I sit in the early twilight,And, through the gathering shade,I look on the fields around meWhere yet a child I played.And I peer into the shadows,Till they seem to pass away,And the fields and their tiny brookletLie clear in the light of day.A delicate child and slender,With lock of light-brown hair,From knoll to knoll is leapingIn the breezy summer air.He stoops to gather blossomsWhere the running waters shine;And I look on him with wonder,His eyes are so like mine.I look till the fields and brookletSwim like a vision by,And a room in a lowly dwellingLies clear before my eye.There stand, in the clean-swept fireplace,Fresh boughs from the wood in bloom,And the birch-tree's fragrant branchesPerfume the humble room.And there the child is standingBy a stately lady's knee,And reading of ancient peoplesAnd realms beyond the sea:Of the cruel King of EgyptWho made God's people slaves,And perished, with all his army,Drowned in the Red Sea waves;Of Deborah who musteredHer brethren long oppressed,And routed the heathen army,And gave her people rest;And the sadder, gentler storyHow Christ, the crucified,With a prayer for those who slew him,Forgave them as he died.I look again, and there risesA forest wide and wild,And in it the boy is wandering,No longer a little child.He murmurs his own rude versesAs he roams the woods alone;And again I gaze with wonder,His eyes are so like my own.I see him next in his chamber,Where he sits him down to writeThe rhymes he framed in his ramble,And he cons them with delight.A kindly figure enters,A man of middle age,And points to a line just written,And 'tis blotted from the page.And next, in a hall of justice,Scarce grown to manly years,Mid the hoary-headed wranglersThe slender youth appears.With a beating heart he rises,And with a burning cheek,And the judges kindly listenTo hear the young man speak.Another change, and I see himApproach his dwelling-place,Where a fair-haired woman meets him,With a smile on her young face—A smile that spreads a sunshineOn lip and cheek and brow;So sweet a smile there is notIn all the wide earth now.She leads by the hand their first-born,A fair-haired little one,And their eyes as they meet him sparkleLike brooks in the morning sun.Another change, and I see himWhere the city's ceaseless coilSends up a mighty murmurFrom a thousand modes of toil.And there, mid the clash of presses,He plies the rapid penIn the battles of opinion,That divide the sons of men.I look, and the clashing pressesAnd the town are seen no more,But there is the poet wanderingA strange and foreign shore.He has crossed the mighty oceanTo realms that lie afar,In the region of ancient story,Beneath the morning star.And now he stands in wonderOn an icy Alpine height;Now pitches his tent in the desertWhere the jackal yells at night;Now, far on the North Sea islands,Sees day on the midnight sky,Now gathers the fair strange fruitageWhere the isles of the Southland lie.I see him again at his dwelling,Where, over the little lake,The rose-trees droop in their beautyTo meet the image they make.Though years have whitened his temples,His eyes have the first look still,Save a shade of settled sadness,A forecast of coming ill.For in that pleasant dwelling,On the rack of ceaseless pain,Lies she who smiled so sweetly,And prays for ease in vain.And I know that his heart is breaking,When, over those dear eyes,The darkness slowly gathers,And the loved and loving dies.A grave is scooped on the hillsideWhere often, at eve or morn,He lays the blooms of the garden—He, and his youngest born.And well I know that a brightnessFrom his life has passed away,And a smile from the green earth's beauty,And a glory from the day.But I behold, above him,In the far blue deeps of air,Dim battlements shining faintly,And a throng of faces there;See over crystal barrierThe airy figures bend,Like those who are watching and waitingThe coming of a friend.And one there is among them,With a star upon her brow,In her life a lovely woman,A sinless seraph now.I know the sweet calm features;The peerless smile I know,And I stretch my arms with transportFrom where I stand below.And the quick tears drown my eyelids,But the airy figures fade,And the shining battlements darkenAnd blend with the evening shade.I am gazing into the twilightWhere the dim-seen meadows lie,And the wind of night is swayingThe trees with a heavy sigh.
