“Gusty and raw was the morning,A fog hung over the seas,And its gray skirts, rolling inland,Were torn by the mountain trees;No sound was heard but the dashingOf waves on the sandy bar,When Pablo of San DiegoBode down to the Paso del Mar.The pescadòr, out in his shallop,Gathering his harvest so wide,Sees the dim bulk of the headlandLoom over the waste of the tide;He sees, like a white thread, the pathwayWind round on the terrible wall,Where the faint, moving speck of the riderSeems hovering close to its fall.”
“Gusty and raw was the morning,A fog hung over the seas,And its gray skirts, rolling inland,Were torn by the mountain trees;No sound was heard but the dashingOf waves on the sandy bar,When Pablo of San DiegoBode down to the Paso del Mar.The pescadòr, out in his shallop,Gathering his harvest so wide,Sees the dim bulk of the headlandLoom over the waste of the tide;He sees, like a white thread, the pathwayWind round on the terrible wall,Where the faint, moving speck of the riderSeems hovering close to its fall.”
“Gusty and raw was the morning,A fog hung over the seas,And its gray skirts, rolling inland,Were torn by the mountain trees;No sound was heard but the dashingOf waves on the sandy bar,When Pablo of San DiegoBode down to the Paso del Mar.
“Gusty and raw was the morning,
A fog hung over the seas,
And its gray skirts, rolling inland,
Were torn by the mountain trees;
No sound was heard but the dashing
Of waves on the sandy bar,
When Pablo of San Diego
Bode down to the Paso del Mar.
The pescadòr, out in his shallop,Gathering his harvest so wide,Sees the dim bulk of the headlandLoom over the waste of the tide;He sees, like a white thread, the pathwayWind round on the terrible wall,Where the faint, moving speck of the riderSeems hovering close to its fall.”
The pescadòr, out in his shallop,
Gathering his harvest so wide,
Sees the dim bulk of the headland
Loom over the waste of the tide;
He sees, like a white thread, the pathway
Wind round on the terrible wall,
Where the faint, moving speck of the rider
Seems hovering close to its fall.”
Most sweetly sang he of the climate, and the prolific gifts of nature in California, and one verse of his “Manuela” contains a very vivid and accurate picture of some of California, as seen by many travellers.
“All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are o’er,And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding sycamore;Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, over all the grassy slope;Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the antelope.”
“All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are o’er,And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding sycamore;Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, over all the grassy slope;Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the antelope.”
“All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are o’er,
And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding sycamore;
Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, over all the grassy slope;
Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the antelope.”
In a prophetic strain, which has been so often quoted in that land where
“The seaward winds are wailing through Santa Barbara’s pines,And like a sheathless sabre, the far Pacific shines,”
“The seaward winds are wailing through Santa Barbara’s pines,And like a sheathless sabre, the far Pacific shines,”
“The seaward winds are wailing through Santa Barbara’s pines,
And like a sheathless sabre, the far Pacific shines,”
he foretold, in “The Pine Forest of Monterey,” what has already happened in that magic land of sunshine, gold, and miraculous progress.
“Stately Pines,But few more years around the promontoryYour chant will meet the thunders of the sea.No more, a barrier to the encroaching sandAgainst the surf ye’ll stretch defiant arm,Though with its onset and besieging shockYour firm knees tremble. Never more the windShall pipe shrill music through your mossy beards,Nor sunset’s yellow blaze athwart your headsCrown all the hills with gold. Your race is past:The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birthCoeval was with yours, has run its sands,And other footsteps from these changing shoresFrighten its haunting Spirit. Men will comeTo vex your quiet with the din of toil;The smoky volumes of the forge will stainThis pure, sweet air; loud keels will ride the sea,Dashing its glittering sapphire into foam;Through all her green cañadas Spring will seekHer lavish blooms in vain, and clasping ye,O, mournful Pines, within her glowing arms,Will weep soft rains to find ye fallen low.”
“Stately Pines,But few more years around the promontoryYour chant will meet the thunders of the sea.No more, a barrier to the encroaching sandAgainst the surf ye’ll stretch defiant arm,Though with its onset and besieging shockYour firm knees tremble. Never more the windShall pipe shrill music through your mossy beards,Nor sunset’s yellow blaze athwart your headsCrown all the hills with gold. Your race is past:The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birthCoeval was with yours, has run its sands,And other footsteps from these changing shoresFrighten its haunting Spirit. Men will comeTo vex your quiet with the din of toil;The smoky volumes of the forge will stainThis pure, sweet air; loud keels will ride the sea,Dashing its glittering sapphire into foam;Through all her green cañadas Spring will seekHer lavish blooms in vain, and clasping ye,O, mournful Pines, within her glowing arms,Will weep soft rains to find ye fallen low.”
“Stately Pines,
But few more years around the promontory
Your chant will meet the thunders of the sea.
No more, a barrier to the encroaching sand
Against the surf ye’ll stretch defiant arm,
Though with its onset and besieging shock
Your firm knees tremble. Never more the wind
Shall pipe shrill music through your mossy beards,
Nor sunset’s yellow blaze athwart your heads
Crown all the hills with gold. Your race is past:
The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birth
Coeval was with yours, has run its sands,
And other footsteps from these changing shores
Frighten its haunting Spirit. Men will come
To vex your quiet with the din of toil;
The smoky volumes of the forge will stain
This pure, sweet air; loud keels will ride the sea,
Dashing its glittering sapphire into foam;
Through all her green cañadas Spring will seek
Her lavish blooms in vain, and clasping ye,
O, mournful Pines, within her glowing arms,
Will weep soft rains to find ye fallen low.”
He portrayed his California experiences in rhyme, when he sang of “The Summer Camp,” and we quote a few lines of it, so appropriate to his departure from San Francisco.
“No more of travel, where the flaming swordOf the great sun divides the heavens; no moreOf climbing over jutty steeps that swimIn driving sea-mists, where the stunted treeSlants inland, mimicking the stress of windsWhen wind is none; of plain and steaming marsh,Where the dry bulrush crackles in the heat;Of camps by starlight in the columned vaultOf sycamores, and the red, dancing firesThat build a leafy arch, efface and build,And sink at last, to let the stars peep through;Of cañons grown with pine, and folded deepIn golden mountain-sides; of airy sweepsOf mighty landscape, lying all aloneLike some deserted world.”
“No more of travel, where the flaming swordOf the great sun divides the heavens; no moreOf climbing over jutty steeps that swimIn driving sea-mists, where the stunted treeSlants inland, mimicking the stress of windsWhen wind is none; of plain and steaming marsh,Where the dry bulrush crackles in the heat;Of camps by starlight in the columned vaultOf sycamores, and the red, dancing firesThat build a leafy arch, efface and build,And sink at last, to let the stars peep through;Of cañons grown with pine, and folded deepIn golden mountain-sides; of airy sweepsOf mighty landscape, lying all aloneLike some deserted world.”
“No more of travel, where the flaming sword
Of the great sun divides the heavens; no more
Of climbing over jutty steeps that swim
In driving sea-mists, where the stunted tree
Slants inland, mimicking the stress of winds
When wind is none; of plain and steaming marsh,
Where the dry bulrush crackles in the heat;
Of camps by starlight in the columned vault
Of sycamores, and the red, dancing fires
That build a leafy arch, efface and build,
And sink at last, to let the stars peep through;
Of cañons grown with pine, and folded deep
In golden mountain-sides; of airy sweeps
Of mighty landscape, lying all alone
Like some deserted world.”
He mentioned the deep impression of ceaseless progress which the change of a few weeks had made in the growth of San Francisco. When he re-entered it, after his short stay in the mountains, he could not recognize the streets, while the inhabitants and their manners had undergone a change still more astonishing. Where there were tents a few days before, now were large buildings of wood, while the log-cabins and Chinese houses had, in many places, given place to structures of brick and stone. Wharves had been built, streets regularly laid out, banks opened, wholesale stores established, lines of steamers running to the various ports along the coast, and up the rivers; while the rude, dirty, careless, rushing multitude had assumed a cleanliness and a gravity, unequal of course to that of an Eastern city, but astonishingly in advance of the previous wildness. Law offices, brokers’ boards, smelting establishments, barber-shops, hotels, bakeries, laundries, and news-stands had all been establishedin a confusingly short space of time. The place he found as a frontier camp, he found four months later a swarming yet civilized city, with all the officials, and some of the red tape which characterize older corporations. But San Francisco was not alone in its growth; for Sacramento, San José, Monterey, and many other towns and cities, had been as nothing, less than a year before. At the time he left San Francisco, they were populous cities and villages, teeming with a resistless, sleepless activity. To accurately record such a change, to give an anxious public correct information regarding that wonderland, and the fortune of their friends, and to bear a share in the work of establishing such a State, was the task of Mr. Taylor, and most creditably did he perform his part.
