Part 8
But bright morning comes, and the wild wind veers, The huge waves die away, And mid the lost rage of the surf he steers Right home through the well-known bay.
Go thou forth, then, fisherman bold, go forth A thousand times again; And loaded with spoils, to fond hearts return In joy o’er the peaceful main.
The Head-Land.
From this proud noble head-land How grand to look below, Where far beneath the sea-birds soar, And ocean-waters flow.
The rock-reefs clad with sea-weed, The bright green pools between, And strange wild chasms in rent cliffs, form A soul exalting scene.
Dark blue the distant ocean, Unites with circling sky, So softly that their bounds sublime Elude the piercing eye.
What a mighty plain extended, How fearful, awful, vast, Whilst sleeping, calm—then what in storm, When ploughed up by the blast?
There float light skiffs, whose beauty Swift from the sight is gone; And there gigantic merchant-ships In majesty move on.
Ten thousand hearts are sailing Along yon azure deep; Yet from their native land afar, Sweet thoughts of home they keep.
Ah, how sublime is ocean! For bounds extending wide; But more so as a stage whereon The human heart is tried.
There hope and fear are nurtured, Love to love will oft reply; And th’ fierce might of despair is heard In the sailor’s drowning cry.
Whilst thus on ocean gazing, What thoughts our spirits throng; Too deep for tears, too deep for words, Too deep for poet’s song.
The proud high capes and head-lands, Wide views far o’er the sea, Seem scarce as things of time and earth, But of eternity!
The Storm-King.
When ocean is calm and the air’s soft balm, O’er the glassy surface sweeps; Far in his deep cave, by the salt sea wave, The Storm-king soundly sleeps.
The winds at his call will rise or will fall, Each wave is beneath his sway; The gloom of his frown brings the black clouds down, And turns into night the day.
When his dream is o’er, by the rock-reef shore, In anger he rushes forth, And calls each dread wave from its secret cave, And beckons fierce blasts from the north.
Then proudly he rides o’er the boiling tides, As they eddy around the rocks; Whilst their awful roar on the wreck-strewn shore, The hollow-voiced thunder mocks.
When ocean and cloud like a woven shroud, Are all mingled into one, Amidst the dense spray he pursues his way, And hurries triumphant on.
The terrible form of the king of storm, Few mortal eyes have seen; Or his fierce glance cast where the lightning’s blast, Hath shivered the rocks in twain.
If you would behold the vision unrolled Of the Storm-king on his way; Then his to yon steep that o’erlooks the deep, Where the weed-strewn sea-caves lay.
When winds have the tone of a dull low moan, Foretelling a coming blast; ’Tis a sign that he, from his sleep is free, And gathers his armies fast.
When ocean roars loud, and the sky’s one cloud, From his dark cave issues he; And if you watch well, where waves highest swell, Perchance his dread look you may see.
Farewell to the Sea.
Farewell! bright ocean, to thy winding shore, But not, my spirit trusts, for evermore; Thy power is on me, and ’twould be deep pain, Never to view thy glorious scenes again; Yet till that hour in gladness comes to me Full oft with pleasure shall I muse on thee, And in clear vision see thy form displayed In all its light and loveliness arrayed. Oft will the music of thy choral waves Upon the sand-beach, or in fretted caves, Fall with its mighty harmonies full, clear, Distinct and tuneful on the inward ear, Recalling brightly to the mind’s rapt sight Waves, cliffs, rocks, head-lands, all in beauty bright.— I see the splendour of the morning’s ray Illume the burnished mirror of the bay, Whilst o’er its smooth and polished surface glide Unnumbered sails in triumph and in pride, Some dim in cloudy shade, some pure in light, Whilst some, far distant, scarcely win the sight. And now the glory of the noonday sun Makes each wave silver that it shines upon; Keen, vivid radiance pouring from the sky Flashes around, too piercing for the eye! But evening’s beams of ever-varied hue Spread o’er the ocean and enhance its blue; Soft, pearly tints, bright saffron, richest rose, Their lovely rainbow radiance disclose, Reflected on the deep so sweet, so fair, That the charmed eye could gaze forever there. Around soft stillness and mute calmness reign Along the ocean’s clear and polished plain; No vagrant zephyr’s gentle voice is heard, No shout of sailor, and no wing of bird, The gentle ripples chiming on the beach The sole sweet music that the ear can reach! Some image Peace amid the woodland grove, Some in soft vales where simple rustics rove; But to behold her calmest reign, give me A gorgeous twilight by the waveless sea! Rocks, reefs, bold head-lands on my memory gleam, The sea-bird soaring in the sun’s bright beam,— The dense clouds casting darker shades below,— The waves beginning with white crests to flow, Till lashed to fury in wild rage they roar, And strew light foam along the sounding shore. If thus, great ocean, memory can recall Thy varied scenes, and gaze upon them all As in thy presence, need there be regret At parting from thee? Though it may be sweet In fancy’s pictures to behold thee clear, Yet the true lover would be ever near The mistress of his choice;—and so would I Full oft behold thee with delighted eye; And in this farewell to thy much-prized shore Hope would plead softly “not for evermore!”
