Let the boy have his will! I tell thee, brother,We treat these little ones too much like flowers,Training them, in blind selfishness, to deckSticks of our poor setting, when they might,If left to clamber where themselves incline,Find nobler props to cling to, fitter place,And sweeter air to bloom in. It is wrong—Thou striv'st to sow with feelings all thine own,With thoughts and hopes, anxieties and aims,Born of thine own peculiar self, and fedUpon a certain round of circumstance,A soul as different and distinct from thineAs love of goodness is from love of glory,Or noble poesy from noble prose.I could forgive thee, if thou wast of themWho do their fated parts in this world's business,Scarce knowing how or why—for common mindsSee not the difference 'twixt themselves and others—But thou, thou, with the visions which thy youth did cherishSubstantialized upon thy regal brow,Shouldst boast a deeper insight. We are born,It is my faith, in miniature completeness,And like each other only in our weakness.Even with our mother's milk upon our lips,Our smiles have different meanings, and our handsPress with degrees of softness to her bosom.It is not change—whatever in the heartThat wears its semblance, we, in looking back,With gratulation or regret, perceive—It is not change we undergo, but onlyGrowth or development. Yes! what is childhoodBut after all a sort of golden daylight,A beautiful and blessed wealth of sunshine,Wherein the powers and passions of the soulSleep starlike but existent, till the nightOf gathering years shall call the slumbers forth,And they rise up in glory? Early grief,A shadow like the darkness of eclipse,Hath sometimes waked them sooner.
It is a place whither I've often goneFor peace, and found it, secret, hushed, and cool,A beautiful recess in neighboring woods.Trees of the soberest hues, thick-leaved and tall,Arch it o'erhead and column it around,Framing a covert, natural and wild,Domelike and dim; though nowhere so enclosedBut that the gentlest breezes reach the spotUnwearied and unweakened. Sound is hereA transient and unfrequent visitor;Yet if the day be calm, not often then,Whilst the high pines in one another's armsSleep, you may sometimes with unstartled earCatch the far fall of voices, how remoteYou know not, and you do not care to know.The turf is soft and green, but not a flowerLights the recess, save one, star-shaped and bright—I do not know its name—which here and thereGleams like a sapphire set in emerald.A narrow opening in the branchëd roof,A single one, is large enough to show,With that half glimpse a dreamer loves so much,The blue air and the blessing of the sky.Thither I always bent my idle steps,When griefs depressed, or joys disturbed my heart,And found the calm I looked for, or returnedStrong with the quiet rapture in my soul.But one day,One of those July days when winds have fledOne knows not whither, I, most sick in mindWith thoughts that shall be nameless, yet, no doubt,Wrong, or at least unhealthful, since though darkWith gloom, and touched with discontent, they hadNo adequate excuse, nor cause, nor end,I, with these thoughts, and on this summer day,Entered the accustomed haunt, and found for onceNo medicinal virtue.Not a leafStirred with the whispering welcome which I sought,But in a close and humid atmosphere,Every fair plant and implicated boughHung lax and lifeless. Something in the place,Its utter stillness, the unusual heat,And some more secret influence, I thought,Weighed on the sense like sin. Above I saw,Though not a cloud was visible in heaven,The pallid sky look through a glazëd mistLike a blue eye in death.The change, perhaps,Was natural enough; my jaundiced sight,The weather, and the time explain it all:Yet have I drawn a lesson from the spot,And shrined it in these verses for my heart.Thenceforth those tranquil precincts I have soughtNot less, and in all shades of various moods;But always shun to desecrate the spotBy vain repinings, sickly sentiments,Or inconclusive sorrows. Nature, thoughPure as she was in Eden when her breathKissed the white brow of Eve, doth not refuse,In her own way and with a just reserve,To sympathize with human suffering;But for the pains, the fever, and the fretEngendered of a weak, unquiet heart,She hath no solace; and who seeks her whenThese be the troubles over which he moans,Reads in her unreplying lineamentsRebukes, that, to the guilty consciousness,Strike like contempt.
