Part 5

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! swinging high Aloft in your gilded cage, The clouds are hurrying over the sky, The wild winds fiercely rage. But soft and warm is the air you breathe Up there with the tremulous ivy wreath, And never an icy blast can chill The perfumed silence sweet and still.

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! from your throat Breaks forth no flood of song, Nor even one perfect golden note, Triumphant, glad, and strong! But now and then a pitiful wail, Like the plaintive sigh of the dying gale, Comes from that arching breast of thine Swinging up there with the ivy-vine.

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! well I know Your heart is far away, Where the golden stars of the jasmine glow, And the roses bloom alway! For your cradle-nest was softly made In the depth of a blossoming myrtle’s shade; And you heard the chant of the southern seas Borne inland by the favoring breeze.

But, ah, my beautiful mocking-bird! Should I bear you back again, Never would song of yours be heard Echoing through the glen. For once, ah! once at the dawn of day, You waked to the roar of the deadly fray, When the terrible clash of armèd foes Startled the vale from its dim repose.

At first you sat on a swaying bough, Mocking the bugle’s blare, Fearless and free in the fervid glow Of the heated, sulphurous air. Your voice rang out like a trumpet’s note, With a martial ring in its upward float, And stern men smiled, for you seemed to be Cheering them on to victory!

But at length, as the awful day wore on, You flew to a tree-top high, And sat like a spectre grim and wan, Outlined against the sky; Sat silently watching the fiery fray Till, heaps upon heaps, the Blue and Gray Lay together, a silent band, Whose souls had passed to the shadowy land.

Ah, my mocking-bird! swinging there Under the ivy-vine, You still remember the bugle’s blare, And the blood poured forth like wine. The soul of song in your gentle breast Died in that hour of fierce unrest, When like a spectre grim and wan, You watched to see how the strife went on.

COMING HOME

When the winter winds were loud, And Earth wore a snowy shroud, Oft our darling wrote to us, And the words ran ever thus— “I am coming in the spring! With the mayflower’s blossoming, With the young leaves on the tree, O my dear ones, look for me!”

And she came. One dreary day, When the skies were dull and gray, Softly through the open door Our belovèd came once more. Came with folded hands that lay Very quietly alway— Came with heavy-lidded eyes, Lifted not in glad surprise.

Not a single word she spoke; Laugh nor sigh her silence broke As across the quiet room, Darkening in the twilight gloom, On she passed in stillest guise, Calm as saint in Paradise, To the spot where—woe betide!— Four years since she stood a bride.

Then, you think, we sprang to greet her— Sprang with outstretched hands, to meet her; Clasped her in our arms once more, As in happy days of yore; Poured warm kisses on her cheek, Passive lips and forehead meek, Till the barrier melted down That had thus between us grown.

Ah no!—Darling, did you know When we bent above you so? When our tears fell down like rain, And our hearts were wild with pain? Did you pity us that day, Even as holy angels may Pity mortals here below, While they wonder at their woe?

Who can tell us? Word nor sign Came from those pale lips of thine; Loving hearts and yearning breast Lay in coldest, calmest rest. Is thy Heaven so very fair That thou dost forget us there? Speak, belovèd! Woe is me That in vain I call on thee!

WAKENING EARLY

In loving jest you wrote—“Ah, me! My babe’s blue eyes are fair to see; And sweet his cooing love-notes be That waken me too early!”

Oh! would to God, beloved, to-day That merry shout or gleeful play Might drive your heavy sleep away, And bid you waken early.

But vain are all our prayers and cries; From your low bed you will not rise; No kisses falling on your eyes, Can waken you right early.

Bright are the skies above your bed, And through the elm-boughs overhead Are golden sunbeams softly shed, That wake you late nor early.

Beside you through these summer days The murmuring fountain, as it plays, Fills the soft air with diamond sprays, But does not wake you early!

We bring the flowers you loved so well, The pure white rose and lily bell; Their sweets break not this fearful spell; They do not wake you early!

We sing your songs; we pause to hear Your bird-like voice rise full and clear; Ah! dull and heavy is your ear; We cannot wake you early.

You will not wake? Then may your sleep, If it be long, be calm and deep; Thank God, the eyes forget to weep That do not waken early!

BLEST Dec. 1865

Sinking to thine eternal rest, O dying Year! I call thee blest; Blest as no coming year may be This side of vast Eternity!

Thy cheek is pale, thy brow is worn; Thine arms are weary, that have borne The heaviest burdens ever laid On any, since the world was made.

But thou didst know her whom to-day My fond heart mourns, and must alway; She loved thee, claimed thee, called thee dear, Hailing with joy the glad New Year!

Thou didst behold her, fair and good, The perfect flower of womanhood; Simple and pure in thought and deed, Yet strong in every hour of need.

