Chapter 3

Dim shadows these that come at Fancy's call-- Yet deeper scenes before the Patriot rise, As fate's stern prophet lifts the fearful pall, And shows the future to his straining eyes. Oh! shall that vision paint this glorious vale With happy millions o'er its bosom spread-- Or ghastly scenes where battle taints the gale With brother's blood by brother's weapon shed? Away, ye phantom fears--the scene is fair, Down the long vista of uncounted years; Bright harvests smile, sweet meadows scent the air, And peaceful plenty o'er the scene appears. The village rings with labor's jocund laugh, The hoyden shout around the school-house door, The old man's voice, as bending o'er his staff, He waxes valiant in the tales of yore: Far tapering spires from teeming cities rise, The sabbath bell comes stealing on the air, A holy anthem seeks the bending skies, And earth and heaven seem fondly blended there! Aye--and beyond, where distance spreads its blue, Down the unfolding vale of future time, A glorious vision rises on the view, And wakes the bosom with a hope sublime. Majestic Stream! at dim Creation's dawn, Thou wert a witness of that glorious birth-- And thy proud waters still shall sweep the lawn When Peace shall claim dominion of the earth. Here in this vale for mighty empire made, Perchance the glorious flag shall be unfurled, And violence and wrong and ruin fade, Before its conquering march around the world!

[Footnote A: We are told by the Geographers that the Missouri, which rises in the glaciers of the Rocky Mountains, is properly the head stream of the Mississippi, and it is thus regarded in these lines. In this view, the Mississippi is the longest river in the world.]

[Footnote B: Habakkuk iii. 3.]

The Two Windmills.

Two neighbors, living on a hill, Had each--and side by side--a mill. The one was Jones,--a thrifty wight-- Whose mill in every wind went right. The storm and tempest vainly spent Their rage upon it--round it went! E'en when the summer breeze was light, The whirling wings performed their flight; And hence a village saying rose-- "As sure as Jones's mill, it goes."

Not so with neighbor Smith's--close by; Full half the time it would not ply: Save only when the wind was west, Still as a post it stood at rest. By every tempest it was battered, By every thundergust 'twas shattered; Through many a rent the rain did filter; And, fair or foul, 'twas out of kilter; And thus the saying came at last-- "Smith's mill is made for folks that fast."

Now, who can read this riddle right? Two mills are standing on a height-- One whirling brisk, whate'er the weather, The other, idle, weeks together!

Come, gentle reader, lend thine ear, And thou the simple truth shalt hear; And mark,--for here the moral lurks,-- Smith held to faith, but not to works; While Jones believed in both, and so, By faith and practice, made it go!

Smith prayed, and straight sent in his bill, Expecting Heaven to tend his mill; And grumbled sore, whene'er he found That wheels ungreased would not go round.

Not so with Jones--for, though as prayerful, To grease his wheels he e'er was careful, And healed, with ready stitch, each rent That ruthless time or tempest sent; And thus, by works, his faith expressed, Good neighbor Jones by Heaven was blessed.

The Ideal and the Actual.

My boat is on the bounding tide, Away, away from surge and shore; A waif upon the wave I ride, Without a rudder or an oar.

Blow as ye list, ye breezes, blow-- The compass now is nought to me; Flow as ye will, ye billows, flow, If but ye bear me out to sea.

Yon waving line of dusky blue, Where care and toil oppress the heart-- To thee I bid a long adieu, And smile to feel that thus we part.

There let the sweating ploughman toil, The yearning miser count his gain, The fevered scholar waste his oil, But I am bounding o'er the main!

How fresh these breezes to the brow-- How dear this freedom to the soul; Bright ocean, I am with thee now, So let thy golden billows roll!

* * * * *

But stay--what means this throbbing brain-- This heaving chest--these pulses quick? Oh, take me to the land again, _For I am very, very sick!_

The Golden Dream.

In midnight dreams the Wizard came, And beckoned me away-- With tempting hopes of wealth and fame, He cheered my lonely way. He led me o'er a dusky heath, And there a river swept, Whose gay and glassy tide beneath, Uncounted treasure, slept. The wooing ripples lightly dashed Around the cherished store, And circling eddies brightly flashed Above the yellow ore. I bent me o'er the deep smooth stream, And plunged the gold to get,-- But oh! it vanished with my dream-- And I got dripping wet! O'er lonely heath and darksome hill, As shivering home I went, The mocking Wizard whispered shrill, 'Thou'dst better been content!'

The Gipsy's Prayer.

Our altar is the dewy sod-- Our temple yon blue throne of God: No priestly rite our souls to bind-- We bow before the Almighty Mind.

Oh, Thou whose realm is wide as air-- Thou wilt not spurn the Gipsies' prayer: Though banned and barred by all beside, Be Thou the Outcast's guard and guide.

