eager air speeds tremulous to drinkThe bubbling sweetness of the liquid notes,Whose silver cadences arise and sink,Shift, glide and shiver, like the trembling motesIn the full gush of sunset. One might thinkSome potent charm had turned the auroral flameOf the night-kindling north to melody,That in one gurgling rush of sweetness cameMocking the ear, as once it mocked the eye,With varying beauties twinkling fitfully;Low hovering in the air, his song he singsAs if he shook it from his trembling wings.
Merrily sings the fluttering Bob-o-link,Whose trilling song above the meadow floats;The eager air speeds tremulous to drinkThe bubbling sweetness of the liquid notes,Whose silver cadences arise and sink,Shift, glide and shiver, like the trembling motesIn the full gush of sunset. One might thinkSome potent charm had turned the auroral flameOf the night-kindling north to melody,That in one gurgling rush of sweetness cameMocking the ear, as once it mocked the eye,With varying beauties twinkling fitfully;Low hovering in the air, his song he singsAs if he shook it from his trembling wings.
Every body has had an Aunt Peggy—an Aunt Patty—an Aunt Penelope, or an aunt something else; but every body hasn't had an AuntPolly—i. e.suchan Aunt Polly as mine! Most Aunt Pollies have been the exemplars and promulgators of "single blessedness"—not such wasshe! But more of this anon. Aunt Polly was the only sister of my father, who often spoke of her affectionately; but would end his remark with "poor Polly! so nervous—so unlike her self-possessed and beautiful mother"—whose memory he devoutly revered. Children are not destitute of the curiosity native to the human mind, and we often teased papa about a visit from Aunt Polly, who, he replied, never left home; but not enlightening us on thewhy, his replies only served to whet the edge of curiosity more and more. I never shall forget the surprise that opened my eye-lids early and wide one morning, when it was announced to me that Aunt Polly and her spouse had unexpectedly arrived at the homestead. It would be difficult to analyze the nature of that eagerness which hastily dressed and sent me down stairs. But unfortunately did I enter the breakfast-room just as the good book was closing, and the family circle preparing to finish its devotions on the knee; however, a glance of the eye takes but little time, and a penetrating look was returned me by Aunt Polly, in which the beaming affection of her sanguine nature, and the scowl of scarce restrained impatience to get hold of me, were mixed so strangely as to give her naturally sharp black eyes an expression almost fearful to a child; but on surveying her unique apparel, and indescribably uneasy position on the chair—for she remained seated while the rest of us knelt, giving me thus an opportunity to scrutinize her through the interstices of my chair-back—so excited my girlish risibilities, that fear became stifled in suppressed laughter. "Amen" was scarce pronounced, when a shrill voice called out—"Come here, you little good-for-nothing—what'syour name?" The inviting smile conveyed to me with these startling tones left no doubt who was addressed, and I instantly obeyed the really fervent call. Both the stout arms of my aunt were opened to receive me, but held me at their length, while—with a nervous sensibility that made the tears gush from her eyes—she hurriedly exclaimed—"Whatshall I do with you? Do you love to besqueezed? When, suiting the action to the question, she embraced me with a tenacity that almost choked my breath. From that moment I loved Aunt Polly! The fervid outpouring of her affection had mingled with the well-springs of a heart that—despite its mischievousness—was ever brimming with love. The first gush of feeling over, Aunt Polly again held me at arm's distance, while she surveyed intently my features, and traced in the laughing eye and golden ringlets the likeness of her "dearestbrother in the world!" Poor aunty had but one! Nor was my opportunity lost of looking right into the face I had so often desired to see. It would be hard to draw a picture of Aunt Polly in words, so good as the reader's fancy will supply. There was nothing peculiar in her tall, stout figure; in her well developed features—something between the Grecian and the Roman—in her complexion, which one could see had faded from a glowing brunette to a pale Scotch snuff color. But her eyes, theywerepeculiar—so black—so rapid in their motions—so penetrating when looking forward—so flashing when she laughed, that really—I never saw such eyes!
It would be still more puzzling to describe her dress. She wore a real chintz of the olden time, filled with nosegays, as unlike to Nature's flowers as the fashion of her gown was to the dresses of modern dames of her sixty years. Though I don't believe Aunt Polly's attire looked like any body else's at the time it was made; at any rate, it was put on in a way that differed from the pictures I had seen of the old-school ladies. Her cap was indeed the crowner! but let that pass, for the old lady had these dainty articles so carefully packed in what had been a sugar-box, that no doubt they weresweetto anytastebut mine. I said that Aunt Polly was not a spinster. A better idea of her lord cannot be given than in her own words to my eldest sister, who declared in her hearing that she would never marry a minister. "Hush, hush, my dear!" said Aunt Polly, "I remember saying, when I was a girl, that whatever faults my husband might have, he should never be younger than myself—have red hair, or stammer in his speech: all these objections were united in the man I married!"
