Chapter 3

I called to the wind--and a deep answer came In the rush of the tempest, the bursting of flame; And the spirit of life, as it breathed on the dead, Restored to each body the soul that had fled. Rejoicing to break from that dreamless repose, Like a host in the dark day of battle they rose; He alone who had formed them could number again The myriads that filled all the valley and plain.

"Son of man! in this numerous army behold My chosen of Israel, beloved of old. _They say_ that the hope of existence is o'er, That no power from death's grasp can the spirit restore: He who called you my people is mighty to save, Your God can re-open the gates of the grave; From the chain of oblivion the soul can release, And restore you again to your country in peace!"

THE DESTRUCTION OF BABYLON.

An awful vision floats before my sight, Black as the storm and fearful as the night: Thy fall, oh Babylon!--the awful doom Pronounced by Heaven to hurl thee to the tomb, Peals in prophetic thunder in mine ear-- The voice of God foretelling ruin near!

Hark! what strange murmurs from the hills arise, Like rushing torrents from the bursting skies! Loud as the billows of the restless tide, In strange confusion flowing far and wide, Ring the deep tones of horror and dismay, The shriek--the shout--the battle's stern array-- The gathering cry of nations from afar-- The tramp of steeds--the tumult of the war-- Burst on mine ear, and o'er thy fated towers Hovers despair, and fierce destruction lowers; Within the fire--without the vengeful sword; Who leads those hosts against thee but the Lord?

Proud queen of nations! where is now thy trust?-- Thy crown is ashes and thy throne the dust. The crowds who fill thy gates shall pass away, As night's dim shadows flee the eye of day. No patriot voice thy glory shall recall, No eye shall weep, no tongue lament thy fall.

The day of vengeance comes--the awful hour-- Fraught with the terrors of almighty power; The arm of God is raised against thy walls; Destruction hovers o'er thy princely halls, Flings his red banner to the rising wind, While death's stern war-cry echoes far behind. When the full horrors of that hour are felt, The warrior's heart shall as the infant's melt; Counsel shall flee the learned and the old, And fears unfelt before shall tame the bold.

Woe for thee, Babylon!--thy men of might Shall fall unhonoured in the sanguine fight; Like the chased roe thy hosts disordered fly, And those who turn to strive but turn to die. Thy young men tremble and thy maids grow pale, And swell with frantic grief thy funeral wail; They kneel for mercy, but they sue in vain; Their beauty withers on the gore-dyed plain; With fathers, lovers, brothers, meet their doom, And 'mid thy blackened ruins find a tomb. Of fear unconscious, in soft slumbers blest, The infant dies upon its mother's breast, Unpitied e'en by her--the hand that gave The blow has sent the parent to the grave.

Queen of the East! all desolate and lone, No more shall nations bow before thy throne. Low in the dust thy boasted beauty lies; Loud through thy princely domes the bittern cries, And the night wind in mournful cadence sighs. The step of man and childhood's joyous voice Are heard no more, and never shall rejoice Thy lonely echoes; savage beasts shall come And find among thy palaces a home. The dragon there shall rear her scaly brood, And satyrs dance where once thy temples stood; The lion, roaming on his angry way, Shall on thy sacred altars rend his prey; The distant _isles_ at midnight gloom shall hear Their frightful clamours, and, in secret, fear.

No more their snowy flocks shall shepherds lead By Babel's silver stream and fertile mead; Or peasant girls at summer's eve repair, To wreathe with wilding flowers their flowing hair; Or pour their plaintive ditties to the wave, That rolls its sullen murmurs o'er thy grave. The wandering Arab there no rest shall find, But, starting, listen to the hollow wind That howls, prophetic, through thy ruined halls, And flee in haste from thy accursed walls. Oh Babylon, with wrath encompassed round, For thee no hope, no mercy, shall be found: Thy doom is sealed--e'en to thy ruin clings The awful sentence of the King of kings!

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. EWING.

WRITTEN AFTER PERUSING THE INTERESTING MEMOIR COMPOSED BY HER HUSBAND, THE REV. GREVILLE EWING.

Daughter of Scotland! may a stranger twine One cypress wreath around thy honoured urn?-- Yet, when I meditate on faith like thine, I feel my breast with sacred ardour burn; Deep admiration checks the starting tear,-- Such drops would stain a Ewing's holy bier!

