Chapter 37

At length the Greek declared, with puzzled face, Some strange enchantment mingled in the case, And naught would serve to act as counter-charm Save a warm bracelet from a maiden's arm. Not every maiden's,--many might be tried; Which not in vain, experience must decide. Were there no damsels willing to attend And do such service for a suffering friend? The message passed among the waiting crowd, First in a whisper, then proclaimed aloud. Some wore no jewels; some were disinclined, For reasons better guessed at than defined; Though all were saints,--at least professed to be,-- The list all counted, there were named but three. The leech, still seated by the patient's side, Held his thin wrist, and watched him, eagle-eyed. Aurelia first, a fair-haired Tuscan girl, Slipped off her golden asp, with eyes of pearl. His solemn head the grave physician shook; The waxen features thanked her with a look. Olympia next, a creature half divine, Sprung from the blood of old Evander's line, Held her white arm, that wore a twisted chain Clasped with an opal-sheeny cymophane. In vain, O daughter I said the baffled Greek. The patient sighed the thanks he could not speak.

Last, Hermia entered; look, that sudden start! The pallium heaves above his leaping heart; The beating pulse, the cheek's rekindled flame, Those quivering lips, the secret all proclaim. The deep disease long throbbing in the breast, The dread enchantment, all at once confessed! The case was plain; the treatment was begun; And Love soon cured the mischief he had done.

Young Love, too oft thy treacherous bandage slips Down from the eyes it blinded to the lips! Ask not the Gods, O youth, for clearer sight, But the bold heart to plead thy cause aright. And thou, fair maiden, when thy lovers sigh, Suspect thy flattering ear, but trust thine eye; And learn this secret from the tale of old No love so true as love that dies untold.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Bravo, Annex!" they shouted, every one,-- "Not Mrs. Kemble's self had better done." "Quite so," she stammered in her awkward way,-- Not just the thing, but something she must say.

The teaspoon chorus tinkled to its close When from his chair the MAN OF LAW arose, Called by her voice whose mandate all obeyed, And took the open volume she displayed. Tall, stately, strong, his form begins to own Some slight exuberance in its central zone,-- That comely fulness of the growing girth Which fifty summers lend the sons of earth. A smooth, round disk about whose margin stray, Above the temples, glistening threads of gray; Strong, deep-cut grooves by toilsome decades wrought On brow and mouth, the battle-fields of thought; A voice that lingers in the listener's ear, Grave, calm, far-reaching, every accent clear,-- (Those tones resistless many a foreman knew That shaped their verdict ere the twelve withdrew;) A statesman's forehead, athlete's throat and jaw, Such the proud semblance of the Man of Law. His eye just lighted on the printed leaf, Held as a practised pleader holds his brief. One whispered softly from behind his cup, "He does not read,--his book is wrong side up! He knows the story that it holds by heart,-- So like his own! How well he'll act his part!" Then all were silent; not a rustling fan Stirred the deep stillness as the voice began.

THE STATESMAN'S SECRET

WHO of all statesmen is his country's pride, Her councils' prompter and her leaders' guide? He speaks; the nation holds its breath to hear; He nods, and shakes the sunset hemisphere. Born where the primal fount of Nature springs By the rude cradles of her throneless kings, In his proud eye her royal signet flames, By his own lips her Monarch she proclaims. Why name his countless triumphs, whom to meet Is to be famous, envied in defeat? The keen debaters, trained to brawls and strife, Who fire one shot, and finish with the knife, Tried him but once, and, cowering in their shame, Ground their hacked blades to strike at meaner game. The lordly chief, his party's central stay, Whose lightest word a hundred votes obey, Found a new listener seated at his side, Looked in his eye, and felt himself defied, Flung his rash gauntlet on the startled floor, Met the all-conquering, fought,--and ruled no more. See where he moves, what eager crowds attend! What shouts of thronging multitudes ascend! If this is life,--to mark with every hour The purple deepening in his robes of power, To see the painted fruits of honor fall Thick at his feet, and choose among them all, To hear the sounds that shape his spreading name Peal through the myriad organ-stops of fame, Stamp the lone isle that spots the seaman's chart, And crown the pillared glory of the mart, To count as peers the few supremely wise Who mark their planet in the angels' eyes,-- If this is life-- What savage man is he Who strides alone beside the sounding sea? Alone he wanders by the murmuring shore, His thoughts as restless as the waves that roar; Looks on the sullen sky as stormy-browed As on the waves yon tempest-brooding cloud, Heaves from his aching breast a wailing sigh, Sad as the gust that sweeps the clouded sky. Ask him his griefs; what midnight demons plough The lines of torture on his lofty brow; Unlock those marble lips, and bid them speak The mystery freezing in his bloodless cheek. His secret? Hid beneath a flimsy word; One foolish whisper that ambition heard; And thus it spake: "Behold yon gilded chair, The world's one vacant throne,--thy plate is there!"