Lines to the Sun.
Bright regent of ether, Great monarch of day, Whose sceptre of splendour Drives darkness away;
Thou art the restorer Of life on the earth, And givest its beauty Renewal of birth.
From soft dewy slumber, Mid darkness and night, Each flower opes its eyelid To gaze on thy light.
The dew-drops of morning, Which spangle the vale, To honour thy coming As incense exhale.
Gay birds of the woodland Aroused by thy ray, To musical breezes Attune the sweet lay.
The trees of the forest Rejoice in thy beams, That glance like bright silver Along the clear streams.
How splendid all nature Beneath thy glad reign, In light and in glory, O’er land and o’er main.
E’en man, the earth’s ruler, Awaits thy command; His fetters of slumber Are broke by thy hand.
From sleep he ariseth To toil and to care, Till evening’s rich lustre Hath vanished from air.
Yet art thou but agent,— The servant of him Who gave thee thy brightness, And polished thy beam.
Thy glory is darkness; Thy splendour but night; To Him, thy Creator, Who “dwelleth in light.”
The Muse.
Why woo a false and fabled muse? The breeze, the sunlight, or the shower, Fair morning’s dawn, sweet evening dews, The noble tree or simple flower, Can act with Inspiration’s power Poetic ardours to infuse!
The rough rock, or the mountain glen; Vast forests where no light is gleaming; Lone pathless wilds untrod by men, Quick lightning o’er vexed ocean streaming, Dark nights when no clear star is beaming, Arouse the soul’s sublimest strain.
Each acting on the mental frame, That intellect which God has given, Enkindle poesy’s bright flame, Whose warmth o’er thought and feeling driven In numbers flows; _thus_ drawn from heaven Are thoughts that gain the poet’s fame!
Song—Young Spring.
Young Spring he was a rosy boy, And loved light skies and breezes; Sweet, calm and tranquil in his joy, Like one whom each thing pleases. He danced amid the hawthorn shade, Before it burst to blossom, And scattered yellow wild-flowers round Just where he liked to toss ’em. Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring! You are a merry creature, And when you smile, it makes us smile, Yea—smile in every feature!
Our poets, in the times of old, O’er-loaded him with praises, As if his path all glory were, Midst bright fields rich in daisies. But now he seems to walk on clouds With heavy plunging paces, And squirts, as from a watering-pot, Rain-drizzle in our faces. Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring! You’re grown a freakish fellow, For now you smile, and now you weep,— John!—bring me my umbrella.
Tis said, in ancient days he dwelt In bowers of blooming roses, Whilst nigh him, on the fragrant turf, Warm Zephyr’s wing reposes; But now he can blow hot and cold, Just like the fabled satyr, And chill your blood, and cramp your bones, And make your old teeth chatter. Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring! You are a precious turncoat, For you were warm, but now you’re cold,— George!—get me out my greatcoat!
If that his olden days were fair, And full of glowing sunshine, His temper, then, has altered much, Or all such talk was—moonshine. For now his humours often breed A most unseemly weather, Where rain and hail and frost and snow Come mingled up together. Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring! Old Winter you impannel, And play at romps with frost and snow,— Jane!—air my under-flannel!
Autumn.
In this glad season, when the ripened corn All golden-hued along the landscape gleams, And fruits, as poured from Plenty’s flowing horn, Blush red and purple in the sun’s bright beams. Incense of gratitude it well beseems Frail man to offer with devotion high, From his heart as an altar, whilst there teems Such glad abundance round him, and the sky Glows with a glorious light to prove heaven’s goodness nigh.
Oh, that such goodness we regarded more! And, winged with gratitude, our thoughts aloft Like morning skylarks, would rejoicing soar To pay their glad and cheerful tribute oft. Ah! sweet is grateful love, and calm and soft Its soothing influence upon the mind, Making it purer, as the breezes waft Life to the flowers! Then on thy spirit bind The thought of heaven’s rich love, beneficent and kind!
