"I saw his face to-day; he looks a chiefWho fears nor human rage, nor human guile;Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief,But in that grief the starlight of a smile.Deep, gentle eyes, with drooping lids that tellThey are the homes where tears of sorrow dwell;A low voice—strangely sweet—whose very toneTells how these lips speak oft with God alone."
In Milan he was seriously ill. In his poem,After Sickness, we find an expression of his world-weariness and his longing for death:—
"I nearly died, I almost touched the doorThat swings between forever and no more;I think I heard the awful hinges grate,Hour after hour, while I did weary waitDeath's coming; but alas! 'twas all in vain:The door half opened and then closed again."
As a priest Father Ryan was faithful to his duties. But whether ministering at the altar or making the rounds of his parish, his spirit frequently found utterance in song. In 1880 he published a volume of poems, to which only a few additions were subsequently made. The keynote of his poetry is struck in the opening piece,Song of the Mystic. He dwelt much in the "Valley of Silence."
"Do you ask me the place of the Valley,Ye hearts that are harrowed by care?It lieth afar between mountains,And God and His angels are there:And one is the dark mount of Sorrow,And one the bright mountain of Prayer."
The prevailing tone of Father Ryan's poems is one of sadness. His harp rarely vibrated to cheerful strains. What was the cause of this sadness? It may have been his keen sense of the tragic side of human life; it may have been the enduring anguish that came from the crucified love of his youth. The poet himself refused to tell. InLines—1875, he says:—
"Go list to the voices of air, earth, and sea,And the voices that sound in the sky;Their songs may be joyful to some, but to meThere's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key,And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody.Ask them what ails them: they will not reply.They sigh—sigh forever—but never tell why.Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?Their lips will not answer you; neither shall I."
Yet, in spite of the prevailing tone of sorrow and weariness, Father Ryan was no pessimist. He held that life has "more of sweet than gall"—
"For every one: no matter who—Or what their lot—or high or low;All hearts have clouds—but heaven's blueWraps robes of bright around each woe;And this is truest of the true:
"That joy is stronger here than grief,Fills more of life, far more of years,And makes the reign of sorrow brief;Gives more of smiles for less of tears.Joy is life's tree—grief but its leaves."
Father Ryan conceived of the poet's office as something seerlike or prophetic. With him, as with all great poets, the message counted for more than do rhythm and rhyme. Divorced from truth, art seemed to him but a skeleton masque. He preferred those melodies that rise on the wings of thought, and come to human hearts with an inspiration of faith and hope. He regarded genuine poets as the high priests of Nature. Their sensitive spirits, holding themselves aloof from common things, habitually dwell upon the deeper mysteries of life in something of a morbid loneliness. InPoetshe says:—
"They are all dreamers; in the day and nightEver across their soulsThe wondrous mystery of the dark or brightIn mystic rhythm rolls.
"They live within themselves—they may not tellWhat lieth deepest there;Within their breast a heaven or a hell,Joy or tormenting care.
"They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways,No matter what they seem;The stars and sunlight of their nights and daysMove over them in dream."
With Wordsworth, or rather with the great Apostle to the Gentiles, he held that Nature is but the vesture of God, beneath which may be discerned the divine glory and love. The visible seemed to him but an expression of the invisible.
"For God is everywhere—and he doth findIn every atom which His hand hath madeA shrine to hide His presence, and revealHis name, love, power, to those who kneelIn holy faith upon this bright below,And lift their eyes, thro' all this mystery,To catch the vision of the great beyond."
With this view of Nature, it was but natural that its sounds and forms— its birds and flowers—should inspire devotion. InSt. Mary's, speaking of the songs and silences of Nature, he says:—
"God comes close to me here—Back of ev'ry roseleaf thereHe is hiding—and the airThrills with calls to holy prayer;Earth grows far, and heaven near.
"Every single flower is fraughtWith the very sweetest dreams,Under clouds or under gleamsChangeful ever—yet meseemsOn each leaf I read God's thought."
It can hardly be said that Father Ryan ever reaches far poetic heights. Neither in thought nor expression does he often rise above cultured commonplace. Fine artistic quality is supplanted by a sort of melodious fluency. Yet the form and tone of his poetry, nearly always in one pensive key, make a distinct impression, unlike that of any other American singer. "Religious feeling," it has been well said, "is dominant. The reader seems to be moving about in cathedral glooms, by dimly lighted altars, with sad procession of ghostly penitents and mourners fading into the darkness to the sad music of lamenting choirs. But the light which falls upon the gloom is the light of heaven, and amid tears and sighs, over farewells and crushed happiness, hope sings a vigorous though subdued strain." Having once caught his distinctive note of weary melancholy, we can recognize it among a chorus of a thousand singers. It is to his honor that he has achieved a distinctive place in American poetry.