Ah, fatal dream! What warning spectres meet In ghastly circle round its shadowy seat! Yet still the Tempter murmurs in his ear The maddening taunt he cannot choose but hear "Meanest of slaves, by gods and men accurst, He who is second when he might be first Climb with bold front the ladder's topmost round, Or chain thy creeping footsteps to the ground!" Illustrious Dupe! Have those majestic eyes Lost their proud fire for such a vulgar prize? Art thou the last of all mankind to know That party-fights are won by aiming low? Thou, stamped by Nature with her royal sign, That party-hirelings hate a look like thine? Shake from thy sense the wild delusive dream Without the purple, art thou not supreme? And soothed by love unbought, thy heart shall own A nation's homage nobler than its throne!

. . . . . . . . . .

Loud rang the plaudits; with them rose the thought, "Would he had learned the lesson he has taught!" Used to the tributes of the noisy crowd, The stately speaker calmly smiled and bowed; The fire within a flushing cheek betrayed, And eyes that burned beneath their penthouse shade.

"The clock strikes ten, the hours are flying fast,-- Now, Number Five, we've kept you till the last!"

What music charms like those caressing tones Whose magic influence every listener owns,-- Where all the woman finds herself expressed, And Heaven's divinest effluence breathes confessed? Such was the breath that wooed our ravished ears, Sweet as the voice a dreaming vestal hears; Soft as the murmur of a brooding dove, It told the mystery of a mother's love.

THE MOTHER'S SECRET

How sweet the sacred legend--if unblamed In my slight verse such holy things are named-- Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy, Silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy! Ave, Maria! Pardon, if I wrong Those heavenly words that shame my earthly song! The choral host had closed the Angel's strain Sung to the listening watch on Bethlehem's plain, And now the shepherds, hastening on their way, Sought the still hamlet where the Infant lay. They passed the fields that gleaning Ruth toiled o'er,-- They saw afar the ruined threshing-floor Where Moab's daughter, homeless and forlorn, Found Boaz slumbering by his heaps of corn; And some remembered how the holy scribe, Skilled in the lore of every jealous tribe, Traced the warm blood of Jesse's royal son To that fair alien, bravely wooed and won. So fared they on to seek the promised sign, That marked the anointed heir of David's line. At last, by forms of earthly semblance led, They found the crowded inn, the oxen's shed.

No pomp was there, no glory shone around On the coarse straw that strewed the reeking ground; One dim retreat a flickering torch betrayed,-- In that poor cell the Lord of Life was laid The wondering shepherds told their breathless tale Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale; Told how the skies with sudden glory flamed, Told how the shining multitude proclaimed, "Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hallowed morn In David's city Christ the Lord is born! 'Glory to God!' let angels shout on high, 'Good-will to men!' the listening earth reply!" They spoke with hurried words and accents wild; Calm in his cradle slept the heavenly child. No trembling word the mother's joy revealed,-- One sigh of rapture, and her lips were sealed; Unmoved she saw the rustic train depart, But kept their words to ponder in her heart.

Twelve years had passed; the boy was fair and tall, Growing in wisdom, finding grace with all. The maids of Nazareth, as they trooped to fill Their balanced urns beside the mountain rill, The gathered matrons, as they sat and spun, Spoke in soft words of Joseph's quiet son. No voice had reached the Galilean vale Of star-led kings, or awe-struck shepherd's tale; In the meek, studious child they only saw The future Rabbi, learned in Israel's law.

