"y •>\'A^'. ^^ >^. ^^0^ K^ Hq. ^oV^ ^-^ ^ ^^-^^^ * .0 A. o ^oV" j,0 -A *J ' .0' ^O, .0* .'••% ^^ 1^ ^ t^ «'v ^ ' ^^m^* ■» ay *o\ o k/ ^sixK * •0.-' v-S.^ • -^'^ 4 o ^ , 'bV r'V VISIOIS AID YOICES JAMES STAUNTON BABCOCK BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH AUTHOR HARTFORD: PUBLISHED BY EDWIN HUNT NEW YORK: BAKER AND SCRIBNER. 1849. Y \ 'k^'^ Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1849, BY MARY ANN H. BABCOCK, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Connecticut. PRESS OF CASE, TIFFANY & CO., HARTFORD, CONN. CONTENTS. Pase. Biographical Sketch, ...... 1 Songs and Lyrics, 39 Winifreda, 39 Mary, 41 Spring Song, 43 Spring Song 45 The Young Shepherd's Song, .... 47 The Parting, 49 That Last Sweet Song, 51 Tliose Looks and Tears, 53 Song on tlie Prairie, 56 To a Young Girl playing in an Arbor, . . 58 Song — The Sweet blue clover, ... 60 Song— The Stars are in the sky, love, . . 6J Regret, 63 Consolation, 65 Song — Consoleraent, 66 To 68 Lament, 71 O be my grave on the Mountain's breast, . . 73 Ode to Capt. Nathan Hale, .... 75 IV CONTENTS. Page. Ode to Sleep, . .77 Strawberry Song of Indian Damgels, . . 81 Road Song of Earth's Travelers, . . .83 Songs of the Laborers, . . . c . 85 The Ploughman's Song, . . . . .85 Song of the Haymakers, ..... 87 Song of the Reapers, . . . . . .91 Corn Husker's Song, 92 The Miller's Song, 94 Complaint and Response, .... 97 Idleness, 98 Hidden Grief, 99 A Voice to the Young, 100 Faith, 103 Charity, . . . . . . . . .106 Kindness, 108 Love, 110 Freedom, 112 Death of the First Born, 115 Destruction of Pharaoh's Host, . . . 115 Descriptive and Meditative Poems. Evening voices of Autumn, . . . .119 To a Flower in a Solitary Place, . . . 122 The Deserted Dwelling, 124 To an Ottawa Girl, 128 Niagara, 131 Numa and Egeria, 133 CONTENTS. T Page. Juliet— Voice of a Spirit 136 To the Evening Star, 138 The Spirit's Identity, 142 The Old Year and the New, .... 144 Musings, 147 The Indian Summer, 150 The West Wind, 151 To Singing, 154 To the Piping Frogs, 156 Willimantic Water, 160 The Clouds, 163 The Harvest Moon, 166 The Snow Bird, 168 The Fairies' Migration, 170 An Indian Summer Day, 172 New Year's Morning,' 176 Trees 178 The Lilies of the Field 182 To the Whippowill, 184 To a group of Children, 186 Unheard Music, • • .188 Light, 191 Stanzas, 192 To a Sinking Ship, 193 Solitary Musings, 194 To my Soul, 196 Children in Heaven, 168 VI CONTENTS Paoe. Seeking a Name, 200 Time and Tide, 203 Sonnets. Reveries, ....... 206 Spring, — Evening, . . . . . 207 Spring, — Morning, .... . 208 Q,uestionings, 209 Fate of the Gifted, 211 Fragments 212 To my Verses, 214 L'Envoi, . . . • . . . . .215 Notes, . 217 PHiLosopmcAL Fragments, 223 ERRATA. Page 82, line 3 " 192, " 10 " 116, " 11 " 193, " 2 For dust read dusk. " need " meed. " ijeanings read yeardings. " Mid read Mad. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. James Staunton Babcock, was born in South Coventry, Connecticut, Nov. 7th, 1815. From his earliest years he discovered a serious and thought- ful turn, and an eager thirst for knowledge. His parents, who were plain but exemplary .persons, inspired him both by precept and example with the principles of genuine morality. His father's means and occupation as a farmer, did not permit him to give an education to his son of that extent and elegance which his genius seemed to demand. Necessity com- pelled the young man to learn the occupation of his parents, and his opportunities for reading were few and brief; nor was there, for his encouragement, a single learned or literary person in the circle of his acquaintance. The instinct of his nature, however, impelled him to improve to the utmost every trifling advantage ; nor did he suffer any book, paper, or pamphlet that accident threw in his way, to leave his hands without a thorough perusal. Even almanacs and old newspapers were laid by to be perused at the first respite from toil ; and once read, so excellent 2 a BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH was his memory, they were his in substance, and a great part often in the very words. He indulged but seldom in the common recreations of his equals, and then only in such games as require manly vigor and skill, displaying in these an uncommon power and aptitude ; but after a few efforts, as if satisfied with having shown his ability and companionable spirit, he would retire abruptly, and fall to reading, or meditation. Through the serious and always weighty substance of his thoughts, there gleamed a vein of the finest and most humane humor, which, to those who could ap- preciate him, gave his conversation an uncommon charm. ' His turn toward wit and humor discovered itself in his choice of reading, which showed a pref- erence for the marvellous, the humorous, and the uncommon. At the age of twelve years he had already collected and sewed into a volume, an hun- dred old almanacs, all of different dates, and had filled several large scrap books with curious and val- uable pieces of prose and verse. His inclinations led him early to history, and in this his acquisitions were great and remarkable. They evinced a breadth of apprehension and a sym- pathy with humanity, that foreshowed the philoso- pher and philanthropist of future years. In the discussion of general topics of morality, there were few who equalled him. Even at the age of twelve years, his reasonings were clear, concise and logical, and when interested and excited, even OF THE AUTHOR. 3 forcible and eloquent. His love of truth never suf- fered him to indulge an instant in a sophistry, nor could any one detect the same more readily in others. Amiability and a high self-respect, prevented his indulging in satire, which nevertheless he thoroughly understood, and could employ, if driven to it, with surprising power. Very early in life, he suffered a severe injury by the passage of the wheels of a wagon over his head and body, of which he continued to suffer the consequen- ces until his twenty-second year. The features of his face were crushed, and he was taken up to all ap- pearance dead. This was in his second year ; but it was the will of providence that his life should be spared, and himself become an example of virtue? and a consolation to all who knew and could revere his character. His mental precocity was in nothing more remarkable than in his perfect recollection of the circumstances of this accident. In his fifteenth year, the death of his father, and the dependence of a mother and her three younger chil- dren, threw upon him the responsibilities of a man ; nor did he fail to meet the duties of this new and difficult position with a manly and serious spirit. Though young in years he was strong in mind. Without procrastination or despondency, he engaged in every duty with a surprising cheerfulness, and accomplished astonishing tasks. By diligence, providence, and care, he not only supported himself and his mother's family, but within three years' time, repaired the 4 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH homestead at a cost of one hundred dollars, and paid a debt of a thousand dollars ; leaving the family and farm clear of debts and incumbrances. For a youth not yet twenty, without experience of the world, and in narrow circumstances, such evidence of forecast, practical skill and prudence, is certainly of most rare occurrence. In the eighteenth year of his age, having now placed himself and his family in a situation of com- parative ease, he was invited by an uncle, Mr. Chris- topher G. Babcock, to take the situation of a clerk in his store, in Franklin County, Virginia. Being on a journey of business, this gentleman fell ill of small pox. On hearing of his uncle's condition, without a moment's delay, the nephew mounted his horse, and rode oiF at night, and in the course of one day's jour- ney swam two rivers, one of them at a perilous rapid, and, disregarding the danger of contagion, and the warnings of the attendants, who represented to him the uselessness of exposing his life in the service of one for whom there was no hope, he gave himself en- tirely to the care of his uncle. To see one whom he loved and respected perish alone among strangers, was more than his generous nature could bear. He remained by his bed-side to the last, and rendered all the services demanded in such an extremity. The natural consequences followed this act of devotion. He fell violently ill of small pox. His constitution had not been prepared against the disease by vacci- nation, and again the independence of his character OF THE AUTHOR. 5 showed itself. He prescribed for himself, and with the aid of a faithful nurse, went safely through a vio- lent attack without the help of a physician. Soon after this accident he returned to the North, and prepared himself to enter college. Being already master of the studies of a common education, mature in intellect, and disciplined to habits of industry, Mr. Babcock acquired in less than a year, an amount of knowledge of the classics and mathematics which less vigorous intellects would be satisfied to have gained in three or four years. He entered the Sophomore class of Yale College, in the fall of 1837. In Greek he had no superior, and in all other studies of the course he discovered great aptitude and discipline of intellect. College honors were no temptation to his elevated and truly ambitious spirit, and his leisure was consequently devoted to an extended and thorough course of reading, which he continued in after years, and made to include all the best authors in English, Greek and Latin. His reading was immense and extraordinary. A student more thoroughly acquainted with English letters has probably never graduated at that University. Soon after graduating, viz. in the fall of 1840, he left home for the South, chiefly with a view of bene- fiting his health, already seriously impaired by study. He took up his residence in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and continued there about two years and a half as the teacher of a select school. Here, besides gaining an extended knowledge of the practical world, which 2* 6 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH such an occupation in such a locality is sure to bring, and securing the esteem and liberal patronage of many friends, it is believed that his residence here was highly favorable to his intellectual and moral devel- opment. The freedom and unreserve characteristic of southern society, with the intervals of leisure which separate their daily tasks, unlike the continuous industry of New England, and which is typified by the wide uncultivated spaces separating and sur- rounding each planter's home, are specially congen- ial to the growth of a reflective and independent spirit ; and from what appears in the productions of his mind at this period, it is evident that these advantages were not lost. Just before he left Tuscaloosa, he delivered a course of lectures connected with the subject of education, which elicited the surprise and admiration of all who heard them. These lectures were entitled " Truth Searching;" and the principal topics embra- ced in them were — the nature of Truth ; the conditions and method of seeking it ; and the various hindrances which lie in the way of its attainment. This grand and comprehensive field was surveyed from a philo- sophic or reflective point of view, and the whole was evidently a transcript from his own intellectual expe- rience. Being hastily written in a somewhat loose and unflnished style, adapted to a popular audience, they were deemed by him unworthy of publication, or even of revision. He returned home to New England in June, 1843, with his health greatly improved, and with the devo- OF THE AUTHOR. 7 tion of a lover returning to the object of his passion, threw himself anew into his favorite studies. After spending a few months among his friends at Coven- try, he went to New Haven to continue the course of study he had marked out for himself, and for which only a university could supply the means. In con- nexion with general literature and the modern lan- guages, he took up also the studies of Law and Med- icine, not, as he said, with a view of practicing either, but because he considered a knowledge of them ne- cessary to a perfect education. His views of a pro- fessional life were anything but mercenary or even common. Knowledge to him was truly an end rather than a means ; and he could hardly tolerate the idea of pursuing any branch of science for the sake of get- ting a livelihood. He once expressed to a friend his regret that there were in this country no genuine scholars like Coleridge, who pursued thought as a profession, in that wide circle including science, lit- erature, philosophy and theology. His own compre- hensive mental tendencies evidently showed that nothing short of this could satisfy the demands of his own mind. There was one department, however, of this circle, if it be not in truth its center, which more and more attracted him by its lofty and infinite rela- tions, and which, had life been granted him, would doubtless have proved itself practically as the calling of his life, — that of Divinity. But the mind which thus essayed the infinite ascent before it, had not estimated the strength of its finite 8 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH and already exhausted ally. His body, though nat' urally strong and robust, could not long hold out under the demands of such a spirit ; and he was obliged, after residing about eighteen months in New Haven, to return home and place himself under the care of a physician. Though seemingly aware of the nature and cause of his physical failure, and notwithstanding the serious and repeated remonstrances of his friends, he could not be induced utterly to abandon his intel- lectual pursuits, since, as he said, they had become a necessary element of his life, and that he must not at once and entirely forego them, even to prolong the life of his body. With that insatiable craving for truth which pursued him as a passion, he persisted thus until the fall of 1845, when his disease had so far prevailed over his mind, that the sight of a book, or hearing one read, would almost distract him. After trying in vain the effects of a short residence among some friends near the sea shore in Westerly, R. I., he returned home, to forget his own condition in perform- ing the last offices of affection to a beloved parent. His mother, whose strong mental character and ap- preciating fondness had, perhaps more than all other influences, fostered his own intellectual growth, died in December of this year, after a long and painful ill- ness. This event, though not unexpected, quite over- come him in his enfeebled state, and relaxed the few remaining ties that fettered his spirit to the earth. He had previously lost by death two sisters ; one only OF THE AUTHOR. 