Part 2

The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh’s streets. His helm was proudly set, And his stern lip curled slightly, as if praise Were for the hero’s scorn. His step was firm, But free as India’s leopard; and his mail, Whose shekels none in Israel might bear, Was lighter than a tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah’s kingliest, and the look Of his dark, lofty eye and terrible brow, Might quell the lion. He led on; but thoughts Seemed gathering round which troubled him. The veins Upon his forehead were distinctly seen; And his proud lip was painfully compressed. He trod less firmly; and his restless eye Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill He dared not meet, were there. His home was near; And men were thronging, with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe The struggle of his feelings with his pride. He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs Before his tent were motionless. The leaves Of the spiced aloe, and the clustering vines Which half concealed his threshold, met his eye Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one, The balsam with its sweet-distilling stems, And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd Of silent and familiar things, stole up Like the recovered passages of dreams. He strode on rapidly. A moment more, And he had reached his home; when lo! there sprang One with a bounding footstep, and a brow Like light, to meet him. Oh! how beautiful! Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem, And her luxuriant hair--’twas like the sweep Of a swift wing in visions! He stood still, As if the sight had withered him. She threw Her arms about his neck; he heeded not. She called him ‘Father,’ but he answered not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth? There was no anger in that bloodshot eye. Had sickness seized him? She unclasped his helm, And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff and hard like cords. The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands And spoke the name of God in agony. She knew that he was stricken, then, and rushed Again into his arms, and with a flood Of tears she could not bridle, sobbed a prayer That he would tell her of his wretchedness. He told her, and a momentary flush Shot o’er her countenance; and then the soul Of Jephthah’s daughter wakened, and she stood Calmly and nobly up, and said ‘’Tis well-- And I will die!’

The sun had well nigh set. The fire was on the altar, and the priest Of the High God was there. A wasted man Was stretching out his withered hands to heaven, As if he would have prayed, but had no words; And she who was to die--the calmest one In Israel at that hour--stood up alone And waited for the sun to set. Her face Was pale, but very beautiful; her lip Had a more delicate outline, and the tint Was deeper; but her countenance was like The majesty of angels!--The sun set, And she was dead, but not by violence.

IDLENESS.

It was a leisure day, and I had shut My door upon intrusion, and set down With a true book to read. My study fire Made music to my ear; the placid brow Of my Madonna, and the shadowy tints Of an old Flemish picture that I keep, Might pass for company; and for relief To weary eyes, a sweet geranium stood In the half shuttered window, breathing out Its odors with the pleasant smell of books; And a soft landscape, given me by one Who has a noble nature, hung in light, Serving me as a ground for poetry.

I read a tale of Séville. It was when Darkness was over Spain, and Christian hearts Were standing out for truth, undauntedly. The daily light brought martyrdom, and men Of a pure life went faithfully to die, For the rich hope hereafter. There was set A scaffold on the ‘golden Guadalquivir;’ And in the greenest valley of the land, With its bright shore and water tempting them Like an affection, did they meekly die. Nobles as just men perished, where their sires Held the chivalric tournament; and one Whose ancestors had been Castilia’s kings, Died calmly. He had loved to come alone And watch that stealing river, and ’tis told That when the axe fell frequently, he went Ever at evening there, that he might look Upon its bloody evidence, and nerve His spirit to the trial.

’Tis a tale Of high and manly fortitude, and one To elevate the nobler nature. I Have told it to defend my idle time, And prove that a companionship with books Betters the spirit, and that gliding back Upon these by-past histories reveals Perfect example, and may teach sometimes, How noble and how beautiful appears The finer temper of humanity.

DREAMS.

‘I know it is dark; and though I have lain Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, I have not once opened the lids of my eyes, But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.’ Coleridge.

And what is it to dream? It is to have A spiritual being. ’Tis to loose Th’ unsleeping mind from matter, and believe Miraculous and godlike gifts our own. It is to touch all nature with the wand Of faery, and be true and beautiful Amid a truer and more beautiful world. It is to need no contrast that the light About us may be visible, and joy Mistaken not for sorrow. ’Tis to love Dark eyes, and tones like a _secondo_ flute, And then be irresistible; and living In a sweet granite home, to find your love The angel that she seemed in poetry.

