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POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD POLLOCK. 
 
 l9 2Jkh^''^[ 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: "^^^J^S/ 'JWr^tO'' ' 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 1876. 
 

 4-i 
 
 2k^ 
 
 1^/^ 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S76, by 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
TO 
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The poems of this little volume — mere fragments of 
 a highly-gifted, poetical mind — are presented not as a 
 challenge to admiration, or to the criticism that natu- 
 rally follows the pretentious weaving of rhythmical 
 webs of song. They are given to publication through 
 the promptings of filial affection, and, beyTsnd that, of 
 the friendship, warm, intimate, and steadfast, which the 
 author's early associates in California felt for him. 
 During a short life which was a struggle for education, 
 gained by him without a master, he could not be 
 expected to have written much. But he wrote well, 
 as the following pages will prove. As with gems, so 
 with the poems of Mr. Pollock, — quality is superior to 
 quantity. 
 
 To the few who had the favor of his friendship, he 
 was a present pleasure, a great hope of the future. 
 He had the poetic temperament. He understood the 
 art of poetry thoroughly. Imagination, invention, 
 passion, fancy, and the power of expression were his, 
 and rhyme and rhythm, as ornaments, were appre- 
 ciated and made subservient to the intended effect. 
 
 I* 5 
 
6 PREFACE, 
 
 Yet what he produced was but as the flutterings of the 
 falcon ere he strikes for the higher air and the object 
 afar. 
 
 We who knew him believed in his great capacity 
 and brilliant future, and it has been a diffidilt thing 
 to reconcile our disappointed hopes to the inevitable 
 decree that took him so early and so suddenly away. 
 Full of lofty ambition that aspired to a grand niche in 
 the temple, gathering the materials for the flight, like 
 Columbus struggling against all obstacles, just as the 
 sails were ready to be spread, the ship went down at 
 her moorings, and only the few floating fragments 
 given in this volume remain of all the brilliant prom- 
 ises and golden anticipations our argosy contained. 
 But, like the relics of the saints, they are the more 
 valuable because of their limited number. 
 
 Should the public judge favorably and kindly of 
 them, it will be gratifying to those who knew and 
 esteemed the author. But to such these fragments 
 of a highly-endowed intellect possess a double value, 
 being estimated not merely as literary productions, 
 but also as mementos to keep perpetually green the 
 author's memory. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lines written by the Grave of Edward Pollock . 9 
 
 To HIS Memory 12 
 
 Stanzas on the Death of Edward Pollock . . 14 
 
 Sketch of the Poet 16 
 
 The Falcon 21 
 
 Elva 37 
 
 Italia . . . . . . . . . . .58 
 
 Lines to a Fallen Star 70 
 
 The Pilgrimage into Thule 75 
 
 Mary Gray 99 
 
 Evening 103 
 
 Olivia 105 
 
 Adaline 108 
 
 In Memoriam — Edward Travers 110 
 
 Disunion 114 
 
 A Reflection 117 
 
 The Chandos Picture 119 
 
 Ode to California 122 
 
 Gold is King 127 
 
 An Exile's Song 131 
 
 The Dying Exile 134 
 
 To A. J. C., OF Marysville 137 
 
 Lines 139 
 
 The Golden Days when I was Young . . . .141 
 
 Invocation at Midnight . . . ■ . . . . 142 
 
 A Legend of the Pacific Coast 144 
 
 There is a Love that Changeth Never . . . 146 
 
 The Latest "Pome" . . . ' 148 
 
 The Parting Hour 150 
 
 When the Twilight Dews are Falling . . . isx 
 
 All Thy Works Praise Thee 153 
 
 7 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Wissahickon 154 
 
 Night Musings 157 
 
 The Bride of Heaven 160 
 
 Song of Dancers 187 
 
 Ships at Sea 189 
 
 To Inez 190 
 
 Scotch Song 192 
 
 Fragment, — Different Effects of Natural Scenery 
 
 on the Just and on the Corrupt Mind . . 193 
 
 Lines to an Absent Husband 195 
 
 The Winds of Spring 197 
 
 Evermore 198 
 
 Song 200 
 
 May- Day 201 
 
 The Squatter 204 
 
 An Address to Departing Winter 208 
 
 Night— A Vision 211 
 
 A Fragment 214 
 
 Dream-Land 216 
 
 Time 218 
 
 Moonlight 219 
 
 The Choice 222 
 
 Dreams 223 
 
 To my Mother 225 
 
 Fear Not 227 
 
 Ode to May 228 
 
 To M 229 
 
 Song 230 
 
 The Kiss 231 
 
 In Memoriam— Thomas O. Larkin 232 
 
 Song 233 
 
 A Dream 234 
 
 Epitaph on Edward Pollock 236 
 
 Lines written in the Tropics, during a Voyage to 
 
 California 236 
 
 Died, — Isabella Pollock 237 
 
 Happiness,— A Fragment 23S 
 
 Love-Song 239 
 
 Midnight 240 
 
LINES WRITTEN BY THE GRAVE 
 OF EDWARD POLLOCK. 
 
 Pause, friend ! this dust is dear. 
 A poet lies beneath the sod you tread, 
 Where spring has sprinkled flowers above his head. 
 
 Pollock sleeps here. 
 
 Here lies his dust. His soul 
 Has gone to find the sphere his genius trod 
 In fancy while the flesh, that cumbrous clod, 
 
 Weighed down the whole. 
 
 He trod the earth as one, 
 A visitor from some far-distant sphere. 
 Soul-filled with beauty ; but he lieth here ; 
 
 His work is done. 
 
 No more to touch the strings 
 Whose grand pulsations thrilled the soul and brain, 
 Till Shakspeare's spirit seemed to float again 
 
 On charmed wings. 
 
 Across the moaning wave 
 His 'Most Olivia's" plaintive tones I hear. 
 And all his brilliant brain-born forms appear 
 
 Around his grave. 
 A* 9 
 
lo LINES WRITTEN BY THE 
 
 For, though no sculptured bust 
 Nor marble shaft marks where my poet lies, 
 A glorious throng, his brain-creations, rise 
 
 Above his dust ; 
 
 And busy fancy weaves 
 A wreath for these unseen yet glorious things. 
 I feel their presence, hear their moving wings, 
 
 Like whispering leaves. 
 
 How beautiful they are, — 
 These children of my poet, come again ! 
 Their presence tells me the creating brain 
 
 Cannot be far. 
 
 I hear the ocean's mass. 
 As thou didst hear it, sitting by the shore : 
 The fogs come sailing in, and floating o'er 
 
 Grim Alcatraz. 
 
 I hear the moaning sea : 
 Thy " Adaline" is waiting by the strand ; 
 And he, thy '* Master," luminous and grand, 
 
 Is waiting thee. 
 
 Sweet singer, art thou near ? 
 Some token give that still thy spirit clings 
 To this thy body's resting-place, and sings 
 
 In silence here. 
 
 Where is thy soul's abode? 
 In some blest sphere, that oft thy fancy sought. 
 Thy spirit rests ; there, with the loved, forgot 
 
 Life's weary load. 
 
GRAVE OF EDWARD POLLOCK. n 
 
 The fate of genius thine, 
 To sing as angels sang when earth they trod. 
 For bread thy nectar gave, fit for a god 
 
 Thy spirit's wine. 
 
 To feel life's bitter cold, 
 To give the world the treasures of thy brain, 
 Unrecompensed, and wait return in vain 
 
 For all thy gold. 
 
 Thine was the common lot 
 Of souls inspired, who cannot choose but sing : 
 Didst live in thy lone world, imagining, 
 
 And filled each spot 
 
 With fancies beautified. 
 And hung the pictures where the world could see, 
 Gave of thy best with largess broad and free. 
 
 Gave all, and — died ! 
 
TO HIS MEMORY. 
 
 How fast the saddened seasons onward flow ! 
 
 Into decades the years and lustrums glide, 
 Yet for thy loss our hearts no solace know, 
 
 And memory lives as if thou hadst not died. 
 
 My spirit long hath missed and mourned for thee, 
 Hath mourned and missed thy genial presence long, 
 
 For thou wast more than other men to me, 
 Thy friendship dearer, pleasanter thy song. 
 
 Though fortune favored or averse was found, 
 
 The same, unfaltering in good or ill ; 
 Though smiled success, or grim misfortune frowned, 
 
 Through life's unnumbered changes changeless still. 
 
 Like some skilled painter's art and ready hand, 
 My memory calls thee from the dust of years, 
 
 In thy fresh manhood, fashioned to command. 
 Approval winning from admiring peers. 
 
 Thou art to me as some grand monument 
 
 Conceived and founded for the world's acclaim, 
 
 But stopped ere yet the temple's pediment 
 Could show the crowning glory of thy fame. 
 
 As some fine marble block Pentelican, 
 Wrought for the temple, broken by a fall, 
 
TO HIS MEMORY. 
 
 13 
 
 So wast thou crushed and shattered ; poet, man, 
 We have the fragments left us, — that is all: 
 
 The fragments, and the melancholy thought, 
 How grand the finished temple was to be. 
 
 But failed, because the brain and hand that wrought 
 Ceased, and the glory dreamed of died with thee. 
 
STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF 
 EDWARD POLLOCK. 
 
 BY WILLIAM H. RHODES. 
 
 He is gone ! the young and gifted ! 
 By his own strong pinions lifted 
 
 To the stars, 
 Where he strikes, with minstrels olden, 
 Choral harps, whose strings are golden. 
 
 Deathless bars. 
 
 There, with Homer's ghost, all hoary. 
 Not with years, but fadeless glory, 
 
 Lo ! he stands. 
 Gazing through that open portal. 
 We behold the bards immortal 
 
 Shaking hands. 
 
 Hark ! how Rome's great epic master | 
 
 Sings, that Death is no disaster 
 
 To the wise ; ^ 
 Fame on earth is but a menial. 
 While it reigns a king perennial 
 
 In the skies. 
 
 Albion's blind old bard heroic. 
 Statesman, sage, and Christian stoic, 
 
 Greets his son, 
 H 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 Whilst in paeans wild and glorious, 
 Like his ''Paradise Victorious," 
 
 Sings, ''Well done!" 
 
 Lo ! a bard with forehead pendent. 
 But with glory's beams resplendent, 
 
 As a star. 
 Gliding down from regions higher, 
 With a crown and golden lyre 
 
 In his car. 
 
 Crowding round on airy pinions, 
 Thrones and sceptres and dominions, 
 
 Kings and queens, 
 Ages past and ages present. 
 Lord and dame, and prince and peasant, 
 
 His demesne ! 
 
 *' Approach, young bard Hesperian, 
 Welcome to the heights empyrean ! 
 
 Thou didst sing 
 Ere yet thy trembling fingers 
 Struck where fame immortal lingers 
 
 In the string. 
 
 " Kneel ! I am the bard of Avon, 
 And the Realm of Song in heaven 
 
 Is my own ! 
 But thy verse shall live in story. 
 And thy lyre be crowned with glory 
 
 From my throne." 
 
 Oroville, Cal., January, 1859. 
 
 IS 
 
SKETCH OF THE POET 
 
 BY JAMES F. BOWMAN. 
 
 Edward Pollock was born on the 2d of September, 
 1823, in the city of Philadelphia. His parents were in 
 humble circumstances, and at an early age, when only 
 in his tenth or eleventh year, his father placed him in 
 a cotton-factory for the purpose of making him con- 
 tribute something towards his own support. There the 
 child developed rather an intractable disposition. He 
 did not love work, — at least, work of that monotonous 
 and disagreeable kind, — and as he could not reconcile 
 himself to the position, while his father refused to 
 listen to his objections, he at length, when in his four- 
 teenth year, took his destiny into his own hands, left 
 the factory, and apprenticed himself to a sign-painter, 
 with whom he remained until he attained his majority. 
 Yet it cannot be said that he evinced much greater 
 love for the occupation he had himself chosen than for 
 that which his father had selected for him. His in- 
 dustry, indeed, was extraordinary ; but it did not take 
 the direction of mechanical labor. In the acquisition 
 of knowledge and the study of rhetorical models his 
 ardor knew no bounds, and he seemed to experience no 
 fatigue from exertions more earnest and more protracted 
 than are ordinarily witnessed in persons of his age. 
 He never had a day's schooling, and from his eleventh 
 to his twenty-first year he was chiefly engaged during 
 16 
 
SKETCH OF THE POET. 17 
 
 the day in manual labor. Yet during that time he 
 managed to master the principles of English grammar 
 and rhetoric, and to acquire a remarkably pure and 
 vigorous style of composition, in addition to which he 
 made himself well acquainted with the chief English 
 classics, in both prose and verse. Considering the ob- 
 stacles he had to surmount, his industry in these studies 
 niust have been prodigious. So far as can be learned, 
 he had neither assistance nor sympathy in these efforts 
 to educate himself. Before his twelfth year he had 
 commenced the habit of hoarding up such small sums 
 as came into his own possession, and as soon as the 
 accumulation amounted to a shilling or two it was ex- 
 pended at some one of the stalls for the sale of second- 
 hand books, which he constantly haunted in his hours 
 of leisure, and where, when too poor to purchase, he 
 was often, as other gifted poets before him have been, 
 a privileged reader. These efforts were from the first 
 stimulated by a distinctive literary ambition. From 
 the day when, while still in the cotton-factory, he ex- 
 pended a sixpence for a dog's-eared copy of Lindley 
 Murray (abridged), he aspired to become a poet. To 
 the same period belong his first efforts in verse, none 
 of which, however,' have been preserved. At the age 
 of eighteen he began to write for the local press. The 
 superior quality of his contributions was at once recog- 
 nized, and the favor with which they were received 
 ultimately determined him to a literary career. 
 
 In 1852, Pollock came to California, where for a 
 year or two he worked steadily at his trade. In 1854, 
 Ferdinand C. Ewer commenced the publication of the 
 Pioneer magazine, and Pollock from the first became 
 a regular contributor. It was in the February number 
 2* 
 
1 8 SKETCH OF THE POET. 
 
 of this periodical for the year 1854 that the first of 
 his poems which attracted general attention appeared. 
 The poem was a ballad, entitled "The Falcon." 
 The editor of the Pioneer, who enjoyed the reputation 
 of a judicious and discriminating critic, thus spoke of 
 the poem in the issue in which it appeared : 
 
 ''There are few ballads in the English language that 
 are its superiors, or even its equals. In fact, we think 
 of none that is its superior, save the ' Ancient Mari- 
 ner.' It bears about it evidences of care in its prepa- 
 ration. It is written in good strong Saxon. Its beauty 
 does not consist in fine phrases and pretty words : one 
 must look deeper for its true w^orth, — into its structure 
 and entire flow, into the relative proportions of its 
 parts, and the strength of the whole. Some of its 
 ideas are expressed with exceeding vigor : 
 
 " ' His stalwart limbs were shivering, 
 So heavily weighed his load.' 
 
 "Each paragraph gradually rises in effect, to its 
 close ; while the interest of the whole is continually 
 swelling from the beginning to the end of the poem. 
 The denouement is natural, while at the same time it 
 is such as no one could foresee. Coleridge has height- 
 ened the effect of the ' Ancient Mariner' by the intro- 
 duction of the supernatural directly. In ' The Falcon' 
 such machinery is used as gives to the poem all the 
 effect of the supernatural and at the same time does 
 not shock credulity. Ralph's madness is admirably 
 developed ; and his being drawn on at the last by 
 a spectre is by no means unnatural, being merely a 
 result of his diseased mind. The reader should peruse 
 the poem several times to thoroughly appreciate it." 
 
SKETCH OF THE POET 19 
 
 In July of the same year appeared the " Ghandos 
 .Picture," a poem remarkable alike for imaginative 
 power and the majesty of its rhythmic movement. 
 In March he published '* Ooran Lisle/' a prose story, 
 conceived in the best vein of Edgar A. Poe, and which, 
 if attributed to him, would not be considered unworthy 
 of his reputation. In August appeared an essay from 
 his pen entitled "Thoughts toward a New Epic," 
 which attracted much attention, and elicited a letter 
 to the author from the poet Longfellow; ''Olivia," 
 ''Adeline," and "Italia," three poems of rare and 
 distinctive beauty, appeared in 1855 and 1856, serving 
 to confirm Pollock's most enthusiastic admirers in the 
 high estimate they had formed of his genius. 
 
 In 1855, Mr. Pollock commenced the study of law, 
 and in the year following (1856) was admitted as 
 Attorney and Counsellor of the Supreme Court of 
 California. 
 
 For a month prior to his death, which occurred on 
 the 13th of December, 1858, he seemed to have a cer- 
 tain presentiment of what was approaching. Night 
 after night during this period he called on the writer 
 of this sketch, and talked by the hour of death and of 
 the possibility of a future life. All his thoughts seemed 
 to tend in that one direction. Only the second day 
 before his decease he dwelt upon the same theme, in 
 connection with the suicide of Hugh Miller, at such 
 length that the writer asked him in pleasantry if he 
 too contemplated the shuffling off of this mortal coil. 
 
 Those who knew him most intimately derived a 
 stronger impression of his powers from his conversa- 
 tion in his happier and clearer moods than from his 
 writings. He himself regarded all that he had done 
 
20 SKETCH OF THE POET. 
 
 in the light of mere experiments and exercises in liter- 
 ature, preparatory to ^' a great poem," which he hoped 
 one day to achieve, which should make his name im- 
 mortal. There were some to whom this aspiration did 
 not seem chimerical, and who believed that his genius 
 was fully equal to the production of the "epic" which 
 was the dream of his ambition. But — 
 
 " His leaf has perished in the green ; 
 And while we live beneath the sun, 
 The world which credits what is done 
 Is blind to all that might have been." 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 All on the nor'west Irish coast 
 The fretting waves are wild, 
 
 And stern is the flinty barrier, 
 By heedful Nature piled, 
 
 To guard — alas ! in vain to guard 
 Her fairest ocean child. 
 
 II. 
 
 On sandy beach, in sounding coves, 
 In clefts of the splintered stone. 
 
 The bones of many a gay good ship 
 Are mouldering unknown. 
 
 Whose crew lies under the yeasty brine, 
 Asleep, withouten moan. 
 
 III. 
 
 And in the long night-watches, tars 
 By turns their tales will tell, 
 
 Of fearful wrecks and strange mishaps 
 That on that coast befell ; 
 
 Till through the storm the listeners hear 
 The spirit's tempest-bell. 
 
22 THE FALCON. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For seldom are the winds asleep, 
 
 Nor oft serene the day, 
 On the dangerous sea that foams and flows 
 
 Around the watch-tower gray 
 That waves its torch of warning flame 
 
 From the crags of lone Torray. 
 
 V. 
 
 The Falcon was a smuggling craft, 
 
 And sailed by Ralph Duraine : 
 There was never a boat with white wings spread 
 
 Flew fleeter o'er the main, 
 Nor a stouter heart than her captain bore 
 
 Was ever risked for gain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet not alone for gain chose he 
 
 The restless wave to roam, 
 But the great deep had grown to him 
 
 The thing the heart calls home ; 
 Far less he loved the dew on flowers 
 
 Than the dash of sparkling foam. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Tales, too, were whispered round at times, 
 
 By those he ruled, how he 
 Unwisely had bestowed his love 
 
 On one of high degree. 
 And so — because his heart was lost — 
 
 He wandered o'er the sea. 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 23 
 
 Howe'er, if that were false or true, 
 
 Or if his soul were sore, 
 The changes of his changeful life 
 
 Right manfully he bore ; 
 Alike he loved the shining wave 
 
 And the tempest's wildest roar. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Alike he loved the sullen glow 
 That o'er the surf doth glance 
 
 When storming waves at midnight deep 
 On Ireland's coast advance. 
 
 And the sparkle of the sun-bright flood 
 Along the shores of France. 
 
 X. 
 
 For, oh, forever to his heart. 
 
 And to his glancing eye. 
 There flowed a spring of secret hope, — 
 
 A deep and hidden joy, — 
 That all the change of storm and time 
 
 Could fearlessly defy. 
 
 XI. 
 
 With heedful hand he held apart 
 
 The low limbs of the tree. 
 And gazed among the blossoming shrubs 
 
 With glad expectancy ; 
 But he moaned, and his aspect sickened. 
 
 Like one stabbed suddenlie. 
 
24 
 
 THE FALCON. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And first his face grew deadly white, 
 And he reeled as he would fall ; 
 
 Pain shook him, as an earthquake shakes 
 A mountain vast and tall. 
 
 Till in silence he leaned languidly 
 Against the garden wall. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But this passed off : he gazed again ; 
 
 The ashy paleness fled ; 
 Slowly and fearfully his eye 
 
 And cheek grew dusky red. 
 And the swoln veins like knotted cords 
 
 Stood out on his dark forehead. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 What had. he seen, that thus could move 
 
 A man so tried as he, — 
 So proved in perilous scenes by land 
 
 And dangers on the sea ? 
 Right strange, and terrible, I ween. 
 
 The thing he dreads must be. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Yet no ; the scene is soft and fair : 
 
 The throstle's flute-like tune 
 Goes up, 'twould seem, to the cloudy swans 
 
 That float so far aboon. 
 And the garden is fragrant and blooming 
 
 With all the flowers of June. 
 
THE FALCON. 25 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But who be they — that gay gallant, 
 And she, the lady fair — 
 
 Who wander by so lovingly 
 And with so rapt an air? 
 
 How tenderly he clips her waist 
 And parts her raven hair ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Like crouching pard he backward shrank, 
 While heedless they drew near : 
 
 Clenched tightly in his quivering hand, 
 The blade was glancing clear ; 
 
 Ah, Christ ! there's murder on that brow. 
 And in that glance of fear ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 >" the swoln snake who lifts her head 
 
 hile the deadly rattles ring, 
 As the hawk whose glance of tawny fire 
 
 Is on the bittern's wing, 
 With blazing and dilated eye 
 
 He stood, in act to spring. 
 
 XTX. 
 
 In the soft light of the setting sun, 
 
 Along the rocks he strode ; 
 His stalwart limbs were shivering, 
 
 So heavily weighed his load. 
 And frequent and fearful the backward glance 
 
 He cast adown the road. 
 J 3 
 
26 THE FALCON. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Yet upward through the splintered cliffs 
 
 He strove and toiled along, 
 Gripping the' ledges round him 
 
 With a nervous grasp and strong, 
 And muttering low ; but you might not know 
 If the words he uttered, broken and slow, 
 
 Were of prayer, or ban, or song. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 What sparks are those, as he wends along, 
 
 That like rubies the granite stud. 
 As if golden ripples remained behind 
 
 From the sunlight's ebbing flood? 
 Alas ! the mystic load he bears 
 
 Is tracking his steps with blood. 
 
 XXII.. 
 
 And on, and on — what following fears 
 
 His flying steps pursue? 
 There is no eye, save God's above. 
 
 To mark what he shall do ; 
 No storm in the air, no cloud in the sky, 
 
 Nor wave on the ocean blue. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 He reached the top of a mighty rock. 
 
 With the gray moss overgrown ; 
 Its surface vast, in the fading light. 
 
 With a yellow lustre shone ; 
 And he paused by the brink of a frightful chasm 
 
 That sank through the solid stone. 
 
THE FALCON. 27 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 He reached the top of a mighty rock ; 
 
 He paused, and gazed around ; 
 Nothing that moved could his eye behold, 
 
 In his ear was never a sound, — 
 Save a low moan, that softly rose 
 
 From under the hollow ground. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 This was the waters that never rest, 
 
 The ripples that ceaseless rave ; 
 For the chasm led into a drear abyss, 
 
 A wild and wondrous cave, 
 That looked through many a grand wide arch 
 
 Athwart the changing wave. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 He paused, and gazed \ but human form 
 
 Nor mark of man saw he. 
 Save that nigh up to the horizon 
 
 Lay a ship becalmed at sea : 
 So he lifted the load from his shoulders broad, 
 
 And lowered it carefuUie. 
 
 XXVI I. 
 
 He laid it down ; but the folding cloth 
 And the fastenings burst away; 
 
 And what did the sudden rent disclose ? 
 Earth lifeless, damp, and gray. 
 
 Ay ! but the image of our dear Lord 
 Was stamped upon the clay. 
 
28 THE FALCON. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 For there was the face, like a young May moon 
 Growing pallid in strange eclipse, 
 
 And the hair like wandering clouds of night, 
 And the softly-parted lips, 
 
 That even in death were like the rose 
 Where the wild bee swings and sips. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And the arms, and neck, and swelling breasts. 
 
 As white — and cold — as snow ; 
 For, oh, behold ! beneath the left 
 
 A purple stream doth flow ! 
 Never again shall the heart within 
 
 Be troubled by joy or woe. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Like to the dreariest winter night 
 
 The face of the stranger grew ; 
 He clasped the corpse in his sinewy arms. 
 
 And his breath with gasps he drew, 
 While he madly kissed the cold white brow 
 
 And the cheek of deathly hue. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 "Oh, God !" he sobbed, "oh, Mary dear " 
 
 In vain he strove to speak ; 
 His lips with writhing but prolonged 
 
 A husky sound and weak ; 
 But the hot tears in torrents 
 
 Flowed down his olive cheek. 
 
 I 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 29 
 
 At length, with many a stifled moan 
 
 And many a frantic kiss, 
 He bore the body to the brink 
 
 Of the yawning, dark abyss, 
 And dropt it ; but his glance was wild 
 
 As he leaned and looked, I wis ! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He clasped his hands, and held his breatli, 
 
 The sullen plunge to hear ; 
 It came, with a rustling, creeping moan. 
 
 That deepened and drew near 
 Till it filled his ears, and brain, and heart 
 
 With a choking wave of fear. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Then with a cry of terror he dashed 
 
 Adown the flinty steep ; 
 His moving shadow reached the ship. 
 
 Far out on the glassy deep. 
 So low the sun, and the wide sea 
 
 So quietly asleep. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 *'Why dost thou lean with so sullen an air 
 
 Above the waves ?' ' he said ; 
 " Or what dost thou mark in the waters 
 
 With such a glance of dread ? 
 And wherefore has thy gladsome eye 
 
 Grown heavy and gray like lead ? 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 THE FALCON. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 *'What is there on thy heart, old friend, 
 
 Thou darest not tell to me ? 
 We have for many and many a year 
 
 Been comrades on the sea ; 
 There is not a drop in my bosom 
 
 I would not shed for thee, 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 *'Not in my inmost heart a drop 
 
 I would not waste like rain. 
 Speak out, then, — I have shared thy joy. 
 
 And well may part thy pain \ 
 Or, how has Caspar Risdale given 
 
 Offense to Ralph Duraine ?' ' 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Ralph turned, and wrung his comrade's hand : 
 
 " Offense to me !" he cried; 
 *' So help me God as there ne'er has been 
 
 A friend so truly tried ! 
 But, Caspar, ere this hour had come. 
 
 That one of us had died ! 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 I have a tale — this hand no more- 
 He paused, and turned apart : 
 
 He would not that his friend should see 
 
 His agony of heart ; 
 For his breath came thick, and to his eye 
 
 The sullen drops did start. 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Over the flood he leaned, and dashed 
 
 Away the unbidden tear, 
 Then turned, and said, '' He ill deserves 
 
 Who fails his friend through fear. 
 This is the tale I shrink to tell 
 
 And thou shalt freeze to hear. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 '' My heart was wild, my brain was fire, 
 
 My blood was liquid flame ; 
 I had no feeling, but one fierce, 
 
 Delirious impulse came 
 To strike — and drown in waves of blood 
 
 The things that wrought my shame. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 *' I struck, and darkness fell \ O friend, 
 
 It never more shall rise ! 
 Ever a cloud of purple gloom 
 
 Is floating before my eyes. 
 Whose dusky breast is crossed and veined 
 
 By a thousand gory dyes ! 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 *'At dawn, or noon, or golden eve. 
 
 Or at the lone midnight, 
 'Tis ever the same : I struggle on. 
 
 With swimming brain and sight, 
 Through a flood of flame and blood. 
 
 Towards a land of blight ! 
 
 31 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 XJJV. 
 
 "At dawn, or noon, or golden eve, 
 
 Or at the midnight lone, 
 A phantom ever glides before, 
 
 With many a broken moan, 
 Waving a torch, and gazing back 
 
 With settled eyes of stone ! 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " I rave ; but, oh, what fiend could fill 
 
 My Mary's gentle breast. 
 So lovely — loving — so beloved — 
 
 So blessing and so blest, — 
 And yet so false — so fair and false — 
 
 To one so long caressed ! 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 " I see thy cheek is white with fear, 
 Thine eyelid damp with grief; 
 
 I too have wept ; but that to me 
 Is torture, — not relief; 
 
 I better endure my grim despair 
 
 • Than tears, however brief. 
 
 XLVI I. 
 
 *'I have not told, I need not tell, 
 
 The place of her red sleep ; 
 Enough, 'tis where myself shall rest 
 
 When I cease to watch and weep. 
 In a grave that none can bar me from, — 
 
 The bosom of the deep. 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 zz 
 
 ''So, Risdale, since for many a year 
 We two have stemmed the main, 
 
 And the Falcon soon must fold her wings 
 And ne'er swoop forth again. 
 
 Leave thou the luckless bark, before 
 The effort shall be vain ! 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 "And I will say, where'er shall drift 
 
 This helmless hulk of mine. 
 That a lealer heart to an ancient friend 
 
 Has never beat than thine ; 
 And a better seaman in hour of need 
 
 Floats not on the foaming brine." 
 
 The ship bore down, the coast was near, 
 
 The night was falling dark. 
 Yet still he sternly piled the sail 
 
 Upon the laboring bark. 
 And treated with scorn and wrath each hint 
 
 The dangerous coast to mark. 
 
 LI. 
 
 *' Ho, Risdale ! Lo ! our friends on shore 
 Their watch-fires kindle bright ; 
 
 Rejoice, my comrades ! we will keep 
 Our watch on land to-night." 
 
 In his voice was a strange, unnatural joy, 
 In his eye delirious light. 
 
34 
 
 THE FALCON. 
 
 LII. 
 
 The rock-bound coast, the freshening gale, 
 
 The sailors' fears awoke. 
 At length their dread grew wild, and forth 
 
 In clamorous tumult broke ; 
 But Ralph struck down the mutineers 
 
 With fierce and ready stroke. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 "Back, villains ! — have you yet to learn 
 
 Who rules this craft?" quoth he ; 
 ''Shall I be told what course fits best 
 
 On my own good bark at sea? 
 Now, by my soul, he dies who dares 
 
 Dispute command with me I" 
 
 LIV. 
 
 "Ralph! Ralph! there are no watch-fires there! 
 
 'Tis madness !" Caspar cried ; 
 " Hark thee, old friend ! 'twas all a dream !" 
 
 Unheeding, Ralph replied, 
 " Lo ! yonder by the blaze she stands, — 
 
 My bright, expectant bride. 
 
 LV. 
 
 " Oh, I was mad to think my hand 
 
 Could harm a thing so fair. 
 Or dream her angel-heart could be 
 
 Unclean Dishonor's lair. 
 Oh, mourn not, love ! — sweet Mary, dear. 
 
 Thy lord will soon be there!" 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 35 
 
 The helmsman fled. Ralph seized the wheel; 
 
 Straight on the coast he bore ; 
 Already thundered on the ear 
 
 The wild resounding roar 
 Of the white-plumed assailing waves 
 
 Charging the serried shore. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 '' To boat !" cried Caspar to the crew; 
 
 And the boats were launched amain. 
 *' We wait for thee !" the tars returned ; 
 
 But they shouted all in vain, 
 For Caspar Risdale mutely moved 
 
 And stood by Ralph Duraine. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Then were the lines in haste cut loose : 
 
 The Falcon glanced away; 
 With quivering oars the seamen bent 
 
 Against the shoreward spray : 
 Fast deepened the advancing night 
 
 And paled the flying day. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 But suddenly their toil they stayed, 
 To mark a fearful sight : 
 (■ Another and unnatural dawn 
 ) Rose on the falling night ; 
 Each headland large and splintered cliff 
 Gleamed with a ghastly light. 
 
36 THE FALCON. A 
 
 LX. 
 
 It might be but the lightning's gleam 
 
 From tempest gathering o'er; 
 It might be but the glimmering flash 
 
 From billows vexed and hoar ; 
 But, light from bolt's or breaker's course, 
 Or radiance from a weirder source, 
 
 It streamed along the shore. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Pale played the blaze on all the coast. 
 
 But chief the beams shone full 
 Around the vast basaltic porch 
 
 Of the cave of InstrahuU ; 
 Each sailor felt his heart beat low, 
 
 With a heavy sound and dull. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 And while they gazed on the glancing rocks 
 
 That fenced the darksome cave, 
 A shadow, like a ship, passed in 
 
 On the long, dark-rolling wave ; 
 Then on the troubled waters fell 
 
 The blackness of the grave. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Lo ! gazing down the chasm, you mark. 
 Wedged into the cavern's sides. 
 
 The frame of a decaying ship, 
 That moves not with the tides, 
 
 But, motionless, on her bed of stone 
 The beating waves abides. 
 
ELVA. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 37 
 
 Full staunch and fleet on the clear wave once 
 Were those timbers, wrenched and tornj 
 
 Wild is the tale that sailors tell 
 Of that sad wreck forlorn ; 
 
 But it happened many a year ago, 
 Ere you and I were born. 
 
 ELVA. 
 
 Old Elva's walls are leveled with the earth, 
 And weeds are green where glowed the blazing hearth ; 
 The stately trees that once the roof topped o'er 
 Now shed their brown leaves on the broken floor ; 
 Where bloomed the rose and lily, browse the deer, 
 And springs the oak the cherished fruit-tree near; 
 Where once were arbors, now, through thickest brake, 
 Slow winds, in many a fold, the glancing snake. 
 Time, tempest, violence, and dull decay 
 Have worn at last the latest marks away; 
 One tower alone stands grimly where it stood, 
 Gray, torn, dismantled, frowning o'er the flood, 
 The dreariest mark those mournful ruins bear 
 That human forms have been, but are not there. 
 
 Yet, Elva, once with thee it was not so : 
 Ere ruthless hearts and hands had wrought thee woe, 
 Thy long-dim halls with happiness were rife, 
 And glad hearts to thy solitudes gave life. 
 
 4 
 
38 
 
 ELVA. 
 