Death was to thee a messenger of love; He met thee in the path thy Saviour trod, Bearing this blessed mandate from above, "Come, happy spirit--come away to God! Thy works of piety on earth are o'er,-- Plume thy bright wing to reach the heavenly shore!"

Calm was thy exit from this troubled scene; Pain from thy lips no hasty murmurs wrung; With brow unruffled and with mind serene, Thy Saviour's praise employed thy faltering tongue: And though no kindling raptures marked thy flight, Thy faith unshaken _showed that all was right_!

Those who beheld thee in the burning hour, When fever raged in every throbbing vein, Oft shall recount the parting struggle o'er, The scene on memory's tablets long retain-- Each gracious word, each kindly glance, that told The Christian's love, ere that warm heart was cold!

Thy memory is a pure and holy thing, Embalmed and treasured in the hearts of those Who saw thee, like an angel, ministering The precious balm that softens human woes. Thou didst not hide thy talent in the dust; Anxious that all should own the same high trust.--

Deeply concerned that other realms should share Those blessed promises so dear to thee,-- That messengers of mercy should declare Glad tidings far beyond thy native sea;-- Thy bounteous spirit compassed land and wave To send redemption to the soil-bound slave!

But not to foreign realms and climes alone Didst thou confine a Christian's sacred zeal; With all a mother's fondness for thine own, The deep devotion faith alone could feel, 'Twas thine the drooping penitent to cheer, And wipe from sorrow's eyes the gushing tear!

And like the faithful saints and priests of old, Thou with thy honoured partner didst go forth, Exploring barren heath and mountain hold, Far through the isles and highlands of the north, To teach the Gospel in each rocky glen, And bless with Scripture truths unlearned men!

Thy zeal was felt along the rugged wild, Heard round the hearth where pious maidens meet; And matrons oft shall tell the rosy child, Twining its wilding garlands at their feet, To bless her name--who, conquering selfish pride, Sought them on foot to tell how Jesus died!

Daughter of Scotland! when her bards shall trace The noble deeds of thy illustrious line, Thy sainted name a fairer page shall grace, A brighter wreath for thee the minstrel twine Than ever crowned thy warlike sires of yore, Than history ever gave or genius wore!

TO THE MEMORY OF R. R. JUN.

LATE OF IPSWICH, AND ONE OF THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS.

From thy sad sire and weeping kindred torn, Thine is the crown of everlasting life; On thy closed eye has burst a brighter morn, In realms where joy and peace alone are rife; Thy soul, in Christ, enlightened and new-born, Has meekly triumphed over nature's strife, And passed the dreary portals of the grave, Strong in the faith of Him who died to save!

Soldier of Christ! thy warfare now is o'er, Thy toils accomplished and thy trials done, And thou shalt weep and sigh, young saint, no more; With thee the scene is closed, the race is run. Death heaved the bar of that eternal door; The palm is gained,--the victory is won, And earthly sorrows shall no more alloy Thy soul's pure raptures in those realms of joy!

Ah! who would weep for thee?--the early blessed-- Who that has mourned the tyranny of sin, The strong temptations which assail the breast, The fiery passions warring still within, But does not envy thee thy heavenly rest, And sighing, wish that they at length may win The narrow path thy faith and patience trod, And meet thee in the presence of thy God?

Though friends who loved thee weep above thy bier, And kindred anguish find in grief a voice, We will not mourn thy exit from this sphere, When angels in the heaven of heavens rejoice, When God's own hand hath wiped away each tear, And crowned with endless life thy happy choice. Oh blessed lot--oh change with rapture fraught, Surpassing human love--and human thought!

AN APPEAL TO THE FREE.

Offspring of heaven, fair Freedom! impart The light of thy spirit to quicken each heart. Though the chains of oppression our free limbs ne'er bound, Bid us feel for the wretch round whose soul they are wound; Whose breast is corroded with anguish so deep That the eye of the slave is too blood-shot to weep; No balm from the fountain of nature will flow When the mind is degraded by fetter and blow.

The friends of humanity nobly have striven, But the bonds of the heart-broken slave are unriven! Whilst Religion extends o'er those champions her shield, May they never to party or prejudice yield The glorious cause by all freemen espoused. A light shines abroad and the lion is roused; The crush of the iron has struck fire from the stone; Bid them back to the charge--and the field is their own!

