Book iOA_ 
 
J. J. PETERSON, 
 
PETERSON'S Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 J. J. PETERSON 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 JOSEPH TYLER BUTTS 
 
 F. TENNYSON NEELY CO. 
 
 NEW YORK LONDON 
 
THE LIBRARY OfI 
 
 CO ^' OR ESS, 
 Two GuPitd Received 
 
 OCT. 8 1901 
 
 I COFYRIOHT ENTRY 
 
 CLASS O^XXa No 
 COPY J. 
 
 NO. 
 
 J 
 
 753J'3I 
 
 Copyright, i90»» 
 
 by 
 
 J. J. PETERSON, 
 
 in the 
 
 United Sutes 
 
 and 
 
 Great Britain. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 Entered at 
 Stationers* Hall, London. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction vu 
 
 The Rover 33 
 
 Reflections 5^ 
 
 When Sorrow Sits 107 
 
 The Speculation no 
 
 To Mamie 112 
 
 The Love We Ne'er Can Know 116 
 
 To LiDA 119 
 
 To Catherine 121 
 
 A Wine Song 123 
 
 The Parting 125 
 
 Dejection '^V 
 
 A Toast 129 
 
 A Pilgrim's Last Prayer 130 
 
 A Wish 131 
 
 To Alice 132 
 
 Love's Link I37 
 
 The Passion of Hate I39 
 
 But Still My Heart Refuses Rest 141 
 
 There is a Dream : There is a Sleep 144 
 
 The Judgment I47 
 
 Notes on Reflection i55 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting this collection of poems to the 
 public, I desire to state, not in justification, but 
 in mitigation, that almost all of them, includ- 
 ing *The Rover," and nearly all of the verses 
 entitled ''Reflections," were written by me when 
 only eighteen years of age. 
 
 I do not deem my mind to have strengthened 
 sufficiently since that time, for the revision of 
 the verses, should they require that treatment. 
 Perhaps more mature years (I being now only 
 twenty-one years of age) will show me the 
 faults in my diction, which now only the can- 
 did criticism of a watchful public shall disclose. 
 The plea of infancy has never been allowed in 
 bar to the unwisdom of writing poetry; but I 
 do not insist upon that plea in full justification 
 of my offense, but would also interpose the fact 
 of extensive travels, roamings and wanderings 
 made by me before and after the writing of my 
 
vi Preface. 
 
 poems, whicli prevented me from devoting that 
 time to study and meditation which I should 
 have wished. 
 
 The verses under the title of "Reflections" 
 are verses written at random, and Hnked to- 
 gether under this broad title. 
 
 Trusting that these feeble efforts shall be 
 awarded that merit which they deserve, and 
 that censure which they shall doubtless meet, 
 with the knowledge of all who shall judge, that 
 nothing human can be perfect, I submit my 
 youthful labors before the severe eye of the 
 critic. Respectfully, 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 EuTAW, Alabama. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Songs have been the deepest source of 
 strength and solace to the human mind, since 
 the ages when the minstrel Tyrtaios kindled 
 with his voice the torch of patriotism, inspiring 
 the Spartan warriors to deeds of unexampled 
 bravery. Early history would be utterly un- 
 known were it not for the bards whose voices 
 are still heard in the thrilling epics which have 
 become immortal. 
 
 The melody of a beautiful voice holds an 
 eternal charm, and when the tones breathe 
 the lines of a gifted poet it sways the soul to do 
 its bidding, be it the soothing lullaby, the 
 passionate song of a lover or the battle hymn 
 of the soldier. Poetry set to song expresses 
 and induces all emotions and all passions. Its 
 scope is limitless, its powers inestimable, and 
 
viii Introduction. 
 
 every pulse of the human heart responds in 
 sympathy to the genius who has created it. 
 So it is in the remarkable collection of verses 
 held between these covers. 
 
 It is seldom in this prosaic age that we find 
 a soul so intensely romantic, so deeply con- 
 scious of the purpose and possibilities of life, 
 its gladness and its sorrow, its pain and its 
 power, as the poet who fashioned these verses. 
 Still stranger is it that this mature mind should 
 be possessed by a youth of but eighteen, yet 
 whose broad intelligence cannot be doubted 
 after reading his work "The Rover," in the 
 harmonic cadences of which life and death, 
 hope and hate, bitterness and tenderness, al- 
 ternate in rhythmic flow. 
 
 The pathetic ending is so touching, yet deep 
 and forceful, one can but admire the genius of 
 the writer while he weeps at his own weak- 
 ness. 
 
 Who has not heard the buoy-bell's song, yet 
 failed to hear its words until finding here the 
 key to its meaning? No more plaintive mel- 
 ody has ever been sung, — not one better under- 
 stood than by this author. 
 
 Its voice, after reading these lines, will ever 
 
Introduction. ix 
 
 be heard, both on land and sea. The short 
 verses are overflowing with originahty; their 
 charm is irresistible, and their beauty will win 
 a place in the hearts of all who love as well as 
 those who hate. 
 
 Nothing could be more logical, strong, and 
 impressive than the verses on the "J^^^^^^t.'* 
 The most scornful cynic, or the most blase 
 egotist, could not read it without a shiver of 
 dread, and the keenest thrills of awe. 
 
