Part 8

Yet there is one, and only one, Which truly represents his name; A flower that revels in the sun, And drinks his flame.

A flower that opens when, all red, The sun hath kissed the eastern skies; But westward turned, it droops its head And proudly dies.

Thus when the sun of victory sheared Its gory way o’er clouds of war, This flower’s tow’ring crest appeared A beacon star.

And in its gorgeous, glorious rays, This flower basked, and only bowed When coming conquest’s bloody haze That sun did shroud.

Crushed flower, with thy broken stem, I’ll keep thee near to typify The fallen form; the hero’s fame Can never die.

_June 19th, 1867._

AN ELEGY

WRITTEN ON THE ROTUNDA STEPS, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, 1868

The bell the knell of evening lecture tolls, The thronging students pour from every door; The tutor gathers up his notes and rolls, And homeward wends his weary way once more.

The noisy crowd is gone, there is a pause, And hushed is all the busy hum and whirl, Save where from yonder room breaks loud applause That welcomes some professor’s parting “curl.”

Save that from yonder plain, the lower lawn, Some base-ball novice makes harsh rhyms to _psalm_, Because a veteran, with his hands of horn, Has “pitched” too “hot” a ball for his soft palm.

Beneath those balconies, along those rows, Where sinks the wall in many a jail-like cell, Each wrapped in silence now and in repose, The minstrels of the “Calathump” do dwell.

The whispered call of evil-masking night, The signal whistle of the well-known crew, The bumping bang of “blowers” beat with might, Will often rouse the “Nippers of Peru.”

For them in vain for hours their hearts will burn, While busy housewives tremble at their noise, And frightened children to their fathers turn, Too badly scared to think of play or toys.

Oft has th’ rotunda echoed to their songs, In dulcet strains that on the still air broke; Oft has the lawn resounded with their gongs, That roared and rattled ’neath their sturdy stroke.

Let not their victims mock th’ infernal din, Coal-scuttle drums, and clarion paper trump; But let them hear with a sardonic “grin,” The hideous clamor of a “Calathump.”

The boast of Mozart, or Beethoven’s pride, The sweetest notes Von Weber ever gave, Alike would prove harsh dissonance beside The gushing concord of one college stave.

To-night upon their pillows will be laid Heads that are pregnant with some secret plan; Hands that a “poker” often may have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy an old tin pan.

In vain grave study holds before their gaze Her ample page and honor’s glittering roll; The fire of “frolic” in their bosom plays, And warms the devilish current of their soul.

Full many a mind that might have nations hurled About as toys, has hid its talents rare; And many a voice that might have moved a world, Has cracked in shoutings on the midnight air.

Some village Hampden here by night may bawl, Some unknown Milton, but by no means mute; Some David that may soothe a savage Saul, As yet entirely guiltless of a lute.

The applause of gaping urchins to command, The darkies’ laughter at their quaint disguise, A few short words from some one to the band, This is their sole reward, their hard-earned prize.

But who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, Would start to nip with dry and husky throttle? Whene’er they march along the Devil’s way, They take his own peculiar seal, the bottle.

Amid the madding crowd that gathers thick, A moving pandemonium they stray, And down those much frequented walks of brick They hold the noisy tenor of their way.

THE EPIGRAM

Here go at last, all yelling to the town, A band of youths to Judson’s too well known; Fair science ever met their darkest frown, And foul intemperance marked them for her own.

Small is their bounty, but “a drink” they chime, As round the crowded counter many jam; Each gives to Judson (all he has) a dime, Each gets from him (’tis all he wants) a dram.

_January, 1868._

FIRE EYES

Hast thou on summer’s eve ere marked The storm on cloud wings soaring high, And spreading far his pinions black, Across the blue good-natured sky? And hast thou seen from ’neath his brow The lightning’s eye gleam fiercely bright, As if to pierce a thousand foes With daggers of his living light? As flash the lightnings in the skies, So gleam, when angry, “Fire Eyes.”

Hast thou on autumn eve e’er seen The sun just nestling on his pillow, While sapphire clouds were silver-fringed, As seafoam crests the surging billow? And hast thou seen the golden gaze The sun bestows on Nature fair, That dyes the gorgeous landscape o’er And almost melts the amber air? As beams the sun on autumn skies So smile, when pleased, bright “Fire Eyes.”

