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Henceforth let Grief forget her pain,And Melancholy cease to sigh;And Hope no longer gaze in vainWith weary, longing eye,Since Love, dear Love, hath made againA summer in this winter sky—Oh, may the flowers he brings to-dayIn beauty bloom, nor pass away.Sweet one, fond heart, thine eyes are bright,And full of stars as is the heaven,Pure pleiads of the soul, whose lightFrom deepest founts of Truth is given—Oh let them shine upon my night,And though my life be tempest-driven,The leaping billows of its seaShall clasp a thousand forms of thee.Thy soul in trembling tones conveyedMelts like the morning song of birds,Or like a mellow paèn playedBy angels on celestial chords;—And oh, thy lips were only madeFor dropping love's delicious words:—Then pour thy spirit into mineUntil my soul be drowned with thine.The pilgrim of the desert plainNot more desires the spring denied,Not more the vexed and midnight mainCalls for the mistress of its tide,Not more the burning earth for rain,Than I for thee, my ownsoul'sbride—Then pour, oh pour upon my heartThe love that never shall depart!
Henceforth let Grief forget her pain,And Melancholy cease to sigh;And Hope no longer gaze in vainWith weary, longing eye,Since Love, dear Love, hath made againA summer in this winter sky—Oh, may the flowers he brings to-dayIn beauty bloom, nor pass away.
Sweet one, fond heart, thine eyes are bright,And full of stars as is the heaven,Pure pleiads of the soul, whose lightFrom deepest founts of Truth is given—Oh let them shine upon my night,And though my life be tempest-driven,The leaping billows of its seaShall clasp a thousand forms of thee.
Thy soul in trembling tones conveyedMelts like the morning song of birds,Or like a mellow paèn playedBy angels on celestial chords;—And oh, thy lips were only madeFor dropping love's delicious words:—Then pour thy spirit into mineUntil my soul be drowned with thine.
The pilgrim of the desert plainNot more desires the spring denied,Not more the vexed and midnight mainCalls for the mistress of its tide,Not more the burning earth for rain,Than I for thee, my ownsoul'sbride—Then pour, oh pour upon my heartThe love that never shall depart!
While pleasant care my yielding soil receives,Other delights the open soul may find;On the high bough the daring hang-bird weavesHer cunning cradle, rocking in the wind;The arrowy swallow builds, beneath the eves,Her clay-walled grotto, with soft feathers lined;The dull-red robin, under sheltering leaves,Her bowl-like nest to sturdy limbs doth bind;And many songsters, worth a name in song,Plain,homelybirds my boy-love sanctified,On hedge and tree and grassy bog, prolongSweet loves and cares, in carols sweetly plied;In such dear strains their simple natures gushThat through my heart at once all tear-blest memories rush.
While pleasant care my yielding soil receives,Other delights the open soul may find;On the high bough the daring hang-bird weavesHer cunning cradle, rocking in the wind;The arrowy swallow builds, beneath the eves,Her clay-walled grotto, with soft feathers lined;The dull-red robin, under sheltering leaves,Her bowl-like nest to sturdy limbs doth bind;And many songsters, worth a name in song,Plain,homelybirds my boy-love sanctified,On hedge and tree and grassy bog, prolongSweet loves and cares, in carols sweetly plied;In such dear strains their simple natures gushThat through my heart at once all tear-blest memories rush.
In the solemn night, when the soul receivesThe dreams it has sighed for long,I mused o'er the charmed, romantic leavesOf a book of German Song.From stately towers, I saw the lordsRide out to the feudal fray;I heard the ring of meeting swordsAnd the Minnesinger's lay!And, gliding ghost-like through my dream,Went the Erl-king, with a moan,Where the wizard willow o'erhung the stream,And the spectral moonlight shone.I followed the hero's path, who rodeIn harness and helmet bright,Through a wood where hostile elves abode,In the glimmering noon of night!Banner and bugle's call had diedAmid the shadows far,And a misty stream, from the mountain-side,Dropped like a silver star.Thirsting and flushed, from the steed he leaptAnd quaffed from his helm unbound;Then a mystic trance o'er his spirit crept,And he sank to the elfin ground.He slept in the ceaseless midnight cold,By the faery spell possessed,His head sunk down, and his gray beard rolledOn the rust of his arméd breast!When a mighty storm-wind smote the trees,And the thunder crashing fell,He raised the sword from its mould'ring easeAnd strove to burst the spell.And thus may the fiery soul, that ridesLike a knight, to the field of foes,Drink of the chill world's tempting tidesAnd sink to a charmed repose.The warmth of the generous heart of youthWill die in the frozen breast—The look of Love and the voice of TruthBe charmed to a palsied rest!In vain will the thunder a moment burstThe chill of that torpor's breath;The slumbering soul shall be wakened firstBy the Disenchanter, Death!