 This little volume will find its way into the 
 minds of those who know their favorite poets 
 "by heart," and it is predicted with confidence, 
 that these verses will live, and that the author, 
 gifted with a rare talent, will take rank among 
 the poets, whom the world delights to honor. 
 
 The literary style of "The Rover," recalls 
 with irresistible force the poetic works of 
 Walter Scott. We find in many of the pas- 
 sages all the unspeakable sadness of the "Lay 
 of the Last Minstrel." For example: 
 
 '*Old halls," said he, ''to-morrow's night 
 Will find your master far from here; 
 The stars shall he his lonely light, 
 And guide his soul — he cares not where! 
 
X Introduction. 
 
 The ocean wave shall bear him on. 
 The storm shall be his dwelling place. 
 For, soon, he from thee must be gone. 
 He cannot love his native race! 
 Old halls, he loathes to leave you so, 
 For memories haunt thy silent ways, 
 But fate is fate and woe is woe. 
 He leaves! This debt to grief he pays'* 
 
 Then again it seems the reader can almost 
 hear and feel the marvelous dash and spirit of 
 Scott's "Marmion," in lines like these: 
 
 "He had no hope, he knew no fear, 
 He scorned a smile, and scoffed a tear; 
 With the whole world he was at war. 
 He hated everything he saw. 
 And since he'd left his native land 
 He'd trod the shores of many a strand. 
 And trifled many a virgin's hand. 
 He seemed to long to rove, to rove; 
 The ocean was his only love — 
 On its free plains he loved to stay, 
 And in its billow loved to play — 
 Nor did he reck' his desert home — 
 His dzvelling place was on the foam, 
 And on it he was wont to roam" 
 
Introduction. xi 
 
 Excerpts, however, can scarcely give an 
 adequate understanding of the power displayed 
 by the author in the well-sustained flow of his 
 romantic narrative. The whole must be read 
 to realize the artistic skill with which the author 
 develops his theme. 
 
 There must be a great spiritual rather than 
 commercial reward to a publisher in the satis- 
 faction of having paved the way of a young 
 poet toward the lofty halls of success and pop- 
 ularity. It has become proverbial that of all 
 authors, poets find it hardest to get a hearing 
 at the gates of those who hold the magic wand 
 that brings renown; in other words, the pub- 
 lishers. Certainly no pecuniary reward can 
 measure with the satisfaction which a publisher 
 must cherish in bringing to the light of popu- 
 lar appreciation a singer, who has begged hum- 
 bly at other doors without even the murmur of 
 a responsive welcome. 
 
 It is worthy of remark in this connection, 
 that the press of F. Tennyson Neely has ever 
 been inclined to extend a welcoming hand to 
 young poets, struggling to make/ themselves 
 heard above the din of modern materiab'"' \ 
 
 Within the past three years, at ne 
 
xii Introduction. 
 
 hundred volumes of poetry by hitherto un- 
 knows authors have appeared with Mr. Neely's 
 imprint, many of which contain as artistic lines 
 as may be found in the whole realm of litera- 
 ture. 
 
 Miss Minnie Gilmore, the inspired daughter 
 of the famous bandmaster and composer, P, 
 S. Gilmore, who was celebrated in the musical 
 world of two continents, and to whose memory 
 the daughter's book of poems, "Songs from 
 the Wings," is dedicated, has struck immortal 
 notes in many of her verses. 
 
 Where is a woman's love more powerfully 
 portrayed than in these measures from "A 
 Living Picture"? 
 
 "Such is the love of woman; single, yet vast 
 in groove 
 
 Knowing beyond it, nothing: — nothing be- 
 low, above: — 
 
 Heaven, and earth, and Hades, all, in her 
 human love!" 
 
 Here is an exquisite estimate of the actor's 
 P^ovjif^^ from "Nature's Mirror," by the same 
 auti on it hi 
 
Introduction. xiii 
 
 ' 'Mirror of Nature!' Thus 
 Triumphs his genius. 
 His, to reject mankind. 
 Spirit, and heart, and mind; — 
 Doing its good and ill 
 Loving and hating well; — 
 Even as mortals will, 
 Serving both heaven and hell!" 
 
 M. Louisa Palmier Myers, a brilliant 
 woman of high social distinction and unusual 
 culture, we find a poet of quite a different 
 trend. 
 
 Her delightfully charming "An Idyl of the 
 Rhine," is the story of "Love's first young 
 Dream," and is understood to have been written 
 for her beautiful and accomplished daughter, 
 Mrs. H. E. Wagoner, a social favorite of St. 
 Louis. 
 
 The style of this melodious work suggests ir- 
 resistibly some of the fine passages in "Lu- 
 cile." 
 
 There is a rare touch of the eternal feminine 
 in these lines from her book, included under the 
 title "The Flirtation" : 
 
xiv Introduction. 
 
 *'The difference one may plainly see 
 ' 'Twixt zvorshiping a friend or me; 
 
 For women rarely fail to Und 
 
 Excuses for a lover kind; 
 
 Each deems the passion she inspires 
 
 A holy flame of pure desires, 
 
 Yet thinks it duty to repress 
 
 'A sister's show of tenderness'* 
 
 Henry McD. Flecher, the Texas poet, con- 
 ceived some wonderfully brilliant pictures that 
 have all the vividness of a painting, in his 
 "Odin's Last Hour." 
 
 His work has received the most flattering 
 recognition among the public and the critics 
 alike. 
 