9 about six months before, the other during his residence at the South. During this winter he followed in a limited way the treatment of water-cure, in which he professed much faith ; and the following summer, by the advice of friends, he went to Brattleboro, Vt., and placed him- self for three months under the medical care of Dr. Wesselhoeft, but without essential benefit. The fine autumnal weather after his return seemed to revive and rally his failing strength ; and late in October he left home for the last time, in company with his sister, to visit some friends in Duchess and Columbia Coun- ties, N. Y. This journey and absence, which occu- pied about a month, gave him much pleasure and but little fatigue. But after his return home, and with the approach of winter, the disease, which had long lain concealed under the form of a nervous dyspepsia, now betrayed itself as consumption, by a settled cough and other unmistakable symptoms of that insidious and fatal malady. He continued to fail rapidly till the thirteenth of April, 1847, at about nine in the morning, when he expired — gently and almost imperceptibly, as if fall- iiag asleep ; " Calmly as to a night's repose, like flowers at set of sun." His reason and consciousness were continued per- fectly to the last, and his parting words, addressed to his brother and only surviving sister, were of heaven and eternal things. His patience, cheerfulness, and 10 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Christian resignation, throughout his long and severe sufferings were unbroken, and his only regret on leaving the world was that he might not live to com- plete one or two of the many plans he had devised and begun for the good of mankind. This brief biographical outline, it is felt, affords a very imperfect idea of the man whose earthly life and history was thus prematurely terminated. The true biography of persons like the subject of this sketch is unfolded within, and recorded in the thoughts, feel- ings and experiences of the mind, rather than in out- ward events. What Mr. Babcock was in his moral and social character, is known to the few hearts that were permitted to hold daily and intimate intercourse with him ; and the veil which guards his memory in these — the best shrine of departed worth — is too sacred to be here withdrawn. His disposition was marked by that retiring modesty and reserve peculiar to a delicate and sensitive mind, so that he rarely unfolded himself except to his most intimate friends. This, united as it was with a rare greatness and independ- ence of spirit which held aloof all alien spirits, ren- dered his character one that was little understood out of his own immediate circle. What he was as a scholar and thinker he did not live to demonstrate to the world. But as the nature of plants and animals may be learned from their innate tendencies as well as from their completed growth and history, so we may get some idea of what OF THE AUTHOR. 11 Mr. B. would have been in this respect from his wide intellectual tendencies, and from what he aimed to do rather than what he actually accomplished. Among other things, he contemplated and had in- deed commenced the work of a life-time ; viz. the preparation of a complete Etymological Dictionary. This was to contain, first, the primitive meaning of every word in the English language, with the origin- al foreign root whence it was derived ; secondly, its various secondary meanings with the history and mode of transition as far as could be ascertained; thirdly, all the synonyms of the language etymological- ly and historically traced, with the various shades of meaning accurately distinguished and illustrated by examples from classic authors. This vast undertaking, had he lived to complete it according to his original design, would have given to the world a work immensely needed and of incalcu- lable value ; and few men perhaps have lived, on the whole better qualified to undertake and accomplish it. As a Greek and Latin scholar he had few if any su- periors. Besides the English, (ancient and modei'n,) he was more or less thoroughly acquainted with the Saxon, Celtic, Gaelic, German, Italian, Danish, Swe- dish, Spanish and Hebrew languages. He had also commenced and made some progress in the Syriac, Arabic, Chaldaic and Chinese. His habits of study and mental application, as may be inferred, were un- commonly rigid. Self-reliance, devotion and indom- itable perseverance were not less conspicuous in his 12 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH intellectual than his moral character, and nothing could hold him back from any mental pursuit till its end was attained. These qualities, so essential yet perilous to the scholar who would accomplish aught worthy of himself and his age, were, in one sense, the prime cause of his premature death : a sad and significant fact, yet not the first in the history of mind, which it were well to ponder. What Mr. Babcock was as a poet may be learned from the productions herewith published. With re- gard to these however, it is important to consider that they exhibit only one aspect of his mind, and that an imperfect one. Most of them were hastily thrown off, and left without that revision which a maturer judgment and a more prudent regard for personal fame would have supplied. They are given to the public by his own dying and reluctant consent, and in accordance with the wishes of his few surviving friends, as fragmentary and broken symbols of a mind whose yearnings after the beautiful and the true, as here recorded, prevailed only by bursting the golden vase and snapping the silver cord, which with- held the idea from the reality. It is perhaps impossible to gather from anything which remains of Mr. B's writings, a perfectly cor- rect estimate of his intellectual character. His mind was of that intuitive and spontaneous order which shows itself most truly when least conscious of effort and premeditation ; when drawn out occasionally, in the freedom of social and unrestrained conversation. OF THE AUTHOR. 13 His conversationa] powers were indeed remarkable, engaging all who had sympathy enough to elicit them, with the sweei, continuous and ever accumu- lating flow of his ideas. In this respect he might be compared, if the comparison would not seem auda- cious, with one of the most wonderful of modern ■ poets and thinkers, Coleridge, whom he strongly re- sembled in the cast and quality of his mind, and who next to Shakspeare was his favorite author. Like him he viewed all things through a spix'itual medium ; the reflection or emanation, the poet would say, of the spirit within, but quite as truly, perhaps, the real irradiation of the Spirit without, which only the spir- itual mind can discern. The ideal world with its in- spirations of love, of truth and of beauty, was not a remote realm separated from the here and now^, a play-ground of the fancy into which he occasionally sallied to relax and recreate his spirit, but the world in which he truly lived and wrought, and in whose light and air the actual world was evermore bathed. He had a sympathizing fondness for the writings of Mrs. Child, and her charming " Letters from New- York," read to him by his sister during the long win- ter evenings, a few weeks before his death, con- tributed gi'eatly to his delight. This delight was in- creased by his finding so close a correspondence be- tween many of the ideas here so beautifully express- ed and those he had habitually entertained and dis- coursed of to his friends, during the last three or four years of his life. 14 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH His religious character corresponded with the ele- vation and comprehensiveness of his mind. Without publicly professing his religion, he yet manifested its reality in a life and spirit constantly actuated by strict Christian principles. His views on religious subjects were in the truest sense enlightened, comprehensive and liberal. He was too much of a thinker to be a dogmatist ; too catholic to accept or impose mere opinion for faith, or make the forms of the understand- ing the measure and test of piety in the heart ; at the same time too conscientious and wise to be indifferent to truth, least of all religious truth. He was an ar- dent admirer of the late Dr. Channing, and had read with pleasure and profit the writings of Swedenborg, but he could not be said to have adopted the faith of either. His love of the Scriptures was supreme over every thing derived therefrom, and grew with him to the last. These ' living oracles,' read without note or comment, were his constant companions during the last months of his life on earth, and by their guiding light, received in the simplicity of faith, it is believed, he saw and shaped his departure into the ' life ever- lasting.' One regret was expressed by him during his last illness, which, echoed as it is by all who know its import by realizing his worth, may be regarded as a voice of warning addressed to all sons of genius who may come after him. He lamented when it was too late the infatuation which led him in the ardor of his intellectual pursuits to disregard the premonitions of OF THE AUTHOR. 15 disease, and to indulge the cravings of the mind at the expense of the body, and so of life. He feared he had done wrong by this fatal transgression of the divinely appointed laws of human existence ; a wrong, alas ! which he could not repair, and which the world is again left to mourn over. It is a wise and true faith that in every event some moral truth or lesson is conveyed. If the import and effect of this one more sacrifice to intellectual passion shall be to convince scholars of the duty of recognizing the existence and attending to the health of the hody, there will be fewer victims, and more masters, of the too often fatal gift of genius. The prose writings of Mr. Babcock, of which he left many scattered manuscripts, are mostly unfinished fragments or ' studies' of thought, on literary and philosophical subjects. A few of these are given at the end of the volume, as specimens merely of his habit and tone of thinking. In person Mr. Babcock was five feet ten inches in height, with a straight and well proportioned figure, a complexion naturally fair, but which in later years became ' Sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.' He had light brown hair, grey hazel eyes deeply set, and at times intensely expressive, a slightly aquiline nose, and a remarkably high expansive forehead. His age at the time of his death was thirty-one years and five months — a life short indeed if meas- ured by the number of its days, but if measured by 16 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH thoughts and feelings, and the progress of the mind in wisdom, he may truly be said to have lived long. He died in the maturity of his strength, just as he was about to reap the first fruits of his mild and assid- uously cultivated genius ; too early perhaps for fame, too early for the age he might have adorned, but not too early for the higher and serener career of pro- gress on which he has already entered. His harvest is not temporal but eternal. — Reqtiiescat in Pace. The one to whose fraternal fidelity the task of edit- ing this volume was intrusted, and from whose me- morials the foregoing sketch is compiled, before com- pleting the duty assigned him by his brother, has been called to follow him into the grave. The only surviving sister, the last of a family of seven, yet lingers behind ; and while waiting her turn to join those who have fallen one by one around her, sends forth this final memorial as a sacred duty which she owes to the beloved dead, and the discharge of which is almost the only tie that binds her to the living. A just regard for the claims of private affection seems to require some brief supplementary notice of the brother whose memory is thus sacredly and insepara- bly blended with that of the other. Charles Joseph Babcock was younger than his brother by three years, being born on the 2.5th of March, 1819 ; and remained without those advantages of a liberal education which the elder achieved. Of OF THE AUTHOR. 