Ye children of Britain! brave sons of the Isles! Who revel in freedom and bask in her smiles, Can ye sanction such deeds as are done in the West And sink on your pillows untroubled to rest? Are your slumbers unbroken by visions of dread? Does no spectre of misery glare on your bed? No cry of despair break the silence of night And thrill the cold hearts that ne'er throbbed for the right?

Are ye fathers,--nor pity those children bereaved Of the birth-right which man from his Maker received? Are ye husbands,--and blest with affectionate wives, The comfort, the solace, the joy of your lives,-- And feel not for him whom a tyrant can sever From the wife of his bosom and children for ever? Are ye Christians, enlightened with precepts divine, And suffer a brother in bondage to pine? Are ye men, whom fair freedom has marked for her own, Yet listen unmoved to the negro's deep groan?

Ah no!--ye are slaves!--for the freeborn in mind Are the children of mercy, the friends of mankind: By no base, selfish motive their actions are weighed; They barter no souls in an infamous trade; They eat not the bread which is moistened by tears, And carelessly talk of the bondage of years;-- They feel as men should feel;--the clank of the chain Bids them call upon Justice to cleave it in twain!--

WAR.

Dark spirit! who through every age Hast cast a baleful gloom; Stern lord of strife and civil rage, The dungeon and the tomb! What homage should men pay to thee, Spirit of woe and anarchy?

Yet there are those who in thy train Can feel a fierce delight; Who rush, exulting, to the plain, And triumph in the fight, Where the red banner floats afar Along the crimson tide of war.

Who is the knight on sable steed, That comes with thundering tread? Dark warrior, slack thy furious speed, Nor trample on the dead: A youthful chief before thee lies, Struggling in life's last agonies.

Oh pause one moment in thy course, Those lineaments to trace; Dost thou not feel a strange remorse, Whilst gazing on that face, Where grace and manly beauty meet, To die beneath thy courser's feet?

Those sunny tresses scattered wide, And soiled with dust and blood, Were once a mother's fondest pride, When at her knee he stood, A rosy, playful, laughing boy, Her lonely heart's sole hope and joy.

But youth a glowing vision brought, And whispered glory's name, Renown, with every burning thought Linked to ambition, came: Like a young war-horse in his might, He panted for the desperate fight.

For civil discord rent the land, His warrior sire, afar, Against his sovereign raised the brand, The leader of the war: By honour fired the stripling draws His weapon in the royal cause.

Stretched bleeding on the battle-field His first, last strife is done; No more his hand the sword shall wield, His eyes behold the sun, Or his pale lips repeat the cry, The thrilling shout of victory!--

He struggles yet--the strife is o'er-- The soul hath winged its flight, Again beholds its native shore, A spirit robed in light. What now avail his mother's cares-- Her silent tears--her nightly prayers?

On that young soldier's prostrate form The warrior grimly smiled, As if he viewed in secret scorn That face so fair and mild; Why springs he to the fatal plain To gaze upon that form again?

Why does his eye in frenzy roll? Why is his clenched hand raised? What thought quick rushed across his soul, When on that boy he gazed? His quivering lip and swollen brow His mental agonies avow.

Can sorrow touch that iron heart, So long to mercy steeled? From those fierce eyes the big drops start, He sinks upon the field. Night closes round, the strife is done, That warrior sleeps beside his son!

THE EARTHQUAKE.

There was no sound in earth or air, And soft the moonbeams smiled On stately tower and temple fair, Like mother o'er her child; And all was hushed in the deep repose That welcomes the summer evening's close.

Many an eye that day had wept, And many a cheek with joy grew bright, Which now, alike unconscious, slept Beneath the wan moonlight; And mandolin and gay guitar Had ceased to woo the evening star.

The lover has sought his couch again, And the maiden's eyes no longer glisten, As she comes to the lattice to catch his strain, And sighs while she bends to smile and listen. She sleeps, but her rosy lips still move, And in dreams she answers the voice of love.

Sleep on, ye thoughtless and giddy train, Sorrow comes with the dawning ray; Ye never shall wake to joy again, Or your gay laugh gladden the rising day: Death sits brooding above your towers, And destruction rides on the coming hours.--

The day has dawned--but not a breath Sighs through the sultry air; The heavens above and earth beneath One gloomy aspect wear-- Horror and doubt and wild dismay Welcome the dawn of that fatal day.