 There is space to quote but one short extract. 
 
 ''High o'er the heavens, which seemed one 
 
 spotless sun, 
 Wild wayward splendors, million-colored 
 
 run; 
 'And strangely glorious beings, faintly seen. 
 Appeared at times beyond the dazzling sheen 
 Now half revealed, and now withdrawn from 
 
 sight. 
 To some high city of excessive light." 
 
Introduction. xv 
 
 "A Bird in Lincoln's Tomb" is the title of a 
 little volume by Emily Thacher Bennett, that 
 teems with lyrics and pastorals of the sweetest. 
 
 These lines are from the poem, "Lilies of the 
 
 Valley" : 
 
 ''Fragrant, fluted, waxen bells 
 
 Drooping on their stem; 
 Honey in their secret cells — 
 
 Jesus cares for them. 
 ''Bells just large enough to ring 
 
 Little dews from dreams; 
 Who it is that pulls the string/ 
 
 Ask the meadow streams/' 
 
 Josephine L. Roberts, in the "The Rose of 
 Joy," demonstrates what a world of poetry lies 
 in the cadences of blank verse when handled 
 by an artist. The following passage will 
 suffice to show her skill : 
 
 "The blithesome summer hurried on apace 
 Where spring has gone. The daisies snowy- 
 edged 
 Gleamed in the wide space of the meadow- 
 land; 
 
xvi Introduction. 
 
 The ivild rose nestled on its leafy couch. 
 Its petals scattered by the lightest breeze 
 Until one day the hot midsummer sun 
 Contracted its rays and made the earth 
 Its focus," 
 
 Among the powerful poets that have found 
 fame under the aegis of Mr. Neely, is Colonel 
 John A. Joyce, whose recent work on Edgar 
 Allan Poe has attracted so much attention. 
 
 Colonel Joyce's verses have the knack of 
 impressing themselves indelibly upon the mind, 
 not only because of the melody of their flow, 
 but the unforgettable tenderness of the emo- 
 tions they inspire. 
 
 The following lines are among his favorite 
 ones: 
 
 ''And she was fair, 
 With dark brown hair — 
 
 Her voice rang out upon the air 
 Like vesper bells 
 In convent cells 
 
 When Love its holy music tells. 
 
Introduction xvii 
 
 '^She said, 'Some day, 
 
 We'll sail away, 
 O'er hounding hillozus fringed with spray, 
 
 And for awhile 
 
 We'll bask and smile, 
 Within some sweet, enchanted isle.' " 
 
 Poetry applied for the purpose of intensify- 
 ing the humor of a subject, facetious in itself, 
 is put to admirable use in the verses of W. 
 Meredith Underbill : 
 
 ''Perhaps it were better. 
 The Muse to embrace. 
 Than the dear little maiden 
 In chiffon and lace." 
 
 This is good perhaps, but the author did not 
 abide by it, for: 
 
 "I stop for a moment 
 My brain in a whirl 
 And spend a half-hour 
 Embracing the girl" 
 
 In Cleland Kernestaffe we find a poet, who in 
 his volume, "Pebbles and Pearls," displays a 
 
xviii Introduction. 
 
 most bewildering versatility of theme. His 
 collection embraces poems serious and humor- 
 ous, tender and coy, poems of sunny meadows 
 and singing birds and again verses of unutter- 
 able sadness, but above all lyrics that tremble 
 with passion, half suppressed, half avowed. 
 
 The following, from the poem ^'Rosebud and 
 Rose" is in his most charming, humorous vein : 
 
 '' The mother is 'fair, fat and forty/ 
 A widow — fast — fickle and fond.; 
 The daughter, too young to be haughty. 
 Is a dear little, Hax en-haired blonde; 
 'Tis hard to decide (zmthout taking advice) 
 For one is so naughty, the other so nice. 
 
 May Howell Beecher, in 'Trespassing, and 
 Other Verses," has collected a delightfully re- 
 freshing string of poems, that breathes the very 
 balm of the new spring tide. Some, indeed, 
 are in a minor key, and we quote from '^Little 
 Old Shoes": 
 
 "Little old shoes all battered and worn 
 I remember them nezv and a-shine 
 As here and there they pattered about 
 On that wee little son of mine.'* 
 
Introduction. xlx 
 
 Radiant bits of harmony and light issue 
 from the poems of Florence Danforth New- 
 comb, collected under the title, 'The Carnival 
 of Venice." The selection which follows has 
 been widely quoted : 
 
 "The hrown-eyed flower girl's envying 'gaze 
 
 Is on the lady fair, 
 So lovely is the shoulder white, 
 On which the jewels break in light, 
 
 So golden is her hair. 
 
 "She wears no mask upon her face, 
 
 In dancing takes no part; 
 But dream you in your envy, girl, 
 That she with rare and radiant curl 
 
 Wears closely masked her heart?" 
 
 That delightfully charming, brilliant and 
 beautiful member of society, Miss Maude 
 !A. Irving, achieved a notable triumph with her 
 book of verses, "Idle Thoughts of an Idle 
 Girl," brought out by Mr. Neely; and Mrs. 
 Katherine Berry di Zereza is to appear shortly 
 with a new book of poems. 
 
