Chapter 4

On a tall cliff that overhung the deep, A maniac stood. He heeded not the sweep Of the swift gale that lashed the troubled main, And spread with showery foam the watery plain. His reckless foot was on the dizzy line That edged the rock, impending o'er the brine; His form was bent, and leaning from the height, Like the light gull whose wing is stretched for flight. Far down beneath his feet, the surges broke; Above his head the pealing thunders spoke; Around him flashed the lightning's ruddy glare, And rushing torrents swept along the air. But nought he heeded, save a gallant sail That on the sea was wrestling with the gale. Far on the ocean's billowy verge she hung, And strove to shun the storm that landward swung. With many a tack she turned her bending side To the rude blast, and bravely stemmed the tide. In vain! the bootless strife with fate is o'er-- And the doomed vessel nears the iron shore. A mighty bird, she seems, whose wing is rent By the red shaft from heaven's fierce quiver sent. Her mast is shivered and her helm is lashed, Around her prow the kindled waves are dashed-- And as an eagle swooping in its might, Toward the dark cliff she speeds her headlong flight. She comes, she strikes! the trembling wave withdraws, And the hushed elements a moment pause; Then swelling high above their helpless prey, The billows burst, and bear the wreck away!

One look to heaven the raptured Maniac cast, One low breathed murmur from his bosom passed: 'God of the soul and sea! I read thy choice-- Told by the shipwreck and the whirlwind's voice. In this dread omen I can trace my doom, And hear thee bid me seek an ocean-tomb. Like the lost ship my weary mind hath striven With the wild tempest o'er my spirit driven; That strife is done--and the dim caverned sea Of this wrecked bosom must the mansion be. Thou who canst bid the billows cease to roll, Oh! smooth a pillow for my weary soul-- Watch o'er the pilgrim in his shadowy sleep, And send sweet dreams to light the sullen deep!'

Thus spoke the maniac, while above he gazed, And his pale hands beseechingly upraised; Then on the viewless wind he swiftly sprung, And far below his senseless form was flung; A thin white spray told where he met the wave, And battling surges thunder o'er his grave!

The Two Shades.

Along that gloomy river's brim, Where Charon plies the ceaseless oar, Two mighty Shadows, dusk and dim, Stood lingering on the dismal shore. Hoarse came the rugged Boatman's call, While echoing caves enforced the cry-- And as they severed life's last thrall, Each Spirit spoke one parting sigh. "Farewell to earth! I leave a name, Written in fire, on field and flood--

Wide as the wind, the voice of fame, Hath borne my fearful tale of blood. And though across this leaden wave, Returnless now my spirit haste, Napoleon's name shall know no grave, His mighty deeds be ne'er erased. The rocky Alp, where once was set My courser's hoof, shall keep the seal, And ne'er the echo there forget The clangor of my glorious steel. Marengo's hill-sides flow with wine-- And summer there the olive weaves, But busy memory e'er will twine The blood-stained laurel with its leaves. The Danube's rushing billows haste With the black ocean-wave to hide-- Yet is my startling story traced, In every murmur of its tide. The pyramid on Giseh's plain, Its founder's fame hath long forgot-- But from its memory, time, in vain Shall strive Napoleon's name to blot. The bannered storm that floats the sky, With God's red quiver in its fold, O'er startled realms shall lowering fly, A type of me, till time is told. The storm--a thing of weal and woe, Of life and death, of peace and power-- That lays the giant forest low, Yet cheers the bent grass with its shower-- That, in its trampled pathway leaves, The uptorn roots to bud anew, And where the past o'er ruin grieves, Bids fresher beauty spring to view:-- The storm--an emblem of my name,-- Shall keep my memory in the skies-- Its flash-wreathed wing, a flag of flame, Shall spread my glory as it flies."