His poetic craftsmanship is far from perfect. His artistic sense did not aspire to exquisite achievements. He delighted unduly in alliteration, assonance, and rhyming effects, all which he sometimes carried to excess. In the first stanza, for example, ofThe Conquered Banner, popular as it is, the rhyme effect seems somewhat overdone:—
"Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary;Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;Furl it, fold it, it is best;For there's not a man towave it,And there's not a sword tosave it,And there's not one left tolave itIn the blood which heroesgave it;And its foes now scorn andbrave it;Furl it, hide it—let it rest."
Here and there, too, are unmistakable echoes of Poe, as in the following stanza fromAt Last:—
"Into a temple vast and dim,Solemn and vast and dim,Just when the last sweet Vesper HymnWas floating far away,With eyes that tabernacled tears—Her heart the home of tears—And cheeks wan with the woes of years,A woman went one day."
But in spite of these obvious defects, Father Ryan has been for years the most popular of Southern poets. His poems have passed through many editions, and there is still a large demand for them. They have something that outweighs their faults, and appeals strongly to the popular mind and heart. What is it? Perhaps it is impossible to answer this question fully. But in addition to the merits already pointed out, the work of Father Ryan is for the most part simple, spontaneous, and clear. It generally consists of brief lyrics devoted to the expression of a single mood or reflection. There is nothing in thought or style beyond the ready comprehension of the average reader. It does not require, as does the poetry of Browning, repeated and careful reading to render its meaning clear. It does not offend sensible people with its empty, overdone refinement. From beginning to end Father Ryan's poetry is a transparent casket, into which he has poured the richest treasures of a deeply sorrowing but noble Christian spirit.
Again, the pensive, moral tone of his poetry renders it attractive to many persons. He gives expression to the sad, reflective moods that are apt, especially in time of suffering or disappointment, to come to most of us. The moral sense of the American people is strong; and sometimes a comforting though commonplace truth from Nature is more pleasing than the most exquisite but superficial description of her beauties. How many have found solace in poems likeA Thought:—
"The waving rose, with every breathScents carelessly the summer air;The wounded rose bleeds forth in deathA sweetness far more rich and rare.
"It is a truth beyond our ken—And yet a truth that all may read—It is with roses as with men,The sweetest hearts are those that bleed.
"The flower which Bethlehem saw bloomOut of a heart all full of grace,Gave never forth its full perfumeUntil the cross became its vase."
Then again, the poet-priest, as was becoming his character, deals with the mysteries of life. Much of our recent poetry is as trifling in theme as it is polished in workmanship. But Father Ryan habitually brings before us the profounder and sadder aspects of life. The truths of religion, the vicissitudes of human destiny, the tragedy of death—these are the themes in which he finds his inspiration, and to which we all turn in our most serious moments. And though the strain in which he sings is attuned to tears, it is still illumined by a strength-giving faith and hope. When we feel weighed down with a sense of pitiless law, when fate seems to cross our holiest aspirations with a ruthless hand, he bids us be of good cheer.
"There is no fate—God's loveIs law beneath each law,And law all laws aboveFore'er, without a flaw."
In 1883 Father Ryan, whose reputation had been established by his volume of poems, undertook a lecturing tour through the North in the interest of some charitable enterprise. At his best he was an eloquent speaker. But during the later years of his life impaired health interfered with prolonged mental effort. His mission had only a moderate degree of success. His sense of weariness deepened, and his eyes turned longingly to the life to come. In one of his later productions he said:—
"My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,My soul oppressed—And I desire, what I have long desired—Rest—only rest.
* * * * *
"And so I cry a weak and human cry,So heart oppressed;And so I sigh a weak and human sighFor rest—for rest."
At length, April 22, 1886, in a Franciscan monastery at Louisville, came the rest for which he had prayed. And in that higher life to which he passed, we may believe that he was welcomed by her to whom in youth he had given the tender name of Ullainee, and for whom, through all the years of a great sacrifice, his faithful heart had yearned with an inextinguishable human longing.
O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming,Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,O'er the ramparts [2] we watched, were so gallantly streaming?And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.O say, does that star-spangled banner yet waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep,Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, [3]What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly sworeThat the havoc of war and the battle's confusionA home and a country should leave us no more? [4]Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.No refuge could save the hireling and slaveFrom the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall standBetween their loved homes and the war's desolation!Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued landPraise the power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,And this be our motto—"In God is our trust:"And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
[Footnote 1: For a brief statement of the circumstances that gave rise to the poem, see sketch of Key, page 12.]
[Footnote 2: Fort McHenry, on the north bank of the Patapsco, belowBaltimore, was attacked by the British fleet, September 13, 1814.]
[Footnote 3: The attack being unsuccessful, the British became disheartened and withdrew.]
[Footnote 4: Before the attack upon Baltimore, the British had takenWashington and burned the capitol and other public buildings.
With this poem may be compared other martial lyrics, such as Hopkinson'sHail Columbia, Mrs. Howe'sBattle Hymn of the Republic,Campbell'sYe Mariners of EnglandandBattle of the Baltic,Tennyson'sCharge of the Light Brigade, etc.]