 This hasty and meager review of what the 
 
XX Introduction. 
 
 publisher has done in encouragement of the 
 poetic Muse would be incomplete without the 
 mention of James Whitcomb Riley, incompar- 
 able and immortal, some of whose work has 
 appeared with the Neely imprint. 
 
 JOSEPH TYLER BUTTS. 
 
PETERSON'S POEMS. 
 
 Cbe RoDcn 
 
 Whoe'er hath viewed love in its dawn, 
 Waking the midnight into morn; 
 Or into wakefulness that weeps 
 The beauty that so gently sleeps 
 Far from the heart that fain would rest 
 Its anguish in a woman's breast — 
 Whoe'er hath seen love's sad decline 
 Upon a life that knew no sin, 
 Yet, hardened by its first despair 
 Soon found that sin was everywhere, 
 And loosening to its maddening turn 
 Became a portion of its ruin — 
 Whoe'er hath seen the careless stare 
 Of wasted youth, and sorrow's heir, 
 And reckoned that in childhood's strife 
 
34 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 An early grief had poisoned life, 
 And 'prisoned hope within the cell 
 That made youth hate — and life a Hell — 
 Whoe'er hath known one tempest tossed 
 From sea to sea, yet never lost — 
 Now battling with the torrid gale. 
 Now boasting by a shivered sail, 
 Whose passion struggling for relief 
 Had burst the fountain of his grief — 
 Whoe'er hath witnessed such a dream 
 Hath known the hero of my theme. 
 
 October's sun was bending o'er 
 The evening hills as ne'er before. 
 The pictured sky was fading fast 
 Its silver in a deeper cast, 
 And to his glorious golden tent 
 The orb of day his journey bent. 
 
 II 
 
 Save where on yonder meadowed place, 
 Beside the brook's wild-running race, 
 
The Rovef. 35 
 
 Enrapt in beauty's blindest dream, 
 Two youthful lovers may have been, 
 The fields were empty, sage and bare, 
 And Nature smiled without a care. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The lovers start, and by the brake 
 
 That shelters 'round the placid lake. 
 
 They wend their way through fern and fall 
 
 Until they reach a mansion hall 
 
 Of splendid court, and ancient grace 
 
 Which gave a reverence to the place : 
 
 And both were fair and both were young, 
 
 And Ethel was the maiden's name 
 
 From noble lineage both had sprung. 
 
 And Alan was the youth's name; 
 
 And he had chosen her his bride. 
 
 And she but loved' him as a friend — 
 
 Their love, however near allied, 
 
 Should not in matrimony end. 
 
 lY 
 
 And now they halt, and he beside 
 The maiden who should be his bride 
 
36 Peterson^s PoeiriS. 
 
 In two short years, and gave the kiss 
 Which fain would seal their happiness, 
 And now they part, and now the lad 
 Is passing through the evening's shade, 
 Leaving the tender lass behind 
 To view, alone, the day's decline. 
 
 Two years passed by, and in those years 
 
 Changes had darkened o'er the cares 
 
 Of that proud youth who knew no fears; 
 
 A father's hall, a father's smile 
 
 Now bade no welcome to his child, 
 
 And Ethel's heart was cold to him. 
 
 He saw his hopes before him swim 
 
 His eyes looked on, grew faint and dim. 
 
 What was there now to cheer his heart 
 
 When all most dear seemed to depart, 
 
 When friends, once warm, now seemed so cold, 
 
 And pastures green had grown so old? 
 
 Twas more than his full heart could hold ! 
 
 VI 
 
 We find him on a bitter nighf 
 Sitting alone by his firelight. 
 
The Rover. 37 
 
 Dreaming o'er the past's decay 
 
 That, once, had seemed so bright and gay, 
 
 Now withered to a wintry lay. 
 
 VII 
 
 "Old halls," said he, ''to-morrow's night 
 Will find your master far from here ; 
 The stars shall be his lonely light, 
 And guide his soul — he cares not where! 
 The ocean wave shall bear him on, 
 The storm shall be his dwelling-place. 
 For, soon, he from thee must be gone. 
 He cannot love his native race! 
 Old halls, he loaths to leave you so. 
 For memories haunt thy silent ways. 
 But fate is fate and woe is woe, 
 1 He leaves! this debt to grief he pays!" 
 
 VIII 
 
 And now the morning light is seen 
 To glimmer o'er the Eastern green, 
 And shiver with its silver beam 
 And break with its unbroken stream 
 The last receding rays of gloom 
 That hang about his haunted room. 
 
38 Petersoii'o Poems. 
 
 IX 
 
 The sad youth starts, he looks without 
 His window to the fields about ; 
 He views the hills his childhood tried 
 In climbing their most treacherous side. 
 And gazes on the dancing stream — 
 The spot where many a childish dream 
 Had brought delight into his eye — 
 And fancied how he once would try 
 His strength against its rushing tide 
 'Till he would gain the other side. 
 He viewed the random cattle graze 
 Upon the waving fields of maize, 
 Their muffled bells all bright with dew, 
 Ringing until their tinklings drew 
 The balance of the herd in view. 
 
 X 
 
 Now toward a distant grove he turns : 
 Ethel before his mind returns. 
 Said he, "That grove in v/hich you live 
 Shall bend in age e'er I survive 
 The errors of thy virgin breast 
 That will not give my spirit rest : 
 
The Rover. 
 