Hark!--'tis not the thunder's lengthened peal! Hark!--'tis not the winds that rise; Or the heavy crush of the laden wheel, That echoes through the skies-- 'Tis the sound that gives the earthquake birth! 'Tis the heavy groans of the rending earth!

Oh, there were shrieks of wild affright, And sounds of hurrying feet, And men who cursed the lurid light, Whose glance they feared to meet: And some sunk down in mute despair On the parched earth, and perished there.--

It comes!--it comes!--that lengthened shock-- The earth before it reels-- The stately towers and temples rock, The dark abyss reveals Its fiery depths--the strife is o'er, The city sinks to rise no more.

She has passed from earth like a fearful dream;-- Where her pomp and splendour rose, There runs a dark and turbid stream, And a sable cloud its shadow throws; Pale sorrow broods in silence there, To mourn the perished things that were.

LINES

WRITTEN AMIDST THE RUINS OF A CHURCH ON THE COAST OF SUFFOLK.

"What hast thou seen in the olden time, Dark ruin, lone and gray?" "Full many a race from thy native clime, And the bright earth, pass away. The organ has pealed in these roofless aisles, And priests have knelt to pray At the altar, where now the daisy smiles O'er their silent beds of clay.

"I've seen the strong man a wailing child, By his mother offered here; I've seen him a warrior fierce and wild; I've seen him on his bier, His warlike harness beside him laid In the silent earth to rust; His plumed helm and trusty blade To moulder into dust!

"I've seen the stern reformer scorn The things once deemed divine, And the bigot's zeal with gems adorn The altar's sacred shrine. I've seen the silken banners wave Where now the ivy clings, And the sculptured stone adorn the grave Of mitred priests and kings.

"I've seen the youth in his tameless glee, And the hoary locks of age, Together bend the pious knee, To read the sacred page; I've seen the maid with her sunny brow To the silent dust go down, The soil-bound slave forget his woe, The king resign his crown.

"Ages have fled--and I have seen The young--the fair--the gay-- Forgot as if they ne'er had been, Though worshipped in their day: And school-boys here their revels keep, And spring from grave to grave, Unconscious that beneath them sleep The noble and the brave.

"Here thousands find a resting place Who bent before this shrine; Their dust is here--their name and race, Oblivion; now are thine! The prince--the peer--the peasant sleeps Alike beneath the sod; Time o'er their dust short record keeps, Forgotten save by God!

"I've seen the face of nature change, And where the wild waves beat, The eye delightedly might range O'er many a goodly seat; But hill, and dale, and forest fair, Are whelmed beneath the tide. They slumber here--who could declare Who owned those manors wide!

"All thou hast felt--these sleepers knew; For human hearts are still In every age to nature true, And swayed by good or ill: By passion ruled and born to woe, Unceasing tears they shed; But thou must sleep, like them, to know The secrets of the dead!"

THE OLD ASH TREE.

Thou beautiful Ash! thou art lowly laid, And my eyes shall hail no more From afar thy cool and refreshing shade, When the toilsome journey's o'er. The winged and the wandering tribes of air A home 'mid thy foliage found, But thy graceful boughs, all broken and bare, The wild winds are scattering round.

The storm-demon sent up his loudest shout When he levelled his bolt at thee, When thy massy trunk and thy branches stout Were riven by the blast, old tree! It has bowed to the dust thy stately form, Which for many an age defied The rush and the roar of the midnight storm, When it swept through thy branches wide.

I have gazed on thee with a fond delight In childhood's happier day, And watched the moonbeams of a summer night Through thy quivering branches play. I have gathered the ivy wreaths that bound Thy old fantastic roots, And wove the wild flowers that blossomed round With spring's first tender shoots.

And when youth with its glowing visions came, Thou wert still my favourite seat; And the ardent dreams of future fame Were formed at thy hoary feet. Farewell--farewell--the wintry wind Has waged unsparing war on thee, And only pictured on my mind Remains thy form, time-honoured tree!

THE NAMELESS GRAVE.

WRITTEN IN COVE CHURCH-YARD; AND OCCASIONED BY OBSERVING MY OWN SHADOW THROWN ACROSS A GRAVE.

"Tell me, thou grassy mound, What dost thou cover? In thy folds hast thou bound Soldier or lover? Time o'er the turf no memorial is keeping Who in this lone grave forgotten is sleeping?"--

"The sun's westward ray A dark shadow has thrown On this dwelling of clay, And the shade is thine own! From dust and oblivion this stern lesson borrow-- Thou art living to-day and forgotten to-morrow!"

