Part 6

Where Freedom’s day was dawning, The man, whose light so shone To bless the land, appear’d more grand Because he rose alone.

Erelong, a grateful Congress Chose one that for him brought A sword on which inscriptions rich Recorded all they thought.[18]

In green Vermont they gave him A generous land-grant too.[18] A part of what we all had got By fighting, seem’d his due.

But what by far was fittest, And cheer’d in every tent, Were words that raised this man we praised To lead our regiment.[19]

Where few and frail the forces Our land could call its own, All felt that he would steadfast be, And fight, though left alone.

FOOTNOTES

[1] “Brig.-Gen. Prescott ... had been nurtured in the lap of aristocracy, and taught all its exclusive precepts.... He was a tyrant at heart, and, having the opportunity, he exercised a tyrant’s plentiful prerogatives.”—_Lossing’s Pict. Field Bk. of the Rev._, vol. ii., p. 74. “William Barton was a native of Providence, Rhode Island.... Lieutenant-Colonel in the militia of his State ... when he planned and executed the expedition for the abduction of General Prescott,” who commanded the British forces at Newport, Rhode Island.—_Idem_, p. 75. _Note._

[2] “Prescott ... had a fine sidewalk made for his accommodation along Pelham and up Spring streets; for which purpose, he took the door steps.”—_Idem_, p. 75. _Note._

[3] “His habit, while walking the streets, if he saw any of the inhabitants conversing together, was to shake his cane at them, and say: ‘Disperse ye rebels.’ He was also in the habit, when he met citizens in the streets, of commanding them to take off their hats, and, unless the order was instantly complied with, it was enforced by a rap of his cane.”—_Idem_, p. 74.

[4] “He overtook a Quaker who did not doff his hat. The general, who was on horseback, dashed ... him against a stone wall, knocked off his hat, and then put him under guard.”—_Idem._

[5] “Prescott caused many citizens of Newport to be imprisoned, some of them for months, without any assigned reason. Among others ... William Tripp.... He had a ... family, but the tyrant would not allow him to hold any communication with them either written or verbal.... His wife sought ... a personal interview.... A captain, ... echoing his master’s words ... informed her, as he shut the door in her face, that he expected her husband would be hung as a rebel in less than a week.”—_Idem._

[6] “General Prescott was quartered at the house of a Quaker, named Overton.”—_Idem_, p. 75.

[7] “These were three British frigates with their guard-boats ... almost in front of Prescott’s quarters.”—_Idem._

[8] “With a few chosen men, Barton embarked in four whale boats with muffled oars at Warwick Point at nine o’clock in the evening.”—_Idem._, p. 75. “Mr. Barton, by request, furnished me with the following list of the names of those who accompanied his father on his perilous expedition. OFFICERS.—Andrew Stanton, Eleazer Adams, Samuel Potter, James Wilcox. NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS.—Joshua Babcock and Samuel Phillips. PRIVATES.—Benjamin Pren, James Potter, Henry Fisher, James Parker, Joseph Guild, Nathan Smith, Isaac Brown, Billington Crumb, James Haines, Samuel Apis, Alderman Crank, Oliver Simmons, Jack Sherman, Joel Briggs, Clark Packard, Samuel Cory, James Weaver, Clark Crandall, Sampson George, Joseph Ralph, Jedediah Grenale, Richard Hare, Darius Wale, Joseph Denis, William Bruff, Charles Hassett, Thomas Wilcox, Pardon Cory, Jeremiah Thomas, John Hunt, Thomas Austin, Daniel Page (a Narraganset Indian), Jack Sisson (black), and—Howe or Whiting, boat-steerer.”—_Idem_, p. 76. _Note._

[9] “They heard the cry: ‘All’s well,’ from the guard-boat of the enemy as they passed silently.”—_Idem_, p. 76.

[10] “Barton divided his men into several squads.... The main portion passed ... between a British guard-house and the encampment of a company of light-horse, while the remainder was ... to approach Prescott’s quarters from the rear.”—_Idem._

[11] “As Barton and his men approached the gate, a sentinel hailed them twice, and then demanded the countersign. ‘We have no countersign to give,’ Barton said, and quickly added: ‘Have you seen any deserters here to-night?’ The sentinel was misled by this question, supposing them to be friends ... until his musket was seized, and himself bound and menaced with instant death if he made any noise.”—_Idem._

[12] “Barton entered the front passage boldly. Mr. Overton sat alone reading.... Barton inquired for Gen. Prescott’s room. Overton pointed upward, signifying that it was directly over.”—_Idem_, p. 77.