'Twas evening, and before my eyesThere lay a landscape gray and dim—Fields faintly seen and twilight skies,And clouds that hid the horizon's brim.I saw—or was it that I dreamed?A waking dream?—I cannot say,For every shape as real seemedAs those which meet my eyes to-day.Through leafless shrubs the cold wind hissed;The air was thick with falling snow,And onward, through the frozen mist,I saw a weary traveller go.Driven o'er the landscape, bare and bleak,Before the whirling gusts of air,The snow-flakes smote his withered cheek,And gathered on his silver hair.Yet on he fared through blinding snows,And murmuring to himself he said:"The night is near; the darkness grows,And higher rise the drifts I tread."Deep, deep, each autumn flower they hide;Each tuft of green they whelm from sight;And they who journeyed by my side,Are lost in the surrounding night."I loved them; oh, no words can tellThe love that to my friends I bore;They left me with the sad farewellOf those who part to meet no more."And I, who face this bitter windAnd o'er these snowy hillocks creep,Must end my journey soon, and findA frosty couch, a frozen sleep."As thus he spoke, a thrill of painShot to my heart—I closed my eyes;But when I opened them again,I started with a glad surprise.'Twas evening still, and in the westA flush of glowing crimson lay;I saw the morrow there, and blestThat promise of a glorious day.The waters, in their glassy sleep,Shone with the hues that tinged the sky,And rugged cliff and barren steepGleamed with the brightness from on high.And one was there whose journey layInto the slowly-gathering night;With steady step he held his way,O'er shadowy vale and gleaming height.I marked his firm though weary tread,The lifted eye and brow serene;And saw no shade of doubt or dreadPass o'er that traveller's placid mien.And others came, their journey o'er,And bade good-night, with words of cheer:"To-morrow we shall meet once more;'Tis but the night that parts us here.""And I," he said, "shall sleep ere long;These fading gleams will soon be gone;Shall sleep to rise refreshed and strongIn the bright day that yet will dawn."I heard; I watched him as he went,A lessening form, until the lightOf evening from the firmamentHad passed, and he was lost to sight.
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A SPANIARD.
No trumpet-blast profanedThe hour in which the Prince of Peace was born;No bloody streamlet stainedEarth's silver rivers on that sacred morn;But, o'er the peaceful plain,The war-horse drew the peasant's loaded wain.The soldier had laid byThe sword and stripped the corselet from his breast,And hung his helm on high—The sparrow's winter home and summer nest;And, with the same strong handThat flung the barbèd spear, he tilled the land.Oh, time for which we yearn;Oh, sabbath of the nations long foretold!Season of peace, return,Like a late summer when the year grows old,When the sweet sunny daysSteeped mead and mountain-side in golden haze.For now two rival kingsFlaunt, o'er our bleeding land, their hostile flags,And every sunrise bringsThe hovering vulture from his mountain-cragsTo where the battle-plainIs strewn with dead, the youth and flower of Spain.Christ is not come, while yetO'er half the earth the threat of battle lowers,And our own fields are wet,Beneath the battle-cloud, with crimson showers—The life-blood of the slain,Poured out where thousands die that one may reign.Soon, over half the earth,In every temple crowds shall kneel againTo celebrate His birthWho brought the message of good-will to men,And bursts of joyous songShall shake the roof above the prostrate throng.Christ is not come, while thereThe men of blood whose crimes affront the skiesKneel down in act of prayer,Amid the joyous strains, and when they riseGo forth, with sword and flame,To waste the land in His most holy name.Oh, when the day shall breakO'er realms unlearned in warfare's cruel arts,And all their millions wakeTo peaceful tasks performed with loving hearts,On such a blessed morn,Well may the nations say that Christ is born.
A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless Urn,Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years,Among the nations. How the rushing wavesBear all before them! On their foremost edge,And there alone, is Life. The Present thereTosses and foams, and fills the air with roarOf mingled noises. There are they who toil,And they who strive, and they who feast, and theyWho hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain—Woodman and delver with the spade—is there,And busy artisan beside his bench,And pallid student with his written roll.A moment on the mounting billow seen,The flood sweeps over them and they are gone.There groups of revellers whose brows are twinedWith roses, ride the topmost swell awhile,And as they raise their flowing cups and touchThe clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneathThe waves and disappear. I hear the jarOf beaten drums, and thunders that break forthFrom cannon, where the advancing billow sendsUp to the sight long files of armèd men,That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke.The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hidSlayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam.Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chiefSinks with his followers; the head that wearsThe imperial diadem goes down besideThe felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek.A funeral-train—the torrent sweeps awayBearers and bier and mourners. By the bedOf one who dies men gather sorrowing,And women weep aloud; the flood rolls on;The wail is stifled and the sobbing groupBorne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout,The cry of an applauding multitude,Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wieldsThe living mass as if he were its soul!The waters choke the shout and all is still.Lo! