Chapter 2

Suitors sent, her hand to purchase, Some with wealth and some with fame; But the vow was on her spirit, And she shrank not from its claim.

Yet when starry worlds looked downwards, Spirit-like, from realms on high, And the violets in the valleys Closed in sleep each dewy eye,--

While the night in wondrous beauty O'er the softened landscape lay, She came forth, with noiseless footstep Moving 'mid the shadows gray,

Gazing ever towards the summit, Where the gleam of scarf and plume Faded in the hazy distance, Leaving her to prayer and gloom.

Years, by her unmarked, unnumbered, Crossed the dial-plate of Time; Then she passed, one quiet midnight, To the unseen Spirit-Clime.

But the twilight has departed, And the moon is up on high; Stranger, pass not, in thy journey, Yon deserted court-yard by;

For it is whispered that, at evening, Oft a misty form is seen, In its silent progress casting Not a shadow on the green,

'Neath the iron cross that standeth On the mouldering wall and rude, Like a noble thought uplifted In the Past's deep solitude.

MY NATIVE ISLE.

My native isle! my native isle! For ever round thy sunny steep The low waves curl, with sparkling foam, And solemn murmurs deep; While o'er the surging waters blue The ceaseless breezes throng, And in the grand old woods awake An everlasting song.

The sordid strife and petty cares That crowd the city's street, The rush, the race, the storm of Life, Upon thee never meet; But quiet and contented hearts Their daily tasks fulfil, And meet with simple hope and trust The coming good or ill.

The spireless church stands, plain and brown, The winding road beside; The green graves rise in silence near, With moss-grown tablets wide; And early on the Sabbath morn, Along the flowery sod, Unfettered souls, with humble prayer, Go up to worship God.

And dearer far than sculptured fane Is that gray church to me, For in its shade my mother sleeps, Beneath the willow-tree; And often, when my heart is raised By sermon and by song, Her friendly smile appears to me From the seraphic throng.

The sunset glow, the moonlit stream, Part of my being are; The fairy flowers that bloom and die, The skies so clear and far: The stars that circle Night's dark brow, The winds and waters free, Each with a lesson all its own, Are monitors to me.

The systems in their endless march Eternal truth proclaim; The flowers God's love from day to day In gentlest accents name; The skies for burdened hearts and faint A code of Faith prepare; What tempest ever left the Heaven Without a blue spot there?

My native isle! my native isle! In sunnier climes I've strayed, But better love thy pebbled beach And lonely forest glade, Where low winds stir with fragrant breath The purple violet's head, And the star-grass in the early Spring Peeps from the sear leaf's bed.

I would no more of strife and tears Might on thee ever meet, But when against the tide of years This heart has ceased to beat, Where the green weeping-willows bend I fain would go to rest, Where waters chant, and winds may sweep Above my peaceful breast.

THE LOST PLEIAD.

A void is in the sky! A light has ceased the seaman's path to cheer, A star has left its ruby throne on high, A world forsook its sphere. Thy sisters bright pursue their circling way, But thou, lone wanderer! thou hast left our vault for aye.

Did Sin invade thy bowers, And Death with sable pinion sweep thine air, Blasting the beauty of thy fairest flowers, And God admit no prayer? Didst thou, as fable saith, wax faint and dim With the first mortal breath between thy zone and Him?

Did human love, with all Its passionate might and meek endurance strong,-- The love that mocks at Time and scorns the pall, Through conflict fierce and long,-- Live in thy soul, yet know no future's ray? Then, mystic world! 't was well that thou shouldst pass away.

Perchance a loftier fate Removed thy radiance from our feeble sight. Did HE, whose Spirit wills but to create, Far upward urge thy flight From this low fraction of expiring time, To realms where ages roll, as hours, in peace sublime?

E'en there does science soar With trembling pinion, bright and eager eye, Striving to reach the still-receding shore That bounds the vision high: Immortal longings fill the fettered mind; Unfathomed glory lies around it, veiled and shrined!

Oh! when the brooding cloud Shall pass like mist from o'er our straining sight, And, as the sun-born insect, from its shroud The soul speed forth in might, From phase to phase in Being's endless day, Shall we behold thy light, and learn thy future way?

THE VESPER CHIME.

She dwelt within a convent wall Beside the "blue Moselle," And pure and simple was her life As is the tale I tell.

She never shrank from penance rude, And was so young and fair, It was a holy, holy thing, To see her at her prayer.

Her cheek was very thin and pale; You would have turned in fear, If 't were not for the hectic spot That glowed so soft and clear.

And always, as the evening chime With measured cadence fell, Her vespers o'er, she sought alone A little garden dell.