Ah! other years shall come and go, Bidding the sweet June roses blow; But never on their yearning eyes Shall her fair presence once arise!

The Spring shall miss her, and the long, Bright Summer days hear not her song; And hoary Winter, draped in snow, Finding her not, shall haste to go!

Therefore, Old Year, I call thee blest, Thus sinking to eternal rest; Blest as no other Year may be This side of vast Eternity!

HELEN

Dear Helen, if thine earnest eyes, So deeply blue, so darkly bright, Look downward from the azure skies That hide thee from my yearning sight:

Think not, because my days go on Just as they did when thou wert here, Sometimes in shade, sometimes in sun, From month to month, from year to year,

That I forget thee! Fresh and green Over each grave the grass must grow In God’s good time, and, all unseen, The violets take deep root below.

But yet the grave itself remains Beneath the verdure and the bloom; And all kind Nature’s loving pains Can but conceal the enduring tomb.

I work, I read, I sing, I smile, I train my vines and tend my flowers; But under thoughts of thee, the while, Haunt me through all the passing hours.

And still my heart cries out for thee, As it must cry till life is past, And in some land beyond the sea I meet thy clasping hand at last!

“PRO PATRIA”

THE DEAD CENTURY

I.

Lo! we come Bearing the Century, cold and dumb! Folded above the mighty breast Lie the hands that have earned their rest; Hushed are the grandly speaking lips; Closed are the eyes in drear eclipse; And the sculptured limbs are deathly still, Responding not to the eager will, As we come Bearing the Century, cold and dumb!

II.

Lo! we wait Knocking here at the sepulchre’s gate! Souls of the ages passed away, A mightier joins your ranks to-day; Open your doors and give him room, Buried Centuries, in your tomb! For calmly under this heavy pall Sleepeth the kingliest of ye all, While we wait At the sepulchre’s awful gate!

III.

Yet—pause here, Bending low o’er the narrow bier! Pause ye awhile and let your thought Compass the work that he hath wrought; Look on his brow so scarred and worn; Think of the weight his hands have borne; Think of the fetters he hath broken, Of the mighty words _his_ lips have spoken Who lies here Dead and cold on a narrow bier!

IV.

Ere he goes Silent and calm to his grand repose— While the Centuries in their tomb Crowd together to give him room, Let us think of the wondrous deeds Answering still to the world’s great needs, Answering still to the world’s wild prayer, He hath been first to do and dare! Ah! he goes Crowned with bays to his last repose.

V.

When the earth Sang for joy to hail his birth, Over the hill-tops, faint and far, Glimmered the light of Freedom’s star. Only a poor, pale torch it seemed— Dimly from out the clouds it gleamed— Oft to the watcher’s eye ’twas lost Like a flame by fierce winds rudely tossed. Scarce could Earth Catch one ray when she hailed his birth!

VI.

But erelong His young voice, like a clarion strong, Rang through the wilderness far and free, Prophet and herald of good to be! Then with a shout the stalwart men Answered proudly from mount and glen, Till in the brave, new, western world Freedom’s banners were wide unfurled! And ere long The Century’s voice, like a clarion strong,

VII.

Cried, “O Earth, Pæans sing for a Nation’s birth! Shout hosannas, ye golden stars, Peering through yonder cloudy bars! Burn, O Sun, with a clearer beam! Shine, O Moon, with a softer gleam! Join, ye winds, in the choral strain! Swell, rolling seas, the glad refrain, While the Earth Pæans sings for a Nation’s birth!”

VIII.

Ah! he saw— This young prophet, with solemn awe— How, after weary pain and sin, Strivings without and foes within, Fruitless prayings and long suspense, And toil that bore no recompense— After peril and blood and tears, Honor and Peace should crown the years! This he saw While his heart thrilled with solemn awe.

IX.

His clear eyes, Gazing forward in glad surprise, Saw how our land at last should be Truly the home of the brave and free! Saw from the old world’s crowded streets, Pestilent cities, and close retreats, Forms gaunt and pallid with famine sore Flee in hot haste to our happy shore, Their sad eyes Widening ever in new surprise.

X.

From all lands Thronging they come in eager bands; Each with the tongue his mother spoke; Each with the songs her voice awoke; Each with his dominant hopes and needs, Alien habits and varying creeds. Bringing strange fictions and fancies they came, Calling old truths by a different name, When the lands Sent their sons hither in thronging bands.

XI.

But the Seer— This dead Century lying here— Rising out of this chaos, saw Peace and Order and Love and Law! Saw by what subtle alchemy Basest of metals at length should be Transmuted into the shining gold, Meet for a king to have and hold. Ah! great Seer! This pale Century lying here!

XII.