And what is it to dream? It is to know The talisman of motion, and soar on To the high places of the upper air, Like a superior spirit. ’Tis to glide Out upon chainless wanderings, unchecked By time, or distance, or the circumstance Of waking reason. ’Tis to weave long years Of a still, midnight hour, or crowd a life Into a glowing moment; and amid The measure and the harmony that float About us like an element, to find Ithuriel’s whisper--but a breakfast bell!

There’s purity in dreams. The passions lie, With the dull qualities of earth, asleep; And the low interests of life are changed For the etherial vision. We erase Dark feelings with fantastic incident; And feel cool fingers laid upon the brow Where the hot flush is burning. We retrace All early time in dreams; and hear the low, Deep cadences of prayer, and press the hand That led us to our happy slumbers then. We look on riper seasons with the eye That painted them all sunshine, and forget That we have found them shadows; and we trust Life’s broken reed as lightly, and repeat Our first young vow as movingly, again. Such dreams refresh the feelings, like a pure And high communion; for the spirit wears No fetter of a poor, particular world, And waits no cold and selfish reasoning, To measure out its fervor; but goes back Upon the purer memories, and lives o’er The brighter past, alone; and when the heart Hath buried an affection, it unclothes Its image from the drapery of the grave, And wins it to its olden tenderness.

I’ve read of one in story, who had laid His young love in the grave. The seasons came And went, like shadows over him, for years; And then the world grew brighter, and he heard A melody in nature’s goings on; And a sweet cousin’s voice, that tempted him Into the sunshine and the air, became The music of his happiness, and so He married her. One night she was awake, And gazing on his features as the moon Shone through the casement on them. A large tear Stole from his eye, and as his lips were stirred With the low murmur of his dream, she caught The name of the departed. He awoke, And she reproached him tearfully for love Kept secret in his heart; and then he kissed Her tears away, and told her that his love Was faithfully her own, although in dreams An angel came to him sometimes, and woke A buried thought of one as beautiful.

OCTOBER.

‘----To the influxes Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements Surrendering the whole spirit.’ Coleridge.

Summer has pleasant seasons, and the spring Comes gaily on the senses; and ’tis sweet To know the places of the shadiest trees, And hunt the scented violet; but when these Have mellowed into autumn, and the flowers Sleep in their fragrant places, ’tis to me A pleasanter and purer time to give Close thought to its forgetfulness, and stray By the serenest wave and greenest grass.

October had come in and I went forth To breathe an air like June, and feel the nerve Of the elastic temper which a frost Gives to the sunshine. The transparent veil Of morning’s exhalations had rolled up Into white, silvery streakings, and the sky Looked perfectly and deeply blue between, Like a fixed element, and birds went up And sang invisibly, the heavenly air Wooed them above the earth so temptingly. I never knew the streams so musical, Or saw them half so clear; and for the leaves-- The maples were just turned, and brighter trees Were never by the forest pencil drawn. The hill-sides seemed to slumber, the warm sun Shone on their slopes so softly; and I knew One that was carpeted with moss, and leant To the warm south so fitly, you would look To find Endymion sleeping. ’Twas indeed A pleasant place, and when I came to it And told her, (did I say I was alone?) That it was faery all, and only made For her own lovely rest, she laughingly Proclaimed herself a queen, and with the leaves Bound her transparent temples for a crown, And bade me kneel, and she would grant my boon To half her fairy kingdom.

Could I paint Her picture then! paint her voluptuous lip, With its sweet curl of pride; the shaded eye In its dark liquid lustre; the fair brow With its light wandering veins, and raven braid Contrasting with its whiteness; the faint blush Upon her cheek, of maiden modesty, And the rich outline, melting into grace, Of her unmatched proportions; over all, Could I but make the picture eloquent With the deep, reedy music of her tone, Or lend to you the golden leaf which bears The sketch within my memory, you would know How fairer than the summer, or the spring, Should the October season seem to me.

BOYHOOD.

‘I was a boy; and she was fair As you are when you smile, And her voice came forth like the summer air, With a tone that did beguile, And her two blue eyes refreshing were As two trees on an Indian isle.’ Etonian.

I love fresh feelings--it is so unlike This olden world to meet them; and they come Upon my heart like music so, or like Some passage that is new in poetry.

