Chapter 2

I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, I look upon thy folded hair; Ah! while we dream not they beguile, Our hearts are in the snare; And she who chains a wild bird's wing Must start not if her captive sing.

So, lady, take the leaf that falls, To all but thee unseen, unknown; When evening shades thy silent walls, Then read it all alone; In stillness read, in darkness seal, Forget, despise, but not reveal!

STANZAS

STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone Is far, far sweeter unto me, Than all the sounds that kiss the earth, Or breathe along the sea; But, lady, when thy voice I greet, Not heavenly music seems so sweet.

I look upon the fair blue skies, And naught but empty air I see; But when I turn me to thin eyes, It seemeth unto me Ten thousand angels spread their wings Within those little azure rings.

The lily bath the softest leaf That ever western breeze bath fanned, But thou shalt have the tender flower, So I may take thy hand; That little hand to me doth yield More joy than all the broidered field.

O lady! there be many things That seem right fair, below, above; But sure not one among them all Is half so sweet as love;-- Let us not pay our vows alone, But join two altars both in one.

LINES BY A CLERK

OH! I did love her dearly, And gave her toys and rings, And I thought she meant sincerely, When she took my pretty things. But her heart has grown as icy As a fountain in the fall, And her love, that was so spicy, It did not last at all.

I gave her once a locket, It was filled with my own hair, And she put it in her pocket With very special care. But a jeweller has got it,-- He offered it to me,-- And another that is not it Around her neck I see.

For my cooings and my billings I do not now complain, But my dollars and my shillings Will never come again; They were earned with toil and sorrow, But I never told her that, And now I have to borrow, And want another hat.

Think, think, thou cruel Emma, When thou shalt hear my woe, And know my sad dilemma, That thou hast made it so. See, see my beaver rusty, Look, look upon this hole, This coat is dim and dusty; Oh let it rend thy soul!

Before the gates of fashion I daily bent my knee, But I sought the shrine of passion, And found my idol,--thee. Though never love intenser Had bowed a soul before it, Thine eye was on the censer, And not the hand that bore it.

THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE

DEAREST, a look is but a ray Reflected in a certain way; A word, whatever tone it wear, Is but a trembling wave of air; A touch, obedience to a clause In nature's pure material laws.

The very flowers that bend and meet, In sweetening others, grow more sweet; The clouds by day, the stars by night, Inweave their floating locks of light; The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid, Is but the embrace of sun and shade.

Oh! in the hour when I shall feel Those shadows round my senses steal, When gentle eyes are weeping o'er The clay that feels their tears no more, Then let thy spirit with me be, Or some sweet angel, likest thee!

How few that love us have we found! How wide the world that girds them round Like mountain streams we meet and part, Each living in the other's heart, Our course unknown, our hope to be Yet mingled in the distant sea.

But Ocean coils and heaves in vain, Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain; And love and hope do but obey Some cold, capricious planet's ray, Which lights and leads the tide it charms To Death's dark caves and icy arms.

Alas! one narrow line is drawn, That links our sunset with our dawn; In mist and shade life's morning rose, And clouds are round it at its close; But ah! no twilight beam ascends To whisper where that evening ends.

THE POET'S LOT

WHAT is a poet's love?-- To write a girl a sonnet, To get a ring, or some such thing, And fustianize upon it.

What is a poet's fame?-- Sad hints about his reason, And sadder praise from garreteers, To be returned in season.

Where go the poet's lines?-- Answer, ye evening tapers! Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls, Speak from your folded papers!

Child of the ploughshare, smile; Boy of the counter, grieve not, Though muses round thy trundle-bed Their broidered tissue weave not.

The poet's future holds No civic wreath above him; Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise, Nor wife nor child to love him.

Maid of the village inn, Who workest woe on satin, (The grass in black, the graves in green, The epitaph in Latin,)

Trust not to them who say, In stanzas, they adore thee; Oh rather sleep in churchyard clay, With urn and cherub o'er thee!

TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER

WAN-VISAGED thing! thy virgin leaf To me looks more than deadly pale, Unknowing what may stain thee yet,-- A poem or a tale.

Who can thy unborn meaning scan? Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now? No,--seek to trace the fate of man Writ on his infant brow.

Love may light on thy snowy cheek, And shake his Eden-breathing plumes; Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles, Or Angelina blooms.

Satire may lift his bearded lance, Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe, And, scattered on thy little field, Disjointed bards may writhe.

Perchance a vision of the night, Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin, Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along, Or skeleton may grin.