* * * * *
My life is like the summer rose,That opens to the morning sky,But, ere the shades of evening close,Is scattered on the ground—to die![2]Yet on the rose's humble bedThe sweetest dews of night are shed,As if she wept the waste to see—But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leafThat trembles in the moon's pale ray:Its hold is frail—its date is brief,Restless—and soon to pass away!Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,The parent tree will mourn its shade,The winds bewail the leafless tree—But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the prints, which feetHave left on Tampa's [3] desert strand;Soon as the rising tide shall beat,All trace will vanish from the sand;Yet, as if grieving to effaceAll vestige of the human race,On that lone shore loud moans the sea—But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
Farewell, my more than fatherland![5]Home of my heart and friends, adieu!Lingering beside some foreign strand,How oft shall I remember you!How often, o'er the waters blue,Send back a sigh to those I leave,The loving and beloved few,Who grieve for me,—for whom I grieve!
We part!—no matter how we part,There are some thoughts we utter not,Deep treasured in our inmost heart,Never revealed, and ne'er forgot!Why murmur at the common lot?We part!—I speak not of the pain,—But when shall I each lovely spot,And each loved face behold again?It must be months,—it may be years,—[6]It may—but no!—I will not fillFond hearts with gloom,—fond eyes with tears,"Curious to shape uncertain ill."Though humble,—few and far,—yet, stillThose hearts and eyes are ever dear;Theirs is the love no time can chill,The truth no chance or change can sear!
All I have seen, and all I see,Only endears them more and more;Friends cool, hopes fade, and hours flee,Affection lives when all is o'er!Farewell, my more than native shore!I do not seek or hope to find,Roam where I will, what I deploreTo leave with them and thee behind!
[Footnote 1: See sketch of Wilde, page 13. This song was translated intoGreek by Anthony Barclay and announced as a newly discovered ode byAlcaeus. The trick, however, was soon detected by scholars, and theauthor of the poem received a due meed of praise.]
[Footnote 2: The brevity of life has been a favorite theme of poets ever since Job (vii. 6) declared, "Our days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle."]
[Footnote 3: The reference seems to be to the shore about the Bay ofTampa on the west coast of Florida.]
[Footnote 4: See page 13.]
[Footnote 5: It will be remembered that the poet was a native ofIreland.]
[Footnote 6: The years 1834-1840 were spent in Europe, chiefly in Italy.
Compare with this Byron's farewell to England, in Canto I ofChildeHarold.]
* * * * *
'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence nowIs brooding like a gentle spirit o'erThe still and pulseless world. Hark! on the windsThe bell's deep tones are swelling,—'tis the knellOf the departed year.
No funeral trainIs sweeping past; yet on the stream and wood,With melancholy light, the moonbeams restLike a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred,As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloudThat floats so still and placidly through heaven,The spirits of the seasons seem to stand—Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,And Winter with his aged locks—and breathe,In mournful cadences that come abroadLike the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,Gone from the earth forever.
'Tis a timeFor memory and for tears. Within the deep,Still chambers of the heart a specter dim,Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time,Heard from the tomb of ages, points its coldAnd solemn finger to the beautifulAnd holy visions that have passed away,And left no shadow of their lovelinessOn the dead waste of life. That specter liftsThe coffin lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,And, bending mournfully above the pale,Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowersO'er what has passed to nothingness.
The yearHas gone, and with it many a glorious throngOf happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,Its shadow in each heart. In its swift courseIt waved its scepter o'er the beautiful,—And they are not. It laid its pallid handUpon the strong man,—and the haughty formIs fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.It trod the hall of revelry, where throngedThe bright and joyous, and the tearful wailOf stricken ones is heard, where erst the songAnd reckless shout resounded. It passed o'erThe battle plain, where sword, and spear, and shieldFlashed in the light of midday—and the strengthOf serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,Green from the soil of carnage, waves aboveThe crushed and mouldering skeleton. It cameAnd faded like a wreath of mist at eve;Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,It heralded its millions to their homeIn the dim land of dreams.
Remorseless Time!Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!—what powerCan stay him in his silent course, or meltHis iron heart to pity? On, still onHe presses, and forever. The proud bird,The condor of the Andes, that can soarThrough heaven's unfathomable depths, or braveThe fury of the northern hurricane,And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,Furls his broad wings at nightfall and sinks downTo rest upon his mountain crag—but TimeKnows not the weight of sleep or weariness,And night's deep darkness has no chain to bindHis rushing pinions. Revolutions sweepO'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breastOf dreaming sorrow,—cities rise and sinkLike bubbles on the water,—fiery islesSpring blazing from the ocean, and go backTo their mysterious caverns,—mountains rearTo heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bowTheir tall heads to the plain,—new empires rise,Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,Startling the nations,—and the very stars,Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,Glitter a while in their eternal depths,And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away [2]To darkle in the trackless void,—yet Time,Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career,Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses notAmid the mighty wrecks that strew his pathTo sit and muse, like other conquerors,Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.
