Part 7

When Man compares his body and his mind, And tries the power of each, he magnifies The mind to Deity, and yet how small Compared with what it has to learn! The more Man knows, the more he finds he does not know; And as a traveller toiling up the hill, Each upward step reveals a wider view Of fields of thought sublime he dares not hope To ever reach in life; and wearily he sits Him down upon the mountain-side, so far Beneath its untrod top, and recklessly Doubts everything, because beyond his grasp.

All skeptic reasoning ends, as did your own, No fruit but blind bewilderment of thought! And none but fools will e’er believe sincere The faith that doubts alone by theory, And yet approves by practice. Such is yours; The stern necessities of life demand A practical belief, and such is given; And still, forsooth, because your narrow mind Cannot contain the Truth in perfect form, You dare deny it does exist. But few Of skeptic minds are let to live on Earth, And even these made instruments of good, In calling forth defenders of the Truth, Who add their strength to its Eternal Walls. Then here behold God’s wisdom manifest! Amid the care of countless greater orbs, He watches Earth, and knows its smallest thing. While Man, as individual, is free, Collective Man is being surely led Towards an end, but when it will be reached, God knows alone. Then Man will be removed Into a higher or a lower sphere, As he has worthy proved. With Man ’twill be A great event; his awful Judgment-day! When from those far-off realms, the Son shall come With Angel retinue, and through the worlds, Shall lead their solemn flight, to where we stand; And as the trump shall peal its clarion tones, And beat away Earth’s gauze of atmosphere, The millions living, and the billions dead, Will leave the sod, and “caught up in the air,” Shall stand before the Throne, to hear their doom. Then, faces pale with fear, and trembling limbs, Will be on every side, as on the air They rest, with nothing solid ’neath their feet; And see dismantled Earth burst into flames, And reel along its track, a globe of fire, The volumed smoke, a dusky envelope; Its revolutions wrapping pliant flames, In scarlet girdles, round its bulging waist, And hurling streams of centrifugal sparks, In broad red tangents, from the burning orb. Upon the conflagration Man will gaze, With shuddering horror; ’tis his only home, The scene of all his fame, the source of wealth, For which he toiled so wearily. All gone! He would not touch a mountain of pure gold, For ’twould be useless now! Poor, pauper Man, Without his money, chiefest aim of life, Stands homeless ’mid a Universe, to learn If God will be his Father, or his Foe! And from the blackness underneath, the swarms Of Evil ones are thronged, their hideous forms Half shown in lurid light, as here and there They flit, like sharks, expectant of their prey. Then comes the closing scene. The sentence passed, The righteous breaking forth to joyous praise, Shall thread Creation’s wondrous maze of life, And with their Leader, sweep towards yon Heaven; While down the black abyss, with cries of woe That make the darkness tremble, the condemned Are dragged, into its gloom,--and all is o’er-- Earth’s ashes float in scattered clouds through space-- To Man the grandest era of all Time, To God, completion of Salvation’s scheme!

But Man deems Judgment too far off for thought, Nor will prepare for such a distant fate; Yet there is something, far more sure than aught Uncertain life can offer; its decision, too, Is just as final as the Judgment doom; And still ’tis oftenest farthest from the thought. ’Tis Death, the welcome or unwelcome guest Of every man, and yet how few prepare For its approach! They give all else a care; Wealth, honor, fame, get all their time, While certain Death’s forgotten, till disease Gives warning; then with hasty penitence, The knees are worn, the heart’s thick rubbish cleared; But oft too late; the heart will not be cleared, The stubborn knees will not consent to bend, The house is set in order, while the guest, In sable robes, stands at the throbbing door.