One more fact will convey to the imagination all that I need say of Aunt Polly's husband. Late one evening came a thundering knock at my father's door, and as all the servants had retired, a youth who happened to be staying with us at the time, started, candle in hand, to answer it: Now the young man was of a credulous turn, and had just awakened from a snooze in his chair. Presently a loud shriek called all who were up in the house to the door, where, lying prostrate and faint, was found the youth, and standing over him, with eye-balls distended—making ineffectual efforts to speak—was the husband of Aunt Polly. When the lad recovered, all that he could tell of his mishap was, that on opening the street-door a man, wrapped in a large over-coat, with glassy eyes staring straight at him, opened and shut his mouth four times without uttering a syllable—when the candle fell from his hands, and he to the floor! Aunt Polly's spouse was the prince of stammerers! But if he could seldombegina sentence, so Aunt Polly could seldomfinishone: indeed the most noticeablepointin her conversation was, that it hadnopoint, or was made up of sentences broken off in the middle. This may have been physiologically owing to the velocity with which the nervous fluid passed through her brain, giving uncommon rapidity to her thoughts, and correspondingly to the motions of her body. It soon became a wonder to my girlish mind how Aunt Polly ever kept still long enough to listen to a declaration of love—especially from a stutterer—or even to respond to the marriage ceremony.
My wonder now is, how the functions of her system ever had time to fulfill their offices, or the flesh to accumulate, as it did, to a very respectable consistency; for she never, to my knowledge, finished a meal while under our roof; nor do I believe that she ever sleptouta nap in her life. As she became a study well fitted to interest one of my novel, fun-loving age, I used often to steal out of bed at different times in the night and peep from my own apartment into hers, which adjoined it, where a night lamp was always burning; for she insisted on having the door between left open. I invariably found those eyes of hers wide awake, and my own room being dark, took pleasure in watching her unobserved, as she fidgeted now with her ample-bordered night-cap, and now with the bed-clothes. Once was I caught by a sudden cough on my part, which brought Aunt Polly to her feet before I had time to slip back to bed; and the only plea that my guiltiness could make her kind remonstrance on my being up in the cold, was the very natural and very wicked fib, that I heard her move and thought she might want something. Unsuspecting old lady! May her ashes at least rest in peace! How she caught me in her arms, kissed and carried me to bed, tucking in the blankets so effectually that all attempts to get up again that night were vain! Oh, she was a love of an aunt! The partiality of her attachment to me might have been accounted for by her having had no children of her own; or to the evident interest which she excited in me, causing my steps to follow her wherever she went; though all the family endeavored to make her first and last visit as agreeable as possible. But every attempt to fasten her attention to an object of interest or curiosity long enough to understand it, was unavailing. Sometimes I sallied out with her into the street, and while rather pleased than mortified by the observation which her grotesque costume and nervous, irregular gait attracted, it was different with me when she attempted to shop; as more often than otherwise, she would begin to pay for articles purchased, and putting her purse abruptly in her pocket, hurry toward the door, as if on purpose to avoid a touch on the elbow, which sometimes served to jog her memory also, and sometimes the very purchases were forgotten, till I became their witness.
On the whole, Aunt Polly's visit was a source of more amusement to me than all the visits of all my school-mates put together. When we parted—for I truly loved her—I forgave the squeeze—a screw-turn tighter than that at our meeting—and promised through my tears to make her a visit whenever my parents would consent to it. The homestead was as still for a week after her departure, as a ball-room after the waltzers have all whirled themselves home. Hardly had the family clock-work commenced its methodical revolutions again, when a letter arrived; and who that knew Aunt Polly, could have mistaken its characteristic superscription.
My father was well-known at the post office, or the half-written-out-name would never have found its way into his box. Internally, the letter was made up of broken sentences, big with love, like the large, fragmentary drops of rain from a passing summer cloud. By dint of patient perseverance we "gathered up the fragments, so that nothing was lost" of Aunt Polly's itinerant thoughts or wishes.
Among the latter was an invitation for me to visit her, on which my father looked silently and negatively; but I was not thus to be denied a desire of the heart, and insisted on having an audible response to my request of permission to fulfill the parting promise to Aunt Polly. In vain did my father give first an evasive answer, and then hint at the disappointment likely to await such a step—recall to my mind the eccentricities of his "worthy sister"—endeavor by all gentle means of persuasion to deter me from my purpose, and finally try to frighten me out of it. I was incorrigible.
Not long after, a gentleman who resided in the town with my aunt, came to visit us, and being alone in a comfortable one-horse vehicle, was glad enough to accept my offered company on his way home; so, gaining the reluctant consent of my mother, I started, full of an indefinite sort of pleasurable expectation, nourished by the changing diorama of a summer afternoon's ride through a cultivated part of the country.