So he taught Honest freedom of speech and thought; Taught that Truth is the grandest thing Painter can paint, or poet sing; Taught that under the meanest guise It marches to deeds of high emprise; Treading the paths the prophets trod Up to the very mount of God! Truth, he taught, Claims full freedom of speech and thought.

XIII.

Bearing long Heavy burdens of hate and wrong, Still has the arm of the Century been Waging war against crime and sin. Still has he plead humanity’s cause; Still has he prayed for equal laws; Still has he taught that the human race Is one in despite of hue or place, Even though long It has wrestled with hate and wrong.

XIV.

And at length— A giant arising in his strength— The fetters of serf and slave he broke, Smiting them off by a single stroke! Over the Muscovite’s waste of snows, Up from the fields where the cotton grows, Clearly the shout of deliverance rang, When chattel and serf to manhood sprang, As at length The giant rose up in resistless strength.

XV.

Far apart— Each alone like a lonely heart— Sat the Nations, until his hand Wove about them a wondrous band; Wrought about them a mighty chain Binding the mountains to the main! Distance and time rose dark between Islands and continents still unseen, While apart None felt the throb of another’s heart.

XVI.

But to-day Time and space hath he swept away! Side by side do the Nations sit By ties of brotherhood closer knit; Whispers float o’er the rolling deep; Voices echo from steep to steep; Nations speak, and the quick replies Fill the earth and the vaulted skies; For to-day Time and distance are swept away.

XVII.

If strange thrills Quicken Rome on her seven hills; If afar on her sultry throne India wails and makes her moan; If the eagles of haughty France Fall as the Prussian hosts advance, All the continents, all the lands, Feel the shock through their claspèd hands. And quick thrills Stir the remotest vales and hills.

XVIII.

Yet these eyes, Dark on whose lids Death’s shadow lies, Let their far-reaching vision rest Not alone on the mountain’s crest; Nor did these feet with stately tread Follow alone where the Nations led; Nor these pale hands, so weary-worn, Minister but where States were born!— These clear eyes, Soft on whose lips Death’s slumber lies,

XIX.

Turned their gaze, Earnest and pitiful, on the ways Where the poor, burdened sons of toil Earned their bread amid dust and moil. Saw the dim attics where, day by day, Women were stitching their lives away, Bending low o’er the slender steel Till heart and brain began to reel, And their days Stretched on and on in a dreary maze.

XX.

Then he spoke; Lo! at once into being woke Muscles of iron, arms of steel, Nerves that never a thrill could feel! Wheels and pulleys and whirling bands Did the work of the weary hands, And tireless feet moved to and fro Where the aching limbs were wont to go, When he spoke And all his sprites into being woke.

XXI.

Do you say He was no saint who has passed away? Saint or sinner, he did brave deeds Answering still to humanity’s needs! Songs he hath sung that shall live for aye; Words he hath uttered that ne’er shall die; Richer the world than when the earth Sang for joy to hail his birth, Even though you say He was no saint whom we sing to-day.

XXII.

Lo! we wait Knocking here at the sepulchre’s gate! Souls of the Ages passed away, A mightier joins your ranks to-day; Open your doors, ye royal dead, And welcome give to this crownèd head! For calmly under this sable pall Sleepeth the kingliest of ye all, While we wait At the sepulchre’s awful gate!

XXIII.

Give him room Proudly, Centuries! in your tomb. Now that his weary work is done, Honor and rest he well hath won. Let him who is first among you pay Homage to him who comes this day, Bidding him pass to his destined place, Noblest of all his noble race! Make ye room For the kingly dead in the silent tomb!