In the solemn night, when the soul receivesThe dreams it has sighed for long,I mused o'er the charmed, romantic leavesOf a book of German Song.
From stately towers, I saw the lordsRide out to the feudal fray;I heard the ring of meeting swordsAnd the Minnesinger's lay!
And, gliding ghost-like through my dream,Went the Erl-king, with a moan,Where the wizard willow o'erhung the stream,And the spectral moonlight shone.
I followed the hero's path, who rodeIn harness and helmet bright,Through a wood where hostile elves abode,In the glimmering noon of night!
Banner and bugle's call had diedAmid the shadows far,And a misty stream, from the mountain-side,Dropped like a silver star.
Thirsting and flushed, from the steed he leaptAnd quaffed from his helm unbound;Then a mystic trance o'er his spirit crept,And he sank to the elfin ground.
He slept in the ceaseless midnight cold,By the faery spell possessed,His head sunk down, and his gray beard rolledOn the rust of his arméd breast!
When a mighty storm-wind smote the trees,And the thunder crashing fell,He raised the sword from its mould'ring easeAnd strove to burst the spell.
And thus may the fiery soul, that ridesLike a knight, to the field of foes,Drink of the chill world's tempting tidesAnd sink to a charmed repose.
The warmth of the generous heart of youthWill die in the frozen breast—The look of Love and the voice of TruthBe charmed to a palsied rest!
In vain will the thunder a moment burstThe chill of that torpor's breath;The slumbering soul shall be wakened firstBy the Disenchanter, Death!
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Close beside the grave of the Soldier-Poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his loss, only surviving him long enough to sketch his portrait and burial-place. Her last wish was to be laid near him.
Lovely and gentle girl!In the spring morning of thy beauty dying—Dust on each sunny curl,And on thy brow the grave's deep shadows lying.Thine is a lowly bed.But the green oak, whose spreading bough hangs o'er thee,Shelters the brother's head,Who went unto his rest a little while before thee.A perfect love was thine,Sweet sister! thou hadst made no otherIdol for thy soul's shrineSave him—thy friend and guide, and only brother.And not for Lyre and Sword—His proud resplendant gifts of fame and glory—Oh! not fortheseadoredWas he, whose praise thou readst in song and story.But't was his presence threw,O'er all thy life, a deep delight and blessing;And with thy growth it grew,Strengthening each thought of thy young heart's possessing.Amid each dear home-sceneThat thou and he from childhood trod together,Thou hadst his arm to leanUpon, through every change of dark or sunny weather.And when he passed from Earth,The rose from thy soft cheek and bright lip faded;Gloom was on hall and hearth—A deep voice in thy soul, by sorrow over-shaded.Joy had gone forth withhim;The green Earth lost its spell, and the blue HeavenUnto thine eye grew dim;And thou didst pray for Death, as for a rich boon given!It came!—and joy to know,That fromhisresting-placethinenone would sever,And blessing God didst go,Where in his presence thou shouldst dwell forever.Thou didst but stay to traceThe imaged likeness of the dear departed;To sketch his burial-place—Then die, O, sister! fond and faithful hearted.
Lovely and gentle girl!In the spring morning of thy beauty dying—Dust on each sunny curl,And on thy brow the grave's deep shadows lying.
Thine is a lowly bed.But the green oak, whose spreading bough hangs o'er thee,Shelters the brother's head,Who went unto his rest a little while before thee.
A perfect love was thine,Sweet sister! thou hadst made no otherIdol for thy soul's shrineSave him—thy friend and guide, and only brother.
And not for Lyre and Sword—His proud resplendant gifts of fame and glory—Oh! not fortheseadoredWas he, whose praise thou readst in song and story.
But't was his presence threw,O'er all thy life, a deep delight and blessing;And with thy growth it grew,Strengthening each thought of thy young heart's possessing.
Amid each dear home-sceneThat thou and he from childhood trod together,Thou hadst his arm to leanUpon, through every change of dark or sunny weather.
And when he passed from Earth,The rose from thy soft cheek and bright lip faded;Gloom was on hall and hearth—A deep voice in thy soul, by sorrow over-shaded.
Joy had gone forth withhim;The green Earth lost its spell, and the blue HeavenUnto thine eye grew dim;And thou didst pray for Death, as for a rich boon given!
It came!—and joy to know,That fromhisresting-placethinenone would sever,And blessing God didst go,Where in his presence thou shouldst dwell forever.
Thou didst but stay to traceThe imaged likeness of the dear departed;To sketch his burial-place—Then die, O, sister! fond and faithful hearted.