[Footnote 1: See sketch of Prentice, page 14. The flight of time is another favorite theme with poets.The Closing Yearshould be compared with Bryant'sThe Flood of Years; similar in theme, the two poems have much in common. The closing lines of Bryant's poem express a sweet faith that relieves the somber tone of the preceding reflections:—
"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."]
[Footnote 2. This is a reference to the belief that one of the seven stars originally supposed to form the Pleiades has disappeared. Such a phenomenon is not unknown; modern astronomers record several such disappearances. See Simms'sThe Lost Pleiad, following.]
* * * * *
Not in the sky,Where it was seenSo long in eminence of light serene,—Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave,Nor down in mansions of the hidden deep,Though beautiful in greenAnd crystal, its great caves of mystery,—Shall the bright watcher haveHer place, and, as of old, high station keep!
Gone! gone!Oh! nevermore, to cheerThe mariner, who holds his course aloneOn the Atlantic, through the weary night,When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep,Shall it again appear,With the sweet-loving certainty of light,Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep!
The upward-looking shepherd on the hillsOf Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks,He wonders why her beauty doth not blaze,Gladding his gaze,—And, from his dreary watch along the rocks,Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous ways!How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze,Much wondering, while the drowsy silence fillsThe sorrowful vault!—how lingers, in the hope that nightMay yet renew the expected and sweet light,So natural to his sight! [2]
And lone,Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone,Brood the once happy circle of bright stars:How should they dream, until her fate was known,That they were ever confiscate to death? [3]That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars,And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath,That they should fall from high;Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die,All their concerted springs of harmonySnapt rudely, and the generous music gone![4]
Ah! still the strainOf wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky;The sister stars, lamenting in their painThat one of the selected ones must die,—Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest!Alas! 'tis ever thus the destiny.Even Rapture's song hath evermore a toneOf wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone.The hope most precious is the soonest lost,The flower most sweet is first to feel the frost.Are not all short-lived things the loveliest?And, like the pale star, shooting down the sky,Look they not ever brightest, as they flyFrom the lone sphere they blest!
THE SWAMP FOX [5]We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,His friends and merry men are we;And when the troop of Tarleton [6] rides,We burrow in the cypress tree.The turfy hammock is our bed,Our home is in the red deer's den,Our roof, the tree-top overhead,For we are wild and hunted men.
We fly by day and shun its light,But, prompt to strike the sudden blow,We mount and start with early night,And through the forest track our foe.[7]And soon he hears our chargers leap,The flashing saber blinds his eyes,And ere he drives away his sleep,And rushes from his camp, he dies.
Free bridle bit, good gallant steed,That will not ask a kind caressTo swim the Santee [8] at our need,When on his heels the foemen press,—The true heart and the ready hand,The spirit stubborn to be free,The twisted bore, the smiting brand,—And we are Marion's men, you see.
Now light the fire and cook the meal,The last, perhaps, that we shall taste;I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,And that's a sign we move in haste.He whistles to the scouts, and hark!You hear his order calm and low.Come, wave your torch across the dark,And let us see the boys that go.
We may not see their forms again,God help 'em, should they find the strife!For they are strong and fearless men,And make no coward terms for life;They'll fight as long as Marion bids,And when he speaks the word to shy,Then, not till then, they turn their steeds,Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.
Now stir the fire and lie at ease,—The scouts are gone, and on the brushI see the Colonel [9] bend his knees,To take his slumbers too. But hush!He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange;The man that's fighting day by dayMay well, when night comes, take a change,And down upon his knees to pray.
Break up that hoecake, boys, and handThe sly and silent jug that's there;I love not it should idly standWhen Marion's men have need of cheer.'Tis seldom that our luck affordsA stuff like this we just have quaffed,And dry potatoes on our boardsMay always call for such a draught.
Now pile the brush and roll the log;Hard pillow, but a soldier's headThat's half the time in brake and bogMust never think of softer bed.The owl is hooting to the night,The cooter [10] crawling o'er the bank,And in that pond the flashing lightTells where the alligator sank.
What! 'tis the signal! start so soon,And through the Santee swamp so deep,Without the aid of friendly moon,And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!But courage, comrades! Marion leads,The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;So clear your swords and spur your steeds,There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,We leave the swamp and cypress tree,Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,And ready for the strife are we.The Tory camp is now in sight,And there he cowers within his den;He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,He fears, and flies from Marion's men.
[Footnote 1: See note above. There is a peculiar fitness in the reference to the sea in this poem; for the constellation of the Pleiades was named by the Greeks from their wordplein, to sail, because the Mediterranean was navigable with safety during the months these stars were visible.]
[Footnote 2: The poet seems to associate the Chaldean shepherd with the Magi, who, as astrologers, observed the stars with profound interest. The hope expressed for the return of the star cannot be regarded, in the light of modern astronomy, as entirely fanciful. Only recently a new star has flamed forth in the constellation Perseus.]