[13] “With four strong men and Sisson, a powerful negro ... Barton ascended the stairs, and gently tried the door. It was locked; no time was to be lost ... the negro drew back ... and using his head for a battering-ram, burst open the door at the first effort.”—_Idem._

[14] “The general supposing the intruders to be robbers, sprang from his bed, and seized his gold watch that was hanging upon the wall. Barton ... told him he was his prisoner, and that perfect silence was now his only safety.”—_Idem._

[15] “Prescott begged time to dress, but it being a hot July night, and time precious, Barton refused acquiescence, feeling that it would not be cruel to take him ... where he could make his toilet ... at his leisure. So, throwing his cloak around him ... the prisoner was hurried to the shore.”—_Idem._

[16] “Prescott’s aid, hearing the noise in the general’s room, leaped from a window to escape, but was captured.”—_Idem._

[17] “At Warwick Point ... Prescott first broke the silence by saying to Col. Barton: ‘Sir, you have made a bold push, to-night.’ ‘We have been fortunate,’ coolly replied Barton. Captain Elliot was there with a coach to convey the prisoners to Providence.”—_Idem._

[18] “For that service Congress honored him by the presentation of a sword, and also by a grant of land in Vermont.”—_Idem_, p. 75. _Note._

[19] “And on the 24th of December following he was promoted to the rank and pay of colonel in the Continental army.”—_Idem_, p. 77.

MISCELLANEOUS.

A SONG ON SINGING.

A SUPPOSED IMPROMPTU.

The board is bare, the lights are low, My songs are sung, but, ere we go, One more I bring, and answer so Your kindly plaudits ringing. No wealth and rank belong to me, But yet, where thought and word are free, The voice alone a power may be, And rule the world by singing.

How oft, of old, when reign’d the wrong, And rare and regal rose in song, The call sublime that roused the strong From hut and hamlet springing, Like avalanches launch’d in might, Where thunder shakes an Alpine height, Resistless down its path of white, Has right been led by singing.

How oft, when sounds of war awoke, And wide as earth a vision broke Of sword and gun in flash and smoke, And flags o’er freemen springing; Where few escaped the foeman’s power, As fail’d the chief and fell the tower, The land has yet survived the hour When nerved anew by singing.

All else, at last, with death may meet,— Brave hearts whose hopes had made them beat, Like moats beneath the soldiers’ feet, When victory’s cheers are ringing; But e’en the dead whose deeds inspire The minstrel, o’er the grave or pyre May rise, like Israel’s cloud of fire, And lead their race through singing.

Nor less the power of song, when peace Has dawn’d apace, and hopes increase, As men in thrall have found release, Their fetters from them flinging. Oh, what could make their thanks complete, Did crowds exultant fail to meet In great Town Hall, or village street, And shout their joy in singing!

Or when sad souls the wine would quaff Of mirth brimm’d bubbling o’er with laugh, What sparkling draughts in their behalf, The comic bard comes bringing! And ever, round the social board, As full the foaming pledge is pour’d, See how good-will the heart could hoard Is lavish’d with the singing.

How blest are homes, all fill’d with song, The mother’s hum, the choral strong, The hymn that bears great thoughts that throng Where all pure hope is winging! How heaves the breast in air so sweet, How thrills the blood it fills to meet, While all the spirit bounds to greet The joys of life in singing!

There let sweet love a pair ensnare With dainty dreams of visions fair, Wherein, like wings athrob the air, Rare wedding bells are ringing. Then, stirr’d by moods that move the heart, What tunes upon the lip will start, As if true love could not impart Such sweets except through singing!

The cares may come that track success, Or storms of swift and full distress May make of life a wilderness, A flood of anguish bringing; The sorrows of the soul will rise, And pour their woe through weeping eyes, And drain at last the source of sighs, When hearts o’erflow in singing.

If doubt and vice with cloud and tide Surround a wretch whose father’s pride And mother’s love have wellnigh died, And sister’s hands are wringing, Ah, then, beyond the waves that roar, He too may heed the friendly shore, Where others, won from woes before, Their heartfelt praise are singing.

Through mists that, like a shroud around, In densest folds the soul had bound, My life has known a song to sound, Nerve dying hope by ringing As clear as tolls a lighthouse bell Where ghost-like rush the breakers fell— The soul they would have borne to hell Was warn’d from it by singing.

A shadeless waste, a mist-hid sea, Were earth that knew no songs of glee; And what would heaven beyond it be If anthems ne’er were springing From voices there, where funeral knells Are sweeter far than marriage bells To love call’d hence that ever dwells Within the sound of singing!

The wise who once thought heavenly spheres, As all unroll’d their store of years, Woke music through their atmospheres That soft and far was ringing; Heard subtler music, it may be, Where love rules all, yet all are free, And though not thoughts, yet hearts agree, For all beat time in singing.