 And I shall but remember thee 
 As one sweet thought to brighten me, 
 When I am tossed from sea to sea!" 
 He paused; a voice sounds at his gate! 
 "My sir ! your pleasure we await, 
 The carriages are here, my sir ! 
 The road is rough ; the journey far ; 
 Your ship is anchored in the bay : 
 Suppose we start, sir, right away !" 
 
 XI 
 
 Two years had passed, and in those years, 
 Changes had darkened o'er the cares 
 Of that proud youth who knew no fears. 
 Changes not slight, for en his brow 
 Were written all the pangs of woe : 
 No smiles were seen upon his face, 
 But Melancholy took their place — 
 He could not love his native race. 
 His eyes were filled with fancy, too; 
 His cheek assumed a paler hue : 
 His voice was not so bold as when 
 He strolled across the meadow green. 
 
 
40 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Those years had been a life to him — 
 All mixed with maddest mirth and whim, 
 All checkered from without; within 
 All tainted with the taint of sin; 
 Misspent in thwarted dreams, until 
 Life seemed to him too full to fill ; 
 He had no hope, he knew no fear, 
 He scorned a smile, and scoffed a tear : 
 With the whole world he was at war. 
 He hated everything he saw. 
 And since he'd left his native land 
 He'd trod the shores of many a strand. 
 And trifled many a virgin's hand. 
 He seemed to long to rove, to rove ; 
 The ocean was his only love — 
 On its free plains he loved to stay, 
 In its billow he loved to play — 
 Nor did he reck' his desert home — 
 His dwelling-place was on the foam, 
 And on it he was wont to roam. 
 
 XII 
 
 We see him on a Spanish craft 
 Flying before the wind like chaff. 
 
The Rover. 41 
 
 Careless whither the wind should waft. 
 He is in the South seas; on flies 
 His vessel to the Southern skies, 
 Tossing the spray from off its prow, 
 Plowing the billow with its plow, 
 Leaving a seething wake behind, 
 Followed by monsters of the slime, 
 Glassing the blue dip of the wave. 
 Braving the whistling gale so brave; 
 Riding the mountains of the sea. 
 Sweeping the gullies in its glee — 
 So bold, so proud, so strong, so free. 
 
 xni 
 
 How goes it, seaman ! on the mast 
 When loudly blows the breaking blast? 
 Do not the dangers breed alarm, 
 Or do no terrors ride the storm, 
 When all the waters seem to boil, 
 And by the pumps the sailors toil; 
 When hoarsely sounds the breakers' roar, 
 And floods of liquid o'er you flow ? 
 How is it, sea-boy ! when the hiss 
 Of waters come from the abyss — 
 
42 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Settling, now, your wandering bed. 
 
 And showing nothing in its stead, 
 
 Save the wild waters of the deep 
 
 And the gray skies that o'er them weep— 
 
 And the surge, 'neath which you must sleep? 
 
 XIV 
 
 On — on the vessel flies. Tis night 
 Lighting all with its living light. 
 Alan is on the starboard deck. 
 Watching a dainty, distant speck 
 Sailing on the dark blue waters. 
 ''We've company ! there are others 
 In this beautiful Southern clime," 
 Said he, ''chasing over the brine!" 
 He hails the vessel,, but it flees 
 Before the evening's freshening breeze, 
 And dies far in the distant seas. 
 
 ■ XVi 
 
 The hours pass on. 'Tis midnight's hour- 
 The moon has left her torrid tower, 
 
The Rover. 43 
 
 The stars have hid their steady gaze 
 Behind the upper kingdom's haze, 
 And all is dark, save on the poop 
 The lantern swings upon its rope — 
 As it were the last beam of hope. 
 
 THE BUOY-BELL SONG. 
 
 To-night — to-night, while all is bright, 
 
 The waves are rolling, 
 
 My voice is tolling 
 
 For the sailor-boy, 
 
 Tossing like a toy 
 
 On the wild, fierce, wave > 
 That shall be his grave ; 
 To-night — to-night, while all is bright, ) 
 
 To-night — to-night, while all is bright, 
 I sing of others, 
 Deep in the waters. 
 Resting from life's chill, ^ 
 
44 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Where the tides are still; 
 They have gone to rest 
 In the Ocean's breast, 
 To-night — to-night, while all is bright. 
 
 To-night — to-night, while all is bright, 
 There's a distant home 
 Where one shall ne'er roam ; 
 There are children's lips 
 In prayer, ah ! perhaps, 
 And the fire-light burns 
 For who ne'er returns ; 
 
 To-night — to-night, while all is bright. 
 
 XVI 
 
 While thus the youth his song outpoured, 
 A storm was brooding from the west, 
 And now about his craft it roared. 
 And flung his ship from crest to crest. 
 The sea so calm an hour before 
 Seemed e'en to Heaven its wrath to pour 
 
The Rover. 45 
 
 Charged thunder shook the furious night. 
 And lightning Ht the awful sight, ] 
 
 And showed the youth his hideous plight. 
 Morn with her mists is seen to dawn — 
 But such a morn — but such a morn ! 
 No sun is rising from the east, 
 No beam is dancing o'er the yeast, 
 No waking hail is heard to come 
 From out the sailor's scanty room, 
 No seamen rise from peaceful sleep. 
 But darkness reigns upon the deep, 
 Lit only by the lightning's leap. 
 