I walked one eve by moonlight. I had seen Some fourteen summers, and my cyphering Was all the thought I had; and as the world Had come to me so pleasantly, I took A wayward temper for my manual, And kept it to the letter. It was now A mellow eve of summer, and a girl, Who laughed forever like the birds and had Long eyelashes and very dangerous eyes, Was leaning on my arm. I did not know I was in love; but it seemed natural To think of all she said, and she’d a way Of coming to one’s dreams; and then her name Was always in the lesson like a word, And half the time I studied it. This eve We had been very gay, and I had watched The deep, half shaded dimple in her cheek, Till I forgot to answer; and as she Of too much mirth grew serious, I began To act the lover playfully. My cap Was carelessly thrown back, and on my cheek I shook some dew for tears, and as she curled Her lip in mimic scorn, I knelt to her, And begged for her sweet favor, touchingly. She answered coldly first, and then relented, As wiser maids have done; but with a look Of something so like earnest, that I did Her hand some violence; and then she blushed And said I must not tell, but ladies’ lips, By some, were counted prettier.

The moon Shone just as soberly, and I went home And kept the secret; but I do not know That she would let me touch the seal again.

NIGHT SKETCHES.

‘----Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstacies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember----.’ Wordsworth.

I.

I have been gay tonight. The perfect moon Is sitting up in heaven, and living stars Are looking sweetly from the firmament; All elements that live, and common things In earth and sea tonight are beautiful; And there is stillness, fitting for pure thought, And light for waking dreams, and holiness Like a plain language written on the front Of this exceeding temple--and yet I Have been among the dancers, and have trod The measures of a merry instrument.

I knew it as I went; for I was met By a pure reach of moonlight that came down Between the city walls, and I went back A moment to regard its silver brow, And list its gentle lesson; but a sound Of music and of thrilling voices came From the half opened window, and the laugh Of a remembered girl bewilderingly Came over me, and I forgot the moon As if I never knew it was in heaven.

’Tis strange--for I am very happy now While leaning in her light, and I could glide Most sweetly to the sleep of pleasant dreams Beneath her stilly influence--but I know That if a voice I think of were to come And call me now, my own ungentle name (Her melting lip!) would seem more beautiful.

II.

How secret are the goings on of night! The moonlight is not heard; and as the leaves Are touched by slumber, they bow gently down Without a rustle, and the stealthy dew Comes on them like the spirit of a dream. The daily heat departs; the unquiet pulse Of nature grows serener, and the wave Of motion in all growing things is still, While coolness circulates unheard, and rest Steals like a feeling on the animal world.

So still art thou, O night! and yet thy voice Hath many tones to listen, and it tells To my unquiet wakefulness, how deep The wisdom that has fashioned thee so well-- A beautiful and fitting time of rest.

III.

MIDNIGHT ON THE ST LAWRENCE.

Give me my cloak! It is no night for sleep, And I will wear a vigil with the stars Until the break of morning. What a scene! The orient is all molten with the light Of a perfected moon, and in the west The deep blue tints look cool, and every star Is drawn distinctly on the sheet of heaven. The winds are wholly still, and as we pass, Breaking the shadows of the many trees That sleep upon the margin, or go in Among the graceful windings of the stream, We seem like wizards, turning into waves The very sky--it sleeps so perfectly. The vesper bells are hushed, but I can see The glitter of the steeples on the hills That swell up from the shore, and heavenly As is the face of nature, they come in Among her features like a pleasant smile, The thought of worship is so beautiful.

Swiftly, yet gently on! How human things Are sometimes like a witching vision, fair! And how the cunning of diviner skill Can mingle up the elements, to make A fallen world like heaven! I am made Subject to ills, and erringly at best May use my faculties; but I am here With God’s best work about me, and a mind Humbly, but purely to the harmonies Of nature tuned, the only looker on In all this lovely paradise of light. Blessed we sometimes are! and I am now Happy in quiet feelings; for the tones Of a most pleasant company of friends Were in my ear but now, and gentle thoughts From spirits whose high character I know, Were spoken at the rising of the moon, And I retain their influence, as the air Retains the softness of departed day. And so I should be happy; and while joy Is with me, I will bless my company Of sleeping friends, and if their eyes should rest Upon this page hereafter, they will know That in the history of my lonely hours Some gentler passages were writ by them.

TWILIGHT.

‘----When the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.’ Wordsworth.

O twilight hour! who art so very cool And balmy in the summer eventide, With thy rich breathing quieting the winds, And the uneasy waters; twilight hour! Whose mantle is the drapery of dreams, And who hast ever been in poetry Life’s holy time; thou who wert wont to steal Upon us, as thy sandals were of dew! How sadly comes the rustle of thy step, In the decaying season of the year!