MY DARLING’S JESSAMINE

’Twas only a sprig of white jessamine, That came in a letter she wrote; But I value it more than the costliest vine Whose tendrils o’er marble-carved trellis-work twine: _’Twas worn at my darling one’s throat_.

A throat that encages the nightingale’s trill, And sweetens each silvery note, And I think as I hear, in a rapturous thrill, Her voice, whose volume can heaven’s dome fill, That the _angels have lent her a throat_.

More sweet than exotics that Fashion dupes wear As through the gay ballroom they float! In the leaves of my Bible I laid it with care, More _sacredly dear_ than a _buried friend’s hair_ Since worn at my darling one’s throat!

_July, 1870._

THE PARTING SHIP

In pensive mood I stood upon the quay, Where busy Commerce plied her energy; Where loading vessels hung their sails at rest, And rose and fell, upon the water’s breast. Where busy little tugs with hissing steam Buried their noses in the foaming stream. Near by, a steamer in a paneled wharf Chafed at her chains and panted to be off. A strange, mysterious ship, no pennon bold Her nation or her destination told; No crew was seen, no farewell song was sung, No parting loved ones to each other clung; No wife was weeping on her husband’s neck, No mother blessed her wayward boy on deck. A ceaseless throng pressed through the cabin door, As if they longed to leave their native shore; No backward glance, no tearful farewell view, And no one seemed to think home worth adieu. At last the bell was rung, the plank was drawn, And with a shivering sigh, the ship was gone. Then as I marked her curving track of foam, I wondered in what waters she would roam; I thought of those on board, the reckless air Of their departure, and I breathed a prayer. A red-haired man stood turning up a wheel, That wound a clanking chain upon a reel; I laid a coin upon his brawny hand, And asked him, “Who thus leave their native land?” He leaned upon his wheel and closed one eye, As if the lid were burdened with a sty; Then with a laugh he answered, “By the devil’s spleen and liver, It’s on’y a Fulton ferry-boat a’gwine a’gross East River.”

TO M----, FROM E----

WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BIBLE

One year of sweetest love intense! One year of mutual confidence! One year of gazing into eyes, In which the love-light never dies! One year of clasping hands, that thrill With throbbing love from life’s red rill One year of clouds, whose transient shade The after glory brighter made! One year of doubts, whose fleeting rust Could not corrode our links of trust! One year of prayer, whose pleading tone Has for _each other_ sued the Throne! One year _together_--may it prove Prophetic of our earthly love! One year _each other’s_--may it be A type of our _eternity_!

_Sunday, May, 1871._

UNDER THE PINES

“TELL THEM TO BURY ME UNDER THE PINES AT HOME.” FROM “SEA GIFT.”

I would not rest in the moldering tomb Of the grim church-yard, where the ivy twines, But make me a grave in the forest’s gloom, Where the breezes wave, like a soldier’s plume, Each dark-green bough of the dear old pines;

Where the lights and shadows softly merge, And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines; Where the sea winds, sad with the sob of the surge, From the harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge For the dead beneath the sighing pines.

When the winter’s icy fingers sow The mound with jewels till it shines, And cowled in hoods of glistening snow, Like white-veiled sisters bending low, Bow, sorrowing, the silent pines.

While others fought for cities proud, For fertile plains and wealth of mines, I breathed the sulph’rous battle cloud, I bared my breast, and took my shroud For the land where wave the grand old pines.

Though comrades sigh and loved ones weep For the form shot down in the battle lines, In my grave of blood I gladly sleep, If the life I gave will help to keep The Vandal’s foot from the Land of Pines.

* * * * *

The Vandal’s foot hath pressed our sod, His heel hath crushed our sacred shrines; And, bowing ’neath the chastening rod, We lift our hearts and hands to God, And cry: “Oh! save our Land of Pines!”

THE LAST LOOK

TO MARY

Do not fasten the lid of the coffin down yet; Let me have a long look at the face of my pet. Please all quit the chamber and pull to the door, And leave me alone with my darling once more.

Is this little Ethel, so cold, and so still! Beat, beat, breaking heart, ’gainst God’s mystic will, Remember, O Christ, thou didst dread thine own cup, And while I drink mine, let thine arm bear me up.