17 an open, confiding and affectionate temper, he early attached himself, mind and heart, to the guiding genius of his brother, who as we have seen, from his fifteenth year supplied the place of father and guar- dian to the family. Under this genial influence, and encouraged if not inspired by his example, he soon manifested a strong passion for intellectual pursuits, and a decided poet- ical tendency. The character and extent of his read- ing, and the specimens of his poetry which remain, indicate a literary taste and capacity far beyond his meager educational advantages, and which, under more favorable auspices, might have ripened into re- sults worthy of a permanent fame. The cast of his mind was less purely intellectual than that of his brother ; and there is mingled in his effusions a deeper tone of practical sentiment — that quality which springs from subjective feeling rather than the objective and creative imagination. His character also was nat- urally more social, cheerful and communicative ; possessing more in common with his kind, and there- fore more easily read and appreciated. His brief history is soon told, and in many respects is almost the counterpart of that of his brother. During the most of his life he remained at home engaged in those manual employments which his sit- uation devolved upon him ; assiduously improving meanwhile the scanty opportunities of intellectual improvement which he could save or achieve from the daily routine of agricultural toil. He was thus in a 3* 18 BIOaRAPHICAL SKETCH truer sense even than his brother, self-educated, and that to a degree which many do not attain by passing through high literary institutions. For the last three or four years of his life he devoted his leisure seasons to the business of teaching : and he was engaged in this employment till a few weeks before his death. The loss of a mother, two sisters and his only brother, in quick and sad succession — the last bereavement the sorest of all — quickened, by the piercing grief they occasioned, the seeds of consumption already sown or hereditary in his system ; and he survived his brother but a little more than a year. He died at Westerly, R. L, on the 10th of July, 1848, aged 29. As none of the poetical productions of the younger would appear to much advantage beside those of the elder, a single specimen only is subjoined, which, both for its subject, and the earnest pathos and spontaneous simplicity of its style, may appropriately close this imperfect sketch. A LAMENT. BY C. J. BABCOCK. Thou art cold in death, my brother, My loved, my only one! And oh ! for me no other Can do as thou hast done. Known but to be beloved. Best loved where known the best ; A star of light that moved Serenely to its rest. OF THE AUTHOR. 19 Thy soul seemed ever teeming With thoughts and truths sublime ; A light upon thee gleaming Beyond the fields of Time. When weary oft and fainting Along life's rugged road. Of higher things acquainting Thy words new strength bestowed. No more I'll know thy teaching, Nor hear thy thrilling voice. Which to my soul deep reaching Would make it all rejoice. Closed are those eyes forever, And stilled that faithful breast; But lovelier wast thou never Than now in lasting rest ! I know 'tis wrong to mourn thee. Thou heavenly spirit flown ! But oh ! I'm very lonely ; For thou wast all mine own. I stand and still keep gazing Upon that marble brow, Where mind its mansion raising. Shone forth — Where is it now ? In higher, purer dwelling, A glorious, heavenly sphere, Thee angels now are telling Truths all undreamed of here. One last fond look ere leaving, And the earth is o'er thee thrown ; 'Tis done — and, deeply grieving, I feel I'm now alone ! 20 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH The following Communication, written by a class- mate and intimate friend of Mr. Babcock, and his associate in Tuscaloosa, was published in the " Inde- pendent Monitor," a paper of that City, soon after his death. It is appended as supplying some interesting details and a partial filling up to the outline already given. To the Editor of the Monitor. You have doubtless, in common with others, been grieved to hear of the death of our mutual friend, James S. Baboock. During his residence of several years in Tus- caloosa, Mr. B. made many acquaintances and friends who would naturally wish to hear something of him since he left us. He died in his native town of Coventry, Conn., on the 13th day of last April, of the disease with which he had been long threatened. Supposing a residence in the south had so far removed a predisposition to consumption as to render his return home safe, he ventured to return in the year 1843, and it is probable he would have regained his health entirely, could he have denied himself all inter- course with books. In his senior year in college, (1840,) he had left his class, never, as was then supposed, to re- turn; but relaxation restored his health, and he was able to graduate that year. Our friend died a martyr to study, and to his intense intellectual habits. He was a purely intellectual charac- ter. All his pursuits and pleasures were mental. He had made greater attainments, acquired more various know- OF THE AUTHOR. 21 ledge, and had a more insatiable thirst for knowledge than any young man I ever knew. He was an entire devotee to science and letters, an ardent student of history, and an especial enthusiast in the literature of the Germans. He was as much enamored of philosophy as of poetry ; some- times giving himself over to the fascinating power of the Muses, and sometimes entirely engrossed in the subtilties of metaphysics. Having been an intimate friend of the subject of this sketch, and knowing him to have been what has been described, and much more — for to these he added the best qualities of the heart — the writer hereof desires not only to be indulged in the partiality of a friend, but to pay a trib- ute to a somewhat rare character, an original thinker, and a man of genius. His inability to do justice to such a character will be overlooked by those friends and admirers of Mr. Babcock, who, fully appreciating, will understand the difficulty and dehcacy of the task. While he resided in our city, he passed but little of hie time in general society. He was of a peculiarly retiring and modest disposition, and though possessed of fine social qualities, he was fond of solitude. In those intimate cir- cles where best known and appreciated, not only in Tusca- loosa, but elsewhere, he was looked upon as a young man of much promise, and as destined to become eminent in the world. His friends were accustomed to speak of him not so much as a man of talents, or of extensive attainments, but as one peculiarly gifted and endowed with fine and rare qualities and powers, such as might fit him to shine in certain fields of hterary labor, hitherto new and unex- 22 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH plored, at least, in our country — to attempt things untried. All wiU remember the astonishment he created by the lec- tures he delivered just on the eve of his departure from Tuscaloosa. But those who knew him more intimately were not surprised. It was a wonder that such a man could live contentedly, so long in one place, without devel- oping himseh". Many could not understand how a man of such rare mind, such power, such varied scholarship, so teeming with great and noble thoughts, and such glowing, burning words of eloquence, could pass quietly among us, from day to day, for years, with no ambitious endeavors to see his own superiority recognized. Our deceased friend felt and philosophized upon all this. As much as he valued true appreciation, he cared not for ephemeral fame. He often, with his intimate friends, spoke of himself as haviag ceased to be ambitious, and although but about thirty years of age when he died, he used to date the ambitious period of his life ten years previous, which itself is evidence that he had lived faster and to more purpose than most men, young or old, and had reflected much upon the hoUowness and insufHciency of earthly greatness. The lectures above named he delivered less from choice than a sense of duty, and to gratify a few friends. He chose a theme of the loftiest character — " Truth-seeking," and it will be re- membered that the lectures were characterized for their high moral tone, their pure, patriotic, and philanthropic sentiments. But splendid as the effort was, he was dissat- isfied with it. He had the highest standard for himself, and seemed to scorn all common efforts. You could not criticise him with more severity than he did himself, and OF THE AUTHOR. 23 he had a very humble opinion of his own productions, and yet, with a sufficiently vivid impression of the arduous task of producing what may live after us, his highest aspiration, doubtless, was to become the author of such a creation, a poem. It is probable he was labor iug to fit himself for such a work, as the one great labor of his life. His career is now cut short, and his earthly work, for wise purposes, is finished. Mr. Babcock has left many fugitive pieces of poetry, some of which, exquisitely chaste and beautiful, have been published in the ' American Review,' since his death. The Editor, Mr. Colton, who was his intimate friend and class-mate, and who alas ! died also in the last month, pre- facing certain of his poems, himself a poet, speaks thus of his brother minstrel. " The quaUties of his poems are peculiar. They are built somewhat upon antique models, and seem also.to have been affected in a measure by the author's German stud- ies; but their eminent simplicity and truthfulness will comimand attention in an age whose poetry, like its social morality, is growing to be artificial, shallow, and false in sentiment." The following is one among the poems refer- red to : CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 'Twas a wise faith, meet and touching, Of the manly Northern Mind, That, in Heaven, to little children, Is the fitting task assigned, 24 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Still to scatter the young blossoms Over earth, by every thing, As the spring's returning season Conaes with beauteous visiting. Stooping light from flowery pathways, Strewed they hill and mead and plain — Soft and guileless, as the sun-cloud.s Shed their offerings of rain. And to all men toiling under. Welcome came their gifts of love ; For like birds from sky-ward singing, Brought they tidings from above^ Gladdening Earth with blessed foretaste, As her mortal hours went by, Of that Land where flowers, unfading. Spring and bloom immortally. Having been favored with the perusal of several letters from Mr. Babcock, written back to Tuscaloosa after he left us, and having obtained permission to make extracts there- from, I cheerfully embrace the opportunity of so doing. All his correspondence is exceedingly interesting, and far more worthy of publication, together with his various mis- cellaneous writings, than much which the partiality of friends too often gives to the public. Our friend had an eye for nature, and indeed for whatever is to be seen by the traveler, and, as will appear, he had a disposition to appropriate all he saw. To pass over a most entertain- ing epistle, describing his northward tour in the summer of 1843, via Mobile, New Orleans, the Mississippi, the lakes, and eastward, in which he descants of a thousand OF THE AUTHOR. 25 things which ordinary tourists might have deemed unwor- thy of notice, the following is selected, written at home, Coventry, Conn., Oct. 14, 1843. It speaks for itself as the index of a busy mind, and an ever teeming imagination. " After a long delay I again take up the pen. I have just returned from a coasting voyage, not by water, but on the land, along the water, from Stonington, ' even unto' Bos- ton, and ' the region round about,' making my tour on horseback. My object was more for curiosity than visit- ing. I visited the sites of some of the scenes of Indian his- tory and warfare, the two Pequod forts, one the seat of their great Sachem Sassacus, the other where their power was crushed under Capt. Mason, both in the town of Gro- ton, where the Groton Monument was lately erected over the Mohegan Chief Uncas, and where the great fight with the Narragansetts took place. "I visited the Dighton Rock and the so called ' Old Mill,' the supposed remaining memorials ol" the Northmen, the first discoverers and colonists of our country. They are supposed, and the supposition rests on veritable ancient records in MSS., to have found the coast and made settle- ments on the lands of Massachusetts and Rhode Island, about the year one thousand, under Thornfins, which name, in Runic letters, I think, can be pretty clearly made out on the Dighton Rock. A skeleton in armor was dug up near Fall river a few years ago, evidently not an In- dian, which I was curious to see, but unfortunately it was burned up, with a whole museum of Indian and other an- tiquities, in the late fire at Fall River, (July 4th,) an irre- 4 26 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH parable loss to our country and history ! If you ever take the trouble to read the great work of the Copenhagen Antiquarian Society, ' American Antiquities in Danish and Latin,' by Prof Rafh, or the critique ol'it, ' the North- men in New England,' by J. T. Smith, or even a review of said work by Everett in the North American Review, you will see the subject discussed with great learning and logic. Longfellow, you know, has written a ballad, ' The Skeleton in Armor.' Mount Hope, King Philip's seat, is worth along journey to see. I went to Plymouth, the old Rock where our fathers and mothers planted their first footsteps. Part of the top of tliis rock has been broken off, and is now to be seen enclosed in a neat iron railing, with a green yard, in front of a newly erected building, ' Pil- grim's Hall,' the object of which structure is to commem- orate the event. Within are deposited various relics and memorials, a library of some antique and rare books, old pamphlets and papers, besides several portraits of some of the distinguished personages of those old days — the Winthrops, and Carvers, and Standishes, but above all, in the front hall is a very large painting, representing the Landing Scene — admirable ! The snowy base, dry, broken-limbed trees, the icicled rocks, the little boys and girls, well muffled and cloaked and mittened, yet drawn up and shivering and blowing their fingers ; the manly, heroic forms of Winthrop and Standish, holding confer- ence in the foreground with one or two Indians ; the half wondering, half shrinking gazes of the little ones at those strange forms, on a strange shore ; the lovely and frail female forms as they look on, leaning in pensive trust and OF THE AUTHOR. 