The Spirit passed, and now alone, The darker Shadow trod the shore-- Deep from his breast the parting tone Swept with the wind, the landscape o'er. "Farewell! I will not speak of deeds,-- For these are written but in sand-- And, as the furrow choked with weeds, Fade from the memory of the land. The war-plumed chieftain cannot stay, To guard the gore his blade hath shed-- Time sweeps the purple stain away, And throws a veil o'er glory's bed. But though my form must fade from view. And Byron bow to fate resigned,-- Undying as the fabled Jew, Harold's dark spirit stays behind! And he who yet in after years, Shall tread the vine-clad shores of Rhine, In Chillon's gloom shall pour his tears, Or raptured, see blue Leman shine-- He shall not--cannot, go alone-- Harold unseen shall seek his side: Shall whisper in his ear a tone, So seeming sweet, he cannot chide. He cannot chide; although he feel, While listening to the magic verse, A serpent round his bosom steal, He still shall hug the coiling curse. Or if beneath Italian skies, The wanderer's feet delighted glide, Harold, in merry Juan's guise, Shall be his tutor and his guide. One living essence God hath poured In every heart--the love of sway-- And though he may not wield the sword, Each is a despot in his way. The infant rules by cries and tears-- The maiden, with her sunny eyes-- The miser, with the hoard of years-- The monarch, with his clanking ties. To me the will--the power--were given. O'er plaything man to weave my spell, And if I bore him up to heaven, 'Twas but to hurl him down to hell. And if I chose upon the rack Of doubt to stretch the tortured mind, To turn Faith's heavenward footstep back, Her hope despoiled--her vision, blind-- Or if on Virtue's holy brow, A wreath of scorn I sought to twine-- And bade her minions mocking bow, With sweeter vows at pleasure's shrine-- Or if I mirrored to the thought, With glorious truth the charms of earth, While yet the trusting fool I taught, To scoff at Him who gave it birth-- Or if I filled the soul with light, And bore its buoyant wing in air-- To plunge it down in deeper night, And mock its maniac wanderings there-- I did but wield the wand of power, That God intrusted to my clasp, And not, the tyrant of an hour-- Will I resign it to Death's grasp! The despot with his iron chain, In idle bonds the limbs may bind-- He who would hold a sterner reign, Must twine the links around the mind. Thus I have thrown upon my race, A chain that ages cannot rend-- And mocking Harold stays to trace, The slaves that to my sceptre bend."

The Teacher's Lesson.

I saw a child some four years old, Along a meadow stray; Alone she went--unchecked--untold-- Her home not far away.

She gazed around on earth and sky-- Now paused, and now proceeded; Hill, valley, wood,--she passed them by, Unmarked, perchance unheeded.

And now gay groups of roses bright, In circling thickets bound her-- Yet on she went with footsteps light, Still gazing all around her.

And now she paused, and now she stooped, And plucked a little flower-- A simple daisy 'twas, that drooped Within a rosy bower.

The child did kiss the little gem, And to her bosom pressed it; And there she placed the fragile stem, And with soft words caressed it.

I love to read a lesson true, From nature's open book-- And oft I learn a lesson new, From childhood's careless look.

Children are simple--loving--true; 'Tis Heaven that made them so; And would you teach them--be so too-- And stoop to what they know.

Begin with simple lessons--things On which they love to look: Flowers, pebbles, insects, birds on wings-- These are God's spelling-book.

And children know His A, B, C, As bees where flowers are set: Would'st thou a skilful teacher be?-- Learn, then, this alphabet.

From leaf to leaf, from page to page, Guide thou thy pupil's look, And when he says, with aspect sage, "Who made this wondrous book?"

Point thou with reverent gaze to heaven, And kneel in earnest prayer, That lessons thou hast humbly given, May lead thy pupil there.

Perennials.

Life is a journey, and its fairest flowers Lie in our path beneath pride's trampling feet; Oh, let us stoop to virtue's humble bowers, And gather those, which, faded, still are sweet.

