Chapter 4

Of power,--Bellona swept the crimson field, And blue-eyed Pallas shook her Gorgon shield; O'er the hushed waves their mightier monarch drove, And Ida trembled to the tread of Jove!

So every grace that plastic language knows To nameless poets its perfection owes. The rough-hewn words to simplest thoughts confined Were cut and polished in their nicer mind; Caught on their edge, imagination's ray Splits into rainbows, shooting far away;-- From sense to soul, from soul to sense, it flies, And through all nature links analogies; He who reads right will rarely look upon A better poet than his lexicon!

There is a race which cold, ungenial skies Breed from decay, as fungous growths arise; Though dying fast, yet springing fast again, Which still usurps an unsubstantial reign, With frames too languid for the charms of sense, And minds worn down with action too intense; Tired of a world whose joys they never knew, Themselves deceived, yet thinking all untrue; Scarce men without, and less than girls within, Sick of their life before its cares begin;-- The dull disease, which drains their feeble hearts, To life's decay some hectic thrill's imparts, And lends a force which, like the maniac's power, Pays with blank years the frenzy of an hour.

And this is Genius! Say, does Heaven degrade The manly frame, for health, for action made? Break down the sinews, rack the brow with pains, Blanch the right cheek and drain the purple veins, To clothe the mind with more extended sway, Thus faintly struggling in degenerate clay?

No! gentle maid, too ready to admire, Though false its notes, the pale enthusiast's lyre; If this be genius, though its bitter springs Glowed like the morn beneath Aurora's wings, Seek not the source whose sullen bosom feeds But fruitless flowers and dark, envenomed weeds.

But, if so bright the dear illusion seems, Thou wouldst be partner of thy poet's dreams, And hang in rapture on his bloodless charms, Or die, like Raphael, in his angel arms, Go and enjoy thy blessed lot,--to share In Cowper's gloom or Chatterton's despair!

Not such were they whom, wandering o'er the waves, I looked to meet, but only found their graves; If friendship's smile, the better part of fame, Should lend my song the only wreath I claim, Whose voice would greet me with a sweeter tone, Whose living hand more kindly press my own, Than theirs,--could Memory, as her silent tread Prints the pale flowers that blossom o'er the dead, Those breathless lips, now closed in peace, restore, Or wake those pulses hushed to beat no more?

Thou calm, chaste scholar! I can see thee now, The first young laurels on thy pallid brow, O'er thy slight figure floating lightly down In graceful folds the academic gown, On thy curled lip the classic lines that taught How nice the mind that sculptured them with thought, And triumph glistening in the clear blue eye, Too bright to live,--but oh, too fair to die!

And thou, dear friend, whom Science still deplores, And Love still mourns, on ocean-severed shores, Though the bleak forest twice has bowed with snow Since thou wast laid its budding leaves below, Thine image mingles with my closing strain, As when we wandered by the turbid Seine, Both blessed with hopes, which revelled, bright and free, On all we longed or all we dreamed to be; To thee the amaranth and the cypress fell,-- And I was spared to breathe this last farewell!

But lived there one in unremembered days, Or lives there still, who spurns the poet's bays, Whose fingers, dewy from Castalia's springs, Rest on the lyre, yet scorn to touch the strings? Who shakes the senate with the silver tone The groves of Pindus might have sighed to own? Have such e'er been? Remember Canning's name! Do such still live? Let "Alaric's Dirge" proclaim!

Immortal Art! where'er the rounded sky Bends o'er the cradle where thy children lie, Their home is earth, their herald every tongue Whose accents echo to the voice that sung. One leap of Ocean scatters on the sand The quarried bulwarks of the loosening land; One thrill of earth dissolves a century's toil Strewed like the leaves that vanish in the soil; One hill o'erflows, and cities sink below, Their marbles splintering in the lava's glow; But one sweet tone, scarce whispered to the air, From shore to shore the blasts of ages bear; One humble name, which oft, perchance, has borne The tyrant's mockery and the courtier's scorn, Towers o'er the dust of earth's forgotten graves, As once, emerging through the waste of waves, The rocky Titan, round whose shattered spear Coiled the last whirlpool of the drowning sphere!

ADDITIONAL POEMS

1837-1848

THE PILGRIM'S VISION

IN the hour of twilight shadows The Pilgrim sire looked out; He thought of the "bloudy Salvages" That lurked all round about, Of Wituwamet's pictured knife And Pecksuot's whooping shout; For the baby's limbs were feeble, Though his father's arms were stout.