THE PAUSE.

There is a pause in nature, ere the storm Rushes resistless in its awful might; There is a softening twilight, ere the morn Expands her wings of glory into light.

There is a sudden stillness in the heart, Ere yet the tears of wounded feeling flow; A speechless expectation, ere the dart Of sorrow lays our fondest wishes low.

There is a dreamy silence in the mind, Ere yet it wakes to energy of thought; A breathless pause of feeling, undefined, Ere the bright image is from fancy caught.

There is a pause more holy still, When Faith a brighter hope has given, And, soaring over earthly ill, The soul looks up to heaven!

UNCERTAINTY.

Oh dread uncertainty! Life-wasting agony! How dost thou pain the heart, Causing such tears to start, As sorrow never shed O'er hopes for ever fled. For memory hoards up joy Beyond Time's dull alloy; Pleasures that once have been Shed light upon the scene, As setting suns fling back A bright and glowing track, To show they once have cast A glory o'er the past; But thou, tormenting fiend, Beneath Hope's pinions screened, Leagued with distrust and pain, Makest her promise vain; Weaving in life's fair crown Thistles instead of down.

Who would not rather know Present than coming woe? For certain sorrow brings A healing in its wings. The softening touch of years Still dries the mourner's tears; For human minds inherit A gay, elastic spirit, Which rises in the hour Of trial, with such power, That men, with wonder, find Sorrow is less unkind; That human hearts can bear All evils but despair, Or that anticipated grief Which, for a season, mocks relief.

Uncertainty still clings To earth's fair but fleeting things; And mortals vainly trust In fabrics formed of dust! We look into life's waste, And tread its paths in haste; The past--for ever flown; The present--scarce our own; While, cold and dim, before Stretches the shadowy shore, The dark futurity, which lies Beyond the glance of mortal eyes, Wrapped in the mystic gloom Which canopies the tomb. But faith can pour a light On the spirit's earthly night, And break that sullen shroud; As a star bursts through the cloud, To show the upward eye The clear, but distant, sky; The land of joy and peace, Where doubts and sorrows cease.

THE WARNING.

When the eye whose kind beam was the beacon of gladness From the glance of a lover turns coldly away, O'er the bright sun of hope float the dark clouds of sadness, And youth's lovely visions recede with the ray. Oh turn not where pleasure's wild meteor is beaming, And night's dreary shades wear the splendour of day, To the rich festive board where the red wine is streaming;-- Can the dance and the song disappointment allay?

Oh heed not the Syren! for virtue is weeping Where passion is struggling her victim to chain, And Conscience, deep drugged, in her soft lap is sleeping, Till startled by memory and quickened by pain. Oh heed not the minstrel, when music is breathing In the cold ear of fashion his heart-searching strain; And pluck not the rose round Love's diadem wreathing; The garland by beauty is woven in vain.

The pleasures of life, like its moments, are fleeting; Oh let not its trifles your firm purpose move; But think as those moments are slowly retreating, How feebly against its enchantments you strove: Then turn from the world, and, its follies forsaking, Raise your eyes to the day-star of gladness above; There's a balm for each wound, though the fond heart is breaking, A Lethe divine in the fountain of Love!

LINES ON A NEW-BORN INFANT.[A]

Like a dew-drop from heaven in the ocean of life, From the morn's rosy diadem falling, A stranger as yet to the storms and the strife, Dear babe, of thy earthly calling!

Thine eyes have unclosed on this valley of tears; Hark! that cry is the herald of anguish and woe; Thy young spirit finds a deep voice for its fears, Prophetic of all that is passing below.

How short will the term of thy ignorance be! The winds and the tempests will rise, And passion will cover with wrecks the calm sea, On whose surface no shadow now lies.

Unclouded and fair is the morn of thy birth, The first lovely day in a season of gloom; Whilst a pilgrim and stranger thou treadest this earth, May the sunbeams of hope gild thy path to the tomb.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: Infant son (since dead) of Mr. James Bird, author of the _Vale of Slaughden_.]

THE CHRISTIAN MOTHER'S LAMENT.

THE FOLLOWING LITTLE POEM WAS SUGGESTED BY A PASSAGE IN THE MEMOIRS OF THE LATE MRS. SUSAN HUNTINGTON OF BOSTON, NEW ENGLAND.