Poor fragments of a Nation wrecked-- Its story whelmed in Time's neglect-- We drift unheeded on the wave, If God refuse the lost to save.

Yet though we name no Fatherland-- And though we clasp no kindred hand-- Though houseless, homeless wanderers we-- Oh give us Hope, and Heaven with Thee!

Inscription for a Rural Cemetery.

Peace to the dead! The forest weaves, Around your couch, its shroud of leaves; While shadows dim and silence deep, Bespeak the quiet of your sleep.

Rest, pilgrim, here! Your journey o'er, Life's weary cares ye heed no more; Time's sun has set, in yonder west-- Your work is done--rest, Pilgrim, rest!

Rest till the morning hour; wait Here, at Eternity's dread gate, Safe in the keeping of the sod, And the sure promises of God.

Dark is your home--yet round the tomb, Tokens of hope--sweet flowerets bloom; And cherished memories, soft and dear, Blest as their fragrance, linger here!

We speak, yet ye are dumb! How dread This deep, stern silence of the Dead! The whispers of the Grave, severe, The listening Soul alone can hear!

Song: The Robin.

At misty dawn, At rosy morn, The Redbreast sings alone: At twilight dim, Still, still, his hymn Hath a sad, and sorrowing tone.

Another day, his song is gay, For a listening bird is near-- O ye who sorrow, come borrow, borrow, A lesson of robin here!

Thoughts at Sea.

Here is the boundless ocean,--there the sky, O'er-arching broad and blue-- Telling of God and heaven--how deep, how high, How glorious and true!

Upon the wave there is an anthem sweet, Whispered in fear and love, Sending a solemn tribute to the feet Of Him who sits above.

God of the waters! Nature owns her King! The Sea thy sceptre knows; At thy command the tempest spreads its wing, Or folds it to repose.

And when the whirlwind hath gone rushing by, Obedient to thy will, What reverence sits upon the wave and sky, Humbled, subdued, and still!

Oh! let my soul, like this submissive sea, With peace upon its breast, By the deep influence of thy Spirit be Holy and hushed to rest.

And as the gladdening sun lights up the morn, Bidding the storm depart, So may the Sun of Righteousness adorn, With love, my shadowed heart.

A Burial at Sea.

The shore hath blent with the distant skies, O'er the bend of the crested seas, And the leaning ship in her pathway flies, On the sweep of the freshened breeze.

Swift be its flight! for a dying guest It bears across the billow, And she fondly sighs in her native West To find a peaceful pillow.

There, o'er the tide, her kindred sleep, And she would sleep beside them-- It may not be! for the sea is deep, And the waves--the waves divide them!

It may not be! for the flush is flown, That lighted her lily cheek-- 'Twas the passing beam, ere the sun goes down.-- Life's last and loveliest streak.

'Tis gone, and a dew is o'er her now-- The dew of the mornless eve-- No morrow will shine on that pallid brow, For the spirit hath ta'en its leave.

* * * * *

The ship heaves to, and the funeral rite, O'er the lovely form is said, And the rough man's cheek with tears is bright, As he lowers the gentle dead.

The corse sinks down, alone--alone, To its dark and dreary grave, And the soul on a lightened wing hath flown, To the world beyond the wave.

* * * * *

'Tis a fearful thing in the sea to sleep Alone in a silent bed-- 'Tis a fearful thing on the shoreless deep Of the spirit-world to tread!

The Dream of Youth.

In days of yore, while yet the world was new, And all around was beautiful to view-- When spring or summer ruled the happy hours, And golden fruit hung down mid opening flowers; When, if you chanced among the woods to stray, The rosy-footed dryad led the way,-- Or if, beside a mountain brook, your path, You ever caught some naïad at her bath: 'Twas in that golden day, that Damon strayed. Musing, alone, along a Grecian glade. Retired the scene, yet in the morning light, Athens in view, shone glimmering to the sight. 'Twas far away, yet painted on the skies, It seemed a marble cloud of glorious dyes, Where yet the rosy morn, with lingering ray, Loved on the sapphire pediments to play. But why did Damon heed the _distant_ scene? For he was young, and all around was green: A noisy brook was romping through the dell, And on his ear the laughing echoes fell: Along his path the stooping wild flowers grew, And woo'd the very zephyrs as they flew. Then why young Damon, heeding nought around, Seemed in some thrall of distant vision bound, I cannot tell--but dreamy grew his gaze, And all his thought was in a misty maze. Awhile he sauntered--then beneath a tree, He sat him down, and there a reverie Came o'er his spirit like a spell,--and bright, A truth-like vision, shone upon his sight. Around on every side, with glowing pinions, A circling band, as if from Jove's dominions, All wooing came, and sought with wily art, To steal away the youthful dreamer's heart. One offered wealth--another spoke of fame, And held a wreath to twine around his name. One brought the pallet, and the magic brush, By which creative art bids nature blush, To see her rival--and the artful boy, His story told--the all-entrancing joy His skill could give,--but well the rogue concealed The piercing thorns that flourish, unrevealed, Along the artist's path--the poverty, the strife Of study, and the weary waste of life-- All these, the drawback of his wily tale, The little artist covered with a veil. Young Damon listened, and his heart beat high-- But now a cunning archer gained his eye-- And stealing close, he whispered in his ear, A glowing tale, so musical and dear, That Damon vowed, like many a panting youth, To Love, eternal constancy and truth! But while the whisper from his bosom broke, A fearful Image to his spirit spoke: With frowning brow, and giant arm he stood, Holding a glass, as if in threatening mood, He waited but a moment for the sand, To sweep the idle Dreamer from the land! Young Damon started, and his dream was o'er, But to his soul, the seeming vision bore A solemn meaning, which he could not spurn-- And Youth, perchance, may from our fable learn, That while the beckoning passions woo and sigh, TIME, with his ready scythe, stands listening by.