 And though no gladsome voice nor glancing oar 
 Now stirs the echoes on the lake's green shore, 
 That lake hath borne full many a bark where sate 
 Forms warm with love, and hearts with hope elate, 
 And young bright eyes have bent with starry gleam 
 Above the mazy windings of thy stream. 
 From the dark turret, where the sweet bells swung. 
 All winged with joy, the wedding peals have rung. 
 While Mirth, with kindling glance and rosy smile. 
 Kissed each young cheek and blessed each heart the 
 
 while. 
 And Song sat, silver-tongued, and filled with sound 
 Those echoing walls, now sadly scattered round 1 
 Oh, list the lowly and the simple lay 
 The minstrel sings of Elva's earlier day. 
 
 I. 
 
 Old Elva's halls have many a guest to-night. 
 Yet the lamps shed not their accustomed light ; 
 Nor music's strain nor garnished feast are there, 
 But all is sentineled by anxious care. 
 For they who rest within, in act and word. 
 Are leagued in hostile guise against their lord ; 
 And much they dare who aid with kindly hand 
 The attainted members of that patriot band, — 
 Men who have cast with daring hands aside 
 The cankering chains of feudal pomp and pride, 
 And, roused by wrongs long suffered, long forgiven. 
 Will now be free, if not on earth, in heaven. 
 Worn by long marching, wearied, dark with soil, — 
 But not one fiery bosom tamed by toil, — 
 On the hard floor their limbs they careless lay, 
 And wait, their arms beside, th' approaching day, — 
 
ELVA. 
 
 39 
 
 Small thought have they of aught of daintier fare, — 
 Few nights, I ween, for them such couch prepare. 
 
 II. 
 
 As one who watched his slumbering band to guard, 
 
 Their chieftain, Gilbert, slowly paced the sward ; 
 
 His ebon locks thrown back, to catch the breeze. 
 
 Cooled by the lake and scented by the trees. 
 
 His small hand resting on his dagger's hilt. 
 
 Whose blade may yet retain its last red gilt, 
 
 With careful gaze he scans the darkening scene, 
 
 Marks each faint motion of the foliage green, 
 
 Or turns at times his flashing full gray eye 
 
 To where the stars hang brightening o'er the sky. 
 
 Why waits he here, when all the rest are deep 
 
 In the void realms of weird, mysterious sleep ? 
 
 What thought, what scene doth hope or memory trace, 
 
 Which gilds and glooms alternately his face ? 
 
 Dreams he of glory ? of revenge or love ? 
 
 Or seek his eyes those silent suns above, 
 
 With strange, deep yearnings for the mystic lore 
 
 The Eastern Magi proudly held of yore, 
 
 When stars were gods, and he who bent the knee 
 
 To their far thrones the future there might see ? 
 
 Or why hath Power so soon her mantle flung 
 
 On one so fair, so slender, and so young? 
 
 III. 
 
 Vain questions all ! But ask the bold of deed. 
 Who scarce can follow where he dares to lead. 
 Whose form is foremost in the reeling fight ? 
 Whose arm is last to stay, and first to smite ? 
 
40 EL VA. 
 
 Whose voice still rings the wavering ranks to cheer? 
 Whose counsel still partakes of aught but fear ? 
 Whose face, when all was chill with blank despair, 
 Ne'er yet has worn one shade that looked like care? 
 Or whose the hand, when some well- won success 
 Might sure have named revenge a just redress, 
 Was still most prompt the conquered foe to save ? 
 All his, — the young — the beautiful — the brave ! 
 He who had lightly held that slender hand 
 Would scarce have scorned it when it grasped the 
 
 brand. 
 And he who marked at rest that eye and cheek, 
 In war so wild, in peace so soft and meek, 
 Might well have wondered whence the spirit rose, 
 So dear to friends, so terrible to foes ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 He came, — they knew not whence, — nor much they 
 
 cared ; 
 Yet seemed he one in luxury lapped and reared ; 
 Some hideous wrong perchance, they thought, had 
 
 stung 
 Into rebellion one so soft and young. 
 A home laid desolate, — a father slain, — 
 Or a strong passion long pursued in vain. 
 But all was wild surmise \ they questioned not. 
 And in the present soon the past forgot. 
 So mild his face, serene and calmly bright, 
 Like a sweet landscape in the morning light. 
 You might not guess what passions lurked apart 
 In the dim caverns of his hidden heart ; 
 And in his eye gleamed such uncertain ray, 
 Full rarely sad, and still more rarely gay. 
 
EL VA. 41 
 
 You ne'er could tell if joy or rage would speak 
 In the next moment from his changing cheek. 
 If, wreathed in smiles, his beaming features shone 
 Like a breeze-dimpled streamlet in the sun, 
 In the next hour, if anger fired his eye, 
 It struck like lightning from a cloudless sky. 
 Still in his glance, and in his lifted hand, 
 Was that which showed the soul that would com- 
 mand ; 
 It might be art, or nature, — none could tell ; 
 But if a mask, he wore it rarely well. 
 
 V. 
 
 The western clouds have lost their purple dye ; 
 A silver radiance tints the eastern sky ; 
 That dream-like glory tells the eye that soon 
 Above the hills shall sail the summer moon. 
 And Gilbert passed within that silent hall, 
 Lit by a dim lamp trembling from the wall ; 
 His steps he turned, by that uncertain ray. 
 Where, stretched along, his sleeping warriors lay. 
 'Twas a strange sight; each swart and stalwart form, 
 So scarred and seared by warfare and by storm, 
 Then seemingly lay lapped in such sweet rest 
 As lulls the infant on its mother's breast. 
 But when the form in deepest trance lies still, 
 Most wildly wakes the fancy and the will ; 
 And much of tumult hushed, and passion stern, 
 Who watched the unconscious sleepers might discern. 
 Here one, whose quivering eyelids shun the light. 
 Seems struggling with some phantom child of night. 
 Yon grimly smiling form we well may guess 
 In dreams anticipates revenge^ redress ! 
 4* 
 
42 EL VA. 
 
 And there be fingers wandering to the brand, 
 And the sheathed dagger meets the unconscious hand ; 
 And some there be whose quick convulsive clasp 
 The long brown rifle strains with iron grasp. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Where through the window opening o'er the glade 
 
 The shivering winds of night an entrance made, 
 
 There was an old man, — old in years and care, — 
 
 With wrinkled brow and scant and frosty hair. 
 
 Stretched out in sleep. The earliest moonbeams played 
 
 On the hard pillow where his cheek was laid. 
 
 And with her spirit hand the wind of night 
 
 Lifted the thin locks from his temples white. 
 
 Such ghastly pallor o'er the features spread. 
 
 So marble cold appeared the silent head. 
 
 That one might start, despite the deep-drawn breath, 
 
 At life that looked so fearfully like death. 
 
 And Gilbert gazed, and, as he gazed, a change 
 
 Passed o'er those features, — beautiful, but strange, — 
 
 Such magic change as one might guess would be 
 
 When bursts the morning o'er a moonlit sea; 
 
 His brow relaxed, his thin lips dropped apart. 
 
 More boldly heaved his breast and leaped his heart. 
 
 And a faint smile, the ghost of gladness gone. 
 
 Played round his mouth, like radiance round the sun ; 
 
 Now sinks his breathing indistinct and low ; 
 
 Hark ! from his lips unmeaning murmurs flow. 
 
 He speaks : ' 'Dear father — mother. ' ' Heaven above ! 
 
 That old man dreams of childhood's guiltless love. 
 
 The daylight shines not on a fiercer brow, 
 
 A fiercer eye, a haughtier lip, — and now. 
 
EL VA. 43 
 
 Serenely, sweetly, there, a sinless boy. 
 He smiles in slumber o'er a childish joy. 
 To Gilbert's eyes these words recalled a scene 
 That, ah ! no more for Gilbert shall be green ; 
 And at those syllables so lightly spoke 
 Long-channeled fountains in his bosom broke ; 
 Along his cheeks faint flushes went and came, 
 As o'er an evening cloud the lightnings flame ; 
 And his frame thrilled and trembled, as the trees 
 All quivering bend them to the autumn breeze. 
 Hell has no fiend like Memory, when she brings 
 Repentance without hope, remorse's stings. 
 And a long file of days in sable weeds. 
 Mourning and weeping over past misdeeds. 
 Like a pale ghost that shuns the rising day, 
 Strode Gilbert fast, but stealthily, away, 
 Nor paused he till again the dewy sod, 
 With lighter heart and firmer step, he trod. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Like warriors of the knightly times of old. 
 All sheathed in armor rough with fretted gold, 
 So seem the trees round Elva's mansion white, 
 So glance their wet leaves in the silver light. 
 Still Gilbert watches, — still his eyelids keep 
 At bay the approaches of deceitful sleep. 
 The sun was sinking when his watch begun, 
 Now far beneath him rolls the unwearied sun ; 
 The moon, whose glory woke a fainter day 
 When on the hill-tops died the gold away. 
 Now from mid-heaven, with face serene, looks down 
 On lake, and stream, and Elva's forest brown, 
 
44 EL VA. 
 
 He leaned against a tree, whose trunk around 
 With hoary moss and ivy green was bound; 
 His flashing eyes were turned upon a scroll 
 Whose pictured words drew echoes from his soul : 
 As the ^olian harp, by night-winds stirred, 
 By turns is silent or by snatches heard. 
 So, wildly sweet, in fitful fragments rung 
 The syllables, unconscious, from his tongue. 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 Sweet land of shadows, — dear, delightful shore, — 
 Oh, could I seek thee, to return no more ! 
 What dreams of joy each misty valley fills ! 
 What scented blossoms fringe the sparkling rills ! 
 What angel visions float through rainbow skies. 
 Where, rich and warm, a sunless glory lies ! 
 There, 'mid the blossoms, love lies stretched along, 
 And fills the air with passion and with song. 
 And dancing waves below, and winds above. 
 Seem warm with kisses from the lips of love. 
 Ah, Gilbert ! shall our spirits haunt no more 
 Those bowers of love on fancy's airy shore? 
 
 Fierce as the waves of ocean lashed to strife. 
 Wild as the winds that wake them into life. 
 Through my sore heart the crimson billows roll. 
 And rush the thoughts tumultuous o'er my soul, 
 Wlien to my memory's eye returns that day 
 They tore thee bleeding from my heart away. 
 Oh, cursed, yet blest, all wild with joy and pain. 
 How cling those moments to my tortured brain ! 
 
EL VA. 45 
 
 The last embrace my bosom answers still, 
 Still to that kiss my lips responsive thrill ; 
 Again mine arms are wildly round thee flung, 
 I drink each accent falling from thy tongue; 
 Again, again, O God ! the steel gleams bright, 
 As speeds the deadly blow before my sight ; 
 I see the warm blood gushing from thy breast. 
 But grim despair and darkness hold the rest. 
 
 High hangs that blade above my chamber-door; 
 The fiend that from my heart its idol tore 
 Before my gaze displays the unwiped steel, 
 And feeds his vengeance on the pangs I feel. 
 There must I see, each morning's life begun. 
 Thy best blood rusting in the rising sun ; 
 By night, by night, whene'er the moonbeams pale 
 Have wreathed the chamber in their mystic veil. 
 Through the dim haze, like spectral lamp, it gleams, 
 Or fills with baleful light my midnight dreams. 
 From hideous sleep, with quivering limbs, I start, — 
 That blade seems rusting in my throbbing heart ; 
 Like a red cloud it shuts the light away. 
 And glooms with horror all the joys of day. 
 
 I know thou didst not die, — this much I know 
 From him who, wert thou dead, were still thy foe ; 
 I know thy dwelling, in the deep recess 
 Of the greenwood's remotest wilderness; 
 And he can tell, who bears this scroll from me. 
 How my heart bounded at the thought of thee. 
 Fame speaks thee fierce of heart, of deadly hand, 
 The outlawed leader of an outlawed band ; 
 
46 EL VA. 
 
 I heed not that; I only joy to hear 
 Thy name as one the boldest hearts must fear ; 
 Would only pray that fate would kindly twine, 
 In life or death, my destiny with thine. 
 Alas ! how vain ! my love, my spirit's pride, 
 A hunted lion, roves the mountain side. 
 
 ^ JjC ?fC 57C 5}i JjC ii 
 
 There is a fairy spot, thou knowest it well, 
 
 By Elva's stream, in Elva's deepest dell, 
 
 Where oaks and birches bend their heads above, 
 
 And flowering shrubs beneath are thickly wove. 
 
 While through the boughs, in many a broken beam. 
 
 Dances the sunlight on the sparkling stream ; 
 
 There, when my guardian's eye I can elude, 
 
 I sometimes steal, and sit with solitude ; 
 
 But all too dreadful is the contrast there. 
 
 Where hope lies tombed and guarded by despair. 
 
 To the dear joys, all passionate and wild. 
 
 With which we once the passing hours beguiled. 
 
 Oh, there be times when nature's every voice. 
 
 All turned in one direction, sing, " Rejoice !" 
 
 When rolls the sun refulgently away. 
 
 And strives the red moon with the dying day, 
 
 When golden tints and misty gleams of snow 
 
 Have met and mingled in the vale below. 
 
 When winds and waters, sweetly toned and clear. 
 
 In melting murmurs strike the raptured ear ; 
 
 The rippling sound by waving branches made. 
 
 The varying cadence of the far cascade. 
 
 Now high, now low, as sweeps the breeze along. 
 
 Now calmly faint, now tremulously strong ; 
 
 There is a spirit thrills the sense, the soul, ■ 
 
 Till the full heart spurns reason's cold control, 
 
ELVA. 
 
 47 
 
 Steeps anxious care and coward fear in sleep, 
 
 And melts the bosom into raptures deep ! 
 
 Such have we known full oft in that lone dell, 
 
 How dear, how dear the thought, our hearts can tell ! 
 
 Like a green island poised on ocean's brim, 
 
 Seem these lost scenes in distance faint and dim ; 
 
 The swift, deep gulf my helmless bark floats o'er 
 
 Still bears me farther from that lovely shore ; 
 
 I stretch my arms, I shriek, but dark and strong 
 
 Rolls the wild flood of destiny along. 
 
 Oh, there are hours of rapture buried there 
 
 That envying angels might have longed to share ! 
 
 Dear hours of love ! delusive, if thou wilt. 
 
 But wild with passion, — stained perchance with guilt ; 
 
 Yet would I peril, for such joys again. 
 
 Life — time — eternity ; but all is vain. 
 
 Farewell ! I ask thee not if day by day 
 Thy heart hath cast its young romance away ; 
 I could not doubt thy truth, — I ask thee not 
 If Clara' s image be at last forgot ; 
 Oh, love like ours, impetuous, wild, and high. 
 Drinks at one draught the spirit's fountain dry ! 
 Farewell ! — it chills my blood, that lonely word ; 
 My heart is sinking like a wounded bird ; 
 The sky that once with gladness lit my life 
 Is dull with gloom and dissolute with strife ; 
 Yet still, methinks, there dimly shines afar. 
 Through the rent clouds, one little lonely star, — 
 The star of Hope. I suffer not in vain 
 If life returns thee to my arms again." 
 
48 EL VA. 
 
 He pauses, — starts. What sees he in the brake? 
 What stealthy steps the slumbering echoes wake ? 
 *' Stand, on thy life !" His knife hath left its sheath, 
 And the poised pistol grimly threatens death. 
 No answer comes ; but light as forest fawn 
 Glides a sliglit female o'er the dewy lawn. 
 Why tempts that tender form the midnight air? 
 What makes she here, so fragile and so fair? 
 Had the earth yawned, and from the shades below 
 A demon sprung, it had not moved him so. 
 To earth the deadly weapons wild he dashed ; 
 With a strange light his eyes dilated — flashed. 
 " Great God, 'tis she !" The accents trembling hung 
 On his pale lips, when to his breast she sprung ; 
 Oh, to that moment what were years of pain ? 
 For young life's glory has returned again ! 
 Nor words nor murmur break the night's profound; 
 Thus still the full heart robs the lips of sound, 
 And, save the glances from their eyes that shoot, 
 There is no sign, — for happiness is mute. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh, she was beautiful, that lady fair. 
 
 Though pale her seeming in the midnight air ; 
 
 The slenderest tendrils of the clasping vine 
 
 Less rarely than her raven ringlets twine ; 
 
 The snowiest cloud that e'er the moon looked on 
 
 Than her white forehead less serenely shone ; 
 
 The wavy billows in the morning light. 
 
 Now tinged with red, now melting back to white. 
 
 Have less of heaven's serenest dyes than wore 
 
 That cheek, the tresses dankly clustered o'er. 
 
EL VA. 49 
 
 With trembling hand she dashed the locks away, 
 And from her damp brow swept the glittering spray : 
 
 ''And have we met, and must we part? — alas ! 
 Must this long-looked-for bliss so quickly pass? 
 Patience, my heart !" And then the accents broke 
 In calmer tones, though hurriedly she spoke : 
 
 ''Gilbert, within Gleneden's halls to-night 
 Are armed men that counsel hold of fight; 
 In ruthless hands are weapons bared for strife. 
 I scarce need tell thee what they seek, — thy life. 
 'Tis known to-night in Elva camps thy host. 
 Few, worn, asleep, — unarmed and weak the post, — 
 Thus ran their words ; and much they talked of gold. 
 And chieftains by repentant rebels sold. 
 Unseen myself, I heard their counsel ; fear 
 Has winged my steps to warn thee, — I am here." 
 
 Kindly he smiled: "And didst thou dare, dear 
 maid. 
 For one like me, the midnight forest shade ? 
 Thy robes are torn and wet, thy parched lips dry. 
 And a wild fire is glancing in thine eye, — 
 Poor trembling heart !" And closer still he pressed 
 The exhausted maiden to his throbbing breast. 
 " Ten thousand curses strike the coward hind 
 Who haunts thee thus with cruelty refined ! 
 Alas, my Clara ! I could weep for thee. 
 But tears have long been strangers unto me. 
 But let him come,"- — a scornful tone he took. 
 Darkened his brow, and deadly grew his look, — 
 " 'Tis time this hand had wreaked its treasured wrong. 
 And vengeance has delayed her sweets too long ; 
 Twice have I crossed him when the fight was red, 
 But fate befriended still his guilty head, 
 c 5 
 
50 EL VA. 
 
 Ay ! let him come ; my band, in one short hour. 
 Shall equal his, whate'er may be his power; 
 For, long before the hills shall hail the dawn, 
 Five hundred blades shall glance on Elva's lawn ; 
 Even now, methinks, the bugles faint I hear 
 Which warn their leaders that his troops draw near. 
 But thou, my gentle dove, thou ill mayst brook 
 On scenes of battle and of blood to look ! 
 Small refuge can these feeble walls afford 
 From war's rude shocks, the musket and the sword." 
 Fierce flashed her eye, and proudly rose her head : 
 "Think not my woman's heart so weak," she said. 
 *' No ! from this hour, whatever fate betide. 
 My post is ever by my Gilbert's side. 
 Mine were thy wrongs, my vengeance shall be thine j 
 Through danger or success thy path be mine !" 
 *' A thousand thanks, my Clara, for that word ! 
 Thy voice has nerved my heart, has edged my 
 
 sword ! 
 Nor deem thy lover weak : this peril past. 
 On different scenes thine eyes thou soon shalt cast. 
 For in these wars my hand shall carve a name 
 Whose sheen shall dim my sires' ancestral fame, — 
 Enduring as the stars ; and thou shalt be 
 First in a land where every heart is free." 
 Quick he breaks off, for, glancing through the trees, 
 Rank after rank of bayonets bright he sees. 
 " Clara, they come ! — the blood-hounds will not wait 
 The morning light, so eager burns their hate ; 
 'Tis fearful odds, my Clara. But away: 
 Awhile at least we'll hold their ranks at bay." 
 Around her slender waist his arm he flung, 
 And lightly through the open door he sprung. 
 
51 
 
 ELVA, 
 
 Noiseless behind the heavy portal turns, 
 Before him still that glimmering taper burns. 
 He reached the centre of that chamber wide, 
 Where slumber still his warriors side by side : 
 *'Now to your chamber haste, my Clara, haste, 
 For life hangs on each moment that we waste !" 
 
 IX. 
 
 He watched her glide reluctant from the hall, 
 
 Then snatched an unsheathed sabre from the wall, 
 
 One instant's glance around the chamber cast, 
 
 Where sleep so many that have slept their last : 
 
 " Rouse ye, my mates !" Upspringing at the sound, 
 
 From their rough couch the startled warriors bound. 
 
 Noiseless they start, and all prepared they stand ; 
 
 Glances the knife, and shines the ready brand ; 
 
 Nor sign nor motion show they of surprise. 
 
 But mutely turn on Gilbert their bright eyes. 
 
 He stands their centre ; round his form they wheel, 
 
 A dusky phalanx lit by gleams of steel. 
 
 Serene, but pale as sculptured marble stone 
 
 His cheek, while from his eyes there coldly shone 
 
 A wintry starlight: well 'tis understood 
 
 That freezing glance prophetic speaks of blood. 
 
 Proud he looks round, yet struggling with his pride 
 
 Was something of regret he chose to hide. 
 
 And low, though resolute, those accents clear 
 
 That fired the listener's heart and thrilled his ear: 
 
 '' Comrades and friends, — my trusty, fearless few, 
 
 'Still to yourselves and injured freedom true, — 
 
 Our foes are here ; we are at last beset : 
 
 Be calm, be firm, and we shall foil them yet. 
 
52 
 
 ELVA. 
 
 They think us helpless, hopeless, all undone, 
 
 And scorn their conquest as too easy won ; 
 
 But, can we hold our post, ere morn be gray 
 
 We'll change their triumph into blank dismay. 
 
 Yet — for I scorn the hope one hour may blast. 
 
 Nor speak through fear — this fight may be our last ; 
 
 If one half-hour unmoved we hold our post, 
 
 All shall be well ; if broken, all is lost. 
 
 So, friends, dear friends, ere yet this cast we dare, 
 
 This closing game 'twixt fortune and despair, 
 
 One friendly grasp, not one regretful sigh : 
 
 We have been true, and as we've lived we'll die. 
 
 Now, then, all's well ; be resolute — be dumb ; 
 
 Let your good rifles speak — Ah, hark! they come !" 
 
 X. 
 
 Flew from its massive hinge the shattered door. 
 The splintered fragments strewed the marble floor; 
 Wild through the breach, like flashing waves, they 
 
 rolled, 
 All plumed and armed, and glittering o'er with gold. 
 Up to the aim rose Gilbert's rifles all, 
 Rung the report, and sped the deadly ball. 
 The exulting shout that swelled the foeman's breath 
 Is quenched in yells of anguish and of death. 
 Once more they crowd, — once more the volley came ; 
 They sink like withered grass that feels the flame ; 
 A ghastly pile of quivering limbs and gore 
 Bars up the way and chokes the narrow door. 
 But, fast and thick, on numbers numbers press. 
 And death that thins seems scarce to leave them less. 
 Till in one mass, confused and fierce, they close ; 
 Shot answers shot, and blows are met by blows. 
 
ELVA. 
 
 53 
 
 Useless the rifle now in that red strife; 
 
 Swings the short sword, and speeds the gory knife; 
 
 The sulphurous smoke hangs o'er them like a pall, 
 
 While reeling round they struggle, strike, and fall. 
 
 Foremost of all, conspicuous, Gilbert stood. 
 
 His whirling sabre dripping red with blood ; 
 
 Gleams his gray eye, his lordly brow is bare. 
 
 In tangled masses falls his raven hair. 
 
 Like weeds they fall where'er his weapon's swept. 
 
 Still round his form a vacant ring he kept. 
 
 Where his blade gleams they sink with quivering cry. 
 
 And still, through all, one plume attracts his eye. 
 
 As through wild waves the vessel holds her course 
 
 Straight for the port, so through the serried force 
 
 He cleaves his way ; as winds and waves will turn 
 
 The bark aside that struggles to her bourn. 
 
 So still opposing numbers bar his way, 
 
 And rush between the avenger and his prey. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Borne back — repulsed — defeated — conquered^^no ! 
 Not while one wearied arm can strike a blov^ 
 Stand the lorn few, and deeply draw their breath 
 For one last stroke, one struggle more with death. 
 As sometimes, when the tempest wildest raves. 
 Comes a short lull along the flashing waves, 
 So seemed that pause in havoc's mad career. 
 So deep you almost might their breathing hear. 
 Then, too, — oh, contrast strange ! — who looked might 
 
 see 
 The moonlight sleeping on the hill's green lea; 
 The trees where 'mid the boughs the wild -bird swings. 
 And, rocked in slumber, folds her wearied wings; 
 
54 ^^^^^- 
 
 The jeweled grass, the flower whose sun-parched lip 
 
 Fresh health and beauty from the night may sip; 
 
 The rimpling streams that feed, with ceaseless flow, 
 
 The pulseless bosom of the lake below, 
 
 Where, glassed between long shadows dusk and brown, 
 
 In lines of light the mirrored skies sweep down. 
 
 Oh, gazing on such scenes, how sweetly come 
 
 O'er the full soul dear memories of home ! 
 
 And were but griefs forgot, and faults past given. 
 
 The heart might dream this earth should yet be 
 
 heaven ! 
 All this the long wide window could disclose. 
 With frame festooned by many a folded rose ; 
 But not for eyes like theirs that gentle sight, — 
 So calm, so sweet, so beautiful, so bright. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Gilbert looked round ; oh ! now no more they turn, 
 With answering glances, to his looks that burn ; 
 Wounded and bleeding, scarce the nerveless hand 
 Can now sustain the deeply reddened brand ; 
 Yet, half unconscious, round his form they close, — 
 Alas ! weak fence are they from savage foes. 
 Around the room his gaze uncertain strayed. 
 Till on the chamber-door where Clara stayed 
 It rested for a moment. In his heart 
 Some half-forbidden purpose seemed to start ; 
 But in that moment, when suspended strife 
 Gave time for thoughts to rise of death and life, 
 Stepped from the opposing ranks Gleneden's chief. 
 And thus in haughty tones demanded brief: 
 ''Now, Gilbert, yield; thy short success is past; 
 Thy king compels thy rebel knee at last. 
 
ELVA. 
 
 Justice or mercy, choose thee which ! we deal, — 
 Thy monarch's pardon, or his vengeful steel !" 
 Flashed Gilbert's eye, and curled his lip with scorn : 
 " Remorseless caitiff, to thy land forsworn, 
 False to all ties, in every treason dyed, 
 Here, with thy country's fellest foes allied, 
 Barest thou to brand me rebel ? Thank thy fear, 
 And thy less guilty tools that guard thee here, 
 That long ere now my hand has not repaid 
 My wrongs, and hers, and my poor land betrayed ! 
 Thy mercies, too ! Ay, prate of such to me ! 
 I know them well, — the halter and the tree ! 
 
 Thou, loathed by all, — by every heart accursed 
 
 Biit words are idle, — do thy best, or worst ! 
 
 Dear friends, once more, one closing stroke with me 
 
 For home — for Liberty ! — we will be free !" 
 
 Hark ! was't a wandering echo that brought back 
 
 That shout returning on its airy track? 
 
 Do my ears mock me ? — heard I not the sound 
 
 Of trampling hoofs that shake the solid ground ? 
 
 Wildly they meet, — that final strife shall close 
 
 On none but victors and their silent foes. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And where was Clara? In that chamber dark 
 She might, by sounds, the battle's progress mark ; 
 She heard when Gilbert woke them to the fray, 
 And when the door to angry blows gave way ; 
 The volleyed crash that sped the deadly hail, 
 And the long shout that quivered to a wail. 
 She heard ; but still, as wilder grew the din. 
 And crept the sulphurous smoke the room within, 
 
 55 
 
56 
 
 ELVA. 
 
 One maddening thought — her Gilbert ! — torture grew. 
 
 His single form her frenzied fancy drew ; 
 
 Each blade was bent at Gilbert's heart alone, 
 
 In every cry rung Gilbert's dying moan, 
 
 Till a dull sense — like slumber or like death — 
 
 Unnerved her limbs and quenched her struggling 
 
 breath, 
 Seemed the wild strife in distance far to die, 
 And gleamed with rainbow tints her closing eye. 
 She wakes. How dark and chill ! Confused, she hears — 
 She scarce knows what ! Her cheek is drenched with 
 
 tears. 
 And forms and scenes distorted cross her mind. 
 Like images on water swept by wind. 
 She starts! Ah, now all's known; that voice — for 
 
 well 
 Each tone of that loved voice her ears can tell ! 
 'Twas then that Gilbert strove with voice and hand 
 To that last charge to cheer his drooping band — " 
 She hears, and flies, flings wide the door, and all 
 Is there revealed within that gory hall. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Low lay Gleneden's chief, — his crimson vest 
 
 Dark with the warm blood springing from his breast : 
 
 O'er him stood Gilbert ; still his sabre kept 
 
 At bay the circling host that round him swept ; 
 
 When, with a long, wild shout and bursting shock. 
 
 The ranks are riven, the reeling masses rock; 
 
 And, piercing through the midst, fresh troops are seen, 
 
 With weapons bared, and clad in robes of green. 
 
 *' Oh, welcome ! welcome !" burst from Gilbert's tongue, 
 
 As proudly to that column's head he sprung; 
 
ELVA. 
 
 57 
 
 Not long the foe that sweeping charge may bide : 
 Wildly they fly, or fall on every side. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And the last blow has fallen. All is still. 
 Hark to the murmur of the gentle rill ; 
 List to the breezy song the night-wind sings ; 
 How the leaves shiver when the long bough swings. 
 And this is Nature, beautiful by night ! 
 Most beautiful, — most heavenly in such light 
 As now sleeps on her. Mighty God ! how mean 
 Seems the poor reptile man in such a scene ! 
 But where are they, — the forms who lately stood 
 On that wild floor, so slippery now with blood? 
 Oh, many stay there still ; around they sleep. 
 In tortured attitudes of anguish deep ; 
 And some, but it^^^ are fugitives : far down 
 In the deep gorges of the forest brown 
 Are forms that struggle through the long rank grass, 
 And pause, and start, and tremble as they pass. 
 And Gilbert, — the triumphant, — where is he? 
 Lo ! 'neath the shadow of yon ivied tree 
 A group of sorrowing, sobbing warriors bend 
 O'er him they bled for, but could not defend. 
 Oh, destiny inscrutable ! Through all 
 Unharmed to pass, — the bayonet and the ball, — 
 And in the moment of success to fall ! 
 His life bleeds slowly from him ; and beside 
 Kneels she who was — or should have been — his bride; 
 Mutely she kneels, nor moves, nor weeps, nor sighs. 
 But only gazes on his glazing eyes 
 And presses his cold temples. Time rolls past, — 
 Each moment an eternity; they cast 
 c* 
 
58 ITALIA. 
 
 Inquiring glances on her ; and they see 
 At last this dauntless spirit is set free, 
 Yet in her see no motion. But, when gray- 
 In the far east appeared the rising day. 
 They stooped to raise the little arms that bound 
 His silent head and stony temples round. 
 They found her gentle spirit, too, had gone, — 
 She was a corpse, like him she rested on ! 
 
 ITALIA. 
 
 Purple-fruited and trailing vines 
 Girdle the base of the Apennines ; 
 Olive- and orange- and lemon-trees grow ; 
 Fragrant and bright are the flowers that blow ; 
 From the blue heaven a wind of balm 
 Sighs like the sound of a cloistered psalm ; 
 Odors and music, in blended wave, 
 Slumbering valley and upland lave ; 
 Ambient air and golden light ; 
 Silver-shining and dewy night ; 
 Shores whose every tufted mound 
 Shades of heroes wander round ; 
 Rivers so calm, and deep, and wide, 
 And of such pure, translucent tide. 
 That heaven forever smiles to see 
 Her face returned so lovingly ! 
 
ITALIA. 
 
 All is beautiful, — all is fair; 
 Nothing of evil in earth or air 
 Ever stops or tarries there. 
 
 II. 
 
 Such is the land that blooms and shines 
 Around the base of the Apennines. 
 But midway up the mountain-side, 
 
 Where the fierce storms, extending far. 
 Marshal their cloudy hosts for war. 
 And shake their dusky banners wide, 
 The oak his fluted trunk uprears, 
 Gray with the moss of many years. 
 But greenly capitaled. Oh, high 
 The whistling tempest shall go by 
 Before its frosty fingers shed 
 One leafy honor from his head. 
 Or shake, how wild soe'er its rage, 
 The vigor of his lusty age ! 
 There, in that temperate region, flower 
 The branches of the woodland bower ; 
 There the green larch like emerald gleams ; 
 There mourns the willow o'er the streams; 
 The chestnut and the walnut shade 
 The hill-side green, the duskier glade ; 
 Their stately forms, with arms combined, 
 Swing to the chorus of the wind. 
 And where their roots embracing cling, 
 Upwells the pure and living spring. 
 The infant river, whose cool breath 
 Shall fan the fainting land beneath. 
 But never the sweet wind blows there 
 That waves along the lowland air. 
 
 59 
 
6o ITALIA. 
 
 With soft, voluptuous poison rife, 
 And fatal unto manhood's life; 
 The breeze is chill, for frosts are near; 
 The steel-blue sky is cold and clear, 
 And health goes with the circling year. 
 
 III. 
 
 Up higher yet the hemlocks throw 
 
 Their long blue shadows o'er the snow. 
 
 The sombre pine, recluse of trees, 
 
 Moans feebly to the heedless breeze ; 
 
 In gloomy green the fir-tree wild. 
 
 Forgetful Nature's foster-child. 
 
 Holds with the storm unceasing strife, 
 
 The outward picket-guard of life. 
 
 The North breathes there, — no blast but brings 
 
 The powdery snow-dust on its wings ; 
 
 No tempering rain bedews the gale ; 
 
 But on bare peak and upland vale 
 
 Full sharply rings the rattling hail. 
 
 And far above, in cloudless light, 
 
 Beyond the tempest's bolder flight, 
 
 By earthquake rent, by ages worn, 
 
 By the slow-swelling ice-wedge torn. 
 
 The herbless granite, wrenched and riven, 
 
 Alone beneath the arch of heaven, 
 
 With many a splintered pinnacle, 
 
 Cleaves the thin air serene and still, 
 
 And wears its robes unstained, untrod. 
 
 White-shining in the sight of God. 
 