Oh! dost thou flatter falsely, Hope?The day hath scarcely passed that saw thy birth,Yet thy white wings are plumed to all their scope,And hour by hour thine eyes have gathered light,And grown so large and bright,That my whole future life unfolds what seems,Beneath their gentle beams,A path that leads athwart some guiltless earth,To which a star is dropping from the night!Not many moons ago,But when these leafless beds were all aglowWith summer's dearest treasures, IWas reading in this lonely garden-nook;A July noon was cloudless in the sky,And soon I put my shallow studies by;Then, sick at heart, and angered by the book,Which, in good sooth, was but the long-drawn sighOf some one who had quarreled with his kind,Vexed at the very proofs which I had sought,And all annoyed while all alert to findA plausible likeness of my own dark thought,I cast me down beneath yon oak's wide boughs,And, shielding with both hands my throbbing brows,Watched lazily the shadows of my brain.The feeble tide of peevishness went down,And left a flat dull waste of dreary pain,Which seemed to clog the blood in every vein;The world, of course, put on its darkest frown—In all its realms I saw no mortal crownWhich did not wound or crush some restless head;And hope, and will, and motive, all were dead.So, passive as a stone, I felt too lowTo claim a kindred with the humblest flower;Even that would bare its bosom to a shower,While I henceforth would take no pains to live,Nor place myself where I might feel or giveA single impulse whence a wish could grow.There was a tulip scarce a gossamer's throwBeyond that platanus. A little child,Most dear to me, looked through the fence and smiledA hint that I should pluck it for her sake.Ah, me! I trust I was not well awake—The voice was very sweet,Yet a faint languor kept me in my seat.I saw a pouted lip, a toss, and heardSome low expostulating tones, but stirredNot even a leaf's length, till the pretty fay,Wondering, and half abashed at the wild feat,Climbed the low pales, and laughed my gloom away.And here again, but led by other powers,A morning and a golden afternoon,These happy stars, and yonder setting moon,Have seen me speed, unreckoned and untasked,A round of precious hours.Oh! here, where in that summer noon I basked,And strove, with logic frailer than the flowers,To justify a life of sensuous rest,A question dear as home or heaven was asked,And without language answered. I was blest!Blest with those nameless boons too sweet to trustUnto the telltale confidence of song.Love to his own glad self is sometimes coy,And even thus much doth seem to do him wrong;While in the fears which chasten mortal joy,Is one that shuts the lips, lest speech too free,With the cold touch of hard reality,Should turn its priceless jewels into dust.Since that long kiss which closed the morning's talk,I have not strayed beyond this garden walk.As yet a vague delight is all I know,A sense of joy so wild 't is almost pain,And like a trouble drives me to and fro,And will not pause to count its own sweet gain.I am so happy! that is all my thought.To-morrow I will turn it round and round,And seek to know its limits and its ground.To-morrow I will task my heart to learnThe duties which shall spring from such a seed,And where it must be sown, and how be wrought.But oh! this reckless bliss is bliss indeed!And for one day I choose to seal the urnWherein is shrined Love's missal and his creed.Meantime I give my fancy all it craves;Like him who found the West when first he caughtThe light that glittered from the world he sought,And furled his sails till Dawn should show the land;While in glad dreams he saw the ambient wavesGo rippling brightly up a golden strand.Hath there not been a softer breath at playIn the long woodland aisles than often sweepsAt this rough season through their solemn deeps—A gentle Ariel sent by gentle May,Who knew it was the mornOn which a hope was born,To greet the flower e'er it was fully blown,And nurse it as some lily of her own?And wherefore, save to grace a happy day,Did the whole West at blushing sunset glowWith clouds that, floating up in bridal snow,Passed with the festal eve, rose-crowned, away?And now, if I may trust my straining sight,The heavens appear with added stars to-night,And deeper depths, and more celestial height,Than hath been reached except in dreams or death.Hush, sweetest South! I love thy delicate breath;But hush! methought I felt an angel's kiss!Oh! all that lives is happy in my bliss.That lonely fir, which always seemsAs though it locked dark secrets in itself,Hideth a gentle elf,Whose wand shall send me soon a frolic troopOf rainbow visions, and of moonlit dreams.Can joy be weary, that my eyelids droop?To-night I shall not seek my curtained nest,But even here find rest.Who whispered then? And what are they that peepBetwixt the foliage in the tree-top there?Come, Fairy Shadows! for the morn is near,When to your sombre pine ye all must creep;Come, ye wild pilots of the darkness, ereMy spirit sinks into the gulf of Sleep;Even now it circles round and round the deep—Appear! Appear!