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreadsThe hands in prayer—the engulfing wave o'ertakesAnd swallows them and him. A sculptor wieldsThe chisel, and the stricken marble growsTo beauty; at his easel, eager-eyed,A painter stands, and sunshine at his touchGathers upon his canvas, and life glows;A poet, as he paces to and fro,Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they rideThe advancing billow, till its tossing crestStrikes them and flings them under, while their tasksAre yet unfinished. See a mother smileOn her young babe that smiles to her again;The torrent wrests it from her arms; she shrieksAnd weeps, and midst her tears is carried down.A beam like that of moonlight turns the sprayTo glistening pearls; two lovers, hand in hand,Rise on the billowy swell and fondly lookInto each other's eyes. The rushing floodFlings them apart: the youth goes down; the maidWith hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes,Waits for the next high wave to follow him.An aged man succeeds; his bending formSinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen streamGleam the white locks, and then are seen no more.Lo! wider grows the stream—a sea-like floodSaps earth's walled cities; massive palacesCrumble before it; fortresses and towersDissolve in the swift waters; populous realmsSwept by the torrent see their ancient tribesEngulfed and lost; their very languagesStifled, and never to be uttered more.I pause and turn my eyes, and looking backWhere that tumultuous flood has been, I seeThe silent ocean of the Past, a wasteOf waters weltering over graves, its shoresStrewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hullDrop away piecemeal; battlemented wallsFrown idly, green with moss, and temples standUnroofed, forsaken by the worshipper.There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawedThe graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturned,The broken altars of forgotten gods,Foundations of old cities and long streetsWhere never fall of human foot is heard,On all the desolate pavement. I beholdDim glimmerings of lost jewels, far withinThe sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx,Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite,Once glittering at the banquet on fair browsThat long ago were dust, and all aroundStrewn on the surface of that silent seaAre withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locksShorn from dear brows, by loving hands, and scrollsO'er written, haply with fond words of loveAnd vows of friendship, and fair pages flungFresh from the printer's engine. There they lieA moment, and then sink away from sight.I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes,For I behold in every one of theseA blighted hope, a separate historyOf human sorrows, telling of dear tiesSuddenly broken, dreams of happinessDissolved in air, and happy days too briefThat sorrowfully ended, and I thinkHow painfully must the poor heart have beatIn bosoms without number, as the blowWas struck that slew their hope and broke their peace.Sadly I turn and look before, where yetThe Flood must pass, and I behold a mistWhere swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope,Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers,Or wander among rainbows, fading soonAnd reappearing, haply giving placeTo forms of grisly aspect such as FearShapes from the idle air—where serpents liftThe head to strike, and skeletons stretch forthThe bony arm in menace. Further onA belt of darkness seems to bar the wayLong, low, and distant, where the Life to comeTouches the Life that is. The Flood of YearsRolls toward it near and nearer. It must passThat dismal barrier. What is there beyond?Hear what the wise and good have said. BeyondThat belt of darkness, still the Years roll onMore gently, but with not less mighty sweep.They gather up again and softly bearAll the sweet lives that late were overwhelmedAnd lost to sight, all that in them was good,Noble, and truly great, and worthy of love—The lives of infants and ingenuous youths,Sages and saintly women who have madeTheir households happy; all are raised and borneBy that great current in its onward sweep,Wandering and rippling with caressing wavesAround green islands with the breathOf flowers that never wither. So they passFrom stage to stage along the shining courseOf that bright river, broadening like a sea.As its smooth eddies curl along their wayThey bring old friends together; hands are claspedIn joy unspeakable; the mother's armsAgain are folded round the child she lovedAnd lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now,Or but remembered to make sweet the hourThat overpays them; wounded hearts that bledOr broke are healed forever. In the roomOf this grief-shadowed present, there shall beA Present in whose reign no grief shall gnawThe heart, and never shall a tender tieBe broken; in whose reign the eternal ChangeThat waits on growth and action shall proceedWith everlasting Concord hand in hand.
Think not that thou and IAre here the only worshippers to day,Beneath this glorious sky,Mid the soft airs that o'er the meadows play;These airs, whose breathing stirsThe fresh grass, are our fellow-worshippers.See, as they pass, they swingThe censers of a thousand flowers that bendO'er the young herbs of spring,And the sweet odors like a prayer ascend,While, passing thence, the breezeWakes the grave anthem of the forest-trees.It is as when, of yore,The Hebrew poet called the mountain-steeps,The forests, and the shoreOf ocean, and the mighty mid-sea deeps,And stormy wind, to raiseA universal symphony of praise.For, lo! the hills around,Gay in their early green, give silent thanks;And, with a joyous sound,The streamlet's huddling waters kiss their banks,And, from its sunny nooks,To heaven, with grateful smiles, the valley looks.The blossomed apple-tree,Among its flowery tufts, on every spray,Offers the wandering beeA fragrant chapel for his matin-lay;And a soft bass is heardFrom the quick pinions of the humming-bird.Haply—for who can tell?—Aerial beings, from the world unseen,Haunting the sunny dell,Or slowly floating o'er the flowery green,May join our worship here,With harmonies too fine for mortal ear.