 O solemn realm, while far below, 
 
 The tides of nations ebb and flow ; 
 
ITALIA. 6 1 
 
 While in the mid-height temperate glades 
 
 The thick-leaved forest flowers and fades ; 
 
 The lordly oak and hardy pine 
 
 Spring, flourish, wither, and decline ; 
 
 While all beneath the milder day 
 
 Bloom forth, bear fruit, and pass away, — 
 
 O land of sheen and death, on thee 
 
 No change has been, nor e'er shall be. 
 
 Thy plains of desolate repose 
 
 Wake not to human joys or woes ; 
 
 No sound, no motion, grave or gay, 
 
 Disturbs thy dread soliloquy. 
 
 Save when the condor clouds the glow 
 
 That glitters o'er thy frozen snow, 
 
 Or in thy sparry caverns lone 
 
 The wandering wind doth shriek and moan, 
 
 Calling sad echoes from the stone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Such are the belt, the base, the crown 
 
 Of this bright land of fame. 
 Here on this ledge come sit we down 
 
 And conjure with her name. 
 Land of my dreams, fair Italy ! 
 Oh, fain would I thy future see. 
 Dark sibyl of a god unknown. 
 Queen of a dim aurora throne, 
 Is there no spell, in word, nor song, 
 Nor sacrifice, nor vigils long. 
 Nor penance, that can wring from thee 
 Some knowledge of the stern decree 
 Thine eye peruseth constantly? 
 6 
 
62 ITALIA. 
 
 I have beheld in dreams, at times 
 When o'er my brain the charm of rhymes 
 Has softly murmured, mingling life 
 With visions in fantastic strife, 
 I have beheld a lone, drear cave. 
 Around whose dismal entrance wave 
 Long groves of cypress, — while the yew 
 Weeps from above its baleful dew, — 
 A yawning gulf of gloom and fear. 
 Which none but sleepers venture near ; 
 Whence troops of winds, like living things, 
 Rush ever forth on unseen wings. 
 Prophetic scenes are shifting there. 
 And visions strange disturb the air; 
 And all the unsolid shapes that wait 
 The summons and command of fate 
 Crouch in its caverns, still and dumb, — 
 Wan shadows of the things to come. 
 There, wandering late, it chanced to seem 
 That words like these were in my dream : 
 '' Joy ! joy for Nature's second birth ! 
 A spirit has passed o'er the earth; 
 The breath of Deity again 
 Is stirring the dry bones of men ; 
 Clear from the sward its cankering rust ; 
 Awake the slave that sleeps in dust ; 
 Ye strong of arm, ye bold of heart, 
 Rejoice ; behold the gloom depart ; 
 Day dawns, — the long-expected day 
 When the old things must pass away ; 
 The hour draws near, so long delayed, 
 For triumph and for vengeance made ; 
 
 \ 
 
ITALIA. 63 
 
 And sacred shall the soldier be 
 Who strongly striketh to be free !" 
 Pass on, fierce storm and ruthless wind ! 
 Peace, joy, and love are close behind; 
 And vines and blossoms have arrayed 
 The wreck the hurricane has made. 
 Oh, smiling earth ! oh, day of pride, 
 Whose dawning was so redly dyed ! 
 Oh, harvest fair of waving gold ! 
 Alas ! the hands that sowed are cold ! 
 But streams from human hearts alone 
 Can drown the scaffold and the throne. 
 
 Hero of triumphs, — Italy ! 
 
 Though deep thy fettered slumber be, 
 
 The voice, the spirit, speaks to thee ; 
 
 So like a wind, it moves, it waves 
 
 The verdure on thy warriors' graves. 
 
 Wake, Giant, wake ! rank weeds have grown 
 
 Betwixt the crumbling sculptured stone, 
 
 The wilderness of ruin spread 
 
 For thy hard pillow and cold bed. 
 
 And wreathe thy temples, where should twine 
 
 Green laurels and the clustering vine. 
 
 Wake from thy sleep enchanted ! rise ! 
 
 Earth waits the opening of thy eyes. 
 
 And heaven, no longer frowning, beams 
 
 O'er the dull chaos of thy dreams. 
 
 Still art thou sleeping? Dost thou hear 
 No murmur swelling in thine ear? 
 Behold, their very graves are gone 
 That bowed the nations at thy throne : 
 
64 ITALIA. 
 
 Sons of thy slaves have borne afar 
 
 Thy trophies and thy spoils of war ; 
 
 Within thy temples, built to brave 
 
 The dash of Time's assailing wave, 
 
 Hark how the conquering wind doth rave; 
 
 Gray ruin on thy strong-built towers, 
 
 Green mildew in thy myrtle bowers ; 
 
 Thy matrons and thy maids alone 
 
 For thy lost manhood mourn and moan. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Art thou yet sleeping ? dost thou know 
 How frail the links that bind thee low ? 
 The thread the child for pastime burns, 
 The ice on streams when spring returns, 
 The chains of flowers that maidens wear, 
 The gossamer that floats in air, 
 Are stronger than thy fetters when 
 Thy Roman heart shall beat again. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ay, and it comes, and fast, the morn 
 
 When these same chains thy limbs have worn 
 
 Shall steel to stubborn hands afford 
 
 To forge again the Roman sword. 
 
 Then woe to you, ye kings, whose hands 
 
 Have riveted the long-worn bands; 
 
 Who laughed, and dared with touch profane 
 
 The Roman Mother's breast to stain ; 
 
 Far from the form your slanderous tongues 
 
 Have soiled with insults, taunts, and wrongs ; 
 
 From her, so injured, so betrayed. 
 
 So crushed, so shamed, so disarrayed. 
 
ITALIA. 
 
 65 
 
 Whose very name ye made for mirth 
 A mockery o'er the broad, bright earth, 
 Shall spring the spirit that shall be 
 Your downfall and your destiny. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And thou, the Triple-crowned, whose chain 
 Enslaves alike the heart and brain, — 
 Whose mystic sceptre can control 
 At once the body and the soul, — 
 Thou, at whose advent nations came 
 And sang hosannas to thy name, — 
 Beware, remember, think : ere now 
 The crown has crushed a tyrant's brow ; 
 For years have slaves endured, and then 
 At last remembered they were men. 
 Look round thy land; the yellow grain 
 Ungarnered moulders on the plain. 
 And the ungathered grape dissolves in crimson rain. 
 Look round thy land ; do fruits like these 
 Grow ripe beneath the beams of peace ? 
 Hark to the sounds that wound the ear, — 
 The shrieks of pain, the screams of fear, 
 The roar of rushing flames, the peal 
 Of hurtling shot and clashing steel. 
 The sobs of manly hearts, the wild 
 Sharp cries of mother, maid, and child. 
 These make the wind that shrill doth moan 
 Unceasing round thy sacred throne ; 
 Hadst thou no fear that saddening shame 
 Would fall like mildew on thy name? 
 For thou to all the world didst say, 
 *' I break the seal that closes day ; 
 6* 
 
66 ITALIA. 
 
 To this my land I thus decree, 
 
 From Christ my Master, and from me : 
 
 Glad tidings of great joy have come : 
 
 For those who sadly wander, home ; 
 
 For those who hunger, bread ; for those 
 
 Athirst and weary, sweet repose ; 
 
 Earth and its fruits to all belong, — 
 
 The weak, the suffering, and the strong,— 
 
 To all whom Jesus died to save. 
 
 And hope from heaven beyond the grave.' 
 
 IX. 
 
 These were thy promises ; for these 
 Rose from the islands of the seas, 
 From far and near, with grand acclaim. 
 Loud hallelujahs to thy name. 
 But speak, ye bleeding ghosts that fright 
 The shadows of your country's night, 
 Who darken and disturb the day, 
 Roving with Terror and Dismay ; 
 Speak, till the heavens, re-echoing, tell 
 How far he kept them, and how well. 
 
 Not thine alone the shame ; far worse. 
 And worthy of a heavier curse. 
 Are those who counseled to betray 
 Thy course in the disastrous day 
 When heavenly impulse changed to fear 
 And checked thee in thy brave career. 
 This may excuse thee. Prince of Souls, 
 Whose weakness now the world controls ; 
 
ITALIA. 
 
 — Ah, weakness in precarious times 
 In rulers is the worst of crimes. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But to the theme. Again we turn 
 Where Freedom's watch-fires faintly burn. 
 What trumpets fright the peaceful air? 
 What banners wave, what blades are bare, 
 By yellow Tiber's purpled foam? 
 What cannon shake the walls of Rome ? 
 Who to the seven-hilled city brings 
 Red war, — the argument of kings ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 All conquering Gaul, — the brave, the free, — 
 Fair Child of Faith, 'tis thee, 'tis thee. 
 Hail to thy hosts returning, — hail 
 The flags far-streaming on the gale, 
 Those bright tri-tinted banners given 
 To suffering man by sympathizing Heaven ! 
 Hail to thy reddened arm that gave 
 Death's freedom to the vainly brave, — 
 The heroes thou wert sworn to save ! 
 God ! that a freeman e'er should name 
 Thy bandit hosts, or sing thy shame ! 
 That heaven's bright, blessed sun should shine 
 On brazen infamy like thine ! 
 Thou branded with the mark of Cain, 
 Thou harlot, fickle, fierce, and vain, 
 Thou lewd, blaspheming hypocrite, 
 That, clothed in Freedom's robes of light, 
 Art leagued with Tophet and dull night, 
 Flaunt on and triumph, boast how far 
 Have flowed the billows of thy war, 
 6* 
 
 67 
 
6S ITALIA. 
 
 Toss thy red plumes, and vaunt the zeal 
 
 That edged thy fratricidal steel, 
 
 And wave thy streaming sword whose thrust 
 
 Laid thy young brother in the dust ; 
 
 But know that thou shalt perish ; know, 
 
 In thy own dwelling lurks the foe. 
 
 The avenger that shall lay thee low. 
 
 The peacock plumage on thy crest, 
 
 With blood bedewed thy wanton breast ; 
 
 Not all thy terrors nor thy charms 
 
 Shall baffle the avenging arms 
 
 Of thine own vices ; with thy breath 
 
 Of perfumed air thou breathest death. 
 
 Thy guilt shall slay thee ; when rise high 
 
 Thy godless revels, thou shalt die. 
 
 Thine aimless science, thy array 
 
 Of tinseled crime and gilt decay, 
 
 Thy fame, thy prostituted art, 
 
 All, all shall shrivel and depart ; 
 
 And the wild wolf, that naught can tame, 
 
 And rank corruption's marshy flame. 
 
 By day shall prowl, by night shall glance. 
 
 Along the ruined fields of France. 
 
 A whirlwind from the frozen north. 
 
 Dark-winged and strong, shall issue forth, 
 
 Before whose showers of iron hail 
 
 The bravest of thy chiefs shall quail 
 
 And shiver in its frosty gale. 
 
 Hark! through thy shattered halls it roars; 
 
 And hark ! what shouts of vengeance and what mirth 
 
 Rise from the rifled field, the invaded hearth. 
 
 To see thee banished from the breast of earth. 
 
ITALIA. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 69 
 
 O land of bloom and beauty, — thou 
 With youth eternal on thy brow, — 
 Despair not, but endure : thy day 
 Cannot be faint, nor far away. 
 Long was thy penance, just and long, 
 For pride had warped thy heart to wrong, 
 And thirst of conquest, wealth, and fame, 
 Had dimmed the splendor of thy name. 
 But God, who burns to purify. 
 Will wipe the sorrows from thine eye : 
 When all desert thee, and when they 
 Who chained thine eagles melt away. 
 His anger shall pass from thee. He 
 Will speak the word shall make thee free. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Farewell, fair land, farewell ; too long 
 
 Has flowed the current of my song ; 
 
 But in my swelling veins the blood 
 
 Becomes the lava's liquid flood. 
 
 And fire consumes my heart, when I 
 
 Cast o'er the land I love mine eye ; 
 
 For those she honors, trusts, sustain?, 
 
 Have forged and linked and bound her chains, 
 
 And priests and kings forget whose hand 
 
 Bestowed the crosier and the brand. 
 
 And live, as vampires live, to drain 
 
 Life from their bride's, their victim's vein. 
 
 Drinking from gasping lips their breath. 
 
 And living on a nation's death. 
 
70 
 
 LINES TO A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 LINES TO A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 Through the brown billows of the mighty flood, 
 From underneath the impalpable, shoreless main, — 
 The unsounded deluge of translucent gloom 
 That flies and follows day, — from the drowned earth, 
 Through rayless ether and vacuity, 
 Towards the blue expansion springs my soul. 
 
 And lo ! there is a change in the clear sky, — 
 A strange mutation in the deep serene. 
 An influence has departed ; a loved orb — 
 The first I saw, the last I ceased to see 
 When the blank earth compelled me to the stars — 
 Has reddened, waned, and vanished ; for my heart, 
 That quickened in its brilliancy, as waves 
 Thrill to the shadowed planet of gray morn, 
 Pulsates untroubled, and its springs have peace, — 
 Despair's existence, apathy's repose, — 
 And from their unsuccessful flight, through where 
 Beamed the far bourn and Eden of my dreams, 
 My thoughts return aweary to my breast. 
 There is a light — a loveliness — the less 
 In night's refulgent sisterhood ; a space 
 Of fathomless gloom, where late was radiance; all 
 The baleful damps of unforetold eclipse 
 Have quenched the pride of the ascending stars : 
 Of one — the miracle of eve and morn — 
 
LINES TO A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 71 
 
 The sphere is henceforth vacancy ; and one, 
 
 To whom, from dusk till dawn, the whole night through 
 
 Went adorations, prayers, and burning sighs. 
 
 And passionate longings of intense high souls, 
 
 Is now no longer visible in heaven. 
 
 A song for thee, lost Pleiad ! a sweet song ; 
 For in the eternal harmonies no part 
 Than thine was more melodious: a sad song; 
 For shadows of a tearful, tremulous grief 
 Were in thy clearest aspects, and thy fall 
 And doom are now so dread that, were they told 
 In their stern truth and naked hideousness, 
 Echo would' fear to answer ; men would start 
 And shudder as the stern decree went past, 
 Shocking the heart like death and stifling pain. 
 
 Glorious, oh, glorious as the earliest beams 
 Of heaven's serenest planets, in those nights — 
 Those first clear nights — in Paradise, before 
 The damps and exhalations of the earth 
 Had veiled the splendor of the hosts divine. 
 So pure, so glorious, so undimmed thy dawn. 
 Poets came forth, framers of silver strains 
 Immortal as the music of the spheres. 
 And tuned their harps and hearts to praise of thee. 
 Sages sought wisdom in thy shining face. 
 Remembering not the knowledge of old days. 
 The gathered thoughts of time, warning them back. 
 But seeking lore prophetic in the dreams 
 Down-flowing with thy soft descending light. 
 And wondering at Chaldea's seers no more. 
 Earth lost a portion of her native gloom, 
 
72 LINES TO A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 And heaven grew brighter, as thy dawn drew near; 
 
 And when I knelt before thee, and became 
 
 Idolater, and felt thy singular might 
 
 Like sweet insanity invest my fate 
 
 With an unreal splendor, health, and peace, 
 
 And joy, and inspiration, and pure love 
 
 Were satellites attendant in thy train. 
 
 But all has vanished, like a track in the sea : 
 Beauty and glory, harmony and might, 
 Departed, like the phosphorescent gleam 
 Of the stirred wave subsiding into gloom. 
 Woe to the fiend who mastered thy career ! 
 Oh, woe and agony as unconfined 
 As space, eternity, and God, be his 
 Who cast thee from the brightness of thy place 
 Down to destruction and the starless void ! 
 For now thy course is centreless ; the form 
 So wondrous once and glorious has become 
 A troublous spectre : every eye beheld 
 How all thy clear companions of the night 
 Grew pallid at thy uncontrolled career. 
 A wandering horror, darkened, but not still. 
 Lost, yet unresting, aimless, but yet forced 
 With dread propulsion down, thou shalt depart 
 Into the untenanted chasm of space, where lies 
 The shadow of God, — the midnight of the spheres. 
 There, through that waste, opaque, eternal gloom, 
 Thou, sinking, shalt perceive the Ages pass 
 And bring no chains to thee. Ten thousand suns 
 Shall kindle and expire, each shining through 
 Duration unto which thy brief career 
 Was lightning's flash, and still thou shalt go down. 
 
LINES TO A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 73 
 
 Blind, wandering, lost, forever and forever. 
 Oh, wasted beauty ! ruin most complete ! 
 Oh, grief ! oh, woe ! Alas! alas! alas! 
 
 The darkness of thy desolation comes, 
 Breaking the eternal sunrise of the future, 
 Far-stretching, in its spectral duskiness, 
 Along the troubled surface of my soul. 
 Oh, thou art doomed so darkly ! Oh, alas ! 
 That thou, the pure, shouldst perish thus ! Alas! 
 That the bright orb that swayed my bosom's tides. 
 The star of my idolatry, the realm 
 My fancy loved to people with bright shapes 
 Of unalloyed creation, thus should be 
 Struck down from heaven, a blank and blighted mass 
 Wandering and hopeless, desolate and drear ! 
 The fire that was thy glory has consumed thee j 
 And the pale glow that yet betimes may come 
 To cheat the gazer with the ghost of beams 
 (If yet, perchance, aught may behold thy course), 
 Like charnel flowers upon a new-made grave. 
 Is but the blaze of rottenness, the gloom 
 Of the decaying embers that shall soon 
 Sink into bitter ashes. 
 
 Would that He 
 Who blest thee with a portion of his brightness. 
 And blest through thee all who thy beams beheld, — 
 For men, who dare not face the light of day, 
 Receive the sunlight from the milder moon 
 With eyes upraised and grateful, — ah, that He 
 Had reassunled thy splendor once again. 
 And drawn thee from thy orbit home to heaven ! 
 D 7 
 
74 
 
 LINES TO A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 I and thy thousand votaries could have borne 
 
 The darkness, and within thy vacant sphere 
 
 Discerned a hope, — oft dazzled eyes behold 
 
 A phantom sun when the true sun has set, — 
 
 And silence had been eloquent with dreams 
 
 And intimations of a loftier state, — 
 
 Of an ecstatic realm, where countless hosts 
 
 Revolve in splendor round the throne of God. 
 
 But doubt, and dread, and an unsoothable pang. 
 
 And shudderings such as trouble us when we keep 
 
 Companionship with the unrighteous dead. 
 
 Are linked with every memory of thee. 
 
 Thy name, that once was music, and that came 
 
 Spontaneous to the lips of those who spoke 
 
 Of peace, of purity, innocence, and love, 
 
 Is shunned and dreaded as a word accursed. 
 
 Go forth, lost wanderer, to return no more ; 
 
 A world condemned, thy bright possessing visions 
 
 Transformed to demons ; go thou forth alone ; 
 
 The heavens have lost their likeness, and earth moans, 
 
 Echoing their moans who madly yielded up 
 
 To thee their worship and with thee were lost. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 75 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 I WILL to sing of wanderers three 
 Who journeyed to a far countrie : 
 Three restless souls, who longed to hear 
 The music of a loftier sphere ; 
 Who longed to taste the streams divine 
 That, heaven-descended, gush and shine 
 Adown the mountains crystalline, — 
 The beautiful blue mountains, where 
 To breathe the thin, celestial air, 
 
 To drink the fiery breath, 
 Is to be mighty, — is to be 
 Immortal, ere life's rushing sea 
 
 Rolls o'er the brink of death; 
 To tread whose summits is to hear 
 The hastening Ages, ere the sheen 
 Of sunlight on their front is seen, . 
 With solemn and profound acclaim 
 Shout from futurity the name 
 Of the bold Wanderer who has seized 
 
 The sceptre of the years unborn. 
 Alas ! and yet, beneath the shade 
 Of laurels on his brows arrayed. 
 To hear those shouts, of worlds amazed, 
 
 With bitterness and scorn. 
 Sweet Fancy ! be mine aid the while, 
 And cheer me with thy sunny smile 
 
76 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 And beamy eye, or dull may seem 
 The changes of my fitful dream. 
 Celestial Fancy ! teach me ; say 
 How dim, how silent is the way. 
 And trace, with fairy finger free, 
 The borders of that far countrie. 
 
 At the solemn eventide. 
 When stately Dian wanders down 
 The azure fields, with crescent crown, 
 
 And Venus at her side, — 
 At the silent eventide. 
 When the flocking swallows glide, 
 Lazily, mazily glide and swim 
 Through the warm air waxing dim. 
 When the light is neither of night nor day, 
 I am wont to drift away 
 In a boat, with none but me, 
 Over a fathomless, endless sea, 
 Flowing into Eternity. 
 Into that ocean many a stream 
 
 Swiftly and dreamily doth flow, 
 Breaking with a starry gleam, 
 
 And music sounding low; 
 And the rivers are from the lands that lie 
 Up in the cloudy sunset sky, — 
 The region where extremes do meet, 
 The realm of vapors, frost, and heat, 
 
 The land of fire and snow. 
 Few are they, adventurously 
 Drifting over that shadowy sea. 
 
 1 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 77 
 
 Who dare ascend those rivers bright 
 Into that silent land of light ; 
 For the thin, translucent air, 
 And the beams that sparkle there, 
 Have a keener life, a fiercer thrill, 
 Than mortal form can bear. 
 
 Only he whose eye is dim 
 With gazing, by the light of dreams, 
 
 On the glory of saint and seraphim, — 
 Only he whose ear is drowned 
 In the troubled surge of thought profound, — 
 Only he whose heart aches ever 
 For the love he findeth never, 
 Can see, can hear, can hope to bear 
 The scenes, the strains. 
 The rapture that endureth there. 
 
 And woe, and woe, and misery 
 
 To the wretch whom destiny 
 
 Wrecks on that fair but deadly shore, 
 
 Whence he can return no more ! 
 
 There Frenzy, with a phantom train. 
 
 Shall rend his bosom, craze his brain ; 
 
 Manifold delusions still 
 
 Shall bewilder heart and will \ 
 
 On his pathway desolate 
 
 Pale Dismay shall lie in wait. 
 
 With shadowy hopes, and nameless fears. 
 
 And griefs that have no tears. 
 
 Yet the dullest eye unharmed may see 
 The verge of that land of mystery. 
 
 7* 
 
78 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 When the moon is thin and sharp, 
 
 When the dark wood looks but is not calm, 
 And within its aisles the wind doth harp, 
 
 Chanting a mighty psalm ; 
 When gigantic shapes stand still 
 In the shadow of the hill ; 
 When the first faint stars, with trembling eyes, 
 Seem weeping as the daylight dies, — 
 Then, o'er the purple hills, behold 
 A dusky rampart, edged with gold. 
 Its crumbling domes and towers uprear 
 Through the soft amber atmosphere. 
 Seeming by its Alpine range. 
 Its wizard grandeur still and strange, 
 As though giant hands had riven 
 From its base a mountain wild. 
 And the fragments roughly piled 
 To the very gates of heaven. 
 
 Lo ! on the ruin's topmost stone 
 
 A mighty form doth stand. 
 Girt with the genii's jeweled zone 
 
 And bright seraphic band ; 
 Wings spread like flame, with curving sweep. 
 Support him on that airy steep ; 
 In his hands an open book. 
 
 On his sunny brow a crown. 
 And, with fixed averted look. 
 
 Still he gazes calmly down 
 On the red light softly shining, 
 On the day's serene declining. 
 Tell me not of clouds made bright 
 By the glowing golden light ! 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 79 
 
 Tell me not of fancy's power 
 At the witching twilight hour ! 
 Well the poet knows 'tis he 
 
 Whom the cloudy gates obey, 
 He who holds the golden key 
 
 To the realms of endless day; 
 Nothing of fantastic birth. 
 
 But that rare and radiant one, 
 Gazing round the bended earth 
 
 After the declining sun ! 
 Floating on that endless sea 
 Flowing into Eternity, 
 When the twittering swallows swim 
 Through the warm air waxing dim, 
 Often am I forced to go 
 Up the silent streams that flow 
 From the land of fire and snow. 
 And fate — sad fate ! — my shallop brings 
 Beneath the shadow of those wings, 
 Those heaven-made wings, that curve and blaze 
 Like comets through the yellow haze. 
 While spectral shapes around me throng. 
 There dreamily I drift along, 
 With such a throbbing heart and head. 
 
 And such a keeping of my breath. 
 And such a doubt, and such a dread, 
 
 It only is not death. 
 
 II. 
 
 And up these silent streams came they, 
 Those Pilgrims of a troubled heart ; 
 They had drunk poison; and for aye. 
 
8o THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 Who drinks the draught of Phantasy 
 
 With soft-eyed Peace must part. 
 At the like time — at evenfall — 
 They floated past that airy wall 
 Alike with muffled hearts they came 
 Beneath those wings of streaming flame, 
 And hushed and eagerly passed o'er 
 The verge of that enchanted shore. 
 
 And far beyond that angel bright, 
 
 And that barrier built in air. 
 They came to a flood of liquid light, 
 
 That washes a shore of beauty rare. 
 'Tis the flood of thought, all glowing. 
 
 Like a placid moonlit river ; 
 But the beams that gild its flowing 
 
 Fall upon its breast forever. 
 Star nor moon need never shine 
 On that shadowy stream divine, 
 Nor the sun's intenser ray. 
 For the pure air itself is day. 
 Billows, with their feathery crests 
 Topped with silver, strike the shore, 
 And, returning, evermore 
 
 Sink, with a starry gleam, 
 
 Into the quiet stream, 
 
 With the golden sand 
 
 Of that bright land 
 Burning upon their breasts. 
 Over that river waste and lone, 
 Like a spirit, steals a tone. 
 
 With a sound of sighing, 
 Sad as the night-wind's saddest moan 
 
 In the aisles of forests dying ; 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 8 1 
 
 And the dim waters' rippling swell 
 Rings like the chiming of a bell. 
 
 Ghastly forms are gliding through 
 
 The silent deeps of that lone flood ; 
 
 Not like things of flesh and blood, 
 But with ever-changing hue, 
 Silently they come and go, 
 Gliding softly to and fro; 
 And under the arms of trees 
 That swing without a breeze, 
 Over the sparkling brim, 
 Making a twilight soft and dim, 
 
 A haze of mingled red and gray, 
 Pale and purple shadows glide 
 Softly down the river-side. 
 With a swelling, changing motion. 
 
 Like the rack of a stormy day 
 Traversing the airy ocean. 
 
 They who the silent land would view 
 Must pass that thin, wan water through, 
 Must climb the banks where poppies dream, 
 With dim eyes turned upon the stream. 
 Must part the branches intertwined 
 Of the trees that wave without a wind. 
 And over the desolate fields pass on. 
 Erratic and alone. 
 
 Silently the wanderers stood. 
 Gazing on the shining flood ; 
 Long there they stood, and frequently 
 Amid their silence they would sigh ; 
 
 D* 
 
82 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 For here, as where we yield our breath 
 
 By the black rushing river of death, 
 
 All companionship must part ; 
 
 Each hence must wear a widowed heart. 
 
 Feeding the inward fire alway 
 
 As best in solitude he may. 
 
 Mute, as in a dreamy trance. 
 
 Each turned on each his darkened glance ; 
 
 They pressed each other's hands, and gave 
 
 Their salt tears to the vacant wave ; 
 
 Then, with spontaneous impulse strong, 
 
 Their misery broke forth into song ; 
 
 The strain with melancholy swell 
 
 Along the water rose and fell ; 
 
 It sounded, more than I can say, 
 
 Like night-wind in a ruin gray, 
 
 Where the living would venture scarce to pray, 
 
 And only the dead dwell fearlessly : 
 
 ^'Farewell.! farewell! 
 Sun-lighted, vanishing scenes of youth, 
 Young love, delightful friendship, trust, and truth. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 *'Ah, who can tell 
 How the heart stouns that cannot stay 
 With the sweet things to which the lips must say 
 '' Farewell ? 
 
 ''The dim waves swell, 
 And, siren-singing, glance along; 
 Beyond the flood the beckoning shadows throng. 
 Farewell ! ' ' 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO TIIULE. ^l 
 
 They plunged, they sank ; their voices died 
 Like wind along the flushing tide : 
 Slowly they pass ; the water seems 
 Like waves we battle in our dreams ; 
 Anon upon the bank they rise, 
 Where blossoms sleep with half-shut eyes ; 
 They mingle with the shadows dim 
 Slow moving down the river's brim ; 
 They part the branches intertwined 
 Of the trees that wave without a wind ; 
 And, each by each unseen, unknown, 
 They over the desolate fields pass on, 
 Erratic and alone. 
 
 III. 
 
 How looks the land beyond the trees 
 A swinging to the unfelt breeze ? 
 What sight to see, what sound to hear, 
 Delights the eye, beguiles the ear? 
 What sideway would the steps incline 
 From the strait path to where do shine 
 The far-off mountains crystalline ? 
 
 Pale illusions manifold. 
 
 Green lights, and sudden gleams of gold, 
 
 Light breaths of air, that chill with dread. 
 
 Like to a spirit's windy tread, 
 
 Gray shapes that wander shadowless, — 
 
 The phantoms they that still distress 
 
 The dreams of fever and excess, — 
 
 March forth and vanish, and again 
 
 Take form and vanish on the plain ; 
 
84 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 Like vapors that in calms at sea 
 
 Wheel o'er the ocean silently. 
 
 No sound, and yet a tone ; no sound, 
 
 Yet a strange music hovering round; 
 
 The ghost of a deep organ-swell 
 
 Vibrating in a wild farewell ; 
 
 A wandering music, that doth start 
 
 Strange echoes in the listener's heart ; 
 
 And yet no sound, and all things seem 
 
 The faint reflections of a dream, 
 
 Indistinct, impalpable 
 
 As shadows in a flowing rill, — 
 
 As the dilating shapes that fly 
 
 Before the gazer's glazing eye. 
 
 Fixed on the deep-blue summer sky. 
 
 Sloping hills, with glades between, 
 
 Where low, fresh plants are waving green, 
 
 Such plants as earliest decay, — 
 
 As spring and wither in a day, — 
 
 And, shedding their fragrant leafy showers, 
 
 Grow round all perishable flowers, 
 
 Colored with such flaunting dyes 
 
 As paint the rosiest evening skies : 
 
 But never there, like sprinkled snow. 
 
 The golden-hearted daisies grow ; 
 
 Never springs the violet blue. 
 
 Nor the primrose, dipt in dew. 
 
 Breathing delicate perfume 
 
 Through the forest's sad cathedral gloom ; 
 
 Nor the manifold array 
 
 Of modest, nameless blossoms gay. 
 
 Strewn on the woodland lavishly. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 85 
 
 Such is the scene. Alas for him 
 Who lingered with the phantoms dim ! 
 Alas for him who drank delight 
 From the thin air serenely bright ! — 
 For him who turned his faithless eyes 
 From the blue mountains and the skies 
 Down on the flowers' seducing dyes ! 
 
 Yes, there was one of the Pilgrims three — 
 
 One of that wandering companie — 
 
 Who yielded to the subtile charm 
 
 Of the heavy odors, sweet and warm, 
 
 Who willingly his steps did stay 
 
 To pluck the flaunting blossoms gay, 
 
 Who melted to the fatal spell 
 
 That came, with melancholy swell. 
 
 On the low, soundless, sad "Farewell." 
 
 Through his heart and through his brain 
 
 Pierced the fine scents and spirit strain ; 
 
 Drunken with sweets, with dazzled eye. 
 
 He wandered on unwittingly. 
 
 Dimmer did his eye become ; 
 
 In his ear a drowsy hum ; 
 
 His heart grew faint, his limbs grew numb ; 
 
 Wearier every step did fall, 
 
 Tangled in the verdure tall ; 
 
 In the grass, waving green and dank, 
 
 He longed and longed to lie at rest, 
 Till sleep, upon a shadowed bank, 
 
 Folded him to her breast. 
 
 Then upon his charmed slumber 
 Drooping blossoms without number 
 
S6 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 Did their fatal dews distill, 
 And a tinkling, drowsy rill 
 Beside him ever seemed to sing, 
 
 *' Sleep on, sleep on, — 
 
 All fears begone, 
 For here 'tis always spring." 
 All too late, alas ! he knows 
 How deadly is that sweet repose. 
 Vainly at bay he strives to keep 
 Insidious and deceitful sleep. 
 Vainly he strains his closing eyes 
 To the blue mountains and the skies. 
 Too late ! he sinks — he faints — he dies ! 
 So, in music and perfume, sweet death 
 Beareth away his breath. 
 
 And his spirit hath become 
 
 Of that sad bright land a part. 
 Evermore, in murmurs strange. 
 Through the air his voice shall range. 
 And the creeping winds shall whisper 
 
 Of the beatings of his heart ; 
 But his name may not be known. 
 All unhonored and alone, 
 
 Lifeless he shall lie. 
 While the strong Monarch, from whose eyes 
 The spectre-host affrighted flies, 
 
 Unheeded pass him by. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sterner of heart, of mightier frame. 
 Whom neither sight nor sound may tame. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 87 
 
 Must he be, the wanderer bold, 
 
 Whose steps no glamour may delay 
 Within the land of shadows gray. 
 
 Of delusions manifold ; 
 
 Who keeps his eyes, with fixed intent, 
 
 Far off upon the distance bent. 
 
 Where, cleaving the cerulean skies, 
 The crystal hills arise. 
 
 Yet even the mightiest soul may stray, ' 
 May wander, or be wiled away. 
 Who longeth in the least degree 
 For lawless Passion's company, 
 And cleaveth not through joy and pain 
 To Virtue and her spotless train. 
 Although his path be gaily boune 
 As meadows in the month of June, 
 He cannot tell, he doth not know. 
 What region of unheard-of woe 
 May lie the blossoming sod below. 
 
 For midway to the mountains clear 
 The smiling land is false and drear ; 
 How beautiful with flowers that blow ! 
 How beautiful with tints that glow ! 
 Alas ! and yet how full of woe ! 
 From the strait and narrow way 
 There is a path that leads astray. 
 And of the twain survivors one 
 Adown that treacherous track has gone. 
 With slow but sure descent he strayed 
 Into the mingled light and shade ; 
 With false and troubled joy beguiled. 
 He trod the winding path and wild. 
 
S8 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 Slow roving on, withouten dread, 
 
 With roses arching overhead, 
 
 And grass beneath so smooth and sheen. 
 
 So even, and so dewy green. 
 