Arriving at the verge of a limpid stream, my companion turned the horse to drink, so suddenly, that the wheels became cramped, and we were precipitated into the water, the wagon turning a summerset directly over our heads. Strange to say, neither of us were hurt, and the stream was shallow, though deep enough to give us a thorough cold bath, and to deluge the trunk containing my clothes, the lock of which flew open in the fall. My mortified protector crept from under our capsized ark as soon as he could, and let me out at the window; when I felt myself to be in rather a worse condition than was Noah's dove, who "found no rest for the sole of her foot;" for beside dripping from all my garments, like a surcharged umbrella, my soul, too, found no foothold of excuse on which to stand justified before my father for exposing myself to such anemergencewithout his knowledge. However,returnwe must. Nor was the situation of my conductor's body or mind very enviable, being obliged to present me to my parents, drooping like a water-lily. But if ill-luck had pursued us, good luck awaited our return; for we found that my father hadnot yet arrived from his business, and my mother's conscience kept our secret; so that frustration in my first attempt to visit Aunt Polly, was all the evil that came out of the adventure. Notwithstanding my ardor had been so damped with cold water, it was yet warm enough for another effort; though it must be confessed, that for a few days subsequent to the accident, my animal spirits were something in the state of over-night—uncorked champagne.
The first sign of their renewed vitality was the again expressed desire to visit Aunt Polly. I, however, learned obedience by the things I had suffered, and resolved not to venture on another expedition without the approval and protection of my father, who, because of my importunity, at length consented to accompany me, provided I would not reveal to Aunt Polly the proposed length of my visit until I had spent a day and night under her roof. This I readily consented to, thinking only at the time what a strange proviso it was. Accordingly, arrangements were soon completed for the long coveted journey; but not until I had remonstrated with my mother on her limited provision for my wardrobe, furnishing me only with what a small carpet-bag would contain.
After a ride of some forty miles, through scenery that gave fresh inspiration to my hopes, we arrived at the witching hour of sunset, before a venerable-looking farm-house. Its exterior gave no signs in the form of shrubbery or flowers of the decorating, refining hand of woman; but the sturdy oak and sycamore were there to give shade, and the life-scenes that surrounded the farm-yard were plenty in promise of eggs and poultry for the keen appetites of the travelers.
As we drove into the avenue leading to a side-door of the mansion, I caught a glimpse of Aunt Polly's unparalleled cap through a window, and the next moment she stood on the steps, wringing her hands and crying for joy. An involuntary dread of anothersqueezingcame over me, which had scarce time to be idealized ere it was realized almost to suffocation. My father's more graduated look of pleasure, called from Aunt Polly an out-bursting—"Forgiveme,forgiveme! It's my only brother in the world! It's my dear little puss all over again!Forgiveme,forgiveme!" But during these ejaculations I was confirmed in a discovery that had escaped all my vigilance while Aunt Polly sojourned with us. She was a snuff-taker! That she took snuff, as she did every thing else, bysnatches, I had also ascertained, on seeing her in the door, when she thought herself yet beyond the reach of our vision, forgetting that young eyes can see further than old eyes;minecould not be deceived in the convulsive motion that carried her fore-finger and thumb to the tip of her olfactory organ, which drew up one snuff of the fragrant weed—as hurriedly as a porpoise puts his head out of water for a snuff of the sweet air of morning—when scattering the rest of the pinch to the four winds, she forgot, in her excitement, for once, to wipe the traces from her upper lip. Had I only suspected before, the hearty sneeze on my part that followed close upon her kiss, would have made that suspicion a certainty. Aunt Polly was, indeed, that inborn abhorrence of mine, a snuff-taker! Thus my rosy prospects began to assume a yellowish tinge before entering the house; what color they took afterward it would be difficult to tell; for the wild confusion of its interior, gave to my fancy as many and as mixed hues as one sees in a kaleidoscope.
The old-fashioned parlor had a corner cupboard, which appeared to be put to any use but the right one, while the teacups and saucers—no whole set alike—were indiscriminately arrangedonthe side-board, andinit I saw, as the door stood ajar, Aunt Polly's bonnet and shawl; a drawer, too, being half open, disclosed one of hersweetishcaps, side by side with a card of gingerbread. The carpet was woven of every color, in every form, but without any definitefigure, and promised to be another puzzle for my curious eyes to unravel; it seemed to have been justthrowndown with here and there a tack in it, only serving to make it look more awry. While amusing myself with this carpet, it recalled an incident that a roguish cousin of mine once related to me after he had been to see Aunt Polly, connected with this parlor, which she always called her "square-room!" One day during his visit the old lady having occasion to step into a neighbor's house, while a pot of lard was trying over the kitchen fire, and not being willing to trust her half-trained servants to watch it, she gave the precious oil in charge to this youth, who was one of her favorites, bidding him, after a stated time, remove it from the chimney to a cooling-place; now not finishing her directions, the lad indulged his mischievous propensities by attempting to place the kettle of boiling lard to cool in the square-room fire-place; but finding it heavier than his strength could carry, its contents were suddenly deposited on the carpet, save such sprinklings as served to brand his face and hands as the culprit of the mischief.