If it should be in pensive hour Some sorrow-moving theme I try, Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall, For all I doom to die!

But if in merry mood I touch Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips As ripples on the sea.

The Weekly press shall gladly stoop To bind thee up among its sheaves; The Daily steal thy shining ore, To gild its leaden leaves.

Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak, Till distant shores shall hear the sound; Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe Fresh life on all around.

Thou art the arena of the wise, The noiseless battle-ground of fame; The sky where halos may be wreathed Around the humblest name.

Take, then, this treasure to thy trust, To win some idle reader's smile, Then fade and moulder in the dust, Or swell some bonfire's pile.

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN"

IN THE ATHENIEUM GALLERY

IT may be so,--perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face, Poor devil as thou art.

That thing thou fondly deem'st a nose, Unsightly though it be,-- In spite of all the cold world's scorn, It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,--among thine elder friends Perhaps they pass for blue,-- No matter,--if a man can see, What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth,--that fissure in thy face, By something like a chin,-- May be a very useful place To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home, I know thou hast a child, By that subdued, domestic smile Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side, That cherub on thy knee; They do not shudder at thy looks, They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,-- A portrait once was there; It was thine only ornament,-- Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain; She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think What all her friends would say!

And often in her calmer hours, And in her happy dreams, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head In melancholy wise, And looks to meet the placid stare Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,-- Perchance I never may; It is not often that we cross Such people in our way;

But if we meet in distant years, Or on some foreign shore, Sure I can take my Bible oath, I've seen that face before.

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN

IT was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side, His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide; The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim, Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid, Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade; He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say, "I 'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, "I guess I 'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont,--and I will swim this here."

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam; Oh there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,-- But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Oh, what was that, my daughter?" "'T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water." "And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?" "It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's been a swimming past."

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Now bring me my harpoon! I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon." Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb, Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound, And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned; But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe, And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.

A NOONTIDE LYRIC

THE dinner-bell, the dinner-bell Is ringing loud and clear; Through hill and plain, through street and lane, It echoes far and near; From curtained hall and whitewashed stall, Wherever men can hide, Like bursting waves from ocean caves, They float upon the tide.

I smell the smell of roasted meat! I hear the hissing fry The beggars know where they can go, But where, oh where shall I? At twelve o'clock men took my hand, At two they only stare, And eye me with a fearful look, As if I were a bear!

The poet lays his laurels down, And hastens to his greens; The happy tailor quits his goose, To riot on his beans; The weary cobbler snaps his thread, The printer leaves his pi; His very devil hath a home, But what, oh what have I?

Methinks I hear an angel voice, That softly seems to say "Pale stranger, all may yet be well, Then wipe thy tears away; Erect thy head, and cock thy hat, And follow me afar, And thou shalt have a jolly meal, And charge it at the bar."

I hear the voice! I go! I go! Prepare your meat and wine! They little heed their future need Who pay not when they dine. Give me to-day the rosy bowl, Give me one golden dream,-- To-morrow kick away the stool, And dangle from the beam!

THE HOT SEASON

THE folks, that on the first of May Wore winter coats and hose, Began to say, the first of June, "Good Lord! how hot it grows!" At last two Fahrenheits blew up, And killed two children small, And one barometer shot dead A tutor with its ball!

Now all day long the locusts sang Among the leafless trees; Three new hotels warped inside out, The pumps could only wheeze; And ripe old wine, that twenty years Had cobwebbed o'er in vain, Came spouting through the rotten corks Like Joly's best champagne.

The Worcester locomotives did Their trip in half an hour; The Lowell cars ran forty miles Before they checked the power; Roll brimstone soon became a drug, And loco-focos fell; All asked for ice, but everywhere Saltpetre was to sell.

Plump men of mornings ordered tights, But, ere the scorching noons, Their candle-moulds had grown as loose As Cossack pantaloons! The dogs ran mad,--men could not try If water they would choose; A horse fell dead,--he only left Four red-hot, rusty shoes!

But soon the people could not bear The slightest hint of fire; Allusions to caloric drew A flood of savage ire;

The leaves on heat were all torn out From every book at school, And many blackguards kicked and caned, Because they said, "Keep cool!"

The gas-light companies were mobbed, The bakers all were shot, The penny press began to talk Of lynching Doctor Nott; And all about the warehouse steps Were angry men in droves, Crashing and splintering through the doors To smash the patent stoves!

The abolition men and maids Were tanned to such a hue, You scarce could tell them from their friends, Unless their eyes were blue; And, when I left, society Had burst its ancient guards, And Brattle Street and Temple Place Were interchanging cards.

