Chapter 3

SONG.

When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes, That have seen the last sunset of hope pass away, On some bright orb that seems, through the still sapphire skies, In beauty and splendour to roll on its way:

Oh, remember this earth, if beheld from afar, Appears wrapt in a halo as soft, and as bright, As the pure silver radiance enshrining yon star, Where your spirit is eagerly soaring to-night.

And at this very midnight, perhaps some poor heart, That is aching, or breaking, in that distant sphere; Gazes down on this dark world, and longs to depart From its own dismal home, to a happier one here.

TO A STAR.

Thou little star, that in the purple clouds Hang'st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed; First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds, 'Mid whose dark folds the day lies pale and dead: As through my tears my soul looks up to thee, Loathing the heavy chains that bind it here, There comes a fearful thought that misery Perhaps is found, even in thy distant sphere. Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin, The heritage of death, disease, decay, A wilderness, like that we wander in, Where all things fairest, soonest pass away? And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world, Round which life's sweetest buds fall withered, Where hope's bright wings in the dark earth lie furled, And living hearts are mouldering with the dead? Perchance they do not die, that dwell in thee, Perchance theirs is a darker doom than ours; Unchanging woe, and endless misery, And mourning that hath neither days nor hours. Horrible dream!--Oh dark and dismal path, Where I now weeping walk, I will not leave thee; Earth has one boon for all her children--death: Open thy arms, oh mother! and receive me! Take off the bitter burthen from the slave, Give me my birthright! give--the grave, the grave!

SONNET.

Thou poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil Of life, which I am doomed to till full sore, Spring'st like a noisome weed! I do not toil For thee, and yet thou still com'st dark'ning o'er My plot of earth with thy unwelcome shade. Thou nightshade of the soul, beneath whose boughs All fair and gentle buds hang withering! Why hast thou wreathed thyself around my brows, Casting from thence the blossoms of my spring, Breathing on youth's sweet roses till they fade? Alas! thou art an evil weed of woe, Watered with tears and watched with sleepless care, Seldom doth envy thy green glories spare; And yet men covet thee--ah, wherefore do they so!

SONNET.

I hear a voice low in the sunset woods; Listen, it says: "Decay, decay, decay!" I hear it in the murmuring of the floods, And the wind sighs it as it flies away. Autumn is come; seest thou not in the skies, The stormy light of his fierce lurid eyes? Autumn is come; his brazen feet have trod, Withering and scorching, o'er the mossy sod. The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreath Shrivel in his hot grasp; his burning breath Dries the sweet water-springs that in the shade Wandering along, delicious music made. A flood of glory hangs upon the world, Summer's bright wings shining ere they are furled.

TO ---

Is it a sin to wish that I may meet thee In that dim world whither our spirits stray, When sleep and darkness follow life and day? Is it a sin, that there my voice should greet thee With all that love that I must die concealing? Will my tear-laden eyes sin in revealing The agony that preys upon my soul? Is't not enough through the long, loathsome day, To hold each look, and word, in stern control? May I not wish the staring sunlight gone, Day and its thousand torturing moments done, And prying sights and sounds of men away? Oh, still and silent Night! when all things sleep, Locked in thy swarthy breast my secret keep: Come, with thy vision'd hopes and blessings now! I dream the only happiness I know.

SONNET.

Written at four o'clock in the morning, after a ball.

Oh, modest maiden morn! why dost thou blush, Who thus betimes art walking in the sky? 'Tis I, whose cheek bears pleasure's sleepless flush, Who shame to meet thy gray, cloud-lidded eye, Shadowy, yet clear: from the bright eastern door, Where the sun's shafts lie bound with thongs of fire, Along the heaven's amber-paved floor, The glad hours move, hymning their early choir. O, fair and fragrant morn! upon my brow Press thy fresh lips, shake from thy dropping hair Cold showers of balmy dew on me, and ere Day's chariot-wheels upon th' horizon glow, Wrap me within thy sober cloak of gray, And bear me to thy twilight bowers away.