The terrified boy hearing Aunt Polly's step on the threshold, took the first way that was suggested to him of escaping her wrath, which led out at the window. Scarce had his agile limbs landed him safe onterra firma, when the door opened, and, preceded by a shriek that penetrated his hiding-place, he heard Aunt Polly's lamentable lamentation—"It's mysquare-room! my square-roomcarpet! Oh! thatIshould live to see it come to this!" and again, and again, were these heart-thrilling exclamations reiterated. The lad, finding that all the good lady's excitement was likely to be spent on the square-room—though, alas! all wouldn't exterminate the grease—recovered courage and magnanimity enough to reveal himself as the author of the catastrophe, which he did with such contrition, showing at the same time his wounds, that Aunt Polly soon began "to take on" about her dear boy, to the seeming forgetfulness, while anointing his burns, of the kettle of lard and her unfortunate square-room.
But I must take up again the broken thread of my own adventures in this square-room, where Ileft Aunt Polly flourishing about in joy at our unexpected arrival.
A large, straight-backed rocking-chair stood in one corner of this apartment, and on its cushion—stuffed with feathers, and covered with blazing chintz—lay a large gray cat curled up asleep—decidedly the most comfortable looking object in the room—till Aunt Polly unceremoniously shook her out of her snug quarters to give my father the chair. I then discovered that poor puss was without a tail! On expressing my surprise, aunt only replied—"Oh,mycats are all so!" And, true enough, before we left, I saw some half dozen round the house, all deficient in this same graceful appendage of the feline race. The human domestics of the family were only half-grown—but half did their work, and seemed altogether naturalized to the whirligig spirit of their mistress. The reader may anticipate the consequences to the culinary and table arrangements. For supper we had, not unleavened bread, but that which contained "the little leaven," that having had no time to "leaven the whole lump," rendered it still heavier of digestion; butter half-worked, tea made of water that did not get time to boil, and slack-baked cakes. I supped on cucumbers, and complaining of fatigue, was conducted by my kind aunt to the sleeping apartment next her own, as it would seem like old times to have me so near. What was wanting to make my bed comfortable, might have been owing to the fact, that the feathers under me had been only half-baked, or were picked from geese of Aunt Polly's raising; at any rate, I was as restless as the good lady herself until daylight, when I fell into as uneasy dreams—blessing the ducking that saved me a more lingering fate before. After a brief morning-nap I arose, and seeing fresh eggs brought in from the farm-yard, confidently expected to have my appetite appeased, knowing that they could be cooked in "less than no time;" but here again disappointment awaited me. For once, Aunt Polly's mis-hit was inover-doing. The coffee sustained in part her reputation, being half-roasted, half-ground, half-boiled, and, I may add, half-swallowed. After this breakfast—or keepfast—my father archly inquired of me aside, how long I wished him to leave me with Aunt Polly, as he must return immediately home. Horror at the idea of being left at all overcame the mortification that my reaction of feeling naturally occasioned, and throwing my arms around his neck, I implored him to take me back with him. This reply he took as coolly as if he were prepared for it. Not so did Aunt Polly receive the announcement of my departure. She insisted that I had promised her avisit, and this was no visit at all. My father humored her fondness with his usual tact; but on telling her that it was really necessary for me to return to school, the kind woman relinquished at once her selfish claims, in view of a greater good to me.
Poor Aunt Polly! if my affection for her was less disinterested than her own, it was none the less in quantity; and I never loved her more than when she gave me that cruelest of squeezes at our parting, which proved to be the last—for I never saw her again. But in proof that she loved me to the end, I was remembered in her will; and did I not believe that if living, her generous affection, that was the precious oil through which floated her eccentricities like "flies as big as bumble-bees," would smooth over all appearance of ridicule in these reminiscences, they should never amuse any one save myself. But really, I cannot better carry out her restless desire of pleasing others, than by reproducing the merriment which throughout a long life was occasioned by her, who of all the Aunt Pollies that ever lived, wastheAunt Polly!