[Footnote 3: The fixed stars, continually giving forth immeasurable quantities of heat, are in a process of cooling. Sooner or later they will become dark bodies. Astronomers tell us that there is reason to believe that the dark bodies or burned-out suns of the universe are more numerous than the bright ones, though the number of the latter exceeds 125 millions. The existence of such dark bodies has been established beyond a reasonable doubt.]
[Footnote 4: A reference to the old belief that the stars make music in their courses. In Job (xxxviii. 7) we read: "When the morning stars sang together." According to the Platonic philosophy, this music of the spheres, too faint for mortal ears, was heard only by the gods. Shakespeare has given beautiful expression to this belief:—
"There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'stBut in his motion like an angel sings,Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;Such harmony is in immortal souls;But whilst this muddy vesture of decayDoth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."—Merchant of Venice, Act V., Sc. 1.]
[Footnote 5: See sketch of Simms, page 16. This poem is found inThePartisan, the first of three novels descriptive of the Revolution.Read a biographical sketch of General Francis Marion (1732-1795), whoseshrewdness in attack and escape earned for him thesobriquet"Swamp Fox."]
[Footnote 6: Sir Banastre Tarleton (1754-1833) was a lieutenant colonel in the army of Cornwallis. He was a brilliant and successful officer, but was defeated by General Morgan in the battle of Cowpens in 1781.]
[Footnote 7: "Sumter, Marion, and other South Carolina leaders found places of refuge in the great swamps which are found in parts of the state; and from these they kept up an active warfare with the British. Their desperate battles, night marches, surprises, and hairbreadth escapes make this the most exciting and interesting period of the Revolution."—Johnston'sHistory of the United States.]
[Footnote 8: Marion's principal field of operations lay between theSantee and Pedee rivers.]
[Footnote 9: Marion held the rank of captain at the outbreak of the Revolution, and was made lieutenant colonel for gallant conduct in the defence of Fort Moultrie, June 28, 1776. Later he was made general.]
[Footnote 10: A water tortoise or snapping turtle.]
Compare Bryant'sSong of Marion's Men.
* * * * *
I fill this cup to one made upOf loveliness alone,A woman, of her gentle sexThe seeming paragon;To whom the better elementsAnd kindly stars have givenA form so fair, that, like the air,'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own,Like those of morning birds,And something more than melodyDwells ever in her words;The coinage of her heart are they,And from her lips each flowsAs one may see the burdened beeForth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her,[2]The measures of her hours;Her feelings have the fragrancy,The freshness of young flowers;And lovely passions, changing oft,So fill her, she appearsThe image of themselves by turns,—The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will traceA picture on the brain,And of her voice in echoing heartsA sound must long remain;But memory, such as mine of her,So very much endears,When death is nigh my latest sighWill not be life's, but hers.
I fill this cup to one made upOf loveliness alone,A woman, of her gentle sexThe seeming paragon—Her health! and would on earth there stoodSome more of such a frame,That life might be all poetry,And weariness a name. [3]
We break the glass, whose sacred wineTo some beloved health we drain,Lest future pledges, less divine,Should e'er the hallowed toy profane;And thus I broke a heart that pouredIts tide of feelings out for thee,In draught, by after-times deplored,Yet dear to memory.
But still the old, impassioned waysAnd habits of my mind remain,And still unhappy light displaysThine image chambered in my brain;And still it looks as when the hoursWent by like flights of singing birds,[4]Or that soft chain of spoken flowersand airy gems,—thy words.
I burn no incense, hang no wreath,On this thine early tomb:Such can not cheer the place of death,But only mock its gloom.Here odorous smoke and breathing flowerNo grateful influence shed;They lose their perfume and their power,When offered to the dead.
And if, as is the Afghaun's creed,The spirit may return,A disembodied sense to feedOn fragrance, near its urn,—It is enough that she, whom thouDidst love in living years,Sits desolate beside it now,And fall these heavy tears.
[Footnote 1: See sketch of Pinkney, page 18. The flowing or lilting melody of this and the following songs is quite remarkable. It is traceable to the skillful use of liquid consonants and short vowels, and the avoidance of harsh consonant combinations.]
[Footnote 2: The irregularities of this stanza are remarkable. The middle rhyme used in the first and seventh lines of the other stanzas is here lacking. It seems to have been an oversight on the part of the poet.]
[Footnote 3: With this drinking song we may compare the well-known one ofBen Jonson:—
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cup,And I'll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.
"I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honoring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not withered be;But thou thereon didst only breatheAnd sent'st it back to me;Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself, but thee."]
[Footnote 4: This same simile occurs in a beautiful poem by Amelia C. Welby (1819-1852), a Southern poet of no mean gifts, entitledTwilight at Sea:—
"The twilight hours like birds flew by,As lightly and as free;Ten thousand stars were in the sky,Ten thousand on the sea;For every wave with dimpled face,That leaped upon the air,Had caught a star in its embrace,And held it trembling there."]