On leaving California, about the first of January, 1850, he decided to go down the coast to Mazatlan and thence overland through Mexico. He came to that conclusion after long consultations with his friends, none of whom could or dared accompany him, while all told him of robbers, deserts, impassable streams, and dangerous wild beasts which awaited all travellers in that benighted and trackless country. Mr. Taylor would have enjoyed some thrilling adventures; and the fears of his advisers only made him more decided in his determination to go. So, alone, and with but slight knowledge of the Spanish language, he disembarked at Mazatlan on the Mexican coast, near themouth of the Gulf of California, and with a pair of pistols and a dwarfed mule, started into the unknown wilds of that tropical land.
CASTLE OF CHAPULTEPEC.
CASTLE OF CHAPULTEPEC.
His hardships were many, and his fatigue at times almost unbearable; but his love for things new and strange, for the unexplored and unknown, kept him moving perseveringly on through the thickets and ravines of upper Mexico. By great skill and considerable assurance he managed to keep in the good graces of the people he met, and for several days, in the forests and in the villages, he met, with very kind and hospitable treatment.
On one occasion, however, he fell among thieves. Before he arrived at the city of Mexico, and while still in the wilderness of the interior of the Mexican highlands, he was suddenly attacked by three Mexican robbers, to whose marauding purposes he could make no resistance, he having placed such reliance upon the good faith of the natives as to carry his pistol without a cartridge in it. The banditti made him dismount and hand over what little money in coin he happened to have, and after taking such blankets and trinkets as they desired, left him with his hands tied behind him, to get on as best he could. Fortunately they did not want his horse, which he had bought in place of the useless mule, and after extricating himself from his bonds by long struggles, he mounted his horse and rode on to Mexico with his drafts for money all intact. He seems to have placed less reliance on the Mexicans,after that encounter, and took good care to ride out of range of their muskets and to keep himself supplied with ammunition.
His visit to the Mexican capital was an occasion of great interest to him, and brought up freshly and vividly the story which Prescott has so well told of the Aztecs and the heroic age of Cortez. No scene in Europe is said to combine such extremes of sweetness and grandeur, of light and shade, of valley and hill, of plain and cragged highland, of land and water, of art and nature, as the valley of Mexico. There he saw the evidences of prehistoric civilization, and looked with curiosity and awe upon the towering fortress of Chapultepec, which connects the present with the ages past. However, Mr. Taylor could not stop long in that charming vale, and hastened on over the battle-fields of Scott to Vera Cruz. From Vera Cruz he went by steamer to Mobile, from thence overland to Charleston, S. C., and by way of North Carolina, Virginia, and Washington, to New York, where, about the middle of March, he resumed his duties as editor of the “Tribune” with the thought that there he might stay the remainder of his life.
The Poet’s First Love.—Playmates.—Miss Mary S. Agnew.—His Fidelity.—Poems Inspired by Affection.—Her Failing Health.—Consumption.—His Return to Her.—The Marriage at the Death-bed.—Her Death.—The Poet’s Grief.—His Inner Life.—The Story in his own Rhyme.
The Poet’s First Love.—Playmates.—Miss Mary S. Agnew.—His Fidelity.—Poems Inspired by Affection.—Her Failing Health.—Consumption.—His Return to Her.—The Marriage at the Death-bed.—Her Death.—The Poet’s Grief.—His Inner Life.—The Story in his own Rhyme.
We now enter upon the most holy ground ever trod by the biographer,—the sacred recesses of the human heart. In the annals of ordinary life, or even in those of many great men, the record of their early love may not be important to the reader. But to the poet, these more subtle and more tender emotions are events of the greatest importance. Every heart contains more or less of the poetical sentiment, and the love and marriage of any individual is a matter of great moment to him, although it may not be to his biographer. But here we write of a poet. To him, all the strings of human feeling had a clear and unmistakable sound. To him, the undertones of life played an important part in the harmony of his being. All that was pure and sweet in love he saw. All that was beautiful and lovable in life he felt, with a keenness none but the poet can know. Hence to him, we find, as in the history of the grand poets of ancient days, his love was a holy sentiment, to bevalued as God’s best gift, and to be worshipped as a part of Him.
In a neighboring farm-house, but a short distance from his father’s farm, lived Mary S. Agnew. She was born and reared in the same community, went to the same school, attended the same church, and was a playmate, classmate, and trusted companion. They sought each other in childhood’s days, and their friendship ripened into love as imperceptibly and surely as the coming and going of the years developed their lives, and pressed them forward into manhood and womanhood. Her dark hair and eyes, her slender form, her lovable disposition, her conscientiousness and purity were presented to him in that strong light, under which all lovers see the merits and virtues of their sweethearts. Added to that was the romance and insight of that other sense which poets are said to possess. He built a shrine to this idol wherever he went, and through all his early years she was, as he said in verse, the representative to him of the goodness of God. On the farm, he made verses in her honor; at the Quaker meeting he was thankful for her; at the parties and social gatherings among the young folks, she was the centre of his thought. Not foolishly or blindly did he exhibit his affection. Not extravagantly or obtrusively did he follow his wooing. But his poetry and his prose give here and there a clew to the deep and fervent love of his youthful days. Some of his very sweetest poetry found its inspiration inthat love, and when the volume is published, if ever it is, in which shall appear those sonnets, which have modestly been kept thus far from the public gaze, there will be found gems that the world cannot well spare. How sincere, disinterested, and noble was his affection, was proved by his faithful and unabated love, after he had seen the world and its loveliest ladies, and after the cruel hand of disease had chiselled away the round and rosy cheeks, and left, in place of the sparkling, blushing maiden of his early love, a pallid spectre—a shadow of her former self. In all his wanderings, he never neglected her. In all his most tender writings, her image is more or less clear. In one of his volumes, “The Poet’s Journal,” he gives a history of his love and sorrow; of the awakening, after years of death, in the sweetest and most touching of all his poems.
He allowed some of his earlier verses to see the light of print, wherein he makes mention, indirectly, of Mary S. Agnew. When travelling along the Danube, in 1845, he thus writes:—
“Old playmates! bid me welcomeAmid your brother-band;Give me the old affection,—The glowing grasp of hand!I seek no more the realms of old,—Here is my Fatherland.Come hither, gentle maiden,Who weep’st in tender joy!The rapture of thy presenceRepays the world’s annoy,And calms the wild and ardent heartWhich warms the wandering boy.In many a mountain fastness,By many a river’s foam,And through the gorgeous cities,’Twas loneliness to roam;For the sweetest music in my heartWas the olden songs of home.”
“Old playmates! bid me welcomeAmid your brother-band;Give me the old affection,—The glowing grasp of hand!I seek no more the realms of old,—Here is my Fatherland.Come hither, gentle maiden,Who weep’st in tender joy!The rapture of thy presenceRepays the world’s annoy,And calms the wild and ardent heartWhich warms the wandering boy.In many a mountain fastness,By many a river’s foam,And through the gorgeous cities,’Twas loneliness to roam;For the sweetest music in my heartWas the olden songs of home.”
“Old playmates! bid me welcomeAmid your brother-band;Give me the old affection,—The glowing grasp of hand!I seek no more the realms of old,—Here is my Fatherland.
“Old playmates! bid me welcome
Amid your brother-band;
Give me the old affection,—
The glowing grasp of hand!
I seek no more the realms of old,—
Here is my Fatherland.
Come hither, gentle maiden,Who weep’st in tender joy!The rapture of thy presenceRepays the world’s annoy,And calms the wild and ardent heartWhich warms the wandering boy.
Come hither, gentle maiden,
Who weep’st in tender joy!
The rapture of thy presence
Repays the world’s annoy,
And calms the wild and ardent heart
Which warms the wandering boy.
In many a mountain fastness,By many a river’s foam,And through the gorgeous cities,’Twas loneliness to roam;For the sweetest music in my heartWas the olden songs of home.”
In many a mountain fastness,
By many a river’s foam,
And through the gorgeous cities,
’Twas loneliness to roam;
For the sweetest music in my heart
Was the olden songs of home.”