Life, like the sea, hath yet a few green islesAmid the waste of waters. If the galeHas tossed your bark, and many weary milesStretch yet before you, furl the battered sail,Fling out the anchor, and with rapture hailThe pleasant prospect—storms will come too soon.They are but suicides, at best, who failTo seize when'er they can Joy's fleeting boon—Fools, who exclaim "'tis night," yet always shun the noon.Live not as though you had been born for naught.Save like the brutes to perish. What do theyBut crop the grass and die? Ye have been taughtA nobler lesson—that within the clay,Upon the minds high altar, burns a rayFlashed from Divinity—and shall it shineFitful and feebly? Shall it die away,Because, forsooth, no priest is at the shrine?Go ye with learning's lamp and tend the fire divine.Pore o'er the classic page, and turn againThe leaf of History—ye will not heedThe noisy revel and the shouts of men,The jester and the mime, for ye can feed,Deep, deep, on these; and if your bosoms bleed,At tales of treachery and death they tell,The land that gave you birth will never needTarpeian rock, that rock from which there fellHe who loved Rome and Rome's, yet loved himself too well.And she, the traitress, who beneath the weightOf Sabine shields and bracelets basely sank,Stifled and dying, at the city-gate,Lies buried there—and now the long weeds, dankWith baneful dews, bend o'er her, and the rankEntangled grass, the timid lizard's home,Covers the sepulchre—the wild flower shrankTo plant its roots in that polluted loam—Pity that such a tomb should look o'er ruined Rome.Rome! lovely in her ruins! Can they claimCommon humanity who never feelThe pulse beat higher at the very name,The brain grow wild, and the rapt senses reel,Drunken with happiness? O'er us should stealFeelings too big for utt'rance—I should prizeSuch joy above all earthly wealth and weal,Nor barter it for love—when Beauty diesLove spreads his silken wings. The happy are the wise.
Life, like the sea, hath yet a few green islesAmid the waste of waters. If the galeHas tossed your bark, and many weary milesStretch yet before you, furl the battered sail,Fling out the anchor, and with rapture hailThe pleasant prospect—storms will come too soon.They are but suicides, at best, who failTo seize when'er they can Joy's fleeting boon—Fools, who exclaim "'tis night," yet always shun the noon.
Live not as though you had been born for naught.Save like the brutes to perish. What do theyBut crop the grass and die? Ye have been taughtA nobler lesson—that within the clay,Upon the minds high altar, burns a rayFlashed from Divinity—and shall it shineFitful and feebly? Shall it die away,Because, forsooth, no priest is at the shrine?Go ye with learning's lamp and tend the fire divine.
Pore o'er the classic page, and turn againThe leaf of History—ye will not heedThe noisy revel and the shouts of men,The jester and the mime, for ye can feed,Deep, deep, on these; and if your bosoms bleed,At tales of treachery and death they tell,The land that gave you birth will never needTarpeian rock, that rock from which there fellHe who loved Rome and Rome's, yet loved himself too well.
And she, the traitress, who beneath the weightOf Sabine shields and bracelets basely sank,Stifled and dying, at the city-gate,Lies buried there—and now the long weeds, dankWith baneful dews, bend o'er her, and the rankEntangled grass, the timid lizard's home,Covers the sepulchre—the wild flower shrankTo plant its roots in that polluted loam—Pity that such a tomb should look o'er ruined Rome.
Rome! lovely in her ruins! Can they claimCommon humanity who never feelThe pulse beat higher at the very name,The brain grow wild, and the rapt senses reel,Drunken with happiness? O'er us should stealFeelings too big for utt'rance—I should prizeSuch joy above all earthly wealth and weal,Nor barter it for love—when Beauty diesLove spreads his silken wings. The happy are the wise.
HENRY S. HAGERT.
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,A poet's memory thy most far renown.Lament of Tasso.
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,A poet's memory thy most far renown.Lament of Tasso.
In the olden time of the world there stood on the ocean-border a large and flourishing city, whose winged ships brought daily the costly merchandise of all nations to its overflowing store-houses. It was a place of busy, bustling, turbulent life. Men were struggling fiercely for wealth, and rank, and lofty name. The dawn of day saw them striving each for his own separate and selfish schemes; the stars of midnight looked down in mild rebuke upon the protracted labor of men who gave themselves no time to gaze upon the quiet heavens. One only of all this busy crowd mingled not in their toil—one only idler sauntered carelessly along the thronged mart, or wandered listlessly by the seashore; Adonais alone scorned to bind himself by fetters which he could not fling aside at his own wild will. Those who loved the stripling grieved to see him waste the spring-time of life in thus aimlessly loitering by the way-side; while the old men and sages would fain have taken from him his ill-used freedom, and shut him up in the prison-house where they bestowed their madmen, lest his example should corrupt the youth of the city.
But for all this Adonais cared little. In vain they showed him the craggy path which traversed the hill of Fame; in vain they set him in the foul and miry roads which led to the temple of Mammon. He bowed before their solemn wisdom, but there was a lurking mischief in his glance as he pointed to his slender limbs, and feigned a shudder of disgust at the very sight of these rugged and distasteful ways. So at last he was suffered to wend his own idle course, and save that careful sires sometimes held him up as a warning to their children, his fellow-townsmen almost forgot his existence.
Years passed on, and then a beautiful and stately Fane began to rise in the very heart of the great city. Slowly it rose, and for a while they who toiled so intently at their daily business, marked not the white and polished stones which were so gradually and silently piled together in their midst. It grew, that noble temple, as if by magic. Every morning dawn shed its rose-tints upon another snowy marble which had been fixed in its appointed place beneath the light of the quiet stars. Men wondered somewhat, but they had scarce time to observe, and none to inquire. So the superb fabric had nearly reached its summit ere they heard, with unbelieving ears, that the builder of this noble fane, was none other than Adonais, the idler.