A PORTRAIT

A STILL, sweet, placid, moonlight face, And slightly nonchalant, Which seems to claim a middle place Between one's love and aunt, Where childhood's star has left a ray In woman's sunniest sky, As morning dew and blushing day On fruit and blossom lie.

And yet,--and yet I cannot love Those lovely lines on steel; They beam too much of heaven above, Earth's darker shades to feel; Perchance some early weeds of care Around my heart have grown, And brows unfurrowed seem not fair, Because they mock my own.

Alas! when Eden's gates were sealed, How oft some sheltered flower Breathed o'er the wanderers of the field, Like their own bridal bower; Yet, saddened by its loveliness, And humbled by its pride, Earth's fairest child they could not bless, It mocked them when they sighed.

AN EVENING THOUGHT

WRITTEN AT SEA

IF sometimes in the dark blue eye, Or in the deep red wine, Or soothed by gentlest melody, Still warms this heart of mine, Yet something colder in the blood, And calmer in the brain, Have whispered that my youth's bright flood Ebbs, not to flow again.

If by Helvetia's azure lake, Or Arno's yellow stream, Each star of memory could awake, As in my first young dream, I know that when mine eye shall greet The hillsides bleak and bare, That gird my home, it will not meet My childhood's sunsets there.

Oh, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss Burned on my boyish brow, Was that young forehead worn as this? Was that flushed cheek as now? Were that wild pulse and throbbing heart Like these, which vainly strive, In thankless strains of soulless art, To dream themselves alive?

Alas! the morning dew is gone, Gone ere the full of day; Life's iron fetter still is on, Its wreaths all torn away; Happy if still some casual hour Can warm the fading shrine, Too soon to chill beyond the power Of love, or song, or wine!

THE WASP AND THE HORNET

THE two proud sisters of the sea, In glory and in doom!-- Well may the eternal waters be Their broad, unsculptured tomb! The wind that rings along the wave, The clear, unshadowed sun, Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave, Whose last green wreath is won!

No stranger-hand their banners furled, No victor's shout they heard; Unseen, above them ocean curled, Safe by his own pale bird; The gnashing billows heaved and fell; Wild shrieked the midnight gale; Far, far beneath the morning swell Were pennon, spar, and sail.

The land of Freedom! Sea and shore Are guarded now, as when Her ebbing waves to victory bore Fair barks and gallant men; Oh, many a ship of prouder name May wave her starry fold, Nor trail, with deeper light of fame, The paths they swept of old!

"QUI VIVE?"

"Qui vive?" The sentry's musket rings, The channelled bayonet gleams; High o'er him, like a raven's wings The broad tricolored banner flings Its shadow, rustling as it swings Pale in the moonlight beams; Pass on! while steel-clad sentries keep Their vigil o'er the monarch's sleep, Thy bare, unguarded breast Asks not the unbroken, bristling zone That girds yon sceptred trembler's throne;-- Pass on, and take thy rest!

"Qui vive?" How oft the midnight air That startling cry has borne! How oft the evening breeze has fanned The banner of this haughty land, O'er mountain snow and desert sand, Ere yet its folds were torn! Through Jena's carnage flying red, Or tossing o'er Marengo's dead, Or curling on the towers Where Austria's eagle quivers yet, And suns the ruffled plumage, wet With battle's crimson showers!

"Qui vive?" And is the sentry's cry,-- The sleepless soldier's hand,-- Are these--the painted folds that fly And lift their emblems, printed high On morning mist and sunset sky-- The guardians of a land? No! If the patriot's pulses sleep, How vain the watch that hirelings keep, The idle flag that waves, When Conquest, with his iron heel, Treads down the standards and the steel That belt the soil of slaves!

NOTES.

Page 6. "They're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm." The following epitaph is still to be read on a tall grave-stone standing as yet undisturbed among the transplanted monuments of the dead in Copp's Hill Burial-Ground, one of the three city cemeteries which have been desecrated and ruined within my own remembrance:--

"Here lies buried in a Stone Grave 10 feet deep, Cap' DANIEL MALCOLM Merch' Who departed this Life October 23d, 1769, Aged 44 years, a true son of Liberty, a Friend to the Publick, an Enemy to oppression, and one of the foremost in opposing the Revenue Acts on America."

Page 62. This broad-browed youth. Benjamin Robbins Curtis.

Page 62. The stripling smooth of face and slight. George Tyler Bigelow.