It was a standing boast with Mr. Wiseacre that he had never been humbugged in his life. He took the newspapers and read them regularly, and thus got an inkling of the new and strange things that were ever transpiring, or said to be transpiring, in the world. But to all he cried "humbug!" "imposture!" "delusion!" If any one were so bold as to affirm in his presence a belief in the phenomena of Animal Magnetism, for instance, he would laugh outright; then expend upon it all sorts of ridicule, or say that the whole thing was a scandalous trick; and by way of a finale, wind off thus—
"You never humbug me with these new things. Never catch me in gull-traps. I've seen the rise and fall of too many wonders in my time—am too old a bird to be caught with this kind of chaff."
As for Homeopathy, it was treated in a like summary manner. All was humbug and imposture from beginning to end. If you said—
"But, my dear sir, let me relate what I have myself seen—"
He would interrupt you with—
"Oh! as to seeing, you may see any thing, and yet see nothing after all. I've seen the wonders of this new medical science over and over again. There are many extraordinary cures madein imagination. Put a grain of calomel in the Delaware Bay, and salivate a man with a drop of the water! Is not it ridiculous? Doesn't it bear upon the face of it the stamp of absurdity. It's all humbug, sir! All humbug from beginning to end. I know! I've looked into it. I've measured the new wonder, and know its full dimensions—it's name is 'humbug.'"
You reply.
"Men of great force of mind, and large medical knowledge and experience, see differently. In the law,similia similiabus curanter, they perceive more than a mere figment of the imagination, and in the actual results, too well authenticated for dispute, evidence of a mathematical correctness in medical science never before attained, and scarcely hoped for by its most ardent devotees."
But he cries,
"Humbug! Humbug! All humbug! I know. I've looked at it. I understand its worth, and that is—just nothing at all. Talk to me of any thing else and I'll listen to you—but, for mercy's sake, don't expect me to swallow at a gulp any thing of this sort, for I can't do it. I'd rather believe in Animal Magnetism. Why, I saw one of these new lights in medicine, who was called in to a child in the croup, actually put two or three little white pellets upon its tongue, no larger than a pin's head, and go away with as much coolness as if he were not leaving the poor little sufferer to certain death. 'For Heaven's sake!' said I, to the parents, 'aint you going to have any thing done for that child?' 'The doctor has just given it medicine,' they replied. 'He has done all that is required.' I was so out of patience with them for being such consummate fools, that I put my hat on and walked out of the house without saying a word."
"Did the child die?" you ask.
"It happened by the merest chance to escape death. Its constitution was too strong for the grim destroyer."
"Was nothing else done?" you ask. "No medicines given but homeopathic powders?"
"No. They persevered to the last."
"The child was well in two or three days I suppose?" you remark.
"Yes," he replies, a little coldly.
"Children are not apt to recover from an attack of croup without medicine." He forgets himself and answers—
"But I don't believe it was a real case of croup. It couldn't have been!"
And so Mr. Wiseacre treats almost every thing that makes its appearance. Not because he understands all about it, but because he knows nothing about it. It is his very ignorance of a matter that makes him dogmatic. He knows nothing of the distinction between truth and the appearances of truth. So fond is he of talking and showing off his superior intelligence and acumen, that he is never a listener in any company, unless by a kind of compulsion, and then he rarely hears any thing in the eagerness he feels to get in his word. Usually he keeps sensible men silent in hopeless astonishment at the very boldness of his ignorance.
But Mr. Wiseacre was caught napping once in his life, and that completely. He was entrapped; not taken in open day, with a fair field before him. And it would be easy to entrap him at almost any time, and with almost any humbug, if the game were worth the trouble; for, in the light of his own mind, he cannot see far. His mental vision is not particularly clear; else he would not so often cry "humbug," when wiser men stopped to examine and reflect.
A quiet, thoughtful-looking man once brought to Mr. Wiseacre a letter of introduction. His name was Redding. The letter mentioned that he was the discoverer of a wonderful mechanical power, for which he was about taking out letters patent. What it was, the introductory epistle did not say, nor did Redding communicate any thing relative to the nature of the discovery, although asked to do so. There was something about this man that interestedWiseacre. He bore the marks of a superior intellect, and his manners commanded respect. As Wiseacre showed him particular attention, he frequently called in to see him at his store, and sometimes spent an evening with him at his dwelling. The more Wiseacre saw of him, and the more he heard him converse, the higher did he rise in his opinion. At length Redding, in a moment of confidence, imparted his secret. He had discovered perpetual motion! This announcement was made after a long and learned disquisition on mechanical laws, in which the balancing of and the reproduction of forces, and all that, was opened to the wondering ears of Wiseacre, who, although he pretended to comprehend every thing clearly, saw it all only in a very confused light. He knew, in fact, nothing whatever of mechanical forces. All here was, to him, an untrodden field. His confidence in Redding, and his consciousness that he was a man of great intellectual power, took away all doubt as to the correctness of what he stated. For once he was sure that a great discovery had been made—that a new truth had dawned upon the world. Of this he was more than ever satisfied when he was shown the machine itself, in motion, with its wonderful combinations of mechanical forces, and heard Redding explain the principle of its action.