When in Florence, in 1846, he wrote a poem entitled “In Italy,” wherein were the following expressive lines:—
“Rich is the soil with Fancy’s gold;The stirring memories of oldRise thronging in my haunted vision,And wake my spirit’s young ambition.But as the radiant sunsets closeAbove Val d’Arno’s bowers of rose,My soul forgets the olden glory,And deems our love a dearer story.Thy words, in Memory’s ear, outchimeThe music of the Tuscan rhyme;Thou standest here—the gentle-hearted—Amid the shades of bards departed.I see before thee fade awayTheir garlands of immortal bay,And turn from Petrarch’s passion-glancesTo my own dearer heart-romances.”“A single thought of thee effacedThe fair Italian dream I chased;For the true clime of song and sunLies in the heart which mine hath won.”
“Rich is the soil with Fancy’s gold;The stirring memories of oldRise thronging in my haunted vision,And wake my spirit’s young ambition.But as the radiant sunsets closeAbove Val d’Arno’s bowers of rose,My soul forgets the olden glory,And deems our love a dearer story.Thy words, in Memory’s ear, outchimeThe music of the Tuscan rhyme;Thou standest here—the gentle-hearted—Amid the shades of bards departed.I see before thee fade awayTheir garlands of immortal bay,And turn from Petrarch’s passion-glancesTo my own dearer heart-romances.”“A single thought of thee effacedThe fair Italian dream I chased;For the true clime of song and sunLies in the heart which mine hath won.”
“Rich is the soil with Fancy’s gold;The stirring memories of oldRise thronging in my haunted vision,And wake my spirit’s young ambition.
“Rich is the soil with Fancy’s gold;
The stirring memories of old
Rise thronging in my haunted vision,
And wake my spirit’s young ambition.
But as the radiant sunsets closeAbove Val d’Arno’s bowers of rose,My soul forgets the olden glory,And deems our love a dearer story.
But as the radiant sunsets close
Above Val d’Arno’s bowers of rose,
My soul forgets the olden glory,
And deems our love a dearer story.
Thy words, in Memory’s ear, outchimeThe music of the Tuscan rhyme;Thou standest here—the gentle-hearted—Amid the shades of bards departed.
Thy words, in Memory’s ear, outchime
The music of the Tuscan rhyme;
Thou standest here—the gentle-hearted—
Amid the shades of bards departed.
I see before thee fade awayTheir garlands of immortal bay,And turn from Petrarch’s passion-glancesTo my own dearer heart-romances.”
I see before thee fade away
Their garlands of immortal bay,
And turn from Petrarch’s passion-glances
To my own dearer heart-romances.”
“A single thought of thee effacedThe fair Italian dream I chased;For the true clime of song and sunLies in the heart which mine hath won.”
“A single thought of thee effaced
The fair Italian dream I chased;
For the true clime of song and sun
Lies in the heart which mine hath won.”
When he reached London in 1846, after his long pilgrimage, and when so reduced in funds and friends, he yet had the time and mind to write of her these graceful rhymes:—
“I’ve wandered through the golden landsWhere art and beauty blended shine—Where features limned by painters’ handsBeam from the canvas made divine,And many a god in marble stands,With soul in every breathing line;And forms the world has treasured longWithin me touched the world of song.”“Yet brighter than those radiant dreamsWhich won renown that never dies—Where more than mortal beauty beamsIn sybil’s lips, and angel’s eyes—One image, like the moonlight, seemsBetween them and my heart to rise,And in its brighter, dearer ray,The stars of Genius fade away.”
“I’ve wandered through the golden landsWhere art and beauty blended shine—Where features limned by painters’ handsBeam from the canvas made divine,And many a god in marble stands,With soul in every breathing line;And forms the world has treasured longWithin me touched the world of song.”“Yet brighter than those radiant dreamsWhich won renown that never dies—Where more than mortal beauty beamsIn sybil’s lips, and angel’s eyes—One image, like the moonlight, seemsBetween them and my heart to rise,And in its brighter, dearer ray,The stars of Genius fade away.”
“I’ve wandered through the golden landsWhere art and beauty blended shine—Where features limned by painters’ handsBeam from the canvas made divine,And many a god in marble stands,With soul in every breathing line;And forms the world has treasured longWithin me touched the world of song.”
“I’ve wandered through the golden lands
Where art and beauty blended shine—
Where features limned by painters’ hands
Beam from the canvas made divine,
And many a god in marble stands,
With soul in every breathing line;
And forms the world has treasured long
Within me touched the world of song.”
“Yet brighter than those radiant dreamsWhich won renown that never dies—Where more than mortal beauty beamsIn sybil’s lips, and angel’s eyes—One image, like the moonlight, seemsBetween them and my heart to rise,And in its brighter, dearer ray,The stars of Genius fade away.”
“Yet brighter than those radiant dreams
Which won renown that never dies—
Where more than mortal beauty beams
In sybil’s lips, and angel’s eyes—
One image, like the moonlight, seems
Between them and my heart to rise,
And in its brighter, dearer ray,
The stars of Genius fade away.”
It is an interesting study and one not altogether unprofitable, to follow, through an author’s works the marks of his peculiar likes, joys, and sorrows. For in science, philosophy, history or poetry, the feelings of the student will unguardedly creep into his manuscripts as if between the lines, and often a little word, or a thoughtlessly inserted sentence or comment, will reveal whole chapters of a life which has been carefully, scrupulously hidden. So in Bayard Taylor’s poetry, written on sea and on land, at home and abroad, in poverty and in affluence, there is a certainvein of originality, and certain references to his own life, which, when placed together, give the clew to his inner life, and reveal a charming domestic scene, which cannot be described in prose. One of his characters in “The Poet’s Journal,” says:—
“Dear Friend, one volume of your life I readBeneath these vines: you placed it in my handAnd made it mine,—but how the tale has spedSince then, I know not, or can understandFrom this fair ending only. Let me seeThe intervening chapters, dark and bright,In order, as you lived them.”
“Dear Friend, one volume of your life I readBeneath these vines: you placed it in my handAnd made it mine,—but how the tale has spedSince then, I know not, or can understandFrom this fair ending only. Let me seeThe intervening chapters, dark and bright,In order, as you lived them.”
“Dear Friend, one volume of your life I read
Beneath these vines: you placed it in my hand
And made it mine,—but how the tale has sped
Since then, I know not, or can understand
From this fair ending only. Let me see
The intervening chapters, dark and bright,
In order, as you lived them.”
To which another makes reply in the words below, which so delicately and feelingly refer to his early love, his sorrow at the death of Mary, his first wife, and the brightness of the later affection. To one who has passed through the same trying experience, these lines are marvellously expressive:—
“What haps I met, what struggles, what successOf fame, or gold, or place, concerns you less,Dear friend, than how I lost that sorest loadI started with, and came to dwell at lastIn the House Beautiful.”“You, who would write ‘Resurgam’ o’er my dead,The resurrection of my heart shall know.”“For pain, that only lives in memory,Like battle-scars, it is no pain to show.”
“What haps I met, what struggles, what successOf fame, or gold, or place, concerns you less,Dear friend, than how I lost that sorest loadI started with, and came to dwell at lastIn the House Beautiful.”“You, who would write ‘Resurgam’ o’er my dead,The resurrection of my heart shall know.”“For pain, that only lives in memory,Like battle-scars, it is no pain to show.”
“What haps I met, what struggles, what successOf fame, or gold, or place, concerns you less,Dear friend, than how I lost that sorest loadI started with, and came to dwell at lastIn the House Beautiful.”
“What haps I met, what struggles, what success
Of fame, or gold, or place, concerns you less,
Dear friend, than how I lost that sorest load
I started with, and came to dwell at last
In the House Beautiful.”
“You, who would write ‘Resurgam’ o’er my dead,The resurrection of my heart shall know.”
“You, who would write ‘Resurgam’ o’er my dead,
The resurrection of my heart shall know.”
“For pain, that only lives in memory,Like battle-scars, it is no pain to show.”
“For pain, that only lives in memory,
Like battle-scars, it is no pain to show.”
Then he goes on to recite a tale so like his own, that it needs scarce any change, but to substitute the namesof himself, and those he loved, for the fictitious names we find in the poems. But, before making further quotation, the reader should be made acquainted with the circumstances which prompted those illuminated lines.