LINES, In answer to a question.

I'll tell thee why this weary world meseemeth But as the visions light of one who dreameth, Which pass like clouds, leaving no trace behind; Why this strange life, so full of sin and folly, In me awakeneth no melancholy, Nor leaveth shade, or sadness, on my mind. 'Tis not that with an undiscerning eye I see the pageant wild go dancing by, Mistaking that which falsest is, for true; 'Tis not that pleasure hath entwined me, 'Tis not that sorrow hath enshrined me; I bear no badge of roses or of rue, But in the inmost chambers of my soul There is another world, a blessed home, O'er which no living power holdeth control, Anigh to which ill things do never come. There shineth the glad sunlight of clear thought, With hope, and faith, holding communion high, Over a fragrant land with flowers wrought, Where gush the living springs of poesy; There speak the voices that I love to hear, There smile the glances that I love to see, There live the forms of those my soul holds dear, For ever, in that secret world, with me. They who have walked with me along life's way, And sever'd been by Fortune's adverse tide, Who ne'er again, through Time's uncertain day, In weal or woe, may wander by my side; These all dwell here: nor these, whom life alone Divideth from me, but the dead, the dead; Those weary ones who to their rest are gone, Whose footprints from the earth have vanished; Here dwell they all: and here, within this world, Like light within a summer sun cloud furled, My spirit dwells. Therefore, this evil life, With all its gilded snares, and fair deceivings, Its wealth, its want, its pleasures, and its grievings, Nor frights, nor frets me, by its idle strife. O thou! who readest, of thy courtesy, Whoe'er thou art, I wish the same to thee!

A FAREWELL.

I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall, The fairies' palace beside the stream; Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fall Through their tresses dark, with a mellow gleam.

I shall tread no more the thick dewy lawn, When the young moon hangs on the brow of night, Nor see the morning, at early dawn, Shake the fading stars from her robes of light.

I shall fly no more on my fiery steed, O'er the springing sward,--through the twilight wood; Nor reign my courser, and check my speed, By the lonely grange, and the haunted flood.

At fragrant noon, I shall lie no more 'Neath the oak's broad shade, in the leafy dell: The sun is set,--the day is o'er,-- The summer is past;--farewell!--farewell!

TO A PICTURE.

Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light, The burning rays that mine pour into ye, Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark, as night-- Oh, lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me? Oh, lips! whereon mine own so often dwell, Hath love's warm, fearful, thrilling touch, no spell To waken sense in ye?--oh, misery!-- Oh, breathless lips! can ye not speak to me? Thou soulless mimicry of life! my tears Fall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain; I press thee to my heart, whose hopes, and fears, Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain. Oh, thou dull image! wilt thou not reply To my fond prayers and wild idolatry?

SONNET.

There's not a fibre in my trembling frame That does not vibrate when thy step draws near, There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear Thy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name. When thou art with me, every sense seems dull, And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee; My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame, And my bewildered spirit seems to swim In eddying whirls of passion, dizzily. When thou art gone, there creeps into my heart A cold and bitter consciousness of pain: The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart, And I sit dreaming o'er and o'er again Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look, and tone; And suddenly I wake--and am alone.

AN INVITATION.

Come where the white waves dance along the shore Of some lone isle, lost in the unknown seas; Whose golden sands by mortal foot before Were never printed,--where the fragrant breeze, That never swept o'er land or flood that man Could call his own, th' unearthly breeze shall fan Our mingled tresses with its odorous sighs; Where the eternal heaven's blue, sunny eyes Did ne'er look down on human shapes of earth, Or aught of mortal mould and death-doomed birth: Come there with me; and when we are alone In that enchanted desert, where the tone Of earthly voice, or language, yet did ne'er With its strange music startle the still air, When clasped in thy upholding arms I stand, Upon that bright world's coral-cradled strand, When I can hide my face upon thy breast, While thy heart answers mine together pressed, Then fold me closer, bend thy head above me, Listen--and I will tell thee how I love thee.

LINES FOR MUSIC.