27 resignation on the sturdy shoulders of their protectors, seeming to utter in thought, through a!l hardships and dangers, where tliese are, there is home! But I can go no farther in describing what miglit task a connoisseur and ask a volume. I went into the Boston cemetery, Mount Auburn, worth almost all to be seen, save the Boston Mon- ument, which last is built of Quincy granite, fifty feet square at base, tapering gently to the top, two hundred and twenty feet ; a plain shaft !' as said Mr. Webster in his speech last June, and the way he brought out those two short simple words, is said to have been astonishing, electrifying, mightily sublime. At Cambridge I visited the Law and University libraries ; something above old Yale, and always will be so long as Boston spirit and wealth re- main proverbial. " I am now at home, dipping somewhat into German and reading Shaftsbury. I intend spending the winter in New Haven, studying general literature and the modern lan- guages. I should like Tuscaloosa better than any place in the United States I know of, take it all in all, but for one thing, the dearth of books." In a letter ii-om New Haven, dated January 17, 1843, he writes : " I have just arrived here and got settled, and shall remain three or four months, perhaps all next summer. Among other things I shall study law, not with a view to practice it, but because it is necessary to a perfect educa- tion. I have been a student-slave for these six or seven 28 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH years, and a teacher-slave some three years, now I mean to be a free man for this one year at least." Notwithstanding these resolutions of freedom, his subse- quent letters show that he continued to be as much a ' slave' to study as ever, and his health was evidently suf- fering from it, though slow to acknowledge it to himself or others. In April of the same year he writes from the same place : " The spring has come in earnest; birds singing, frogs piping, and skies smiling. I wish I felt better to en- joy it all. I have studied a good deal this winter, a good deal too much for my health, and am going home to re- cruit. You in the ' Sunny South,' have had spring for a long while. 1 have strolled up East Rock to read Shaks- peare under the pines, and anticipate much pleasure in doing the same this summer. " Shakspeare grows with me every year. I have read about all our old tragedies, and have yet a still higher idea of Shakspeare from the almost immeasurable distance he leaves them behind. I have been reading the German dramatists, — Goethe and Schiller. Wallenstein of the latter and Shelley's Cenci, are the greatest dramas since Shakspeare. Wallenstein is one of the grandest things of human genius. But there is comparatively little invention in it. The materials were ready rough hewn to the artist's hand, and the hero one of the most dramatic in history. You have read Schiller's thirty years war. Did you ever read Carlyle's life of Schiller 1 If not you have a treat in store. Schiller ! the high minded noble artist, and a self- martyr to poetry. I might tell you of a thousand matters OF THE AUTHOR. 29 of interest here. We had a fine concert last night, the Hutchinson family performers, ' real Yankee singers from the old Granite State.' They sing again to-night ; to-mor- row, Junior exliibition, and the Philadeipliia brass band, who perform also next Tuesday night, so^that between that and the Hutciiinsons, we shall be as vocal here in the ' city of elms,' as a nest of nightingales." It would be easy to multiply quotations from his letters, of equal interest and beauty to these. One could not go amiss in making extracts, for all he wrote was in the same tone and style, sometimes, indeed, playful and humorous, generally grave, always useful, and for the most part, upon the most serious and important subjects. He always shows a deep interest in his Tuscaloosa Iriends and ac- quaintances, mentioning many of them by name, inquiring of their welfare, and speaking kindly of all. He loved to hear of their prosperity, and was distressed at the adver- sity of any. To learn the death of any one of them was very painful to him. On one occasion he says : " 1 am very sorry to hear of the death of Professor Sims. He was a particular friend of mine. No doubt he shortened his days by study. Last spring I met him while on his northern tour. * * So he has passed and we are pass- ing all — like flowers we wither and like leaves we fall ; and we do not, do not, lay the solemn lesson enough to heart. I was also grieved to hear of the untimely death of Miss B. . ." In another letter dated July 4th, 1845, he thus laments the death of another friend: 30 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH " It grieves me deeply to learn the death of young Por- ter, another of my Tuscaloosa friends. He is another victim, poor Joseph ! to too much study, too much ' plod- ding and poring study,' as a great many others have done, and toill do." The rest of the same letter is in a melan- choly strain. ' ' My health is extremely delicate. I may not live to see another summer, though there may be many seasons yet in store for me. My case must soon take a turn. I am shortly going to the sea-side. I feel some renewed energy from the glorious mom of this glorious anniversary. You have health. Health ! the blessing I have lost ! perhaps forever, in this world. But to know that those I esteem and love have that which I lack, half makes up my loss. A true knowledge of this our mysterious existence — of the Being who has made and preserves all, will give us resig- nation to all that comes to pass. The difference between the shortest and longest of human lives, dwindles to a point, a nothing, compared with our eternal diiration. I will trouble you no more about my health, and am almost ashamed I have said so much." His disease was pulmonary consumption, of the slow and gradual type, and, as is often the case of sedentary and intellectual men, with that disease, he complains of the difficulty of disengEiging his mind from too much and too deep and abstract reflection. At different times he speaks thus, "I have not enjoyed the summer as much as I could have wished ; thinking has become a sort of craving appetite with me, almost a disease. I am more OF THE AUTHOR. 31 unhappy in trying not to think, than in thinking." "I have thought too much and wrought too Uttle the last six or seven years." "Indeed, some bustUng, busying occu- pation is the one I should have taken immediately on leav- ing college." " What value is any thing in the world, or the whole world itself, without health. The impressive language of scripture may apply with almost equal force to body as soul. What shall it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his health 7 I have never felt so much as now the value of a ' sound mind in a sound body.' Study as I have made it, is a weariness to the flesh, and I must take a short summer ramble for recreation." Yet in the very next sentences he would launch out upon some of his favorite and mind-taxing topics, discuss- ing his studies, seeking to gratify some new and transient curiosity, and laying schemes for future improvement. " When I was in Tuscaloosa, I saw in Dr. M's. library some of the works of Swedenborg. He made little or no account of them, and his son told me that one or two of them had been torn up for waste paper. Perhaps others may share the same fate. Now, if you would call on the Doctor and procure them for me, (I presume he would part with them,) I have a curiosity to read some of them, since they have created such excitement." " Will you not ask Mrs. E. of Tuscaloosa for one of her eyeless fishes from the Mammoth Cave, several of which she has preserved. Tell her some men hereabouts doubt the visible and tangible verity of fishes without eyes, not- 32 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH withstanding tlie asseverations of respectable eye-wit- nesses." " I hope, some day, to be enabled to make a year's ram- ble, at my leisure, over our own country, and a two year's tour in Europe. The time may never come ; but it has been with me a long and lovely dream. The idea of being, all our earthly pilgrimage, cut off, from the sight even, of so many beautiful persons, places and things, is to an earnest and inquiring mind, peculiarly mournful. But it must be the lot of a great majority of our race, and it is well that so few are qualified by nature or cultivation to feel the privation." "I am agreeably situated at present, in the bosom of nature, amid the limited, yet pleasant variety of a rural and somewhat rustic life. I work in the garden and field in the morning, ramble through wood and pasture and by brook-side in the afternoon, studying nature, birds and blossoms. Botany and Ornithology ! two most interesting sciences — birds and flowers, the beautiful, ethereal, inno- cent and half unearthly creatures and things — and old ac- quaintances and playmates from childhood and school-day time. We do not, my dear friend, commune often, sm- cerelyand simply enough with the works of our Creator, either to heartily iaiow, or love, either the one or the other ! Let us turn over a new leaf in our lives and in God's great and wonderful book. 1 wish you would study one or the other of these delightful sciences, and we would mutually communicate our discoveries, and living so far apart, our different fields of observation would prove OF THE AUTHOR. 33 the more useful and interesting. I do sincerely wish you would resume your botany, and begin with an exact sys- tem of the prairie flowers. What a fine field is open be- fore you ! and what pleasant rambles after the imprison- ment of an oiBce. You could do this with an absolute ad- vantage to your other pursuits." " I wish, I hope, you may study German. So much philosophy and poetry will open to you in that noble lan- guage, the twin- sister of our own. I have been reading Schiller, the greatest of German dramatists. His ' Maid of Orleans' and ' William Tell' are glorious. ' Wallen- stein' you know, from Coleridge's excellent translation. ' Mary Stuart' and ' Don Carlos' are excellent. Nova- lis, that ' sweet flower of philosophy and poesy so early lost,' is a favorite of mine. I have just made a transla- tion of his ' Hymns to the Night.' I know nothing like them in German, or any language — so full of faith and fer- vor, romantic, pathetic, mysterious. These Hymns were written shortly after the death of his beloved, and shortly before his own. Possibly I may publish them. You know, however, I am very fastidious in these things. Any work should not be published till a man's life is ended, for a whole life is necessary, in happy intervals, to com- plete any truly great work. I am now, too, at odd spells, translating Novahs' ' Sacred Hymns,' and wish I could give you an idea of some of them, one of which I send you, as I know you will excuse the translation. 34 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH TO THE VIRGIN. I see in thousand pictured things Thee, Mary, shaped so lovingly ; But none of all, thine image brings, As oft my soul takes glimpse of thee. ' I only feel, the world's unrest, Since then, waves o'er me like a dream. And a Heaven unutterably blest, Doth ever in my spirit seem." •» It will be kept in mind that while he appears thus en- thusiastically given up to these pursuits, he was bearing up against that most dispiriting disease, consumption, and that the last three or four years of his hfe passed in a very- desultory manner, in a constant struggle between a desire and an inability to study. He would bury himself in the college and other libraries at New Haven till completely prostrated, and then take a "ramble," or go home to " re- cruit." The more sombre portions of his letters have been avoided as too sad and melancholy, and but one more ex- tract, referring to his health, is made. It needs, however, no apology to have spoken so often of the health of our deceased friend. The disease of the invalid becomes a part of himself, his very being, and the labors and achieve- ments of the literary invalid, the book-worn and thought- worn student, acquire a two-fold interest from the pain and suffering through which they are wrought out. OF THE AUTHOR. 35 " My hand and heart fail me while I write. I have al- ways had a large share of resolution, perhaps too much, but I feel my hold on life very weak, and growing weaker every day. I have thrown aside all study, all reading, only for amusement. I have taken all possible precautions and exertions to regain my health, yet 1 feel I have lost strength and flesh and spirits. Indeed, I have no doubt I have been slowly declining ever since ray last collegiate year. I feel now that my residence and sedentary mode of life at the South did me no essential good. But I will not cast too gloomy forebodings. The Being who made is able to save, to whose will I have long resigned myself. I hoped, my kind friend and comrade, to see you once more in the land of the living, but I have little hope of it now. You would find me somewhat different from what you have ever known me, and I think, could we commune but for one short hour, you would learn better my true nature than ever. But I am tmable to write more at present." The subject of this sketch did not live to make a public profession of any religious faith, but his conversations and writings evince that he died a Christian. He often ex- pressed his conviction of the great truths of Christianity, and that the Saviour of the Avorld was the sole reliance for future salvation. With all his reading he did not neg- lect the sacred volume. ''But the Book which I hSiVe studied above all others is the Bible. I have read it all tlirough in the last year — much of it, especially the New Testament, several times. 