Few gave credence to the tale, for whence could he, the vagrant, and the dreamer, have drawn those precious marbles, encrusted as they were with sculpture still more precious, and written over with characters as inscrutable as they were immortal? Some set themselves to watch for the Fane-builder, but their eyes were heavy, and at the magic hour when the artist took up his labors, their senses were fast locked in slumber. Yet silently, even as the temple of the mighty Solomon, in which was never heard the sound of the workman's tool, so rose that mystic fane. Not until it stood in grand relief against the clear blue sky; not until its lofty dome pierced the clouds even a mountain-top; not until its polished walls were fashioned within and without, to surpassing beauty, did men learn the truth, and behold in the despised Adonais, the wonder-working Fane-builder. In his wanderings the dreamer had lighted on the entrance to that exhaustless mine, whence men of like soul have drawn their riches for all time. The hidden treasures of poesy had been given to his grasp, and he had built a temple which should long outlast the sand-heaps which the worshipers of Mammon had gathered around them.
But even then, when pilgrims came from afar to gaze upon the noble fane, the men of his own kindred and people stood aloof. They cared not for this adornment of their birth-place—they valued not the treasures that had there been gathered together. Only the few who entered the vestibule, and saw the sparkle of jewels which decked the inner shrine, or they to whom the pilgrims recounted the priceless value of these gems in other lands—only they began to look with something like pride upon the dreamer Adonais.
But not without purpose had the Fane-builder reared this magnificent structure. Within those costly walls was a veiled and jeweled sanctuary. There had he enshrined an idol—the image of a bright divinity which he alone might worship. Willingly and freely did he admit the pilgrim and the wayfarer to the outer courts of his temple; gladly did he offer them refreshing draughts from the fountain of living water which gushed up in its midst; but never did he suffer them to enter that "Holy of holies;" never did their eyes rest on that enshrined idol, in whose honor all these treasures were gathered together.
In progress of time, when Adonais had lavished all his wealth upon his temple, and when with the toil of gathering and shaping out her treasures, his strength had well-nigh failed him, there came a troop of revilers and slanderers—men of evil tongue, who swore that the Fane-builder was no better than a midnight robber, and had despoiled other temples of all that adorned his own. The tale was as false and foul as they who coined it; but when they pointed to many pigmy fanes which now began to be rearedabout the city, and when men saw that they were built of like marbles as those which glittered in the temple of Adonais, they paused not to mark that the fairest stones in these new structures were but the imperfect sculptures which the true artist had scorned to employ, or perhaps the chippings of some rare gem which in his affluence he could fling aside. So the tale was hearkened unto and believed. They whose dim perceptions had been bewildered by this new uncoined and uncoinable wealth, were glad to think that it had belonged to some far off time, or some distant region. The envious, the sordid, the cold, all listened well-pleased to the base slander; and they who had cared little for his glory made themselves strangely busy in spreading the story of his shame.
Patiently and unweariedly had the dreamer labored at his pleasant task, while the temple was gradually growing up toward the heavens; skillfully had he polished the rich marbles, and graven upon them the ineffaceable characters of truth. But the jeweled adornments of the inner shrine had cost him more than all his other toil, for with his very heart's blood had he purchased those costly gems that sparkled on his soul's idol. Now wearied and worn with by-gone suffering he had no strength to stand forth and defy his revilers. Proudly and silently he withdrew from the world, and entered into his own beautiful fane. Presently men beheld that a heavy stone had been piled against the door of the inner sanctuary, and upon its polished surface was inscribed these words: "To Time the Avenger!"
From that day no one ever again beheld the dreamer. Pilgrims came as before, and rested within the vestibule, and drank of the springing fountain, but they no longer saw the dim outline of the veiled goddess in the distant shrine, only the white and ghastly glitter of that threatening stone, which seemed like the portal of a tomb, met their eyes.
Thus years passed on, and men had almost forgotten the name of him who had wasted himself in such fruitless toil. At length there came one from a country far beyond the seas, who had set forth to explore the wonders of all lands. He lacked the pious reverence of the pilgrims, but he also lacked the cold indifference of those who dwelt within the shadow of the temple. He entered the mystic fane, he gazed with unsated eye upon the treasures it contained, and his soul sought for greater beauty. With daring hand he and his companions thrust aside the marble portal which guarded the sanctuary. At first they shrunk back, dazzled and awe-stricken as the blaze of rich light met their unhallowed gaze. Again they went forward, and then what saw they? Surrounded by the sheen of jewels—glowing in the gorgeous light of the diamond, the chrysolite, the beryl, the ruby, they found an image fashioned but of common clay, while extended at its feet lay the skeleton of the Fane-builder.