* * * * *
I loved thee long and dearly,Florence Vane;My life's bright dream, and early,Hath come again;I renew, in my fond vision,My heart's dear pain;My hope, and thy derision,Florence Vane.
The ruin lone and hoary,The ruin old,Where thou didst hark my story,At even told,—That spot—the hues ElysianOf sky and plain—I treasure in my vision,Florence Vane.
Thou wast lovelier than the rosesIn their prime;Thy voice excelled the closesOf sweetest rhyme;Thy heart was as a riverWithout a main. [2]Would I had loved thee never,Florence Vane.
But fairest, coldest wonder!Thy glorious clayLieth the green sod under—Alas the day!And it boots not to rememberThy disdain—To quicken love's pale ember,Florence Vane.
The lilies of the valleyBy young graves weep,The pansies love to dallyWhere maidens sleep;May their bloom, in beauty vying,Never wane,Where thine earthly part is lying,Florence Vane!
[Footnote 1: See sketch of Cooke, page 19. In the preface to the volume from which this poem is taken, the author tells us thatFlorence Vane and Rosalie Lee, another brief lyric, had "met with more favor than I could ever perceive their just claim to." Hence he was kept from "venturing upon the correction of some faults."Rosalie Leeis more than usually defective in meter and rhyme, but Florence Vane cannot easily be improved.]
[Footnote 2: "My meaning, I suppose," the poet wrote an inquiring friend, "was that Florence did not want the capacity to love, but directed her love to no object. Her passions went flowing like a lost river. Byron has a kindred idea expressed by the same figure. Perhaps his verses were in my mind when I wrote my own:—
'She was the ocean to the river of his thoughts,Which terminated all.'—The Dream.
But no verse ought to require to be interpreted, and if I were composingFlorence Vane now, I would avoid the over concentrated expression in thetwo lines, and make the idea clearer."—Southern LiteraryMessenger, 1850, p. 370.]
* * * * *
The muffled drum's sad roll has beatThe soldier's last tattoo:No more op Life's parade shall meetThat brave and fallen few.On Fame's eternal camping-groundTheir silent tents are spread,And Glory guards, with solemn round,The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advanceNow swells upon the wind;No troubled thought at midnight hauntsOf loved ones left behind;No vision of the morrow's strifeThe warrior's dream alarms;No braying horn nor screaming fifeAt dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,Their plumed heads are bowed;Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,Is now their martial shroud.And plenteous funeral tears have washedThe red stains from each brow,And the proud forms, by battle gashed,Are free from anguish now.
The neighboring troop, the flashing blade,The bugle's stirring blast,The charge, the dreadful cannonade,The din and shout, are past;Nor war's wild note nor glory's pealShall thrill with fierce delightThose breasts that nevermore may feelThe rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricaneThat sweeps his great plateau,Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,Came down the serried foe. [2]Who heard the thunder of the frayBreak o'er the field beneath,Knew well the watchword of that dayWas "Victory or Death."
Long had the doubtful conflict ragedO'er all that stricken plain,For never fiercer fight had wagedThe vengeful blood of Spain; [3]And still the storm of battle blew,Still swelled the gory tide;Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,Such odds his strength could bide.
'Twas in that hour his stern commandCalled to a martyr's graveThe flower of his beloved land,The nation's flag to save.By rivers of their fathers' goreHis first-born laurels grew, [4]And well he deemed the sons would pourTheir lives for glory too.
Full many a norther's breath has sweptO'er Angostura's plain, [5]And long the pitying sky has weptAbove its moldered slain.The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,Or shepherd's pensive lay,Alone awakes each sullen heightThat frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,Ye must not slumber there,Where stranger steps and tongues resoundAlong the heedless air.Your own proud land's heroic soilShall be your fitter grave:She claims from war his richest spoil—The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,Far from the gory field,Borne to a Spartan mother's breastOn many a bloody shield; [6]The sunshine of their native skySmiles sadly on them here,And kindred eyes and hearts watch byThe heroes' sepulcher.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!Dear as the blood ye gave;No impious footstep here shall treadThe herbage of your grave;Nor shall your glory be forgotWhile Fame her record keeps,Or Honor points the hallowed spotWhere valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stoneIn deathless song shall tell,When many a vanished age hath flown,The story how ye fell;Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,Nor Time's remorseless doom,Shall dim one ray of glory's lightThat gilds your deathless tomb.
[Footnote 1: See sketch of O'Hara, page 21, for the occasion of this poem.]
[Footnote 2: The American force numbered 4769 men; the Mexican force under Santa Anna, 21,000. The latter was confident of victory, and sent a flag of truce to demand surrender. "You are surrounded by 20,000 men," wrote the Mexican general, "and cannot, in any human probability, avoid suffering a rout, and being cut to pieces with your troops." Gen. Taylor replied, "I beg leave to say that I decline acceding to your request."]