Oh, sunny Love! Crowned with fresh flowering May, Breath like the Indian clove, Eyes like the dawn of day; Oh, sunny Love!

Oh, fatal Love! Thy robe wreath is nightshade all, With gloomy cypress wove, Thy kiss is bitter gall, Oh, fatal Love!

SONG.

Never, oh never more! shall I behold Thy form so fair, Or loosen from its braids the rippling gold Of thy long hair.

Never, oh never more! shall I be blest By thy voice low, Or kiss, while thou art sleeping on my breast, Thy marble brow.

Never, oh never more! shall I inhale Thy fragrant sighs, Or gaze, with fainting soul, upon the veil Of thy bright eyes.

LINES ON A SLEEPING CHILD.

Oh child! who to this evil world art come, Led by the unseen hand of Him who guards thee, Welcome unto this dungeon-house, thy home! Welcome to all the woe this life awards thee!

Upon thy forehead yet the badge of sin Hath worn no trace; thou look'st as though from heaven, But pain, and guilt, and misery lie within; Poor exile! from thy happy birth-land driven.

Thine eyes are sealed by the soft hand of sleep, And like unruffled waves thy slumber seems; The time's at hand when thou must wake to weep, Or sleeping, walk a restless world of dreams.

How oft, as day by day life's burthen lies Heavier and darker on thy fainting soul, Wilt thou towards heaven turn thy weary eyes, And long in bitterness to reach the goal!

How oft wilt thou, upon Time's flinty road, Gaze at thy far off early days, in vain; Weeping, how oft wilt thou cast down thy load, And curse and pray, then take it up again!

How many times shall the fiend Hope, extend Her poisonous chalice to thy thirsty lips! How oft shall Love its withering sunshine lend, To leave thee only a more dark eclipse!

How oft shall Sorrow strain thee in her grasp,-- How oft shall Sin laugh at thine overthrow-- How oft shall Doubt, Despair, and Anguish clasp Their knotted arms around thine aching brow!

Oh, living soul, hail to thy narrow cage! Spirit of light, hail to thy gloomy cave! Welcome to longing youth, to loathing age, Welcome, immortal! welcome to the grave!

A RETROSPECT.

Life wanes, and the bright sunlight of our youth Sets o'er the mountain-tops, where once Hope stood. Oh, Innocence! oh, Trustfulness! oh, Truth! Where are ye all, white-handed sisterhood, Who with me on my way did walk along, Singing sweet scraps of that immortal song That's hymn'd in Heaven, but hath no echo here? Are ye departing, fellows bright and clear, Of the young spirit, when it first alights Upon this earth of darkness and dismay? Farewell! fair children of th' eternal day, Blossoms of that far land where fall no blights, Sweet kindred of my exiled soul, farewell! Here I must wander, here ye may not dwell; Back to your home beyond the founts of light I see ye fly, and I am wrapt in night!

AN INVOCATION.

Spirit, bright spirit! from thy narrow cell Answer me! answer me! oh, let me hear Thy voice, and know that thou indeed art near! That from the bonds in which thou'rt forced to dwell Thou hast not broken free, thou art not fled, Thou hast not pined away, thou art not dead. Speak to me through thy prison bars; my life With all things round, is one eternal strife, 'Mid whose wild din I pause to hear thy voice; Speak to me, look on me, thou born of light! That I may know thou'rt with me, and rejoice. Shall not this weary warfare pass away? Shall there not come a better, brighter day? Shall not thy chain and mine be broken quite, And thou to heaven spring, With thine immortal wing, And I, still following, With steps that do not tire, Reach my desire, And to thy worship bring Some worthy offering? Oh! let but these dark days be once gone by, And thou, unwilling captive, that dost strain, With tiptoe longing, vainly, towards the sky, O'er the whole kingdom of my life shalt reign. But, while I'm doomed beneath the yoke to bow, Of sordid toiling in these caverns drear, Oh, look upon me sometimes with thy brow Of shining brightness; sometimes let me hear Thy blessed voice, singing the songs of Heaven, Whence thou and I, together have been driven; Give me assurance that thou still art nigh, Lest I sink down beneath my load, and die!