While Mr. Taylor was away, Miss Agnew gradually and surely declined in health, until consumption, with all its terrible certainty and serpent-like stealth, made her its victim. It was one of those unaccountable visitations which sometimes come to the young and beautiful in the midst of joy and perfect content. How sadly the news of her sickness fell upon the heart of her lover, and how tenderly and anxiously he prayed and waited for letters from her, which should contain better tidings, he has himself related. Pale and weak, she greeted him on his return from California, with the prediction that she could not live beyond the falling leaves. No skill, no tender nursing, no charm of an abiding love, could stay the hand of death, which, as unseen and secret as the decay in a rose, gradually stole away her color, her beauty, and her life.
He felt that he must lose her; and the whole world, which had before appeared so bright, became dark and chilly. The test showed that while his ambition led him to see the great nations of the earth, to write poems for posterity, and to write his name in italics on the scrolls of fame, there was one solace, one comfort, one desire, which included all the others and made them subservient. He was true to his plighted word.He had become noted and prosperous, while she had remained at the country farm-house in Kennett. He was the associate of Bryant, Greeley, Webster, and Willis; she, the companion of the farmers and Quakers of Chester County. But strong, manly, and honest, his love knew no abatement and his respect felt no check.
It is a touching picture—that simple, solemn marriage in the room of the patient, an almost helpless invalid! He came to redeem his pledge; and in that simple abode, with death standing just outside the door, with a bride scarce able to whisper that she took him for her lawful spouse, he became a husband. The dim, appealing eyes, the tender little flush in her cheek, the tremor of her thin hand, told the joy in her pure heart, but showed also that her happiness would be as brief as it was sincere.
The marriage took place Oct. 24th, 1850, and on the 21st of the following December his wife died. She lingered much longer than her friends expected. At the marriage it was said that she could not live but a very few days. Yet, so soon was it after their union, that the day which is usually the happiest and the day which is usually the gloomiest in a man’s life, came to him within ten weeks of each other. A year after her death, he wrote a poem, “Winter Solstice,” in which he mentions his bereavement:—
“—For when the gray autumnal galeCame to despoil the dying year,Passed with the slow retreating sun,As day by day some beams depart,The beauty and the life of one,Whose love made Summer in my heart.Day after day, the latest flower,Her faded being waned away,More pale and dim with every hour,—And ceased upon the darkest day!The warmth and glow that with her diedNo light of coming suns shall bring;The heart its wintry gloom may hide,But cannot feel a second Spring.O darkest day of all the year!In vain thou com’st with balmy skies,For, blotting out their azure sphere,The phantoms of my Fate arise:A blighted life, whose shattered planNo after fortune can restore;The perfect lot, designed for Man,That should be mine, but is no more.”
“—For when the gray autumnal galeCame to despoil the dying year,Passed with the slow retreating sun,As day by day some beams depart,The beauty and the life of one,Whose love made Summer in my heart.Day after day, the latest flower,Her faded being waned away,More pale and dim with every hour,—And ceased upon the darkest day!The warmth and glow that with her diedNo light of coming suns shall bring;The heart its wintry gloom may hide,But cannot feel a second Spring.O darkest day of all the year!In vain thou com’st with balmy skies,For, blotting out their azure sphere,The phantoms of my Fate arise:A blighted life, whose shattered planNo after fortune can restore;The perfect lot, designed for Man,That should be mine, but is no more.”
“—For when the gray autumnal galeCame to despoil the dying year,Passed with the slow retreating sun,As day by day some beams depart,The beauty and the life of one,Whose love made Summer in my heart.
“—For when the gray autumnal gale
Came to despoil the dying year,
Passed with the slow retreating sun,
As day by day some beams depart,
The beauty and the life of one,
Whose love made Summer in my heart.
Day after day, the latest flower,Her faded being waned away,More pale and dim with every hour,—And ceased upon the darkest day!The warmth and glow that with her diedNo light of coming suns shall bring;The heart its wintry gloom may hide,But cannot feel a second Spring.
Day after day, the latest flower,
Her faded being waned away,
More pale and dim with every hour,—
And ceased upon the darkest day!
The warmth and glow that with her died
No light of coming suns shall bring;
The heart its wintry gloom may hide,
But cannot feel a second Spring.
O darkest day of all the year!In vain thou com’st with balmy skies,For, blotting out their azure sphere,The phantoms of my Fate arise:A blighted life, whose shattered planNo after fortune can restore;The perfect lot, designed for Man,That should be mine, but is no more.”
O darkest day of all the year!
In vain thou com’st with balmy skies,
For, blotting out their azure sphere,
The phantoms of my Fate arise:
A blighted life, whose shattered plan
No after fortune can restore;
The perfect lot, designed for Man,
That should be mine, but is no more.”
Still later, he gave expression to his loneliness in that most pathetic of all his writings, “The Phantom.”
“Again I sit within the mansion,In the old, familiar seat;And shade and sunshine chase each otherO’er the carpet at my feet.”“And many kind, remembered facesWithin the doorway come,—Voices, that wake the sweeter musicOf one that now is dumb.They sing, in tones as glad as ever,The songs she loved to hear;They braid the rose in summer garlands,Whose flowers to her were dear.And still, her footsteps in the passage,Her blushes at the door,Her timid words of maiden welcome,Come back to me once more.”“She stays without, perchance, a moment,To dress her dark-brown hair;I hear the rustle of her garments,—Her light step on the stair!”“She tarries long: but lo! a whisperBeyond the open door,And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,A shadow on the floor!”“But my heart grows sick with weary waitingAs many a time before:Her foot is ever at the threshold,Yet never passes o’er.”
“Again I sit within the mansion,In the old, familiar seat;And shade and sunshine chase each otherO’er the carpet at my feet.”“And many kind, remembered facesWithin the doorway come,—Voices, that wake the sweeter musicOf one that now is dumb.They sing, in tones as glad as ever,The songs she loved to hear;They braid the rose in summer garlands,Whose flowers to her were dear.And still, her footsteps in the passage,Her blushes at the door,Her timid words of maiden welcome,Come back to me once more.”“She stays without, perchance, a moment,To dress her dark-brown hair;I hear the rustle of her garments,—Her light step on the stair!”“She tarries long: but lo! a whisperBeyond the open door,And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,A shadow on the floor!”“But my heart grows sick with weary waitingAs many a time before:Her foot is ever at the threshold,Yet never passes o’er.”
“Again I sit within the mansion,In the old, familiar seat;And shade and sunshine chase each otherO’er the carpet at my feet.”
“Again I sit within the mansion,
In the old, familiar seat;
And shade and sunshine chase each other
O’er the carpet at my feet.”
“And many kind, remembered facesWithin the doorway come,—Voices, that wake the sweeter musicOf one that now is dumb.
“And many kind, remembered faces
Within the doorway come,—
Voices, that wake the sweeter music
Of one that now is dumb.
They sing, in tones as glad as ever,The songs she loved to hear;They braid the rose in summer garlands,Whose flowers to her were dear.
They sing, in tones as glad as ever,
The songs she loved to hear;
They braid the rose in summer garlands,
Whose flowers to her were dear.
And still, her footsteps in the passage,Her blushes at the door,Her timid words of maiden welcome,Come back to me once more.”
And still, her footsteps in the passage,
Her blushes at the door,
Her timid words of maiden welcome,
Come back to me once more.”
“She stays without, perchance, a moment,To dress her dark-brown hair;I hear the rustle of her garments,—Her light step on the stair!”
“She stays without, perchance, a moment,
To dress her dark-brown hair;
I hear the rustle of her garments,—
Her light step on the stair!”
“She tarries long: but lo! a whisperBeyond the open door,And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,A shadow on the floor!”
“She tarries long: but lo! a whisper
Beyond the open door,
And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,
A shadow on the floor!”
“But my heart grows sick with weary waitingAs many a time before:Her foot is ever at the threshold,Yet never passes o’er.”
“But my heart grows sick with weary waiting
As many a time before:
Her foot is ever at the threshold,
Yet never passes o’er.”
In his “Picture of St. John” he describes, with a feeling born of experience, a scene like the closing one in the life of his wife.
“Day by dayHer cheeks grew thin, her footstep faint and slow;And yet so fondly, with such hopeful playHer pulses beat, they masked the coming woe.Joy dwelt with her, and in her eager breathHis cymbals drowned the hollow drums of death;Life showered its promise, surer to betray,And the false Future crumbled fast away.Aye, she was happy! God be thanked for this,That she was happy!—happier than she knew,Had even the hope that cheated her been true;For from her face there beamed such wondrous bliss,As cannot find fulfilment here, and dies.”