Page11.
POEM OF THE AGES.
In this poem, written and first printed in the year 1821, the author has endeavored, from a survey of the past ages of the world, and of the successive advances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and happiness, to justify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future destinies of the human race.
Page34.
THE BURIAL-PLACE.
The first half of this fragment may seem to the reader borrowed from the essay on Rural Funerals in the fourth number of "The Sketch-book." The lines were, however, written more than a year before that number appeared. The poem, unfinished as it is, would hardly have been admitted into this collection, had not the author been unwilling to lose what had the honor of resembling so beautiful a composition.
Page43.
THE MASSACRE AT SCIO.
This poem, written about the time of the horrible butchery of the Sciotes by the Turks, in 1824, has been more fortunate than most poetical predictions. The independence of the Greek nation which it foretold, has come to pass, and the massacre, by inspiring a deeper detestation of their oppressors, did much to promote that event.
Page44.
Her maiden veil, her own black hair, etc.
"The unmarried females have a modest falling down of the hair over the eyes."—Eliot.
Page63.
MONUMENT MOUNTAIN.
The mountain called by this name is a remarkable precipice in Great Barrington, overlooking the rich and picturesque valley of the Housatonic, in the western part of Massachusetts. At the southern extremity is, or was a few years since, a conical pile of small stones, erected, according to the tradition of the surrounding country, by the Indians, in memory of a woman of the Stockbridge tribe who killed herself by leaping from the edge of the precipice. Until within a few years past, small parties of that tribe used to arrive from their settlement in the western part of the State of New York, on visits to Stockbridge, the place of their nativity and former residence. A young woman belonging to one of these parties related, to a friend of the author, the story on which the poem of Monument Mountain is founded. An Indian girl had formed an attachment for her cousin, which, according to the customs of the tribe, was unlawful. She was, in consequence, seized with a deep melancholy, and resolved to destroy herself. In company with a female friend, she repaired to the mountain, decked out for the occasion in all her ornaments, and, after passing the day on the summit in singing with her companion the traditional songs of her nation, she threw herself headlong from the rock, and was killed.
Page78.
THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.
Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of a human body, partly devoured by wild animals, were found in a woody ravine, near a solitary road passing between the mountains west of the village of Stockbridge. It was supposed that the person came to his death by violence, but no traces could be discovered of his murderers. It was only recollected that one evening, in the course of the previous winter, a traveller had stopped at an inn in the village of West Stockbridge: that he had inquired the way to Stockbridge; and that, in paying the innkeeper for something he had ordered, it appeared that he had a considerable sum of money in his possession. Two ill-looking men were present, and went out about the same time that the traveller proceeded on his journey. During the winter, also, two men of shabby appearance, but plentifully supplied with money, had lingered for a while about the village of Stockbridge. Several years afterward, a criminal, about to be executed for a capital offence in Canada, confessed that he had been concerned in murdering a traveller in Stockbridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered respecting the name or residence of the person murdered.
Page101.
Chained in the market-place he stood, etc.
The story of the African chief, related in this ballad, may be found in theAfrican Repositoryfor April, 1825. The subject of it was a warrior of majestic stature, the brother of Yarradee, king of the Solima nation. He had been takenin battle, and was brought in chains for sale to the Rio Pongas, where he was exhibited in the market-place, his ankles still adorned with massy rings of gold which he wore when captured. The refusal of his captors to listen to his offers of ransom drove him mad, and he died a maniac.
Page111.
THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS.
This conjunction was said in the common calendars to have taken place on the 2d of August, 1826. This, I believe, was an error, but the apparent approach of the planets was sufficiently near for poetical purposes.
Page116.
THE HURRICANE.
This poem is nearly a translation from one by Jose Maria de Heredia, a native of the island of Cuba, who published at New York, about the year 1825, a volume of poems in the Spanish language.
Page118.
WILLIAM TELL.
Neither this, nor any of the other sonnets in the collection, with the exception of the one from the Portuguese, is framed according to the legitimate Italian model, which, in the author's opinion, possesses no peculiar beauty for an ear accustomed only to the metrical forms of our own language. The sonnets in this collection are rather poems in fourteen lines than sonnets.
Page119.
The slim papaya ripens, etc.