His home was a freezing cabin, Too bare for the hungry rat; Its roof was thatched with ragged grass, And bald enough of that; The hole that served for casement Was glazed with an ancient hat, And the ice was gently thawing From the log whereon he sat.

Along the dreary landscape His eyes went to and fro,

The trees all clad in icicles, The streams that did not flow; A sudden thought flashed o'er him,-- A dream of long ago,-- He smote his leathern jerkin, And murmured, "Even so!"

"Come hither, God-be-Glorified, And sit upon my knee; Behold the dream unfolding, Whereof I spake to thee By the winter's hearth in Leyden And on the stormy sea. True is the dream's beginning,-- So may its ending be!

"I saw in the naked forest Our scattered remnant cast, A screen of shivering branches Between them and the blast; The snow was falling round them, The dying fell as fast; I looked to see them perish, When lo, the vision passed.

"Again mine eyes were opened;-- The feeble had waxed strong, The babes had grown to sturdy men, The remnant was a throng; By shadowed lake and winding stream, And all the shores along, The howling demons quaked to hear The Christian's godly song.

"They slept, the village fathers, By river, lake, and shore, When far adown the steep of Time The vision rose once more I saw along the winter snow A spectral column pour, And high above their broken ranks A tattered flag they bore.

"Their Leader rode before them, Of bearing calm and high, The light of Heaven's own kindling Throned in his awful eye; These were a Nation's champions Her dread appeal to try. God for the right! I faltered, And lo, the train passed by.

"Once more;--the strife is ended, The solemn issue tried, The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm Has helped our Israel's side; Gray stone and grassy hillock Tell where our martyrs died, But peaceful smiles the harvest, And stainless flows the tide.

"A crash, as when some swollen cloud Cracks o'er the tangled trees With side to side, and spar to spar, Whose smoking decks are these? I know Saint George's blood-red cross, Thou Mistress of the Seas, But what is she whose streaming bars Roll out before the breeze?

"Ah, well her iron ribs are knit, Whose thunders strive to quell The bellowing throats, the blazing lips, That pealed the Armada's knell! The mist was cleared,--a wreath of stars Rose o'er the crimsoned swell, And, wavering from its haughty peak, The cross of England fell!

"O trembling Faith! though dark the morn, A heavenly torch is thine; While feebler races melt away, And paler orbs decline, Still shall the fiery pillar's ray Along thy pathway shine, To light the chosen tribe that sought This Western Palestine.

"I see the living tide roll on; It crowns with flaming towers The icy capes of Labrador, The Spaniard's 'land of flowers'! It streams beyond the splintered ridge That parts the northern showers; From eastern rock to sunset wave The Continent is ours!"

He ceased, the grim old soldier-saint, Then softly bent to cheer The Pilgrim-child, whose wasting face Was meekly turned to hear; And drew his toil-worn sleeve across To brush the manly tear From cheeks that never changed in woe, And never blanched in fear.

The weary Pilgrim slumbers, His resting-place unknown; His hands were crossed, his lips were closed, The dust was o'er him strown; The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf, Along the sod were blown; His mound has melted into earth, His memory lives alone.

So let it live unfading, The memory of the dead, Long as the pale anemone Springs where their tears were shed, Or, raining in the summer's wind In flakes of burning red, The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves The turf where once they bled!

Yea, when the frowning bulwarks That guard this holy strand Have sunk beneath the trampling surge In beds of sparkling sand, While in the waste of ocean One hoary rock shall stand, Be this its latest legend,-- HERE WAS THE PILGRIM'S LAND!

THE STEAMBOAT

SEE how yon flaming herald treads The ridged and rolling waves, As, crashing o'er their crested heads, She bows her surly slaves! With foam before and fire behind, She rends the clinging sea, That flies before the roaring wind, Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers, With heaped and glistening bells, Falls round her fast, in ringing showers, With every wave that swells; And, burning o'er the midnight deep, In lurid fringes thrown, The living gems of ocean sweep Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel and lifting keel, And smoking torch on high, When winds are loud and billows reel, She thunders foaming by; When seas are silent and serene, With even beam she glides, The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild, nymph, far apart She veils her shadowy form, The beating of her restless heart Still sounding through the storm; Now answers, like a courtly dame, The reddening surges o'er, With flying scarf of spangled flame, The Pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, Who trims his narrowed sail; To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep Her broad breast to the gale; And many a foresail, scooped and strained, Shall break from yard and stay, Before this smoky wreath has stained The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, I see yon quivering mast; The black throat of the hunted cloud Is panting forth the blast! An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff, The giant surge shall fling His tresses o'er yon pennon staff, White as the sea-bird's wing.