But the moments are fleeting: I must stamp on my brain, Each dear little feature, for never again Can I touch her; and only God measures how much Affection a mother conveys by her touch.

Oh! dear little head, oh! dear little hair, So silken, so golden, so soft, and so fair, Will I never more smooth it? Oh! help me, my God, To bear this worst stroke of the chastening rod.

Those bright little eyes that used to feign sleep, Or sparkle so merrily, playing at peep, Closed forever! And yet they seemed closed with a sigh, As if for our sake she regretted to die.

And that dear little _mouth_, once so warm and so soft, Always willing to kiss you, no matter how oft, Cold and rigid, without the least tremor of breath, How could you claim _Ethel_, O pitiless death!

Her hands! No, ’twill kill me to think how they wove Through my daily existence a tissue of love. Each finger’s a print upon memory’s page, That will brighten, thank God! and not dim with my age.

Sick or well, they were ready at every request To amuse us: sweet hands! they deserve a sweet rest. Their last little trick was to wipe “Bopeep’s” eye, Their last little gesture, to wave us good-bye.

Little feet! little feet, how dark the heart’s gloom, Where your patter is hushed in that desolate room! For oh! ’twas a sight sweet beyond all compare, To see little “Frisky” rock back in her chair.

* * * * *

O Father! have mercy, and grant me thy grace To see, through this frown, the smile on thy face; To feel that this sorrow is sent for the best, And to learn from my darling a lesson of rest.

_February 16th, 1875._

LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF AN UNKNOWN FRIEND

We’ve never met; I’ve never pressed your hand, Nor caught the light of Friendship in your eyes; Yet bound by grief, between two graves we stand, And mingle tears, and hear each other’s sighs.

The same dark wings have taken from each hearth The brightest jewel of the circle there, And poor Faith stumbles at the mound of earth, And feebly yields her place to wan Despair.

The same dear Christ that took our little one, And laid her precious head upon His breast, In tender love called home your darling son To enter early his eternal rest.

But who could stand beside the open tomb, And hear the clods fall on the coffin lid, And see deep underneath the earthen gloom, The dearest love of life forever hid?

Could we not hear the grave’s red lips proclaim, “I am the Resurrection and the Life,” And realize that Death in Jesus’ name Is only rest from labor, pain, and strife?

’Tis hard to feel assured our sainted dead Are happy _there_, as we could make them here; We love them so we give them up with dread, And lay them in Christ’s arms with doubt and fear.

Oh! for a faith that sees in all God sends The kindness of a father to his son; That prays, in every trial--if it ends In joy or grief, “Thy will, O Lord, be done.”

Beneath the same dark shadow let us kneel, And lift our broken hearts in prayer to God That while He chastens, He will help us feel The wisdom of His purpose in the rod.

We are not strangers now; from heart to heart The electric chords of mutual sorrow thrill. And clasping hands across the miles apart, We stand resolved, to “suffer and be still.”

OUT IN THE RAIN

The night is dark and cold, a beating rain Falls ceaselessly upon the dripping roof; The dismal wind, with now a fierce, wild shriek, And now a hollow moan, as if in pain, Circles the eaves, and bends the tortured trees that wring Their long, bear hands in the bleak blast. Within Our chamber all is bright and warm. The fire Burns with a ruddy blaze. The shaded lamp Softens the pictures on the wall, and glows Upon the flowers in the carpet, till they seem All fresh and fragrant. Stretched upon the rug, His collar gleaming in the fire-light, little Pip Is sleeping on, defiant of the storm without. The very furniture enjoys the warmth, And from its sides reflects the cheerful light. Up in its painted cage, the little bird, His yellow head beneath his soft, warm wing, Is hiding. Oh! my God, out in the storm _Our little yellow head_ is beaten by the rain. So lonely looks that precious little face Up at the cold, dark coffin’s lid above, In the bleak graveyard’s solitude! Oh! Ethel darling, do you feel afraid? Or is Christ with you in your little grave? When last we gazed upon those lovely eyes They looked so tranquil, in their last repose, We knew that Christ’s own tender hand had sealed Their lids with His eternal peace. Oh! darling, are you happy up in heaven? And do the angels part that golden hair As tenderly as we? O Saviour dear, Thou knowest childhood’s tenderness. Amid The care of countless worlds, sometimes descend From thine almighty throne of power, and find That little yellow head, and lay it on thy breast, And smooth her brow with thine own pierced hand; She’ll kiss the wound and try to make it well. And tell her how we love her memory here; And let her sometimes see us, that she may Remember us. O Jesus, we can trust Her to thy care; and when we lay us down To rest, beside that lonely, little grave, Oh! let her meet us with her harp. God help us both to make that meeting sure!