Worn with toil, and pain, and disappointment, he had perished at the feet of his idol. It may be that the scorn of the world had opened his eyes to behold of what mean materials was shapen the divinity he had so honored. It may be that the glitter of the gems he had heaped around it had perpetuated the delusion which had first charmed him, and he had thus been saved the last, worst pang of wasted idolatry. It matters not. He died—as all such men must die—in sorrow and in loneliness.
But the fane he has reared is as indestructible as the soul of him who lifted its lofty summit to the skies. "Time, the Avenger," has redeemed the builder's fame; and even the men of his own nation now believe that a prophet and a seer once dwelt among them.
When that great city shall have shared the fortunes of the Babylons and Ninevahs of olden time, that snow-white fane, written all over with characters of truth, and graven with images of beauty, will yet endure; and men of new times and new states shall learn lessons of holier and loftier existence from a pilgrimage to that glorious temple, built by spirit-toil, and consecrated by spirit-worship and spirit-suffering.
There—Pearl of Beauty! lightly press,With yielding form, the yielding sand;And while you lift the rosy shells,Within your dear and dainty hand,Or toss them to the heedless waves.That reck not how your treasures shine,As oft you waste on careless heartsYour fancies, touched with light divine,I'll sing a lay—more wild than gay—The story of a magic flute;And as I sing, the waves shall playAn ordered tune, the song to suit.In silence flowed our grand old Rhine;For on his breast a picture burned,The loveliest of all scenes that shineWhere'er his glorious course has turned.That radiant morn the peasants sawA wondrous vision rise in light,They gazed, with blended joy and awe—A castle crowned the beetling height!Far up amid the amber mist,That softly wreathes each mountain-spire,The sky its clustered columns kissed,And touched their snow with golden fire;The vapor parts—against the skies,In delicate tracery on the blue,Those graceful turrets lightly rise,As if to music there they grew!And issuing from its portal fair,A youth descends the dizzy steps;The sunrise gilds his waving hair,From rock to rock he lightly leaps—He comes—the radiant, angel-boy!He moves with more than human grace;His eyes are filled with earnest joy,And Heaven is in his beauteous face.And whether bred the stars among,Or in that luminous palace born,Around his airy footsteps hungThe light of an immortal morn.From steep to steep he fearless springs,And now he glides the throng amid.So light, as if still played the wingsThat 'neath his tunic sure are hid!A fairy flute is in his hand—He parts his bright, disordered hair,And smiles upon the wondering band,A strange, sweet smile, with tranquil air.Anon, his blue, celestial eyesHe bent upon a youthful maid,Whose looks met his in still surprise,The while a low, glad tune he played—Her heart beat wildly—in her faceThe lovely rose-light went and came;She clasped her hands with timid grace,In mute appeal, in joy and shame!Then slow he turned—more wildly breathedThe pleading flute, and by the soundThrough all the throng her steps she wreathed,As if a chain were o'er her wound.All mute and still the group remained,And watched the charm, with lips apart,While in those linkéd notes enchained,The girl was led, with listening heart:—The youth ascends the rocks again.And in his steps the maiden stole,While softer, holier grew the strain,Till rapture thrilled her yearning soul!And fainter fell that fairy tune;Its low, melodious cadence wound,Most like a rippling rill at noon,Through delicate lights and shades of sound;And with the music, gliding slow,Far up the steep, their garments gleam;Now through the palace gate they go;And now—it vanished like a dream!Still frowns above thy waves, oh Rhine!The mountain's wild terrific height,But where has fled the work divine,That lent its brow a halo-light?Ah! springing arch and pillar paleHad melted in the azure air!And she—the darling of the dale—She too had gone—but how—and where?Long years rolled by—and lo! one morn,Again o'er regal Rhine it came,That picture from the dream-land borne,That palace built of frost and flame.Behold! within its portal gleamsA heavenly shape—oh! rapturous sight!For lovely as the light of dreamsShe glides adown the mountain height!She comes! the loved, the long-lost maid!And in her hand the charméd flute;But ere its mystic tune was playedShe spake—the peasants listened mute—She told how in that instrumentWas chained a world of wingéd dreams;And how the notes that from it wentRevealed them as with lightning gleams;And how its music's magic braidO'er the unwary heart it threw,Till he or she whose dream it playedWas forced to follow where it drew.She told how on that marvelous dayWithin its changing tune she heardA forest-fountain's plaintive play,A silver trill from far-off bird;And how the sweet tones, in her heart,Had changed to promises as sweet,That if she dared with them depart,Each lovely hope its heaven should meet.And then she played a joyous lay,And to her side a fair child springs,And wildly cries—"Oh! where are they?Those singing-birds, with diamond wings?"Anon a loftier strain is heard,A princely youth beholds his dream;And by the thrilling cadence stirred,Would follow where its wonders gleam.Still played the maid—and from the throng—Receding slow—the music drewA choice and lovely band along—The brave—the beautiful—the true!The sordid—worldly—cold—remained,To watch that radiant troop ascend;To hear the fading fairy strain;To see with Heaven the vision blend!And ne'er again, o'er glorious Rhine,That sculptured dream rose calm and mute;Ah! would that now once more 't would shine,And I could play the fairy flute!I'd play, Marié, the dream I see,Deep in those changeful eyes of thine,And thou perforce should'st followme,Up—up where life is all divine!