 XVII 
 
 All day the storm burst on the bark. 
 All day the sky was drear and dark. 
 At eve the pumps were heard to creak — 
 The stricken craft had sprung a leak : 
 And fast the waters filled the hole — 
 Their fury, now, seemed double fold. 
 The sailors' hopes had died away, 
 Some ceased to care, some seemed to pray — 
 And one, alone, now watched the spray. 
 
46 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 That night, beneath the silent wave, 
 A vessel rested from its toil ; 
 That night, ah ! many found a grave 
 Where no winds fail — or waters boil. 
 The ship, at eve, had sunk to rest 
 Beneath the billows' angered breast, 
 And all the terrors of its doom 
 Were buried in a night of gloom, 
 And, now, all quiet was the scene — 
 The Ocean's breast was calm again. 
 
 XIX 
 
 It happened that — when just before 
 The vessel plunged beneath the roar 
 That swept the main-deck o'er and o'er, 
 And dragged the struggling crew below, 
 Young Alan saw a broken mast 
 Drifting beside him; and he knew 
 Full well the vessel could not last — 
 
The Rover. 47 
 
 And that the hopes for life were few; 
 He stood a moment, then he dashed 
 His body in the tide and lashed 
 It to the broken mast he clasped. 
 
 XX 
 
 Whatever should have been the fate 
 That cast his body in the tide, 
 Had it but turned a moment late, 
 He must have perished by the side 
 Of those who lingered on the craft, 
 And sunk beneath the waves as chaff ; 
 For just as he had left the ship 
 Its starboard bow began to dip. 
 And, in a moment, all the crew, 
 Save him had perished 'neath the blue. 
 
 XXI 
 
 All night he drifted ; and all night 
 He battled with the wind and tide, , 
 When morning broke, land was in sight- 
 An island to the left he spied. 
 
48 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Soon reaching the deserted strand 
 The youth dimbed up its beach of sand, 
 'Til sheltered by the forest deep 
 He laid his wearied form in sleep — 
 His dark hair flowing in the breeze, 
 His limbs outstretched in graceful ease. 
 
 XXII 
 
 And thus I found this truant lad 
 
 Upon the lonely Southern isle ; 
 
 When I awaked him he seemed glad — 
 
 His pale face lit up with a smile. 
 
 But, soon, that face grew calm and sad, 
 
 •And he outpoured his heart to me. 
 
 His journeys over land and sea. 
 
 His wild adventures on the deep. 
 
 His night of toil, his restful sleep. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 I told him how I chanced to find, 
 Upon the shore, his wasted form; 
 That his lot was akin to mine, 
 That I had been saved from the storm; 
 
The Rover. 49 
 
 And that my ship had failed to brave 
 The torture of the lawless wave, 
 But clinging to a broken mast 
 That I had gained the shore at last. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 'Twas three months after when a sail, 
 In seeking shelter from a gale, 
 Had anchored in the quiet bay 
 Which, by the fertile island, lay. 
 I hailed the ship and gained her side, 
 But Alan would not go with me, 
 "For he, at present, would abide 
 On the lone isle, alone," said he; 
 "For he had learned to love the place 
 More strongly than his native race, 
 And 'neath its unfrequented shade 
 A habitation he had made ;" 
 But, just before I left the youth, 
 I saw strange fire flush from his cheek; 
 
50. Peterson's Poems. 
 
 "Stranger," said he, "you know the truth, 
 Of my strange fate to Ethel speak." 
 My eyes grow weak, my tale is done. 
 The image of my dream is gone. 
 
 XXVi 
 
 My sister ! as I close this theme, 
 Thy name presents itself to me: 
 Whate'er has been my youthful dream 
 Whate'er my life to others seem — 
 It is not as I'd have it be. 
 Swift years have passed since when I knelt 
 Before thy childish form and felt 
 Thy mother's breath in thee survive — 
 That urged me for thine own sake live. 
 Swift and yet slow those years have passed 
 Since when I viewed thy features last. 
 And, now, I feel as though in vain 
 I longed to see thy face again. 
 And look into the same sweet smile 
 That knew thee when a thoughtless child. 
 But, Mary, whate'er has been given 
 
The Rover. 51 
 
 To cheer this lonely life I lead, 
 Whate'er has soothed my heart, now riven. 
 Where'er my fainting soul has striven, 
 Or where, all blighted, it would bleed. 
 My hopes to some day bless thy life. 
 And keep my mother's child from grief, 
 Have been the uppermost — indeed. 
 And although all such hopes are past. 
 The wish which wished them was sincere ! 
 While 'bout me howls the torrid blast, 
 And o'er me sighs my storm-swept mast, 
 My eye, for once, must shed a tear ! 
 My heart must break ! — at last — at last ! 
 
52 Peterson's Poems, 
 
 Reflections. 
 
 I 
 
 At times the silent leaves will wet the eye 
 And fill the heart, and shade the sullen brow; 
 At times the blaze of Autumn's evening sky 
 Swells deep into the heart — we know not how ; 
 At times the Ocean from the ship's proud bow 
 Will send a pensive anguish to the mind, 
 iWhich sears the thoughts that pain cannot 
 
 allow 
 To rule the wreck that rules a human kind, 
 And tears divinity from what would be divine. 
 