36 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. I am surprised that these sublime writings are so much neglected, even by those who profess to believe their truth. I have lately read and compared the four Gospelsi the Acts and St. Paul's Epistles. If such morals, such a religion, such faith, hope and charity, were ever thus set forth, so purely and sublimely, I would like to know by whom, save by Inspiration ?" Our friends die and we bury them amid grief and tears, while the busy world around feel little sympathy and care little for our lamentations. We become so accustomed to this that we mourn their loss in silence, neter taxing the world for sympathy. It is well, perhaps, that it is so. There is generally a private circle, where, to speak of their virtues and their good deeds, is no intrusion. But whenever a man, distinguished for rare attainment, ex- alted worth, great genius, adding to these the highest principle, and the most expansive charity and benevolence, devoting his life and energy to the most exalted pursuits and purposes, — whenever such a man dies, it is right to chronicle his virtues. He is entitled to a place in our mem- ories and our affections, if only as an example. N. S. VISIONS AID YOICES OF SOIG. Sacred Song was lent to sing thee Patient trust for toil and tears. Fruits and flowers divine to bring thee Borne from fields of other years. SONGS AND LYRICS. WINIPREDA. Fair Winifreda ! loveliest one That happiest thought of love might frame, Thy spirit like an inner sun Sheds through thy form celestial flame, While in each motion seems to run The charm of thy sweet Saxon name. ^ ' Kind peace and winning gentleness' In all thine air, that charm divine No foreign favorite can express, — Lenora, Julia, Rosaline, Cornelia, Helen, Jane, Therese — Sweet names, yet none so sweet as thine. 40 ■WmiFREDA. How brightly by the soft winds shook, Thy curling silken tresses swing, Like moon-light down a pebbly brook, Or wave of bright bird's sunny wing : But what can match that tender look, More sweet than any earthly thing ! How gently from thy lips out-break Those mild words melting while they thrill, Like summer wind at morn's first wake, Or song-gush o'er a starry hill ! Pure spirit-tones, for whose dear sake. Years gone, we pause to listen still. MARY Sweet, simple tenderness of tone That dearest English name doth hold, Bringing rich peaceful feelings flown, And fair young fancies fresh from old, Like flocks to the heart's evening fold. Now full and lulling steals the sound, Like summer brooklet's busy trill, Or waters warbling under ground, When fields in slumbering noon are still. And peace sweet Nature's heart doth fill. Now soft the gush as falling snow, Or shower where rainy April shines. Or small bird's chant which faint winds strow At sun-down through a ridge of pines. When Earth with Heaven in one combines. 5* 42 MARY. A type of cheerful earnestness, Of gentle soul and faithful eyes, And beauty born to win and bless, Within that pensive music lies, That tells the heart its sympathies. A pledge of sinlessness and youth. An earthly form that whispers Heaven — In artless looks and virgin truth. In all the grace to woman given, To draw us whence our sin hath driven. A glimpse of one the heart would strain To its fond self till self it grew ; A face so full to soothe all pain, To look each greeting or adieu. And sun life's home its sojourn through. These symbols, dear, are in thy name, Thyself the substance all, and more ; Which seeing who our choice could blame ? That name and self in heart we store A prize to love and ponder o'er. SPRING SONG, Now daisies grow by the grassy hills, Cowslips through meadows wide, And the soul of love all Heaven o'erfills, And songs the woodland side. We'll go and see them laugh and blow, We'll go and hear them sing ; To me with thee how sweeter flow The early sweets of Spring. Oh, when thy own soft voice I hear. How sweet the wood-birds sing ! ^Oh, when I meet thy blue eyes clear, How fair the skies of Spring ! Thy loveliness can beautify Whate'er it doth o'ershine ; How blest the sunny hours go by. Sweet maid, since thou art mine. 44 SPRING SONG. Thy locks are like the young dove's wing, Like watery stars thine eyes ; Thy lips two red clouds hovering By the gates of evening skies. Then we'll away t© the daisied hills, And the cowslip'd meadows wide ; For the soul of love all Heaven o'erfills. And sonofs the woodland side. SPRING SONG. Now the young May shows her loveliest mien, And the air waves sweet and soft, The skies are blue, the fields are green, And merry birds sing aloft ; The flowers are coming o'er the plains, And the clear brooks warbling play. And afield go forth the happy swains, Through all the long, fair day. And blessedly comes back to me A gush of seasons gone, When the heart all love, bloomed fresh and free As morning o'er the lawn ; Those days, dear Flora, when we went Green hills and meadows by, And the tall trees fresh in the cool winds bent, Or laughed in the moony sky. 46 SPRING SONG. Then every thing enchanting seemed, Each thought wore Beauty's dress, We looked into the world and dreamed Of boundless happiness ; And plans of joy and whispered sighs, Oft side by side we made, And more, thy gentle face and eyes Than books or earth, conveyed. Those hours are gone, those days are o'er, And we are wiser grown, But bliss like that our hearts then bore. No other days have known : Seek fairest clime, come sweetest spring, Gain all earth's fame or gold, — Still nought so blest as thoughts that bring, Those innocent hours of old. THE YOUNG SHEPHERD'S SONG. The sweet Spring from her southern chamber Comes smiling bashful like a bride ; Her breath is balm, her locks are amber, And dance the bright hours by her side ; The clouds drop soft their veil of shadows, And young winds lead her by the hand, And young girls beat the posied meadows, But mine's the fairest of the band. The trees their blossom'd arms are lifting. Rocking their dear birds evermore ; And Nature every sweet is sifting, And asks but love for all her store ; My blooming heart with fondness greater, Holds her, my bird, my Isabel ; Fairer, and all as kind as Nature, And loved — -did she but know how well ! 48 THE YOUNG SHEPHERd's SONG. I mark in clouds celestial faces, And each her visage seems to wear ; In town, or field, or desert places. Her presence wraps me like the air ; From all earth's blithe and beauteous creatures, Her smile I see, her voice I hear. In all I meet her fairy features, And lovelier still doth all appear. Oft when I sit, my lamblings keeping, And noon sleeps on the rocks and hills, And drowsiness o'er all comes creeping, I watch with thought that never stills ; Gr when day's amber light is westing, Or by the banks of starry stream, Or on my bed the long night resting. Still she is all my thought and dream. When shyly from her cottage bower. Her glance steals on me passing by. What worlds untold of love and power Seem opening from her face and eye ; O, when the dear maid shall receive me, Then merrier ditties will I sing. No hardship through the year shall grieve me. To me will all the year be spring ! THE PARTING. [amobkan.] HE. I GO, yet dear, thine image blest Shall be my strength and shield ; Love is the garden-dream of rest, But life a work-day field. SHE. Ah go — the pledge is given — though fain I'd hold, it may not be ! But bring that image back again, With thine, unstained, to me. HE. Yes, that I'll wear, a glass wherein All things shall lovelier grow, To keep the soul from worldly sin, And manlier for its woe. 6 50 THE PARTING. SHE. And my lone home, in calm and storm, Past hours shall sweet o'erfall, Their thought a spell, and one dear form The master of them all. HE. We part — such is our lot — 'tis best, True hearts with love grow strong, And look to gain that ' garden-rest,' Though sundered far and long. SHE. I feel it all — so sad, yet true ; Time long between will run ; But should earth ever keep us two, Trust heaven shall make us one. THAT LAST SWEET SONG, That last sweet song you sung, love, That old heart-touching lay, Oft in my heart hath sprung, love. Through many a weary day, And sung itself all young, love. Far, far away. The clasp thy full hand gave, love, This heart hath kept since then. And feeling, grew more brave, love, It knows not how or when, — To thee alone a slave, love. A lord with men. The parting tear you shed, love, My heart a pearl hath kept ; The farewell word you said, love. Hath never, never slept — Sweet pledges oft o'er-read, love. And sweetly wept. 62 THAT LAST SWEET SONG. But the touch thy lips did lay, love. Most dear in this heart hath lain, And the look that won to stay, love. Those two no art could feign ! And I've come them all to pay, love. Nor part again. THOSE LOOKS AND TEARS. Those looks and tears when we did part, A living fount have been, A fount of youth within the heart. To keep it fresh and green : O'er life's dry waste in sorest need That fount hath fed like rain. And when all fails it still shall feed. Though meet we ne'er again. Thy gentle presence fills mine eyes, Thy spirit fills my mind ; And my heart swells like the high wide skies, Round thee and all mankind : And higher still the nearer thee. Each holier impulse thine ; Would to thy soul one form might be What thou hast been to mine ! 6* THE INDIAN LOVER TO THE WEEKOLIS.2 Weekolis, sweet Weekolis, Thy evening voice I hear ! The moon of birds and flowers hath come, And planting time is near. Weekolis, sweet Weekolis, Thou tellest of fish in streams. And wild fowl by the opening lakes. But none are in my dreams. Weekolis, sweet Weekolis, The hunt came small to-day. The hand was weak upon the bow, The heart was far away. Weekolis, sweet Weekolis, Thou singest like my love ; But thou art shy and so is she. She shuns me through the grove. THE INDIAN LOVER TO THE WEEKOLIS. 55 Weekolis, sweet Weekolis, Go by her cabin sing ; She'll list to thee though not to me, Dark maid — the timid thing ! Weekolis, sweet Weekolis, Thy heart sings happily ; Thy little mate is kind and true, — Would I were bird like thee ! SOiNG ON THE PRAIRIE, The Prairie ! The Prairie ! Where life and love are free, And skies are clear and earth is kind, There, there be the home for me ! Where the wilderness is all ablaze With its thousand-blossomed green, And the bright air swims with the song of birds. And the hum of bees, between. The Prairie ! The Prairie !^ Where the long bright summer hours, The west wind makes his playing ground. And dallies with the flowers, — The fair young flowers, the sinless ones, That smile and know no care ; And he kisses dry their dewy cheeks, And tosses their golden hair. SONG ON THE PE.AIEIE. 57 The Prairie ! The Prairie ! Whence rises, where sinks the sun, Where darliening o'er the wavy slopes. The dropping shower-clouds run : Where bold the forest headlands shoot. And through thin groves out-gleam Far reaching vistas strange and fair, As thoughts in a poet's dream. The Prairie ! The Prairie ! Where the broad Heaven fills the sight, Looks down with face so soft by day, And stars so grand at night ; With one to look and live and love, And love like all things free. The skies so fair, the earth so kind, O, such be the home for me ! TO A YOUNG GIRL PLAYING IN AN ARBOR. The mellow winds are gently swinging, Grass, bush and tree, And tender birds to heaven are singing How blest they be : There sits a maid and swings, and sings Old mellow airs and tender things. The winds her long bright curls are tossing Like silver flowers. And gleams and shades her face are crossing The blue noon hours : And nature seems to love and lull A soul so young and beautiful. And there, perhaps, the pure one dreameth Bright days, and long. And earth, and life, to her but seemeth One summer song : The light, the song from fairer sphere Brought with her, and remembered here. TO A YOUNG GIRL PLAYING IN AN ARBOE. 59 Sweet child ! I would not show the morrow To thee so blind ; O, might I bear the load of sorrow Thou soon must find ! Till thou in better climes redeem The bliss which here is but a dream. S ONG. The sweet blue clover Blows o'er the lea, Blue skies bend over, And whisper. Thee. As night-dewed blossom Enthralls the bee, Holds thy sweet bosom My soul with Thee. From casement streaming, O'er street and tree, Those eyes they're dreaming,- Are they ? — of me. With stars of even I'll come and see, Star of my heaven. Sweet maiden, Thee. SONG. The stars are in the sky, love, And the faint winds in the tree, And the moon goes o'er the shining wave As goes my heart to thee. My heart is all with thee, love, Its thoughts are all thine own ; Afar or near, thy presence dear Like light is round me thrown. On the fields the shadows rest, love, Like forms of vanished years. And through the calm deep silentness Sweet sounds my spirit hears. Sweet tones of memory throng, love, That far off scenes recall, And thy celestial accents rise, So tenderly through all. 7 62 SONG. They whisper to my soul, iove, Of better days to be ; And care and fear and grief are gone, While thinking, love, of thee ! REGRET O HAD our day of youth been one, Those sweet and sinless hours, What tender ties our hearts had spun, How knit their opening flowers ! Life's sinless hours, when hope and love Wei'e all the bosom knew, Ere time hope's sunny web unwove, Or dried love's summer dew ! A charm had then our pathway cheered Thro' life's drear emptiness, One mutual heart still more endeared, Were all else comfortless ; When change or death turned others chill, Its same warm beat to hold, A deep love-spring o'er running still Sweet waters as of old. 64 REGKET. Rare bliss — not ours f a harder fate Our paths assunder turned, And long for that one missing mate Each restless soul hath yearned ; And each unblest must still search on Its kindred self — in vain ; One chance there was, and that is gone Never to come again ! CONSOLATION. We'll not grieve for the days that are gone, When love was all our gold, Ere youth to care sweet peace did pawn ; Those bright days still the heart bears on, The heart that all doth hold. And the innocent heart and right. Makes all things fair and pure ; Sees something in coming years as bright, Finds ever a ray in the darkest night, Some good each ill to cure. SONG. — CONSOLEMENT, Say, dearest, why art thou so often complaining Of pleasures that pass to return not again ? From the loss of the old still new pleasures we're gaining, And relish more purely whate'er may remain. Our joys, like our moments, are fickle and fleeting. Yet we feel by their absence their value more dear: Could hearts that ne'er part feel the rapture of meeting ? Were affection so strong, if it loved not in fear ? How all earthly treasures the fonder we cherish, So frail when they're fairest, so certain to go : But they leave purer joys on the dust where they perish. Green memories there cluster and hopes freshly blow. CONSOLEMENT. 