These way-side blossoms amulets are of price; They lead to pleasure, yet from dangers warn;-- Turn toil to bliss, this earth to Paradise, And sunset death to heaven's eternal morn.

A good deed done hath memory's blest perfume,-- A day of self-forgetfulness, all given To holy charity, hath perennial bloom That goes, undrooping, up from earth to heaven.

Forgiveness, too, will flourish in the skies-- Justice, transplanted thither, yields fair fruit; And if repentance, borne to heaven, dies, 'Tis that no tears are there to wet its root.

To a Lady who had been Singing.

The spirit-harp within the breast A spirit's touch alone can know,-- Yet thine the power to wake its rest, And bid its echoing numbers flow.

Yes,--and thy minstrel art the while, Can blend the tones of weal and we, So archly, that the heart may smile, Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow.

And thus thy wizard skill can weave Music's soft twilight o'er the breast, As mingling day and night, at eve, Robe the far purpling hills for rest.

Thy voice is treasured in my soul, And echoing memory shall prolong Those woman tones, whose sweet control Melts joy and sorrow into song.

The tinted sea-shell, borne away Far from the ocean's pebbly shore, Still loves to hum the choral lay, The whispering mermaid taught of yore.

The hollow cave, that once hath known Echo's lone voice, can ne'er forget-- But gives--though parting years have flown-- The wild responsive cadence yet.

So shall thy plaintive melody, Undying, linger in my heart, Till the last string of memory, By death's chill finger struck, shall part!

The Broken Heart.

Oh think not with love's soft token, Or music my heart to thrill-- For its strings--its strings are broken, And the chords would fain be still!

Oh think not to waken the measure Of joy on a ruined lute-- Think not to waken pleasure, Where grief sits mourning and mute.

The pearls that gleam in the billow, But darken the gloom of the deep-- And laughter plants the pillow With thorns, where sorrow would sleep.

The gems that gleam on the finger Of her who is sleeping and cold, But wring the hearts that linger. And dream of the love they told.

My bosom is but a grave, My breast a voiceless choir-- Speak not to the echoless cave, Touch not the broken lyre!

The Star Of The West.

I.

The cannon is mute and the sword in its sheath-- Uncrimsoned the banner floats joyous and fair: Yet beauty is twining an evergreen wreath, And the voice of the minstrel is heard on the air. Are these for the glory encircling a crown-- A phantom evoked but by tyranny's breath? Are these for the conqueror's vaunted renown-- All ghastly with gore, and all tainted with death? Bright Star of the West--broad Land of the Free, The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!

II.

When Tyranny came, his fierce lions aloft Told the instinct that burned in his cohorts of mail-- But our eagles swooped down, and the battle-field oft, Was the grave of the foeman,--stern, ghastly and pale. The cloud of the strife rolled darkly away-- And the carnage-fed wolves slunk back to their den-- While Peace shone around like the god of the day, And shed her blest light on the children of men. Bright Star of the West--broad Land of the Free! The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!

III.

Thus Liberty dawned from the midnight of years; And here rose her altar. Oh kneel at her shrine! Her blessings unnumbered--ye children of tears, Whatever be thy Fatherland--lo they are thine! In faith and in joy, let us cherish the light, That comes like the sunshine all warm from above, For thus shall the Demons that sprung from the night Of the Past fade away in the noontide of love. Bright Star of the West--broad Land of the Free, The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!

IV.

Stern Seer of the future, thy curtain unroll, And show to long ages our empire of peace-- Where man never bent to the despot's control, And the spirit of liberty never shall cease. Our Stars and our Stripes 'mid battle's loud thunder, Were bound by our sires in the wedlock of love-- Oh! ne'er shall the spirit of strife put asunder, The UNION thus hallowed by spirits above. Bright Star of the West--broad Land of the Free, The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!

The Outcast.

I.