Beyond the hills that girt the village green; Save when at midnight, o'er the starlit sands, Snatched from the steel of Herod's murdering bands, A babe, close folded to his mother's breast, Through Edom's wilds he sought the sheltering West. Then Joseph spake: "Thy boy hath largely grown; Weave him fine raiment, fitting to be shown; Fair robes beseem the pilgrim, as the priest; Goes he not with us to the holy feast?" And Mary culled the flaxen fibres white; Till eve she spun; she spun till morning light. The thread was twined; its parting meshes through From hand to hand her restless shuttle flew, Till the full web was wound upon the beam; Love's curious toil,--a vest without a seam! They reach the Holy Place, fulfil the days To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise. At last they turn, and far Moriah's height Melts in the southern sky and fades from sight. All day the dusky caravan has flowed In devious trails along the winding road; (For many a step their homeward path attends, And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.) Evening has come,--the hour of rest and joy,-- Hush! Hush! That whisper,--"Where is Mary's boy?" Oh, weary hour! Oh, aching days that passed Filled with strange fears each wilder than the last,-- The soldier's lance, the fierce centurion's sword, The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord, The midnight crypt that sucks the captive's breath, The blistering sun on Hinnom's vale of death! Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light; Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night, Crouched by a sheltering column's shining plinth, Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth. At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more The Temple's porches, searched in vain before; They found him seated with the ancient men,-- The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,-- Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near, Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear, Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise That lips so fresh should utter words so wise. And Mary said,--as one who, tried too long, Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong,-- What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done? Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son! Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone, Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown; Then turned with them and left the holy hill, To all their mild commands obedient still. The tale was told to Nazareth's sober men, And Nazareth's matrons told it oft again; The maids retold it at the fountain's side, The youthful shepherds doubted or denied; It passed around among the listening friends, With all that fancy adds and fiction lends, Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown Of Joseph's son, who talked the Rabbis down.

But Mary, faithful to its lightest word, Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard, Till the dread morning rent the Temple's veil, And shuddering earth confirmed the wondrous tale.

Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall A mother's secret hope outlives them all.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Hushed was the voice, but still its accents thrilled The throbbing hearts its lingering sweetness filled. The simple story which a tear repays Asks not to share the noisy breath of praise. A trance-like stillness,--scarce a whisper heard, No tinkling teaspoon in its saucer stirred; A deep-drawn sigh that would not be suppressed, A sob, a lifted kerchief told the rest.

"Come now, Dictator," so the lady spoke, "You too must fit your shoulder to the yoke; You'll find there's something, doubtless, if you look, To serve your purpose,--so, now take the book." "Ah, my dear lady, you must know full well, 'Story, God bless you, I have none to tell.' To those five stories which these pages hold You all have listened,--every one is told. There's nothing left to make you smile or weep,-- A few grave thoughts may work you off to sleep."

THE SECRET OF THE STARS

Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides? Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding Earth, Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth, And calm the noisy champions who have thrown The book of types against the book of stone!

Have ye not secrets, ye refulgent spheres, No sleepless listener of the starlight hears? In vain the sweeping equatorial pries Through every world-sown corner of the skies, To the far orb that so remotely strays Our midnight darkness is its noonday blaze; In vain the climbing soul of creeping man Metes out the heavenly concave with a span, Tracks into space the long-lost meteor's trail, And weighs an unseen planet in the scale; Still o'er their doubts the wan-eyed watchers sigh, And Science lifts her still unanswered cry "Are all these worlds, that speed their circling flight, Dumb, vacant, soulless,--baubles of the night? Warmed with God's smile and wafted by his breath, To weave in ceaseless round the dance of Death? Or rolls a sphere in each expanding zone, Crowned with a life as varied as our own?"