Remembrance.[A]

You bid the minstrel strike the lute, And wake once more a soothing tone-- Alas! its strings, untuned, are mute, Or only echo moan for moan.

The flowers around it twined are dead, And those who wreathed them there, are flown; The spring that gave them bloom is fled, And winter's frost is o'er them thrown.

Poor lute! forgot 'mid strife and care, I fain would try thy strings once more,-- Perchance some lingering tone is there-- Some cherished melody of yore.

If flowers that bloom no more are here, Their odors still around us cling-- And though the loved are lost-still dear, Their memories may wake the string.

I strike--but lo, the wonted thrill, Of joy in sorrowing cadence dies: Alas! the minstrel's hand is chill, And the sad lute, responsive, sighs.

'Tis ever thus--our life begins, In Eden, and all fruit seems sweet-- We taste and knowledge, with our sins, Creeps to the heart and spoils the cheat.

In youth, the sun brings light alone-- No shade then rests upon the sight-- But when the beaming morn is flown, We see the shadows--not the light

I once found music every where-- The whistle from the willow wrung-- The string, set in the window, there, Sweet measures to my fancy flung.

But now, this dainty lute is dead-- Or answers but to sigh and wail, Echoing the voices of the fled, Passing before me dim and pale!

Yet angel forms are in that train, And One upon the still air flings, Of woven melody, a strain, Down trembling from Her heaven-bent wings.

'Tis past--that Speaking Form is flown-- But memory's pleased and listening ear, Shall oft recall that choral tone, To love and poetry so dear.

And far away in after time, Shall blended Piety and Love Find fond expression in the rhyme, Bequeathed to earth by One above.

* * * * *

Poor lute!--thy bounding pulse is still,-- Yet all thy silence I forgive, That thus thy last--thy dying thrill, Would make Her gentle virtues live!

[Footnote A: Written by request for the "Memorial," a work published in New-York, 1850, in commemoration of the late Frances S. Osgood,--edited by Mary E. Hewett.]

The Old Oak.

Friend of my early days, we meet once more! Once more I stand thine aged boughs beneath, And hear again the rustling music pour, Along thy leaves, as whispering spirits breathe.

Full many a day of sunshine and of storm, Since last we parted, both have surely known; Thy leaves are thinned, decrepit is thy form,-- And all my cherished visions, they are flown!

How beautiful, how brief, those sunny hours Departed now, when life was in its spring-- When Fancy knew no scene undecked with flowers, And Expectation flew on Fancy's wing!

Here, on the bank, beside this whispering stream, Which still runs by as gayly as of yore, Marking its eddies, I was wont to dream Of things away, on some far fairy shore.

Then every whirling leaf and bubbling ball, That floated by, was full of radiant thought; Each linked with love, had music at its call, And thrilling echoes o'er my bosom brought.

The bird that sang within this gnarled oak, The waves that dallied with its leafy shade, The mellow murmurs from its boughs that broke, Their joyous tribute to my spirit paid.

No phantom rose to tell of future ill, No grisly warning marr'd my prophet dreams-- My heart translucent as the leaping rill, My thoughts all free and flashing at its beams.

Here is the grassy knoll I used to seek At summer noon, beneath the spreading shade, And watch the flowers that stooped with glowing cheek, To meet the romping ripples as they played.

Here is the spot which memory's magic glass Hath often brought, arrayed in fadeless green, Making this oak, this brook, this waving grass-- A simple group--fond Nature's fairest scene.

And as I roamed beside the Rhone or Rhine, Or other favored stream, in after days, With jealous love, this rivulet would shine, Full on my heart, and claim accustomed praise.