Papaya—papaw, custard-apple. Flint, in his excellent work on the Geography and History of the Western States, thus describes this tree and its fruit:
"A papaw-shrub hanging full of fruits, of a size and weight so disproportioned to the stem, and from under long and rich-looking leaves, of the same yellow with the ripened fruit, and of an African luxuriance of growth, is to us one of the richest spectacles that we have ever contemplated in the array of the woods. The fruit contains from two to six seeds like those of the tamarind, except that they are double the size. The pulp of the fruit resembles egg-custard in consistence and appearance. It has the same creamy feeling in the mouth, and unites the taste of eggs, cream, sugar, and spice. It is a natural custard, too luscious for the relish of most people."
Chateaubriand, in his Travels, speaks disparagingly of the fruit of the papaw; but on the authority of Mr. Flint, who must know more of the matter, I have ventured to make my Western lover enumerate it among the delicacies of the wilderness.
Page130.
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye.
The prairies of the West, with an undulating surface,rolling prairies,as they are called, present to the unaccustomed eye a singular spectacle when the shadows of the clouds are passing rapidly over them. The face of the ground seems to fluctuate and toss like billows of the sea.
Page131.
The prairie-hawk that, poised on high,Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not.
Ihave seen the prairie-hawk balancing himself in the air for hours together, apparently over the same spot; probably watching his prey.
Page131.
These ample fieldsNourished their harvests.
The size and extent of the mounds in the valley of the Mississippi indicate the existence, at a remote period, of a nation at once populous and laborious, and therefore probably subsisting by agriculture.
Page132.
The rude conquerorsSeated the captive with their chiefs.
Instances ace not wanting of generosity like this among the North American Indians toward a captive or survivor of a hostile tribe on which the greatest cruelties had been exercised.
Page134.
SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
The exploits of General Francis Marion, the famous partisan warrior of South Carolina, form an interesting chapter in the annals of the American Revolution. The British troops were so harassed by the irregular and successful warfare which he kept up at the head of a few daring followers, that they sent an officer to remonstrate with him for not coming into the open field and fighting "like a gentleman and a Christian."
Page139.
MARY MAGDALEN.
Several learned divines, with much appearance of reason, in particular Dr. Lardner, have maintained that the common notion respecting the dissolute life of Mary Magdalen is erroneous, and that she was always a person of excellent character. Charles Taylor, the editor of "Calmet's Dictionary of the Bible" takes the same view of the subject.
The verses of the Spanish poet here translated refer to the "woman who had been a sinner," mentioned in the seventh chapter of St. Luke's Gospel, and who is commonly confounded with Mary Magdalen.
Page142.
FATIMA AND RADUAN.
This and the following poems belong to that class of ancient Spanish ballads, by unknown authors, calledRomances Moriscos—Moriscan Romances or ballads. They were composed in the fourteenth century, some of them, probably, by the Moors, who then lived intermingled with the Christians; and they relate the loves and achievements of the knights of Granada.
Page143.
LOVE AND FOLLY.—(FROM LA FONTAINE.)
This is rather an imitation than a translation of the poem of the graceful French fabulist.
Page146.
These eyes shall not recall thee, etc.
This is the very expression of the original—No te llamarán mis ojos,etc. The Spanish poets early adopted the practice of calling a lady by the name of the most expressive feature of her countenance, her eyes. The lover styled his mistress "ojos bellos," beautiful eyes; "ojos serenos," serene eyes. Green eyes seem to have been anciently thought a great beauty in Spain, and there is a very pretty ballad by an absent lover, in which he addressed his lady by the title of "green eyes;" supplicating that he may remain in her remembrance:
"¡Ay ojuelos verdes!Ay los mis ojuelos!Ay, hagan los cielosQue de mi te acuerdes!"
Page147.
Say, Love—for didst thou see her tears, etc.
The stanza beginning with this line stands thus in the original:
"Dilo tu, amor, si lo viste;¡Mas ay! que de lastimadoDiste otro nudo a la venda,Para no ver lo que la pasado."
I am sorry to find so poor a conceit deforming so spirited a composition as this old ballad, but I have preserved it in the version. It is one of those extravagances which afterward became so common in Spanish poetry, when Gongora introduced theestilo culto, as it was called.
Page148.
LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY.
This personification of the passion of Love, by Peyre Vidal, has been referred to as a proof of how little the Provençal poets were indebted to the authors of Greece and Rome for the imagery of their poems.
Page149.
THE LOVE OF GOD.—(FROM THE PROVENÇAL OF BERNARD RASCAS.)