Ah, when no lights of life remain, As dimly death’s cold draft we drain, How sweetly then will sound the strain From heaven through darkness winging, Where choirs above through endless years Praise love that ransoms all from fears Nor asks for aught, save what to seers Appears to be glad singing!

But stay—to keep below with men The minstrel knows not how nor when. Here end I then—yet once again Let echoes answer, ringing To that which lulls the babe at birth, And voices all the good of earth, Gives God His glory, heaven its worth,— Eternal sway to singing!

THE MUSIC OF LIFE.

Music round the world is ringing, Sweeter ne’er is heard by man; Music angel hosts were singing, Ere the morning stars began; Sweeter ’tis than dreams of music, Music one awakes to hear Trailing on a train of echoes O’er a mild and moonlit meer; More it moves than martial marches, More than gleams of long-lost hope, More than suns to glory lifting Dew they draw from plain and slope; Music ’tis that thrills us only In the art that hearts control, When the breath of ardor holy Softly stirs a sighing soul.

Music in the breast is bringing Every soul its own reward, Like the lute’s that tunes to singing Only tones that with it chord. Let the heart devoid of pleasure Throb as throbs its rhythmic beat, Soon will joys that none can measure Round it and within it meet,— Joys without in those about it, Joys within, that pulsing come, Firm of tread as warriors marching Where before them rolls the drum; Known by inward senses only, Only known like bliss above, Life of life and order holy, Sounds the music soft of love.

MY IDEAL.

She came: she went: ’twas all a dream, A groundless hope, a barren scheme; And yet a dearer dream did seem Than ever made a dawn seem drear. She tuned sweet music in my breast, Till every sad or joyous guest, That sway’d it once, with wondering rest, Grew hush’d as hate when heaven is near.

She came: she went: a beam sublime That, straying toward a sunless clime, Trembled along the edge of Time And then in fright sped back amain. Ah, wherefore came she if to go! I had not known the half of woe Had I not felt that heavenly glow, And, match’d with it, found earth so vain.

She came: she went: I know I dream’d; Nor dared to test fond hopes that gleam’d; But yet how dear the future seem’d, And, though it was the world, how real! Ah, wherefore did she leave so soon, And change to night what had been noon! Did Heaven sufficient deem the boon To grant to me a form ideal?

CAGED.

Our jest and gossip ceased at last; It seem’d as if my lips were fast. Ah me, such holy hopes loom’d then; My mind could only think, “Amen.” But soon she cried out, “How absurd!” And laugh’d, whereat her little bird Caught up the music of the word, And trill’d an echo, loud and long, Till, deafen’d quite, she check’d the song.

“That bird,” said she,—“Hush, hush, you thing!— Flew in the window here, one spring. We caught and caged him, and he grew The sweetest pet that ever flew; I hold my finger toward him so, And down he flies and lights, you know, And pecks my hair and lips, and oh, How jauntily—you ought to see— He perks his head and chirps for me!

“Last year, he flew away, one day, And then, the scene we had! the way We wept for him; and search’d the town! And how it made the neighbors frown The twentieth time we ask’d for him! But, just as day was growing dim, He lit on yonder ash-tree limb; And ‘Dick,’ I call’d, and back he flew; Now, didn’t you, birdie?—naughty you!”

With this again she laugh’d at him; And I,—I thought the room grew dim; And then, I whisper’d: “Dear, a word,— For I—I know one other bird That longs and longs to fly to you; And, dearest, you may cage it, too; ’Twill sing, and serve, and be so true.” And then she blush’d, and then she wept, And then this bird of love she kept.

WHATEVER THE MISSION OF LIFE MAY BE.

Whatever the mission of life may be, Let love keep true, and let thought keep free, And never, whatever may cause the plan, Enlarge the calling to lessen the man. The cut of a coat, Cant chatter’d by rote, A priestly or princely state remote From the ties that bind A man to mankind, Are a clog and a curse to spirit and mind; For God, who made us, made only a man, No arms of a snob, no shield of a clan. Far better a friend that is friendly to God, Than a sycophant kissing a ribbon or rod.

Help on no ways nor words that extol The vise of a bias that binds the soul; No rank held up by holding down True worth as an underling stript of his crown; No cause with a lie For a party-cry To catch the low or to court the high; No life with a creed That ends all the need Of knowing or growing in thought or deed.— Weigh well their worth; true dawnings of light Can abide your waiting and grow more bright. Weigh not, you prove the trend of my thought: Your soul is a slave to be sold and bought.

THE DESTINY-MAKER.

She came; and I who linger’d there, I saw that she was very fair; And, with my sighs that pride suppress’d, There rose a trembling wish for rest. But I, who had my own design For destiny that should be mine, I turn’d me to my task and wrought, And so forgot the passing thought.