Maker of earth and stars! If thou hast taught By what thy voice hath spoke, thy hand hath wrought, By all that Science proves, or guesses true, More than thy poet dreamed, thy prophet knew,-- The heavens still bow in darkness at thy feet, And shadows veil thy cloud-pavilioned seat! Not for ourselves we ask thee to reveal One awful word beneath the future's seal; What thou shalt tell us, grant us strength to bear; What thou withholdest is thy single care. Not for ourselves; the present clings too fast, Moored to the mighty anchors of the past; But when, with angry snap, some cable parts, The sound re-echoing in our startled hearts,-- When, through the wall that clasps the harbor round, And shuts the raving ocean from its bound, Shattered and rent by sacrilegious hands, The first mad billow leaps upon the sands,-- Then to the Future's awful page we turn, And what we question hardly dare to learn. Still let us hope! for while we seem to tread The time-worn pathway of the nations dead, Though Sparta laughs at all our warlike deeds, And buried Athens claims our stolen creeds, Though Rome, a spectre on her broken throne, Beholds our eagle and recalls her own, Though England fling her pennons on the breeze And reign before us Mistress of the seas,-- While calm-eyed History tracks us circling round Fate's iron pillar where they all were bound, Still in our path a larger curve she finds, The spiral widening as the chain unwinds Still sees new beacons crowned with brighter flame Than the old watch-fires, like, but not the same No shameless haste shall spot with bandit-crime Our destined empire snatched before its time. Wait,--wait, undoubting, for the winds have caught From our bold speech the heritage of thought; No marble form that sculptured truth can wear Vies with the image shaped in viewless air; And thought unfettered grows through speech to deeds, As the broad forest marches in its seeds. What though we perish ere the day is won? Enough to see its glorious work begun! The thistle falls before a trampling clown, But who can chain the flying thistle-down? Wait while the fiery seeds of freedom fly, The prairie blazes when the grass is dry! What arms might ravish, leave to peaceful arts, Wisdom and love shall win the roughest hearts; So shall the angel who has closed for man The blissful garden since his woes began Swing wide the golden portals of the West, And Eden's secret stand at length confessed!

. . . . . . . . . . .

The reader paused; in truth he thought it time,-- Some threatening signs accused the drowsy rhyme. The Mistress nodded, the Professor dozed, The two Annexes sat with eyelids closed,-- Not sleeping,--no! But when one shuts one's eyes, That one hears better no one, sure, denies. The Doctor whispered in Delilah's ear, Or seemed to whisper, for their heads drew near. Not all the owner's efforts could restrain The wild vagaries of the squinting brain,-- Last of the listeners Number Five alone The patient reader still could call his own.

"Teacups, arouse!" 'T was thus the spell I broke; The drowsy started and the slumberers woke. "The sleep I promised you have now enjoyed, Due to your hour of labor well employed. Swiftly the busy moments have been passed; This, our first 'Teacups,' must not be our last. Here, on this spot, now consecrated ground, The Order of 'The Teacups' let us found! By winter's fireside and in summer's bower Still shall it claim its ever-welcome hour, In distant regions where our feet may roam The magic teapot find or make a home; Long may its floods their bright infusion pour, Till time and teacups both shall be no more!"

VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO

FROM THE "COLLEGIAN," 1830, ILLUSTRATED ANNUALS, ETC.

Nescit vox missa reverti.--Horat. Ars Poetica. Ab lis qua non adjuvant quam mollissime oportet pedem referre.-- Quintillian, L. VI. C. 4.

These verses have always been printed in my collected poems, and as the best of them may bear a single reading, I allow them to appear, but in a less conspicuous position than the other productions. A chick, before his shell is off his back, is hardly a fair subject for severe criticism. If one has written anything worth preserving, his first efforts may be objects of interest and curiosity. Other young authors may take encouragement from seeing how tame, how feeble, how commonplace were the rudimentary attempts of the half-fledged poet. If the boy or youth had anything in him, there will probably be some sign of it in the midst of his imitative mediocrities and ambitious failures. These "first verses" of mine, written before I was sixteen, have little beyond a common academy boy's ordinary performance. Yet a kindly critic said there was one line which showed a poetical quality:--

"The boiling ocean trembled into calm."

One of these poems--the reader may guess which--won fair words from Thackeray. The Spectre Pig was a wicked suggestion which came into my head after reading Dana's Buccaneer. Nobody seemed to find it out, and I never mentioned it to the venerable poet, who might not have been pleased with the parody. This is enough to say of these unvalued copies of verses.