 That still the foot was fain to press 
 
 The verdure in its tenderness. 
 
 All sights, all sounds that heap with fire 
 
 The unholy altar of Desire 
 
 Thronged on his solitude; each flower 
 
 Was laden with a limpid shower 
 
 Of poisonous nectar, strong to start 
 
 Distraction in the taster's heart ; 
 
 And there did glide, the wanderer nigh, 
 
 A maiden with a shadowed eye 
 
 And opened arms and frequent sigh : 
 
 The Angel of delight seemed she, 
 Yet was not, — but a luring fiend. 
 
 As false as ecstasy. 
 
 Each winding of the loaning green 
 Disclosed a sweeter, fairer scene , 
 A fairer scene seemed still behind. 
 Where'er the labyrinth might wind; 
 And near, and near, and drawing near. 
 The hills were crystalline and clear, — 
 The beautiful blue mountains, where 
 The light of heaven is in the air. 
 
 On whose bright apex all would stand 
 Who ever drank, with strange delight. 
 The sparkling air, serenely bright, 
 
 Of that enchanted land ; 
 Till suddenly the maiden mild. 
 Whose loosened charms the wretch beguiled. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 Swelled like a cloud in heaven; her form 
 Became the presence of a storm, 
 Charged as with lightning ; hurrying past, 
 And shrieking, she dissolved, as flies 
 A tempest through the brazen skies 
 On August's burning blast. 
 
 Beneath his feet — compelled to stay, 
 Struck motionless, in blank dismay — 
 The grass, the solid ground, gave way, 
 As to an earthquake's tread, and, far 
 As earth from heaven, as star from star, '' 
 A gulf sank down, whose yawning breast 
 Stirred with tumultuous wild unrest. 
 Where roared devouring flame, where rung 
 Imprisoned wind, whence darkness sprung ; 
 And through the waste of lurid gloom 
 The fitful flames and shadows brown 
 Dragged the lost wanderer down. 
 
 Going down as in a dream. 
 With choking breath, and stifled scream. 
 Swift going down, — with speedier flight 
 Than meteor dropping from the moon 
 Streams through the shadow of our night, — 
 Swift going down, he heard around 
 Of caverned wind the hollow sound. 
 The roar of a pursuing flame. 
 That nothing e'er can quench or tame; 
 He heard, with an o'ermastering fear. 
 With shrinking and with aching ear, 
 With fainting sense and dizzy brain. 
 And heart a breaking with its pain, — 
 
90 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 Till suddenly the spell did break: 
 The dreamer stood, unharmed, awake, 
 Upon the margin of a lake. 
 
 An image seems that realm below, 
 A strange exaggerated show, 
 Of the still land of fire and snow. 
 The winds are odors ; every air 
 Has fragrance more than it can bear. 
 And faints and dies upon the lake, — 
 Yet the sweet burden cannot break 
 The surface of the glassy lake. 
 The drooping flowers, of dusky dyes, 
 From whence the sickening scents arise. 
 Are rotting in the sedges rank 
 That fringe the dark and sleepy bank; 
 The shadows of the hills divine, 
 Of the mountains crystalline, 
 Inverted and bedimmed appear 
 Down in the water still and drear ; 
 The path beside the silent wave 
 Is lapsed in shadow, like the grave, 
 O'erhung by mossy rocks, and hoar. 
 Whose rugged brows, for giant plume. 
 Have forests of unwaving gloom. 
 Lifeless on that sad shore ; 
 And ever a dense and dismal haze 
 Shuts in the baffled wanderer's gaze. 
 
 Onward, onward, and away, 
 Must the fated pilgrim stray. 
 He cannot pause, he cannot rest; 
 There is a demon in his breast. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 The grand old woods, the dreary shore, 
 
 He sees around his steps no more ; 
 
 From under precipices black. 
 
 Into a desert winds the track. 
 
 Constantly keeping by the brim 
 
 Of the tideless water dim ; 
 
 And inky shadows move and rest, 
 
 Like spectral barks by fiends possest, 
 
 On the sullen Avater's breast. 
 
 Still thickening, till, by slow degree. 
 
 The surface of the moaning sea 
 
 Doth the frightful semblance take 
 
 Of a seething, pitchy lake. 
 With gusts of smoke, and spouting flame, 
 
 Spread o'er it constantly. 
 
 Wide-spread, dark-winged Ruin broods 
 Over the desolate blasted shore ; 
 
 Through leagues on leagues of leafless woods 
 The eddying tempests pour. 
 And boil, and whirl, with sullen roar. 
 
 As seas tempestuous surge and swell 
 Round the cold islands, bare and low. 
 The death -white realms of frost and snow. 
 
 Where nothing but the sea-fowl dwell, 
 On Lapland's icy shore. 
 
 Low rolling hills, with dreary glades. 
 Where, as it springs, the verdure fades. 
 And droopingly endureth through 
 That dead existence that doth bring 
 No heat, no cold, no fall, no spring. 
 Nor morn, nor night, nor sun, nor dew ; 
 
 91 
 
92 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE, 
 
 Dry winds — the moistureless winds that parch 
 The hacked and husky throat of March — 
 
 Like crackling flame, blow constantly, 
 And into thirsty ashes scorch 
 
 The surface of that sad countrie. 
 
 On those barren hills and bleak, 
 
 By the borders of the lake, 
 
 The seething sulphurous lake, — or whiles 
 
 In the blighted forest aisles, — 
 
 The monarch of that region lone 
 
 Keeps crown and sceptre, court and throne. 
 
 Here Madness reigns ; and oh, alas ! 
 
 The pallid subjects that obey 
 
 His changeful and capricious sway. 
 
 How ghastly and how wild are they ! 
 
 Lo ! where the kingly shadow stands. 
 His form dilating in the air. 
 His arms and fevered bosom bare. 
 Forever with convulsive hands 
 The garment rending that doth swathe 
 His large limbs swoln, with frantic wrath 
 (That garment wild, that airy shroud, 
 A dark, tempestuous, streaming cloud). 
 Strewing the fragments on the gale 
 In shapes like shattered dreams to sail, 
 While the dread lake, the mountains dry, 
 The leafless woods, the sunless sky, 
 Ring to his tuneless laughter loud. 
 
 The crown his withered brows have on 
 Is woven of living, sparkling flame ; 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 And many a laugh, and shriek, and moan, 
 
 He utters, as his mighty frame 
 Quivers all over with the pain 
 Sharp-stinging through his tortured brain. 
 His wild and wandering eye, alight 
 
 With blue beams of the watery moon, 
 Sheds o'er that barren coast a blight, 
 
 Where ruin's stranded wrecks are strewn, 
 A radiance faint, and shimmering far, 
 And fitful, as a falling star. 
 
 And oh, and oh, the frightful forms 
 
 A crouching at the monarch's feet ! 
 Or oftentimes, like trees in storms, 
 
 In tempests that arise by night. 
 Aloft their shadowy arms they fling. 
 While hoarse and high their voices ring 
 
 In shoutings of insane dfelight. 
 Or, like dry leaves whirling past 
 On the chill November blast, 
 They appear and disappear. 
 Sapless, aimless, blank, and sere, — 
 So borne aloft, or rustling low, 
 With empty joy, or viewless woe, 
 
 In windy phantasy they go. 
 
 I dread, I dread his doom to trace, 
 Or say where lies his resting-place, 
 
 Who, dropping through that gulf amain, 
 Down rushing like descending wind, 
 Left Hope and Memory dead behind, 
 
 Stretched on the upper plain. 
 
 93 
 
94 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 I saw the imperial shadow's glance 
 Light in his heart ecstatic trance; 
 I heard his shoutings alternate 
 With moments when the wings of fate 
 Dimmed his mute features desolate ; 
 
 Beside the lake I saw him stand, 
 When his poor heart, within his breast, 
 
 Lay, with the fever and the flame, 
 Quenched in cold ashes and dull rest, 
 Crooning a sad, heart-breaking strain, 
 That somehow only did remain 
 Of all the dreams of joy or pain 
 
 Lost with the upper land. 
 I veiled my sight ; 
 I would not look ; I came not nigh. 
 A dark resolve was in his eye. 
 Ah, woe ! ah, woe ! 
 That one so young, so fair, so bright, 
 
 So desolate should die ! 
 
 Sweet Saviour, shield us from that shore, 
 Where many a grand high soul has gone, 
 To make the echoes mourn and moan, 
 With '' Lost ! oh, lost !" — for evermore. 
 Alas for him beguiled to tread 
 The pathway to the living dead. 
 For him condemned his weird to dree 
 By wandering in that sa-d countrie. 
 With all its ghastly companie! 
 My heart doth quake, my flesh doth creep. 
 And bitter tears I oft could weep. 
 To think how many a child of song 
 By that black wave has wandered long. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 And moaned to see the hills divine, 
 
 The blissful mountains crystalline, 
 
 Beneath the dim sad waters shine, 
 
 Where ne'er his feet their tops might tread. 
 
 Where ne'er the beams of heaven could shed 
 
 Their radiant blessings on his head. 
 
 Oh, shield us with protecting hand 
 
 From the dread presence and command 
 
 Of him who rules that frightful land. 
 
 V. 
 
 Vapors of unsounded fold 
 O'er the sullen vale be rolled ! 
 Cloudy oceans, fathomless. 
 Wash o'er the land's forlorn distress ! 
 Wing up ! wing up ! with lightened brain 
 Seek we the sun-bright land again, — 
 The land where changing colors glow. 
 The land where fragrant blossoms blow, 
 The pleasant land of fire and snow. 
 
 And where is he, — where wanders he. 
 
 The last of that knight-errant three? 
 
 In the land of shadows gray, 
 
 Nothing might his steps delay; 
 
 Soothing sounds, enchanting sight. 
 
 All illusions of delight. 
 
 Could not ruffle nor control 
 
 The strong smooth current of his soul ! — 
 
 They came, they went, they left him free ; 
 
 They moved with no more mastery 
 
 Than wind upon a frozen sea ; 
 
 95 
 
96 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 And God, whose presence aids the brave, 
 Was merciful his steps to save 
 From the dark descent through night 
 To madness and insane delight. 
 
 He struggles on ; his heart is high ; 
 A quenchless fire is in his eye ; 
 By his flushed cheek you may know 
 Of his blood's impulsive flow; 
 By his forehead bare and brown, 
 By his brow's unbending frown. 
 His bitten lips, his air of pride, 
 His nervous form and steady stride, 
 His earnest glance to where do shine 
 The starry mountains crystalline, 
 
 His streaming locks and even breath. 
 You well may guess that naught shall stay 
 His upward and unwearied way. 
 
 Except the shaft of Death. 
 
 As he wends, the pleasures fly 
 
 Abashed before his fiery eye ; 
 
 Lo, as he wends, with scornful frown 
 
 He treads delights and passions down. 
 
 O hero-hearted, oh, for thee 
 
 My sympathy, my prayers shall be. 
 
 Press on ! press on ! the flowers of earth. 
 
 Their beauties are but little worth ; 
 
 Their iris-tints the sun doth share. 
 
 Their fragrance dies upon the air. 
 
 Press on, press on, where naught shall mar 
 
 The light of thine ascending star. 
 
 Where thou shalt drink without alloy 
 
 Serene delight and holy joy. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE INTO THULE. 
 
 Where thou beneath the beams divine 
 In ceaseless rapture shalt recline 
 Upon the mountains crystalline. 
 
 Ah, who may tell ? ah, few may prove 
 The glory of that realm of love, — 
 The visions that enchant the eye, 
 On those clear tops that touch the sky, 
 The streams upon the mountains blue. 
 Sweet falling down like summer dew. 
 
 Bursting on the dazzled sight, 
 
 Rise the shining hosts of heaven, 
 Rank over rank, in order bright, 
 Light as the forms of gossamer 
 That sail the dewy-glancing air. 
 
 On morning breezes driven. 
 They bend their golden harps above. 
 
 And the strains that ceaseless flow 
 Fall upon the ear like love, 
 
 Told in whispers soft and low. 
 Oh, those sweet strains ! all sounds that be 
 Are blended in their harmony. 
 The anthem of far-sounding seas. 
 The carol of the wandering breeze. 
 The tunes of birds, the vesper low 
 Of rivers singing as they flow, 
 And human voices, — all do seem 
 To mingle in the mighty theme : 
 '' Welcome to thee ! 
 All hail to thee. 
 Pilgrim of dreams, and laureled heir 
 Of Immortality!" 
 E 9 
 
 97 
 
98 THE PILGRIMAGE INTO TBULE. 
 
 Tears — tears of infinite delight 
 
 From the gazer's eye do flow, 
 Ravished with the wondrous sight 
 
 And the music low; 
 Glimpses of the light that falls 
 On the high celestial walls 
 Through the ranks of glory quiver, 
 
 Toned in many a rainbow wreath, 
 And like sunlit amber shiver 
 
 On the crystal hills beneath. 
 
 Press on ! press on ! though long the way. 
 Though its dangers none may say. 
 Though earth's greenest leaves grow gray. 
 And earth's sweetest flowers decay. 
 Though earth's pleasures vain must be, 
 O hero-hearted, unto thee, 
 Press on ! press on ! the hills are near. 
 The mountains crystalline and clear, 
 The beautiful blue mountains, where 
 The light of heaven is in the air. 
 Press on ! and thou shalt yet recline. 
 In crowned regality divine. 
 Upon the mountains crystalline. 
 
MARY GRAY. 
 
 99 
 
 MARY GRAY. 
 
 O'er the lake the twilight lingers, 
 
 Like a veil on beauty's breast, 
 And the eve, with rosy fingers, 
 
 Folds the curtain of the West ; 
 Sweet ! where yon bright scenes await thee, 
 
 While we wander side by side, 
 I'll a simple tale relate thee 
 
 How a maiden loved and died. 
 
 Let my arm, love, circle round thee ; — 
 
 Oh, thine eyes are wondrous bright ! 
 Sure some magic strange has bound me. 
 
 So serene thou look'st to-night ! 
 On thy cheek the love-light burning 
 
 Shames the blush of parting day : 
 Just so, in her life's sweet morning. 
 
 Looked the gentle Mary Gray. 
 
 lit a vale retired and lonely, 
 
 Like a flower, that maiden grew. 
 Where the western breezes only 
 
 Kissed her with their lips of dew ; 
 Where by day the greenwood filled her 
 
 With sweet fancies warm and wild, 
 And by night the streamlet lulled her 
 
 Into slumber like a child. 
 
lOo MARY GRAY. 
 
 \ Glossy were her locks so golden ; 
 
 Radiant were her eyes so blue ; 
 Such as once, in ages olden, 
 
 Grecian blades to battle drew ; 
 Round her lips, with laughter merry, 
 
 Dream-like graces seemed to band : 
 Oh, she looked a woodland fairy, 
 
 And her vale a fairy land ! 
 
 With its own pure love-light gleaming, 
 
 Shone her heart, a lonely star. 
 From her bosom's heaven-deeps beaming 
 
 On the dreaming world afar. 
 Or a flower, with leaves yet folded, 
 
 Glistening in the morning ray, 
 Till a wandering breeze unrolled it 
 
 And its nectar drank away. 
 
 To that happy vale a stranger. 
 
 Idly roving, chanced to come, — 
 One whom crime had made a ranger 
 
 From his distant island home; 
 Palled with Pleasure's wanton dances, 
 
 From her courts he turned away, 
 And in evil hour his glances 
 
 Chanced to rest on Mary Gray. 
 
 Love was in his dark eyes shining, — 
 Love, — but love corrupt and vile ! 
 
 And like flowers his lips entwining 
 
 Wreathed each sweet and honeyed smile. 
 
 Deep, but gentle, bold, but wary, 
 Skilled in each seductive art, 
 
MA/^V GRAY. loi 
 
 Was it strange if trusting Mary 
 Gave to him her gentle heart ? 
 
 Oh, how lightly, pleasure-laden, 
 
 Danced the sunny hours along, 
 While he lured the simple maiden 
 
 With sweet lore of tale and song ! 
 Steeped each sense in bliss entrancing, 
 
 Every thought with passion rife. 
 Every pulse with rapture dancing, 
 
 Life was love, and love was life ! 
 
 But there came a dread awaking 
 
 From that trance of wild delight. 
 When her heart, with anguish breaking. 
 
 Saw its dream dissolve in night. 
 She had been the streamlet sparkling 
 
 In the sunlight, warm and free ; 
 Reft of him, her course was darkling 
 
 Onward to eternity. 
 
 Lovely was the landscape round them, 
 
 Wrapt in morning's balmy joy. 
 When the flowery chain that bound them 
 
 Snapt he like a baby's toy. 
 As of life the words had reft her. 
 
 Tearless, motionless she stood, 
 While with careless smile he left her, 
 
 Standing in the shady wood. 
 
 *' Now no longer I delude thee," 
 
 Thus the base deceiver cried ; 
 *'See, the farmer boy that wooed thee 
 
 Now may take thee for his bride." 
 9* 
 
I02 MARY GRAY. 
 
 This was when serene September 
 
 Nursed her flowers on field and brae ; 
 
 And the snows of cold December 
 Wrapt the grave of Mary Gray. 
 
 Like a lily rudely broken 
 
 When the winds in fury rave, 
 With her sorrows all unspoken 
 
 Sank she to her home, the grave. 
 None to soothe her tearless anguish, 
 
 No confiding bosom nigh, 
 What was left her but to languish 
 
 Out her weary hours and die ? 
 
 Still the tall green woods are waving 
 
 O'er the fair and flowery scene. 
 Still the rivulet keeps laving. 
 
 Laughingly, its banks of green, 
 And the breezes, warm and airy. 
 
 Kiss the blossoms as they nod. 
 But that valley's gentle fairy 
 
 Slumbers underneath its sod. 
 
 Dost thou like the tale I've told thee 
 
 Of that flower's untimely blight? 
 Oh, no traitor arms enfold thee 
 
 In this warm embrace to-night. 
 Tears, sweet love ? Thy heart flows over ; 
 
 Let me kiss those gems away ; — 
 All are not like that false lover. 
 
 All not wronged like Mary Gray ! 
 
EVENING. 103 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 The air is chill, and the day grows late, 
 
 And the clouds come in through the Golden Gate ; 
 
 Phantom fleets they seem to me, 
 
 From a shoreless and unsounded sea ; 
 
 Their shadowy spars, and misty sails, 
 
 Unshattered, have weathered a thousand gales : 
 
 Slow wheeling, lo ! in squadrons gray, 
 
 They part, and hasten along the bay, 
 
 Each to its anchorage finding way. 
 
 Where the hills of Sancelito swell. 
 
 Many in gloom may shelter well ; 
 
 And others — behold — unchallenged pass 
 
 By the silent guns of Alcatraz : 
 
 No greetings, of thunder and flame, exchange 
 
 The armed isle and the cruisers strange. 
 
 Their meteor flags, so widely blown. 
 
 Were blazoned in a land unknown ; 
 
 So, charmed from war, or wind, or tide, 
 
 Along the quiet wave they glide. 
 
 What bear these ships ? what news, what freight 
 
 Do they bring us through the Golden Gate? 
 
 Sad echoes to words in gladness spoken, 
 
 And withered hopes to the poor heart-broken : 
 
 Oh, how many a venture we 
 
 Have rashly sent to the shoreless sea ! 
 
I04 
 
 E VENING. 
 
 How many an hour have you and I, 
 
 Sweet friend, in sadness seen go by, 
 
 While our eager, longing thoughts were roving, 
 
 Over the waste, for something loving. 
 
 Something rich, and chaste, and kind, 
 
 To brighten and bless a lonely mind, 
 
 And only waited to behold 
 
 Ambition's gems, affection's gold. 
 
 Return, as *' remorse," and ''a broken vow," 
 
 In such ships of mist as I see now ! 
 
 The air is chill, and the day grows late. 
 
 And the clouds come in through the Golden Gate, 
 
 Freighted with sorrow, heavy with woe ; 
 
 But these shapes that cluster, dark and low, 
 
 To-morrow shall be all aglow ! 
 
 In the blaze of the coming morn these mists, 
 
 Whose weight my heart in vain resists. 
 
 Will brighten and shine and soar to heaven 
 
 In thin white robes, like souls forgiven ; 
 
 For Heaven is kind, and everything. 
 
 As well as a winter, has a spring. 
 
 So, praise to God ! who brings the day 
 
 That shines our regrets and fears away ; 
 
 For the blessed morn I can watch and wait. 
 
 While the clouds come in through the Golden Gate. 
 
OLIVIA, 105 
 
 OLIVIA. 
 
 I. 
 
 What are the long waves singing so mournfully ever- 
 more? 
 What are they singing so mournfully as they weep on 
 
 the sandy shore ? 
 " Olivia, oh, Olivia !" — what else can it seem to be? — 
 ** Olivia, lost Olivia, will never return to thee !" 
 ** Olivia, lost Olivia!" — what else can the sad song 
 
 be?— 
 *'Weep and mourn, she will not return, she cannot 
 return to thee !" 
 
 And strange it is when the low winds sigh, and strange 
 when the loud winds blow, 
 
 In the rustle of trees, in the roar of the storm, in the 
 sleepiest streamlet's flow, 
 
 Forever, from ocean or river, ariseth the same sad 
 moan, — 
 
 "She sleeps; let her sleep; wake her not. It were 
 best she should rest, and alone." 
 
 Forever the same sad requiem comes up from the sor- 
 rowful sea. 
 
 For the lovely, the lost Olivia, who cannot return to 
 me. 
 
Io6 OLIVIA, 
 
 III. 
 
 Alas! I fear 'tis not in the air, or the sea, or the trees, 
 
 — that strain : 
 I fear 'tis a wrung heart aching, and the throb of a 
 
 tortured brain ; 
 And the shivering whisper of startled leaves, and the 
 
 sob of the waves as they roll, — 
 I fear they are only the echo of the song of a suffering 
 
 soul, — 
 Are only the passionless echo of the voice that is ever 
 
 with me : 
 **The lovely, the lost Olivia will never return to 
 
 thee!" 
 
 IV. 
 
 I stand in the dim gray morning, where once I stood, 
 to mark. 
 
 Gliding away along the bay, like a bird, her white- 
 winged bark ; 
 
 And when through the Golden Gate the sunset ra- 
 diance rolled. 
 
 And the tall masts melted to thinnest threads in the 
 glowing haze of gold, 
 
 I said, "To thine arms I give her, O kind and shining 
 sea, 
 
 And in one long moon from this June eve you shall 
 let her return to me." ^ 
 
 V. 
 
 But the wind from the far spice islands came back, 
 
 and it sang with a sigh, — 
 "The ocean is rich with the treasure it has hidden 
 
 from you and the sky." 
 
OLIVIA. 107 
 
 And where, amid rocks and green sea-weed, the storm 
 
 and the tide were at war. 
 The nightly-sought waste was still vacant when I looked 
 
 to the cloud and the star ; 
 And soon the sad wind and dark ocean unceasingly 
 
 sang unto me, 
 "The lovely, the lost Olivia will never return to 
 
 thee!" 
 
 VI. 
 
 Dim and still the landscape lies, but shadowless as 
 
 heaven. 
 For the growing morn and the low-west moon on 
 
 everything shine even. 
 The ghosts of the lost have departed, that nothing can 
 
 ever redeem. 
 And Nature, in light, sweet slumber, is dreaming her 
 
 morning dream. 
 'Tis morn, and our Lord has awakened, and the souls 
 
 of the blessed are free. 
 Oh, come from the caves of the ocean ! Olivia, return 
 
 unto me ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 What thrills me ? what comes near me ? Do I stand 
 
 on the sward alone ? 
 Was that a light wind, or a whisper? a touch, or the 
 
 pulse of a tone ? 
 Olivia ! whose spells from my slumber my broken heart 
 
 sway and control. 
 At length bring'st thou death to me, dearest, or rest to 
 
 my suffering soul ? 
 
lo8 AD A LINE. 
 
 No sound but the psalm of the ocean : '^ Bow down to 
 
 the solemn decree, — 
 The lovely, the lost Olivia will never return to thee !" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And still are the long waves singing so mournfully 
 
 evermore ; 
 Still are they singing so mournfully as they weep on 
 
 the sandy shore, — 
 "Olivia, lost Olivia!" so ever 'tis doomed to be, — 
 "Olivia, lost Olivia will never return to thee !" 
 "Olivia, lost Olivia!" — what else could the sad song 
 
 be?— 
 "Weep and mourn, she will not return, — she cannot 
 
 return to thee I ' ' 
 
 A D A L I N E. 
 
 There were two lovers long ago, — 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! — 
 Of spirits warm, but chaste as snow, — 
 
 That things so pure should pass away ! 
 And oft alone and whispering lowly, 
 Among the woods they wandered slowly, 
 When twilight shades were sweet and holy; 
 For clearest shine 
 
 Love-glances then, like thine. 
 
 My tender, bright-eyed Adaline ! 
 And this true lover and the maiden, 
 
 In ages vanished"", lost and gone. 
 
AD A LINE. 109 
 
 Made for themselves a dim star-Aiden, 
 All in the silent dawn. 
 
 Oft in the moon's transparent mist, — 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! — 
 Before the sun the clouds had kist, — 
 
 That things so kind should pass away ! — 
 They met while stars above were shining, 
 Where leaves and flowers were intertwining, 
 Her head upon his breast reclining, 
 As often thine 
 
 Reposes upon mine. 
 
 My fair, my peerless Adaline ! 
 And thus the lover and the maiden. 
 
 In ages vanished, lost and gone. 
 Dwelt fearless in their dim star-Aiden, 
 
 All in the silent dawn. 
 
 He saw no beauty, she no truth, — 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! — 
 Save in her form and his fresh youth, — 
 
 That things so fond should pass away ! 
 And, sooth to say, she looked serenely. 
 Among the wet leaves glancing greenly, 
 With her fair head reclined and queenly, 
 Though not like thine, 
 
 Not with thy grace divine. 
 
 My own beloved Adaline ! 
 So the fond lover and the maiden. 
 
 In ages vanished, lost and gone. 
 Stood dreaming in their dim star-Aiden, 
 
 All in the silent dawn. 
 
no IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 They loved, and they were blest ; they died, 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! — 
 The bridegroom and his fair young bride, — 
 
 That things so bright should fade away ! 
 The flowers are wet, the stars are gleaming ; 
 They sleep while all around is beaming. 
 Not even of each other dreaming. 
 Close, closer twine 
 
 Thy soft, white arms in mine. 
 
 Oh, could I save thee, Adaline ! 
 Oh, love ! oh, death ! Alas ! the maiden 
 
 And lover, in the ages gone. 
 Passed from their pleasant, dim star-Aiden, 
 
 Like shadows from the dawn. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 " Died, on the 12th of February, 1858, at 12 o'clock noon, in the 
 city of San Francisco, Cahfornia, Edward Travers, a native of the 
 County Monaghan, Ireland, aged 24 years and 11 months." 
 
 "WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG.' 
 
 Let the holiest dirge be sung ; 
 Let the saddest peal be rung; 
 Pall and coffin, hearse and plume. 
 Marshal round the untimely tomb ; 
 Mausoleum and effigy 
 O'er the sleeper build and lay; 
 
IN MEMO R I AM. m 
 
 Broken column, sculptured bust, 
 Raise above the unconscious dust ; 
 Newer modes of grief devise 
 For the form that silent lies. 
 Raise the wildest notes of woe 
 O'er the darkened star below. 
 He, of all our band the best, 
 He is gathered to his rest ; 
 Of our joys and hopes the head, 
 He is vanished, — he is dead ! 
 
 '* He is dead !" O words of fear. 
 Do you not deceive mine ear? 
 Can a grief so deep be shown 
 In a passing sigh or tone ? 
 Sudden — solemn — un foreseen, 
 Lo ! the tree so lately green 
 Lies, a scathed and blasted thing, 
 On the cold earth mouldering. 
 O'er the rose of June has passed 
 Winter's unexpected blast ; 
 Unpredicted darkness came 
 O'er the sun's meridian flame; 
 And on him the shadow fell, 
 Whom so many loved so well. 
 Not a breath from those cold lips, 
 Darkening in death's eclipse ; 
 On those eyes that beamed with light. 
 Weighs the leaden seal of night ; 
 And the heart that beat so bold. 
 Ah, how silent, and how cold ! 
 All is over, — all is done ! 
 Truest brother, — fondest son, — 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Firmest comrade, — lealest friend, — 
 Here his joys and sorrows end. 
 Lay him in his lowly bed ; 
 He has vanished, — he is dead ! 
 
 What do pall and plume do here ? 
 Pile no trappings on his bier ! 
 How with trophies would you seek 
 Grief too deep for words to speak? 
 How should woe like ours be shown 
 In the cold sepulchral stone ? 
 Lay the idle gauds aside, 
 Bannered pomp and stately pride ; 
 Plant the willow o'er his grave, 
 So her arms shall o'er him wave; 
 Sow the flowers on that green sod. 
 That his feet with pleasure trod ; 
 And the hands he loved to press 
 Shall defend their tenderness. 
 And the forms he longed to greet 
 Round the holy spot shall meet. 
 Bursting hearts and streaming eyes 
 Are his fittest obsequies. 
 
 All is o'er; and now no more, 
 
 In the valley, on the hill. 
 Or where we were wont to meet. 
 Daily on the city's street 
 
 While the morn was young and still; 
 Shall our steps in peace pass on, 
 
 Our hearts in unison 
 And fraternal feeling beat ; 
 For a cloud has passed between, 
 And his form is what has been, 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 113 
 
 And his name is but a breath 
 From the waste abyss of death. 
 O'er a sea to us unknown 
 Has his bark gone forth alone, 
 And upon an earthly shore 
 We shall meet him — nevermore. 
 
 Like a starbeam pure and white, 
 Like a harp-tone on the night, 
 
 Doth a hope within me rise. 
 That beyond the fearful shore 
 Where the waves of ages roar. 
 
 Where the mortal sobs and dies. 
 In a land of light and peace, 
 Where the wicked troubling cease, 
 We shall yet together rest. 
 On our Holy Mother's breast. 
 
 10* 
 
114 DISUNION. 
 
 DISUNION. 
 
 There's a sound on the wind, there's a shrill, chilling 
 
 cry 
 Going past on the blast, through the comfortless sky; 
 In the night is a wailing, that keenly doth clove 
 Through my heart, like the pain of an unhappy love ; 
 And the nation, in slumber she will not resign, 
 Is vexed and disturbed by a sound and a sign. 
 And sobs in her sleep, as the warnings go past, 
 *' There is danger, and discord, and death on the 
 
 blast." 
 
 And whence comes the wind ? and what causes the 
 
 pain? 
 And wherefore this whisper from Texas to Maine? 
 And why, in the fullness and depth of her rest, 
 Should the heart of our Mother in dreams be distrest ? 
 Potomac's blue waters are clear as the skies. 
 And the chiefs that sit by them are valiant and wise ; 
 But a low laughing fiend to their counsels has stole. 
 And darkens with tempest the calm of each soul. 
 A poison unwonted corrodes in their veins, 
 Wild frenzy is racking their hearts and their brains. 
 And the demon still hisses, in whisper of fear, 
 " Disunion ! Disunion !" in each maddened ear. 
 And this is the reason that pain and dismay 
 Glide like ghosts through the night, and make pallid 
 
 the day ; 
 
DISUNION. 
 
 115 
 
 And from thence are the sighs and the sounds that 
 
 have made 
 For her children the heart of our Mother afraid. 
 
 Is it so ? can it be ? are they prophets who say 
 That night shall return on the dawn of our day? 
 Shall the despots whose hootings ring sharp in our ears 
 Exult in our downfall, rejoice in our tears? 
 Was it all but a dream, the bright vision that came 
 To the camps of our fathers, through battle and flame? 
 Did she whisper in vain in each ear, as she passed, 
 " There's a temple found here for Jehovah at last ! 
 On this fresh land of God ye shall worship and dwell, 
 And the sound of your joy shall be tyranny's knell. 
 Pass on through the fire, by your trials made strong ; 
 Leave not on your borders one footprint of wrong ; 
 Be as one, and cling close, like the drops in the wave ; 
 Strike firm, and fear not, — a free home, or the grave !" 
 Oh, woe to the land where the words are forgot ! 
 Alas for the nation where union is not ! 
 Mourn, mourn, and lament for the ill-fated shore 
 The dust of whose martyrs is holy no more ! 
 
 Ye millions who toil, in the South or the North, — 
 Ye with arms strong as iron, and hearts of true 
 
 worth, — 
 Wipe the sweat from your brows, look aloft, and behold. 
 On the sweeping west wind there's a banner unrolled. 
 Not an inch of that flag but was purchased by strife. 
 Not a thread in its woof but was won by a life : 
 'Tis your hope, — your last hope ! while it floats there 
 
 shall be 
 A land undivided, a race that is free. 
 
ii6 DISUNION. 
 
 Will you — dare you stand idle while madmen draw 
 
 near 
 And rend the bright banner that cost us so dear ? 
 Speak aloud, — they shall listen, for, oh, they know 
 
 well 
 Their life is your favor, your anger their knell. 
 One shout for the Union ! one cheer for the band 
 Who reared the starred flag in the night of our land, 
 And we'll see who shall whisper ''disunion" or "strife" 
 When the heart of the nation rekindles with life ! 
 
 God shield thee, green Erin ! for manhood no more 
 Has homestead, or harvest, or hope on thy shore ; 
 And France, like a Titan awakened by pain. 
 Struck only one blow, and now slumbers again ; 
 Italy lies bleeding, and Kossuth has fled. 
 While the band that hung round him are exiled or dead. 
 Here lonely we only the flag have unfurled 
 In whose shadow may rest the oppressed of the world. 
 And woe to the foe who by discord or war 
 Would quench in our standard the beams of a star ! 
 Though his heart be of iron, his hand made so bold 
 As to break the strong band that was woven of old, 
 Let him heed well the sequel : our banner of blue 
 Has stripes for the foeman, as stars for the true ; 
 And the sun shall not shine on the men that shall see 
 Dismembered or conquered the Flag of the Free. 
 
A REFLECTION. 
 
 117 
 
 A REFLECTION. 
 
 *'For love is heaven, and heaven is love." 
 
 Great Master of my art divine, 
 Lord of the wild, romantic lyre. 
 Whose wires, that shine with heavenly fire, 
 My unskilled fingers feebly rove, 
 
 Amid the epic song's decline, 
 Is it not so? — beyond that shore, 
 
 Beyond that dark, uncertain coast. 
 