I think that, next to your sweet eyes,And pleasant books, and starry skies,I love the world of flowers;Less for their beauty of a day,Than for the tender things they say,And for a creed I've held alway,That they are sentient powers.It may be matter for a smile—And I laugh secretly the whileI speak the fancy out—But that they love, and that they woo,And that they often marry too,And do as noisier creatures do,I've not the faintest doubt.And so, I cannot deem it rightTo take them from the glad sunlight,As I have sometimes dared;Though not without an anxious sighLest this should break some gentle tie,Some covenant of friendship, IHad better far have spared.And when, in wild or thoughtless hours,My hand hath crushed the tiniest flowers,I ne'er could shut from sightThe corpses of the tender things,With other drear imaginings,And little angel-flowers with wingsWould haunt me through the night.Oh! say you, friend, the creed is fraughtWith sad, and even with painful thought,Nor could you bear to knowThat such capacities belongTo creatures helpless against wrong,At once too weak to fly the strongOr front the feeblest foe?So be it always, then, with you;So be it—whether false or true—I press my faith on none;If other fancies please you more,The flowers shall blossom as before,Dear as the Sibyl-leaves of yore,But senseless, every one.Yet, though I give you no reply,It were not hard to justifyMy creed to partial ears;But, conscious of the cruel part,My rhymes would flow with faltering art,I could not plead against your heart,Nor reason with your tears.
Welcome, rain or tempestFrom yon airy powers,We have languished for themMany sultry hours,And earth is sick and wan, and pines with all her flowers.What have they been doingIn the burning June?Riding with the genii?Visiting the moon?Or sleeping on the ice amid an arctic noon?Bring they with them jewelsFrom the sunset lands?What are these they scatterWith such lavish hands?There are no brighter gems in Raolconda's sands.Pattering on the gravel,Dropping from the eaves,Glancing in the grass, andTinkling on the leaves,They flash the liquid pearls as flung from fairy sieves.Meanwhile, unreluctant,Earth like Danaë lies;Listen! is it fancy,That beneath us sighs,As that warm lap receives the largesse of the skies?Jove, it is, descendethIn those crystal rills;And this world-wide tremorIs a pulse that thrillsTo a god's life infused through veins of velvet hills.Wait, thou jealous sunshine,Break not on their bliss;Earth will blush in rosesMany a day for this,And bend a brighter brow beneath thy burning kiss.
She came with April blooms and showers;We count her little life by flowers.As buds the rose upon her cheek,We choose a flower for every week.A week of hyacinths, we say,And one of heart's-ease, ushered May;And then because two wishes metUpon the rose and violet—I liked the Beauty, Kate, the Nun—The violet and the rose count one.A week the apple marked with white;A week the lily scored in light;Red poppies closed May's happy moon,And tulips this blue week in June.Here end as yet the flowery links;To-day begins the week of pinks;But soon—so grave, and deep, and wiseThe meaning grows in Baby's eyes,SoVERYdeep for Baby's age—We think to date a week with sage!
If you have seen a richer glow,Pray, tell me where your roses blow!Look! coral-leaved! and—mark these spotsRed staining red in crimson clots,Like a sweet lip bitten throughIn a pique. There, where that hueIs spilt in drops, some fairy thingHath gashed the azure of its wing,Or thence, perhaps, this very morn,Plucked the splinters of a thorn.Rose! I make thy bliss my care!In my lady's dusky hairThou shalt burn this coming night,With even a richer crimson light.To requite me thou shalt tell—What I might not say as well—How I love her; how, in brief,On a certain crimson leafIn my bosom, is a debtWrit in deeper crimson yet.If she wonder what it be—But she'll guess it, I foresee—Tell her that I date it, pray,From the first sweet night in May.