There—Pearl of Beauty! lightly press,With yielding form, the yielding sand;And while you lift the rosy shells,Within your dear and dainty hand,
Or toss them to the heedless waves.That reck not how your treasures shine,As oft you waste on careless heartsYour fancies, touched with light divine,
I'll sing a lay—more wild than gay—The story of a magic flute;And as I sing, the waves shall playAn ordered tune, the song to suit.
In silence flowed our grand old Rhine;For on his breast a picture burned,The loveliest of all scenes that shineWhere'er his glorious course has turned.
That radiant morn the peasants sawA wondrous vision rise in light,They gazed, with blended joy and awe—A castle crowned the beetling height!
Far up amid the amber mist,That softly wreathes each mountain-spire,The sky its clustered columns kissed,And touched their snow with golden fire;
The vapor parts—against the skies,In delicate tracery on the blue,Those graceful turrets lightly rise,As if to music there they grew!
And issuing from its portal fair,A youth descends the dizzy steps;The sunrise gilds his waving hair,From rock to rock he lightly leaps—
He comes—the radiant, angel-boy!He moves with more than human grace;His eyes are filled with earnest joy,And Heaven is in his beauteous face.
And whether bred the stars among,Or in that luminous palace born,Around his airy footsteps hungThe light of an immortal morn.
From steep to steep he fearless springs,And now he glides the throng amid.So light, as if still played the wingsThat 'neath his tunic sure are hid!
A fairy flute is in his hand—He parts his bright, disordered hair,And smiles upon the wondering band,A strange, sweet smile, with tranquil air.
Anon, his blue, celestial eyesHe bent upon a youthful maid,Whose looks met his in still surprise,The while a low, glad tune he played—
Her heart beat wildly—in her faceThe lovely rose-light went and came;She clasped her hands with timid grace,In mute appeal, in joy and shame!
Then slow he turned—more wildly breathedThe pleading flute, and by the soundThrough all the throng her steps she wreathed,As if a chain were o'er her wound.
All mute and still the group remained,And watched the charm, with lips apart,While in those linkéd notes enchained,The girl was led, with listening heart:—
The youth ascends the rocks again.And in his steps the maiden stole,While softer, holier grew the strain,Till rapture thrilled her yearning soul!
And fainter fell that fairy tune;Its low, melodious cadence wound,Most like a rippling rill at noon,Through delicate lights and shades of sound;
And with the music, gliding slow,Far up the steep, their garments gleam;Now through the palace gate they go;And now—it vanished like a dream!
Still frowns above thy waves, oh Rhine!The mountain's wild terrific height,But where has fled the work divine,That lent its brow a halo-light?
Ah! springing arch and pillar paleHad melted in the azure air!And she—the darling of the dale—She too had gone—but how—and where?
Long years rolled by—and lo! one morn,Again o'er regal Rhine it came,That picture from the dream-land borne,That palace built of frost and flame.
Behold! within its portal gleamsA heavenly shape—oh! rapturous sight!For lovely as the light of dreamsShe glides adown the mountain height!
She comes! the loved, the long-lost maid!And in her hand the charméd flute;But ere its mystic tune was playedShe spake—the peasants listened mute—
She told how in that instrumentWas chained a world of wingéd dreams;And how the notes that from it wentRevealed them as with lightning gleams;
And how its music's magic braidO'er the unwary heart it threw,Till he or she whose dream it playedWas forced to follow where it drew.
She told how on that marvelous dayWithin its changing tune she heardA forest-fountain's plaintive play,A silver trill from far-off bird;
And how the sweet tones, in her heart,Had changed to promises as sweet,That if she dared with them depart,Each lovely hope its heaven should meet.
And then she played a joyous lay,And to her side a fair child springs,And wildly cries—"Oh! where are they?Those singing-birds, with diamond wings?"
Anon a loftier strain is heard,A princely youth beholds his dream;And by the thrilling cadence stirred,Would follow where its wonders gleam.
Still played the maid—and from the throng—Receding slow—the music drewA choice and lovely band along—The brave—the beautiful—the true!
The sordid—worldly—cold—remained,To watch that radiant troop ascend;To hear the fading fairy strain;To see with Heaven the vision blend!
And ne'er again, o'er glorious Rhine,That sculptured dream rose calm and mute;Ah! would that now once more 't would shine,And I could play the fairy flute!
I'd play, Marié, the dream I see,Deep in those changeful eyes of thine,And thou perforce should'st followme,Up—up where life is all divine!