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep; Nor wind nor wave shall tire Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap With floods of living fire; Sleep on, and, when the morning light Streams o'er the shining bay, Oh think of those for whom the night Shall never wake in day.

LEXINGTON

SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, When from his couch, while his children were sleeping, Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. Waving her golden veil Over the silent dale, Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire; Hushed was his parting sigh, While from his noble eye Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing Calmly the first-born of glory have met; Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing! Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet Faint is the feeble breath, Murmuring low in death, "Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;" Nerveless the iron hand, Raised for its native land, Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling, From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, Circles the beat of the mustering drum. Fast on the soldier's path Darken the waves of wrath,-- Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall; Red glares the musket's flash, Sharp rings the rifle's crash, Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.

Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing, Never to shadow his cold brow again; Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing, Reeking and panting he droops on the rein; Pale is the lip of scorn, Voiceless the trumpet horn, Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high; Many a belted breast Low on the turf shall rest Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by.

Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving, Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail, Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving, Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale; Far as the tempest thrills Over the darkened hills, Far as the sunshine streams over the plain, Roused by the tyrant band, Woke all the mighty land, Girded for battle, from mountain to main.

Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying! Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest, While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. Borne on her Northern pine, Long o'er the foaming brine Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun; Heaven keep her ever free, Wide as o'er land and sea Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won.

ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL

This "punch-bowl" was, according to old family tradition, a caudle-cup. It is a massive piece of silver, its cherubs and other ornaments of coarse repousse work, and has two handles like a loving-cup, by which it was held, or passed from guest to guest.

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true, Who dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar,--so runs the ancient tale; 'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail; And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail, He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

'T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same; And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'T was filled with candle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps, He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps.

And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came,--a hundred souls and more,-- Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,-- To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing, dim, When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim; The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,--the man that never feared,-- He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; And one by one the musketeers--the men that fought and prayed-- All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, Run from the white man when you find he smells of "Hollands gin!"

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose, When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy,-- 'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good,--poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if--God bless me!--you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill. So John did drink,--and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here. 'T is but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past,--its pressed yet fragrant flowers,-- The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers; Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,--my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin That dooms one to those dreadful words,--"My dear, where HAVE you been?"

A SONG

FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD COLLEGE, 1836

This song, which I had the temerity to sing myself (_felix auda-cia_, Mr. Franklin Dexter had the goodness to call it), was sent in a little too late to be printed with the official account of the celebration. It was written at the suggestion of Dr. Jacob Bigelow, who thought the popular tune "The Poacher's Song" would be a good model for a lively ballad or ditty. He himself wrote the admirable Latin song to be found in the record of the meeting.

WHEN the Puritans came over Our hills and swamps to clear, The woods were full of catamounts, And Indians red as deer, With tomahawks and scalping-knives, That make folks' heads look queer; Oh the ship from England used to bring A hundred wigs a year!

The crows came cawing through the air To pluck the Pilgrims' corn, The bears came snuffing round the door Whene'er a babe was born, The rattlesnakes were bigger round Than the but of the old rams horn The deacon blew at meeting time On every "Sabbath" morn.

But soon they knocked the wigwams down, And pine-tree trunk and limb Began to sprout among the leaves In shape of steeples slim; And out the little wharves were stretched Along the ocean's rim, And up the little school-house shot To keep the boys in trim.

And when at length the College rose, The sachem cocked his eye At every tutor's meagre ribs Whose coat-tails whistled by But when the Greek and Hebrew words Came tumbling from his jaws, The copper-colored children all Ran screaming to the squaws.

And who was on the Catalogue When college was begun? Two nephews of the President, And the Professor's son; (They turned a little Indian by, As brown as any bun;) Lord! how the seniors knocked about The freshman class of one!

They had not then the dainty things That commons now afford, But succotash and hominy Were smoking on the board; They did not rattle round in gigs, Or dash in long-tailed blues, But always on Commencement days The tutors blacked their shoes.

God bless the ancient Puritans! Their lot was hard enough; But honest hearts make iron arms, And tender maids are tough; So love and faith have formed and fed Our true-born Yankee stuff, And keep the kernel in the shell The British found so rough!

THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG

The island referred to is a domain of princely proportions, which has long been the seat of a generous hospitality. Naushon is its old Indian name. William Swain, Esq., commonly known as "the Governor," was the proprietor of it at the time when this song was written. Mr. John M. Forbes is his worthy successor in territorial rights and as a hospitable entertainer. The Island Book has been the recipient of many poems from visitors and friends of the owners of the old mansion.

No more the summer floweret charms, The leaves will soon be sere, And Autumn folds his jewelled arms Around the dying year; So, ere the waning seasons claim Our leafless groves awhile, With golden wine and glowing flame We 'll crown our lonely isle.

Once more the merry voices sound Within the antlered hall, And long and loud the baying hounds Return the hunter's call; And through the woods, and o'er the hill, And far along the bay, The driver's horn is sounding shrill,-- Up, sportsmen, and away!

No bars of steel or walls of stone Our little empire bound, But, circling with his azure zone, The sea runs foaming round; The whitening wave, the purpled skies, The blue and lifted shore, Braid with their dim and blending dyes Our wide horizon o'er.

And who will leave the grave debate That shakes the smoky town, To rule amid our island-state, And wear our oak-leaf crown? And who will be awhile content To hunt our woodland game, And leave the vulgar pack that scent The reeking track of fame?

Ah, who that shares in toils like these Will sigh not to prolong Our days beneath the broad-leaved trees, Our nights of mirth and song? Then leave the dust of noisy streets, Ye outlaws of the wood, And follow through his green retreats Your noble Robin Hood.

DEPARTED DAYS

YES, dear departed, cherished days, Could Memory's hand restore Your morning light, your evening rays, From Time's gray urn once more, Then might this restless heart be still, This straining eye might close, And Hope her fainting pinions fold, While the fair phantoms rose.

But, like a child in ocean's arms, We strive against the stream, Each moment farther from the shore Where life's young fountains gleam; Each moment fainter wave the fields, And wider rolls the sea; The mist grows dark,--the sun goes down,-- Day breaks,--and where are we?

THE ONLY DAUGHTER

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE

THEY bid me strike the idle strings, As if my summer days Had shaken sunbeams from their wings To warm my autumn lays; They bring to me their painted urn, As if it were not time To lift my gauntlet and to spurn The lists of boyish rhyme; And were it not that I have still Some weakness in my heart That clings around my stronger will And pleads for gentler art, Perchance I had not turned away The thoughts grown tame with toil, To cheat this lone and pallid ray, That wastes the midnight oil.

Alas! with every year I feel Some roses leave my brow; Too young for wisdom's tardy seal, Too old for garlands now. Yet, while the dewy breath of spring Steals o'er the tingling air, And spreads and fans each emerald wing The forest soon shall wear. How bright the opening year would seem, Had I one look like thine To meet me when the morning beam Unseals these lids of mine! Too long I bear this lonely lot, That bids my heart run wild To press the lips that love me not, To clasp the stranger's child.

How oft beyond the dashing seas, Amidst those royal bowers, Where danced the lilacs in the breeze, And swung the chestnut-flowers, I wandered like a wearied slave Whose morning task is done, To watch the little hands that gave Their whiteness to the sun; To revel in the bright young eyes, Whose lustre sparkled through The sable fringe of Southern skies Or gleamed in Saxon blue! How oft I heard another's name Called in some truant's tone; Sweet accents! which I longed to claim, To learn and lisp my own!

Too soon the gentle hands, that pressed The ringlets of the child, Are folded on the faithful breast Where first he breathed and smiled; Too oft the clinging arms untwine, The melting lips forget, And darkness veils the bridal shrine Where wreaths and torches met; If Heaven but leaves a single thread Of Hope's dissolving chain, Even when her parting plumes are spread, It bids them fold again; The cradle rocks beside the tomb; The cheek now changed and chill Smiles on us in the morning bloom Of one that loves us still.

Sweet image! I have done thee wrong To claim this destined lay; The leaf that asked an idle song Must bear my tears away. Yet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep This else forgotten strain, Till years have taught thine eyes to weep, And flattery's voice is vain; Oh then, thou fledgling of the nest, Like the long-wandering dove, Thy weary heart may faint for rest, As mine, on changeless love; And while these sculptured lines retrace The hours now dancing by, This vision of thy girlish grace May cost thee, too, a sigh.

SONG

WRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO CHARLES DICKENS BY THE YOUNG MEN OF BOSTON, FEBRUARY 1, 1842