And now to close thy lesson, look through this! He gave to me a strangely fashioned glass, Through which, when I had looked to Earth, I saw A long black wall, that towered immensely high, So none might see beyond. Before its length, Mankind were ranged, all weaving busily; The young and old, the maiden and the man; The infant hands unconscious plied the thread, The aged with a feeble, listless move. They wove the warp of Life, and drew its thread From o’er the wall; none knew how far its end Was off, nor when ’twould reach the busy hand, Nor did they care, in aught by action shown, But bending o’er their work, without a glance Towards the thread, that still so smoothly ran, They threw the shuttle back and forth again, Till suddenly the ravelled end appeared, Fell from the wall, and to the shuttle crept; And then the weaver laid his work aside, With folded hands, was wrapped within his warp, To wait the Master’s sentence on his task. I saw the thread, in passing through their hands, Received the various colors, from their touch, And tinged the different patterns that they wove. And oh! how different in design! Some wove A spotless fabric, whose pure simple plan Was always ready for the ending thread; Come when it would, no part was incomplete; But what was done, could bear th’ Inspector’s eye. And others wove a dark and dingy rag, That bore no pattern, save its filthiness; Fit garment for the fool who weaves for flames! Some wove the great red woof of war, With clashing swords, and crossing bayonets, With ghastly bones, and famished widows’ homes, With all the grim machinery of Death, To gain a paltry crown, or curule chair; Perchance, before the crown or chair is reached, The thread gives out, the work is incomplete, And in the gory cloak his hands have wrought, With all its stains unwashed, the hero sleeps. Some shuttles shape the gilded temple, Fame, And count on thread to weave its topmost dome; But ere the lowest pinnacle is touched, The brittle filament is snapped. Some weave The bema, with its loud applause; and some The gaudy chaplet of the bacchanal, And others sweated bays of honest toil. But all the fabrics bear the yellow stain Of gold, o’er which the sinner and the saint Unseemly strive, and he seems happiest Whose work is yellowest. Along the wall, “A fountain filled with blood,” plays constantly, Where man may cleanse the fabric as he weaves; Yet few avail themselves; the waters flow, While Man works on, without regard to stains, Till thread worn thin arouses him to fear, Or breaks before the damning dyes are cleansed.

And down the line I ran my anxious eyes, To find a weaver I might recognize, And saw, at last, a form by mirrors known. Oh! ’twas a shameful texture that I wove, So dark its hue, so little saving white, Such seldom bathing in the fountain stream, I could not look, but bowed my blushing face, And like the publican of old, cried out, “Be merciful to me a sinner!” “Rise!” The Angel said, “And worship God alone, Return to Earth, enjoy an humble faith, Whose simple trust shall make thee happier Than all the grandeur of philosophy. Should doubts arise, remember, God’s designs Above a finite comprehension stand, And finite doubts, about the Infinite, Assume absurdity’s intensest form. Man, from the stand-point of the Present, looks, And disappointed, bitterly complains Of what would move his deepest gratitude, Could he the issue of the morrow know. God sees the future, and in kindness deals To every man his complement of good. Remember then the weakness of thy mind, Nor doubt because thou canst not understand. To gather scattered jewels thou must kneel; So on thy knees seek truth, and thou shalt find; The nearer Earth thy face, the nearer Heaven Thy heart. And now farewell!” I sprang to clasp His hand in gratitude, but with a wave Of parting benediction, he was gone! Then in an instant, like an aerolite, With naught to bear me up, I fell to Earth, Swifter and swifter, with increasing speed! Now bursting through a sunlit bank of cloud, And clutching, vainly, at the yielding mist, Or through a cradling storm, with thunder charged, Down through the open air, whose parted breath Hissed death into my ears, while all below Seemed rushing up to meet and mangle me. I shrieked aloud, “Oh save me!”-- And awoke. The day was o’er, and night had drawn her shades; The twinkling eyes of Heaven shone through the leaves, And lit the tiny rain-globes on the grass; The cloud had passed, and on th’ horizon’s verge, A monster firefly, with shimmering flash, It slowly crawled behind the curve of death. And evening’s silence deeper seemed than noon’s, For not a sound disturbed the hush of night, Save katydids, with quavering monotones, Returning contradictions from the trees. All drenched and chilled, with trembling limbs I rose, And homeward bent my steps; and pondering Upon my dream, this moral from it drew: Man cannot judge the Eternal Mind by his, But must accept the mysteries of Life, As purposes Divine, with perfect ends. And in our darkest clouds, God’s Angels stand, To work Man’s present and eternal good.