"Wonderful! wonderful!" was now exchanged for "Humbug! humbug!" If any body had told him that some one had discovered perpetual motion, he would have laughed at him, and cried "humbug!" You couldn't have hired him even to look at it. But his natural incredulity had been gained over by a different process. His confidence had first been won by a specious exterior, his reason captivated by statements and arguments that seemed like truth, and his senses deceived by appearances. Not that there was any design to deceive him in particular—he only happened to be the first included in a large number whose credulity was to be taxed pretty extensively."
"You will exhibit it, of course?" he said to Redding, after he had been admitted to a sight of the extraordinary machine.
"This is too insignificant an affair," replied Redding. "It will not impress the public mind strongly enough. It will not give them a truly adequate idea of the force attainable by this new motive power. No—I shall not let the public fully into my secret yet. I expect to reap from it the largest fortune ever made by any man in this country, and I shall not run any risks in the outset by a false move. The results that must follow its right presentation to the public cannot be calculated. It will entirely supercede steam and water power in mills, boats, and on railroads, because it will be cheaper by half. But I need not tell you this, for you have the sagacity to comprehend it all yourself. You have seen the machine in operation, and you fully understand the principle upon which it acts."
"How long will it take you to construct such a machine as you think is required?" asked Wiseacre.
"It could be done in six months if I had the means. But, like all other great inventors, I am poor. If I could associate with me some man of capital, I would willingly share with him the profits of my discovery, which will be, in the end, immense."
"How much money will you need?" asked Wiseacre, already beginning to burn with a desire for a part of the immense returns.
"Two or three thousand dollars. If I could find any one willing to invest that moderate sum of money now, I would guarantee to return him four fold in less than two years, and insure him a hundred thousand dollars in ten years. But men who have money generally think a bird in the hand worth ten in the bush; and with them, almost every thing not actually in possession is looked upon as in the bush."
Mr. Wiseacre sat thoughtful for some moments. Then he asked,
"How much must you have immediately?"
"About five hundred dollars, and at least five hundred dollars a month until the model is completed."
"Perhaps I might do it," said Wiseacre, after another thoughtful pause.
"I should be most happy if you could," quickly responded Redding. "There is no man with whom I had rather share the benefits of this great discovery than yourself. Whosoever goes into it with me is sure to make an immense fortune."
Wiseacre no longer hesitated. The five hundred dollars were advanced, and the new model commenced. As to its progress, and the exact amount it cost in construction, he was not accurately advised, but one thing he knew—he had to draw five hundred dollars out of his business every month; and this he found not always the most convenient operation in the world.
At length the model was completed. When shown to Wiseacre, it did not seem to be upon the grand scale he had expected; nor did it, to his eyes, look as if its construction had cost two or three thousand dollars. But Mr. Redding was such a fair man, that no serious doubts had a chance to array themselves against him.
Two or three scientific gentlemen were first admitted to a view of the machine. They examined it; heard Redding explained the principle upon which it acted, and were shown the beautiful manner in which the reproduction of forces was obtained. Some shrugged their shoulders; some said they wouldn't believe their own eyes in regard to perpetual motion—that the thing was a physical impossibility; while others half doubted and half believed. With all these skeptics and half-skeptics Wiseacre was out of all patience. Seeing, he said, was believing; and he wouldn't give a fig for a man who couldn't rely upon the evidence of his own senses.
At length Redding's great achievement in mechanics was announced to the public, and his model opened for exhibition. Free tickets were sent to editors, and liberal advertisements inserted in their papers. The gentlemen of the press examined the machine, and pretty generally pronounced it a very singular affair certainly, and, as far as they couldjudge, all that it pretended to be. Gradually that portion of the public interested in such matters, awoke from the indifference felt on the first announcement of the discovery, and began to look at and enter into warm discussions about the machine. Some believed, but the majority either doubted or denied that it was perpetual motion. A few boldly affirmed that there was some trick, and that it would be discovered in the end.
Toward the lukewarm, the doubting, and the denying, Wiseacre was in direct antagonism. He had no sort of patience with them. At all times, and in all places, he boldly took the affirmative in regard to the discovery of perpetual motion, and showed no quarter to any one who was bold enough to doubt.