And oh! how oft by sorrow overborne, By care oppressed, or bitter malice wrung, By friends betrayed, or disappointment torn, My weary heart, all sickened and unstrung--

Hath yearned to leave the bootless strife afar, And find beneath this oak a quiet grave, Where the rough echo of the world's loud jar, Yields to the music of the mellow wave!

And now again I stand this stream beside; Again I hear the silver ripples flow-- I mark the whispers murmuring o'er the tide, And the light bubbles trembling as they go.

But oh! the magic-spell that lingered here, In boyhood's golden age, my heart to bless, With the bright waves that rippled then so clear, Is lost in ocean's dull forgetfulness.

Gone are the visions of that glorious time-- Gone are the glancing birds I loved so well, Nor will they wake again their silver chime, From the deep tomb of night in which they dwell!

And if perchance some fleeting memories steal, Like far-off echoes to my dreaming ear, Away, ungrasped, the cheating visions wheel, As spectres start upon the wing of fear.

Alas! the glorious sun, which then was high, Touching each common thing with rosy light, Is darkly banished from the lowering sky-- And life's dull onward pathway lies, in night.

Yes--I am changed--and this gray gnarled form, Its leaves all scattered by the rending blast, Is but an image of my heart;--the storm-- The storm of life, doth make us such at last!

Farewell, old oak! I leave thee to the wind, And go to struggle with the chafing tide-- Soon to the dust thy form shall be resigned, And I would sleep thy crumbling limbs beside.

Thy memory will pass; thy sheltering shade, Will weave no more its tissue o'er the sod; And all thy leaves, ungathered in the glade, Shall, by the reckless hoof of time, be trod.

My cherished hopes, like shadows and like leaves, Name, fame, and fortune--each shall pass away; And all that castle-building fancy weaves, Shall sleep, unthinking, as the drowsy clay.

But from thy root another tree shall bloom-- With living leaves its tossing boughs shall rise; And the winged spirit--bursting from the tomb,-- Oh, shall it spring to light beyond these skies?

To a Wild Violet, in March.

My pretty flower, How cam'st thou here? Around thee all Is sad and sere,-- The brown leaves tell Of winter's breath, And all but thou Of doom and death.

The naked forest Shivering sighs,-- On yonder hill The snow-wreath lies, And all is bleak-- Then say, sweet flower, Whence cam'st thou here In such an hour?

No tree unfolds its timid bud-- Chill pours the hill-side's lurid flood-- The tuneless forest all is dumb-- Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come?

Spring hath not scattered yet her flowers, But lingers still in southern bowers; No gardener's art hath cherished thee, For wild and lone thou springest free.

Thou springest here to man unknown, Waked into life by God alone! Sweet flower--thou tellest well thy birth,-- Thou cam'st from Heaven, though soiled in earth!

Illusions.

I.

As down life's morning stream we glide, Full oft some Flower stoops o'er its side, And beckons to the smiling shore, Where roses strew the landscape o'er: Yet as we reach that Flower to clasp, It seems to mock the cheated grasp, And whisper soft, with siren glee, "My bloom is not--oh not for thee!"

II.

Within Youth's flowery vale I tread, By some entrancing shadow led-- And Echo to my call replies-- Yet, as she answers, lo, she flies! And, as I seem to reach her cell-- The grotto, where she weaves her spell-- The Nymph's sweet voice afar I hear-- So Love departs, as we draw near!

III.

Upon a mountain's dizzy height, Ambition's temple gleams with light: Proud forms are moving fair within, And bid us strive that light to win. O'er giddy cliff and crag we strain, And reach the mountain top--in vain! For lo! the temple, still afar, Shines cold and distant as a star.

IV.

I hear a voice, whose accents dear Melt, like soft music, in mine ear. A gentle hand, that seems divine, Is warmly, fondly clasped in mine; And lips upon my cheeks are pressed, That whisper tones from regions blest: But soon I start--for friendship's kiss Is gone, and lo! a serpent's hiss.

V.

The sun goes down, and shadows rest On the gay scenes by morning blest; The gathering clouds invest the air-- Yet one bright constant Star is there. Onward we press, with heavy load, O'er tangled path and rough'ning road, For still that Star shines bright before; But now it sinks, and all is o'er!

The Rose: to Ellen.

The sportive sylphs that course the air, Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair, And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves.

With sparkling cups of bubbles made, They catch the ruddy beams of day, And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade, Their blushing favorite to array.

They gather gems with sunbeams bright, From floating clouds and falling showers-- They rob Aurora's locks of light To grace their own fair queen of flowers.

Thus, thus adorned, the speaking Rose, Becomes a token fit to tell, Of things that words can ne'er disclose, And nought but this reveal so well.

Then take my flower, and let its leaves Beside thy heart be cherished near, While that confiding heart receives The thought it whispers to thine ear!

The Maniac.