67 Were our wishes ne'er crossed, were our friends ever round us, Had enjoyment no death and affliction no birth, The spirit would tire 'neath the dull chain that bound us. Ah, could love look to heaven if it lost not from earth ? Woes remembered are joys, and the night hour of sorrow Sheds sweet dews, refining the heart where they fall ; Then we'll learn from the past, and in faith wait the morrow, Make most of the present, and draw good from all. TO " How soon a love will print a thought that never may remove." Earl Surrey. When thy bashful eyes first bended Innocence of gaze on mine, Gleams of higher life descended, And the world became divine. Hope with knowledge past united, All that youth and beauty tell, And the young soul saw, delighted. Earth a mystic sign and spell. Countenance in beauty dreaming, Soft eyes hung with fringed shroud, Like the watery sunset streaming, Through the fringe of evening cloud. TO 69 Summer winds o'er flower banks blowing, Brought the wavings of thy hair, Form and gesture nobly showing, What the look immortals wear. Maiden mild, and yet so queenly ! Word and act so well became ! In thy spirit dwelt serenely. Confidence and maiden shame. Like none else, yet unsurprising Shone the look thy features wore ; Seemed the soul but recognizing * Something known and loved before. One sweet meeting — long since is it ! How hath proved the world to thee ? Could thy young soul then forevisit What its after days should be ? Hath thy gentle spirit beauteous, Found new love and wedded rest ? Dwells it loving still and duteous, In the home its presence blest ? TO Stands thy hope's fair architecture ? — Is it crushed and lying low ? — So asks vainly fond conjecture, And would give the world to know ! Shape of light ! whose spell hath lorded O'er my captive soul so long, — Could the memories there recorded Be recorded in my song ! Ah ! the tales thy sweet lips ventured, In my ear may ne'er be told ; But my heart their music entered, With enchantments manifold. And thy slow tears shed at leaving, Did thy wishful thoughts reveal, Resignation calmly grieving, Loss no other love might heal. Though I knew we then must sever, That thou never mine might be. Yet flows life more lovely ever. In the bliss it caught from thee. LAMENT Young victim of the spoiler's dart, With ceaseless grief I pine ; The shaft went through thy tender heart, But ah ! 'twas left in mine. I think of thee, I think of thee, In many a pensive hour. When backward thought goes wandering free, Through memory's Eden bower. I think of thee when fresh new Spring Laughs from the shining sky. And merry birds are on the wing. And gentle gales blow by. I think of thee when dark woods moan, And winds wail round the door ; — So dreary pines the heart all lone, For those who come no more. 72 LAMENT. I think of thee when silent snows Fall through the wintry sky, And deep the stillness of repose On every thing doth lie. I think of thee when eve's pale star Drops softly down the west ; So calmly to thy home afar, Thy spirit sank to rest. I think of thee in blessed dreams, When the moon looks on the hill ; I hear thy voice in the falling streams, When the nightly winds are still. I hear thy voice in the starry air, Like an angel's far sweet strain, Till waked by the sounds of earth and care To toil and grieve again. Farewell ! farewell ! I'll think of thee. And my dark path travel on. Till my task be done, and that bright land won Where thou, loved one, art gone. O BE MY GRAVE ON THE MOUN TAIN'S BREAST. O BE my grave on the mountain's breast, In its green wild still and lonely, And nought around or o'er my rest, The sky's blue temple only. Away from earth, where the stars of night Their vestal fires are burning. Still nearer to that world of light. Home of the spirit's yearning. Then lay me on the mountain top. Where the summer clouds may hover. And the gentlest dews of evening drop. And the free winds wander over. There first shall come the golden day. Last go with pale declining ; And the fair moon make her longest stay, And hang with brighter shining. 8 74 O BE MY GRAVE ON THE MOUNTAIN'S BREAST. So make my bed on the mountain's breast, There sweet shall be my sleeping, With the stars, kind watchers, o'er my rest, In Heaven's own holy keeping. ODE TO CAPT, NATHAN HALE.^ Full stern was his doom, but full firmly he died, No funeral or bier they made him, Not a kind eye wept, nor a warm heart sighed, O'er the spot all unknown where they laid him. In Freedom's cause at her earliest call, To the field of strife he hasted, And dared for her sake, and suffered all, E'en her bitterest draught he tasted. "But one life, my country, to give for thee!" Was the last the high spirit hath spoken ; Breathing that deep wish so earnestly, And its earthly bonds were broken ! He. fell in the spring of his early prime, With his fair hopes all around him ; He died for his birth-land, ' a glorious crime,' Ere the palm of his fame had crowned him. 76 ODE TO CAPT. NATHAN HALE. He fell in her darkness — he lived not to see The morn of her risen glory ; But the name of the brave in the hearts of the free, Shall be twined with her deathless story. ODE TO SLEEP. Yff' oSava; wSay'is Yttve S'aXySMv EuaJif rifiiv sXdoLs Etiajtov svaicov ava^. k.t. X. Soph. Philoct. 827. Spirit mild of mystic slumber ! Now with wizard spell lay by Galling cares and loads that cumber, Soothing sense and sealing eye. Come in blue and starry mantle, Wave thy downy-feathered wing, Wave with touch all soft and gentle. O'er the world's each living thing. Brains with thought in hot beat throbbing, Lids by light long filled and pained. Hearts o'ercome with joy or sobbing, Nerves unstrung or toil-o'erstrained. 78 ODE TO SLEEP. Come with lull of brooklets flowing, Or lone break of distant seas, Rain-drops, wind-sighs, far herds lowing, Lisping leaves or humming bees. Come with scent of piny highlands, Or balm groves of spicy zone ; Come with breath of flowery islands, Whence the evening winds have blown. Come with raven hair rich braiden From the moonshine's watery beams ; Hush my couch, sky-hovering maiden ! Sing me all thy happiest dreams. Dreams through cloudy gateways fading To a high and beauteous clime. Dazzling vistas faint foreshading Scenes beyond the scenes of time. For to thy sweet hand are given All the treasures of the night, Keys that ope the gates of heaven On the wearied earth-worn sight. ODE TO SLEEP. 79 Come, day's bed with flowers o'er-strewing, While thick dusk the East-land fills, Stay, till morn's young breath o'er-blowing, Wake to life the warbling hills. From the Orient, tireless rover ! Veiled behind the shadow'd sun, Thou long realms hast wandered over, And their daily tasks are done. Houseless bands in deserts tenting, Men in cot or bustling town, Prayerless, or the past repenting, Vexed or calm, have laid them down. Thou hast walked the princely palace, Feast and dance and bridal train, Sweetened sorrow's bitter chalice. Soothed the bed for limbs of pain. Stilled gay feet in revel chamber, Won fair creatui'es from their play, Birds, that wing or beasts that clamber, Air or steep as free as they. 80 ODE TO SLEEpi Thou hast roamed o'er savage ridges, Where great sti'sams their wells inurn, Listening, paced earth's outmost-edges, Lonesome, where no hearths upburn. Blessings thine reach all God's creatures, High or humble, wild or tame ; Shiftless Fortune changes features. Thou, sweet Friend ! art still the same. Dove of peace ! pure virtue serving, Bride unwooed of sinless heart I Ne'er may bosom undeserving. Buy with gold or win from art I STRAWBERRY SONG OF INDIAN DAMSELS. Our wigwams are over the hill, With the fair lake shining by, Where yon red clouds are gathering Like warriors in the sky. And thither with song we'll go When the first dews cool our feet, And the moon in the east riseth slow, And the whippowill's voice is sweet. Moon, queen of our dances so long. The season of berries she brings, And birds of the tenderest song, And blossoms and beautiful things : O'er our cabins soft beaming serene. Where friends wait our coming to see, — Look yonder ! they're out on the green. Good welcome and cheer there will be. 82 STEAWBEKEY SONG. With berries our baskets are full, And our burden 'tis pleasure to bear ; To the hot day the dust cometh cool, And the fresh winds give life to the air. Sing, sisters ! as homeward we wend. And our merry feet keep the way. Soon our toil the dance round our cabins shall end For the luck we have had to-day. ROAD SONG OF EARTH'S TRAVELERS. We are marching on ! we are marching on The paths our lot or choice hath drawn, With Truth behind and Trust before, And Pain beneath, but Promise o'er. Stern foes, fair tempters on each side, . Yet shield without and strength within, And faithful friends unterrified, — Right, wise to rule — Will, strong to win. We are toiling on ! we are toiling on. To rest with dark, and start with dawn, Down smooth green vales, up mountains steep, O'er shifting Land and stormy Deep. Though dark the wave, and hard the way, 'Twill better keep in mind the goal ; O'er gloomy nights dawns brighter day. From sterner strife grows stronger soul. 84 EOAD SONG. On to the tomb ! On to the tomb ! Where all find rest and, still there's room : We'll bear each other's loads, for we Neighbors at death, through life should be. So shall our wayfare easier hold, More long for peace, more short for pain ; Sweet kindness yields an hundred fold. With blessings sown and reaped again. We come no more ! we come no more ! We seek our lost ones gone before ; When all are found what need we here, To love in grief and hope in fear ! Some better home must be, to keep Things whispered oft the spirit's ear, Where souls rejoined their promise reap, See every earthly mystery clear. Though near shuts down life's narrow sky, Broad lands we know beyond must lie ; Though blank and dim in Day's full glare, Fair worlds of light are shining there. SONGS OF THE LABORERS, "Homo sum, niiiil bumani a me alienum puto." — Terence. " I am a man, in man I take a part, The good of man is ever next my heart." THE PLOUGHMAN'S SONG. Now the budding woods grow green around, And the fields grow green below, New voices wake from the melting ground, And the fair skies freshly blow ; The birds arise from their wintry dream, And daisies unto the sun, And we'll afield, my jolly brisk team, 'Tis time that our work begun. The crop-grounds over we tug along. Ere the sun on the hill-top stands, And sturdy and strong we whistle our song. And strike out the long straight ' lands.' 9 SON&S OF THE LABOKERS. How smooth the opening furrows run ! And the warm rich light comes down ; No balk or stay for stump or stone, Till the evening trees look brown. Each turn the black stripes wider grow, And the green lands narrow fast ; Strain the beam, stout team ! and bend the bow, Brave working is soonest past : We'll bait at noon with rest and feed. There's plenty in mow and stall ; Ye shall not lack a friend at need As ye've been to me through all. Hard, toil we out the teeming spring. And trust to friendly skies. To shelter and nurse with their rainy wing When the staff of life shall rise : — See ! the shadowy shower goes over the hills. One side to the full bright sun. And her nurselings earth with sweet food fills. How they drink and smile each one ! SONGS OF THE LABORERS. 87 The gold we dig is the golden corn, Bright plough-share our mining spade, A full-stored crib our Plenty's horn, And such is our task and trade : By the sM^eat of our brow we gain our bread, Grudge lords nor wealth nor land ; Would that for man each wiser head Toiled as well as our hard strong hand. SONG OF THE HAYMAKERS. First Chorus, — the Mowers. — [Men.] Now stoutly lay the shining scythe Along the grassy sea ; The meadow larks are singing blithe Above the morning lea. Our blades we fling with whistling swing, And the tall green grass drops low, And thick behind the swaths we string, — ■ So bravely on we go ! 88 SONGS OE THE LABORERS. And now the field doth narrower seem, 'Twill all be down by noon ; How little did the young flowers dream That they must fall so soon ! See ! far and near the grass lies sere, And withering strown the flowers ; So Time mows life year after year, So fall its happier hours. Second Chorus, — the Spreaders. — [Boys. We shake the dewy heaps and strow The locks to the sun and air ; Around us warm the soft winds flow, The weather how fresh and fair ! Through the sunny day we'll make the hay, So toss it brisk and strong, And full of glee our hearts shall be As the grasshoppers in song. Third Chorus. — Both. Now the noon-blaze beats, and the locusts scream Shrill from the windless trees, And the zigzag fences sweltering gleam, And the bright sky rings with bees. SONGS OF THE LABORERS. 09 Our limbs are laid 'neath the tall high shade, Where the small birds merrily sing ; On soft cool seat our meal how sweet, And our drink the living spring. Fourth Chorus, — the Rakers. — [Men and Maidens.] Swift o'er the field with rake we pass, The hay is dry and brown, And rustles like a fresh trim lass In her silken Sunday gown. Our windrows stout we lengthen out Across the smooth shorn lawn ; Breathes through the calm Heaven's winnowing balm, Like a sweet thought felt and gone ! But see ! yon black cloud rising high. Hark, the thunder's deepening swell ! Strain hard ! — but now 'tis passing by. It clears, and all turns well. The haycocks grow in many a row, Like a tented plain so still ; Then bend, lads, bend, our task we'll end Ere the sun goes down the hill. 9* SONGS OF THE LABOKERS. Fifth Chorus, — the Pitchers. Our forks we ply, nor slow nor scant, The round heaps up we throw ; And see, like some huge elephant, The full wain waddling go. With many a load our barns are stowed, And our stacks rise thick and tall, Now the final one his crown puts on, And now 'tis evening-fall. Sixth ChoruSf—All. The day is gone, our work is done, Now we may sing or play, And rest us till another sun Comes back his summer way. Let winter blow, and fall the snow, Or drive the wind and rain ; Our snug-stalled herds for food may low, And shall not low in vain. SONGS OF THE LABORERS. 