Among those who could not believe the evidence of his own senses, was an eminent natural philosopher, who visited the machine almost every day, and as often conversed with Redding about the new principle in mechanics which he had discovered and applied. The theory was specious, and yet opposed to it was the unalterable, ever-potent force of gravitation, which he saw must overcome all so called self-existant motion. The more he thought about it, and the oftener he looked at and examined Redding's machine, and talked with the inventor, the more confused did his mind become. At length, after obtaining the most accurate information in regard to the construction of the machine, he set to work and made one precisely like it; but it wouldn't go. Satisfied, now, that there was imposture, he resolved to ferret it out. There was some force beyond the machine he was convinced. Communicating his suspicions to a couple of friends, he was readily joined by them in a proposed effort to find out the true secret of the motion imparted to the machine. He had noticed that Redding had another room adjoining the one in which the model was exhibited, and that upon the door was written "No admittance." Into this he determined to penetrate—and he put this determination into practice, accompanied by two friends, on the first favorable opportunity. Fortunately, it happened that the door leading to this room was without the door of the one leading into the exhibition-room. While Redding was engaged in showing the machine to a pretty large company, including Wiseacre, who spent a good deal of time there, the explorers withdrew, and finding the key in the door, entered quietly the adjoining room, which they took care to fasten on the inside. The only suspicious object here was a large closet. This was locked; but as the intention had been to make a pretty thorough search, a short, strong, steel crow-bar was soon produced from beneath a cloak, and the door in due time made to yield. Wonderful discovery! There sat a man with a little table by his side, upon which was a dim lamp, a plate of bread and cheese, and a mug of beer. He was engaged in turning a wheel!
The machine stopped instantly and would not go on, much to the perplexity and alarm of the inventor. Wiseacre was deeply disturbed. In the midst of the murmur of surprise and disapprobation that followed, a man suddenly entered the room, and cried out in a low voice,
"It's all humbug! We've discovered the cause of the motion! Come and see!"
All rushed out after the man, and entered the room over the door of which was written so conspicuously "No admittance." No, not all—Redding passed on down stairs, and was never again heard of!
The scene that followed we need not describe. The poor laborer at the wheel, for a dollar a day, had like to have been broken on his wheel, but the crowd in mercy spared him. As for poor Wiseacre, who had never been humbugged in his life, he was so completely "used up" by this undreamed of result, that he could hardly look any body in the face for two or three months. But he got over it some time since, and is now a more thorough disbeliever in all new things than before.
"You don't humbug me!" is his stereotyped answer to all announcements of new discoveries. Even in regard to the magnetic telegraph he is still quite skeptical, and shrugs his shoulders, and elevates his eyebrows, as much as to say, "It'll blow up one of these times, mark my word for it." Nobody has yet been able to persuade him to go to the Exchange and look at the operation of the batteries there and see for himself. He doesn't really believe in the thing, and smiles inwardly, as the rough poles and naked wires stare him in the face while passing along the street. He looks confidently to see them converted into poles for scaffolding before twelve months pass away.
Nay, look not forth with those deep earnest eyesTo catch the gleaming of your lovers' plumes;A dearer, surer, trustier passion liesIn sisters' hearts than lovers' cheeks illumes.Man worships and forsakes; and as he fliesFrom flower to flower their beauty he consumes;Then leaves the wasted heart and faded flowerTo die forgotten in their sunless bower.But sisters' love, like angels' sympathies,Is as the breath of Heaven and cannot changeNo earthly shudder taints its sinless kiss.No sorrow can your loving hearts estrange;No selfish pride destroy the priceless blissOf loving and confiding. Oh exchangeNot love like this, so heavenly and so true.For all the vows that lovers' lips e'er knew
Nay, look not forth with those deep earnest eyesTo catch the gleaming of your lovers' plumes;A dearer, surer, trustier passion liesIn sisters' hearts than lovers' cheeks illumes.Man worships and forsakes; and as he fliesFrom flower to flower their beauty he consumes;Then leaves the wasted heart and faded flowerTo die forgotten in their sunless bower.