 Shall we not meet the loved, — the lost, — 
 Shall we not meet to part no more? 
 O ye loved ones that darkly lie 
 In crumbling, dull obscurity. 
 Ye flowers of earth, the winds of time 
 Have scattered ere your summer prime, 
 What hope, what joy, what rapture brings 
 The gladdening thought that inly springs. 
 Soft whispering, '' By a waveless stream 
 Thy withered flowers transplanted gleam ; 
 No winds of death are wailing there, 
 But music in the fragrant air. 
 And love the sparkling light that fills 
 The vales between those amber hills. 
 There mayst thou drink their sweet perfume, 
 There gaze upon their fadeless bloom, 
 And, mingling with their beauties, be 
 Blest through a bright eternity." 
 
Il8 A REFLECTION. 
 
 The only music I have known 
 
 Thrills sweet in woman's silver tone ; 
 
 The only nectar I would sip 
 
 Dewed the bright rose of woman's lip ; 
 
 And woman's eyes have been to me 
 
 Twin stars that ruled my destiny. 
 
 Oh, dark would be that radiant sphere H 
 
 Without her gentle presence near. 
 
 But sad these lessening joys I see, 
 
 Ah, woe ! forever fled from me ! 
 
 How we are growing old ! — alas ! 
 
 My friend, how swiftly years go by, 
 Like the weird winds that viewless pass 
 
 Across a dull October sky, 
 Scattering our hopes, as that cold breeze 
 With power resistless strips the trees, — 
 So like, my heart it deeply grieves 
 While gazing on the whirling leaves ! 
 What withering joys our path beset ! 
 How few the flowers that linger yet, — 
 Wealth, quiet, peace! — but God knows best ; 
 
 And, it may be, this fiery soul 
 Would sink into inglorious rest. 
 
 Reposing at a golden goal. 
 No ! rather give me power and skill, 
 A tameless heart, an iron will ; 
 Such springs shall nerve my feet to climb 
 The ice-cold mountain -peaks of Time, 
 And high upon the walls of Fame 
 In lines of fire imprint my name ; 
 Give me but these, and wealth and ease 
 I scatter to the winds and seas. 
 
THE CHANDOS PICTURE. 
 
 So that I live from age to age 
 Upon my land's historic page : 
 Or, this denied, I still must try 
 My rude and untaught poesy ; 
 By mountain stream and meadow lake 
 I must my harp to music wake ; 
 A power that is not mine compels 
 Its fitful and inconstant swells; 
 My day-dreams, woven into song. 
 Are borne upon its streams along. 
 And fill the wild and wondering gale 
 With fragments of a broken tale. 
 
 119 
 
 THE CHANDOS PICTURE. 
 
 The bell far off beats midnight ; in the dark 
 
 The sounds have lost their way, and wander slowly; 
 
 Through the dead air, beside me, things cry, '' Hark !" 
 And whisper words unholy. 
 
 A hand as soft as velvet taps my cheek ; 
 ■' These gusts are from the wings of unseen vampires. 
 How the thick dust on that last tome doth speak 
 Its themes, — dead kings and empires ! 
 
 This is the chamber, — ruined, waste, forlorn. 
 
 Shred of its old-time gilding, paint, and splendor. 
 
 And is there none its dim decay to mourn. 
 In mystic strains and tender? 
 
120 THE CHANDOS PICTURE. 
 
 Why waits no harper gray, with elfin hand 
 
 On tuneless chords to harshly hail the stranger 
 
 Who treads the brink of an enchanted strand 
 In mist and midnight danger ? 
 
 I watch, and am not weary ; all night long 
 
 The stars look shimmering through the yawning case- 
 ment, 
 
 And the low ring of their unvarying song 
 I hear without amazement. 
 
 How the hours pass, — with that low murmur blent 
 That is a part of time, yet thrills us only 
 
 When all besides is silent and close pent, 
 The heart is chilled and lonely ! 
 
 I watch, and am not weary ; I have heard 
 
 Light steps and whispers pass me, all undaunted. 
 
 Have seen pale spectres glide where nothing stirred, — 
 Because the place is haunted. 
 
 And wherefore watch I fearless? Wherefore come 
 These things with windy garments hovering round 
 me? 
 
 Whence are the tongues, the tones, the stifled hum, 
 That welcomed and have bound me ? 
 
 Lo ! on the wall, in mist and gloom high reared, 
 A luminous Face adorns the structure hoary, — 
 
 Light-bearded, hazel-eyed, and auburn-haired, 
 And bright with a strange glory. 
 
 'Tis but the semblance of a long- dead one, — 
 A light that shines and is not ; clouds are o'er it, 
 
THE CHANDOS PICTURE, 1 21 
 
 Yet in the realm of thought it beams a sun, 
 And stars grow pale before it. 
 
 There tend the tones ; through that wan atmosphere 
 Glide the faint spectres with a stately motion, 
 
 Slowly as cloudy ships to sunset steef 
 Along the airy ocean. 
 
 Shades of the great but unremembered dead 
 
 Mourn there, and, moaning, ever restless wander ; 
 
 For in the presence of that pictured head 
 Their waning shapes grow grander. 
 
 And here watch I, beneath those eyes sublime, 
 A listening to the soft-resounding numbers 
 
 That float like w^ind along the waves of time 
 And cheat me of my slumbers. 
 
 But who shall calm the restless sprites that rove 
 In the mute presence of that painted Poet ? 
 
 In vain their triumph in old wars or love ; 
 No future times shall know it. 
 
 For, '^ Oh !" they cry, '' his song has named us not ; 
 
 He stretched no hand to lift the pall flung o'er us." 
 And still they moan and shriek, *' Forgot ! forgot !" 
 
 In faint and shivering chorus. 
 
 Mightiest of all — my master ! Dare but I 
 
 Touch the shrunk chords thy hand, divine hath 
 shaken, 
 
 How would the heroes of the days gone by 
 Throng round me, and awaken ! 
 
 F II 
 
122 ODE TO CALIFORNIA. 
 
 Oh, many a heart, the worthiest — many a heart, 
 
 Cold now, but once ap angel's warm, bright dwell- 
 ing- 
 Waits but the minstrel's wizard hand, to start 
 With life immortal swelling ! 
 
 And thou, so missed, where art thou ? On what sphere 
 Of nightless glory hast thou built thine altar? 
 
 What shining hosts bow down thy song to hear. 
 Thy heart the harp and psalter ? 
 
 Thy dust is mingled with thy native sod, 
 
 Exhaled like dew thy soul that ranged unbounded ; 
 
 But who shall dare to tread where Shakspeare trod, 
 Or strike the harp he sounded ? 
 
 ODE TO CALIFORNIA. 
 
 Delivered on the seventh anniversary of her admission into the 
 Union, before the Society of CaUfornia Pioneers. 
 
 Fair California, once again 
 
 We come, beloved, to thee. 
 Child of the grand old western main, 
 
 And fairest of the free. 
 Though young thou art, a gallant band 
 
 Of lovers round thee throng ; 
 And foes shall find how rash the hand 
 
 That dares to work thee wrong. 
 
ODE TO CALIFORNIA. 
 
 Ring out — ring out — ring out ! 
 
 Let brazen bells be rung, 
 And psalms of martial joy be raised 
 
 In our brave native tongue. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, brethren, sisters, children, friends, 
 
 Who, mingling here this day, 
 At Golden California's fane 
 
 Your heartfelt homage pay. 
 Have we not nobly stemmed the tide 
 
 Of ruin's swift career, 
 And proudly kept old ocean's child 
 From danger — since last year? 
 Then ring the joyous bells. 
 Let golden bells be rung. 
 And songs of triumph shake the skies 
 In our sweet native tongue. 
 
 III. 
 
 From North, from South, from East, from West, 
 
 From many a clime, we come, 
 And all have left with fond regret 
 
 The heart's first jewel. Home. 
 But sweet and kind emotions here 
 
 Have soothed the wound we bore ; 
 Who once were many, now are one, 
 To be dispersed no more. 
 
 Then ring harmonious bells, 
 
 Let silver bells be rung. 
 And sweet fraternal strains arise 
 In our dear native tongue. 
 
 123 
 
124 ^^^ ^^ CALIFORNIA. 
 
 IV. 
 Regrets — regrets we still must feel 
 
 For scenes our childhood knew, — 
 The old red school-house, bridge of logs, 
 
 Green fields, and mountains blue. 
 From North, from South, from East, from West, 
 
 On all such memories throng ; 
 Still all say, '' Woe to ^// who dare 
 Do California wrong !" 
 
 Then ring with fearless hearts. 
 
 Let brazen bells be rung. 
 And psalms of martial joy be heard 
 In our brave native tongue. 
 
 V. 
 
 'Tis false to say our course is run ; 
 
 'Tis wrong to doubt success: 
 Kind hearts, strong hands, unstained repute. 
 
 And courage, God will bless ! 
 Have we not homes and hopes and joys. 
 
 Chaste wives, and sisters fair? 
 May not the last born boy-baby be 
 Our Presidential heir? 
 
 Then ring, with active hands. 
 Let morning bells be rung. 
 And birthday anthems thrill with joy 
 Our own chaste native tongue. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Why should we long for clouded skies. 
 
 While ours are all serene ? 
 The snows have clothed the lands we left. 
 
 While yet our hills are green. 
 
ODE TO CALIFORNIA. 12 
 
 Are not the tall, strong Northmen here, — 
 
 Frost-hardened sons of toil? 
 Have not their sinewy hands made good 
 Their title to the soil? 
 
 Then let the sleigh-bells ring, — 
 Far off such bells be rung, — 
 While manly Labor's strains rise here 
 In our good native tongue. 
 
 VII. 
 
 From where the green savannas wave, 
 
 From where the spice-winds blow, 
 Are Georgian dames not smiling here, 
 
 Or Southern eyes aglow? 
 And shall we not hear Freedom's voice 
 
 Speak Freedom's edict forth ? 
 " Here on my California's soil 
 The South shall wed the North !" 
 Oh, ring, ring sweetly low ! 
 
 Let soothing chimes be rung, 
 And wafted murmurs thrill the air 
 In our sweet native tongue. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Because in this her chosen land 
 
 Shall no dissension be, 
 Now in the tower-crowned city proud 
 
 Who rules the Western Sea; 
 But here, where last on her domain 
 
 Looks back the glorious sun. 
 From North, from South, from East, from West, 
 
 Her children shall be one. 
 II* 
 
126 ODE TO CALIFORNIA. 
 
 Then ring harmonious peals, 
 Let soothing bells be rung, 
 
 And kindly words in calm accord 
 Make sweet our native tongue. 
 
 IX. 
 
 For those who fell on that long path 
 
 By which we've reached To-day, 
 Through want, through woe, by fever struck, 
 
 Or wearied on the way, — 
 The Lord, who is the wanderer's God, 
 
 Will watch their graves unseen, 
 And we, in many a tale and song. 
 Will keep their memories green. 
 
 Then, though the slow bells toll, 
 
 Though mournful bells be rung, 
 With cheerful words we'll yet keep light 
 Our own sweet native tongue. 
 
 Thus, let the loud-mouthed cannon roar, 
 
 Let Music raise her voice. 
 The streets be bright with pomp and sheen. 
 
 The gazing hills rejoice. 
 No cloud, no gloom, no fear, to-day 
 
 Our cheerful ritual mars : 
 So, to the healthful western winds 
 Spread out the Stripes and Stars. 
 Ring till the glad air laughs, 
 Fast be ♦the joy-bells rung. 
 And heartfelt praises rise to heaven 
 In our loved native tongue. 
 
GOLD IS KING. 
 
 127 
 
 GOLD IS KING. 
 
 A Poem delivered before the Society of California Pioneers, 
 September 9, 1858. 
 
 My friends, and Pioneers, once more to you 
 
 My thanks, good wishes, and respects are due ; 
 
 The circling years, that glide in joy or pain, 
 
 But bind us closer in their lengthening chain, 
 
 Enclosed more firmly, as we all draw nigh 
 
 The grateful solitude where all shall die. 
 
 'Tis well this way to notice, as they pass. 
 
 The fading moments in reflection's glass, — 
 
 To think what friends have fell, what foes have fled. 
 
 And, inly grieving for the gallant dead, 
 
 Rejoice so many yet in firm array 
 
 Remain to fight the battle of the day. 
 
 For as in war a strong battalion falls, 
 
 Man after man, before beleaguered walls, 
 
 The faithful warriors close the ranks, and still 
 
 Maintain the combat with determined will. 
 
 So we should gather nearer day by day, 
 
 And cling the closer as we pass away. 
 
 With your good leave, again in earnest rhyme 
 
 Your bard would show the spirit of the time. 
 
 Half hopeful and half sad must be the strain 
 
 Which he shall sing, and sing, perhaps, in vain ! 
 
128 GOLD IS KING. 
 
 Our youngest statesman, and our future sage 
 When time has soothed acridity with age, 
 As harsh and stringent juices of the vine 
 By years are mellowed into generous wine, 
 Has lately told us, in his regal way, 
 Who o'er the land omnipotent hath sway. 
 What hand with his the royal sceptre sways 
 Above the masses of these latter days, 
 What monarch reigns despotic and supreme 
 In all the realms of life's delusive dream. 
 Thus hath he said, and echoing nations ring 
 With, 'Tis not Cotton, it is Gold is King. 
 
 III. 
 So, long ago, on Syrian plains, there came 
 A voice of thunder from a haze of flame. 
 Commanding to His presence him who made 
 Egyptian priests before their shrines afraid ; 
 Whose strong right hand had made his people free, 
 Upheld by Aaron's arm and God's decree. 
 Long days of weary waiting chilled the throng 
 Whose feet had sought the promised land so long ; 
 Impatient to their priest — to Aaron — cries 
 From all the wayworn wanderers arise, 
 " Go, Aaron, make us gods to go before. 
 For this man Moses we shall see no more." 
 The priestly man to their appeals gave way, — 
 For priests their congregations must obey ; 
 The golden treasures that the pilgrims stole 
 He seeks, he gathers ; he dissolves the whole, 
 And from the crucible on their behalf 
 Comes out the miracle, — a Golden Calf! 
 
 I 
 
GOLD IS KING. 129 
 
 From the low mound he waves his sacred rod. 
 And cries to Israel's hosts, " Behold your God." 
 
 IV. 
 
 But from the splintered cliffs of lone Sinai, 
 
 Where sulphurous clouds had long obscured the day, 
 
 There came, with downcast eyes, but stately pace. 
 
 The man who met Jehovah face to face, 
 
 Where on the granite summit topped with snow, 
 
 While lightnings veiled his splendor from below. 
 
 The lines were graven and the words were said 
 
 By Him, the Lord, to rule the world He made; 
 
 And holy anger filled the prophet's eyes, 
 
 A wrath divine succeeding his surprise. 
 
 With sacred fury from his hands were thrown 
 
 And crushed in dust the consecrated stone ; 
 
 Struck by his arm, the golden idol fell. 
 
 Consigned to fire, — premonitor of hell. 
 
 Reduced to ashes, to the saddened wave 
 
 The remnant of idolatry he gave ; 
 
 While, as the people shrank before his nod. 
 
 To Israel's hosts he said, '' Behold your God !" 
 
 V. 
 
 Yes, Gold is King, and vices he controls ; 
 
 King of all sordid and ignoble souls ; 
 
 Strong to destroy, but powerless to save ; 
 
 Impotent, save for pleasure and a grave. 
 
 But not one generous heart can Gold seduce 
 
 To bend its energies to evil use. 
 
 Can Gold buy love? I know you blush with shame 
 
 That dross should mingle with that sacred name ; 
 
130 GOLD IS XING. 
 
 Gold may be King in clouded walks by night, 
 
 In lawless passions and impure delight ; 
 
 But the fond heart, the tearful eye, the cheek 
 
 That waits the kisses that it fain would seek, — 
 
 The rapturous tender pulses of that love 
 
 Which shuns the blessed in the realms above, — 
 
 Can these be bought ? — can these by wealth be made, 
 
 Like gold or cotton, articles of trade? 
 
 Wealth win one heart-throb from the chaste and true ? 
 
 O lovely ladies, I appeal to you. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And there are mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, 
 Who hold their honor as they hold their lives. 
 Whose firm affections are not bought and sold. 
 Whose last and least idea would be Gold. 
 Thank God, not few are they: in mass they stand, 
 The health, the wealth, the glory of our land. 
 Behold the matron, who through want and woes 
 Still lulls her family in sweet repose, 
 Relieves the opening soul of griefs and cares, 
 Her children all the jewels that she wears. 
 Can wealth buy such ? The priceless gem may be 
 Without a price, my friends, consigned to thee. 
 Oh, prize it, gaze on its unsullied ray. 
 And deem its radiance brighter than the day. 
 'Tis a rich pearl in every good man's eye. 
 That all the gold of Ophir could not buy. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Can Gold buy friendship? Service Gold may bring, 
 And o'er such purchased service Gold is King; 
 
AN EXILE'S SONG. 131 
 
 But the strong arm, free heart, and liberal thought 
 Of noble natures never can be bought. 
 O stainless charity, immortal faith. 
 Soother of life, and conqueror of death, 
 Your places, vacant. Gold cannot supply ; 
 Your priceless services no gold can buy. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Gold js not King : 'tis Virtue that controls 
 The tides that ebb or swell in noble souls. 
 The faithless lawyer, statesman, priest, or spy, 
 Lost to all shame, cupidity may buy ; 
 But there are millions, strong in truth divine, 
 Who scorn the yellow Monarch of the Mine, 
 Who shield the State, and calmly tell the world 
 This land shall flourish while her flag's unfurled, — 
 Not hirelings, but our unbought volunteers : 
 In the first rank I greet you. Pioneers. 
 
 AN EXILE'S SONG. 
 
 Down by a silent river, 
 
 I heard an exile sing. 
 In a time of peace and plenty. 
 
 Before this '' Gold was King;" 
 He was one from a far green island. 
 
 Which sufl"ers fate's decrees. 
 And mourns in her ravished beauty 
 
 Amid the laughing seas. 
 
132 
 
 AN EXILE'S SONG. 
 
 "Bright summer is around me," 
 
 So ran the exile's strain, 
 *' And summer birds are singing, 
 
 Alas, for me, in vain ! 
 Sweet summer is around me ; 
 
 But still the thought will come 
 That these are not my native scenes, 
 
 That this is not my home. 
 
 " The river sings a low sweet song. 
 
 The blooming flowers are fair, 
 And many a pleasant melody 
 
 Is floating on the air, 
 And earth is full of witchery ; 
 
 But still the thought will come 
 That these are not my native scenes. 
 
 That this is not my home. 
 
 " For, ah ! among the blossoms 
 
 That gem the wood and dell, 
 I miss the mountain daisy, 
 
 I miss the heather bell ; 
 And through the woods' recesses 
 
 For hours I have been. 
 But I cannot find the holly, 
 
 With its leaves of evergreen. 
 
 " The meadow may be greener. 
 
 The sky a clearer blue. 
 But man can never know a land 
 
 Like that his childhood knew; 
 And still it seems the fairer. 
 
 Behind the mists of years, 
 
AN EXILE'S SONG, 
 
 When the brilliant eye of boyhood 
 Is dimmed by many tears. 
 
 *' Those sweet and pleasant memories, 
 
 They haunt me like a dream : 
 The old tree, and the rustic bridge 
 
 That lay across the stream ; 
 The cottage by the lone hill-side; 
 
 The white and flowery thorn, 
 Where I heard the red-breast singing 
 
 Each day at early morn. 
 
 "And the faces — ah ! the faces, 
 
 So happy and so gay. 
 Of friends that gathered round me 
 
 Upon a summer's day. 
 Oh, more than native flowers 
 
 Where summer breezes blow. 
 Do I miss the eyes that glistened 
 
 Around me long ago. 
 
 "And so the thousand beauties, 
 
 So brightly round me spread, 
 Alas ! but lead my memory 
 
 To beauties that are dead ; 
 For still amid their loveliness 
 
 The weary thought will come 
 That these are not my native scenes. 
 
 That this is not my home." 
 
 So, by a silent river, 
 
 I heard the exile sing : — 
 
 12 
 
 m 
 
134 THE DYING EXILE. 
 
 The time was the pleasant month of May, 
 The second-born of Spring. 
 
 He was one from a far green island, 
 Which suffers fate's decrees. 
 
 And mourns in her ravished beauty 
 Amid the mocking seas. 
 
 THE DYING EXILE. 
 
 Upon his couch he lay, 
 That old, deserted, dying man. 
 And o'er his features worn and wan 
 
 Stole the last beams of day. 
 In the far west, like heaps of gold, 
 The evening clouds in brightness rolled ; 
 The lake lay motionless and calm \ 
 The earth was still, the air was balm ; 
 In towering pride the mountains stood, 
 In sombre shadow slept the wood ; 
 Each leaf lay wrapt in soft repose, 
 The dew-drops trembled on the rose, 
 And all was lovely, fair, and grand, — 
 The sunset of our Western land ! 
 But in that little room alone, 
 With none to list to his feeble moan, 
 The exile faintly drew his breath, 
 Beneath the heavy hand of death. 
 He heeded not the earth below, 
 
 He heeded not the skies of flame. 
 
 \ 
 
THE DYING EXILE. 135 
 
 But thus, in tones of wail and woe. 
 His dying murmurs came : 
 
 "O God! 'tis hard to die 
 
 Thus from my native land away, 
 
 No kindly hand of kindred nigh 
 To cheer this drooping clay. 
 
 *'Fain would I lay my head 
 
 Where my forefathers rest, 
 Even though the tyrant's tread 
 
 Fell on my pulseless breast. 
 I would not ask one flower 
 
 My lonely grave to gem, 
 So that in that dark hour 
 
 My rest might be with them. 
 
 '' Oh, could I tread once more 
 
 That well-remembered plain ! 
 Oh, could I see that fair green shore, 
 
 Those misty hills again ! 
 Alas ! it may not be : 
 
 Oppression holds the rod 
 Of tyranny above the land 
 
 So nobly blest by God. 
 Where are the forms that once, 
 
 Ere life's first dreams had fled, 
 I thought would turn a pitying glance 
 
 Upon my dying bed ? 
 Gone with my early hopes, — 
 
 All dead, and vanished all, — 
 And here, a lone deserted man, 
 
 Unseen, unmourned, I fall. 
 
THE DYING EXIL:'^ 
 
 '• O God ! 'tis hard to die 
 
 Thus from my native land away, 
 
 No kindly hand of kindred nigh 
 To tend this drooping clay." 
 
 The murmurs ceased, as if he drank 
 
 In silence, to the dregs, his cup 
 Of bitterness, and cold and dank 
 
 The death-drops on his brow stood up ; 
 But from his lips no whisper stole 
 To tell the tortures of his soul. 
 But see, a change has o'er him past : 
 The clouds of death aside are cast. 
 And through the mist his eye gleams bright, 
 As with a strange unnatural light ; 
 A smile of triumph sweeps along 
 His features, like a sunbeam strong. 
 
 " What sound is on the hills? what cry 
 Rolls through the valleys like a flood ? 
 
 Huzza ! around, above, on high, 
 
 I see my country's banners fly. 
 Their green unstained by blood ! 
 
 ''The wail of pain and grief no more 
 Is blending with the ocean roar ; 
 But sounds of gladness, joy, and mirth 
 Like light are glancing o'er the earth. 
 
 " My native land, my fatherland, 
 
 I am upon thy hills ! 
 I see far off thy white beach sand, 
 
 I hear thy silver rills, 
 
TO A. y. C, OF MARYS VILLE. 137 
 
 And strains of music, wild and free, 
 Come up like breezes from the sea, 
 
 And over all the glad shout thrills 
 Of freedom, freedom, Liberty ! 
 
 *' O God ! I thank thee ! sweeter far 
 
 To me this fair and lovely sight 
 Than ever was the beacon star 
 
 To the lone mariner at night. 
 Now welcome, Death ! no longer fly ; 
 
 Thy shaft no terror brings to me ; 
 Contented, happy, blest I die, 
 
 For £rin shall be free /" 
 
 TO A. J. C, OF MARYSVILLE. 
 
 Dost thou remember, comrade dear. 
 
 Of hours in youth's glad springing. 
 When we blithely sought the forest sere 
 
 With rifles deftly ringing, — 
 When the dun deer fell in copse and dell 
 
 Before our aims unerring, 
 And, wild with glee, we wandered free, 
 
 Uncared for and uncaring ? 
 Well, you and I again shall try 
 
 Those woodland sports together, 
 When the leaf grows sere, in the fading year, 
 
 In the balmy autumn weather. 
 
 Oh, joy ! methinks I feel the clasp 
 Of the hand of one true-hearted, 
 
 12- 
 
138 TO A. y. C, OF MARYSVILLE. 
 
 With form as bold, as firm a grasp, 
 
 As they were when last we parted ! 
 Old Spriiigmill's haunted shades shall wake 
 
 With a hundred echoes sounding. 
 When our wild halloo their rest shall break, 
 
 And the tramp of fleet feet bounding ; 
 The game shall tell, our hands full well 
 
 May still be matched together, 
 When the leaf grows sere, in the fading year. 
 
 In the balmy autumn weather. 
 
 We'll tell old tales of far-ofl" climes. 
 
 And think of joys passed o'er us. 
 And look through the mists of coming times 
 
 To sunnier scenes before us ; 
 We'll weave our day-dreams gayly yet, 
 
 For, though our hearts are older. 
 Yet hearts that stormy scenes have met 
 
 By stormy scenes grow bolder ; 
 And so we'll chase the hours apace 
 
 In wood and wold together, 
 When the leaf grows sere, in the fading year. 
 
 In the balmy autumn weather. 
 
 Then count with me, dear friend, the hours 
 
 While summer moons are flying. 
 And hail with joy the time when flowers 
 
 In western winds are dying : 
 And when the light-winged swallow's form 
 
 No more at morn shall meet thee. 
 Then be thy heart as blithe and warm 
 
 As his who soon shall greet thee ; 
 
LINES. 
 
 139 
 
 For the first red spray on wood tan d way 
 
 And I shall come together, 
 When the leaf grows sere, in the fading year, 
 
 In the balmy autumn weather. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 When shall be my dying day ? 
 Is it near or far away ? 
 Oh for quiet to this breast ! 
 Oh for deep, unbroken rest ! 
 To be sleeping calm and cold, 
 Pillowed on the lowly mould ! 
 Blissful slumber, welcome day. 
 Be it near or far away ! 
 
 I am lonely, — all alone ; 
 None to love, or love me, — none ! 
 Not a cheek whose bloom would fade 
 Were I low and lonely laid ; 
 Not an eye would miss me gone 
 Ere a little month had flown ; 
 Not a heart where hope would say. 
 Oh, may it be far away ! 
 
 Who would stay where hope had fled ? 
 Who would live if love were dead ? 
 Day has darkened ere its noon, — 
 Winter nips the flowers of June. 
 All have vanished, — fled from me, — 
 All but torturing memory, 
 
I4C 
 
 LINES. 
 
 And this sure and slow decay, — 
 Though the end be far away. 
 
 Pain has triumphed o'er delight, 
 Dreary darkness clouds my sight ; 
 Heart and spirit torn and sore. 
 Earth can injure me no more ! 
 Of the tomb's advancing shade. 
 Thus my soul hath question made 
 *'When shall be my dying day? 
 Is it near or far away?" 
 
 Answerless and echoless 
 Lies the unexplored abyss ! 
 Oh for quiet to this breast ! 
 Oh for deep, unbroken rest ! 
 To be sleeping calm and cold. 
 Pillowed on the lowly mould ! 
 Blissful slumber, welcome day, 
 Be it near or far away ! 
 
THE GOLDEN DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG. 141 
 
 THE GOLDEN DAYS WHEN I WAS 
 YOUNG. 
 
 I. 
 
 The golden days when I was young ! — 
 The air is calm, the air is clear, 
 The bright-blue summer heaven is near ; 
 The gr^en leaves are not whispering there, 
 But mute with joy in this sweet air, — 
 
 The golden days when I was young ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The golden days when I was young ! — 
 
 I gaze upon this bright sweet air ; 
 
 My mother combs and curls my hair ; 
 
 At the last hour allowed by rule, 
 
 With abnost pleasure rush to school, — 
 The golden days when I was young ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The golden days when I was young ! — 
 Beside the silent stream we stand ; 
 I clasp her waist, I clasp her hand : 
 '*0 best-beloved, my hope, my life. 
 Cling to my breast, my cherished wife!' — 
 
 The golden days when I was young ! 
 
142 INVOCATION AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The golden days when I was young ! — 
 The babe, how fair, how dear, how weak, 
 But nature's language, naught can speak, 
 Yet on its slowly-brightening face 
 The light of Heaven we think we trace ! — 
 
 The golden days when I was young ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The golden days when I was young ! — 
 
 Alas ! alas ! no more for me 
 
 Clear stream, blue sky, or green-robed tree. 
 
 I only can disturb the air. 
 
 And moan, in tones of weak despair, 
 " The golden days when I was young !" 
 
 INVOCATION AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 A LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS DURING ABSENCE. 
 
 Come, dearest, sun-like mingle with my dreams ; 
 Come from the East, thou fairer than the morn ; 
 On me thy shadowy smiles shall shine like beams 
 Poured down at dawn on blossoms newly born. 
 The sun will soon be jeweling the corn 
 Around thy dwelling. Ere it wake the night, 
 Haste, haste, in spirit, to these arms forlorn; 
 Ere day divides us, meet my sleeping sight. 
 And thrill my heart anew with dreams of old delight. 
 
INVOCATION AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 43 
 
 The sea is near thee in thine East countrie, 
 The sea is near me on this Western shore. 
 Oh, could we both now rove by either sea, 
 As once we wandered, when the wild^ waves' roar 
 Was music to us ! Oh to be once more 
 Where thou hast being, and to taste the bliss 
 That earliest warmed my bosom to its core. 
 Once more thy hand to press, thy cheek to kiss ! — 
 All-powerful Love ! canst thou no marvel work like 
 this? 
 
 Love ! thou wert a god in the past days. 
 When Earth was young, and Passion in her prime. 
 Immortal Love ! the poet's antique lays 
 
 Have charmed thy followers from the touch of Time. 
 Wake once again, and, if the minstrel chime 
 Of tuneful numbers please thee, hear me now. 
 Responsive to the worship of my rhyme. 
 Give me to gaze upon that dear-loved brow : 
 Great are the gods alone who list a votary's vow. 
 
 What comes? Bright heaven, 'tis she ! Lo ! on the air 
 
 1 see her misty image dawn like day ; 
 The wind flows under and uplifts her hair, 
 And, as I gaze upon her, fast away 
 
 Roll these dim scenes ; I feel the cool white spray 
 Sprinkle my fevered forehead, and I stand 
 Beside her. Doth she see me not ? I lay 
 My trembling fingers on her lifted hand. 
 She starts not, feels not, sees naught save the sea- 
 washed sand. 
 
 < Oh, if I dream, then sleeping let me die ! 
 If this be frenzy, let me mad remain ! 
 
144 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE PACIFIC COAST. 
 
 Alas ! she fades ; her form eludes my eye. 
 Farewell the vision ! all is dark again. 
 Now to my lonely couch, this ceaseless pain 
 To drug with slumber. Yet, immortal Love, 
 Accept the homage of my humble strain, 
 That, bending from the placid realms above. 
 Thy magic hand for me this dear delusion wove. 
 
 Once more I call thee, darling, to my dreams. 
 Come from the East, thou fairer than the morn ; 
 Shed on my sleep thy shadowy smiles, as beams 
 Are showered at dawn on blossoms newly born, 
 And, ere the dews are jewels on the corn 
 Around thy dwelling, ere the drowsy night 
 Wakes, starts, and flies, oh, seek these arms forlorn ; 
 Chase the sad shadows from my clouded sight. 
 And thrill my hushed, cold heart with dreams of old 
 delight. 
 
 I 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE PACIFIC 
 COAST. 
 
 Southward of our Gates of Gold 
 An hundred leagues, as the tale is told, 
 There lieth, a mile below the sea, 
 A city that was, and yet shall be ; 
 Drowned for its sins, but yet to rise. 
 As shriven souls ascend the skies. 
 
 I have been through that city in a dream. 
 Where its turrets through the blue waves gleam; 
 
A LEGEND OF THE PACIFIC COAST. 
 
 I have stood when the moon to the rippled wave 
 The ghastly ghost of sunlight gave; 
 Through the avenues long, accursed by crime, 
 In the shadows of the olden time. 
 In a vision I wandered, and walked amid 
 The streets where numberless things lie hid 
 That nameless seemed, and strange to me, 
 In those sunless solitudes down in the sea. 
 
 The hand of Time, that spectre grim, 
 
 Has never reached down through the water dim ; 
 
 But pillar and column are standing there 
 
 Erect as they stood above in the air ; 
 
 And, save that o'er all the slimy water 
 
 A cold and glittering film hath cast, 
 As northern winds, unpitying, scatter 
 
 Ice on the trees as they hurry past, 
 The mirror-like marbles untarnished shine, 
 As when first they went down in the sparkling brine. 
 
 The waving sea-weeds, rank and tall. 
 Like ivy, are clinging to tower and wall, 
 And the glittering dolphin and ravenous shark 
 Are gliding around in the chambers dark. 
 There the arms of the polypus are seen. 
 Like a spider's mesh in the water green, 
 And a thousand wonderful creatures sleep 
 Motionless, silently, down in the deep. 
 
 There sitteth a form on a marble throne, — 
 The form of a maiden young and fair, — 
 
 But the water hath turned the body to stone. 
 And hardened the curls of her raven hair ; 
 G 13 
 
 145 
 
146 THE LOVE THAT CHANG ETH NEVER. 
 
 Yet her full, dark eyes are open, and seem 
 Forever to flash with a lambent beam ; 
 But her rounded arms and bosom white 
 Have a deathly cast in that saddened light. 
 
 When the loving waves of a thousand years 
 
 Shall have washed from those walls of guilt the stain, 
 As sin is washed out by the penitent's tears, 
 
 That city will start from her slumbers again ; 
 And surely 'twill be strange to mark 
 Each tower, as it leaves its chambers dark, 
 Springing up into life, unbound and free, 
 From those sunless solitudes down in the sea. 
 