91 SONG OF THE REAPERS. Afield, brisk swain, — the harvest plain Waves yellow locks for the reaping ; The lark sings shrill, and over the hill The eye of morn is peeping. Up ! up ! nor lag, with bottle and bag, And our reap-hooks on our shoulder, We'll trudge it through the chilly dew, And care not an 'twere colder. In the new cool day, while the west winds play? We'll work till the noon-tide swelter, Then by shady spring, while the crickets sing, We'll rest in the woodland's shelter. O'er wastes and flood on plains of blood, Let men reap gold or laurel ; Our wealth is the yield of the harvest field, Nor bought by wound or quarrel. Bright sickles are the swords we wear, The march — our jolly bustling. Our fields of arms the fields of our farms, And their shocks — our sheaf-shocks rustling. 92 SONGS OF THE LABOEERS. Our triumph-car of well waged war Is the wain that laboring trundles, With the golden spoil of our glorious toil, To our temple rich in bundles. Then come, brisk swain, the harvest plain Bends its yellow locks for the reaping ; The lark pipes shrill, and over the hill The eye of morn is peeping ! CORN HUSKER'S SONG. .» (Air, — " Auld Lang Syne.") Now, lads, draw round the big corn ring, And fetch your girls so gay, And we will work, and we will sing, And sing the time away. We'll sing and think of this our glee. For Auld Lang Syne, When many an after year comes round, For Auld Lang Syne. SONGS OF THE LABORERS. 93 All in the sweet October night, All 'neath the starry sky, — The Moon looks on and laughs so bright, And lights us with her eye. She lights us with her eye, my love, Yet not so bright as thine ; White swims yon little cloud above, Thy shoulders whiter shine. Now briskly strip the robe so white From off the long bright ear. The stack is large, the work is light. For many hands are here. The stack is large, thanks to the soil. And Heaven so kind that gave, And lends the sweet reward to toil In Plenty's golden wave. My dear, we've through the green corn beat, Now will we husk the dry, And you shall make the pudding sweet, Then let the sharp husks fly. 94 SONGS OF THE LABORERS. They fly like snow — and swelling fair, The yellow corn heap gleams, While wake our songs the silver air Out from its glimmering dreams. And soon we'll end, and give our cheer. And draw a merrier ring, Sing songs, tell tales, and kiss our dear More happy than a king ! THE MILLER'S SONG. With headlong bound, comes the water down. In its noisy and reckless play, .Mid the tall wheel flings out his arms like wings. And stoutly he toils away. Now high, now low, his broad hands go. As they catch up the tumbling wave ; It foams and it frets — he groans and he sweats, Man's brawny and patient slave. SONGS OF THE LABORERS. 95 And hoarse within, his workmen din In their wild yet measured ways, Up, cross, and round, with a boistei'ous sound, Their master each one obeys. In its dizzy whirl, like a dancing girl, See the burring stone spins round. And fast though few, the grains drop through, — The bright heap soon is ground ! So day and night, with tireless might, The master he's grinding on, Thro' sun and storm, in cold and warm, Till his aged strength is gone. By his sweat free shed, he earns his bread, Which other mouths must fill ; He asks no meed, he has no need, And he drudges and drudges still. So night and day, life's organs play, And the laboring pulses bound ; So on to its close, the heart-stream flows, . And rolls life's wheels around. 96 SONGS OF THE LABORERS. And Time doth stand, with glass in hand, So fleeting its bright sands run, One — one — they pass, yet soon the glass Is out, and our life is done. Then like the mill, our duties still Let us ply till our task shall end, Nor seek self-gains by our toil and pains. But a bettei'ed world, our friend. The master heart, which stirs each part, May the spirit of kindness move ,• Like the bright stream free, let our impulse be The gushing of human love ! LYRE OF THE OLDEN TIME, COMPLAINT AND RESPONSE. COMPLAINT. The swift hour-glass the speedier spendeth, The nimble stream first meets the main ; And the quick pulse the earlier endeth, Fine hearts like harps break first in twain ! RESPONSE. The sand though swift the brighter fleeteth, And purer runs the nimble rill ; And the quick pulse the warmer beateth, Fine hearts like harps more sweetly thrill. COMPLAINT. Death first will find the soonest flower, Nursed on the dew-green breast of spring ; And hearts the earliest in their hour, Are ever first to feel his sting ! 10 98 LTEE OF THE OLDEN TIME. RESPONSEi The spring-ripe flower grows sweetest, whitest, Its time all youth, then drops away ; And early heart bears burden lightest, Life's prime, without its sad decay. IDLENESS. Keen frost full soon the dull stream freezeth. And weeds unworn wastes mould or moth ; So the slow foot old age first seizeth, And cankereth thought in sluggish sloth. Time when most used the longer stayeth, And time most spent the faster flees ; Rest to unrest the soul bewrayeth, But the mind's action works its ease. LYRE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 99 HIDDEN GRIEF. The rose-pent worm the blossom eateth, Rust on the steel its nurse doth prey ; So pines the heart which care secreteth, So sadness will its keeper slay. The fountain whence no clear stream creepeth, Is but a stagnant pool, or froze, And the poor heart no tear that weepeth, Hath naught to wash away its woes. The dew of grief sheds its own healing, Drained from the soul to give it rest ; Sorrowing is sorrow's sweetest feeling, Even in its sharpest anguish, blest. A VOICE TO THE YOUNG. " Macte, nova virtute, puer : sic itur ad astra." Young man on life's highway parting, Needs faithful guide and friend thy soul ? Weigh then well thy choice at starting, But ever most thyself and goal. Thousand paths stretch round to lure you, Each best, best walked — all find the end ; Each the great have trod before you, Once young — your steps to cheer and mend. Keep a heart gtill pure and holy. Above all earthly treasures best ; Pure heart ! which of all things solely Can fear no ill and find true rest. VOICE TO THE YOUNG. 101 Be not doubtful or dejected, Though men misdeem, neglect or wrong j By thyself be thou respected. The world will own thy worth ere long. Time shall find thee work and wages, Large field for fame if thou but fill ; Look to come the Golden Ages, Then count each moment golden still. Souls dwell here to love and labor. And happier, greater thence to grow, — Love that makes all men its neighbor, And labor working good from wo. Bear sweet childhood's better feelings. With manhood's bravery, all thy days ; So shall light from Heaven's revealings Make plain, life's stern and steepest ways. By thought's cool springs oft retiring. Thy soul shall wash each earthly stain, Clear its sight, take draughts inspiring. To feed and nerve its march again. 10* 102 A VOICE TO THE YOUNG. Rising stay, your nation raising, Vanguard and trust of coming years ; — See, in long dim lines they're gazing, O, turn not all their trust to tears ! Things sublime your soul are calling, High spheres, rich crowns — all yours to win ; Charge so great betray npt, falling To wed the earth and gain — its sin. In the vineyard of your Father, Last laborer, most your need may be ; All time aids your toil, then gather The fruits of immortality. Man, God's noblest work to render Still worthier God, be thou still found ; And to view His fuller splendor, Await thy bliss where thou art bound. FAITH, "Faith touching all things with hues of Heaven." — Hemans. Faith, the end and the beginning, Of all knowledge 'neath the sun ; All that earth can give, though winning, Man must rest in thee when done. Higher truths lie still beyond us, Thought ne'er reached nor tongue hath told ; Faith makes plain the dark and wondrous, New things finding in the old. Highest things must be mysterious. Bound the wisdom of the wise ; But the earnest soul and serious Where it may not reach, relies : 104 FAITH. Feels the highest still the surest, Measure whence all else is shown ; Finds the teachings sweetest, purest. Whispered Faith, in thy love-tone. Prophet, thou, on Time's last mountains, Whence eternal things are seen, Whence out-flow those living fountains. Making this bleak world so green. Calm Assurance, strong yet lowly, Source of thought and deed sublime. Bringing down the blest and holy, Rising over Death and Time : Light to Learning's labored blindness. Cheerful strength to doubt and toil, Warmth of sympathy and kindness, Breeze of Peace to life's turmoil : Childlike trust and heart-expansion. Blooming Love for all mankind : — Till the new soul grows a mansion For all loveliest shapes of mind. FAITH. 105 On life's hard road tired and fainting, Thou dost bring us food and balm ; Still of better days acquainting, Where our hearts will soon grow calm. Open Worlds of bliss and glory, Spreads behind life's clouding veil : — Brother, think what lies before thee. And thy heart shall never fail. CHARITY, Come, Spirit of the loftiest creed From God revealed to suffering man ; Friend to our every ail and need, Each purest wish, and noblest plan. Her tender hand best heals each wound, By sin, or piercing sorrow given, Doth lift the wretched from the ground, And win the wanderer back to heaven. Her soul clasps all like God's bright sky, O'er-breathing life and beauty warm ; All hope and blessedness her eye, All light and peace her angel form. With kind reproof in truth sincere, She checks, redeems her erring child ; And in the smile her features wear. All warring hearts grow, reconciled. CHARITY. 107 Hates sin, yet loves the sinner still, — Forgiveness, grace, her vengeance all ; Till sweet as spring, repentance fill Hearts humbler, holier from their fall. We're wanderers all from Right and Truth, By doubt and passion drawn astray ; And pay with sadness, pain, and ruth. The hours we left the heavenly way. We're brethi'en joined in weal or wo. Our bane to hate, our bliss to love ; We find one common fate below. We seek one common home above. Be thine her wisdom, — wealth of soul, To feel all life hath felt or known ; Which finds its wants within the whole. And makes all others' joys its own. So God and Man shall fill thy heart, And earth a new creation rise ; Thou'lt reach the fairest dream of art. And hope's full longings realize. *^ KINDNESS, Sweet kindness descends like the warm summer rain, On the heart where cold reason appealeth in vain ; It can soften the hard, make the good better still, While harshness and coldness the best turn to ill. All may not find wealth, but its joys all may find ; All cannot be greatest, yet all can be kind : Sweet kindness how easy, what conquest it wins, Its thought meets our death-bed and pleads for our sins. Its language all know, and it goes to the heart. No learning it needeth, no labor of art ; Like the sweet breath of heaven all bounties it brings, O praise ! that life's best are life's commonest things. KINDNESS. 109 Comes to all, ah, how welcome ! a kind look or tone, To the sinful, the wretched, whose griefs are un- known ; The feeble to strengthen, the friendless to cheer, Bid the humble be bold, and the faint persevere. How little we know whom we shun or despise, — What sorrows they suffer, what greatness disguise. What noble hearts warm with high feelings and brave, Our neglect leaves to sink when our kindness might save. What numbers in life meet we once and no more, And the heart feels your smile when the meeting is o'er ! Far from most, we're kept strangers, few have we to love : — Let us meet all men here as we'd meet them above. 11 LOVE. Eternal spring of joy and beauty, Light of this earthly frame, First Teacher of all truth and duty, God's smile and holiest name ! In thee the opening heart perfected, Sees life new blooming rise, And every fairest form reflected, From glorious earth and skies. In thee all blest things find completeness^ Faith, Hope and Charity ; The foretastes of immortal sweetness, And splendor vast to be. All sunlike, thou, space, time and season Dost blend one beauteous whole : Thine arguments the bloom of reason. Thy proofs, the fruit of soul. LOVE. Ill Earth knows no wealth, no true enjoyment, But from thy fountain flows ; And want, and wo and hard employment With thee all lighter grows. Each soul for endless good is yearning, Than aught it finds more sure ; Thy promise keeps its altar burning, Still strengthening to endure. To every heart thy voice is singing Some sweet celestial tone ; With gentlest impulse nearer bringing On to th' Eternal Throne. Then reign, our spirit's master feeling, Make all more pure and blest : All wisdom's in thy high revealing. All riches in thy rest. FREEDOM, O THOU of long mistaken name, Man's highest heritage and pride, Which oft the false have brought to shame, For which the true have toiled and died ; However called, Right, Liberty, Celestial born ! we worship thee. Brave men for thee have nobly bled, And thou, their guest, wert all unknown ; Thy hope hath oft the wretched fed. Who, blest, had slaves or tyrants grown ; While treacherous friends have made thee thrall, Most meanly tyrannous of all. Yea, arms which first thy cause defended, Have turned the first to wound or slay ; Tongues whose bold speech so well befriended Grew still, or spoke but to betray ; And hearts that followed long and far. Misdeemed thy light a setting star. FREEDOM. 