But sisters' love, like angels' sympathies,Is as the breath of Heaven and cannot changeNo earthly shudder taints its sinless kiss.No sorrow can your loving hearts estrange;No selfish pride destroy the priceless blissOf loving and confiding. Oh exchangeNot love like this, so heavenly and so true.For all the vows that lovers' lips e'er knew
THE SISTERS
On wall-girt Sardis weary day hath shedThe golden blaze of his expiring beam;And rings her paven walks beneath the treadOf guards that near the hour of battle deem—Whose brazen helmets in the starlight gleam;From tented lines no murmur loud descends,For martial thousands of the battle dreamOn which the fate of bleeding Rome dependsWhen blushing dawn awakes and night's dark curtain rends.Though hushed War's couchant tigers in their lairThe tranquil time toonebrings not repose—A voice was whispering to his soul—"Despair!The gods will give the triumph to thy foes."Can sleep, with leaden hand, our eyelids closeWhen throng distempered fancies, and depart,And thought a shadow on the future throws?When shapes unearthly into being start,And, like a snake, Remorse uncoils within the heart?At midnight deep when bards avow that tombsAre by their cold inhabitants forsaken,The Roman chief his wasted lamp relumes,And calmly reads by mortal wo unshaken:His iron frame of rest had not partaken,And doubt—dark enemy of slumber—fillsA breast where fear no trembling chord could waken,And on his ear an awful voice yet thrillsThat rose, when Cæsar fell, from Rome's old Seven Hills.A sound—"that earth owns not"—he hears, and starts,And grasps the handle of his weapon tried;Then, while the rustling tent-cloth slowly parts,A figure enters and stands by his side:There was an air of majesty and prideIn the bold bearing of that spectre pale—The crimson on its robe was still undried,And dagger wounds, that tell a bloody taleBeyond the power of words, the opening folds unveil.With fearful meaning towers the phantom grim,On Brutus fixing its cold, beamless eye;The face, though that of Julius, seems to himFormed from the moonlight of a misty sky:The birds of night, affrighted, flutter by,And a wild sound upon the shuddering airCreeps as if earth were breathing out a sigh,And the fast-waning lamp, as if awareSome awful shade was nigh, emits a ghostly glare.Stern Brutus quails not, though his wo-worn cheeksBlanch with emotion, and in tone full loudThus to the ghastly apparition speaks—"Why stand before me in that gory shroud,Unwelcome guest! thy purpose unavowed;Art thou the shaping of my wildered brain?"The spectre answered, with a gesture proud,In hollow accents—"We will meet againWhen the best blood of Rome smokes on Philippi's plain."
On wall-girt Sardis weary day hath shedThe golden blaze of his expiring beam;And rings her paven walks beneath the treadOf guards that near the hour of battle deem—Whose brazen helmets in the starlight gleam;From tented lines no murmur loud descends,For martial thousands of the battle dreamOn which the fate of bleeding Rome dependsWhen blushing dawn awakes and night's dark curtain rends.
Though hushed War's couchant tigers in their lairThe tranquil time toonebrings not repose—A voice was whispering to his soul—"Despair!The gods will give the triumph to thy foes."Can sleep, with leaden hand, our eyelids closeWhen throng distempered fancies, and depart,And thought a shadow on the future throws?When shapes unearthly into being start,And, like a snake, Remorse uncoils within the heart?
At midnight deep when bards avow that tombsAre by their cold inhabitants forsaken,The Roman chief his wasted lamp relumes,And calmly reads by mortal wo unshaken:His iron frame of rest had not partaken,And doubt—dark enemy of slumber—fillsA breast where fear no trembling chord could waken,And on his ear an awful voice yet thrillsThat rose, when Cæsar fell, from Rome's old Seven Hills.
A sound—"that earth owns not"—he hears, and starts,And grasps the handle of his weapon tried;Then, while the rustling tent-cloth slowly parts,A figure enters and stands by his side:There was an air of majesty and prideIn the bold bearing of that spectre pale—The crimson on its robe was still undried,And dagger wounds, that tell a bloody taleBeyond the power of words, the opening folds unveil.
With fearful meaning towers the phantom grim,On Brutus fixing its cold, beamless eye;The face, though that of Julius, seems to himFormed from the moonlight of a misty sky:The birds of night, affrighted, flutter by,And a wild sound upon the shuddering airCreeps as if earth were breathing out a sigh,And the fast-waning lamp, as if awareSome awful shade was nigh, emits a ghostly glare.
Stern Brutus quails not, though his wo-worn cheeksBlanch with emotion, and in tone full loudThus to the ghastly apparition speaks—"Why stand before me in that gory shroud,Unwelcome guest! thy purpose unavowed;Art thou the shaping of my wildered brain?"The spectre answered, with a gesture proud,In hollow accents—"We will meet againWhen the best blood of Rome smokes on Philippi's plain."
Years—eventful years have passedSweet sister! since I met thy smile;I'm thinking now what change they've castUpon your form and mine the while;Thy girlhood's days with them are flown—A calmer light must fill thine eye;Thy voice have now an added tone;Thy tresses fall more dark and free.Yet, in my dreams of thee and home,A slight, pale girl I ever see,Whose smiles to her mild lip do come,Like stars in heaven—tremblingly!For with thy young heart's lovingnessThere aye seemed blent a troubled fear,As if it knewalltendernessMust see its worship perish here!And oh, the prayers I poured to Heaven,That time prove not totheehow golden links are riven!And I—oh, sister!Iam changed—You scarce would know the dreaming boy;For all too far his steps have rangedThrough wildering ways of Strife and JoyOh! falcon-eyed Ambition's schemes—The thrill that comes on mounting wings—Have left no love for quiet dreams,And learned contempt for tamer things!And Pleasure to my youthful cheekSo many a hot, wild flush has won,That to her foils I've grown too weak—Some nerve must still be passion-spun!And if 'mid scenes all bravery—glow—The night has found me proud and blest,Stern, mournful things—that make life's wo—Have struck sad music from my breast!And when at times Thought leaves me calm,And boyhood's memories float by,Thenwell I know how changed I am—And a strange weakness dims my eye!Oh! sister, on this heart of mineWeight—stain—have come, since last I met that smile of thine!