Far, far away, where sunsets weave Their golden tissues o'er the scene, And distant glaciers, dimly heave, Like trailing ghosts, their peaks between-- Where, at the Rocky Mountain's base, Arkansas, yet an infant, lingers, A while the drifting leaves to chase, Like laughing youth, with playful fingers-- There Nature, in her childhood, wrought 'Mid rock and rill, with leaf and flower, A vale more beautiful than thought E'er gave to favored fairy's bower: And in that hidden hermitage, Of forest, river, lake, and dell,-- While Time himself grew gray and sage, The lone Enchantress loved to dwell.

II.

Ages have flown,--the vagrant gales Have swept that lonely land; the flowers Have nodded to the breeze; the vales, Long, long, have sheltered in their bowers, The forest minstrels; and the race Of mastodons hath come and gone; And with the stream of time, the chase Of bubbling life hath swept the lawn, Unmarked, save that the bedded clay, Tells where some giant sleeper lies; And wrinkled cliffs, tottering and gray, Whisper of crumbled centuries. Yet there the valley smiles; the tomb Of ages is a garden gay, And wild flowers freshen in their bloom, As from the sod they drink decay. And creeping things of every hue, Dwell in this savage Eden-land, And all around it blushes new, As when it rose at God's command. Untouched by man, the forests wave, The floods pour by, the torrents fall, And shelving cliff and shadowy cave, Hang as bold nature hung them all! The hunter's wandering foot hath wound, To this far scene, perchance like mine, And there a Forest Dreamer found, Who walks the dell with spectral mien. Youthful his brow, his bearing high-- Yet writhed his lip, and all subdued, The fire that once hath lit his eye. Wayward and sullen oft his mood; But he perchance may deign to tell, As he hath told to me, his tale, In words like these,--while o'er the dell, The autumn twilight wove its veil.

III.

"Stranger! these woods are wild and drear; These tangled paths are rough and lone; These dells are full of things of fear, And should be rather shunned than known. Then turn thy truant foot away, And seek afar the cultured glade, Nor dare with reckless step to stray, 'Mid these lone realms of fear and shade! You go not, and you seek to hear, Why one like me should idly roam, 'Mid scenes like these, so dark, so drear-- These rocks my bed, these woods my home?

IV.

"One crime hath twined with serpent coil Around my heart its fatal fold; And though my struggling bosom toil, To heave the monster from its hold-- It will not from its victim part. By day or night, in down or dell, Where'er I roam, still, still my heart Is pressed by that sad serpent spell. Aye, as the strangling boa clings Around his prey with fatal grasp, And as he feels each struggle, wrings His victim with a closer clasp; Nor yet till every pulse is dumb, And every fluttering spasm o'er, Releases, what, in death o'ercome, Can strive or struggle now no more; So is my wrestling spirit wrung, By that one deep and deadly sin, That will not, while I live, be flung, From its sad work of woe within.

V.

"My native hills are far away, Beneath a soft and sunny sky; Green as the sea, the forests play, 'Mid the fresh winds that sweep them by. I loved those hills, I loved the flowers, That dashed with gems their sunny swells, And oft I fondly dreamed for hours, By streams within those mountain dells. I loved the wood--each tree and leaf, In breeze or blast, to me was fair, And if my heart was touched with grief, I always found a solace there. My parents slumbered in the tomb; But thrilling thoughts of them came back, And seemed within my breast to bloom. As lone I ranged the forest track. The wild flowers rose beneath my feet Like memories dear of those who slept, And all around to me was sweet, Although, perchance, I sometimes wept. I wept, but not, oh not in sadness, And those bright tears I would not smother, For less they flowed in grief than gladness, So blest the memory of my mother. And she was linked, I know not why, With leaves and flowers, and landscapes fair And all beneath the bending sky, As if she still were with me there. The echo bursting from the dell, Recalled her song beside my bed; The hill-side with its sunny swell, Her bosom-pillow for my head. The breathing lake at even-tide, When o'er it fell the down of night, Seemed the sweet heaven, which by her side, I found in childhood's dreams of light: And morning, as it brightly broke, And blessed the hills with joyous dyes, Was like her look, when first I woke, And found her gazing in my eyes.