 THERE IS A LOVE THAT CHANGETH 
 NEVER. 
 
 There is a love that changeth never. 
 
 Hearts around us all decay ; 
 All the joys of earth are ever 
 
 Fleeting, like the clouds, away. 
 Far beyond a waveless river 
 
 Lieth a land of visions gay. 
 Where the love that changeth never 
 
 Keepeth one eternal day. 
 
 Where is the dream that woke thy spirit. 
 Giving joy to thy young May time ? 
 
 What doth now thy heart inherit 
 
 From the flowers of manhood's prime? 
 
THE LOVE THAT CHANG ETH NEVER. 147 
 
 Where are the eyes that gazed upon thee ? 
 
 Where is the love that blessed thy bloom? 
 Flowers and eyes and love wait on thee 
 
 In thy goal, the dreamless tomb. 
 
 There is a love that changeth never. 
 
 Hearts around us all decay; 
 All the joys of earth are ever 
 
 Fleeting, like the clouds, away. 
 Far beyond a waveless river 
 
 Lieth a land of visions gay, 
 Where the love that changeth never 
 
 Keepeth one eternal day. 
 
 Like the dove o'er waste waves sweeping, 
 
 Goeth the human heart in vain. 
 Seeking in pain and doubt and weeping 
 
 Some dear heart that loves again. 
 Darkly still comes Time's December 
 
 On such hearts as vainly rove ; 
 When, oh, when shall man remember 
 
 Earth is changing, God is love ? 
 
 There is a love that changeth never. 
 
 Hearts around us all decay; 
 All the joys of earth are ever 
 
 Fleeting, like the clouds, away. 
 Far beyond a waveless river 
 
 Lieth a land of visions gay, 
 Where the love that changeth never 
 
 Keepeth one eternal day. 
 
148 THE LATEST *' FOMEr 
 
 THE LATEST ''POME." 
 
 LINES TO A LADY DEPARTING FOR AUSTRALIA. 
 
 Here's to the fellows decidedly sold 
 
 By the lady who lately has left us, 
 With all the strong sympathies, love, and the gold 
 
 Of which she has rashly bereft us. 
 Let the joke pass ; drink to the lass : 
 I'll warrant she'll find an excuse for the glass. 
 
 II. 
 
 Here's to the next Atalanta who seeks 
 
 To dance in ecstatics before us; 
 But it's hoped that at least for a "couple of weeks" 
 
 No other Diana will bore us. 
 Still, here's to the lass who was strong on the "sass,' 
 And wouldn't, by no means, revolt from a glass. 
 
 III. 
 
 Here's to the gentlemen published and caught 
 For subscriptions, and find them too dear, sir ; 
 
 And here's to the gent whose fine talents were bougiU, 
 As they say, for five hundred a year, sir. 
 
 They had best take a glass, and drink to the lass. 
 
 And every one say to himself, ''What an ass !" 
 
THE LATEST ''POME. 
 
 IV. 
 
 149 
 
 Here's to the scribblers who sprang for the prize 
 When the cash was put up with Wells Fargo ; 
 
 Alas ! the sweet cash, they are saying, with sighs, 
 Has gone with the rest of the cargo. 
 
 But give them a glass, and drink to the lass. 
 
 And gallantly say, Let her go, — let her pass. 
 
 Here's to the lovers, with faultless cravats. 
 Who rushed to the fair lady's chamber. 
 
 Who kissed her bright tears away, took up their hats. 
 And were solemnly told to ''remember." 
 
 Let the joke pass ; take a fresh glass ; 
 
 Three cheers and a tiger — hurrah for the lass ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Here's to the versatile ''ancient of days," 
 Who lives in a cabbage-yard barren, — 
 
 The complaisant gentleman, flush with bouquets. 
 The learned and revered Mr. Warren. 
 
 Let the joke pass ; drink to the lass : 
 
 It's hardly worth while to take him from the mass. 
 
 13" 
 
150 THE PARTING HOUR. 
 
 THE PARTING HOUR. 
 
 There's something in the *' parting hour" 
 
 Will chill the warmest heart, 
 Yet kindred, comrades, lovers^ friends, 
 
 Are fated all to part ; 
 But this I've seen, — and many a pang 
 
 Has pressed it on my mind, — 
 The one who goes is happier 
 
 Than those he leaves behind. 
 
 No matter what the journey be, — 
 
 Adventurous, dangerous, far. 
 To the wild deep, or bleak frontier, 
 
 To solitude or war, — 
 Still something cheers the heart that dares, 
 
 In all of human kind. 
 And they who go are happier 
 
 Than those they leave behind. 
 
 The bride goes to the bridegroom's home 
 
 With doubtings and with tears. 
 But does not hope a rainbow spread 
 
 Across her cloudy fears? 
 Alas ! the mother who remains. 
 
 What comfort can she find 
 But this, — the gone is happier 
 
 Than one she leaves behind ? 
 
WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS ARE FALLING, 
 
 Have you a friend, a comrade dear, 
 
 An old and valued friend ? 
 Be sure your term of sweet concourse 
 
 At length will have an end ; 
 And when you part, as part you will, 
 
 Oh, take it not unkind 
 If he who goes is happier 
 
 Than you he leaves behind. 
 
 God wills it so, — and so it is, — 
 
 The pilgrims on their way. 
 Though weak and worn, more cheerful are 
 
 Than all the rest who stay. 
 And when at last poor man, subdued, 
 
 Lies down, to death resigned, 
 May he not still be happier far 
 
 Than those he leaves behind ? 
 
 151 
 
 WHEN THE TWILIGHT DEWS ARE 
 FALLING. 
 
 When the solemn midnight lonely 
 
 Sleeps around me deep and still. 
 And the gentle night-breeze only 
 
 Murmurs music on the hill. 
 When the seal of noiseless slumber 
 
 Closes every eye but mine, 
 And illusions without number 
 
 Visions for the dreamer twine. 
 Then, sweet maiden, still beside me 
 
 I thy gentle image see. 
 
52 WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS ARE FALLING. 
 
 As though lingering to guide me 
 From my wandering to thee. 
 
 When the ruddy morn leaps shining 
 
 From the oriental wave, 
 And the laughing hours are twining 
 
 Flowers to deck each other's grave, 
 When the fragrant blossoms lure me 
 
 O'er the green and dewy lawn, 
 And her purple banners o'er me 
 
 Waves the rosy-handed dawn, 
 Still, sweet maiden, still beside me 
 
 I thy gentle image see. 
 As though lingering to guide me 
 
 From my wandering to thee. 
 
 Oh that future hours some token 
 
 To my spirit would supply. 
 That the spell should ne'er be broken, 
 
 That thy charm should never die ! 
 Gladly would I hail the morrow 
 
 That should bid me rove no more, 
 Seeking still through life to borrow 
 
 Sweets from time's illusive store ; 
 Then, sweet maiden, still beside me 
 
 Thy sweet image would I see. 
 Sighing, seeking still to guide me 
 
 Back from wanderin": to thee. 
 
ALL THY WORKS PRAISE THEE. 153 
 
 ALL THY WORKS PRAISE THEE. 
 
 The moonbeams on the billowy deep, 
 
 The blue waves rippling on the strand, 
 The ocean in its peaceful sleep, 
 
 The shell that murmurs on the sand, 
 The cloud that dims the bending sky. 
 
 The bow that on its bosom glows. 
 The sun that lights the vault on high, 
 
 The stars at midnight's calm repose, — 
 These praise the Power that arched the sky 
 And robed the earth in beauty's dye. 
 
 The melody of Nature's choir, 
 
 The deep-toned anthems of the sea. 
 The wind that tunes a viewless lyre. 
 
 The zephyr on its pinions free. 
 The thunder with its thrilling notes 
 
 That peal upon the mountain air. 
 The lay that through the foliage floats. 
 
 Or sinks in dying cadence there, — 
 These all to Thee their voices raise, 
 A fervent voice of gushing praise. 
 
 The day-star, herald of the dawn. 
 
 As the dark shadows flit away. 
 The tint upon the cheek of morn. 
 
 The dew-drops gleaming on the spray, — 
 
154 
 
 THE WISSAHICKON. 
 
 From wild birds in their wanderings, 
 From streamlets leaping to the sea, 
 
 From all earth's fair and lovely things, 
 Doth living praise ascend to Thee ; 
 
 These with their silent tongues proclaim 
 
 The varied wonders of Thy name. 
 
 Father ! thy hand hath formed the flower 
 
 And flung it on the verdant lea ; 
 Thou badest it ope at summer hour ; 
 
 Its hues of beauty speak of Thee. 
 Thy works all praise Thee : shall not man 
 
 Alike attune the grateful hymn ? 
 Shall he not join the lofty strain 
 
 Echoed from heart of seraphim ? 
 We tune to Thee our humble lays, 
 Thy mercy, goodness, love, we praise. 
 
 THE WISSAHICKON. 
 
 Underneath the pointed arches 
 
 Of the forest's darkest aisles. 
 Where the broken sunlight marches 
 
 Eastward through the deep defiles, 
 Lies a calm and twilit valley, 
 
 Two rough hills concealed between, 
 Where the loose winds dance and dally 
 
 With the blossoms on the green, — 
 In the dim and silent forest, 
 
 In the forest dark and green. 
 
THE WISSAHICKON. 
 
 Faintly in the faint light gleaming, 
 
 Streams traverse those shadows deep, 
 Murmuring, as an infant, dreaming. 
 
 Smiles and murmurs in its sleep ; 
 Fitfully each infant river 
 
 Gleams beneath its sedgy screen, 
 And above the light leaves quiver, 
 
 In the forest dark and green, — 
 In the dim and silent forest. 
 
 In the forest dark and green. 
 
 There the daring kingbird dashes 
 
 Through the boughs in ceaseless war, 
 And the bright-winged oriole flashes 
 
 'Midst the branches like a star ; 
 There, at dusk, the owl sits lonely, 
 
 Dreary-voiced, and weird of mien ; 
 And the night-hawk's soft wing, only, 
 
 Stirs the foliage dark and green, — 
 In the dim and silent forest. 
 
 In the forest dark and green. 
 
 In those calm and deep recesses 
 
 Gleam the laurel-flowers of snow. 
 And the sumach's purple tresses 
 
 Tinge the pallid stream below ; 
 There, in brakes retired and stilly. 
 
 Buds and blooms the rose unseen ; 
 And by bubbling springs the lily 
 
 Towers above the verdure green, — 
 In the dim and silent forest. 
 
 In the forest dark and green. 
 
 155 
 
156 THE WISSAHICKON. 
 
 While with heedless steps I wander 
 
 Through these scenes of silent joy, 
 Idly do I dream and ponder 
 
 O'er my pleasures as a boy; 
 And the light of bliss departed 
 
 Shows the scenes that once have been, 
 Where the loved, the young, true-hearted. 
 
 Trod with me the mossy green, — 
 In the dim and silent forest. 
 
 In the forest dark and green. 
 
 Sometimes, too, the whispered voices 
 
 Of the absent and the dead 
 Haunt me, while the breeze rejoices 
 
 'Mid the green boughs overhead ; 
 And, while heedless tears are falling, 
 
 On the mossy bank I lean. 
 Back the youthful hours recalling 
 
 That I spent in forest green, — 
 In the dim and silent forest. 
 
 In the forest dark and green. 
 
NIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 57 
 
 NIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 I. 
 
 God of the morning, — glorious sun, — farewell ! 
 Here be my seat upon this mossy stone 
 Till the last gleam has faded. Gently swell 
 The green waves of the forest, and a tone 
 Of crimson paints each billow. With a moan 
 The faint night-winds like spirits shivering pass, 
 Fluttering amid the leaves. I am alone, 
 Save thought, these waving branches, this wet grass, 
 And yon deep vault that shrouds this darkly-mingled 
 mass. 
 
 II. 
 
 O thou whose dark-blue starry wings expand 
 Above me, beautiful and softly bright. 
 Once more I welcome thee to this lone land ; 
 Once more I hail thee, dream-commanding Night. 
 Day hides thee, heaven ! but on the awakened sight 
 Through darkness now thy blended glories beam ; 
 Thy lamps undying, fields of tender light. 
 And yon red wanderers, whose prophetic gleam 
 Stains thy pale, slumbering cheek like an ill-omened 
 dream. 
 
 III. 
 
 As feels the wight who musingly pursues 
 An unknown path with heedless steps and slow, 
 14 
 
158 NIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 Till from a precipice he starts, and views, 
 With leaping heart, the yawning gulf below, 
 So shrinks my spirit backward from the glow 
 Of those unfathomed caverns, and my breath 
 Comes thick and heavy, and my heart sinks low : 
 God, — space, — eternity ! — mysterious death ! 
 Hold'st thou the key to these, — these solemn links of 
 faith? 
 
 IV. 
 
 But back to earth and earthly things once more, 
 While earthly passions on the heart have power. 
 The lady of my love along the shore 
 Of the far ocean wanders at this hour. 
 The night-winds kiss her rock-defended bower ; 
 Below, the green waves leap in gladness by ; 
 While she, my love, like a night-blooming flower 
 Swayed in the hoarse sea's anthem, seeks the sky, 
 And views these selfsame stars with sympathetic eye. 
 
 v. 
 
 Oh, thou art beautiful, my own sweet one. 
 And beauty floats around thee soft and warm 
 As floats the radiance round the setting sun, 
 Or halo round an angel's pictured form ! 
 And as the full moon breaks the midnight storm, 
 Charming the angry elements to peace. 
 So hast thou ever stilled each wild alarm 
 That swept and swelled the bosom of those seas 
 Where rolls my helmless bark before life's fitful breeze. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thou art before me ! On the darkened air 
 My spirit paints thine image fair as day; 
 
NIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 159 
 
 Far on the wind streams out thy raven hair ; 
 And, as I gaze upon thee, fast away 
 Fade these dim woods ; I feel the cool white spray 
 Sprinkle my fevered forehead, and I stand 
 Beside thee, though thou seest me not ; I lay 
 My trembling fingers on thy snowy hand ; 
 Thou feel'st not, start'st not, seest naught save the sea- 
 washed sand ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh that the winds, whose swelling voices fill 
 These arches, had but memory, voice, and tongue ! 
 How would I make them messengers, and thrill 
 Their bosoms with the cadence of my song ! 
 Their course seems to the ocean, and along 
 Their path should bear my tributary strain 
 To her who stands the broken rocks among, 
 Bending her blue eyes o'er the flashing main, — 
 Watching, perchance, for one she ne'er may see again. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 How vain my wish ! how vain my fancy's art ! 
 Darkness and distance hold their place between 
 Me and that flower whose memory in my heart, 
 When all beside is withered, shall be green. 
 Good-night ! good-night, dear shadow ! O'er the 
 
 scene 
 Dark broods the hopeless present ; vale and tree 
 Once more lie lightless ; for the transient sheen 
 That gilded them with glory fled with thee. 
 Sweet be thy midnight dreams, fair dweller by the sea. 
 
i6o THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 *' I saw thy pulse's maddening play 
 Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
 Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 
 
 By Passion driven ; 
 But yet the light that led astray 
 
 Was light from Heaven, 
 
 Burns. 
 
 PROEM. 
 
 Black, restless waters, livid skies, — 
 Before my wistful gaze they rise, 
 Like to a sombre picture seen 
 When dark-browed twilight stands between 
 The advancing night and flying day. 
 The golden dreams have rolled away; 
 Heavily the long waves flow, 
 And whirl aloft their showers of snow, 
 That sink like glittering stars again, 
 Quenched in the deep and dismal main. 
 'Tis weird and dreary, darkly clear; 
 A ghostly murmur in mine ear; 
 Strange shadows on mine eyes ; a thrill 
 Creeps o'er my flesh, my heart is still: 
 It comes in gloom and fear to me, — 
 This fitful vision of the sea. 
 
 A tall ship shoots athwart the moon. 
 Red rising from the sullen wave 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. i6i 
 
 That seems her brazen disc to lave, 
 And starts like spectre from the grave 
 
 To the ebon clouds aboon. 
 There's danger in that brooding air, 
 Storm in the red moon's angry glare. 
 High wind in yonder clouds that sweep 
 Like mustering squadrons o'er the deep. 
 Speed on, frail ship, speed on ; for, hark ! 
 Thy foes are thickening, fearful bark. 
 Spread wide thy fleet wings, and away. 
 'Tis vain ! 'tis vain! Heaven scowls on thee. 
 Where shalt thou be 
 
 At the dawn of another day? 
 
 Thus, Ocean ! do I love to trace 
 The tempest mirrored in thy face ; 
 Thus mark him with exulting stride 
 Span thy dark waters chafed and wide, 
 While crushing, with an angry frown. 
 The rising rebel wave-tops down. 
 Mighty and beautiful ! with thee. 
 My thoughts are fetterless and free ; 
 Forth on the whirlwind's rushing wings, 
 To thee my eager spirit springs. 
 Impatient, uncontrolled to sweep 
 Thy pathless bosom, glorious deep. 
 With the lone sea-fowl, on thy breast 
 Of rocking waves I take my rest, 
 And calmly hear. 
 
 With an untroubled ear. 
 The sounding voices of the night 
 Sweep o'er the yeasty foam that glimmers cold and 
 
 white. 
 
 14^ 
 
1 62 THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 There is a wild delirious joy 
 
 Where the billows revel and destroy; 
 
 But solemn it is, and strange, I ween. 
 
 When my soul goes down. 
 Through the waters waxing darkly brown, 
 Through the dull deep no longer green, 
 Down to the drear mid -ocean, where 
 The skeleton forms of lost ships are. 
 That may not rise, nor sink, nor move. 
 Nor feel the wind that sports above, 
 But, inch by inch, in slow decay 
 And stagnant silence waste away; 
 Or far in the remotest deeps, 
 Where on the earth's foundation sleeps 
 The wreck of ruined worlds struck down 
 And shriveled by Jehovah's frown. 
 Vast cliffs and promontories, piled 
 In ruin and disorder wild. 
 Are standing in that stagnant slime. 
 Uncouth, eternal, and sublime, 
 Iced by the hands of ages o'er. 
 And swathed in darkness evermore. 
 
 Empires were there, 
 
 But they had gone 
 
 Ere yet the golden sun 
 Became the centre of a system fair 
 As ever rose before the Almighty's face 
 Amid the waste of space. 
 Thus shall they stand. 
 
 Seen only by the Eternal Eye, 
 In drear confusion, rudely grand. 
 
 Till Time shall die. 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 163 
 
 Unmoved, save when the fiery surge breaks forth 
 From the hot centre of the earth, 
 
 And heaves to light 
 
 An island in a night-. 
 
 From these my spirit springs again 
 Up to the surface of the main, 
 And skirts like light those radiant isles 
 Where regal summer calmly smiles. 
 Careers with the careering breeze 
 Along the bosom of the seas. 
 And roves, forgetful of control. 
 From the green tropics to the pole. 
 Makes fleets of wandering mists, and fills 
 Their forms with beings as she wills. 
 Lives through extremes of pain and bliss, 
 And fancies many a scene like this. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 The rushing waters closed around, 
 And silenced, with a sullen sound. 
 The last loud shriek of frenzied fear 
 That rent the shining atmosphere. 
 Impelled by the convulsive breath 
 Of beings in the grasp of death ! 
 An eddying whirl, that fell and rose. 
 And throbbed and settled to repose, — 
 A pale spot fading into brown. 
 Where the tall mast sank slowly down,- 
 A sobbing murmur, deep and low. 
 Unearthly in its wailing flow. 
 
64 THE BRIDE OE HEAVEN. 
 
 That froze the creeping flesh with dread, 
 Like midnight whispers from the dead, — 
 Along the deep a rippling quiver, — 
 And all was hushed and mute forever. 
 
 II. 
 
 They are alone upon the sea, 
 
 That hopeless and forsaken three. 
 
 The remnant of as staunch a crew 
 
 As ever stemmed the treacherous blue ; 
 
 Their boat is blistering in the glare 
 
 That fills the hot and quivering air, 
 
 And idly sleeps, bereft of motion, 
 
 A speck upon the dazzling ocean. 
 
 And morn, and night, and morn again, 
 
 Have swept like shadows o'er the main, 
 
 But on their wings no wind has come, 
 
 No cloud has checked the cheerless dome, 
 
 So fearful in its dusky dress. 
 
 So awful in its loneliness. 
 
 III. 
 
 'Tis a fair sight to gaze upon, 
 A serpent basking in the sun, 
 
 A glancing snake, 
 Coiled in a green Brazilian brake. 
 In many a rich and mazy fold, 
 And girt with rings of azure and of gold. 
 Yet whoso unawares draws near 
 Starts backward with a nameless fear : 
 Those starry eyes, those glancing eyeS, 
 That mock the gems of tropic skies. 
 
THE BRIDE OF HE A VEN. i (^-^ 
 
 Have in their deeps a dangerous light, 
 That blasts, while it compels, the charmed reluctant 
 sight. 
 And dark destruction clings for evermore 
 Unto the form a fallen angel wore. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So looks the tideless sea that smiles 
 Around the green Ionian isles. 
 That sea whose slow-advancing tread 
 Is o'er the dust of empires dead, 
 Whose murmuring ripples softly creep 
 Where long-forgotten heroes sleep. 
 And whose rough waves are rudely hurled 
 O'er clay that held, while quick, the sceptre of the 
 world. 
 
 The heedless glance 
 That scans that water's calm expanse 
 Recoils, as conscious that beneath 
 Yawn horror and unholy death. 
 And, shuddering, sees the crystal flood 
 Change to a ghastly waste of blood, 
 Beholds the countless hosts that sleep 
 Unhouseled in its bosom deep. 
 And hastily prays a broken prayer 
 O'er the dark deeds enacted there, — 
 For every crime that stains our race 
 Has marked with guilt its laughing face. 
 
 V. 
 
 On that serene and azure sea, 
 The isle-gemmed belt of Italic, 
 
t66 the bride of heaven. 
 
 'Tis.noon, high noon; the archer sun 
 Sits like a conqueror in mid-heaven, 
 Throned on a blood-red iron sphere, 
 And through the air so dusk and drear, 
 Through the brazen atmosphere. 
 
 Unceasingly his bolts are driven. 
 His poisonous arrows, tipped with death, 
 That quench the gasping sufferer's breath, 
 And pierce with quick and torturous pain 
 Through the seared eyeball to the brain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 They are three that wither there. 
 A shaven monk, in seeming prayer, 
 His rosary his lean hand strains. 
 All corded with the starting veins. 
 His thin gray locks and frosted brow 
 The wintry cold of age avow ; 
 Yet somewhat of resolve sits high 
 On his cold front and pale-blue eye, — 
 As if he vainly strove to quell 
 His rising heart's convulsive swell. 
 And calm his throbbing brain to sleep. 
 So racked with anguish sharp and deep. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Behind him, on the thwarts at length. 
 Shorn sadly of his massive strength. 
 His hand upon the accustomed helm, 
 Frail sceptre of his watery realm, 
 Reclines a form whose breast and cheek 
 The wanderer of the wave bespeak ; 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 67 
 
 That sinewy chest, exposed and brown, 
 That lowering brow's habitual frown, 
 Where the red sun's unbroken glare 
 Half cloaks the pallor of despair, 
 Discourse of dangers long defied, 
 An iron frame, a heart of pride. 
 But yield no token of the mind, 
 
 That sees with unmoved eye 
 
 The funeral train of hope pass by, 
 And on the wreck of earth looks quiet and resigned. 
 His bloodshot eye, of lurid gloom. 
 
 O'er the dull waste rolls wearily, 
 
 Where solitude sits drearily. 
 Like darkness o'er the tomb: 
 A bank of dense and dusky haze 
 Shuts in his strained and anxious gaze. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The fragment of a shattered sail. 
 Worn to a thread by wave and gale. 
 Is stretched upon a broken oar. 
 The mute and kneeling monk before ; 
 And in its hotly-stifling shade, 
 Behold ! a woman's form is laid. 
 Is she not sadly, strangely fair? 
 How soft her tangled dark-brown hair ! 
 How faint the hectic tint that streaks 
 The paleness of her thin pure cheeks ! 
 Like moonbeams white. 
 Mingling on an Alpine height. 
 High up in air, snow-crowned and cold. 
 With the last flush of reddening gold, 
 
1 68 THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 Caught faintly from the fading day, 
 Hurrying so rapidly away. 
 Her weary, tearless eye is hid 
 By the long-fringed, transparent lid. 
 And her blue-veined brow has grown 
 White as the chiseled Parian stone. 
 The robes that thinly drape that form 
 Are rent and sullied by the storm, 
 And lassitude and pain oppress 
 Those limbs so formed for tenderness ; 
 Yet round her lips of faintest red. 
 
 That move, but murmur not, 
 A rising smile is softly spread 
 
 From some half-happy thought. 
 Ah, beautiful ! what destiny 
 Has cast thee here on this lone sea. 
 Withering so drearily ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thus, silent and despaired, they wait 
 The fiat of approaching fate ; 
 .And round them the dull wave grows rife 
 With horrid and unnatural life ; 
 Strange nameless creatures slowly float. 
 With fibrous arms, around the boat, — 
 Spawned from the ocean's stagnant womb. 
 
 Made pregnant by the burning sun ; 
 But the next wind shall ring their doom, — 
 
 Their short existence done. 
 
 The monk looked out upon the main, 
 Stifling the sharp and inward pain 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 169 
 
 That gnawed his heart unceasingly 
 With deep and quenchless agony. 
 
 Nothing was there, 
 
 But through the air 
 Empurpled shadows glided slowly, 
 In varying forms, like ghosts unholy. 
 And solemnly he saw them wheel 
 Along the waste of burning steel. 
 Till Fancy's fevered power arrayed 
 With form and shape the shifting shade. 
 
 XI. 
 
 A ship rose dimly to his gaze. 
 And loomed above the dusky haze; 
 He saw her tall bows, stained and brown, 
 O'er the wide waters bearing down. 
 Piling the snowy foam before her. 
 And her white sails towering o'er her; 
 So near she came that he could mark 
 Each spar upon the advancing bark, 
 And see the seamen idly lean 
 Above the bulwarks* mossy screen ; 
 Then all grew dim, confused, and gray, 
 And melted silently away. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Anon, a spreading landscape grew 
 
 Distinct and palpable to view. 
 
 Blue lake embowered in clustered trees, 
 
 And rippled by the cool sweet breeze. 
 
 Reflected brokenly and dim 
 
 The white-walled mansions round the brim ; 
 
 H 15 
 
T 70 
 
 THE BRIDE OF HE A VEN. 
 
 And boats, securely anchored, lay- 
 In many a winding cove and bay, 
 While mingled music's dying swell 
 On his charmed ear inconstant fell ; 
 But still with sullen pain returned 
 The maddening thought that inly burned, — 
 *' Alone — alone — ah, woe is me ! 
 Lost — on this wide, wild, open sea !" 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He looked on the face of the mariner. 
 
 But that was vacant with despair \ 
 
 His thoughts were wandering far away. 
 
 By calm Genoa's peaceful bay, 
 
 Where, 'mid Albano's crumbling towers, 
 
 Rise his brown home and almond bowers. 
 
 And seems he to behold the tree 
 
 Where those he loves at noon retire, — 
 Whence his young children wistfully 
 
 Look seaward for their wandering sire. 
 That look of sullen, hopeless gloom 
 Lowered on the monk like threatening doom^ 
 And mournfully he turned his head. 
 Heavy and hot, like molten lead. 
 And fixed his eyes on where was laid 
 The form of the unconscious maid. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 So silent was her trance-like sleep. 
 And calmness so serenely deep 
 Lay on her features, that with fear 
 He feebly started from his seat, 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 And bent his head, her breath to hear, 
 
 And felt if yet her bosom beat. 
 The sternness melted in his eye, 
 And tears — but, ah, the fount was dry ! 
 He could but smooth her locks away, 
 And press her thin cheeks tenderly, 
 And feed with hopeful words, — that he 
 Felt were but mocking misery. 
 ^'Egeria ! canst thou hear me speak, 
 Or feel me press thy waning cheek ? 
 Oh, answer, dearest; let me know 
 Thy heart breaks not with this deep woe. 
 Fly from despair's unholy calm, 
 For heaven has hope and blessed balm ; 
 And wisely falls the chastening rod. 
 Oh, gentle daughter, trust in God." 
 
 XV. 
 
 She heard him not, she answered not ; 
 With other thoughts her heart was fraught. 
 Along her face there passed a glow 
 Like moonlight on a waste of snow, 
 But changeful as the gleam that dyes 
 The clouds of summer's evening skies. 
 What did she see ? not that lean face 
 Grown dark in agony's embrace ! 
 What did she hear? not that sad voice 
 That chills where it would fain rejoice ! 
 But who be they, — those forms that glide 
 Like sunlit vapors by his side ? 
 Their passionless, star-like eyes control 
 And fill with calm her troubled soul ; 
 
 171 
 
172 
 
 THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 Their long white garments slowly sweep. 
 And fan her into balmier sleep. 
 What may they be? since dawning life 
 Revealed the land of pain and strife 
 Through which her perilous footpath lay, 
 Those shapes have lingered round her way. 
 Still fainter when the skies were bright, 
 Still nearest in the darkest night. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Hark to those sounds, low-toned and slow. 
 
 Like songful voices from below, 
 
 From deep-submerged and sunken halls ! 
 
 Such sailors hear when nights are dark, 
 Slow climbing up the crystal walls 
 
 And hovering round their rocking bark ! 
 
 I. 
 
 Pilgrim through the lands of time, 
 Daughter of a nightless clime, 
 Mystic child of sorrow, cheer thee; 
 Kindred spirits linger near thee. 
 Hurt and Harm and Fear surround thee. 
 But a viewless guard hath bound thee. 
 And the evil cannot move 
 The sister we so dearly love. 
 
 Lo ! we charm away the pain, 
 And thy scorched and troubled brain 
 With our quiet we will fill, 
 And the magic of our will 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 Shall relieve the pang that lies 
 Deep within thy burning eyes; 
 Words of mighty power shall keep 
 Undisturbed thy settled sleep 
 Soft and cooling hands shall chase 
 All the fevef from thy face ; 
 From the filmy dews of dawn, 
 Ere the sun has kissed the lawn, 
 Aerial fingers weave a spell 
 For the one we love so well. 
 
 Every hour we shall be near; — 
 In the moments of deep fear, 
 Let thy spirit not despair, 
 For the armies of the air 
 Hem thee with a circle strong. 
 To defend thy path from wrong. 
 And the shapes of gloom retire 
 From that living wall of fire. 
 
 But beware thy heart to stain 
 
 With an earthly joy or pain : 
 
 Let thy aspirations rise 
 
 To the calm and placid skies ; 
 
 Power divine will not avail 
 
 Where human hopes and fears assail. 
 
 5- 
 
 Fast the fated hour is nearing, 
 When thy destiny appearing, 
 15* 
 
 17: 
 
174 THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 From thy side our forms may banish, 
 And thy sinless dreams shall vanish, 
 As the rising breeze of morn 
 Sweeps the cobweb from the thorn. 
 
 Ah ! beware, 
 
 For the air 
 Of that fair but deadly shore 
 May destroy thy bloom forever ; 
 But we shall desert thee never, — 
 
 Evermore ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 She moved; she woke; she faintly smiled; 
 She raised her eyes so bluely mild, 
 And gazed upon the monk, who bent 
 Above with anxious thoughts intent : 
 ** Nay, fear not, father ; those I love 
 
 Have passed me in my slumber near ; 
 Bright forms have left their thrones above, 
 
 With hope my sinking heart to cheer. 
 The white shape of my dreams has stood 
 Beside me on the shining flood. 
 And told of succor soon to come, 
 To bear the weary wanderer home." 
 Sorely perplexed, the father gazed 
 Like one distracted and amazed, 
 Gazed on her face, where all was clear 
 As young April's atmosphere. 
 He thought her brain, to frenzy wrought 
 By some sweet madness, was distraught ; 
 He strove, and answer none could make, 
 But sighed as if his heart would break. 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 175 
 
 XVIII. 
 What sound comes rolling o'er the deep? 
 
 Why sullen heaves the monster main, 
 Woke like Behemoth from his sleep 
 
 And slowly stirred to life again ? 
 And what has fallen o'er the air, 
 That turns to gray its fiery glare ? 
 And wherefore sluggishly rocks the boat ? 
 What may these boding signs denote? 
 The Tempest ! Hark ! the rising storm ! — 
 Yon sulphurous clouds with lightning warm, 
 That fast unfold their wings of gloom. 
 Come charged with rescue or with doom ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Up sprung the mariner ; his eye 
 
 Scanned ocean, air, and vaulted sky, 
 
 And marked with kindling, hasty glance 
 
 The aspect of that changed expanse. 
 
 Far to the south, where from the sea 
 
 The lava crags of Stromboli 
 
 Rise crowned with quenchless fire that sheds 
 
 A dreary halo round their heads. 
 
 Long lines of light foretell 
 
 The unchained winds' impetuous swell, 
 
 And the crisped wave in darkness shrouds 
 
 The shadows of the advancing clouds. 
 
 These sights and sounds, foreboding strife, 
 
 Were to the sailor freshening life ; 
 
 And while the monk and maiden hear 
 
 The rising gale with anxious fear, 
 
 He felt his heart grow firm and free 
 
 And swell with hope exultingly. 
 
176 THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 His deep rough voice the silence broke. 
 
 And swelled to triumph as he spoke ; 
 
 *'Now, monk — now, father, prayer be thine, — 
 
 This quivering shell of plank is mine! 
 
 Down with that sail : we shall not need 
 
 Its slender aid to urge our speed ; 
 
 Nor shall thy ward require its shade, — 
 
 The rain will soon refresh the maid. 
 
 Here, on our bows, the land must lie: 
 
 The gale comes from the southern sky. 
 
 Pray on, for, monk, the hours are few 
 
 Till earth or ocean claims our crew. 
 