The hopeful promise of the early spring Is now fulfilled; the summer’s rosy flower Transmuted into fruit; and corn-fields bring The full redundance of their golden store, To glad the heart of man. His labour o’er, Well may he lift a deeply thankful voice, And ere the closing of the year grown hoar, Make hospitality’s free rites his choice— A season of glad cheer when loving hearts rejoice.
The Reaper.
The reaper now plies his sturdy arm, ’Mid the heat of the noon-day sun; And early and late in the sweat of his brow, He works till his task be done.
The sun scarce peeps o’er the distant trees, Ere he labours along the fields; And the silvery beams of the harvest moon, Shine sweet as the sheaves he builds.
’Mid cloud and dew of the early spring, In good hope he buried the grain; And soon in green blades with the soft summer breeze It wavered along the plain.
The bright warm close of the golden year, Made his ample reward complete; As it swell’d out each grain and made ripe each ear, And all for the sickle meet.
Happy art thou in thy fruitful work, O reaper of rich teeming fields; For the bright hope we sow in this mortal life, Full often no harvest yields.
The blasts of sorrow, the clouds of care, Disappointment’s terrible blight, Destroy many sweet pleasures we hoped to rear, And leave but winter and night.
Yet unto man in this vale of tears, A holier hope is given; If he scatter around him good seed on earth, His harvest he’ll reap in heaven.
The Widow.
She wanders round the old church walls, And by the grassy graves, As if some scanty solace thence Her mourning spirit craves.
When death, the cherished and the loved, Hath severed from the heart, To view the tombs where they were laid Can sad relief impart.
Such loss is hers—but in that ground Her loved ones do not lie; Yet often there she wanders lone, And strange graves hovers nigh.
Once she a husband kind possessed, And two sons stout and brave; But midst the stern November gales The sea became their grave.
Far off from land, their fishing barks The whelming waves flowed o’er; At home she waited their return, But never saw them more!
With faithful heart she’s wept for them Through many fleeting years; Though o’er their graves she ne’er could pay The tribute of her tears.
Now oft her slow and feeble steps Are to that church-yard led, Because she feels more nigh to them Amid the silent dead!
The Blind Musician.
He touched his flute by the lone inn door, And artless were all the sounds he drew; But mid the notes of that simple lay The deep delight of his soul breathed through.
The earth for him had no robes of light, No gorgeous scenes to exalt his mind; No bright summer clouds or sunset skies To melt his spirit—for he was blind!
Yet cheerless and dark his soul was not, Shut out from a lovely world around; For music could waft his thoughts to dwell, In a rich and joyful world of sound.
I saw on his cheek content’s calm smile, And blessed in my heart the love of heaven; That to a being in darkness born, Such a secret fund of joy had given.
Yet as I gazed on the landscape round All glowing in sunshine rich and free; There gushed from my heart, intense and strong,— “I thank Thee, O God—I see! I see!”
Hope.
Hope, with a rich enchanting light, Allures us gaily on; That, when we think to grasp the prize, Just flickers and is gone.
Its lambent flame again appears, And we renew the chase; But soon our smiles are turned to tears— We’re baffled in the race!
Earth’s hopes are like the meteor-lights That spread the moorland far, But heavenly hope eternal shines Serenely as a star.
A star which, viewed with steadfast eye, Gives forth a purer ray, And guiding onwards brightly glows Refulgent as the day.
Its rich beams falling on the earth Illume the clouds of care; And, harbinger of lasting peace, Imprint a rainbow there.
Lines to a Young Child.
Come hither, pretty creature, Come hither from thy play; ’Tis in thy happy nature To gambol all the day.
Thy cheek so fair and smiling, Thine eye so softly blue, Awake in me repining To be a child like you.
Once was I young as thee, love, And played as thou dost now; With heart as light and joyous, Such gladness on my brow.
I culled young flowers as gaily, And bound them in a wreath; But soon their hues so lovely All withered into death.
And like that beauty fading, Have hopes and joys decayed; Bright visions fled for ever, And heart-trust been betrayed.
Thus will thy young heart suffer Amid the wrestling strife Of grief, pain, tears and sorrow, That wait on human life.
Yet is a sweet balm given To sooth and to appease; The radiant hope of heaven— That land were sorrows cease.
Thence cheering rays of brightness Illuminate earth’s shore, Oh! follow but their guidance And soon thou’lt weep no more!
Ballad.
A maiden left her father’s home, Her home of early years, With smiling cheek and brightened eye, Though all around were tears.