And when she came to us again, She moved with lighter air; We thought the angels ministered To her while kneeling there.

One eve I followed on her way, And asked her of her life. A faint blush mantled cheek and brow, The sign of inward strife

And when she spoke, the zephyrs caught The words so soft and clear, And told them over to the flowers That bloomed in beauty near.

"I know not," thus she said to me, "If my young cheek is pale, But daily do I feel within This life of mine grow frail.

"There is a flower that hears afar The coming tempest knell, And folds its tiny leaves in fear,-- The scarlet Pimpernel:

"And thus my listening spirit heard The rush of Death's cold wing, And tremulously folded close, In childhood's early Spring.

"I never knew a parent's care, A sister's gentle love: They early left this world of ours For better lands above.

"And so I loved not earthly joys, The merry dance and play, But sought to commune with the stars, And learn the wind's wild lay.

"The pure and gentle flowers became As sisters fair to me: I needed no interpreter To read their language free.

"And 'neath the proud and grand old trees That seemed to touch the sky, We prayed, alike with lowly head, The violets and I.

"And years rolled on and brought to me But woman's lot below, Intensest hours of happiness, Intensest hours of woe.

"For one there was whose word and smile Had power to thrill my heart: One eve the summons came for him To battle to depart.

"And when again the setting sun In crimson robed the west, They bore him to his childhood's home,-- The life-blood on his breast.

"Another day, at vesper chime, They laid him low to sleep, And always at that fated hour I kneel to pray and weep.

"'T is said the radiant stars of night, When viewed through different air, Appear not all in golden robes, But various colors wear.

"And through another atmosphere, My spirit seemed to gaze For never more wore life to me The hues of other days.

"Once to my soul unbidden came A strange and fiery guest, That soon assumed an empire there, And never is at rest.

"It binds the chords with arm of might, And strikes with impulse strong; I know not whence the visitant, But mortals call it song.

"It never pants for earthly fame, But chants a mournful wail For ever o'er the loved and dead, Like wind-harps in a gale."

She said no more, but lingered long Upon that quiet spot, With such a glory on her brow, 'T will never be forgot!

Next eve at nine, for prayers we met, And missed her from her place; We found her sleeping with the flowers, But Death was on her face.

We buried her, as she had asked, Just at the vesper chime; The sunbeams seemed to stay their flight, So holy was the time.

I've heard that when the rainbow fades From parting clouds on high, It leaves where smiled the radiant arch A fragrance in the sky:

It may be fantasy, I know, But round that hour of Death I always found an aroma On every zephyr's breath.

And this is why the twilight hour Is holier far to me, Than gorgeous burst of morning light, Or moonbeams on the sea.

THE MANIAC.

A story is told in Spain, of a woman, who, by a sudden shock of domestic calamity, became insane, and ever after looked up incessantly to the sky.

O'er her infant's couch of death, Bent a widowed mother low; And the quick, convulsive breath Marked the inward weight of woe.

Round the fair child's forehead clung Golden tresses, damp and bright; While Death's pinion o'er it hung, And the parted lips grew white.

Reason left the mother's eye, When the latest pang was o'er; Then she raised her gaze on high, Turned it earthward nevermore.

By the dark and silent tomb, Where they laid the dead to rest; By the empty cradle's gloom, And the fireside once so blest;

In the lone and narrow cell, Fettered by the clanking chain, Where the maniac's piercing yell Thrilled the heart with dread and pain;--

Upward still she fixed her gaze, Tearless and bewildered too, Speaking of the fearful night Madness o'er the spirit threw;

Upward, upward,--till in love Death removed the veil of Time, Raised the broken heart above, To the far-off healing clime.

Mortal! o'er the field of Life Pressing with uncertain tread; Mourning, in the torrent strife, Blessings lost and pleasures fled;--

A sublimer faith was taught By the maniac's frenzied eye, Than Philosophy e'er caught From intensest thought and high.

When the heart is crushed and broken By the death-bell's sullen chime, By the faded friendship's token, Or the wild remorse of crime,

Turn to earth for succor never, But beyond her light and shade, Toward the blue skies look forever: God, and God alone, can aid.

THE VOICE OF THE DEAD.

Oh! call us not silent, The throng of the dead! Though in visible being No longer we tread The pathways of earth, From the grave and the sky, From the halls of the Past And the star-host on high, We speak to the spirit In language divine; List, Mortal, our song, Ere its burden be thine.

Our labor is finished, Our race it is run; The guerdon eternal Is lost or is won; A beautiful gift Is the life thou dost share; Bewail not its sorrow, Despise not its care; The rainbow of Hope Spans the ocean of Time; High triumph and holy Makes conflict sublime.