She paused; and I who question’d there, I heard she was as good as fair; And in my soul a still, small voice Enjoin’d me not to check my choice. But I, who had my own design For destiny that should be mine, I bade the gentle guardian down, And strove to think about renown.

She left; and I who wander, fear There comes no more to see or hear; Those walls that ward my paradise Are very high, nor open twice. And I, who had my own design For destiny that should be mine, Can only wait without the gate And sit and sigh—“Too late! too late!”

DRAMATIC.

HAYDN.

This poem was suggested by the tale entitled “A First Love,” in the “Musical Sketches” of Elize Polko. Her authority for the narrative was the historical fact that the wife of Haydn had a sister who was beloved by him, and who entered a convent. My own authority for the imagined connection indicated in the poem between the marriage of Haydn and the influence of the father and the priest, is derived from such passages as these, which may be found in every biography of the musician: “Forced to seek a lodging” (_i.e._ when a boy in Vienna), “by chance he met with a wig-maker, named Keller, who had often noticed and been delighted with the beauty of his voice at the Cathedral, and now offered him an asylum. This Haydn most gladly accepted; and Keller received him as a son.... His residence here had, however, a fatal influence on his after life.... Keller had two daughters; his wife and himself soon began to think of uniting the young musician to one of them; and even ... ventured to name the subject to Haydn.... He did not forget his promise to his old friend Keller, of his marrying his daughter.... But he soon found that she ... had ... a mania for priests and nuns.... He was himself incessantly annoyed and interrupted in his studies by their clamorous conversation.... At length he separated from his wife, whom, however, he always, in pecuniary concerns, treated with perfect honor.” _Biographical Dictionary of Musicians_, 2 vols., London, 1827.

Such facts, taken in connection with the well-known piety of Haydn, are a sufficient warrant, as I think, for my supposing that “priests and nuns” who so annoyed him had had something to do with drawing into a convent that member of the family whom he had loved the most. In the poem I have endeavored to bring the personality of the musician before the mind of the reader by using the name Haydn, rather than his baptismal name, Joseph.

I.

Hark, sister! hear we not the vesper hymn? And is it not the hymn that Haydn wrote? Why not push wide the window? Rob we God, If, while our praise to Him be passing by, Some air, made sweeter, tarry here with us? There, there—it dies away.—Why say “it dies”?— Because it lived?—Ay, ay, my body here, Because it moves and throbs and tells of thought And wakens thought in others, thus you know My body lives. And music, while it sounds, Does it not move and throb and tell of thought And waken thought in others?—Then it dies.— But ah, the music, it has never sinn’d, No wish has ever known save that of heaven, And need not linger long here. Yet to eyes That scan eternity, time cannot be The measure gauging vital force; nay, nay: Then heavenly lightning were a weaker thing Then earthly smoke.—Ah, sister, I have thought, If there may rise, high up in halls of heaven, Sweet echoes of our earthly lives, re-lived, Yet not as here they lived, that there may rise From earthly music, echoes just as real. At least, my Haydn’s music throbs with life. The sounds are sentient as his own dear soul; They make me thrill, as if a power should come, And touch, with hands below these fleshly robes, And clasp, as loving spirits do, the spirit. They woo me as a god might, owning heaven.

Why should I not talk thus? Go bid the flowers Keep back their perfume; then, perchance, may souls, All sweet with blooming love, keep back sweet words. I love him.—Shrink not, sister. Hear you must.— And say not I am weak. Should I not grow Far weaker, holding in a love so strong?

II.

For years he lived there in my father’s house, My elder brother and my lover too, My helper, and my hero: all my youth Was one bright dawn about that sunny face. Four years my senior was he; yet, withal, So delicate in blunt and boyish ways, And young in all things but in being kind, He seem’d more near me. Ere I knew of it, In budding girlhood even, he had pluck’d My blushing love, and wore it on his heart; And all my life took root where sprang his own.

III.

Once I remember now our strolling far Down through that glen, whose deep gorge unannounced Heaves all its bordering plains to sudden hills. The time of year it was, when nature seems In mood most motherly, with every breath Held in a mild suspense above a world Of just born babyhood, when tiny leaves, Like infant fingers, reach to drain warm dews From palpitating winds, and when small brooks Do babble much, birds chirp, lambs bleat, and then, While all around is one sweet nursery, Not strange it seems that men ape childhood too, And lisp—ah me!—minute the syllables, Yet still too coarse for love’s ethereal sense!

IV.

As was her wont, at that time walk’d with us Doretta fair, my sister, such an elf! My pride and Haydn’s pet, whose merry tones Would ring out, if our thoughts turn’d far from her, Like bells that homeward lure the wind-blown bees, And bring our flighty fancies back again.