THE RIVER OTTER A FRAGMENT

A hundred times the Summer’s fragrant blooms Have laden all the air with sweet perfumes; A hundred times, along the mountain-side, Autumn has flung his crimson banners wide; A hundred times has kindly Winter spread His snowy mantle o’er the violet’s bed; A hundred times has Earth rejoiced to hear The Spring’s light footsteps in the forest sere, Since on yon grassy knoll the quick, sharp stroke Of the young woodman’s axe the silence broke. Not then did these encircling hills look down On quaint old farmhouse, or on steepled town. No church-spires pointed to the arching skies; No wandering lovers saw the moon arise; No childish laughter mingled with the song Of the fair Otter, as it flowed along As brightly then as now. Ah! little recked The joyous river, when the sunshine flecked Its dancing waters, that no human eye Gave it glad welcome as it frolicked by! The long, uncounted years had come and flown, And it had still swept on, unseen, unknown, Biding its time. No minstrel sang its praise, No poet named it in immortal lays. It played no part in legendary lore, And young Romance knew not its winding shore. But in her own loveliness Nature is glad, And little she cares for man’s smile or his frown; In the robes of her royalty still she is clad, Though his eye may behold not her sceptre or crown! And over our beautiful Otter the trees Swayed lightly as now in the frolicsome breeze; And the tremulous violet lifted an eye As blue as its own to the laughing blue sky. The harebell trembled on its stem Down where the rushing waters gleam, A sapphire on the broidered hem Of some fair Naiad of the stream. The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold, Held up their chalices of gold To catch the sunshine and the dew, Gayly as those that bloom for you. And deep within the forest shade, Where broadest noon mere twilight made, Ten thousand small, sweet censers swung, And tiny bells by zephyrs rung, Made tinkling music till the day In solemn splendor died away. The woods were full of praise and prayer, Although no human tongue was there; For every pine and hemlock sung The grand cathedral aisles among, And every flower that gemmed the sod Looked up and whispered, “Thou art God.” The birds sung as they sing to-day, A song of love and joy alway. The brown thrush from its golden throat Poured out its long, melodious note; The pigeons cooed; the veery threw Its mellow thrill from spray to spray; The wild night-hawk its trumpet blew, And the owl cried, “Tu whit, tu whoo,” From set of sun to break of day. The partridge reared her fearless brood Safe in the darkling solitude, And the bald eagle built its nest High on the tall cliff’s craggy crest. And often, when the still moonlight Made all the lonely valley bright, Down from the hills its thirst to slake, The deer trod softly through the brake; While far away the spotted fawn Waited the coming of the dawn, And trembled when the panther’s scream Startled it from a troubled dream. The black bear roamed the forest wide; The fierce wolf tracked the mountain-side; The wild-cat’s silent, stealthy tread Was, even there, a fear and dread; The red fox barked—a strange, weird sound, That woke the slumbering echoes round; And the burrowing mink and otter hid In their holes the tangled roots amid. Lords of their limitless domain, Of hill and dale, of mount and plain, The wild things dreamed not of the hour When they should own their Master’s power!

PAST AND PRESENT (DRIFTWOOD)

. . . Grand, heroic, true, Faithful and brave thine earnest work to do, O glorious present! we rejoice in thee, Thou noble nurse of great deeds yet to be! Hast thou not shown us that our mother Earth Still, in exultant joy, gives heroes birth? Do not the old romances that our youth, Revered and honored as the truest truth, Grow pale and dim before the facts sublime Thy pen has written on the scroll of Time? Ah! never yet did poet’s tongue, Though like a silver bell it rung; Or minstrel, o’er his sounding lyre Breathing the old, prophetic fire; Or harper, in the storied walls Of Scotia’s proud, baronial halls— Where mail-clad men with sword and spear Waited entranced the song to hear, That through the stormy midnight hour Fast held them in its spell of power— Ah! never yet did they rehearse, In flowing rhyme or stately verse, The praise of deeds more nobly done, Or tell of fields more grandly won! We laud thee, we praise thee, we bless thee to-day! At thy feet, lowly bending, glad homage we pay! Thou hast taught us that men are as brave as of yore; That the day of great deeds and great thought is not o’er; That the courage undaunted, the far-reaching faith, The strength that unshaken looks calmly on death, The self-abnegation that hastens to lay Its all on the altar, have not passed away. Thou hast taught us that “country” is more than a name; That honor unsullied is better than fame; Thou hast proved that while man can still battle for truth, Even boyhood can give up the promise of youth, And, yielding its life with a smile and a sigh, Say, “’Tis sweet for my God and my country to die.” O heart-searching Present, thy sons have gone down To the night of the grave in their day of renown! Thy daughters have watched by the hearth-stone in vain For the loved and the lost that returned not again. No Spartans were they—yet with tears falling fast, Their faith and their patience endured to the last; And God gave them strength to their dearest to say, “Go ye forth to the fight, while we labor and pray!” Thou hast opened thy coffers on land and on sea, And broad-handed Charity, noble and free, Has lavished thy bounties on friend and on foe, Like the rain that, descending, falls softly and slow On the just and the unjust, and never may know The one from the other. When thy story is told By some age that looks backward and calls thee “the old,” It shall puzzle its sages, all great as thou art, To tell which was greatest, thy head or thy heart! Mighty words thy lips have spoken— Strongest fetters thou hast broken— And in tones like those of thunder, When the clouds are rent asunder, Thou hast made the Nations hear thee— Thou hast bade the Tyrants fear thee— And our hearts to-day proclaim thee, As they oft have done before, Fit to lead the glorious legions Of the glorious days of yore! Yet still, we pray thee, veil awhile Thy splendor from our dazzled eyes And hide the glory of thy smile, Lest our souls wake to new surprise! Bear with us while our feet to-day Retrace a dim and shadowy way, In search of what, it well may be, Shall help to make us worthier thee!

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