Work ever! Life's moments Are fleeting and brief; Behind is the burden, Before, the relief. Work nobly! the deed Liveth bright in the Past, When the spirit that planned Is at rest from the blast; Work nobly! the Infinite Spreads to thy sight, The higher thou soarest The stronger thy flight.

And when from thy vision Loved faces shall wane, And thy heart-strings thrill wildly With anguish and pain; The voices that now Are as faint as the tone Of the Zephyr, that stirs not The rose on its throne, Shall burst on thy soul,-- An orchestra divine, With seraph and cherub From Deity's shrine.

"A DREAM THAT WAS NOT ALL A DREAM."

Through the half-curtained window stole An Autumn sunset's glow, As languid on my couch I lay With pulses weak and low.

And then methought a presence stood, With shining feet and fair, Amid the waves of golden light That rippled through the air,

And laid upon my heaving breast, With earnest glance and true, A babe, whose fair and gentle brow No shade of sorrow knew.

A solemn joy was in my heart,-- Immortal life was given To Earth, upon her battle-field To discipline for Heaven.

Soft music thrilled the quiet room,-- An unseen host were nigh, Who left the infant pilgrim at The threshold of our sky.

A new, strange love woke in my heart, Defying all control, As on the soft air rose and fell That birth-hymn for a soul!

And now again the Autumn skies, As on that evening, shine, When, from a trance of agony, I woke to joy divine.

That boundless love is in my heart, That birth-hymn on the air; I clasp in mine, with grateful faith, A tiny hand in prayer.

And bless the God who guides my way, That, mid this world so wide, I day by day am walking with An angel by my side.

THE JUDGMENT OF THE DEAD.

Diodorus has recorded an impressive Egyptian ceremonial, the judgment of the dead by the living. When the corpse, duly embalmed, had been placed by the margin of the Acherusian Lake, and before consigning it to the bark that was to bear it across the waters to its final resting-place, it was permitted to the appointed judges to hear all accusations against the past life of the deceased, and if proved, to deprive the corpse of the rites of sepulture. From this singular law not even kings were exempt.

With sable plume and nodding crest, They bore him to his dreamless rest, A cold and abject thing; Before the whisper of whose name Strong hearts had quailed in fear and shame, While nations knelt to fling The victor's laurel at his feet; Now gorgeous pall and winding-sheet, Were all that royalty could bring To mark the despot and the king: In solemn state they swept the glowing strand, To meet the conclave of the judgment band.

And soon, with bright, exultant eye, Where fierce revenge flashed wild and high, Accusers gathered fast; From prison-keep and living grave Came forth the mutilated slave, With faltering step aghast; And sightless men with silver hair, The record of their dungeon air, Who for long years had sought to die, And wrestled with their agony Till thought grew wild and intellect grew dim, The clanking fetters' mark on every limb.

With pallid cheek and eager prayer And maniac laugh of dark despair The widowed mother stood; And, with white lips, an orphan throng Rehearsed a fearful tale of wrong And misery and blood. And strong in virtue others came, Unnumbered victims to proclaim Of vengeance, perfidy, and dread, Who slumbered with the silent dead. The world might start, the sable plumes might wave, But for that haughty king there was no grave.

O! ye who press life's crowded mart, With hurrying step and bounding heart, A solemn lesson glean; Beware, lest, when ye cross that stream Whose breaking surges farthest gleam, No mortal eye hath seen, Discordant voices wake the shore The struggling spirit would explore, And to the trembling soul deny Its latest resting-place on high; Our acts are Judges, that must meet us there With seraph smiles of light, or fiendish glare.

THE HIGHLAND GIRL'S LAMENT.

The ancient Highlanders believed the spirits of their departed friends continually present, and that their imagined appearances and voices communicated warnings of approaching death.

Oh! set the bridal feast aside, And bear the harp away; The coronach must sound instead, From solemn kirk-yard gray.

I heard last eve, at set of sun, The death-bell on the gale. It was no earthly melody:-- The eglantine grew pale;

And leaf and blossom seemed to thrill With an unuttered prayer, As, fraught with desolateness wild, The strange notes stirred the air.

And on the rugged mountain height, Where snow and sunbeam meet, That never yet in storm or shine Was trod by human feet,

A weird and spectral presence came Between me and the light; The waving of a shadowy hand That faded into night.

I felt it was the first who left Our little household band,-- The child, with waving locks of gold, Now in the silent land.