“Day by dayHer cheeks grew thin, her footstep faint and slow;And yet so fondly, with such hopeful playHer pulses beat, they masked the coming woe.Joy dwelt with her, and in her eager breathHis cymbals drowned the hollow drums of death;Life showered its promise, surer to betray,And the false Future crumbled fast away.Aye, she was happy! God be thanked for this,That she was happy!—happier than she knew,Had even the hope that cheated her been true;For from her face there beamed such wondrous bliss,As cannot find fulfilment here, and dies.”
“Day by dayHer cheeks grew thin, her footstep faint and slow;And yet so fondly, with such hopeful playHer pulses beat, they masked the coming woe.Joy dwelt with her, and in her eager breathHis cymbals drowned the hollow drums of death;Life showered its promise, surer to betray,And the false Future crumbled fast away.
“Day by day
Her cheeks grew thin, her footstep faint and slow;
And yet so fondly, with such hopeful play
Her pulses beat, they masked the coming woe.
Joy dwelt with her, and in her eager breath
His cymbals drowned the hollow drums of death;
Life showered its promise, surer to betray,
And the false Future crumbled fast away.
Aye, she was happy! God be thanked for this,That she was happy!—happier than she knew,Had even the hope that cheated her been true;For from her face there beamed such wondrous bliss,As cannot find fulfilment here, and dies.”
Aye, she was happy! God be thanked for this,
That she was happy!—happier than she knew,
Had even the hope that cheated her been true;
For from her face there beamed such wondrous bliss,
As cannot find fulfilment here, and dies.”
Nearer the end of the same poem, he writes:—
“With cold and changeless face beside her graveI stood, and coldly heard the shuddering soundOf coffin-echoes, smothered underground.”
“With cold and changeless face beside her graveI stood, and coldly heard the shuddering soundOf coffin-echoes, smothered underground.”
“With cold and changeless face beside her grave
I stood, and coldly heard the shuddering sound
Of coffin-echoes, smothered underground.”
And still later he says, as only he can say who has felt it:—
“My body moved in its mechanic courseOf soulless function: thought and passion ceased,Or blindly stirred with undirected force,—A weary trance which only Time decreasedBy slow reductions.”
“My body moved in its mechanic courseOf soulless function: thought and passion ceased,Or blindly stirred with undirected force,—A weary trance which only Time decreasedBy slow reductions.”
“My body moved in its mechanic course
Of soulless function: thought and passion ceased,
Or blindly stirred with undirected force,—
A weary trance which only Time decreased
By slow reductions.”
A sonnet of that dark hour, written on a leaf of his diary, remains to us, from which we quote two verses:—
“Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,And fall, thou drear December rain!Fill with your gusts the sullen day,Tear the last clinging leaves away!Reckless as yonder naked tree,No blast of yours can trouble me.”“Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain!Your stormy sobs and tears are vain,If shed for her whose fading eyes,Will open soon on Paradise;The eye of Heaven shall blinded be,Or ere ye cease, if shed for me.”
“Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,And fall, thou drear December rain!Fill with your gusts the sullen day,Tear the last clinging leaves away!Reckless as yonder naked tree,No blast of yours can trouble me.”“Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain!Your stormy sobs and tears are vain,If shed for her whose fading eyes,Will open soon on Paradise;The eye of Heaven shall blinded be,Or ere ye cease, if shed for me.”
“Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,And fall, thou drear December rain!Fill with your gusts the sullen day,Tear the last clinging leaves away!Reckless as yonder naked tree,No blast of yours can trouble me.”
“Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,
And fall, thou drear December rain!
Fill with your gusts the sullen day,
Tear the last clinging leaves away!
Reckless as yonder naked tree,
No blast of yours can trouble me.”
“Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain!Your stormy sobs and tears are vain,If shed for her whose fading eyes,Will open soon on Paradise;The eye of Heaven shall blinded be,Or ere ye cease, if shed for me.”
“Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain!
Your stormy sobs and tears are vain,
If shed for her whose fading eyes,
Will open soon on Paradise;
The eye of Heaven shall blinded be,
Or ere ye cease, if shed for me.”
Here is another sad, sad wail, to be found in his “Autumnal Vespers”:—
“The light is dying out o’er all the land,And in my heart the light is dying. She,My life’s best life, is fading silentlyFrom Earth, from me, and from the dreams we planned,Since first Love led us with his beaming handFrom hope to hope, yet kept his crown in store.The light is dying out o’er all the land:To me it comes no more.The blossom of my heart, she shrinks awayStricken with deadly blight: more wan and weakHer love replies in blanching lip and cheek,And gentler in her dear eyes, day by day.God, in Thy mercy, bid the arm delay,Which thro’ her being smites to dust my own!Thou gav’st the seed Thy sun and showers; why slayThe blossoms yet unblown?In vain,—in vain! God will not bid the SpringReplace with sudden green the Autumn’s gold;And as the night-mists, gathering damp and cold,Strike up the vales where water-courses sing,Death’s mist shall strike along her veins, and clingThenceforth forever round her glorious frame:For all her radiant presence, May shall bringA memory and a name.”
“The light is dying out o’er all the land,And in my heart the light is dying. She,My life’s best life, is fading silentlyFrom Earth, from me, and from the dreams we planned,Since first Love led us with his beaming handFrom hope to hope, yet kept his crown in store.The light is dying out o’er all the land:To me it comes no more.The blossom of my heart, she shrinks awayStricken with deadly blight: more wan and weakHer love replies in blanching lip and cheek,And gentler in her dear eyes, day by day.God, in Thy mercy, bid the arm delay,Which thro’ her being smites to dust my own!Thou gav’st the seed Thy sun and showers; why slayThe blossoms yet unblown?In vain,—in vain! God will not bid the SpringReplace with sudden green the Autumn’s gold;And as the night-mists, gathering damp and cold,Strike up the vales where water-courses sing,Death’s mist shall strike along her veins, and clingThenceforth forever round her glorious frame:For all her radiant presence, May shall bringA memory and a name.”
“The light is dying out o’er all the land,And in my heart the light is dying. She,My life’s best life, is fading silentlyFrom Earth, from me, and from the dreams we planned,Since first Love led us with his beaming handFrom hope to hope, yet kept his crown in store.The light is dying out o’er all the land:To me it comes no more.
“The light is dying out o’er all the land,
And in my heart the light is dying. She,
My life’s best life, is fading silently
From Earth, from me, and from the dreams we planned,
Since first Love led us with his beaming hand
From hope to hope, yet kept his crown in store.
The light is dying out o’er all the land:
To me it comes no more.
The blossom of my heart, she shrinks awayStricken with deadly blight: more wan and weakHer love replies in blanching lip and cheek,And gentler in her dear eyes, day by day.God, in Thy mercy, bid the arm delay,Which thro’ her being smites to dust my own!Thou gav’st the seed Thy sun and showers; why slayThe blossoms yet unblown?
The blossom of my heart, she shrinks away
Stricken with deadly blight: more wan and weak
Her love replies in blanching lip and cheek,
And gentler in her dear eyes, day by day.
God, in Thy mercy, bid the arm delay,
Which thro’ her being smites to dust my own!
Thou gav’st the seed Thy sun and showers; why slay
The blossoms yet unblown?
In vain,—in vain! God will not bid the SpringReplace with sudden green the Autumn’s gold;And as the night-mists, gathering damp and cold,Strike up the vales where water-courses sing,Death’s mist shall strike along her veins, and clingThenceforth forever round her glorious frame:For all her radiant presence, May shall bringA memory and a name.”
In vain,—in vain! God will not bid the Spring
Replace with sudden green the Autumn’s gold;
And as the night-mists, gathering damp and cold,
Strike up the vales where water-courses sing,
Death’s mist shall strike along her veins, and cling
Thenceforth forever round her glorious frame:
For all her radiant presence, May shall bring
A memory and a name.”
Again, in “The Two Visions,” was the low moan of a poet’s stricken heart.
“Through days of toil, through nightly fears,A vision blessed my heart for years;And so secure its features grew,My heart believed the blessing true.I saw her there, a household dove,In consummated peace of love,And sweeter joy and saintlier graceBreathed o’er the beauty of her face.”“That vision died, in drops of woe,In blotting drops, dissolving slow:Now, toiling day and sorrowing night,Another vision fills my sight.A cold mound in the winter snow;A colder heart at rest below;A life in utter loneness hurled,And darkness over all the world.”