THE LILY AND THE DEW-DROP

Deep in a cell of darkest green, Rayless and murky with unbroken gloom, With downcast head and shrinking, modest mien, A lily of the valley shed her rare perfume, Breathed softly, as a sea shell’s murmur, from her bloom An odor so exquisite, none can tell, If ’tis an odor or a whispered sigh That like the dying echoes of a bell Falls on the raptured sense so dreamily, The soul swoons in the tearful clasp of memory.

So when an old man hears a harvest song He used to sing, or smells the new-mown hay, A host of saddened recollections throng The dusty chambers of his heart, and play Upon the cobwebs there a soft Æolian lay.

(_Unfinished._)

LINES,

WRITTEN AFTER HAVING A HEMORRHAGE FROM THE LUNGS

Written a short time before his death and handed to his wife with the request, “Do not open this until I am well, or until my death.”

Life bloomed for me as if my path thro’ Eden Led its flowery way. Success had crowned In many ways my efforts. No dark strife With adverse Fate its portent shadows cast Across the calm blue scope of heaven. And though Pride often chafed at plain commercial life, It was but transient, for ambitious Hope Kept ever in my view Fame’s gilded dome, Upon whose highest pinnacle I chose my niche, For vain conceit had whispered in my ear That I had Genius to encharm the world, And I looked forward to the loud applause Of nations as a simple thing of time. Of death I thought but as a fright for those Who have no destiny but dying. Mine Would come in age, but as a pallid seal To Honor gained, and Life’s long labors done. Yet I had felt the breath of Asrael’s wing When from my youthful head he took my father’s hand, And from my manhood’s arms my only child, And down the past a little mound of earth, Tombed with the darkest sorrow of our hearts, Still stands, though veiling in the folds of time. Of heaven I thought but as a distant home, A place of sweetest rest that I would gain, When weary of the burden of the world. Thus gay of thought and bright of hope, I moved Amid the flowers of my way. At once, With scarce a rustle in the rose leaves, came A shadowy form, and standing silently Before my pathway, breathed a whispered sigh, As if it loathed its office to perform; Then laid Consumption’s ghastly banner on my breast, Its pale folds crossed with fatal red. The sky Grew dark, the rose leaves withered, as the form Withdrew, still silently; while I, alone Upon the roadside, kneeled to pray for light. The stunned surprise of sudden shattered hopes, The faith of self-appointed destiny, Still turned my eyes toward the Temple Fame. Across its gilded dome a spotless cloud Had drifted, hiding it from view, but lo! The cloud, unfolding snowy depths, disclosed The glories of that “House not made with hands,” And bending from it, so full of tenderness, I could discern the loved ones “gone before.” And over all I recognized the Form Whose brow endured Gabbatha’s shameful crown, Whose woe distilled itself in trickling blood, By Cedron’s murmuring wave. As tenderly As ever mother touched her babe, He bore Within His arms a little angel form, With golden hair and blue expressive eyes, One dimpled hand lay on His willing cheek, While He bent down to meet the sweet caress, The other, with that well-remembered look She kissed, and threw the kiss to me. Then down I bowed my face, and longed to know mine end. ’Twere very sweet to leave all toil and care And join the blessed ones beyond the tide; And still ’twere sweet beyond compare to wait Till eventide with loved ones here, and share Their weal or woe. Then came a flute-like voice That thrilled the solemn air: “Pursue thy way, Yet humbly walk and watch, and if I come At midnight, or at noon, be ready.” Thus I wish to live, life’s aims subserved to God; And each continued day and hour regard As special gifts to be improved for Him; To wear the girdle of the world about my loins So loosely that a moment will suffice To break the clasp, and lay it down.

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Angel in the Cloud, by Edwin W. (Wiley) Fuller