 This stagnant calm had froze my blood, — 
 
 I think my heart will burst with joy ; 
 Oh, blessed be this rising flood, 
 
 That comes to rescue or destroy !" 
 In his hot eye some drops assembling 
 A moment burningly stood trembling, 
 Then slowly rolled adown his face ; 
 But his rough hand erased the trace, 
 And, turning with determined air, 
 He saw his shallop trimmed with care. 
 And charged that monk and maid should not 
 One instant leave their present spot. 
 Hard strove the father to control 
 The strong emotions of his soul ; 
 Egeria's head was on his knee, 
 And o'er her he bent caressingly. 
 And sought with hope her heart to cheer ; 
 But scarce the words might pierce her ear. 
 For she, relieved of that dull pain, 
 Had sunk to apathy again. 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 XX. 
 
 Meanwhile, far, dark, along the deep, 
 Their onward march the vapors keep; 
 Like mountains by an earthquake tost, 
 Like angry host encountering host. 
 The clouds, thick-piled and sable-towered, 
 And darkly vast, above them lowered. 
 A low, deep, rushing sound, that chilled 
 The quaking heart with terror filled. 
 Went moaning mournfully away 
 
 In gusty sobs along the main. 
 
 Now blackened, like a fire-scorched plain, 
 Beneath the sickening light of day. 
 Sudden the ebon wall was riven, 
 And from the very heart of heaven 
 Gushed forth a stream like molten steel. 
 
 Sharp flashing fell the thunder-stroke ; 
 
 The fountains of the air had broke; 
 The Alp-like masses seemed to reel, 
 Down came the plunging rain, and specked 
 The wave, by foam already flecked, 
 While, following rapidly behind, 
 Burst on the boat the sweeping wind. 
 The shallop quivered, sunk, and rose, 
 While the white brine washed o'er her bows, 
 Then, glancing through the parted spray, 
 Like arrow flashed away — away ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 177 
 
 Away — away ! a shade, — a dream, 
 
 LSl 
 H* 
 
 A shooting and uncertain beam 
 
iy8 THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 A dark spot in the wild turmoil 
 
 Of leaping waves that round her boil, — 
 
 Seen — gone — as mocking meteor light 
 
 Streams through the cold December night, — 
 
 Swift as a single snow-flake driven 
 
 Athwart the turbulous face of heaven, 
 
 The shallop flies. Now, mariner ! 
 
 Free be thy heart from tint of fear. 
 
 And firm thy arm, or never more 
 
 Thine eyes shall hail thy native shore ; 
 
 One thoughtless motion of thy helm. 
 
 And this wide, watery hell shall whelm 
 
 Thee and thy charge ! As pine-tree stands 
 
 On tempest-wasted mountain land. 
 
 When, shrieking round his head, come forth 
 
 The icy demons of the North, 
 
 So firm, unflinching, towers his form, — 
 
 The master-spirit of the storm. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 On — on ! the flashing waves divide 
 Nigh even with the skiff's low side; 
 Beat level by the tempest's might, 
 The wide sea glitters wintry white ; 
 Through the slant rain the petrel screams ; 
 Far, fast, and clear the lightning streams; 
 Time flies; day wanes; they heed it not, — 
 All feeling is absorbed, forgot 
 In that which stifles heart and breath, — 
 The pending strife of life and death. 
 Light sickens in those rimy skies, — 
 Oh, will the dear shores never rise ? 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN: 179 
 
 The ocean has engulfed the sun,— 
 When will this mad suspense be done ? 
 Away ! — less dangerous than the shore 
 Is even this 'wildering tempest's roar ! 
 
 ■ XXIII. 
 
 The night has fallen, but not in gloom ; 
 Like the blue witch-fire round a tomb, 
 Far kindled o'er the sweltering brine 
 The heatless fires of ocean shine. 
 The pale phosphoric flames display 
 A twilight like the ghost of day, 
 Uncheering as the light that glows 
 Through the long nights on polar snows ; 
 And on, and on, through mist and gleam. 
 Still flies the skiff ; behind, a stream 
 Of star-like foam her track defines, 
 In curved and brightly-mingled lines. 
 Christ ! it is fearful thus to be 
 Whirled through this tost and boiling sea, 
 With none to heed us, none to pray 
 For hope, for heaven, or for day ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A lurid ray broke through the black 
 
 Dense veil that swathed their onward track ; 
 
 Now hidden, now revealed, it shone. 
 
 As the red planet Mars alone 
 
 May show when winds have rent the clouds 
 
 That midnight skies of March enshroud ; 
 
 Is it from land ? that sullen roar 
 
 May be the breakers on the shore ; — 
 
I So THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 No ! blacker than the boding skies, 
 Behold a ship before them rise. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Hove to the wind, each sea curled o'er, 
 
 And, raging, lashed her dusky prore ; 
 
 No canvas on her spars was set. 
 
 Save the storm-stay-sail, rent and wet ; 
 
 And, in the foretop, like a star, 
 
 The lamp that reached them from afar 
 
 Encircled with a misty haze. 
 
 Yet, hopeful, held their anxious gaze. 
 
 The monk half rose, he scarce knew why, 
 
 Except that human hearts were nigh. 
 
 And feebly shouted, but the noise 
 
 Of the fierce wind o'erpowered his voice; 
 
 Even the rude sailor, though he knew 
 
 How vain for succor there to sue. 
 
 His rough hand raising to his lip, 
 
 Sung hoarsely loud, ''Ahoy the ship !" 
 
 Far down to leeward died the sound. 
 
 No answering challenge pealed around ; 
 
 If heard, 'twas but to thrill with fear 
 
 The heart of some lone mariner. 
 
 On flew the skiff: the lost again 
 
 Were lonely on the surging main. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The storm passed on ; far northward flew 
 The billowy clouds, and deeply blue 
 Remained the arching vault of night. 
 Set thick with mounting stars, and bright 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 With moonlight, — for the moon shone clear, 
 Throned in the silvery atmosphere ; 
 But the sweet light soothes not to sleep, 
 The curbless winds unbated sweep, 
 And darkly heaves the answering deep. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 At last, — 'tis no delusion now, — 
 
 At last the land ! — that frowning brow 
 
 Of rocks, low jutting o'er the sea, 
 
 Is stern and rude reality. 
 
 Joy, wanderers, joy ! all peril past, 
 
 Behold the Ijaven desired at last ; 
 
 Those banks of yeasty foam inclose 
 
 A land of rest and calm repose. 
 
 Press on, nor think what dangers stretch 
 
 Low lurking round that dubious beach. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 It seemed an island, small and lone. 
 But yet not vacant, for there shone 
 From a rude tower a lamp, that gave 
 Some dim rays, streaming o'er the wave; 
 Faint were they, and scarce served to show 
 The fretting breakers, far below. 
 
 Yet to each wearied one 
 
 They seemed a rising sun, 
 Pure as the light that, fadeless, falls 
 Around the high celestial walls, 
 When on their flashing hinges swing. 
 All radiant as a seraph's wing, 
 Apart the sapphire gates of heaven, 
 Before the soul that soars forgiven, 
 i6 
 
1 82 THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 From sinful fears and troubles past, 
 
 To calm, unbroken rest at last. 
 
 The sailor searched, with eager eye, 
 
 Amidst the breakers, to espy 
 
 Some calmer spot, through which his prore 
 
 Might pass uninjured to the shore 
 
 All surged with foam ; no opening lay, — 
 
 No path to some securer bay. 
 
 But useless thought; for, sink or float. 
 
 Like lightning forward flashed the boat. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 A minute might the dial trace, — 
 Eternity was in its space ! 
 One slow, long minute, devious through 
 The splintered rocks the shallop flew ; 
 And, still untouched, that stalwart arm 
 Sufficed, as yet, to shield from harm. 
 But fate looked dark, — a ledge of rock 
 Rose through the breakers' thundering shock, 
 
 And joined the mainland, dusk and dun. 
 Well thought the mariner, as fast 
 In the deep gloom he drifted past, 
 
 ** That haven might be boldly won !" 
 He hastily a glance cast o'er 
 The stern and danger-bristling shore ; 
 He saw the spray curled high and white. 
 Like snow-drifts on a wintry night. 
 One quick resolve, — one desperate spring, — 
 On flew the bark with speedier wing ; 
 That slender hope, that refuge fleet, 
 Had passed forever from his feet. 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 But his long fingers grasped the edge 
 That topped the low, rough granite ledge, 
 And, straining every nerve, he strove 
 To reach the sheltered space above. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 But, ah, too late ! he found his strength, 
 
 By watching long, and want, at length 
 
 Was sorely wasted, and he felt 
 
 His new-born hopes like water melt. 
 
 The wind roared round him, and beneath 
 
 Dark flashing yawned the jaws of death ; 
 
 While, frenzied by his strong despair, 
 
 His shouts of terror rent the air ; 
 
 And, with one last heart-rending yell. 
 
 His fingers slackened, and he fell. 
 
 The rocks his falling body tore, 
 
 And crushed and bathed the limbs with gore ; 
 
 The wave received the falling form. 
 
 And, reddening with the life-blood warm, 
 
 A moment sported with its spoil. 
 
 That struggled in the fierce turmoil. 
 
 Then lashed the rocks with headlong force, 
 
 And washed away a lifeless corse. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Sleep, mariner, serenely sleep ! 
 
 Thou needst not heed the rocking deep ; 
 
 Thy wrung heart shall no longer moan 
 
 For those awaiting thy return ; 
 
 That instant's agony has cast 
 
 Pain, Grief, and Peril to the past ; 
 
 183 
 
1 84 THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 Life leaves thee, with her train of woes; 
 Oblivion rocks thee to repose ; 
 The sea, that was thy dwelling-place, 
 Hath caught thee to a last embrace ; 
 And the loud surge's tuneless swell 
 Shall ring for aye thy funeral knell. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 No longer lay the helm controlled : 
 The boat amid the breakers rolled, 
 In instant peril that each shock 
 Should dash her on the pointed rock, — 
 Till one huge wave, amidst the rest. 
 Heaved from the deep his flaming crest, 
 That o'er the others towered at once, 
 Like mightier Anak midst his sons. 
 And, in his arms the quivering shell 
 Fast clasping, swept with headlong swell 
 O'er chasm and reef, as charging knight 
 Erst burst along the field of fight. 
 Till far and high on that rough strand 
 He left her shattered on the sand. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The priest, though bruised and stunned and faint, 
 
 Yet struggled to his feet, and bent 
 
 Above his lovely charge, who lay 
 
 Insensible, and cold as clay. 
 
 And raised her in his arms, and strove 
 
 To bear her to the beach above. 
 
 But vain that last impulsive start : 
 
 Cold sickness curdled round his heart ; 
 
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 185 
 
 A deadly chill his limbs swept o'er; 
 He sank, exhausted, on the shore. 
 Yet to his swimming eyes it seemed 
 That torches redly round him gleamed, 
 And through his numbing brain there ran 
 A sound that seemed the voice of man ; 
 Then cold oblivion sunk like night. 
 And closed his ear, and quenched his sight. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Strange were the scenes and forms that grew, 
 With life returning, to his view : 
 Above his head black arches sprung, 
 Around, rough walls with armor hung 
 Showed grimly in the faint light cast 
 By rude lamps flaring in the blast. 
 A host of dark and lowering eyes. 
 That scanned him with displeased surprise. 
 Pressed round, as if to watch the strife 
 Betwixt the powers of death and life ; 
 When, sudden as ships the waves divide. 
 The circling band was opened wide, 
 And hastily stept a form between. 
 Of haughtier stride and darker mien. 
 On the monk's breast his hand he laid 
 With iron force, and, bending, said, 
 ''Well, priest, what cheer? What fate has driven 
 Thy ill-starred bark to this rude haven ? 
 Speak ! dost thou heed ? thou needst not fear ; 
 From whence, and what has cast thee here? 
 Thy child ? — oh, naught the girl befell : 
 My gentle mates will tend her well. 
 16* 
 
1 86 THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 But answer, if thou canst — Well, rest. 
 What, Flora!" From within there came 
 An old and soured and wrinkled dame. 
 ''Take to thy chamber yonder maid, 
 And have her on thy pallet laid ; 
 Strip off those robes so tempest-worn, 
 And chafe her limbs till life return ; 
 Quick, to thy task! and, comrades, take 
 This holy man, for Mary's sake; 
 A saintly prize 'tis ours to guard. 
 And doubtless Heaven will well reward; 
 But haste, — life's streams but feebly flow, 
 And miracles have ceased below." 
 Mocking he spoke, and waved his hand. 
 Round crowded the obedient band : 
 A couch received the monk, and fast 
 A slumber deep as nature's last 
 Drew round each sense her curtain close, 
 And wrapped him into calm repose. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 And to Egeria, sleeping, stole 
 The phantom sisters of her soul ; 
 Their low, delusive voices thrilled 
 Her heart with tranquil rapture filled ; 
 Even the wild storm, through mufHing sleep, 
 A slumberous melody did keep, 
 And, mingling with its organ swell. 
 Fine tones and softer voices fell, 
 Sweet as the songs that loved ones greet, 
 Mid broken dreams and slumbers light, 
 
SONG OF DANCERS. 187 
 
 When a wild horn in cadence sweet 
 Is winded at the lone midnight ; 
 *'Lo, thy star, ascending high, 
 Watches in the solemn sky ; 
 Baffled tempest-fretting sea 
 Had no power to injure thee ; 
 But the hour draws on apace. 
 Fatal to thy fiery race. 
 Gentle sister, watch and pray 
 Through the coming evil day." 
 
 SONG OF DANCERS. 
 
 Green island ! King Krion's white damsels are we, 
 King Krion, whose realm is the land of the sea ; 
 The calm fields of Eden, that shadowless shine. 
 Their beauties are lowly, green island, to thine. 
 
 Come, heroes, come hither from near and from far, 
 Who love the red wine-cup, and dread not red war, 
 Who shrink not from danger if bliss be in view; 
 King Krion's full banquet is waiting for you. 
 
 The barks of King Krion are brave to behold ; 
 King Krion's bright armor is gleaming with gold; 
 And he with King Krion who roams o'er the tide 
 Shall choose from the vanquished his portion and 
 bride. 
 
1 88 SO Arc OF DANCERS. 
 
 The lifeless — the victor — borne back from the fray, 
 Bright eyes shall weep over, ripe lips shall repay ; 
 And shame to the cold heart whose pulse will not 
 
 move, 
 While one throb remains, to the rapture of love ! 
 
 What galley unchallenged shall pass by the shore ? 
 What sail unmolested the billows ride o'er? 
 The fruits of the far lands, the wealth of the sea, 
 Rejoice to pay tribute, green island, to thee. 
 
 Bring roses, bring lilies, bring laurels, to shed 
 Sweet scents for our monarch, fresh leaves for his bed. 
 The dauntless, — the tender, — our buckler and sword, — 
 The Prince of young bosoms, — King Krion, our lord. 
 
 Green island ! the fire in thy bosom that glows 
 But tints thy gold orange, but gleams on thy rose ; 
 So bright deeds alone tell how lava-like roll, 
 Resistless, King Krion, the waves of thy soul. 
 
 Bright Mithra, each morn when thy welcome we raise, 
 Each eve when we hymn to thee paeans of praise, 
 Thy beams on the green sea shall linger to bear 
 Along the bright waters this promise and prayer: 
 
 Rejoice with thy splendor the many-hued isles. 
 The realm of King Krion delight with thy smiles, 
 And long shall thy vestals in temple and grove 
 Devote their green island to glory and love. 
 
SHIPS AT SEA. 189 
 
 SHIPS AT SEA. 
 
 Grand is the lofty mountain 
 
 In his wintry garments drest, 
 And fair the sparkling fountain 
 
 With the sunlight on its breast ; 
 Bright are the green fields blooming 
 
 In the spring-time, fresh and fair, 
 And sweet the flowers perfuming 
 
 The shining summer air ; 
 But ne'er a scene so cheering 
 
 Can nature bring to me 
 As the wheeling and careering 
 
 Of gallant ships at sea. 
 
 When the twilight stars are beaming 
 
 On the white and frosty foam, 
 And the sailor-boy lies dreaming 
 
 Of his half-forgotten home, — 
 When the joyful breeze up-springing 
 
 Sweeps o'er the ridgy deep. 
 And the booming waves are singing 
 
 The mariner to sleep, — 
 Then within my bosom dwelling 
 
 Beats a spirit wild and free, 
 As I mark the canvas swelling 
 " On the gallant ships at sea. 
 
T90 
 
 TO INEZ. 
 
 When the straining ship goes reeling 
 
 Amid the waters' roar, 
 And the heart grows wild with feeling 
 
 Unknown upon the shore, — 
 Oh, then, to be a seaman. 
 
 Who would not danger brave? 
 For earth has not a freeman 
 
 Like the rover of the wave. 
 And the heart has no emotion 
 
 So full of bounding glee 
 As the heart that loves the ocean 
 
 And the gallant ships at sea. 
 
 TO INEZ. 
 
 Oh, meet me, sweet, my love, this eve, 
 Between the night and the day ; 
 
 Not in the night, — not in the light, — 
 But in the twilight gray ; 
 
 For I have a secret something, dear. 
 In loving words to say. 
 
 And brightest shine your eyes divine 
 Between the night and the day, — 
 
 Bright in the light, and bright by night, 
 And brighter in the twilight gray; 
 
 And I know they'll glow with gladness, love. 
 At the words I have to say. 
 
TO INEZ. 
 
 And meet me, dear, where first we met, 
 Between the night and the day ; 
 
 Not in the light, — not in the night, — 
 But in the twilight gray, 
 
 Among the dim Presidio woods, 
 Beside the silver bay. 
 
 The ripplets kissed each other's cheeks, 
 
 And whispered on the shore 
 Low words of love as they heard the words 
 
 The seaward breezes bore ; 
 And I wish them to hear the final vow, — 
 
 That we shall part no more. 
 
 So meet me, sweet, my love, this eve, 
 Between the night and the day ; 
 
 Not in the night, — not in the light, — 
 But in the twilight gray, 
 
 Among the dim Presidio woods, 
 Beside the silver bay. 
 
 191 
 
192 SCOTCH SONG. 
 
 SCOTCH SONG. 
 
 GLANCING IN THE GLOAMING. 
 
 When simmer times were blythe an' sweet, 
 
 An' youth wi' flowers had crowned me, 
 And rosy hours wi' fairy feet 
 
 Were gaily dancing round me, 
 Ae bonny night in gentle June 
 
 Abroad I chanced to wander, 
 Where breeze and leaf kept time and tune 
 
 Like sighs when hearts grow fonder ; 
 Through deepening shades an' forests green, 
 
 In musing mood while roaming, 
 I got a blink o' twa bright een 
 
 A glancing in the gloaming. 
 
 The sparkling stream wi' merry sang 
 
 Went saftly on beside me. 
 The blinking stars peeped doon amang 
 
 Green leaves that stooped to hide me, 
 The pale sweet moon wi' angel face 
 
 Beyand the hills was starting, 
 And lingered still the crimson trace 
 
 Where day was fast departing; 
 But moon nor star nor even's sheen, 
 
 Nor yet the brook's bright foaming, 
 Was half sae clear as those blue een 
 
 A glancing in the gloaming. 
 
FRAGMENT. 
 
 Oh, mony a twilight sky since then 
 
 Has beamed in mildness on me, 
 And mony a sparkling eye, I ken, 
 
 Still kindly looks upon me ; 
 But ne'er to me sae blest a night 
 
 Has come \vi' May's returning. 
 And ne'er have I sae fond a light 
 
 Seen since in rapture burning ; 
 And oh, the bard shall ne'er, I ween, 
 
 Forget, through a' his roaming. 
 The sparkle of those bright-blue een 
 
 A glancing in the gloaming. 
 
 193 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 THE DIFFERENT EFFECTS OF NATURAL SCENERY ON 
 THE JUST AND ON THE CORRUPT MIND. 
 
 What ceaseless joys the just and pious mind 
 In Nature's ever-changing scenes can find ! 
 The balmy air of fragrance-breathing Spring, 
 The rainbow-gleam of Summer's golden wing. 
 The mellowing tints that mark the Autumn day, 
 And Winter's murky mantle, cold and gray, 
 Each endless thoughts of happiness impart, 
 And all combine to cheer the peaceful heart. 
 With warm delight the faithful Christian sees 
 Returning April clothe the naked trees; 
 With joy beholds the vernal sun restore 
 The flowers he loved and lost a year before ; 
 I 17 
 
194 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 And grateful swells when Autumn's liberal hand 
 Rains ripened fruits upon the hungry land ; 
 E'en hoary Winter prodigal displays 
 Ten thousand varied wonders to his gaze. 
 No scene so dark in all this world below 
 But o'er its gloom the cheerful heart can throw 
 Some beams of light, that give, like sunshine, birth 
 To flowers, and foliage on the coldest earth ; 
 No scene so dark but God the power has given 
 To clothe its midnight face in tints of heaven. 
 As when the eye through the prismatic glass 
 Sees common things before its vision pass. 
 The darkest clouds in heavenly colors shine, 
 And e'en corruption wears a robe divine, 
 So lives the Christian, seeing all things fair. 
 Himself supplying half the charms they wear ; 
 So lives the Christian, and, his exile past, 
 He sinks in glory to his grave at last. 
 
 But, oh, fair Nature never wears a smile 
 To cheer that man by sin corrupt and vile ! 
 No light within its genial influence sheds 
 On the lone path that heedlessly he treads; 
 No music hears he in the whispering breeze. 
 Loves not the green that decks the waving trees. 
 Discerns no beauty in the leaf-crowned bowers, 
 Heeds not the incense of the blushing flowers. 
 And reckless treads, unmoved, the fragrant sod. 
 At war with Nature, as with Nature's God. 
 Oh, dark his fate who thus exc1i:des the light 
 And walks amid a self-created night ! 
 
LINES TO AN ABSENT HUSBAND. 
 
 195 
 
 LINES TO AN ABSENT HUSBAND. 
 
 Bright eyes are glancing round me now, 
 
 And joy the youthful heart beguiles, 
 And gladness shines on every brow, 
 
 And wreathed is every lip with smiles ; 
 But, ah, mine eye a fairer day 
 
 Beyond the azure wave can see. 
 And Fancy wings her breezy way. 
 
 My own, my only love, to thee. 
 
 Where the white surge of tropic seas 
 
 On coral shores in gladness rings, 
 And where the balmy southern breeze 
 
 Through clouds of bending canvas sings, 
 I see thee still j the sparkling brine 
 
 Is breaking round thy bark in foam ; 
 But still my heart keeps time with thine. 
 
 And longs to share thy ocean home. 
 
 Who says the heart that once has loved 
 
 Can from its idol e'er depart? 
 Oh, surely such can ne'er have proved 
 
 The depths of woman's trusting heart, 
 Can ne'er have worn the viewless chain 
 
 That binds the heart with magic thrall, 
 Or proved through years of joy and pain 
 
 How Love would still be lord of all. 
 
196 LINES TO AN ABSENT HUSBAND. 
 
 Star of my destiny, I turn 
 
 To thee when golden skies grow pale ; 
 From thee, when midnight tapers burn. 
 
 My soul draws back the mystic veil ; 
 In dreams, in dreams, at morn or night, 
 
 Whene'er sweet slumber sets me free, 
 Still do I wing my fairy flight. 
 
 Lord of my spirit's realms, to thee. 
 
 Oh, when shall I again behold. 
 
 With waking eyes, that manly face? — 
 Oh, when shall these fond arms enfold 
 
 My wanderer in a warm embrace ? 
 How like a mateless bird I pine. 
 
 Though joy be round me, lost and lone, 
 For, oh, no voice can soothe like thine, 
 
 My own, my loved, my absent one ! 
 
THE WINDS OF SPRING, 197 
 
 THE WINDS OF SPRING. 
 
 They come, they come, from their southern home, 
 
 Where the sun shines ever fair, 
 On islands that rise from the ocean's foam 
 
 In beauty strange and rare ; 
 They come, and their low sweet songs I hear 
 
 Through the bending branches ring. 
 For the minstrels who sing for the youthful year 
 
 Are the balmy winds of spring. 
 
 11. 
 
 Gone are the shades of the winter night. 
 
 And the wintry storms have gone. 
 As, laden with song and life and light. 
 
 The winds of spring come on ; 
 And round the old arbor, with tiny arms, 
 
 The clustering wild-flowers cling, 
 And the blushing rose dons her fairest charms 
 
 As she bends to the winds of spring. 
 
 III. 
 
 The skies look glad, and the fields rejoice 
 
 With a noiseless minstrelsy, 
 And the streamlet laughs with a merry voice 
 
 As it hastens away to the sea ; 
 17* 
 
198 EVERMORE. 
 
 And the exiled bird of some far-off shore, 
 As she plumes her drooping wing, 
 
 Sings gladly her native strains once more 
 To welcome the winds of spring. 
 
 IV. 
 
 On, on they go ! with their airy sweep, 
 
 Over momitains and valleys, away. 
 Fanning the shore of the limitless deep, 
 
 And kissing the bounding spray ; 
 And lands of beauty that none may see. 
 
 And many a strange, bright thing. 
 Shall smile a glad welcome cheerfully 
 
 To the balmy winds of spring. 
 
 EVERMORE. 
 
 Oh for youth and flowery Spring, 
 That with mirth and music ring. 
 Ere the blooming leaves have vanished,- 
 Taken wing ! 
 
 II. 
 
 How the leaves are growing gray ! 
 How the blossoms fade away ! 
 And the winds that sung are sighing, — 
 Well-a-day.. 
 
EVERMORE. 
 
 III. 
 
 199 
 
 Dimples into wrinkles grow, 
 Raven tresses turn to snow; 
 Drear, alas ! is pain and sorrow, 
 Full of woe. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Dreary is the changing time 
 When the spirit's past its prime, — 
 Slowly, mournfully is failing. 
 Like a chime. 
 
 Drifting on the fateful tide, 
 On the torrent wild and wide, 
 To that bourn where weary pilgrims 
 All abide. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Hark unto the surging roar, 
 From the fast-approaching shore, 
 Of the long, black billows beating 
 Evermore ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh for blossoms newly sprung. 
 For the harp forever strung ! 
 Oh to be unchanging never, — 
 Ever young ! 
 
SONG. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come unto my bosom, love, 
 
 Like a white and shining dream,- 
 When the night is in the grove, 
 
 And our planet on the stream. 
 In the gloom, blossoms bloom, 
 
 And their odors are for thee, 
 Dearest, kindest, 
 
 Beneath the laurel-tree. 
 
 I will kiss thy snow-white hands, 
 
 I will kiss thy brow so fair, 
 I will loose the braided bands 
 
 Of thy shining, silken hair; 
 In the skies of thine eyes 
 
 Sunny visions I shall see. 
 Dearest, kindest, 
 
 Beneath the laurel-tree. 
 
 Hasten, for the flowers may close. 
 
 And our planet will grow pale. 
 And our love be like the rose, — 
 
 Fragrant, beautiful, and frail. 
 Life is fleet, youth is sweet ; 
 
 Let the honeyed moments flee. 
 Dearest, kindest. 
 
 Beneath the laurel tree. 
 
MAV-DAV. 201 
 
 MAY-DAY. 
 
 WRITTEN AT LAUREL HILL, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 The Druids' groves are gone." 
 
 £>on yuan. 
 
 Like children sporting in unbridled glee, 
 The soft spring breezes are about to-day. 
 And blooming flowers, and foliage-mantled tree, 
 Smile gladly in thy presence, gentle May. 
 Here, too, let me my willing homage pay 
 To thee, sweet queen of beauty and of song, — 
 Here, in this lonely graveyard, far away 
 From all the sad distractions that belong 
 To the fierce world of strife, the city's restless throng. 
 
 Ye flowers that here from death your life receive. 
 Shed balmier air aroiuid me while I dream. 
 That, breathing your sweet incense, I may weave 
 A sweeter strain, the musty past my theme. 
 Soft comes the music of yon murmuring stream 
 Through the warm, tremulous, sun-purpled air. 
 And brightly falls the morning's rosiest beam 
 Where on yon river, like a maiden fair. 
 She bends, and smiles to see herself reflected there. 
 
202 ^A Y-DA V. 
 
 III. 
 
 There was a time, sweet May, when early dawn 
 Called forth the villagers, a joyful train, 
 To sport in gladness on the dewy lawn, 
 And hail rejoicing thy return again ; 
 That time has gone, but still to thee remain 
 The flowers that round thy footsteps ever cling, 
 And still the wild-bird pipes his merry strain 
 Beneath the shadow of thy golden wing ; — 
 Thy worshipers are these, and these thy praises sing. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Still as through years Improvement onward treads. 
 The sports of other days around him die. 
 As the sweet spells that moonlight o'er us sheds 
 Grow pale and vanish in the morning sky. 
 And here I mourn, sweet May, with moistened eye. 
 The absence of those revels, now no more. 
 When mirth the moments sped so fleetly by. 
 When hearts grew lukewarm never, and the store 
 Of joy grew larger still, and pleasure's cup ran o'er. 
 
 v. 
 
 Back, O my spirit, to the olden times, 
 When in the merry greenwood's twilight shade 
 The love-lorn poet wove his quaint old rhymes 
 In honor of some gentle rustic maid ! 
 Methinks I see, in fairy green arrayed, 
 A playful band go laughingly along, — 
 I see them winding through the leafy glade, 
 I hear the gushing gladness of their song. 
 Now soft and sadly low, now rising bold and strong. 
 
MA y-DA Y. 
 
 203 
 
 VI. 
 
 I see the May-pole rising in the air, 
 Crowned with fresh flowers and wavy boughs of green ; 
 I mark the glance of eyes and faces fair, 
 All lightly laughing in the morning's sheen; 
 There is no sad anxiety, I ween, 
 Within their swelling bosoms ; no alloy 
 Corrupts the gold of their bright thoughts unseen; 
 But all is light, and loveliness, and joy, — 
 E'en care has lost the heart, the pleasure to destroy. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Still, as the hours roll on, the mazy dance 
 Is circling round that consecrated spot. 
 And many a sigh, and many a burning glance, 
 Is heard, and seen, not soon to be forgot 
 By hearts where love a willing home has sought. 
 But, oh ! the forms grow faint ; my throbbing heart, 
 How frail thy dream, by fruitful fancy wrought ! 
 The airy visions vanish and depart 
 Into these cold white stones, that, ghost-like, round 
 me start. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 So ends all human pleasure in the grave. 
 So sinks all mortal beauty to the tomb ; 
 Time rolls along, and each successive wave 
 But wraps the past in darker, heavier gloom ; 
 Yet through that ocean, like a sweet perfume 
 Of roses long since withered, or the breath 
 Of these sweet blossoms that around me bloom. 
 These lights from darkness, messengers of death. 
 The memory comes of things that long have slept 
 beneath. 
 
204 THE SQUATTER, 
 
 IX. 
 
 'Tis a sad strain, sweet May, that here I sing, 
 And mirthful, sure, should be thy natal song; 
 But while for joy my feeble harp I string, 
 With woeful hand I sweep the chords along. 
 Then, oh, sweet May, I will not do thee wrong 
 By moaning aught of sadness in thine ear. 
 But leave thy welcome to thy flowers, among 
 The graves of thy lost worshipers, that here 
 Sleep calmly 'neath th) smile, fair mistress of the year. 
 
 THE SQUATTER. 
 
 It was a morn in June. The golden clouds, 
 From the bright eastern horizon, far up 
 The clear blue sky, were ranged in order bright, 
 Like heralds placed to marshal in the sun. 
 The rosy air was sweet with fresh perfumes 
 That young flowers breathe forth. The wild-bird sprung 
 From the leaf-garnished bough, where, all night long, 
 Resting her weary wings, in peace she sat, 
 Rocked into slumber by the gentle wind, 
 And, dashing from her glossy wings the dew. 
 Shot out from shades where twilight lingered yet, 
 Into the blessed sunlight. 
 
 Far and near 
 The green old forest rung with bursts of song, 
 That through its dim and leafy aisles 
 
THE SQUATTER. 205 
 
 Melodious rolled on, — the morning hymn 
 With which glad Earth salutes her lord, the Sun. 
 
 Beneath a mighty oak, whose leaf-crowned head 
 Towered like a monarch's in its regal pride, 
 A solitary hunter stood, his hands 
 Clasped on his trusty rifle ; and his head, 
 Uncovered and bent down, was white with years ; 
 And much he seemed like one whom toil and time 
 Together had with leaden hands oppressed. 
 
 But there was more within that flashing eye, 
 More in the close-drawn lips and massive chest, 
 Heaving and swelling like a mountain-side 
 Rent by internal fire, than ever comes 
 With weariness of years. And well there might; 
 For full before him, where he silent stood, 
 Right in the centre of that fair green spot. 
 The smouldering ruins of a hamlet lay, — 
 His home of yesterday. 
 
 O ye on whom 
 Misfortune seldom unexpected comes. 
 Who never feel the sudden stroke of woe 
 That blasts the fairest hopes in one short hour. 
 Ye cannot know how such things rive the heart. 
 As doth the thunderbolt the mountain pine, 
 And, drinking up the sap that gave it life, 
 Leaves it a barren and a leafless trunk. 
 To bloom no more forever. Such was his. 
 
 'Tis an old tale, and often told. From far 
 Beyond the dark-blue waters, in his youth, 
 iS 
 
2o6 THE SQUATTER. 
 
 The hunter came, and with him one whose heart 
 
 Was linked to his by every holy tie. 
 
 Together in the wilderness they sought 
 
 A refuge from oppression and disdain, 
 
 And found, beyond the reach of mortal sight, 
 
 Another home, far from their childhood's home. 
 
 Years rolled along, and happiness, the flower 
 That owns no parent soil, but blooms where'er 
 One holy heart keeps hallowed the spot 
 Where its bright leaves are spreading, blossomed there. 
 Years rolled along, and other plants sprung up 
 Beneath the shadows of the parent trees. 
 
 But yesterday he left a goodly band 
 Behind him, and the cloudless sun went down 
 On happy hearts, and faces glad with smiles. 
 The midnight came, and what a change was there ! — 
 Bright hatchets flashing in the torches' gleam, 
 The glare of burning rafters, and the cry 
 Of agony, the shriek, the stifled groan. 
 All mingled with the wild and vengeful yell 
 Of the fierce Indian. Lovely morning came, 
 And all remained to greet a father's eye 
 Was that red grave that covered all he loved. 
 
 Sons of the forest, children of the wild, 
 Homeless and landless wanderers though you be, 
 Well has your debt of vengeance been repaid ! 
 For many an aching heart left seared and void, 
 The midnight ravage, and the torturing fire, 
 And red brand hissing on the warm hearthstone, 
 Have followed in your path. 
 