The original of these lines is thus given by John of Nostradamus, in his Lives of the Troubadours, in a barbarous Frenchified orthography:
"Touta kausa mortala una fes perirá,Fors que l'amour de Dieu, que touiours durará.Tous nostres cors vendran essuchs, come fa l'eska,Lous Aubres leyssaran lour verdour tendra e fresca,Lous Ausselets del bosc perdran lour kant subtyeu,E non s'auzira plus lou Rossignol gentyeu.Lous Buols al Pastourgage, e las blankas fedettasSent'ran lous agulhons de las mortals Sagettas,Lous crestas d'Aries fiers, Renards, e Loups esparsKabrols, Cervys, Chamous, Senglars de toutes pars,Lous Ours hardys e forts, seran poudra, e Arena.Lou Daulphin en la Mar, lou Ton, e la Balena,Monstres impetuous, Ryaumes, e Comtas,Lous Princes, e lous Reys, seran per mort domtas.E nota ben eysso káscun: la Terra granda,(Ou l'Escritura ment) lou fermament que branda,Prendra autra figura. Enfin tout perirá,Fors que l'Amour de Dieu, que touiours durará."
Page150.
FROM THE SPANISH OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y AÑAYA.
Las Auroras de Diana, in which the original of these lines is contained, is, notwithstanding it was praised by Lope de Vega, one of the worst of the old Spanish Romances, being a tissue of riddles and affectations, with now and then a little poem of considerable beauty.
Page160.
EARTH.
The author began this poem in rhyme. The following is the first draught of it as far as he proceeded, in a stanza which he found it convenient to abandon:
A midnight black with clouds is on the sky;A shadow like the first original nightFolds in, and seems to press me as I lie;No image meets the vainly wandering sight,And shot through rolling mists no starlight gleamGlances on glassy pool or rippling stream.No ruddy blaze, from dwellings bright within,Tinges the flowering summits of the grass;No sound of life is heard, no village din,Wings rustling overhead or steps that pass,While, on the breast of Earth at random thrown,I listen to her mighty voice alone.A voice of many tones: deep murmurs sentFrom waters that in darkness glide away,From woods unseen by sweeping breezes bent,From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day,And hollows of the invisible hills around,Blent in one ceaseless, melancholy sound.O Earth! dost thou, too, sorrow for the past?Mourn'st thou thy childhood's unreturning hours,Thy springs, that briefly bloomed and faded fast,The gentle generations of thy flowers,Thy forests of the elder time, decayedAnd gone with all the tribes that loved their shade?Mourn'st thou that first fair time so early lost,The golden age that lives in poets' strains,Ere hail or lightning, whirlwind, flood, or frostScathed thy green breast, or earthquakes whelmed thy plains,Ere blood upon the shuddering ground was spilt,Or night was haunted by disease and guilt?Or haply dost thou grieve for those who die?For living things that trod a while thy face,The love of thee and heaven, and now they lieMixed with the shapeless dust the wild winds chase?I, too, must grieve, for never on thy sphereShall those bright forms and faces reappear.Ha! with a deeper and more thrilling tone,Rises that voice around me: 'tis the cryOf Earth for guilt and wrong, the eternal moanSent to the listening and long-suffering sky,I hear and tremble, and my heart grows faint,As midst the night goes up that great complaint.
Page174.
Where Isar's clay-white rivulets runThrough the dark woods like frighted deer.
Close to the city of Munich, in Bavaria, lies the spacious and beautiful pleasure-ground, called the English Garden, in which these lines were written, originally projected and laid out by our countryman, Count Rumford, under the auspices ofone of the sovereigns of the country. Winding walks, of great extent, pass through close thickets and groves interspersed with lawns; and streams, diverted from the river Isar, traverse the grounds swiftly in various directions, the water of which, stained with the clay of the soil it has corroded in its descent from the upper country, is frequently of a turbid-white color.
Page178.
THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS.
This song refers to the expedition of the Vermonters, commanded by Ethan Allen, by whom the British fort of Ticonderoga, on Lake Champlain, was surprised and taken, in May, 1775.
Page180.
THE CHILD'S FUNERAL.
The incident on which this poem is founded was related to the author while in Europe, in a letter from an English lady. A child died in the south of Italy, and when they went to bury it they found it revived and playing with the flowers which, after the manner of that country, had been brought to grace his funeral.
Page184.
'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh,The wish possessed his mighty mind,To wander forth wherever lieThe homes and haunts of humankind.
Shortly before the death of Schiller, he was seized with a strong desire to travel in foreign countries, as if his spirit had a presentiment of its approaching enlargement, and already longed to expatiate in a wider and more varied sphere of existence.