113 And some have held thee Fortune's right, To feed their power and passions by ; And some a cloud or heavenly height, For human reach to vague or high ; Then coldly turned to earth their eyes, Obsequious to its meanest prize. A faithful few, God's chosen spirits. Have stood and witnessed unto men, Thy truth, thy triumphs, and thy merits. By toil and patience, sword or pen ; And left to all the future time. Fruits of their faith and task sublime. The Saint, Apostle, Bard and Seer, With prophet voice, and harp and lyre, Have taught thy presence to revere. Kindling the world like tongues of fire ; Great souls on mighty missions sent. As new stars in the firmament. They teach how knowledge ends with trust In Perfect Good, sincere, and strong ; Freedom, — obedience to the just. Without the will to choose the wrong ; The pure obedience of a child Tempted to guilt, yet undefiled. 11* 114 FREEDOM. Great teachers, though so oft disputed By darkened hearts whose gold was dross ; Neglected, shunned, or persecuted, With lash of hate, chains, fire, or cross ; Down-trodden, yet o'er mounting still Those who might crush but could not kill. Still may such inspiration find In some choice hearts an altar pure, Till man's vast soul that long hath pined An exile, reach its home secure ; Its God, its Freedom lost regain. The joy of truth without its pain. SCRIPTURE PIECES. DEATH OF THE FIRST BORN. A CEY was in Egypt, a wild midnight scream, And the king started up, and his lords from their dream, And the priests and the people woke ghastly with dread, — Each household was smitten, each home had its dead ! In the deep hour of slumber, through all the broad land, Went death like a shadow, pale plague in his hand : With footsteps unheard every threshold he passed, And the sleep his touch deepened, that sleep was the last. 116 DEATH OF THE FIRST BORN. And all the wide land was a funeral that morn, Where parents sat wailing their earliest born ; At evening how lulled they those eyes to repose, — The morning hath come — ^they shall never unclose. The babe hung like snow on the mother's warm breast, No breathing stirred softly the robe from its rest, And the face of the child in its cradle did lie, But pulseless and fixed as the star in the sky. The flocks rise up early from valley and hill, But the scared dams bleat restless, their yeanings are still ! Wherever life breathed had the pest-arrow stung, And the full heart of grief overflowed every tongue. For the soul of Jehovah was kindled in wrath, And the scourge swept like fire on its terrible path ; The oppressor's proud heart fell subdued 'neath the rod. And the oppressed went forth in the light of their God. DESTRUCTION OF PHARAOH'S HOST. The morning watch arose, And a cloud of light and darkness lay Between the hosts — to blind the foes, And lead the faithful on their way. All night the breath of God had blown, And the waters from their deeps were gone ; The sea's vast bed, dry land had grown, And the favored band marched on. Each side the watery wall Stood steep in awful pause of power, Staying in silence stern, its fall, Obedient to the appointed hour. And silent Israel's myriads passed, In hush of reverence and fear. Nor dared behind a look to cast On dangers threatening near. 118 DESTRUCTION OF PHARAOH's HOST. Dark Egypt saw, and drave With chariot, steed, and armed men ; Hard through the path the mighty clave, Like raging lions to their den. Then looked forth from his fiery veil The Lord, and smote that proud host through ; Their hearts turned faint, their looks grew pale, And their clogg'd wheels heavily drew. Now Israel gained the shore, — Then stretched his rod their leader's hand ; And the sea's heart hear'd with a sullen roar, And his troubled victims whelming spanned : Horses and horsemen plunged and fell, Then sunk like lead in the mighty sea ; Their cry was lost in the stormy swell, — And the faithful ones were free. DESCRIPTIVE AND MEDITATIVE POEMS. EVENING VOICES OP AUTUMN. The sun hath crossed yon steep gray mountain, And left in mourning all the plain ; Air lulls, no sound of bird or fountain, — And ye begin your solemn strain ! A ONE, grave voice, as earth were holding In soul some deep soliloquy ; Or, sunk to rest, her veiled arnas folding, Worshipped and sang her Deity. Mysterious chant — the dirge of Summer, Through field, o'er hill, from woodland tall ; And the listening heart beats slow and dumber, And thought broods o'er it like a pall : 120 EVENING VOICES OF AUTUMN. Thought of the thousand seasons numbered By that deep tongue's mysterious tone ; Of human forms that woke and slumbered, Of secrets long ere man was known : Of what through dim years sprung and faded, When life was new and time was young ; What change 'neath starry skies or shaded. With changeless speech, lone ones, ye've sunj And still night's watches long ye're making That same vague chant of mournful theme ; An annual hymn of Time out-breaking From old Eternity's mute dream : Like voices oracling from under The sacred chambers of the ground. In the ear of stars entranced in wonder What tongues their sister sphere hath found. It seems all buried things are spoken, Past, future blend, thought wonders how ; The seals of birth and death are broken. And all time grows one pulseless now. EVENING VOICES OF AUTUMN. 121 We hark, and thoughts of earnest duty Within our minds like planets rise ; And looks of love, and shapes of beauty Shine on our souls with deathless eyes. We listen, and more manfully start on Life's conflict, battling wo and wrong ; As war-hymn sad nerved serious Spartan, In solemn strength our hearts grow strong. 12 TO A FLOWER IN A SOLITARY PLACE. Thotj standest in the desert ground, sweet flower, Hard by this stripe of ancient wood ; Doing thy task and living out thine hour, Young hermit, gay in solitude ! Lorn as some castaway on island wild, Lone as in heaven a single star : With joy I greet thee like a fair lost child, Wandered from home and parents far. No kindred flowrets near, no gentle mate Bends to thee lisping tenderest things ; The wilderness spread round thee desolate ! — • Yet sweet companionship it brings. Vicissitude of peace : — low singings come From minstrels in the warm, bright grass ; ~ Soft in thy charmed ear the wild bees hum All day, and mild winds by thee pass. TO A FLOWER IN A SOLITARY PLACE. 213 And skies stoop o'er thee with as loving face, And feed with light and dews as kind, As thy fair sisters nursed in gilded vase, In green-house, or in garden shrined. Thine eyes by day look up as trustfully, And fold at night their lids to sleep. In Him the Parent good of them and thee, Him who created, and will keep. And, when thy summer date and toil is done, Thou droppest on the dank, cold plain ; Night voices hymn thy dirge at set of sun, Low telling thou shalt rise again. And hence, free moving, thinking Man may know, What or where e'er his lot is thrown, No spot so waste but can some beauty show. No heart so drear but holds some joy its own. Teach him thy earthly lord, sweet flower, each year To feel his source, aim, end divine ; And fill as faithfully his higher sphere. As, lowly one, thou fillest thine. THE DESERTED DWELLING. Across the western uplands wild I wandered once, a wayward child, Ere while o'er glade and woodland brown, The dusk of sober eve came down ; Sauntering and humming all the way, What rare bright flowers my steps did stay, Else, free as blew the harvest breeze From posied knolls and grassy leas ; Till through the shrubby wold so wide, A single house I spied. The mansion looked so strange and lorn, So lifeless, mute, and weather-worn, It suited well that lonely place. Far more than childhood's heart or face ; With curious stealth I ventured o'er The threshold, through the swinging door. THE DESERTED DWELLING. 125 With wary steps and watchful eye, Half shrinking, yet unknowing why ; Till in the empty, echoing rooms I stood as 'mong the tombs. The grass grew on the rotting sill, The cricket on the hearth sung shrill, The chimney-stones grown o'er with mold Stood blacked by fires long dead and cold, Whose ashes lay as in an urn. Speaking of things that ne'er return ! Long webs hung from the mouldering beams, Where spiders drowsed their dull day dreams ; — But what and whence that sudden sound That fills the place around ! Lo, up where streaks of skyey blue The rent and ragged roof swam through, Against the rafters, east and west, A swallow band had built their nest ; Sole inmates fluttering restless there, They found no foe, and feared no snare ; 12* 126 THE DESERTED DWELLING- And warbled out so blithe and clear, It was a nameless charm to hear ; Pleasant, yet startling brake the sound Like laugh in burial ground. I thought of kindred faces dear, Who met, communed, and mingled here, Sweet children, forms whose daily feet Played round these floors with busy beat ; I saw them pass — I heard their tread, Shapes, shadows, sounds of beings fled ; Where dwell they now ? low winds may tell, And soon their memories speak as well ! I mused — and, weighed with sadness, crept The entry through, and wept. I thought, so the crushed heart and lone Will keep some joy, some former tone, Dear hopes, fond thoughts which round it cling. Like song-birds of its early spring, — Love messengers of Heaven that come To tenant fortune's ruined home. To scare dark hovering wings of ill, And keep it pure and holy still, When all else leave the friendless spot Forsaken and forgot. THE DESERTED DWELLING. 127 I wandered home — the cool night fell : Rosemary fields shed balmy smell : From pastures rose the solemn churm Of insects : shone the winged worm : The pale moon o'er the meadow stood : The whippowill woke from the wood : Looked from mid-west Eve's pensive star, And spake of things unseen and far ; — While rushed from all the wizard scene Vague thoughts of all that's been. I slowly reached my own loved door, And on my heart the sad thought bore, ' Our household, too, must meet such fate, Go, and their house be desolate !' Yet something came, that holy hour, Full on the heart with joy and power : Broad truth that flushed the young soul clear, And showed all distant glories near ; Now lives that scene, those thoughts of yore A presence evermore. TO AN OTTAWA GIRL. Fair Indian maid, young native queen, True Nymph or Dian of the wood ! Scarce yet is reached thy earliest teen, First flower of opening womanhood ! Of all beheld by day or dream, Came nothing such as thou dost seem. Thy speech is strange, thy manners wild, This scant, but these all beauty's dress : Shy modesty that shows the child, Yet touched with pride and stateliness ; And seems in all thy mien and tread A sachem's daughter, born and bred. Thy garb is quaint, but rich and rare, Bead-belt and gay quilled moccasin ; And shelled braids plaits thy raven hair ; Thy mantle wrought of feathered skin ; Bright tassels kilt or kirtle bind, And graceful flow thy locks behind. TO AN OTTAWA GIRL. 129 That dress not vain, like city prude, Thou wearest, though as trimly shown ; That speech on all lips harsh and rude, Melts rich and sweetly through thine own : What joy to list thy wood-lays sung With those deep tones and bird-like tongue ! A charm unuttered round thee lies, Each gesture, look, a vague sweet spell, Thought, soul unread — yet no disguise. They're all and more than features tell ; And well befits that face and eye, Thy wild sweet name — Red Morning Sky ! 'Mong huge rough forms, and faces grim, Thou look'st all gentler, lovelier still, A sylphen shape of slenderest limb. Too scant thy waving robes to fill : Our pale crew press their wondering gaze, — No wonder thine nor fear betrays. Here bounds thy life this small lone isle, Thy sire's rude lodge,the world to thee ; Thy lot to cheer it with thy smile. Kind Nature's nursling, bold and free ! To climb like roe the beetling cliff. And swan-like play thy fairy skiff"; 130 TO AN OTTAWA GIRL. To watch the storm-cloud gathering far, Or track the fawn o'er morning dew ; To dance and sing at evening star With dusky mate the green wood through Then fall some red man's bride and slave, Few years, and find forgotten grave ! No Lady of the Lake could oar With skill like thine- that slight canoe; But swifter spi'ings our boat from shore, Thine fades o'er waters stern and blue ; Dark maid, farewell ! no more to see, Yet long shall I remember thee. NIAGARA Great matchless Flood ! thy thousand lakes and rivers Here met, plunge down these awful mountain steeps ; How 'neath their Titan tramp the firm earth quivers, And back with all her cliffs, astonished leaps ! Through heaven's dark halls the thunder wakes and sleeps, The storm roused ocean raves, and rests his hour ; But no repose comes to thy troubled deeps, Thou sleepless sentinel shouting from thy tower. To earth and sky the voice of thy stupendous power. Cities are gathering round thee, human hands Thy savage beauty tame, to mold their own ; Yet firm thy rock seat, sure thy kingdom stands, Thou reignest here chief monarch and alone. Now yon fair hills the sun crowns like a throne, Now sinks behind them in his shadowy fall, And round his rest the tents of eve are strown. 132 NIAGARA. And night comes listening to thy sovereign call, As erst through old dim years, from solemn forests tall. I start from dreams, and hear the tempest roaring, Shudders each roof-beam, harsh the window jars ; I rise, gaze out, — and the fair sky is pouring The gentle light of all its glorious stars ! Sweet shine the orb of love and red haired Mars ; No wind ! and up yon vast .white tumbling sheet, Hangs her faint bow the Moon unstained with bars, And sees her trembling form beneath thy feet, Seeming to list the tale thy waters aye repeat. Wild dusky nations on thy shores have wandered. And loved, and fought, — pale armies joined in fray; And all have passed — and myriads come and pon- dered. Who now are gone, or soon must go, as they ! Still roar and foain thy broad waves green and gray, Still round thy misty brow the rainbows span, No power shall hush thy voice, thy waters stay, Telling thy strength how mightier far than man, Till thy small task is wrought in God's unbounded plan. NUMA AND EGERIA, I|oi/ 6e aveXoi y\a