So, they are dead! Love! when they passedFrom thee to me, our fingers met;O withered darlings of the May!I feel those fairy fingers yet.And for the bliss ye brought me then,Your faded forms are precious things;No flowers so fair, no buds so sweetShall bloom through all my future springs.And so, pale ones! with hands as softAs if I closed a baby's eyes,I'll lay you in some favorite bookMade sacred by a poet's sighs.Your lips shall press the sweetest song,The sweetest, saddest song I know,As ye had perished, in your pride,Of some lone bard's melodious woe.Oh, Love! hath love no holier shrine!Oh, heart! could love but lend the power,I'd lay thy crimson pages bare,And every leaf should fold its flower.
Art thou not glad to closeThy wearied eyes, O saddest child of Time,Eyes which have looked on every mortal crime,And swept the piteous round of mortal woes?In dark Plutonian caves,Beneath the lowest deep, go, hide thy head;Or earth thee where the blood that thou hast shedMay trickle on thee from thy countless graves!Take with thee all thy gloomAnd guilt, and all our griefs, save what the breast,Without a wrong to some dear shadowy guest,May not surrender even to the tomb.No tear shall weep thy fall,When, as the midnight bell doth toll thy fate,Another lifts the sceptre of thy state,And sits a monarch in thine ancient hall.HIMall the hours attend,With a new hope like morning in their eyes;Him the fair earth and him these radiant skiesHail as their sovereign, welcome as their friend.Him, too, the nations wait;"O lead us from the shadow of the Past,"In a long wail like this December blast,They cry, and, crying, grow less desolate.How he will shape his swayThey ask not—for old doubts and fears will cling—And yet they trust that, somehow, he will bringA sweeter sunshine than thy mildest day.Beneath his gentle handThey hope to see no meadow, vale, or hillStained with a deeper red than roses spill,When some too boisterous zephyr sweeps the land.A time of peaceful prayer,Of law, love, labor, honest loss and gain—These are the visions of the coming reignNow floating to them on this wintry air.
Arrayed for an Approaching Bridal.Written in Illustration of a Tableau Vivant
Is she not lovely! Oh! when, long ago,My own dead mother gazed upon my face,As I stood blushing near in bridal snow,I had not half her beauty and her grace.Yet that fond mother praised, the world caressed,AndONEadored me—how shallHEwho soonShall wear my gentle flower upon his breast,Prize to its utmost worth the priceless boon?Shall he not gird her, guard her, make her rich,(Not as the world is rich, in outward show,)With all the love and watchful kindness whichA wise and tender manhood may bestow?Oh! I shall part from her with many tears,My earthly treasure, pure and undefiled!And not without a weight of anxious fearsFor the new future of my darling child.And yet—for well I know that virgin heart—No wifely duty will she leave undone;Nor will her love neglect that woman's artWhich courts and keeps a love already won.In no light girlish levity she goesUnto the altar where they wait her now,But with a thoughtful, prayerful heart that knowsThe solemn purport of a marriage vow.And she will keep, with all her soul's deep truth,The lightest pledge which binds her love and life;And she will be—no less in age than youthMy noble child will be—a noble wife.And he, her lover! husband! what of him?Yes, he will shield, I think, my bud from blight!Yet griefs will come—enough! my eyes are dimWith tears I must not shed—at least, to-night.Bless thee, my daughter!—Oh! she is so fair!—Heaven bend above thee with its starriest skies!And make thee truly all thou dost appearUnto a lover's and thy mother's eyes!
We scarce, O God! could lisp thy name,When those who loved us passed away,And left us but thy love to claim,With but an infant's strength to pray.Thou gav'st that Refuge and that Shrine,At which we learn to know thy ways;Father! the fatherless are thine!Thou wilt not spurn the orphan's praise.Yet hear a single cry of pain!Lord! whilst we dream in quiet beds,The summer sun and winter rainBeat still on many homeless heads.And o'er this weary earth, we know,Young outcasts roam the waste and wave;And little hands are clasped in woeAbove some tender mother's grave.Ye winds! keep every storm aloof,And kiss away the tears they weep!Ye skies, that make their only roof,Look gently on their houseless sleep!And thou, O Friend and Father! findA home to shield their helpless youth!Dear hearts to love—sweet ties to bind—And guide and guard them in the truth!