And when the mist at morn arose From Katrine's silvery wave, A form of aspect ominous, With pensive look and grave,

Moved from the waters towards the glen Where stands the holly-tree; 'T was the brother who is sleeping low Beneath the stormy sea.

And while to-night the curfew bell Rang out with solemn chime, As soundeth o'er the buried year, The organ peal of time,

And, near the fragrant jessamine, I mused in garden glade, A phantom form appeared to me Beneath the hawthorn shade.

The dews had wept their silent tears, The moon was up on high, And every star was sphered with calm, Like an archangel's eye;

And melancholy music swept With cadence low and sweet, Such as ascends when spirit-wings Around a death-bed meet.

O was it not a mother's heart That gave that warning sign; The loving heart that used to thrill To every grief of mine?

I oft have deemed, in sunny hours, When life with love was fraught, The nearness of the dead to us A fantasy of thought.

But, standing on the barrier I used to view with pain, I feel the chains of severed love Are linking close again.

Another hand must smooth and bless My father's silver hair; Another voice must read to him At morn and evening prayer.

The flowers that I have trained will bloom, But at another's side; And he I love will seek perchance, A gentler, fairer bride.

And soon another shade will haunt The echo and the gloom, With pining heart of restless love, And omens of the tomb.

Then set the festal board aside, And bear the harp away; The coronach must sound instead From solemn kirk-yard gray.

TO MY SISTER.

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

'T is said that each succeeding year Another circlet weaves Within each living, waving tree; Yet not in buds or leaves,-- But far within the silent core, The tiny shuttles ply, At Nature's ever-working loom, Unseen by human eye.

And thus, within my "heart of hearts," Doth this returning day, Another golden zone complete, Another circle lay; And when unto the shadowy past In retrospect I flee, I numerate the fleeting years By deepening love for thee.

Since last we met this sunny day How bright the hours have flown! Youth, Love, and Hope, with fadeless light, Around our way have shone; And if a shadow from the past Has floated o'er the dream, 'T was softened, like a violet cloud Reflected in a stream.

Yet if an hour of bitter grief, Should e'er thy spirit claim, May it the trying ordeal pass, As gold the fiery flame; And may the years that bind our hearts In love that cannot die, Still draw us hourly nearer God, And nearer to the sky.

THE POET'S LESSON.

"He who would write heroic poems, must make his whole life a heroic poem."--MILTON.

There came a voice from the realm of thought, And my spirit bowed to hear,-- A voice with majestic sadness fraught, By the grace of God most clear.

A mighty tone from the solemn Past, Outliving the Poet-lyre, Borne down on the rush of Time's fitful blast. Like the cloven tongues of fire.

Wouldst thou fashion the song, O! Poet-heart, For a mission high and free? The drama of Life, in its every part, Must a living poem be.

Wouldst thou speed the knight to the battle-field, In a proven suit of mail? On the world's highway, with Faith's broad shield, The peril go forth to hail.

For the noble soul, there is noble strife, And the sons of earth attain, Through the wild turmoil and storm of Life, To discipline, through pain.

Think not that Poesy liveth alone, In the flow of measured rhyme; The noble deed with a mightier tone Shall sound through latest time.

Then poems two, at each upward flight, In glorious measure fill; Be the Poem in words, one of beauty and might, But the Life one, loftier still.

MADELINE.

A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK.

Where the waters of the Mohawk Through a quiet valley glide, From the brown church to her dwelling She that morning passed a bride. In the mild light of October Beautiful the forest stood, As the temple on Mount Zion When God filled its solitude.

Very quietly the red leaves, On the languid zephyr's breath, Fluttered to the mossy hillocks Where their sisters slept in death: And the white mist of the Autumn Hung o'er mountain-top and dale, Soft and filmy, as the foldings Of the passing bridal veil.

From the field of Saratoga At the last night's eventide, Rode the groom,--a gallant soldier Flushed with victory and pride, Seeking, as a priceless guerdon From the dark-eyed Madeline, Leave to lead her to the altar When the morrow's sun should shine.

All the children of the village, Decked with garland's white and red, All the young men and the maidens, Had been forth to see her wed; And the aged people, seated In the doorways 'neath the vine, Thought of their own youth and blessed her, As she left the house divine.

Pale she was, but very lovely, With a brow so calm and fair, When she passed, the benediction Seemed still falling on the air. Strangers whispered they had never Seen who could with her compare, And the maidens looked with envy On her wealth of raven hair.

In the glen beside the river In the shadow of the wood, With wide-open doors for welcome Gamble-roofed the cottage stood; Where the festal board was waiting, For the bridal guests prepared, Laden with a feast, the humblest In the little village shared.