A LAMENT FOR THE WISSAHICCON.

The waterfall is calling me With its merry gleesome flow, And the green boughs are beckoning me, To where the wild flowers grow:

I may not go, I may not go, To where the sunny waters flow, To where the wild wood flowers blow; I must stay here In prison drear, Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on, Would God that thou wert done!

The busy mill-wheel round and round Goes turning, with its reckless sound, And o'er the dam the wafers flow Into the foaming stream below, And deep and dark away they glide, To meet the broad, bright river's tide; And all the way They murmuring say: "Oh, child! why art thou far away? Come back into the sun, and stray Upon our mossy side!"

I may not go, I may not go, To where the gold-green waters run, All shining in the summer sun, And leap from off the dam below Into a whirl of boiling snow, Laughing and shouting as they go; I must stay here In prison drear, Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on, Would God that thou wert done!

The soft spring wind goes passing by, Into the forests wide and cool; The clouds go trooping through the sky, To look down on some glassy pool; The sunshine makes the world rejoice, And all of them, with gentle voice, Call me away, With them to stay, The blessed, livelong summer's day.

I may not go, I may not go, Where the sweet breathing spring winds blow, Nor where the silver clouds go by, Across the holy, deep blue sky, Nor where the sunshine, warm and bright, Comes down like a still shower of light; I must stay here In prison drear, Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on, Would God that thou wert done!

Oh, that I were a thing with wings! A bird, that in a May-hedge sings! A lonely heather bell that swings Upon some wild hill-side; Or even a silly, senseless stone, With dark, green, starry moss o'ergrown, Round which the waters glide.

TO THE WISSAHICCON.

My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side, When once they turn away, thou _Pleasant Water_, Nor ever more, reflected in thy tide, Will shine the eyes of the White Island's daughter. But often in my dreams, when I am gone Beyond the sea that parts thy home and mine, Upon thy banks the evening sun will shine, And I shall hear thy low, still flowing on. And when the burden of existence lies Upon my soul, darkly and heavily, I'll clasp my hands over my weary eyes, Thou _Pleasant Water_, and thy clear waves see. Bright be thy course for ever and for ever, Child of pure mountain springs, and mountain snow; And as thou wanderest on to meet the river Oh, still in light and music mayst thou flow! I never shall come back to thee again, When once my sail is shadowed on the main, Nor ever shall I hear thy laughing voice As on their rippling way thy waves rejoice, Nor ever see the dark green cedar throw Its gloomy shade o'er the clear depths below, Never, from stony rifts of granite gray Sparkling like diamond rocks in the sun's ray, Shall I look down on thee, thou pleasant stream, Beneath whose crystal folds the gold sands gleam; Wherefore, farewell! but whensoe'er again The wintry spell melts from the earth and air; And the young Spring comes dancing through thy glen, With fragrant, flowery breath, and sunny hair; When through the snow the scarlet berries gleam, Like jewels strewn upon thy banks, fair stream, My spirit shall through many a summer's day Return, among thy peaceful woods to stray.

AN EVENING SONG.

Good night, love! May Heaven's brightest stars watch over thee! Good angels spread their wings, and cover thee, And through the night, So dark and still, Spirits of light Charm thee from ill! My heart is hovering round thy dwelling-place, Good night, dear love! God bless thee with his grace!

Good night, love! Soft lullabies the night-wind sing to thee! And on its wings sweet odours bring to thee! And in thy dreaming May all things dear, With gentle seeming, Come smiling near! My knees are bowed, my hands are clasped in prayer-- Good night, dear love! God keep thee in his care!

THE DEATH-SONG.

Mother, mother! my heart is wild, Hold me upon your bosom dear, Do not frown on your own poor child, Death is darkly drawing near.

Mother, mother! the bitter shame Eats into my very soul; And longing love, like a wrapping flame, Burns me away without control.