“Through days of toil, through nightly fears,A vision blessed my heart for years;And so secure its features grew,My heart believed the blessing true.I saw her there, a household dove,In consummated peace of love,And sweeter joy and saintlier graceBreathed o’er the beauty of her face.”“That vision died, in drops of woe,In blotting drops, dissolving slow:Now, toiling day and sorrowing night,Another vision fills my sight.A cold mound in the winter snow;A colder heart at rest below;A life in utter loneness hurled,And darkness over all the world.”
“Through days of toil, through nightly fears,A vision blessed my heart for years;And so secure its features grew,My heart believed the blessing true.I saw her there, a household dove,In consummated peace of love,And sweeter joy and saintlier graceBreathed o’er the beauty of her face.”
“Through days of toil, through nightly fears,
A vision blessed my heart for years;
And so secure its features grew,
My heart believed the blessing true.
I saw her there, a household dove,
In consummated peace of love,
And sweeter joy and saintlier grace
Breathed o’er the beauty of her face.”
“That vision died, in drops of woe,In blotting drops, dissolving slow:Now, toiling day and sorrowing night,Another vision fills my sight.A cold mound in the winter snow;A colder heart at rest below;A life in utter loneness hurled,And darkness over all the world.”
“That vision died, in drops of woe,
In blotting drops, dissolving slow:
Now, toiling day and sorrowing night,
Another vision fills my sight.
A cold mound in the winter snow;
A colder heart at rest below;
A life in utter loneness hurled,
And darkness over all the world.”
How accurately he portrayed his inner life, from the death of Mary to his subsequent marriage, can only be understood by reading his poem of “The Poet’s Journal” entire. But, as far as brief quotations may give it, we will try to supply enough for the purposes of a book suck as this is intended to be. In his despair he writes:—
“And every gift that Life to me had givenLies at my feet, in useless fragments trod:There is no justice or in Earth or Heaven:There is no pity in the heart of God.”...“I pine for something human,Man, woman, young or old—Something to meet and welcome,Something to clasp and hold.I have a mouth for kisses,But there’s no one to give and take;I have a heart in my bosomBeating for nobody’s sake.”“The sea might rise and drown me,—Cliffs fall and crush my head,—Were there one to love me, living,Or weep to see me dead!”...“Last night the Tempter came to me, and said:‘Why sorrow any longer for the dead?The wrong is done: thy tears and groans are naught:Forget the Past,—thy pain but lives in thought.Night after night, I hear thy cries imploreAn answer: she will answer thee no more.Give up thine idle prayer that Death may comeAnd thou mayst somewhere find her: Death is dumbTo those that seek him. Live: for youth is thine.Let not thy rich blood, like neglected wine,Grow thin and stale, but rouse thyself, at last,And take a man’s revenge upon the Past.’”...“This heart is flesh, I cannot make it stone:This blood is hot, I cannot stop its flow,These arms are vacant—whereso’er I go,Love lies in other’s arms and shuns my own.”...“Long, long ago, the Hand whereat I railedIn blindness gave me courage to subdueThis wild revolt: I see wherein I failed:My heart was false, when most I thought it true,My sorrow selfish, when I thought it pure.For those we lose, if still their love endureTranslation to that other land, where LoveBreathes the immortal wisdom, ask in heavenNo greater sacrifice than we had givenOn earth, our love’s integrity to prove.If we are blest to know the other blest,Then treason lies in sorrow.”...“I had knelt, in the awful Presence,And covered my guilty head,And received His absolution,For my sins toward the dead.”“Now first I dare rememberThat day of death and woe:Within, the dreadful silence,Without, the sun and snow.”...“When wild azaleas deck the knoll,And cinque-foil stars the fields of home,And winds, that take the white-weed, rollThe meadows into foam:Then from the jubilee I turnTo other Mays that I have seen,Where more resplendent blossoms burn,And statelier woods are green;—Mays, when my heart expanded first,A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew;And one sweet wind of heaven dispersedThe only clouds I knew.For she, whose softly-murmured nameThe music of the month expressed,Walked by my side, in holy shameOf girlish love confessed.”“The old, old tale of girl and boy,Repeated ever, never old:To each in turn the gates of joy,The gates of heaven unfold.”...“So I think, when days are sweetest,And the world is wholly fair,She may sometime steal upon meThrough the dimness of the air,With the cross upon her bosomAnd the amaranth in her hair.Once to meet her, ah! to meet her,And to hold her gently fastTill I blessed her, till she blessed me,—That were happiness, at last:That were bliss beyond our meetingsIn the autumns of the Past!”...“Still, still that lovely ghost appears,Too fair, too pure, to bid depart;No riper love of later yearsCan steal its beauty from the heart.”“Dear, boyish heart that trembled soWith bashful fear and fond unrest,—More frightened than a dove, to knowAnother bird within its nest!”...“Restored and comforted, I goTo grapple with my tasks again;Through silent worship taught to knowThe blessed peace that follows pain.”...“If Love should come again, I ask my heartIn tender tremors, not unmixed with pain,Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine ancient smart,If Love should come again?”“Couldst thou unbar the chambers where his nestSo long was made, and made, alas! in vain,Nor with embarrassed welcome chill thy guest,If Love should come again?”...“Have I passed through Death’s unconscious birth,In a dream the midnight bare?I look on another and fairer Earth:I breathe a wondrous air!”“Is it she that shines, as never before,The tremulous hills above,—Or the heart within me, awake once moreTo the dawning light of love?”“Bathed in the morning, let my heart surrenderThe doubts that darkness gave,And rise to meet the advancing splendor—O Night! no more thy slave.”...“One thought sits brooding in my bosom,As broodeth in her nest the dove;A strange, delicious doubt o’ercomes me,—But is it love?”“I see her, hear her, daily, nightly:My secret dreams around her move,Still nearer drawn in sweet attraction;—Can this be love?”“I breathe but peace when she is near me,—A peace her absence takes away:My heart commands her constant presence;Will hers obey?”...“‘Canst thou forgive me, Angel mine,’I cried: ‘that Love at last beguiledMy heart to build a second shrine?See, still I kneel and weep at thine,But I am human, thou divine!’Still silently she smiled.“‘Dost undivided worship claim,To keep thine altar undefiled?Or must I bear thy tender blame,And in thy pardon feel my shame,Whene’er I breathe another name?’She looked at me, and smiled.”...“No treason in my love I see,For treason cannot dwell with truth:But later blossoms crown a treeToo deeply set to die in youth.The blighted promise of the oldIn this new love is reconciled;For, when my heart confessed its hold,The lips of ancient sorrow smiled!It brightens backward through the PastAnd gilds the gloomy path I trod,And forward, till it fades at lastIn light, before the feet of God,Where stands the saint, whose radiant browThis solace beams, while I adore:Be happy: if thou lovedst not now,Thou never couldst have loved before!”...“Would she, my freedom and my bliss to know,With my disloyalty be reconciled,And from her bower in Eden look below,And bless the Soldan’s child?For she is lost: but she, the later bride,Who came my ruined fortune to restore,Back from the desert wanders at my side,And leads me home once more.If human love, she sighs, could move a wifeThe holiest sacrifice of love to make,Then the transfigured angel of thy lifeIs happier for thy sake!”...“‘It was our wedding-dayA month ago,’ dear heart, I hear you say.If months, or years, or ages since have passed,I know not: I have ceased to question Time.I only know that once there pealed a chimeOf joyous bells, and then I held you fast,And all stood back, and none my right denied,And forth we walked: the world was free and wideBefore us. Since that dayI count my life: The Past is washed away.”