[Footnote 3: The battle raged for ten hours with varying success. There was great determination on both sides, as is shown by the heavy losses. The Americans lost 267 killed and 456 wounded; Santa Anna stated his loss at 1500, which was probably an underestimate. He left 500 dead on the field. The battle was a decisive one, and left northeastern Mexico in the hands of the Americans.]
[Footnote 4: The reference is to Zachary Taylor, who was in command of the American forces. Though born in Virginia, he was brought up in Kentucky, and won his first laurels in command of Kentuckians in the War of 1812, during which he was engaged in fighting the Indian allies of Great Britain. His victory at Buena Vista aroused great enthusiasm in the United States, and more than any other event led to his election as President.]
[Footnote 5: The plateau on which the battle was fought, so called from the mountain pass of Angostura (the narrows) leading to it from the South.]
[Footnote 6: Kentucky is here beautifully likened to a Spartan mother who was accustomed to say, as she handed a shield to her son departing for war, "Come back with this or upon this."]
* * * * *
The knightliest of the knightly raceThat, since the days of old,Have kept the lamp of chivalryAlight in hearts of gold;The kindliest of the kindly bandThat, rarely hating ease,Yet rode with Spotswood [2] round the land,With Raleigh round the seas;
Who climbed the blue Virginian hillsAgainst embattled foes,And planted there, in valleys fair,The lily and the rose;Whose fragrance lives in many lands,Whose beauty stars the earth,And lights the hearths of happy homesWith loveliness and worth.
We thought they slept!—the sons who keptThe names of noble sires,And slumbered while the darkness creptAround their vigil fires;But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" knightsTheir Old Dominion [3] keep,Whose foes have found enchanted ground.But not a knight asleep.
Out of the focal and foremost fire,Out of the hospital walls as dire;Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene,(Eighteenth battle [5] andhesixteen!)Specter! such as you seldom see,Little Giffen, of Tennessee!
"Take him and welcome!" the surgeons said;Little the doctor can help the dead!So we took him; and brought him whereThe balm was sweet in the summer air;And we laid him down on a wholesome bed,—Utter Lazarus, heel to head!
And we watched the war with abated breath,—Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death.Months of torture, how many such?Weary weeks of the stick and crutch;And still a glint of the steel-blue eyeTold of a spirit that wouldn't die,
And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despiteThe crippled skeleton "learned to write.""Dear Mother," at first, of course; and then"Dear captain," inquiring about the men.Captain's answer: "Of eighty-and-five,Giffen and I are left alive."
Word of gloom from the war, one day;Johnston pressed at the front, they say.Little Giffen was up and away;A tear—his first—as he bade good-by,Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye."I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight;But none of Giffen.—He did not write. [6]
I sometimes fancy that, were I kingOf the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, [7]With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,And the tender legend that trembles here,I'd give the best on his bended knee,The whitest soul of my chivalry,For "Little Giffen," of Tennessee.
[Footnote 1: See sketch of Ticknor, page 22, for the occasion of this poem. In this poem the exact meaning and sequence of thought do not appear till after repeated readings.]
[Footnote 2: Alexander Spotswood (1676-1740) was governor of Virginia 1710-1723. He led an exploring expedition across the Blue Ridge and took possession of the Valley of Virginia "in the name of his Majesty King George of England." On his return to Williamsburg he presented to each of his companions a miniature golden horseshoe to be worn upon the breast. Those who took part in the expedition, which was then regarded as a formidable undertaking, were subsequently known as the "Knights of the Golden Horseshoe."]
[Footnote 3: "The Old Dominion" is a popular name for Virginia. Its origin may be traced to acts of Parliament, in which it is designated as "the colony and dominion of Virginia." In hisHistory of Virginia(1629) Captain John Smith calls this colony and dominionOld Virginiain contradistinction toNew England.]
[Footnote 4: See page 23. Of this poem Maurice Thompson said: "If there is a finer lyric than this in the whole realm of poetry, I should be glad to read it."]
[Footnote 5: Probably the battle of Murfreesboro, which opened December 31, 1862, and lasted three days. Union loss 14,000; Confederate, 11,000.]
[Footnote 6: He was killed in some battle near Atlanta early in 1864.]
[Footnote 7: A reference to King Arthur and the Knights of the RoundTable.]
With this poem should be compared Browning'sIncident of the French Camp.
* * * * *
Two armies covered hill and plain,Where Rappahannock's waters [2]Ran deeply crimsoned with the stainOf battle's recent slaughters.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tentsIn meads of heavenly azure;And each dread gun of the elementsSlept in its hid embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew, it madeNo forest leaf to quiver,And the smoke of the random cannonadeRolled slowly from the river.
And now, where circling hills looked downWith cannon grimly planted,O'er listless camp and silent townThe golden sunset slanted.
When on the fervid air there cameA strain—now rich, now tender;The music seemed itself aflameWith day's departing splendor.
A Federal band, which, eve and morn,Played measures brave and nimble,Had just struck up, with flute and hornAnd lively clash of cymbal.