THE SQUATTER. 207 
 
 ''But yesterday!" 
 The father murmured, and the long-pent groans 
 Burst from his heart in anguish, as the thought 
 Of yesterday, its joys and pleasures, came 
 Back on his memory. Even while he spake, 
 Up through the forest-aisles a flood of light, 
 Rich, rosy, liquid light, came rolling on, 
 The first beams of the morning. Circling round 
 His hoary head, they seemed like messengers 
 Of comfort sent from heaven to cheer his heart, 
 So heavy in its woe. Alas ! 'tis vain ! 
 No more to him shall day returning bring 
 One happy thought to ease his lone distress, 
 Nor evening with its dewy fingers bathe 
 And cool the torture of his burning brow. 
 
 Slowly he turned, and with his rifle-point 
 Stirred up the embers, with a wistful look. 
 As seeking some lost treasure, muttered, " Gone !" 
 And sadly shook his head, and turned away, 
 An old, gray-haired, and broken-hearted man. 
 
2o8 AN ADDRESS TO DEPARTING WINTER. 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO DEPARTING 
 WINTER. 
 
 Old Winter, thou art fading fast ; 
 Thy icy reign is o'er at last ; 
 Thou hoary monarch, ne'er again 
 
 Thy frosty visage may I see ; 
 So, ere thy northern flight be ta'en, 
 
 I'll say a parting word to thee : 
 Then lend an ear, thou shadow gray. 
 And list to that which I shall say. 
 
 When first, with frozen wings outspread, 
 And snow-clouds round thy hoary head. 
 Thou on the northern blast didst come. 
 To make these lands awhile thy home, 
 One morning, I remember well. 
 
 From my soft couch in haste I sprung ; 
 For all night long the fancied swell 
 
 Of music through my ears had rung. 
 And dreams of leaves, and fruits, and flowers, 
 And cool retreats, and shady bowers. 
 Had clothed with light my slumbering hours. 
 And so in haste I rose to see 
 
 If yet, upon some sunny spot. 
 Some lingering blossoms there might be, 
 That I could gather carefully 
 
 And keep as a forget-me-not 
 The dying year had left to me. 
 
209 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO DEPARTING WINTER. 
 
 Alas ! while brightly round my bed 
 
 Came scenes of summer soft and warm, 
 Thy frozen foot, with ruthless tread, 
 
 Had pressed to earth each fragile form. 
 And all that felt thy blasting breath. 
 Leaf, plant, and flower, lay cold in death. 
 With tears I mourned their faded glory, 
 
 And roundly cursed thy fatal blast, 
 And now, in faith, I'm truly sorry 
 
 That thou art past ! 
 
 For thou hast been a jovial fellow. 
 
 Despite thy freezing, monkish eye ; 
 And smiles grew bright, and wine grew mellow. 
 
 While darker grew thy frowning sky ; 
 And while o'erhead with furious ire 
 
 Thy howling storms would fiercer blow. 
 Cheered by their soul-inspiring fire. 
 
 We mortals merrier grew below. 
 But, while thy pleasures I portray, 
 I humbly pray thee, let me say, 
 Thy daylight, Winter, cold and rough. 
 Was just a cheerless thing enough ; 
 But when the dim and rayless sun 
 His short and cloudless course had run, 
 Then sounds of joy and revelry 
 Burst gladly forth, with rapture's glee, 
 And Mirth gave signal to begin 
 His revel as the night set in. 
 Then to the bright and gilded hall 
 Thronged the gay crowd at pleasure's call ; 
 And beauty's form was fair to see. 
 And, oh, how sweet the minstrelsy 
 i8* 
 
AN ADDRESS TO DEPARTING WINTER. 
 
 That rolled in mellow tones along, 
 Mingled with strains of sweetest song ! 
 Then, too, when moon and stars were bright, 
 Beneath their pure and holy light 
 The bounding steeds in bright array, 
 Some harnessed to the painted sleigh, 
 And, reckless of the biting air, 
 Bade for a while farewell to care, 
 And to the merry sleigh-bells' sound 
 Like shadows swept the snowy ground ; 
 The friends around the fireside met, 
 In sweet communion to forget 
 Life's toils and cares, that wildly roll, 
 Like billows, round the fainting soul. 
 And this, of all thy joys, I own 
 
 Is nearest, dearest to my heart. 
 And would for all the rest atone, 
 
 Though they forever should depart. 
 
 But, ah.! these scenes have passed away; 
 
 They fled before the lengthening day. 
 
 Even now I see thee fainter grow. 
 
 And shadowy seem thy limbs of snow : 
 
 Thy frame, old graybeard, cannot bear 
 
 The softness of the April air. 
 
 Sweet sounds come stealing on my ear, 
 
 Glad voices of the new-born year, — 
 
 The fluttering of the wild-bird's wing. 
 
 The first bold pioneer of spring, 
 
 A rustling in the lofty pines, 
 
 A whispering voice among the vines. 
 
 Hark to that low and breezy sigh. 
 
 Young Spring's first breathings murmuring by ! 
 
NIGHT. 211 
 
 The tall trees lift their heads with joy 
 
 To feel its gentle swell ; 
 And yonder in the northern skies 
 The glances of her opening eyes 
 Are blended in a thousand dyes. 
 
 Old Winter, fare thee well. 
 
 NIGHT— A VISION. 
 
 I. 
 
 Night on the hills and valleys. Come with me : 
 
 I know a spot within yon silent glade 
 
 Where 'twill be pleasant for to sit, and see 
 
 The moonlight struggling through the tangled shade 
 
 That the gnarled boughs and young green leaves 
 
 have made. 
 Lo ! how the gem-like dew-drops sparkle fair ! 
 The wild-flowers bend their heads, as if they prayed, 
 And their warm breathings on the evening air 
 A holy incense seem, a fragrance sweet and rare. 
 
 With upraised finger, guarding earth's repose. 
 Silence floats shadowy o'er the moon's pale beam ; 
 From her hushed lips no breathing murmur flows. 
 No eyelids veil that fixed eye's changeless gleam. 
 Not man alone, but Nature sleeps; the stream 
 Hath lost her merry voice, the winds their moan. 
 And Night, the dark-eyed Night, herself a dream, 
 Slumbers and dreams upon her starry throne. 
 While brighter gleam the suns that gem her milky zone. 
 
212 NIGHT. 
 
 III. 
 
 Here, gazing on this mild and quiet scene, 
 Reminds me of a night one balmy June. 
 I had gone forth, as now, beneath the sheen 
 Of the bright stars and silver-seeming moon ; 
 But, oh ! my heart was sadly out of tune. 
 For Sorrow's hand had rudely brushed the strings. 
 And Care had gathered o'er me all too soon. 
 Darkening my bright hopes with her sable wings. 
 And covering as with night all fair and lovely things. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I stood within the churchyard still and lone ; 
 Beneath me lay the past, in shroud and pall ; 
 The present — moonlight pale, and cold white stone, 
 And tall trees standing by the lofty wall ; 
 And while I mused, strange shadows seemed to fall 
 Upon my spirit ; in my ears did ring 
 A murmuring music, like the breezy call 
 That charms the wild-bird to the woods in spring, 
 When to the bending grass the new-born flowerets cling. 
 
 I did not dream, but o'er my spirit came 
 A cloud-like mystery, a charm, a sleep ; 
 Before mine eyes there played a circling flame. 
 Casting faint radiance on a boundless deep. 
 That ever with a wild and tameless sweep 
 Rocked to and fro, and on its bosom bore 
 Things shapeless and unformed, a mingled heap 
 Of ghastly shadows, such as once of yore, 
 Ere light and time were born, the face of chaos wore. 
 
NIGHT. 213 
 
 VI. 
 Wrapt in his misty mantle, faint and dim, 
 I saw the Genius of the Future stand, 
 Around him crouching forms, like spectres grim, 
 And a book open in his dusky hand ; 
 And ever when he waved what seemed a wand, 
 Wild forms sprung forth on whirring wings away, 
 As bearing in hot haste some stern command, 
 That brooked not further lingering nor delay; 
 And, while I wondering gazed, I heard a voice to say, — 
 
 VII. 
 
 ''Look well ! thy future is before thee now !" 
 The words fell harshly on my startled ear,^- 
 When sudden on that heaving deep a glow 
 Of pearly light shone beautiful and clear; 
 I saw a broad and varied scene appear, 
 Where lately dim confusion slept in gloom. 
 And the weird shadowings and shapes of fear 
 Had melted into loveliness and bloom. 
 As sunny flowers spring up from the dark, loathsome 
 tomb. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Full many a land I saw in beauty shine. 
 That then was unfamiliar to my eye; 
 And forms whose after-fate was linked with mine 
 Oft looked upon me as they glided by ; 
 And cloud-like shadows, too, at times would fly. 
 Obscuring, as they went, the prospect rare. 
 Much like the changes of an April sky. 
 Sunshine and shade, bright joy and gloomy care. 
 Each following in its turn ; and thou, thou too, wert 
 there. 
 
214 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I saw thee, as I saw thee once again, 
 Beauteous and bright, within a festive hall. 
 And jewels bright were sparkling round thee then, 
 Thyself \.\\^ fairest jewel of them all! 
 Oh, lightly heedless of what fate might fall, 
 My vision o'er, I left that churchyard wide, 
 Well knowing that at kind affection's call 
 Thou, dearest, wouldst be ever at my side. 
 My guardian angel fair, my own, my destined bride. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 And where yon bank 
 
 Uprises from the river-side, 
 'Tis said a chief of lofty rank. 
 
 In battling for his country, died. 
 One was he of that band who reigned. 
 
 The monarchs of this land, before 
 The pale-faced stranger's hand had stained 
 
 The green upon their hills with gore; 
 One was he of that band, and long 
 Unmoved he bore his country's wrong: 
 He saw, with sad and sinking heart, 
 The warriors of his youth depart, 
 He saw his forest lands decay, 
 He saw his people pass away. 
 He saw his once bright council-fire 
 Sink into ashes and expire. 
 And yet forbore to raise an arm 
 To do the intruding stranger harm. 
 
215 
 
 A FJ^ AG ME NT. 
 
 But when, one day, his gallant boy, 
 Of his old age the pride and joy. 
 Was borne by kindred hands, and laid, 
 A corse, beneath his roof-tree's shade, 
 Such undeserved and bitter stroke 
 The fiend within his bosom woke, 
 And deep he vowed his future life 
 To deeds of vengeance, blood, and strife. 
 
 But bootless was his fiery rage : 
 
 The stranger's arm was bold and strong; — 
 Small cause has feeble right to wage 
 
 A warfare 'gainst a mighty wrong. 
 And so he fell — but nobly fell — 
 Before the home he loved so well ! 
 
 They bore him to his grave at night, 
 
 That little mourning band ; 
 And sadly flashed the torches' light 
 Upon their knives and hatchets bright, 
 
 And on his gory hand : 
 For in his war-attire he lay, 
 The same as when he died that day. 
 And down by yonder mighty tree — 
 
 'Twas but a sapling then — 
 That remnant of the bold and free 
 
 Laid down the bravest of their men ; 
 Then in the dark and gurgling stream 
 They sadly quenched their torches' gleam, 
 And without word of wail or moan, 
 They left him to his rest alone. 
 
 I oft have strayed at twilight there. 
 And thought that in the very air 
 
2i6 DREAM-LAND. 
 
 There was a strange and saddening spell, 
 
 More potent far than words can tell ; 
 
 For many a time, when silently 
 
 I mused beneath that mighty tree, 
 
 I've almost fancied that again 
 
 I saw that little burial-train, 
 
 And marked with awe strange figures glide, 
 
 Like ghosts, along the river-side. 
 
 The forms are wanting, but the sound 
 Of the low wind yet whispers round 
 At even, and the tiny wave 
 
 Comes gently murmuring to the spot 
 Where calmly in his forest grave 
 
 That mighty chieftain sleeps forgot. 
 
 DREAM-LAND. 
 
 I HAVE a world of my own, — a world 
 
 Where all is lovely and bright. 
 Where the banners of day are forever unfurled, 
 
 In a pure but sunless light ; 
 And a thousand strange and beautiful things 
 
 In its groves and grottoes shine. 
 And visions are floating with untired wings 
 
 O'er this beautiful world of mine. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet I cannot point to its rosy skies. 
 Nor show you its golden store. 
 
DREAM-LAND. 217 
 
 Nor can I tell where the ocean lies 
 
 That circles its fairy shore ; 
 But I see it at night, when the queenly moon 
 
 Keepeth court in the balmy air, 
 And I shut but my eyes, at the glare of noon, 
 
 And that bright land is there. 
 
 III. 
 
 1 have throned thee queen of that fairy-land. 
 
 That sweet little land of my own. 
 And the children of dreams, a beautiful band, 
 
 I have gathered around thy throne ; 
 And then when clouds darken the sunlight of life 
 
 And make heavy the care-laden hours, 
 Do I fly from the presence of anger and strife, 
 
 To sit in my dream-land bowers. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the cold waking world thou art often away. 
 
 And thine eyes upon others may turn, 
 But in mine, lovely maiden, thy sky-kindled ray 
 
 Alone in my spirit shall burn. 
 And thy smile, oh ! how sweetly, enchantingly, beams 
 
 Thy smile on my bosom's repose ! 
 Like the first light of morn that lovingly gleams 
 
 On the sun-painted breast of the rose. 
 
 V. 
 
 I would not, I would not my dream-land resign. 
 And the joys its possession can bring, 
 
 For the pearls and the jewels that sparkle and shine 
 On the brow of earth's mightiest king. 
 
 K 19 
 
2i8 TIME. 
 
 For thine eye may grow cold, and thy smile may depart, 
 
 And my hopes be unstable as sand, 
 But I still can retain thee enshrined in my heart, 
 
 The queen of my own fairy-land. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 I. 
 Time; Time, he groweth old apace, 
 
 And his steps fall faint and slow ; 
 There are wrinkles deep in his ancient face, 
 
 And his eyes are dim, I trow, — 
 For he spareth the grass that is seared and gray 
 And heedlessly moweth the flowers away. 
 
 Six thousand years, six thousand years 
 Have passed since the smiling morn 
 
 Beamed first on that earthly paradise 
 Where glad young Time was born, — ' 
 
 Since the spirits that floated on air and sea 
 
 Sung gladly his birthday melody. 
 
 III. 
 He sprung into life with a merry cry. 
 
 And the hills and valleys rung. 
 And the morning stars in the quiet sky 
 
 Together sweetly sung ; 
 But noiselessly he passeth now. 
 And stealeth along with a lowering brow. 
 
MOONLIGHT. 219 
 
 IV. 
 
 Be silent, still, for his end dravveth near, 
 And watch with a quivering breath ; 
 
 No mortal eye beheld his birth, 
 But all shall behold his death ! 
 
 For the nations, from every land and clime, 
 
 Shall gather to gaze on the close of Time. 
 
 V. 
 
 The moon shall look down with a tearful eye. 
 And the sun shall withhold his fire, 
 
 And the hoary earth, all parched and dry, 
 Shall flame for his funeral pyre. 
 
 When the Angel that standeth on sea and shore 
 
 Proclaimeth that '' Time shall be no more !** 
 
 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 The moon is rising in the east ; 
 
 She sends her beams afar; 
 Half-way up the firmament 
 The radiant messengers are sent, 
 
 To each preceding star. 
 To warn those watchers of the night 
 
 The moon, their queen, is near. 
 And bid them veil in modest guise 
 The beams of their too ardent eyes 
 
 Before her crystal sphere. 
 
220 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 II. 
 
 The moon is rising in the east, — 
 
 Dear love, let us go forth : 
 The steady star, true-lovers' love. 
 
 Shines cloudless in the north ; 
 And where the western hills arise, 
 
 Dark as the day declines, 
 Superior o'er the heavenly host 
 
 The changeful Venus shines. 
 
 in. 
 
 I know a lost and lonely path. 
 
 Beside the bounding sea : 
 The bending branches overhead 
 By night their showers of blossoms shed ; 
 Low airs are breathing through the boughs, 
 Holy and sweet as lovers' vows, — 
 
 As our low vows shall be. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And where the opened Golden Gate 
 
 Reveals the waste, behold. 
 Slow growing gloom usurps the scene 
 
 That lately gleamed like gold. 
 Alas, that this sweet western wind 
 
 Should be its latest breath ! 
 Alas, that all things bright become 
 
 The brightest close to death ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The moon is rising in the east, — 
 And in the west a cloud : — 
 
MOONLIGHT. 221 
 
 Heaven save us from such thoughts of fear, 
 But to mine eye its folds appear 
 
 A coffin and a shroud ! 
 Lo, how its sable fringes rise, 
 Slow trailing up the azure skies ! 
 
 It moves, it flies, — so soon 
 Must this dark shadow from the skies 
 
 Blot out the rising moon? 
 
 VI. 
 
 O loveliest, let this omen bear 
 
 But lightly on thy heart ; 
 Close to my breast, — cling closer still : 
 
 We shall not be apart ! 
 And know it has been surely said 
 
 By our good Lord above, 
 That death may strike the world at will. 
 
 But cannot conquer Love. 
 
 19^ 
 
222 THE CHOICE. I 
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
 How beats the heart with wild delight 
 
 When on the soul the spells arise 
 That gladly gush from wine so bright 
 
 And fondly beam from starry eyes ! 
 How melt the clouds of care away 
 
 When sunned in beauty's roseate sheen ! 
 And life how like a cloudless day 
 
 If star-eyed pleasure reigns the queen ! 
 Oh, then no magic so divine 
 As woman's love, and sparkling wine ! 
 
 II. 
 
 But, ah ! the power of light gone by, 
 
 The whirl of passion's tempest o'er, 
 The cares that clouded life's bleak sky 
 
 Seem darker, heavier than before; 
 And faint and cold the spirit turns 
 
 From cloud-built halls to earth again. 
 And the sad soul in darkness mourns 
 
 Earth's weariness and toil and pain : 
 So pleasure's fairy-dreams depart, 
 And leave behind an aching heart. 
 
DREAMS. 223 
 
 III. 
 
 Then let me shun the fading glow 
 
 Of beauty's bright but meteor gleam, 
 And let my only light below 
 
 Be reason, and religion's beam ; 
 So shall my path, though storms sweep by, 
 
 On warring winds by fury driven. 
 Be all beneath a cloudless sky, 
 
 Till lost at last in light and heaven, 
 Where shines o'er blissful climes above 
 The sunlight of eternal love. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 When Slumber round us folds her wings, 
 Veiling all terrestrial things, 
 Golden visions Fancy brings, — 
 
 Climes of sunny beams. 
 Gleaming all in summer bloom. 
 Fanned by winds of sweet perfume. 
 And dazzling spirits break the gloom, 
 
 In the land of dreams. 
 
 II. 
 
 Fabled tales of fairy-lands, 
 Oceans bathing coral strands. 
 Rivers laving golden sands, 
 
 Where through the water gleams 
 
2 24 DREAMS. 
 
 Diamonds brighter than the star 
 That ushers in Aurora's car, — 
 These are bright, but brighter far 
 Is the land of dreams. 
 
 III. 
 
 Who would e'er wish night away? 
 Night but brings a clearer day, 
 When we bend our airy way 
 
 Through these azure climes, 
 And in heavenly visions roam 
 To seek in other scenes a home. 
 Far, where sorrow ne'er shall come, 
 
 In the land of dreams. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, leave me not where still 'twill be 
 
 Ever stern reality ! 
 
 But through life, oh, let me see, 
 
 Though caught in fitful gleams. 
 Scenes all decked in Fancy's flowers, 
 Though they lie in Slumber's bowers, 
 And let me pass my weary hours 
 
 In the land of dreams. 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 225 
 
 Y TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 Oh, mother dear, the stillness 
 
 Of the night is all around, 
 And the stars are beaming gently 
 
 Upon the quiet ground ; 
 And tlie moon is looking on me, 
 
 So lovely and so mild 
 That I thhik thy spirit, mother. 
 
 Must be dreaming of thy child. 
 
 Oh, mother dear, the moments 
 
 Have gathered into years. 
 And the flowers of youth have fallen 
 
 Beneath a flood of tears. 
 Since I leaned upon thy bosom last; 
 
 And yet but yesterday 
 Does it seem since you were young and glad 
 
 And I a child at play. 
 
 I dreamed last night, dear mother, 
 
 A dream of joy, yet pain. 
 For I thought those happy moments 
 
 Had come to me again ; 
 The fields were green, the waters clear, 
 
 The wind was sweet and low. 
 And the sky had all the sunny hue 
 
 It had so long ago. 
 
226 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 And thou wert there, dear mother, 
 
 A looking upon me. 
 As you sat upon a mossy bank 
 
 Beside a holly-tree ; 
 And, oh, you smiled so pleasantly 
 
 As still I laughed and ran ; 
 But warm tears were on my pillow 
 
 When I woke, a care-worn man. 
 
 Oh, mother dear, I never 
 
 Can look upon the past 
 But my heart comes swelling upward, 
 
 And the tears come thick and fast. 
 Oh, surely we are dreaming 
 
 In that sunny hour of youth. 
 And but wake, when we grow older, 
 
 To sorrow and to truth. 
 
 I hear thy voice, my mother, 
 
 In the solitudes around ; 
 Like an echo wakes my bosom 
 
 To that unforgotten sound; 
 And I see thine eyes a gleaming 
 
 Through the moonlight meek and mild 
 Oh, I know, I know, dear mother, 
 
 Thou art dreaming of thy child. 
 
FEAR NOT. 227 
 
 FEAR NOT. 
 
 Fear not : what hath the heart to fear 
 
 From care or pain below? 
 This world, that frowns around us here, 
 
 Was e'er a world of woe. 
 Fear not, but meekly bear the smart 
 
 Of Heaven's chastising rod: 
 Life's cares but break the stubborn heart 
 
 And fashion it for God. 
 
 II. 
 
 Fear not : what hath the heart to fear 
 
 From death's destroying hand ? 
 Why vainly wish to linger here 
 
 Despite a God's command? 
 Then fear not, though his viewless dart 
 
 With fatal aim be driven, — 
 "~For death but binds the broken heart 
 
 And gives it back to Heaven. 
 
228 ODE TO MAY. 
 
 ODE TO MAY. 
 
 Dewy May, flowery May, 
 Fair, blooming, fresh, and gay. 
 
 Trips o'er the green like an angel of day. 
 Blossoms all sweet and rare. 
 Wreathed in her sunny hair, 
 
 Breathe on the balmy air 
 
 Odors of May. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hail to thee, dearest one, 
 
 Child of the rising sun ! 
 Earth hails thy coming with gladness and glee; 
 
 Gayly the forests ring. 
 
 As the birds sweetly sing. 
 Pluming each downy wing. 
 
 Welcoming thee ! 
 
TO M . 229 
 
 TO M. 
 
 No more I dread my dreams at dawn, 
 When, half awake, strange forms I see 
 
 No more I wish my day-dreams gone ; 
 Because my dreams are all of thee. 
 
 Once more, my soul, that slept so long. 
 Reposing in a trance, like death. 
 
 Thy springs are stirred with feelings strong, 
 And troubled by an angel's breath. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh, wake me not, my life, my love, 
 From this strange trance of ecstasy; 
 
 My sweet, delusive dreams approve, 
 Because my dreams are all of thee. 
 
230 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Impatiently tossing, my bark by the shore 
 Is waiting to bear me the wide waters o'er ; 
 One hour is left only : bright wine, and thy smile, 
 The gloom of this meeting must gild and beguile. 
 Then health to thee, 
 Lovely lady mine; 
 Thine image will still fill my memory 
 When I look on the rosy wine. 
 
 II. 
 
 No thought of to-morrow must shade us to-night; 
 Let us spend the last moments in love and delight; 
 And the last cup of wine, and thy last kiss, shall be 
 Sweet things to dream over when far on the sea. 
 Then health to thee, etc. 
 
 III. 
 
 The fondest of lovers must sever at last, 
 And the love-lighted Present will soon be the Past : 
 Then, oh, let us feel, as that moment draws near, 
 'Tis better to part with a smile than a tear ! 
 Then health to thee, etc. 
 
THE KISS. 
 
 231 
 
 THE KISS. 
 
 I WAS sad, and worn, and lonely, 
 
 Far away from bliss. 
 When I asked a lady only 
 
 For a little kiss. 
 
 But she would not grant the blessing; 
 
 With averted eye, 
 She denial slow expressing 
 
 Sadly, with a sigh. 
 
 Still imploring, I persisted, 
 
 Murmuring in her ear, 
 Till at last my love resisted 
 
 Only with a tear. 
 
 She has kissed me, and the shadow 
 
 From my path has gone ; 
 All the earth's a fragrant meadow 
 
 Blooming in the sun. 
 
 She has kissed me, and the sadness 
 
 Like the night has fled ; 
 All below is green with gladness, 
 
 Radiant overhead. 
 
232 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Oh, my darling ! feel forgiven 
 
 For our secret bliss, 
 Since we made an earth a heaven 
 
 By a little kiss. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Died, in San Francisco, on the evening of Wednesday, the 27th 
 of October, 1858, Thomas O. Larkin, a native of Charleston, 
 Massachusetts, in the fifty-sixth year of his age. 
 
 Fair San Francisco, widowed and in tears, 
 Says, as she bends above her ocean's foam, 
 
 **One of my first and boldest pioneers 
 Has silently gone home." 
 
 For more than twenty years, through fire and flood, 
 
 As nearly as a human being can. 
 In doubt, distress, and danger, still he stood 
 
 A kind and honest man. 
 
 Peace to his body in its final rest. 
 
 And light and verdant its enclosing sod ; 
 
 With confidence the soul that warmed that breast 
 We can resign to God. 
 
 Among the foremost of the gallant band 
 
 To whom command in this new land was given. 
 
 He has gone fearless forth to take his stand, — 
 A pioneer in heaven. 
 
SONG. 
 
 233 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Ye stars that look at me to-night, 
 
 How beautiful you seem ! 
 For I have found my spirit's light,- 
 
 The seraph of my dream. 
 Oh, never half so bright before 
 
 Have 1 beheld you shine; 
 For heaven itself looks lovelier 
 
 To lover's eyes like mine ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Alas ! I fear when midnight waits 
 
 To catch my voice, in vain, 
 The listeners at your golden gates 
 
 Will hear some other twain, 
 Whose hearts, like ours, in melody 
 
 Will sadly throb and sigh 
 To see how calmly you behold 
 
 E'en lovers kiss, and — die ! 
 
 20* 
 
234 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 Dreams are but shadows, — one may tell his dreams. 
 
 I dreamt last night I walked by an abyss, 
 Into whose depths of gloom and lightning-gleams, 
 
 Like Christ, I was betrayed by a kiss. 
 
 A lovely fiend allured me, as I thought, 
 
 Across the verge of that most frightful place ; 
 
 Yet, though I knew my ruin must be wrought, 
 I could not turn my eyes from her sweet face. 
 
 III. 
 
 To her ripe lips my lips I madly pressed, 
 Even while I dropt into the gulf below ; 
 
 My arm, half willing, clasped her yielding waist, 
 Wild with the rapture, reckless of the woe ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sudden a voice — a far-off, holy voice. 
 
 Well known, long loved, and loving — ^broke the 
 spell : 
 An arm unseen from those unholy joys 
 
 Caught me half-way to ruin as I fell. 
 
EPITAPH ON EDWARD POLLOCK. 235 
 
 V. 
 
 I woke: 'twas day, and through my silent room 
 I saw the golden sunlight softly stream, 
 
 And, chilled with horror at my dream of gloom, 
 Gave thanks to Heaven that it was all a dream. 
 
 EPITAPH ON EDWARD POLLOCK. 
 
 Behold, to dust there crumbles here 
 A heart that was at least sincere : 
 If follies soiled or anger marred 
 
 The brightness of his simple mind, 
 When with his soul the cold world jarred, 
 
 At least they left no trace behind, 
 But kept, through all, a freeman's pride, — 
 Wept, smiled, loved, married, lived, and died. 
 
236 LINES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE TROPICS DURING A VOYAGE TO 
 CALIFORNIA. 
 
 The clouds are darkening Northern skies, 
 
 Yet these are all serene ; 
 The snow in Northern valleys lies, 
 
 While tropic shores are green ; 
 But radiance tints those far-off hills 
 
 No summer can bestow; 
 For there the light of Memory dwells 
 
 On all we love below. 
 
 The stars that watch this Southern zone 
 
 Are shining soft above ; 
 But starlight glads my heart alone 
 
 Returned from eyes I love. 
 Those nights of joy we've passed, — but, oh. 
 
 On yon forsaken shore, 
 Dear love, thy nights were nights of woe 
 
 Should I return no more. 
 
 I watch yon point of steadfast light 
 
 Declining to the sea, — 
 Yon Polar star, that night by night 
 
 Is looking, love, on thee. 
 
ISABELLA POLLOCK. 237 
 
 Oh, give me, Heaven, I constant sigh, 
 
 For all this flowery zone, 
 A colder clime, a darker sky. 
 
 And her I love alone ! 
 
 DIED, 
 
 ISABELLA POLLOCK, AGED SEVENTEEN YEARS AND SIX 
 MONTHS. 
 
 Mourn her not : why shouldst thou mourn her ? 
 
 There is nothing here but clay. 
 Though a ruthless hand hath torn her 
 
 From thy loving arms away. 
 
 She has only gone before thee 
 
 O'er a path that all must tread. 
 And the grave will soon restore thee 
 
 To the presence of the dead. 
 
 Think not that the earth can cover 
 
 That light form and sunny brow; 
 Thou wouldst weep no more above her 
 
 Could thine eye behold her now. 
 
238 HAPPINESS, 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 O Happiness ! where art thou not ? 
 
 I see thee in the laughing skies ; 
 By every green and shady spot 
 
 Thy form is e'er before mine eyes; 
 The rosy morn, the starry night, 
 
 The fresh wind blowing light and free, 
 Each brings its thoughts of warm delight, 
 
 And all is happiness to me. 
 
 They widely, vainly err who deem 
 
 That all on earth is dark and drear, — 
 Who think that ne'er one truant beam 
 
 Of heavenly light can reach us here. 
 Ah, no ! though lone our path below, 
 
 Some joys are left, some hopes are given, 
 To bid the erring wanderer know 
 
 That earth is but a step to heaven. 
 
LOVE- SONG. 
 
 239 
 
 LOVE-SONG. 
 
 My soul is faint with ecstasy! — 
 Oh, let me lean upon thy knee ! 
 So, from thy drooping eyes above, 
 The faint but rapturous beams of love 
 May shine on me. 
 
 Loose from around thy forehead fair 
 The masses of thy long brown hair: 
 Within that veil no envious light 
 Shall mock the blushing days with sight 
 Which we shall share. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Bend lower with those dark bright eyes, 
 That light the night when daylight dies. 
 Oh that I could, as sweet winds do 
 On flowery banks, adored, on you 
 Dissolve in sighs ! 
 
240 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 While the low, slow fog-bell frights the air 
 
 That washes the sand-hills red and bare, 
 
 Warning belated ships at sea 
 
 What woes on the inward course may be, 
 
 I lie and court with an aching breast 
 
 The presence of the angel Rest. 
 
 She comes not, — she comes not ! woe is me ! 
 
 Have I less rest than the ships at sea? 
 
 Shall there never be calms for the ship distrest ? 
 
 Are our prayers in vain to the angel Rest ? 
 
 Ethereal dream, and false as fair, — 
 A phantom, and a form of air ! 
 Through the wild lore of days gone by, 
 'Mid all that meets the waking eye. 
 In sights that bless the gaze of sleep. 
 With those who laugh and those who weep, 
 Through all that Time hath left below, — 
 In much of joy, and all of woe, — 
 With weary eye and aching breast. 
 Long have I sought thee, angel Rest ! 
 
 But vainly have I sought, alas ! 
 Less sure the mazy paths I trod 
 
 Than the vain child who fain would pass 
 Beneath the sun-built arch of God ! 
 
MIDNIGHT. 
 
 There is a land, — a lovely land ! — 
 
 A river with a mossy strand, 
 
 And fringed with woods along the shore, 
 
 Wide, wild, and green for evermore; 
 
 The murmuring billows sweetly flow ; 
 
 The winds are musical and low ; 
 
 The thick-leaved branches wave on high, 
 
 In sombre sadnes-s, to the sky. 
 
 'Tis a sweet land, and all my own. 
 
 And there I rove, at times, alone. 
 
 And, wandering, seek with anxious sight 
 
 The presence of that form of light. 
 
 And watch by calm and lonely springs 
 
 For glimpses of those sun-bright wings ! 
 
 For there, 'tis told, the angel bore 
 
 A gentle sway in days of yore. 
 
 Yet I but find sad phantoms there, — 
 
 Wan Fear, and Doubt, and grim Despair; 
 
 And the angel whose sweet form I sought 
 
 Is not in the silent land of Thought ! 
 
 When Slumber's golden gates disclose 
 
 The golden realms of weird Repose, 
 
 The nightless skies, the sunless beams. 
 
 That arch and light the land of dreams, 
 
 I sometimes see her, soft and fair. 
 
 Hang hovering in the purpled air. 
 
 Those wings, beneath whose shadows blest 
 
 I fain would lay me down to rest, 
 
 Invite me. Ere I reach the spot. 
 
 The scene hath changed, — the form is not ' 
 
 On a wide waste I pant for breath, 
 
 A formless void, expanse of death ! 
 
 \. 21 
 
 24t 
 
242 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Without a sound of mirth or moan, 
 I stand unpitied and alone. 
 
 I sometimes dream, — and start with fear, 
 So hideous doth the thought appear, — 
 The shadows of those wings that wave 
 Fall on a low and lonely grave. 
 Alas ! and must this aching head 
 Find Rest alone among the dead ? 
 Oh, God ! on this bright world no calm? 
 For wounded hearts no hope, no balm ? 
 No pillow but the tomb for care, — 
 And all so dark, so silent there ! 
 
 An earthy bed, by rude hands made, 
 And trenched by mattock and by spade, 
 A fresh-cut sod, an upright stone, 
 And trees that, shivering, seem to moan, — 
 Is such the couch where all our woes 
 Must find their period and repose? 
 Then, mother Earth, on thy dear breast 
 I would await my Lord's behest. 
 Watched over by the angel Rest ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 663 
 
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