Years—eventful years have passedSweet sister! since I met thy smile;I'm thinking now what change they've castUpon your form and mine the while;Thy girlhood's days with them are flown—A calmer light must fill thine eye;Thy voice have now an added tone;Thy tresses fall more dark and free.Yet, in my dreams of thee and home,A slight, pale girl I ever see,Whose smiles to her mild lip do come,Like stars in heaven—tremblingly!For with thy young heart's lovingnessThere aye seemed blent a troubled fear,As if it knewalltendernessMust see its worship perish here!And oh, the prayers I poured to Heaven,That time prove not totheehow golden links are riven!
And I—oh, sister!Iam changed—You scarce would know the dreaming boy;For all too far his steps have rangedThrough wildering ways of Strife and JoyOh! falcon-eyed Ambition's schemes—The thrill that comes on mounting wings—Have left no love for quiet dreams,And learned contempt for tamer things!And Pleasure to my youthful cheekSo many a hot, wild flush has won,That to her foils I've grown too weak—Some nerve must still be passion-spun!And if 'mid scenes all bravery—glow—The night has found me proud and blest,Stern, mournful things—that make life's wo—Have struck sad music from my breast!And when at times Thought leaves me calm,And boyhood's memories float by,Thenwell I know how changed I am—And a strange weakness dims my eye!Oh! sister, on this heart of mineWeight—stain—have come, since last I met that smile of thine!
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Think not that I love thee,Alluring coquette,The vows you have brokenI too can forget;The love that I gave thee,Thou ne'er could'st repay,So affection for theeHas passed away.
Think not that I love thee,Alluring coquette,The vows you have brokenI too can forget;The love that I gave thee,Thou ne'er could'st repay,So affection for theeHas passed away.
The Life of Oliver Cromwell. By J. T. Headley. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.
The Life of Oliver Cromwell. By J. T. Headley. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.
This volume is elegantly printed, and contains the most characteristic portrait of Cromwell we have seen. In regard to thought and composition it is Mr. Headley's best book. Without being deficient in the energy and pictorial power which have given such popularity to his other productions, it indicates an advance in respect to artistic arrangement of matter and correctness of composition. It is needless to say that the author has not elaborated it into a finished work, or done full justice to his talents in its general treatment. We do not agree with Mr. Headley in his notion of Cromwell, and think that his marked prepossession for his hero has unconsciously led him to alter the natural relations of the facts and principles with which he deals; but still we feel bound to give him credit for an extensive study of his subject, and for bringing together numerous interesting details which can be found in no other single biography of Cromwell. Among his authorities and guides we are sorry to see that he has not included Hallam. The portion of the latter's Constitutional History of England devoted to the reign of Charles I., the Commonwealth and the Protectorate, deserves, at least, the respectful attention of every writer on those subjects. Indeed we think Hallam so much an authority that a deviation from him on a question of fact or principle should be accompanied by arguments contesting his statements. Of all the historians of the period we conceive him to be almost the only one who loses the partisan in the judge. The questions mooted in the controversy between Charles and his Parliament are still hotly contested, and are so calculated to inflame the passions, that almost every historian of the time turns advocate. Mr. Headley's passionate sensibility should have been a little cooled by "fraternizing" with Mr. Hallam's judicial understanding.
The leading merit of Mr. Headley's volume is his description of Cromwell's battles; Marston Moor, Preston, Naseby, Dunbar and Worcester, are not mere names, suggesting certain mechanical military movements to the reader of the present book. The smoke and dust and blood and carnage of war—the passions it excites, and the heroism it prompts, are all brought right before the eye. Many historians have attempted to convey in general terms a notion of the kind of men that Cromwell brought into battle, but it is in Mr. Headley's volume that we really obtain a distinct conception of the renowned Ironsides. He has just enough sympathy with the soldier and the Puritan to reproduce in imagination the religious passions which animated that band of "braves." As a considerable portion of Cromwell's life relates to his military character, Mr. Headley has a wide field for the exercise of his singular power of painting battle-pieces.