Page185.
The flowerOf sanguinaria, from whose brittle stemThe red drops fell like blood.
TheSanguinaria Canadensis, or blood-root, as it is commonly called, bears a delicate white flower of a musky scent, the stem of which breaks easily, and distils a juice of a bright-red color.
Page191.
The shad-bush, white with flowers,Brightened the glens.
The small tree, named by the botanistsAronia Botyrapium, is called, in some parts of our country, the shad-bush, from the circumstance that it flowers about the time that the shad ascend the rivers in early spring. Its delicate sprays, covered with white blossoms before the trees are yet in leaf, have a singularly beautiful appearance in the woods.
Page192.
"There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting typeOf human life."
I remember hearing an aged man, in the country, compare the slow movement of time in early life, and its swift flight as it approaches old age, to the drumming of a partridge or ruffed grouse in the woods—the strokes falling slow and distinct at first, and following each other more and more rapidly, till they end at last in a whirring sound.
Page194.
AN EVENING REVERY.—FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.
This poem and that entitled "The Fountain," with one or two others in blank verse, were intended by the author as portions of a larger poem.
Page196.
The fresh savannas of the SangamonHere rise in gentle suells, and the long grassIs mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tuftsAre glowing in the green, like flakes of fire.
The Painted Cup,Euchroma coccinea,orBartsia coccinea,grows in great abundance in the hazel prairies of the Western States, where its scarlet tufts make a brilliant appearance in the midst of the verdure. The Sangamon is a beautiful river, tributary to the Illinois, bordered with rich prairies.
Page204.
The long wave rolling from the southern poleTo break upon Japan.
"Breaks the long wave that at the pole began."—Tennent'sAnster Fair.
Page205.
At noon the Hebrew bowed the kneeAnd worshipped.
"Evening and morning, and at noon, will I pray and cry aloud, and he shall hear my voice."—Psalmlv. 17.
Page208.
THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER.
"During the stay of Long's Expedition at Engineer Cantonment, three specimens of a variety of the common deer were brought in, having all the feet white near the hoofs, and extending to those on the hind-feet from a little above the spurious hoofs. This white extremity was divided, upon the sides of the foot, bythe general color of the leg, which extends down near to the hoofs, leaving a white triangle in front, of which the point was elevated rather higher than the spurious hoofs."—Godman'sNatural History, vol. ii., p. 314.
Page236.
THE LOST BIRD.
Readers who are acquainted with the Spanish language, may not be displeased at seeing the original of this little poem:
EL PÁJARO PERDIDO.
Huyó con vuelo incierto,Y de mis ojos ha desparecido.Mirad, si, á vuestro huerto,Mi pájaro querido,Niñas hermosas, por acaso ha huido.Sus ojos relucientesSon como los del águila orgullosa;Plumas resplandecientes,En la cabeza airosa,Lleva; y su voz es tierna y armoniosa.Mirad, si cuidadosoJunto á las flores se escondió en la grama.Ese laurel frondosoMirad, rama por rama,Que él los laureles y los flores ama.Si le halláis, por ventura,No os enamore su amoroso acento;No os prende su hermosura;Volvédmele al momento;O dejadle, si no, libre en el viento.Por que su pico de oroSolo en mi mano toma la semilla;Y no enjugaré el lloroQue veis en mi mejilla,Hasta encontrar mi prófugo avecilla.Mi vista se oscurece,Si sus ojos no ve, que son mi díaMi ánima desfalleceCon la melancolíaDe no escucharle ya su melodía.
The literature of Spain at the present day has this peculiarity, that female writers have, in considerable number, entered into competition with the other sex. One of the most remarkable of these, as a writer of both prose and poetry, is Carolina Coronado de Perry, the author of the little poem here given. The poetical literature of Spain has felt the influence of the female mind in the infusion of a certain delicacy and tenderness, and the more frequent choice of subjects whichinterest the domestic affections. Concerning the verses of the lady already mentioned, Don Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch, one of the most accomplished Spanish critics of the present day, and himself a successful dramatic writer, says:
"If Carolina Coronado had, through modesty, sent her productions from Estremadura to Madrid under the name of a person of the other sex, it would still have been difficult for intelligent readers to persuade themselves that they were written by a man, or at least, considering their graceful sweetness, purity of tone, simplicity of conception, brevity of development, and delicate and particular choice of subject, we should be constrained to attribute them to one yet in his early youth, whom the imagination would represent as ingenuous, innocent, and gay, who had scarce ever wandered beyond the flowery grove or pleasant valley where his cradle was rocked, and where he has been lulled to sleep by the sweetest songs of Francisea de la Torre, Garcilaso, and Melendez."