 II 
 
 At times the grave is rest; and grace and a 
 
 stare, 
 When, brooding as a specter o'er the heart, 
 Dark Melancholy sits — and ponders there. 
 And tears from us that peace it would impart; 
 
Reflections. 53 
 
 And leave us listless in life's lingering dart 
 To doubt the dream which feigned would let 
 
 us live 
 Upon a sphere where naught but dreams can 
 
 start 
 Forgetfulness for what we can believe, 
 Forgiveness for favorites we cannot forgive. 
 
 Ill 
 
 At times a stranger comes into the mind 
 With saddened tales which echo from the past, 
 And scatters tears when nothing we can find — 
 But woe that shows the future as 'tis cast: 
 'Tis then we say to sorrow,— ''Will it last, 
 Or will you leave me on to-morrow's morn, 
 That I may meditate life's dull repast, 
 And not still hate the day that I was born, 
 And make mildew of rain, and midnight out of 
 morn?" 
 
 IV 
 
 What profit can a son of fortune gain^ 
 When all his youth with madness is beset; 
 What honor is there in the crowd's disdain — 
 Or where is peace when life is but a fret?^ 
 
54 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Why are our spirits linked with past regret 
 Which keeps us batthng 'gainst a wretched 
 
 heart, 
 Which, as a mansion, bare and desolate, 
 Abandoned, sacked and sad, can but revert 
 Its ruin into each relic which relief would start ? 
 
 V. 
 
 What pleasure is there in a father's frown — 
 Imbedded in each look upon his child, 
 Envenomed with remorseless hates around 
 The fireside it spent a pleasant while 
 In infancy — beneath a mother's smile? 
 How can one thank the portion of his youth 
 For that which poisoned birth as a reptile, 
 And nestled existence far more uncouth, 
 And cradled childhood's felicity in untruth? 
 
 VI 
 
 And kindred's scorn ! as though I spurned the 
 trash 
 
 Of those who claim my blood — and yet dis- 
 claim — 
 
 T leave to them but nine short lines and smash 
 
 The picture as a blot upon my name! 
 
Reflections. 55 
 
 Stepmothers; red-haired fiends who love to 
 
 live; 
 Uncles; aunts; false cousins — who eat for 
 
 fame — 
 And all the balance wlio may now survive, 
 To teach the devil lies, and harlots to deceive! 
 
 VII 
 
 At times no welcome speaks from the debris 
 Of ancient castle or benighted site; 
 At times the ruins which moulder in decay 
 Touch not the exile lingering by their fright; 
 At times the haunted places mock our sight 
 And show no spirits but belie the mind, 
 As, by each pile, new mysteries alight 
 To hide the feelings which we fear to find, — 
 Not bitter, yet not sweet, not cold, and yet un- 
 kind! 
 
 VIII 
 
 At times we do not love the threatening tide 
 Which sweeps upon Cabana's silvery plain; 
 And, oft, the heart grows sick, and turns aside 
 From strange Niagara-thundering in her rain ; 
 
56 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 At times the earth's a myth, and life a bane ; 
 And Nature often loses all her charms 
 Save of, perhaps, upon the watery main, 
 Where, sobbing as an infant in her arms. 
 We hide our care in waves, and gulf our grief 
 in storms. 
 
 IX 
 
 I am a rover on the wide, wide sea! 
 No cares have I, save those I leave behind! 
 No curses levy when the wine flows free 
 On the proud ship which bears me on the brine 1 
 Why should I reck the woes of humankind — 
 That gave my youth to torture and disdain, 
 While gazing on the Ocean's endless mine, 
 Or walking lone beside its noiseless plain — 
 Or wrestling with its flow, or frightening in its 
 rain ? 
 
 X 
 
 My hammock swings above the bold fore-deck. 
 And that's my home ; a place without a care — 
 And there I dream whene'er my dreams elect 
 Of far off lands, while tangling my dark hair. 
 The breezes come, and whisper sweet songs 
 there f 
 
Reflections. 57 
 
 All day, all night, I mingle with the mists 
 
 Which proclaim freedom's voice from every- 
 where, 
 
 And have communion with the Earth's mis- 
 tress. 
 
 Riding in her awful chariot of distress. 
 
 XI 
 
 I have no sorrows that I do not choose ! — 
 For what is sorrow but a paltry sting? 
 I hate not man, for nothing can I lose 
 By loving not, yet loving everything! 
 And when my goodly ship to port shall bring 
 Her cargo from the far off southern isles. 
 The banquet halls are lit, fair women sing. 
 The aged wine fills revelry with smiles. 
 And merry laughter lights the lamp which love 
 beguiles ! 
 
 XII 
 
 What care I for the never changing tale 
 That still resounds from often misspent days; 
 What care I for the dull, protracted wail 
 Which comes from life whose mandate none 
 obeys 
 
58 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 While peace, awhile, within my spirit stays? 
 And why should I regret the things that be 
 Or curse mankind for what no curse allays. 
 While tossing high upon a friendly sea. 
 Or dwelling on a shore untaught to strange 
 beauty ? 
 
 XIII 
 
 An exile shall I be ; a wanderer 
 Into the wilds of Nature — to there view 
 Places not yet defiled by man's leveler — 
 For man's leveler is man ; to imbue 
 The soul with purity, seek not the pew 
 Nor the parson ; nor the pulpit ; but seek 
 The wildest wilds where Nature's pale azure 
 Shows the Almighty's form in every freak 
 You find implanted in each fadeless hue 
 Of star and sky ; of wood and wild ; of drouth 
 and dew! 
 