“And every gift that Life to me had givenLies at my feet, in useless fragments trod:There is no justice or in Earth or Heaven:There is no pity in the heart of God.”...“I pine for something human,Man, woman, young or old—Something to meet and welcome,Something to clasp and hold.I have a mouth for kisses,But there’s no one to give and take;I have a heart in my bosomBeating for nobody’s sake.”“The sea might rise and drown me,—Cliffs fall and crush my head,—Were there one to love me, living,Or weep to see me dead!”...“Last night the Tempter came to me, and said:‘Why sorrow any longer for the dead?The wrong is done: thy tears and groans are naught:Forget the Past,—thy pain but lives in thought.Night after night, I hear thy cries imploreAn answer: she will answer thee no more.Give up thine idle prayer that Death may comeAnd thou mayst somewhere find her: Death is dumbTo those that seek him. Live: for youth is thine.Let not thy rich blood, like neglected wine,Grow thin and stale, but rouse thyself, at last,And take a man’s revenge upon the Past.’”...“This heart is flesh, I cannot make it stone:This blood is hot, I cannot stop its flow,These arms are vacant—whereso’er I go,Love lies in other’s arms and shuns my own.”...“Long, long ago, the Hand whereat I railedIn blindness gave me courage to subdueThis wild revolt: I see wherein I failed:My heart was false, when most I thought it true,My sorrow selfish, when I thought it pure.For those we lose, if still their love endureTranslation to that other land, where LoveBreathes the immortal wisdom, ask in heavenNo greater sacrifice than we had givenOn earth, our love’s integrity to prove.If we are blest to know the other blest,Then treason lies in sorrow.”...“I had knelt, in the awful Presence,And covered my guilty head,And received His absolution,For my sins toward the dead.”“Now first I dare rememberThat day of death and woe:Within, the dreadful silence,Without, the sun and snow.”...“When wild azaleas deck the knoll,And cinque-foil stars the fields of home,And winds, that take the white-weed, rollThe meadows into foam:Then from the jubilee I turnTo other Mays that I have seen,Where more resplendent blossoms burn,And statelier woods are green;—Mays, when my heart expanded first,A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew;And one sweet wind of heaven dispersedThe only clouds I knew.For she, whose softly-murmured nameThe music of the month expressed,Walked by my side, in holy shameOf girlish love confessed.”“The old, old tale of girl and boy,Repeated ever, never old:To each in turn the gates of joy,The gates of heaven unfold.”...“So I think, when days are sweetest,And the world is wholly fair,She may sometime steal upon meThrough the dimness of the air,With the cross upon her bosomAnd the amaranth in her hair.Once to meet her, ah! to meet her,And to hold her gently fastTill I blessed her, till she blessed me,—That were happiness, at last:That were bliss beyond our meetingsIn the autumns of the Past!”...“Still, still that lovely ghost appears,Too fair, too pure, to bid depart;No riper love of later yearsCan steal its beauty from the heart.”“Dear, boyish heart that trembled soWith bashful fear and fond unrest,—More frightened than a dove, to knowAnother bird within its nest!”...“Restored and comforted, I goTo grapple with my tasks again;Through silent worship taught to knowThe blessed peace that follows pain.”...“If Love should come again, I ask my heartIn tender tremors, not unmixed with pain,Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine ancient smart,If Love should come again?”“Couldst thou unbar the chambers where his nestSo long was made, and made, alas! in vain,Nor with embarrassed welcome chill thy guest,If Love should come again?”...“Have I passed through Death’s unconscious birth,In a dream the midnight bare?I look on another and fairer Earth:I breathe a wondrous air!”“Is it she that shines, as never before,The tremulous hills above,—Or the heart within me, awake once moreTo the dawning light of love?”“Bathed in the morning, let my heart surrenderThe doubts that darkness gave,And rise to meet the advancing splendor—O Night! no more thy slave.”...“One thought sits brooding in my bosom,As broodeth in her nest the dove;A strange, delicious doubt o’ercomes me,—But is it love?”“I see her, hear her, daily, nightly:My secret dreams around her move,Still nearer drawn in sweet attraction;—Can this be love?”“I breathe but peace when she is near me,—A peace her absence takes away:My heart commands her constant presence;Will hers obey?”...“‘Canst thou forgive me, Angel mine,’I cried: ‘that Love at last beguiledMy heart to build a second shrine?See, still I kneel and weep at thine,But I am human, thou divine!’Still silently she smiled.“‘Dost undivided worship claim,To keep thine altar undefiled?Or must I bear thy tender blame,And in thy pardon feel my shame,Whene’er I breathe another name?’She looked at me, and smiled.”...“No treason in my love I see,For treason cannot dwell with truth:But later blossoms crown a treeToo deeply set to die in youth.The blighted promise of the oldIn this new love is reconciled;For, when my heart confessed its hold,The lips of ancient sorrow smiled!It brightens backward through the PastAnd gilds the gloomy path I trod,And forward, till it fades at lastIn light, before the feet of God,Where stands the saint, whose radiant browThis solace beams, while I adore:Be happy: if thou lovedst not now,Thou never couldst have loved before!”...“Would she, my freedom and my bliss to know,With my disloyalty be reconciled,And from her bower in Eden look below,And bless the Soldan’s child?For she is lost: but she, the later bride,Who came my ruined fortune to restore,Back from the desert wanders at my side,And leads me home once more.If human love, she sighs, could move a wifeThe holiest sacrifice of love to make,Then the transfigured angel of thy lifeIs happier for thy sake!”...“‘It was our wedding-dayA month ago,’ dear heart, I hear you say.If months, or years, or ages since have passed,I know not: I have ceased to question Time.I only know that once there pealed a chimeOf joyous bells, and then I held you fast,And all stood back, and none my right denied,And forth we walked: the world was free and wideBefore us. Since that dayI count my life: The Past is washed away.”
“And every gift that Life to me had givenLies at my feet, in useless fragments trod:There is no justice or in Earth or Heaven:There is no pity in the heart of God.”
“And every gift that Life to me had given
Lies at my feet, in useless fragments trod:
There is no justice or in Earth or Heaven:
There is no pity in the heart of God.”
...
...
“I pine for something human,Man, woman, young or old—Something to meet and welcome,Something to clasp and hold.
“I pine for something human,
Man, woman, young or old—
Something to meet and welcome,
Something to clasp and hold.
I have a mouth for kisses,But there’s no one to give and take;I have a heart in my bosomBeating for nobody’s sake.”
I have a mouth for kisses,
But there’s no one to give and take;
I have a heart in my bosom
Beating for nobody’s sake.”
“The sea might rise and drown me,—Cliffs fall and crush my head,—Were there one to love me, living,Or weep to see me dead!”
“The sea might rise and drown me,—
Cliffs fall and crush my head,—
Were there one to love me, living,
Or weep to see me dead!”
...
...
“Last night the Tempter came to me, and said:‘Why sorrow any longer for the dead?The wrong is done: thy tears and groans are naught:Forget the Past,—thy pain but lives in thought.Night after night, I hear thy cries imploreAn answer: she will answer thee no more.Give up thine idle prayer that Death may comeAnd thou mayst somewhere find her: Death is dumbTo those that seek him. Live: for youth is thine.Let not thy rich blood, like neglected wine,Grow thin and stale, but rouse thyself, at last,And take a man’s revenge upon the Past.’”
“Last night the Tempter came to me, and said:
‘Why sorrow any longer for the dead?
The wrong is done: thy tears and groans are naught:
Forget the Past,—thy pain but lives in thought.
Night after night, I hear thy cries implore
An answer: she will answer thee no more.
Give up thine idle prayer that Death may come
And thou mayst somewhere find her: Death is dumb
To those that seek him. Live: for youth is thine.
Let not thy rich blood, like neglected wine,
Grow thin and stale, but rouse thyself, at last,
And take a man’s revenge upon the Past.’”
...
...
“This heart is flesh, I cannot make it stone:This blood is hot, I cannot stop its flow,These arms are vacant—whereso’er I go,Love lies in other’s arms and shuns my own.”
“This heart is flesh, I cannot make it stone:
This blood is hot, I cannot stop its flow,
These arms are vacant—whereso’er I go,
Love lies in other’s arms and shuns my own.”
...
...
“Long, long ago, the Hand whereat I railedIn blindness gave me courage to subdueThis wild revolt: I see wherein I failed:My heart was false, when most I thought it true,My sorrow selfish, when I thought it pure.For those we lose, if still their love endureTranslation to that other land, where LoveBreathes the immortal wisdom, ask in heavenNo greater sacrifice than we had givenOn earth, our love’s integrity to prove.If we are blest to know the other blest,Then treason lies in sorrow.”
“Long, long ago, the Hand whereat I railed
In blindness gave me courage to subdue
This wild revolt: I see wherein I failed:
My heart was false, when most I thought it true,
My sorrow selfish, when I thought it pure.
For those we lose, if still their love endure
Translation to that other land, where Love
Breathes the immortal wisdom, ask in heaven
No greater sacrifice than we had given
On earth, our love’s integrity to prove.
If we are blest to know the other blest,
Then treason lies in sorrow.”
...
...
“I had knelt, in the awful Presence,And covered my guilty head,And received His absolution,For my sins toward the dead.”
“I had knelt, in the awful Presence,
And covered my guilty head,
And received His absolution,
For my sins toward the dead.”