Mother, mother! upon my brow The clammy death-sweats coldly rise; How dim and strange your features grow Through the hot mist that veils my eyes!

Mother, mother! sing me the song They sing on sunny August eves, The rustling barley-fields along, Binding up the ripe, red sheaves.

Mother, mother! I do not hear Your voice--but his,--oh, guard me well! His breathing makes me faint with fear, His clasping arms are round me still.

Mother, mother! unbind my vest, Upon my heart lies his first token: Now lay me in my narrow nest, Your withered blossom, crushed and broken.

IMPROMPTU.

You say you're glad I write--oh, say not so! My fount of song, dear friend, 's a bitter well; And when the numbers freely from it flow, 'Tis that my heart, and eyes, o'erflow as well.

Castalia, fam'd of yore,--the spring divine, Apollo's smile upon its current wears: Moore and Anacreon, found its waves were wine, To me, it flows a sullen stream of tears.

WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING WEST POINT.

The hours are past, love, Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those happy hours, when down the mountain side, We saw the rosy mists of morning glide, And, hand in hand, went forth upon our way, Full of young life and hope, to meet the day.

The hours are past, love, Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those sunny hours, when from the mid-day heat, We sought the waterfall with loitering feet, And o'er the rocks that lock the gleaming pool, Crept down into its depths, so dark and cool.

The hours are past, love, Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those solemn hours, when through the violet sky, Alike without a cloud, without a ray, The round red autumn moon came glowingly, While o'er the leaden waves our boat made way.

The hours are past, love, Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those blessed hours, when the bright day was past, And in the world we seemed to wake alone, When heart to heart beat throbbingly, and fast, And love was melting our two souls in one.

FAITH.

Better trust all, and be deceived, And weep that trust, and that deceiving; Than doubt one heart, that if believed, Had blessed one's life with true believing.

Oh, in this mocking world, too fast The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth! Better be cheated to the last, Than loose the blessed hope of truth.

"'TIS AN OLD TALE AND OFTEN TOLD."

Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed, Those we let fall over the silent dead? Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom, Than that which wraps us in the peaceful tomb? Whom have ye laid beneath that mossy grave, Round which the slender, sunny, grass-blades wave? Who are ye calling back to tread again This weary walk of life? towards whom, in vain, Are your fond eyes and yearning hearts upraised; The young, the loved, the honoured, and the praised? Come hither;--look upon the faded cheek Of that still woman, who with eyelids meek Veils her most mournful eyes;--upon her brow Sometimes the sensitive blood will faintly glow, When reckless hands her heart-wounds roughly tear, But patience oftener sits palely there. Beauty has left her--hope and joy have long Fled from her heart, yet she is young, is _young_; Has many years, as human tongues would tell, Upon the face of this blank earth to dwell. Looks she not sad? 'tis but a tale of old, Told o'er and o'er, and ever to be told, The hourly story of our every day, Which when men hear, they sigh and turn away; A tale too trite almost to find an ear, A woe too common to deserve a tear. She is the daughter of a distant land;-- Her kindred are far off;--her maiden hand, Sought for by many, was obtained by one Who owned a different birthland from her own. But what reck'd she of that? as low she knelt Breathing her marriage vows, her fond heart felt, "For thee, I give up country, home, and friends; Thy love for each, for all, shall make amends;" And was she loved?--perishing by her side The children of her bosom drooped and died; The bitter life they drew from her cold breast Flicker'd and failed; she laid them down to rest, Two pale young blossoms in their early sleep, And weeping said, "They have not lived to weep." And weeps she yet? no, to her weary eyes The bliss of tears, her frozen heart denies; Complaint, or sigh, breathes not upon her lips, Her life is one dark, fatal, deep eclipse. Lead _her_ to the green grave where ye have laid The creature that ye mourn;--let it be said, "Here love, and youth, and beauty, are at rest!" She only sadly murmurs, "Blest!--most blest!" And turns from gazing, lest her misery Should make her sin, and pray to Heaven to die.

FRAGMENT. From an epistle written when the thermometer stood at 98 degrees in the shade. * * * * *