Down flocked the soldiers to the banks,Till, margined by its pebbles,One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks,"And one was gray with "Rebels."
Then all was still, and then the band,With movement light and tricksy,Made stream and forest, hill and strand,Reverberate with "Dixie."
The conscious stream with burnished glowWent proudly o'er its pebbles,But thrilled throughout its deepest flowWith yelling of the Rebels.
Again a pause, and then againThe trumpets pealed sonorous,And "Yankee Doodle" was the strainTo which the shore gave chorus.
The laughing ripple shoreward flew,To kiss the shining pebbles;Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in BlueDefiance to the Rebels.
And yet once more the bugles sangAbove the stormy riot;No shout upon the evening rang—There reigned a holy quiet.
The sad, slow stream its noiseless floodPoured o'er the glistening pebbles;All silent now the Yankees stood,And silent stood the Rebels.
No unresponsive soul had heardThat plaintive note's appealing,So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirredThe hidden founts of feeling.
Or Blue or Gray the soldier sees,As by the wand of fairy,The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,The cabin by the prairie.
Or cold or warm, his native skiesBend in their beauty o'er him;Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,His loved ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rainIn April's tearful weather,The vision vanished, as the strainAnd daylight died together.
And memory, waked by music's art,Expressed in simplest numbers,Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,Made light the Rebel's slumbers.
And fair the form of music shines,That bright celestial creature,Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines,Gave this one touch of Nature.
[Footnote 1: See sketch of John R. Thompson, page 23.]
[Footnote 2: The incident on which the poem is based may have occurred in 1862 or 1863. In both years the Union and Confederate forces occupied opposite banks of the Rappahannock.]
* * * * *
Grateful acknowledgment is here made to Dr. George J. Preston ofBaltimore, for permission to use the two following poems.
The autumn air sweeps faint and chillAcross the maple-crested hill;And on my earFalls, tingling clear,A strange, mysterious, woodland thrill.
From utmost twig, from scarlet crownUntouched with yet a tinct of brown,Reluctant, slow,As loath to go,The loosened leaves come wavering down;
And not a hectic trembler there,In its decadence, doomed to shareThe fate of all,—But in its fallFlings something sob-like on the air.
No drift or dream of passing bell,Dying afar in twilight dell,Hath any heard,Whose chimes have stirredMore yearning pathos of farewell.
A silent shiver as of pain,Goes quivering through each sapless vein;And there are moans,Whose undertonesAre sad as midnight autumn rain.
Ah, if without its dirge-like sigh,No lightest, clinging leaf can die,—Let him who saithDecay and deathShould bring no heart-break, tell me why.
Each graveyard gives the answer: thereI readResurgam[2] everywhere,So easy saidAbove the dead—So weak to anodyne despair.
We mean to do it. Some day, some day,We mean to slacken this feverish rushThat is wearing our very souls away,And grant to our hearts a hushThat is only enough to let them hearThe footsteps of angels drawing near.
We mean to do it. Oh, never doubt,When the burden of daytime broil is o'er,We'll sit and muse while the stars come out,As the patriarchs sat in the door [3]Of their tents with a heavenward-gazing eye,To watch for angels passing by.
We've seen them afar at high noontide,When fiercely the world's hot flashings beat;Yet never have bidden them turn aside,To tarry in converse sweet;Nor prayed them to hallow the cheer we spread,To drink of our wine and break our bread.
We promise our hearts that when the stressOf the life work reaches the longed-for close,When the weight that we groan with hinders less,We'll welcome such calm reposeAs banishes care's disturbing din,And then—we'll call the angels in.
The day that we dreamed of comes at length,When tired of every mocking guest,And broken in spirit and shorn of strength,We drop at the door of rest,And wait and watch as the day wanes on—But the angels we meant to call are gone!
[Footnote 1: See sketch of Mrs. Preston, page 25. This and the following poem are good examples of her poetic art, and exhibit, at the same time, her reflective religious temperament.]
[Footnote 2:Resurgam(Latin), I shall rise again.]
[Footnote 3: "And Abraham sat in the tent door in the heat of the day; and he lifted up his eyes and looked, and, lo, three men stood by him: and when he saw them, he ran to meet them from the tent door, and bowed himself toward the ground, and said, My Lord, if now I have found favour in thy sight, pass not away, I pray thee, from thy servant."—Genesisxviii. 1-3.]
* * * * *
Helen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicaean [2] barks of yore,That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,The weary, wayworn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs, have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece,And the grandeur that was Rome.[3]
Lo! in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp within thy hand!Ah, Psyche, [4] from the regions whichAre Holy Land! [5]
It was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea, [7]That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of Annabel Lee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,In this kingdom by the sea:But we loved with a love that was more than love,I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.[8]
And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee;So that her highborn kinsmen [9] cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulcherIn this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me;Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud by night,Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we,Of many far wiser than we;And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee:For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side [10]Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,In her sepulcher there by the sea,In her tomb by the sounding sea.