I should be dumb before thee, feathered sage!And gaze upon thy phiz with solemn awe,But for a most audacious wish to gaugeThe hoarded wisdom of thy learned craw.Art thou, grave bird! so wondrous wise indeed?Speak freely, without fear of jest or gibe—What is thy moral and religious creed?And what the metaphysics of thy tribe?A Poet, curious in birds and brutes,I do not question thee in idle play;What is thy station? What are thy pursuits?Doubtless thou hast thy pleasures—what areTHEY?Or is 't thy wont to muse and mouse at once,Entice thy prey with airs of meditation,And with the unvarying habits of a dunce,To dine in solemn depths of contemplation?There may be much—the world at least says so—Behind that ponderous brow and thoughtful gaze;Yet such a great philosopher should know,It is by no means wise to think always.And, Bird, despite thy meditative air,I hold thy stock of wit but paltry pelf—Thou show'st that same grave aspect everywhere,And wouldst look thoughtful, stuffed, upon a shelf.I grieve to be so plain, renownëd Bird—Thy fame 's a flam, and thou an empty fowl;And what is more, upon a Poet's wordI'd say as much, wert thou Minerva's owl.So doff th' imposture of those heavy brows;They do not serve to hide thy instincts base—And if thou must be sometimes munchingMOUSE,Munch it, O Owl! with less profound a face.
And if I ask thee for a kiss,I ask no more than this sweet breeze,With far less title to the bliss,Steals every minute at his ease.And yet how placid is thy brow!It seems to woo the bold caress,While now he takes his kiss, and nowAll sorts of freedoms with thy dress.Or if I dare thy hand to touch,Hath nothing pressed its palm before?A flower, I'm sure, hath done as much,And ah! some senseless diamond more.It strikes me, love, the very rings,Now sparkling on that hand of thine,Could tell some truly startling things,If they had tongues or touch like mine.Indeed, indeed, I do not knowOf all that thou hast power to grant,A boon for which I could not showSome pretty precedent extant.Suppose, for instance, I should claspThus,—so,—and thus!—thy slender waist—I would not hold within my graspMore than this loosened zone embraced.Oh! put the anger from thine eyes,Or shut them if they still must frown;Those lids, despite yon garish skies,Can bring a timely darkness down.Then, if in that convenient night,My lips should press thy dewy mouth,The touch shall be so soft, so light,Thou 'lt fancy me—this gentle South.
Could I reveal the secret joyThy presence always with it brings,The memories so strangely wakedOf long forgotten things,The love, the hope, the fear, the grief,Which with that voice come back to me,—Thou wouldst forgive the impassioned gazeSo often turned on thee.It was, indeed, that early love,But foretaste of this second one,—The soft light of the morning starBefore the morning sun.The same dark beauty in her eyes,The same blonde hair and placid brow,The same deep-meaning, quiet smileThou bendest on me now,She might have been, sheWASno moreThan what a prescient hope could make,—A dear presentiment of theeI loved but for thy sake.
Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death!In the false aspect of a ruthless foe,Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath—O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so?Thou rather shouldst be crowned with fadeless flowers,Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue;Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers,But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through.So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixedAnd beautified, O Death! thy mansion here,Where gloom and gladness—grave and garden—mixed,Make it a place to love, and not to fear.Heaven! shed thy most propitious dews around!Ye holy stars! look down with tender eyes,And gild and guard and consecrate the groundWhere we may rest, and whence we pray to rise.
IFaint falls the gentle voice of prayerIn the wild sounds that fill the air,Yet, Lord, we know that voice is heard,Not less than if Thy throne it stirred.IIThine ear, thou tender One, is caught,If we but bend the knee in thought;No choral song that shakes the skyFloats farther than the Christian's sigh.IIINot all the darkness of the landCan hide the lifted eye and hand;Nor need the clanging conflict cease,To make Thee hear our cries for peace.