“Now first I dare rememberThat day of death and woe:Within, the dreadful silence,Without, the sun and snow.”
“Now first I dare remember
That day of death and woe:
Within, the dreadful silence,
Without, the sun and snow.”
...
...
“When wild azaleas deck the knoll,And cinque-foil stars the fields of home,And winds, that take the white-weed, rollThe meadows into foam:
“When wild azaleas deck the knoll,
And cinque-foil stars the fields of home,
And winds, that take the white-weed, roll
The meadows into foam:
Then from the jubilee I turnTo other Mays that I have seen,Where more resplendent blossoms burn,And statelier woods are green;—
Then from the jubilee I turn
To other Mays that I have seen,
Where more resplendent blossoms burn,
And statelier woods are green;—
Mays, when my heart expanded first,A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew;And one sweet wind of heaven dispersedThe only clouds I knew.
Mays, when my heart expanded first,
A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew;
And one sweet wind of heaven dispersed
The only clouds I knew.
For she, whose softly-murmured nameThe music of the month expressed,Walked by my side, in holy shameOf girlish love confessed.”
For she, whose softly-murmured name
The music of the month expressed,
Walked by my side, in holy shame
Of girlish love confessed.”
“The old, old tale of girl and boy,Repeated ever, never old:To each in turn the gates of joy,The gates of heaven unfold.”
“The old, old tale of girl and boy,
Repeated ever, never old:
To each in turn the gates of joy,
The gates of heaven unfold.”
...
...
“So I think, when days are sweetest,And the world is wholly fair,She may sometime steal upon meThrough the dimness of the air,With the cross upon her bosomAnd the amaranth in her hair.Once to meet her, ah! to meet her,And to hold her gently fastTill I blessed her, till she blessed me,—That were happiness, at last:That were bliss beyond our meetingsIn the autumns of the Past!”
“So I think, when days are sweetest,
And the world is wholly fair,
She may sometime steal upon me
Through the dimness of the air,
With the cross upon her bosom
And the amaranth in her hair.
Once to meet her, ah! to meet her,
And to hold her gently fast
Till I blessed her, till she blessed me,—
That were happiness, at last:
That were bliss beyond our meetings
In the autumns of the Past!”
...
...
“Still, still that lovely ghost appears,Too fair, too pure, to bid depart;No riper love of later yearsCan steal its beauty from the heart.”
“Still, still that lovely ghost appears,
Too fair, too pure, to bid depart;
No riper love of later years
Can steal its beauty from the heart.”
“Dear, boyish heart that trembled soWith bashful fear and fond unrest,—More frightened than a dove, to knowAnother bird within its nest!”
“Dear, boyish heart that trembled so
With bashful fear and fond unrest,—
More frightened than a dove, to know
Another bird within its nest!”
...
...
“Restored and comforted, I goTo grapple with my tasks again;Through silent worship taught to knowThe blessed peace that follows pain.”
“Restored and comforted, I go
To grapple with my tasks again;
Through silent worship taught to know
The blessed peace that follows pain.”
...
...
“If Love should come again, I ask my heartIn tender tremors, not unmixed with pain,Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine ancient smart,If Love should come again?”
“If Love should come again, I ask my heart
In tender tremors, not unmixed with pain,
Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine ancient smart,
If Love should come again?”
“Couldst thou unbar the chambers where his nestSo long was made, and made, alas! in vain,Nor with embarrassed welcome chill thy guest,If Love should come again?”
“Couldst thou unbar the chambers where his nest
So long was made, and made, alas! in vain,
Nor with embarrassed welcome chill thy guest,
If Love should come again?”
...
...
“Have I passed through Death’s unconscious birth,In a dream the midnight bare?I look on another and fairer Earth:I breathe a wondrous air!”
“Have I passed through Death’s unconscious birth,
In a dream the midnight bare?
I look on another and fairer Earth:
I breathe a wondrous air!”
“Is it she that shines, as never before,The tremulous hills above,—Or the heart within me, awake once moreTo the dawning light of love?”
“Is it she that shines, as never before,
The tremulous hills above,—
Or the heart within me, awake once more
To the dawning light of love?”
“Bathed in the morning, let my heart surrenderThe doubts that darkness gave,And rise to meet the advancing splendor—O Night! no more thy slave.”
“Bathed in the morning, let my heart surrender
The doubts that darkness gave,
And rise to meet the advancing splendor—
O Night! no more thy slave.”
...
...
“One thought sits brooding in my bosom,As broodeth in her nest the dove;A strange, delicious doubt o’ercomes me,—But is it love?”
“One thought sits brooding in my bosom,
As broodeth in her nest the dove;
A strange, delicious doubt o’ercomes me,—
But is it love?”
“I see her, hear her, daily, nightly:My secret dreams around her move,Still nearer drawn in sweet attraction;—Can this be love?”
“I see her, hear her, daily, nightly:
My secret dreams around her move,
Still nearer drawn in sweet attraction;—
Can this be love?”
“I breathe but peace when she is near me,—A peace her absence takes away:My heart commands her constant presence;Will hers obey?”
“I breathe but peace when she is near me,—
A peace her absence takes away:
My heart commands her constant presence;
Will hers obey?”
...
...
“‘Canst thou forgive me, Angel mine,’I cried: ‘that Love at last beguiledMy heart to build a second shrine?See, still I kneel and weep at thine,But I am human, thou divine!’Still silently she smiled.
“‘Canst thou forgive me, Angel mine,’
I cried: ‘that Love at last beguiled
My heart to build a second shrine?
See, still I kneel and weep at thine,
But I am human, thou divine!’
Still silently she smiled.
“‘Dost undivided worship claim,To keep thine altar undefiled?Or must I bear thy tender blame,And in thy pardon feel my shame,Whene’er I breathe another name?’She looked at me, and smiled.”
“‘Dost undivided worship claim,
To keep thine altar undefiled?
Or must I bear thy tender blame,
And in thy pardon feel my shame,
Whene’er I breathe another name?’
She looked at me, and smiled.”
...
...
“No treason in my love I see,For treason cannot dwell with truth:But later blossoms crown a treeToo deeply set to die in youth.
“No treason in my love I see,
For treason cannot dwell with truth:
But later blossoms crown a tree
Too deeply set to die in youth.
The blighted promise of the oldIn this new love is reconciled;For, when my heart confessed its hold,The lips of ancient sorrow smiled!
The blighted promise of the old
In this new love is reconciled;
For, when my heart confessed its hold,
The lips of ancient sorrow smiled!
It brightens backward through the PastAnd gilds the gloomy path I trod,And forward, till it fades at lastIn light, before the feet of God,
It brightens backward through the Past
And gilds the gloomy path I trod,
And forward, till it fades at last
In light, before the feet of God,
Where stands the saint, whose radiant browThis solace beams, while I adore:Be happy: if thou lovedst not now,Thou never couldst have loved before!”
Where stands the saint, whose radiant brow
This solace beams, while I adore:
Be happy: if thou lovedst not now,
Thou never couldst have loved before!”
...
...
“Would she, my freedom and my bliss to know,With my disloyalty be reconciled,And from her bower in Eden look below,And bless the Soldan’s child?
“Would she, my freedom and my bliss to know,
With my disloyalty be reconciled,
And from her bower in Eden look below,
And bless the Soldan’s child?
For she is lost: but she, the later bride,Who came my ruined fortune to restore,Back from the desert wanders at my side,And leads me home once more.
For she is lost: but she, the later bride,
Who came my ruined fortune to restore,
Back from the desert wanders at my side,
And leads me home once more.
If human love, she sighs, could move a wifeThe holiest sacrifice of love to make,Then the transfigured angel of thy lifeIs happier for thy sake!”
If human love, she sighs, could move a wife
The holiest sacrifice of love to make,
Then the transfigured angel of thy life
Is happier for thy sake!”
...
...
“‘It was our wedding-dayA month ago,’ dear heart, I hear you say.If months, or years, or ages since have passed,I know not: I have ceased to question Time.I only know that once there pealed a chimeOf joyous bells, and then I held you fast,And all stood back, and none my right denied,And forth we walked: the world was free and wideBefore us. Since that dayI count my life: The Past is washed away.”
“‘It was our wedding-day
A month ago,’ dear heart, I hear you say.
If months, or years, or ages since have passed,
I know not: I have ceased to question Time.
I only know that once there pealed a chime
Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast,
And all stood back, and none my right denied,
And forth we walked: the world was free and wide
Before us. Since that day
I count my life: The Past is washed away.”