THE VILLAGE ON THE TAR

DEDICATED TO PETTIGREW COUNCIL NO 1. F. OF T.

A drunkard in a distant town lay dying on his bed, There was lack of woman’s gentle touch about his fevered head, But a comrade stood beside him, and wiped the foam away, That bubbled through his frothy lips, to hear what he might say. The poor inebriate faltered, as he caught that comrade’s eye, And he said, “’Tis hard, far, far from home ’mid strangers thus to die. Take a message and a token to my friends away so far, For Louisburg’s my native place, the village on the Tar.

“Tell my brothers and companions, should they ever wish to know The story of the fallen, ah! the fallen one so low, That we drank the whole night deeply, and when at last ’twas o’er, Full many a form lay beastly drunk along the barroom floor. And there were ’mid those wretches some who had long served sin, Their bloated features telling well what faithful slaves they’d been; And some were young and had not on the Hell-path entered far-- And one was from the village, the village on the Tar.

“Tell my mother that her other sons may still some comfort prove, But I, in even childhood, would scorn that mother’s love; And when she called the children to lift up the evening prayer, One form was always missing, there was e’er one vacant chair, For my father was a drunkard, and even as a child He taught my little feet to tread the road to ruin wild; And when he died and left us to dispute about his will, I let them take whate’er they would, but kept my father’s ‘still,’ And with sottish love I used it till its venomed ‘worm’ did gnaw My soul, my mind, my very life, in the village on the Taw.[A]

“Tell my sister oft to weep for me with sad and drooping head, When she sees the wine flow freely, that poison ruby red, And to turn her back upon it, with deep and burning shame, For her brother fell before it and disgraced the fam’ly name. And if a drunkard seeks her love, oh! tell her, for my sake, To shun the loathsome creature, as she would a deadly snake, And have the old ‘still’ torn away, its fragments scattered far, For the honor of the village, the village on the Tar.

“There’s another, not a sister; in the merry days of old, You’d have known her by the dark blue eye, and hair of wavy gold; Too gentle e’er to chide me, too devoted e’er to hate, She loved me, though oft warned by all to shun the dreaded fate. Tell her the last night of my life--for ere the morning dawn, My body will be tenantless, my clay-chained spirit gone-- I dreamed I stood beside her, and in those lovely blue depths saw The merry light that cheered me, in the village on the Taw.[A]

“I saw the old Tar hurrying on its bubbles to the sea, As men on life’s waves e’er are swept towards eternity; And the rippling waters mingled with the warbling of the birds, Returned soft silvery echoes to my deep impassioned words; And in those listening ears I poured the sweet tho’ time-worn story, While swimming were those love-lit eyes, in all their tear-pearled glory; And her little hand was closely pressed in mine so brown and braw, Ah! I no more shall meet her, in the village on the Taw.”[A]

He ceased to speak, and through his frame there ran a shiver slight, His blood-shot eyes rolled inward and revealed their ghastly white, His swollen tongue protruded, o’er his face a pallor spread, His comrade touched his pulse--’twas still--and he was with the dead. The moon from her pavilion, in the blue-draped fleecy cloud, Through the window o’er the corpse had thrown her pale but ghostly shroud, The same moon that gazing upon that couch of straw. Was bathing in a silver flood the village on the Taw.[A]

[A] The Indian name of this river was _Taw_.--PUBLISHER.

REQUIESCAM

Oh! give me a grave in a lone, gloomy dell, By the side of a deep, swift creek, Where the ripples run like a tinkling bell, Through the grassy nooks, where love so well The minnows to play hide and seek!

Where in summer the thick twining foliage weaves A green, arching roof upon high, And the rain-drops fall from the dripping eaves, Like tears of grief from the weeping leaves On the face upturned to the sky!