That which we are and shall be is made upOf what we have been. On the autumn leafThe crimson stains bear witness of its spring;And, on its perfect nodes, the ocean shellNotches the slow, strange changes of its growth.Ourselves are our own records; if we lookedRightly into that blotted crimson pageWithin our bosoms, then there were no needTo chronicle our stories; for the heartHath, like the earth, its strata, and containsIts past within its present. Well for us,And our most cherished secrets, that withinThe round of being few there are who readBeneath the surface. Else our very forms,The merest gesture of our hands, might tellMuch we would hide forever. Know you notThose eyes, in whose dark heaven I have gazedMore curiously than on my favorite stars,Are deeper for such griefs as they have seen,And brighter for the fancies they have shrined,And sweeter for the loves which they have talked?Oh! that I had the power to read their smiles,Or sound the depth of all their glorious gloom.So should I learn your history from its birth,Through all its glad and grave experiences,Better than if—(your journal in my hand,Written as only women write, with allA woman's shades and shapes of feeling, tracedAs with the fine touch of a needle's point)—I followed you from that bright hour when firstI saw you in the garden 'mid the flowers,To that wherein a letter from your handMade me all rich with the dear name of friend.
Awake upon a couch of pain,I see a star betwixt the trees;Across yon darkening field of cane,Comes slow and soft the evening breeze.My curtain's folds are faintly stirred;And moving lightly in her rest,I hear the chirrup of a bird,That dreameth in some neighboring nest.Last night I took no note of these—How it was passed I scarce can say;'T was not in prayers to Heaven for ease,'T was not in wishes for the day.Impatient tears, and passionate sighs,Touched as with fire the pulse of pain,—I cursed, and cursed the wildering eyesThat burned this fever in my brain.Oh! blessings on the quiet hour!My thoughts in calmer current flow;She is not conscious of her power,And hath no knowledge of my woe.Perhaps, if like yon peaceful star,She looked upon my burning brow,She would not pity from afar,But kiss me as the breeze does now.
Draw close the lattice and the door!Shut out the very stars above!No other eyes than mine shall poreUpon this thrilling tale of love.As, since the book was open last,Along its dear and sacred textNo other eyes than thine have passed—Be mine the eyes that trace it next!Oh! very nobly is it wrought,—This web of love's divinest light,—But not to feed my soul with thought,Hang I upon the book to-night;I read it only for thy sake,To every page my lips I press—The very leaves appear to makeA silken rustle like thy dress.And so, as each blest page I turn,I seem, with many a secret thrill,To touch a soft white hand, and burnTo clasp and kiss it at my will.Oh! if a fancy be so sweet,These shadowy fingers touching mine—How wildly would my pulses beat,If theyCOULDfeel the beat of thine!
Sweet are these kisses of the South,As dropped from woman's rosiest mouth,And tenderer are those azure skiesThan this world's tenderest pair of eyes!But ah! beneath such influenceThought is too often lost in Sense;And Action, faltering as we thrill,Sinks in the unnerved arms of Will.Awake, thou stormy North, and blastThe subtle spells around us cast;Beat from our limbs these flowery chainsWith the sharp scourges of thy rains!Bring with thee from thy Polar caveAll the wild songs of wind and wave,Of toppling berg and grinding floe,And the dread avalanche of snow!Wrap us in Arctic night and clouds!Yell like a fiend amid the shroudsOf some slow-sinking vessel, whenHe hears the shrieks of drowning men!Blend in thy mighty voice whate'erOf danger, terror, and despairThou hast encountered in thy sweepAcross the land and o'er the deep.Pour in our ears all notes of woe,That, as these very moments flow,Rise like a harsh discordant psalm,While we lie here in tropic calm.Sting our weak hearts with bitter shame,Bear us along with thee like flame;And prove that even to destroyMore God-like may be than to toyAnd rust or rot in idle joy!