VI.

"Nature became my idol; wood, Wave, wilderness,--I loved them all; I loved the forest and the solitude, That brooded o'er the waterfall,-- I loved the autumn winds that flew Between the swaying boughs at night, And from their whispers fondly drew Wild woven dreams of lone delight. I loved the stars, and musing sought To read them in their depths of blue-- My fancy spread her sail of thought, And o'er that sea of azure flew. Hovering in those blest paths afar, The wheeling planets seem to trace, My spirit found some islet-star, And chose it for its dwelling-place. I loved the morn, and ere the lay Of plaintive meadow-lark began, 'Mid dewy shrubs I tore my way, Up the wild crag where waters ran. I listened to the babbling tide, And thought of childhood's merry morn,-- I listened to the bird that tried Prelusive airs, amid the thorn. And then I went upon my way; Yet ere the sunrise kissed my cheek, I stood upon the forehead gray Of some lone mountain's dizzy peak. A ruddy light was on the hill, But shadows in the valley slept; A white mist rested o'er the rill, And shivering leaves with tear-drops wept. The sun came up, and nature woke, As from a deep and sweet repose; From every bush soft music broke, And blue wreaths from each chimney rose. From the green vale that lay below. Full many a carol met my ear; The boy that drove the teeming cow. And sung or whistled in his cheer; The dog that by his master's side, Made the lone copse with echoes ring: The mill that whirling in the tide, Seemed with a droning voice to sing; The lowing herd, the bleating flock, And many a far-off murmuring wheel: Each sent its music up the rock, And woke my bosom's echoing peal.

VII.

"And thus my early hours went o'er: Each scene and sound but gave delight; Or if I grieved, 'twas like the shower, That comes in sunshine, brief and bright. My heart was like the summer lake, A mirror in some valley found, Whose depths a mimic world can make More beautiful than that around. The wood, the slope, the rocky dell, To others dear, were dearer yet To me; for they would fondly dwell Mirrored in memory; and set In the deep azure of my dreams At night, how sweet they rose to view! How soft the echo, and the streams, How swift their laughing murmurs flew! And when the vision broke at morn, The music in my charmed ear, As of some fairy's lingering horn,-- My native hills, how soft, how dear!

VIII.

"So passed my boyhood; 'twas a stream Of frolic flow, 'mid Nature's bowers; A ray of light--a golden dream-- A morning fair--a path of flowers! But now another charm came o'er me: The ocean I had never seen; Yet suddenly it rolled before me, With all its crested waves of green! Soft sunny islands, far and lone, Where the shy petrel builds her nest; Deep coral caves to mermaids known-- These were my visions bright and blest. Oh! how I yearned to meet the tide, And hear the bristling surges sweep; To stand the watery world beside, And ponder o'er the glorious deep! I bade my home adieu, and bent My eager footsteps toward the shore, And soon my native hills were blent, With the pale sky that arched them o'er. Four days were passed, and now I stood Upon a rock that walled the deep: Before me rolled the boundless flood, A glorious dreamer in its sleep. 'Twas summer morn, and bright as heaven; And though I wept, I was not sad, For tears, thou knowest, are often given When the overflowing heart is glad. Long, long I watched the waves, whose whirls Leaped up the rocks, their brows to kiss, And dallied with the sea-weed curls, That stooped and met, as if in bliss. Long, long I listened to the peal, That whispered from the pebbly shore, And like a spirit seemed to steal In music to my bosom's core. And now I looked afar, and thought The sea a glad and glorious thing; And fancy to my bosom brought Wild dreams upon her wizard wing-- Her wing that stretched o'er spreading waves, And chased the far-off flashing ray, Or hovering deep in twilight caves, Caught the lone mermaid at her play.

IX.