FIRST VERSES

PHILLIPS ACADEMY, ANDOVER, MASS., 1824 OR 1825

TRANSLATION FROM THE ENEID, BOOK I.

THE god looked out upon the troubled deep Waked into tumult from its placid sleep; The flame of anger kindles in his eye As the wild waves ascend the lowering sky; He lifts his head above their awful height And to the distant fleet directs his sight, Now borne aloft upon the billow's crest, Struck by the bolt or by the winds oppressed, And well he knew that Juno's vengeful ire Frowned from those clouds and sparkled in that fire. On rapid pinions as they whistled by He calls swift Zephyrus and Eurus nigh Is this your glory in a noble line To leave your confines and to ravage mine? Whom I--but let these troubled waves subside-- Another tempest and I'll quell your pride! Go--bear our message to your master's ear, That wide as ocean I am despot here; Let him sit monarch in his barren caves, I wield the trident and control the waves He said, and as the gathered vapors break The swelling ocean seemed a peaceful lake; To lift their ships the graceful nymphs essayed And the strong trident lent its powerful aid; The dangerous banks are sunk beneath the main, And the light chariot skims the unruffled plain. As when sedition fires the public mind, And maddening fury leads the rabble blind, The blazing torch lights up the dread alarm, Rage points the steel and fury nerves the arm, Then, if some reverend Sage appear in sight, They stand--they gaze, and check their headlong flight,-- He turns the current of each wandering breast And hushes every passion into rest,-- Thus by the power of his imperial arm The boiling ocean trembled into calm; With flowing reins the father sped his way And smiled serene upon rekindled day.

THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS

Written after a general pruning of the trees around Harvard College. A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found in the works of Swift, from which, perhaps, the idea was borrowed; although I was as much surprised as amused to meet with it some time after writing the following lines.

IT was not many centuries since, When, gathered on the moonlit green, Beneath the Tree of Liberty, A ring of weeping sprites was seen.

The freshman's lamp had long been dim, The voice of busy day was mute, And tortured Melody had ceased Her sufferings on the evening flute.

They met not as they once had met, To laugh o'er many a jocund tale But every pulse was beating low, And every cheek was cold and pale.

There rose a fair but faded one, Who oft had cheered them with her song; She waved a mutilated arm, And silence held the listening throng.

"Sweet friends," the gentle nymph began, "From opening bud to withering leaf, One common lot has bound us all, In every change of joy and grief.

"While all around has felt decay, We rose in ever-living prime, With broader shade and fresher green, Beneath the crumbling step of Time.

"When often by our feet has past Some biped, Nature's walking whim, Say, have we trimmed one awkward shape, Or lopped away one crooked limb?

"Go on, fair Science; soon to thee Shall. Nature yield her idle boast; Her vulgar fingers formed a tree, But thou halt trained it to a post.

"Go, paint the birch's silver rind, And quilt the peach with softer down; Up with the willow's trailing threads, Off with the sunflower's radiant crown!

"Go, plant the lily on the shore, And set the rose among the waves, And bid the tropic bud unbind Its silken zone in arctic caves;

"Bring bellows for the panting winds, Hang up a lantern by the moon, And give the nightingale a fife, And lend the eagle a balloon!

"I cannot smile,--the tide of scorn, That rolled through every bleeding vein, Comes kindling fiercer as it flows Back to its burning source again.

"Again in every quivering leaf That moment's agony I feel, When limbs, that spurned the northern blast, Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel.

"A curse upon the wretch who dared To crop us with his felon saw! May every fruit his lip shall taste Lie like a bullet in his maw.

"In every julep that he drinks, May gout, and bile, and headache be; And when he strives to calm his pain, May colic mingle with his tea.

"May nightshade cluster round his path, And thistles shoot, and brambles cling; May blistering ivy scorch his veins, And dogwood burn, and nettles sting.

"On him may never shadow fall, When fever racks his throbbing brow, And his last shilling buy a rope To hang him on my highest bough!"