My gentle friend! I hold no creed so falseAs that which dares to teach that we are bornFor battle only, and that in this lifeThe soul, if it would burn with starlike power,Must needs forsooth be kindled by the sparksStruck from the shock of clashing human hearts.There is a wisdom that grows up in strife,And one—I like it best—that sits at homeAnd learns its lessons of a thoughtful ease.So come! a lonely house awaits thee!—thereNor praise, nor blame shall reach us, save what loveOf knowledge for itself shall wake at timesIn our own bosoms; come! and we will buildA wall of quiet thought, and gentle books,Betwixt us and the hard and bitter world.Sometimes—for we need not be anchorites—A distant friend shall cheer us through the Post,Or some Gazette—of course no partisan—Shall bring us pleasant news of pleasant things;Then, twisted into graceful allumettes,Each ancient joke shall blaze with genuine flameTo light our pipes and candles; but to wars,Whether of words or weapons, we shall beDeaf—so we twain shall pass away the timeEv'n as a pair of happy lovers, who,Alone, within some quiet garden-nook,With a clear night of stars above their heads,Just hear, betwixt their kisses and their talk,The tumult of a tempest rolling throughA chain of neighboring mountains; they awhilePause to admire a flash that only showsThe smile upon their faces, but, full soon,Turn with a quick, glad impulse, and perhapsA conscious wile that brings them closer yet,To dally with their own fond hearts, and playWith the sweet flowers that blossom at their feet.
Somewhere on this earthly planetIn the dust of flowers to be,In the dewdrop, in the sunshine,Sleeps a solemn day for me.At this wakeful hour of midnightI behold it dawn in mist,And I hear a sound of sobbingThrough the darkness—hist! oh, hist!In a dim and murky chamber,I am breathing life away;Some one draws a curtain softly,And I watch the broadening day.As it purples in the zenith,As it brightens on the lawn,There's a hush of death about me,And a whisper, "He is gone!"
IThe despot treads thy sacred sands,Thy pines give shelter to his bands,Thy sons stand by with idle hands,Carolina!He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,He scorns the lances of thy palm;Oh! who shall break thy craven calm,Carolina!Thy ancient fame is growing dim,A spot is on thy garment's rim;Give to the winds thy battle hymn,Carolina!IICall on thy children of the hill,Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,Carolina!Cite wealth and science, trade and art,Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,And pour thee through the people's heart,Carolina!Till even the coward spurns his fears,And all thy fields and fens and meresShall bristle like thy palm with spears,Carolina!IIIHold up the glories of thy dead;Say how thy elder children bled,And point to Eutaw's battle-bed,Carolina!Tell how the patriot's soul was tried,And what his dauntless breast defied;How Rutledge ruled and Laurens died,Carolina!Cry! till thy summons, heard at last,Shall fall like Marion's bugle-blastRe-echoed from the haunted Past,Carolina!IVI hear a murmur as of wavesThat grope their way through sunless caves,Like bodies struggling in their graves,Carolina!And now it deepens; slow and grandIt swells, as, rolling to the land,An ocean broke upon thy strand,Carolina!Shout! let it reach the startled Huns!And roar with all thy festal guns!It is the answer of thy sons,Carolina!VThey will not wait to hear thee call;From Sachem's Head to Sumter's wallResounds the voice of hut and hall,Carolina!No! thou hast not a stain, they say,Or none save what the battle-dayShall wash in seas of blood away,Carolina!Thy skirts indeed the foe may part,Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart,They shall not touch thy noble heart,Carolina!VIEre thou shalt own the tyrant's thrallTen times ten thousand men must fall;Thy corpse may hearken to his call,Carolina!When, by thy bier, in mournful throngsThe women chant thy mortal wrongs,'T will be their own funereal songs,Carolina!From thy dead breast by ruffians trodNo helpless child shall look to God;All shall be safe beneath thy sod,Carolina!VIIGirt with such wills to do and bear,Assured in right, and mailed in prayer,Thou wilt not bow thee to despair,Carolina!Throw thy bold banner to the breeze!Front with thy ranks the threatening seasLike thine own proud armorial trees,Carolina!Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns,And roar the challenge from thy guns;Then leave the future to thy sons,Carolina!