As the present biography, of all the lives of Cromwell with which we are acquainted, is calculated to be the most popular, we regret that the author has not taken a Juster view of Cromwell's character and actions. It is important in a republican country, that the popular mind should have just notions of constitutional liberty, and every attempt to convert such despots as Napoleon and Cromwell into champions of freedom, will, in proportion to its success, prepare the way for a brood of such men in our own country. In regard to Mr. Headley, we think that his sympathy with Cromwell's great powers as a warrior and ruler has vitiated his view of many transactions vitally connected with the principles of freedom. Compared with Carlyle, however, he may be almost considered impartial. He is frank and fearless in presenting his opinions, and does not confuse the mind by mixing up statements of fact with any of the trancendental Scotchman's sentimentality.
The English Revolution of 1640 began in a defense of legal privileges and ended in a military despotism. It commenced in withstanding attacks on civil and religious rights and ended in the dominion of a sect. The point, therefore, where the lover of freedom should cease to sympathize with it is plain. It is useless for the republican to say that every revolution of the kind must necessarily take a similar course, for that is not an argument for Cromwell's usurpation, but an argument against the expediency of opposing attacks by a king, on the rights and privileges of the people. The truth is that the English Revolution was at first a popular movement, having a clear majority of the property, intelligence and numbers of the people on its side. The king, in breaking the fundamental laws of the kingdom, made war on the community, and was to be resisted just as much as if he were king of France or Spain, and had invaded the country. It is easy to trace the progress of this resistance, until by the action of religious bigotry and other inflaming passions, the powers of the opposition became concentrated in the hands of a body of military fanatics, commanded by an imperious soldier, and representing a small minority even of the Puritans. The king, a weak and vacillating man, made an attempt at arbitrary power, was resisted, and after years of civil war, ended his days on the scaffold; Cromwell, without any of those palliations which charity might urge in extenuation of the king, on the ground of the prejudices of his station, took advantage of the weakness of the country, after it had been torn by civil war, usurped supreme power, and became the most arbitrary monarch England had seen since William the Conqueror. No one doubts his genius, and it seems strange that any one should doubt his despotic character.
The truth is that Cromwell's natural character, even on the hypothesis of his sincerity, was arbitrary, and the very opposite of what we look for in the character of a champion of freedom. It seems to us supremely ridiculous to talk of such a man as being capable of having his conduct determined by a parliament or a council. He pretended to look to God, not to human laws or fallible men, for the direction of his actions. In the name of the Deity he charged at the head of his Ironsides. In the name of the Deity he massacred the Irish garrisons. In the name of the Deity he sent dragoons to overturn parliaments. He believed neither in the sovereignty of the people, nor the sovereignty of the laws, and it made little difference whether his opponent was Charles I. or Sir Harry Vane, provided he were an opponent. In regard to the inmost essence of tyranny, that of exalting the individual will over every thing else, and of meeting opposition and obstacles by pure force, Charles I. was a weakling in comparison with Cromwell. Now if, in respect to human governments, democracy and republicanism consist in allowing any great and strong man to assume the supreme power, on his simple assertion that he has a commission from Heaven so to do; if constitutional liberty is a government of willinstead of a government of laws, then the partisans of Cromwell are justified in their eulogies. It appears to us that the only ground on which the Protector's tyranny is more endurable than the king's, consists in the fact that from its nature it could not be permanent, and could not establish itself into the dignity of a precedent. It was a power depending neither on the assent of the people, nor on laws and institutions, but simply on the character of one man. As far as it went, it did no good in any way to the cause of freedom, for to Cromwell's government, and to the fanaticism which preceded it, we owe the reaction of Charles the Second's reign, when licentiousness in manners, and servility in politics succeeded in making virtue and freedom synonymous with hypocrisy and cant.
In regard to Cromwell's massacres in Ireland, which even Mr. Headley denounces as uncivilized, a great deal of nonsense has been written by Carlyle. The fact is that Cromwell, in these matters, acted as Cortez did in Mexico, and Pizarro in Peru, and deserves no more charity. If he performed them from policy, as Carlyle intimates, he must be considered a disciple of Machiavelli and the Devil; if he performed them from religious bigotry, he may rank with St. Dominic and Charles the Ninth. We are sick of hearing brutality and wickedness, either in Puritan or Catholic, extenuated on the ground of bigotry. This bigotry which prompts inhuman deeds, is not an excuse for sin, but the greatest of spiritual sins. It indicates a condition of mind in which the individual deifies his malignant passions.
We are sorry that Mr. Headley has written his biography with such a marked leaning to Cromwell. We believe that a large majority of readers will obtain their notions of the Protector from his pages, and that they will be no better republicans thereby. The very brilliancy and ability of his work will only make it more influential upon the popular mind.