My early fire is low, and hurrying feet In the short pauses of the wind go by, And the unquiet leaves, that sighingly Obey its gusty summons and sweep on, Seem mourning for the green and pleasant trees; And the clouds wear sad colors, and I feel As there were nothing in this fading world, That is not cold and sorrowful like this. Thus is it with a spirit not at ease. It turns no eye within; but, as it were The mirror of the world’s poor circumstance, It takes its hue from nature, as if earth With its discordant elements could tune The delicate harmonies of human mind. We have within us fountains, and they flow With fancy to create the beautiful, And thought to search out knowledge, and deep love To link us to society; light mirth To gladden, and kind sympathies to shade The spirit; and yet many will go out With a sealed bosom wandering the world, To satisfy a thirst for happiness. How strange it is, that when the principle Of light is living in us, we should shut Its emanations in, and darkly stray To catch a beam from nature, like a star That should forget its glory and go out, Because the moon was shining not in heaven!

DAWN.

‘_That_ line I learned not in the old sad song.’ Charles Lamb.

Throw up the window! ’Tis a morn for life In its most subtle luxury. The air Is like a breathing from a rarer world; And the south wind seems liquid--it o’ersteals My bosom and my brow so bathingly. It has come over gardens, and the flowers That kissed it are betrayed; for as it parts With its invisible fingers my loose hair, I know it has been trifling with the rose, And stooping to the violet. There is joy For all God’s creatures in it. The wet leaves Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing As if to breathe were music, and the grass Sends up its modest odor with the dew, Like the small tribute of humility. Lovely indeed is morning! I have drank Its fragrance and its freshness, and have felt Its delicate touch, and ’tis a kindlier thing Than music, or a feast, or medicine.

I had awoke from an unpleasant dream, And light was welcome to me. I looked out To feel the common air, and when the breath Of the delicious morning met my brow, Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun Shone on familiar objects, it was like The feeling of the captive who comes forth From darkness to the cheerful light of day. Oh! could we wake from sorrow! Were it all A troubled dream like this, to cast aside Like an untimely garment with the morn! Could the long fever of the heart be cooled By a sweet breath from nature, or the gloom Of a bereaved affection pass away With looking on the lively tint of flowers-- How lightly were the spirit reconciled To make this beautiful, bright world its home!

SCRAPS FROM A JOURNAL.

I.

My heart is like a sleeping lake Which takes the hue of cloud and sky, And only feels its surface break When birds of passage wander by, Who dip their wings and upward soar, And leave it quiet as before.

Thus change comes on me. If the light Of the gay sun is drank by clouds, And dulness sleeps upon the bright, Clear garniture whose greenness shrouds The naked nature; if the creep Of lazy rain-clouds tells alone Earth does not on its axle sleep, And winds go over with a moan Like birds wing-broken; if the sea Looks like an agitated pall, And sullied foam heaves mournfully, And pitches from the dull green wall Of waters; if the wild fowl rise From the cold ocean with a plash, And heavily wheel up the skies, As if they would forget the dash Of billows, and could pass away From earthly sorrows as from earth; If not one shorn, but sunny ray, Leaps out like a stray thought of mirth; If heaven looks sad, and seas look dull, And nature’s beauty is a blank-- I feel as if my heart were full Of waters from oblivion drank; For I forget, like flowers, the hue Of beauty, without sun and dew.

But a bright morning--when the lark Is painted on the light blue sky, And vapors rest upon the dark, Deep pools of ebony that lie In the hill shadows; when the leaves Are stirring with the scented air, And the bright drops that evening weaves Like diamonds in the wavy hair Of nature, glisten; when the wing Of the light wind is but a shrine On which the lowliest flower may fling Its gift of odors; when the vine Hath lifted its coarse leaf to show Its azure clusters to the sun, And quickened by his amorous glow, The curling shoots stir one by one; When every fibre, blade, and stem That lifteth to the arch of blue, Is jewelled with its droplet gem, And every bathed and dainty hue Hath a clear April freshness; when The birds go caroling like streams O’er pebbly courses, and the glen Reechoes patiently the themes A thousand summers and their birds Have given in those very words; When every nerve is nobly strung, And leaping pulses swiftly pass, And care is from the spirit flung Like rain-drops from the swaying grass-- I feel as if my spirit took From nature a new gift of sight, And I could read her living book By perfect and immediate light, And knew, as angels know, how broad Is the benevolence of God.

II.