The author of thePájaro Perdido, according to a memoir of her by Angel Fernandez de los Rios, was born at Almendralejo, in Estremadura, in 1823. At the age of nine years she began to steal from sleep, after a day passed in various lessons, and in domestic occupations, several hours every night to read the poets of her country, and other books belonging to the library of the household, among which are mentioned, as a proof of her vehement love of reading, the "Critical History of Spain," by the Abbé Masuden, "and other works equally dry and prolix." She was afterward sent to Badajoz, where she received the best education which the state of the country, then on fire with a civil war, would admit. Here the intensity of her application to her studies caused a severe malady, which has frequently recurred in after-life. At the age of thirteen years she wrote a poem entitledLa Palma, which the author of her biography declares to be worthy of Herrera, and which led Espronceda, a poet of Estremadura, a man of genius, and the author of several translations from Byron, whom he resembled both in mental and personal characteristics, to address her an eulogistic sonnet. In 1843, when she was but twenty years old, a volume of her poems was published at Madrid, in which were included both that entitledLa Palmaand the one I have given in this note. To this volume Hartzenbusch, in his admiration for her genius, prefaced an introduction.
The task of writing verses in Spanish is not difficult. Rhymes are readily found, and the language is easily moulded into metrical forms. Those who have distinguished themselves in this literature have generally made their first essays in verse. What is remarkable enough, the men who afterward figured in political life mostly began their career as the authors of madrigals. A poem introduces the future statesman to the public, as a speech at a popular meeting introduces the candidate for political distinctions in this country. I have heard of but one of the eminent Spanish politicians of the present time, who made a boast that he was innocent of poetry; and if all that his enemies say of him be true, it would have been well both for his country and his own fame, if he had been equally innocent of corrupt practices. The compositions of Carolina Coronado, even her earliest, do not deserve to be classed with the productions of which I have spoken, and which are simply the effect of inclination and facility. They possess themens divinior.
In 1852 a collection of poems of Carolina Coronado was brought out at Madrid, including those which were first published. The subjects are of largervariety than those which prompted her earlier productions; some of them are of a religious cast, others refer to political matters. One of them, which appears among the "Improvisations," is an energetic protest against erecting a new amphitheatre for bull-fights. The spirit in all her poetry is humane and friendly to the best interests of mankind.
Her writings in prose must not be overlooked. Among them is a novel entitledSigea, founded on the adventures of Camoëns; another entitledJarilla, a beautiful story, full of pictures of rural life in Estremadura, which deserves, if it could find a competent translator, to be transferred to our language. Besides these there are two other novels from her pen,PaquitaandLa Luz del Tejo. A few years since appeared, in a Madrid periodical, theSemanario, a series of letters written by her, giving an account of the impressions received in a journey from the Tagus to the Rhine, including a visit to England. Among the subjects on which she has written, is the idea, still warmly cherished in Spain, of uniting the entire peninsula under one government. In an ably-conducted journal of Madrid, she has given accounts of the poetesses of Spain, her contemporaries, with extracts from their writings, and a kindly estimate of their respective merits.
Her biographer speaks of her activity and efficiency in charitable enterprises, her interest in the cause of education, her visits to the primary schools of Madrid, encouraging and rewarding the pupils, and her patronage of theescuela de parvules, or infant school at Badajoz, established by a society of that city, with the design of improving the education of the laboring class.
It must have been not long after the publication of her poems, in 1852, that Carolina Coronado became the wife of an American gentleman, Mr. Horatio J. Perry, at one time our Secretary of Legation at the Court of Madrid, afterward ourChargé d'Affaires, and now, in 1863, again Secretary of Legation. Amid the duties of a wife and mother, which she fulfils with exemplary fidelity and grace, she has neither forgotten nor forsaken the literary pursuits which have given her so high a reputation.
Page257
THE RUINS OF ITALICA.
The poems of the Spanish author, Francisco de Rioja, who lived in the first half of the seventeenth century, are few in number, but much esteemed. His ode on the Ruins of Italica is one of the most admired of these, but in the only collection of his poems which I have seen, it is said that the concluding stanza, in the original copy, was deemed so little worthy of the rest that it was purposely omitted in the publication. Italica was a city founded by the Romans in the south of Spain, the remains of which are still an object of interest.
Page268.
SELLA.
Sella is the name given by the Vulgate to one of the wives of Lamech, mentioned in the fourth chapter of the Book of Genesis, and called Zillah in the corn-won English version of the Bible.
Page282.