Where the silence frightens the birds away, And all is still, dreary and weird, Except, perchance at the close of day, The bittern’s boom or the crane’s hoarse bray, Floating over the swamp, is heard.

Where the dusky wolf and the antlered deer Ever shun the dark, haunted ground; Where the crouching panther ventures near, His tawny coat all bristling with fear, At the sight of the low, red mound.

Where at twilight gray, the lone whippoorwill May perch on the stake at my head, And with its unearthly, tremulous trill The dreary gloom of the whole place fill With a requiem over the dead.

Where the greater the ruin in earth’s damp mold, The greater the contrast will prove, When the weary wings of my spirit I fold, In heaven, and swell with a bright harp of gold, The grand pealing anthem of love.

_February 9th, 1867_

LINES TO AN ANALYTICAL GEOMETRY

KNOWN TO THE STUDENTS AS “MISS ANNIE”

WRITTEN AT THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA, 1866

At “Elysium” chum and I were sitting, Across our vision memories flitting, Talking, smoking, often spitting On the hearth, not on the floor; When suddenly we heard a spluttering, As of book leaves madly flutt’ring, Some one there seemed slowly mutt’ring, At the bookcase, not the door.

Wildly springing to my feet (Chum with fright seemed tied t’ his seat), Dreading, fearing I should meet What so like a ghost had spoken-- Fellow members, if you’re able To believe what seemed a fable, I saw “Miss Annie” on the table, With rage and anger almost choking.

Then without a bow or bend, Sitting up upon one end, Without preface thus began-- While we both in wonder stared: “O ye worthless lazy scamps! Talk about your midnight lamps, While I’m in the bookcase crampt, To what can such Sophs be compared?

“Here you’ll sit and smoke and talk, To-morrow morn to black-board walk, Seize your ‘ruler’ and your chalk, Then I hope get badly ‘rushed.’ Oh! the present generation, Such neglect to education, Blood and scissors! thunderation!” She was so mad the tears forth gushed.

Chum and I had heard enough To put us both in quite a huff, So just to stop her noisome stuff I sprang and seized her by the collar. George jumped up and grabbed the poker, Shouted, “Edwin, try to choke her! We’ll stop her mouth, a darned old croaker, Squeeze her tight and make her ‘holloa.’”

To the fire we held her near, Still she showed no signs of fear. “Shall the red coals be your bier?” She shook her leaves and fluttered, “No.” Now my face with anger flushes, Covered first with scarlet blushes, I cried, “Will you again e’er ‘rush’ us?” Quoth Miss Annie, “Evermore.”

“Book or fiend,” I cried, up starting, “Be that word our sign of parting.” Then I, in my vengeance darting, Hurled her in the embers red. She slightly quivered, slowly burned; From the sickening sight I turned, Yet from her this lesson learned, Prepare before you go to bed.

LINES TO COUSINS C. AND E.

ON THE BIRTH OF THEIR LITTLE DAUGHTER

The marriage over, from the train Of watching seraphs, one long strain Of gratulation broke. And then were still the rustling wings, And fingers hushed the throbbing strings, While thus an angel spoke:

“Who’ll go to earth to bless this pair With angel child, beneath their care Be trained for bliss or woe?” He ceased, and from the throng sprang three, Faith, Love, and spotless Purity. These knelt, and said “We’ll go.”

Dear cousins, to you these are sent, Three spirits in one being blent. It is a jewel rare. Oh! keep her pure as when first given, Guide her faith from Earth to Heaven, Guard her love with care.

_May, 1867._

THE DEVIL OUTDONE;

OR,

THE GUARD OF THE SULPHUR LAKE

To her who sent me the Valentine with the cutting irony, “Don’t I look pretty in church?” these lines are respectfully inscribed. Not knowing her name, I will call her “Taters,” as she drew her elegant and tasty simile from that vegetable.