They fondly wept with her to part, Then why was she unmoved? Oh with a calm confiding heart She went with him she loved!
Each scene in early childhood dear, Her sisters’ love unknown, A mother’s love, a father’s care— She left them all for _One_.
Oh thou with whom she fondly went Thus let thy love be shewn— In gentleness and constancy Be _all_ to her in _one_.
A woman’s love!—no gem on earth From India’s richest mine, Can match its high and untold worth— That brightest gem is thine!
Oh keep the gift, unstained and pure, From every blemish free, If thou ungratefully dost not What woe should wait on thee!
Ye love-linked pair! long may ye live And joys your dwelling bless; A poet’s heart, a heart that feels, Would thus its wish express.
May He who clothes the lillies, guard And guide you with his care, And with a father’s love your hearts For brighter worlds prepare.
When life shall close, and mortal ties Link after link are riven, Be all your loves and joys on earth Exchanged for those of heaven.
The Old Man’s Smile.
’Twas on a bright and balmy morn In autumn’s calm decline, I saw an old man pensive sit Beneath an ancient pine.
The sunlight streamed upon his brow And o’er his silver hair, And with its bright reflective glow Revealed the calmness there.
A smile, a soft and peaceful smile, Played gently on his cheek; More placid ne’er an infants’ was, More innocent or meek.
Whence could it spring, that lovely smile? Few things are there on earth, Mid faded joys and perished hopes, To give such looks a birth.
Did memory hover o’er the past— Sweet childhood’s sunny hours, Till life seemed one bright holiday Mid woods and fields and flowers?
Or did it dream of youth again, With joyous sports and glee, The happy heart, the buoyant thought, And footstep wildly free?
Perchance the bygone hours of love Came warmly o’er the heart, With sweet, soft thrill, their sacred joy And pleasure to impart.
Did manhood’s bold and active prime, Ambition’s gaudy prize, Earth’s tinsel joys, her pomp and state, In vision o’er him rise?
Ah! none of these, a smile so calm, Could o’er the features bring; A stream of joy that glanced so bright Burst from a purer spring.
It was a gleam of light that shone From yonder world above, Where round the great eternal throne Bright angels dwell in love.
And, deep within, its sacred warmth Aroused his happy breast, To confident exulting hope Full soon to reach that rest.
The Village Church.
I love the simple village church, Though framed uncouth, or sculptured rude, With ivy twining round its porch Amidst a leafy solitude.
It’s moss-clad stones, the verdure round, The yew tree’s shadow, dim and wan, The wild-flowers o’er each burial mound Seem speaking more of God than man.
Unlike the dark sepulchral vault, In towns where corses crowded lie; Such quiet scenes our thoughts exalt From death below to life on high.
The Rustic, pointing to the spot, Says “there my father’s ashes rest;”— Whilst cherished feelings, ne’er forgot, With sacred joy suffuse his breast.
“Oh! may I live the life he lived, So pious, pure, and free from pride, And when my spirit quits the earth My bones be buried by his side.
“I love this ancient village church; Its pathway my forefathers trod, When from their quiet cottage homes They hither came to worship God.
“In infancy they here were brought, And here their vows of love were sealed, And here their ‘earthly house’ was laid When death a higher life revealed.”
Elegy.
The bright sun shines upon the grave And fresh trees wave above, Where late in death’s cold bonds was laid The form of her we love.
There morn and eve the dew will rest, The wild flowers sweetly spring, And birds in nature’s soothing notes Her requiem softly sing.
A rural quiet reigns around, The air seems holy breath,— A calm asylum to repose The worn out frame in death!
And thine was worn—for sorrow came, And grief, and pain, and care; Such fearful ill, such suff’ring keen, As few are called to bear.
The promise saith those are beloved Who own the chastening rod; Such is our hope, and trust, and faith, And now thou art with GOD.
“The LORD my Shepherd,” peaceful words Thy dying lips disclose; The LORD THY Shepherd is the joy Thy risen spirit knows.
How oft our hopes will follow thee To brighter realms above, And feel our spirits linked to thine In ties of sacred love.
Our thoughts of thee, as time rolls on, Will grow more pure and bright, And view thy well known earthly form Arrayed in angel light.
May each in sorrow left behind From sin and evil flee, And through Redemptive love attain That radiant world with thee.
Then shall we all again unite To part in grief no more, But mingle with serene delight, On that eternal shore.
“In Memoriam.”
B. B. Y. Obt. Aug., 1852.