The Devil was sitting one morning below, And he seemed much perplexed as to what he must do, For his dark brows would knit, and he’d stamp on the ground, And flap his great wings till floating around Were the ashes and feathers. At last with an air Of resolve he threw himself back in his chair, Lit a brimstone cigar, and touched a small bell. An imp appeared, bowed, and on his face fell. “Cloven-foot,” said the D----, “what’s the news from the fire?” “My liege, the great ape has ceased to inspire The victims with terror; they fear him no more, And continually crawl from the flames to the shore.” “Well, Cloven-foot, I had most certainly thought When from Africa’s wilds that baboon you brought, He’d prove such a guard for the great Sulphur Lake The wretches would ne’er cease before him to quake. Now go up to earth, and search till you find Something uglier far, then quick seize and bind And bring it to me; and if it beats the baboon I’ll reward you. Be sure to return just as soon As ’tis possible, and above all things to choose An object whose countenance never will lose Its hideous novelty.” The imp bowed and withdrew, And swiftly to earth on his errand he flew; But in vain did he search where the gorillas roam, Or the jungles of Bengal, the fierce tiger’s home. In vain throughout Europe he searched every place; Nowhere could he find the requisite face. Frustrated and weary, with deep despair frantic, He was skimming the waves of the tossing Atlantic. A few pinion strokes, and he stood on the shore Of the New World, and through it began to explore. But all was in vain, till he chanced to alight In a sweet little village, one smiling morn bright. Disguising himself, he attended the church, Not hoping to find the object of search, But just for the fun. As he stood with the throng That were watching the College girls marching along, He caught a slight glimpse of Miss “Tater’s” sweet face; He sprang to her side, clasped her in embrace, And as he plunged downward he said to himself, “Here’s one will compete with the African elf.” He soon furled his wing on the Plutonian shore, And to his dark ruler his fair burden bore. As the Valentine sender came into sight The Devil himself started back with affright. “Whew! whew!” whistled he, “she’ll do, I declare! Go bring the baboon, and let them compare.” The imp disappeared, then returned with the ape, A creature most frightful in feature and shape. His head was oblong and perfectly bald, Running back from his eyes--no forehead at all; His eyeballs were white, their sockets deep red; His long, glistening teeth strung with human-flesh shred, The gore of his victims from his fingers’ ends flowed; And round his lank limbs candescent chains glowed, In front of Miss “Taters” this creature was led; He gave a look, yelled, and fainted stone dead. “By my tongs,” quoth the Devil, “she’s rather too hard For the old fellow; she’ll make a capital guard. Take her down to the fire.” The imp led the way And far down they went from the clear light of day, Down, down, till the air was all smoky and red, Till the tumult of hell seemed bursting her head; Down, down, till the piteous wails and the moans Of the tortured but echoed the jeers and the groans Of the fiends. Down, down, till they came to the lake That scorches and scalds, but never will slake The thirst of its victims. Far out on its breast It would heave them anon on the red foaming crest Of a billow, then plunge them far deeper beneath Its boiling bosom, in torture to seethe. Along the hot shore the poor creatures would crawl, To pant and to rest from their terrible thrall. From their bodies all smoking the lava would stream, While the shriveled flesh peeled from each quiv’ring limb, And their heart-piercing shrieks rose higher and higher, As the tongue of each wave licked them back in the fire. But as soon as Miss “Taters” had come where they were Every noise was hushed, not a sound could you hear. ’Twas a wonder indeed, and the wonder increased, When the billows of crimson their torture surge ceased. When the imp had examined more closely, he found The victims had fainted, the fire gone down. He hurried her back to his master and said, “The fires are out, and the wretches are dead.” “What, the fires extinguished! those fires of old! Take her back! I begin e’en myself to feel cold! She’ll ruin us all with her terrible face; She’s rather hard-favored for even this place.”

_April, 1867._

THE SUNFLOWER

LINES SUGGESTED BY OBSERVING GEN. PETTIGREW’S NAME OMITTED IN MRS. DOWNING’S “MEMORIAL FLOWERS” AND IN THE “SOUTHERN BOUQUET”

When poets cull memorial flowers, With which our martyrs’ graves to strew, They choose no one in Nature’s bowers For Pettigrew.