 XIV 
 
 The Night shall be my mistress ; and tfie breeze 
 My swift enchantress; yon sail my delight; 
 My port the spot where'er my vessel flees ; 
 The stars that shine upon the sea at night 
 
Reflections. 59 
 
 Shall be my watchlight from their heavenly 
 
 height ! 
 Thrice welcome to my craft! ye pouting gale 
 Spending your lightning as an angel's flight ! 
 Your storm shall be my passion and my tale, 
 Your waves my wildest joy, your deep, per- 
 haps, my wail ! 
 
 XVi 
 
 I am a rover 
 
 Wandering over 
 The blue of the deep Atlantic! 
 
 Yon deep's heedless speed, 
 
 Naught does my heart heed. 
 E'en though its billows be frantic! 
 
 XVI 
 
 I care not how swift 
 
 Yon currents shall shift 
 On the broad wastes of their waters ; 
 
 Nor do I regret 
 
 That my sail is set 
 Far from the land of my fathers. 
 
60 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 XVII 
 
 O how I love you 
 My sweet daisy blue 
 
 That walks alone on the ocean, 
 And, in thy strange form. 
 Survives the dark storm 
 
 That sets thy sea in commotion ! 
 
 XVIII 
 
 And what do I care 
 
 When the masts are bare 
 Or rigged for the gale's loud wailing; 
 
 And what gives alarm 
 
 In the sullen calm 
 While on thy breast I am sailing? 
 
 XIX 
 
 I hate not my kin 
 Who bark at my sin 
 
 As I toss on the heedless waves, 
 I sail on and on 
 As the worms are born, 
 
 And as they sink in tearless graves! 
 
Reflections. 6l 
 
 XX 
 
 I roam all the day 
 
 On the frightful spray 
 .Which bathes my face in its dashing, 
 
 Or drift with the tide 
 
 Which runs by my side 
 And meets the waves in their splashing! 
 
 XXI 
 
 And when day is done 
 
 And hid is the sun 
 My vessel plies on as ever, 
 
 Forgetting the scene 
 
 Night's mantle would screen 
 'Til it and night pale together. 
 
 XXII 
 
 When the Spring's first bloom 
 
 Wakes Winter's long gloom 
 Or clothes the earth with sweet flowers, 
 
 I think of youth's day, 
 
 When by the still bay 
 As a child, I spent the swift hours. 
 
62 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 And when Spring is gone 
 And Summer is borri 
 
 To cheer the world with her roses, 
 I dream of my youth, 
 And curse bitter truth 
 
 For the mock it now discloses. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 When Autumn's clear skies 
 Bring tears to my eyes 
 
 And wastes the green on the meadow, 
 I view these dull years 
 Embittered in fears 
 
 For what was seen ir. their shadow. 
 
 XXV 
 
 And, when with the storm, 
 
 Comes Winter's cold form 
 To chill what Autumn has wasted. 
 
 Its dirges recall 
 
 A deserted hall — 
 And a life which has been blasted. 
 
Reflections. 6^ 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Ah! the Western Sun 
 To his home has gone 
 
 And swift clouds are sailing over; 
 
 And the day grows dark — 
 As a fading spark, 
 
 And has left me yet a rover ! 
 
 XXVII 
 
 Who would not be a rover and despise 
 Hypocrisy in all its varied shows? 
 Who would forever be the aim of lies, 
 And scandals, low as Hell to Heaven bows? 
 Who would give battle to ignoble foes, 
 List at asses, or humble to a beast. 
 Or give to man respect one never owes, 
 Or speechless sit while, slowly, vultures feast 
 Upon his naked breast? Who would? — to say 
 the least! 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Fly on ! fly on ! my lily sail ! fly on ! 
 Amidst this joyous yeast which heaves the tide 
 Across thy pathway on this misty morn! 
 For on the sea my youthful sports were tried : 
 
64 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 And, now, when youth is blighted, and when 
 
 lied 
 And scoffed at by this herd of human prey, 
 Its bosom has not me as much denied 
 As those whose envy is as vile as they — 
 Therefore bear me onward, and let's forget the 
 
 clay! 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Ye winds ! horn of the Almighty, and voice 
 Sweeping from unfathomed chaos! ye winds 
 And storms and gales with whom I now re- 
 joice, 
 That spurnest the lot of man, and that sends 
 Him howling before thy tempests, 'til he ends I 
 Was spirit to sleep when thou wouldst stir! 
 Thou passion of the sky which o'er me bends, 
 Can mankind scorn thy paths when thou 
 
 wouldst err — 
 Or heap calumny on thine untamed Lucifer ! 
 
 XXX 
 
 Thou art the siren of the Night ! with thee 
 Night becomes the theme of thy sweet music — 
 The clouds, the air, alas, the earth, the sea 
 Doth become thine auditors ! strange, mystic 
 
Reflections. 65 
 
 Thy wizard notes reverberate fast and thick 
 The echoes of a sadness which I feel 
 My hfe is cast, w^iich burns my Hfe's lamp- 
 wick; 
 Hell shouts; all Nature screams, and heavens 
 
 yield 
 Their hosts of ills and ails to swell thy loud ap- 
 peal. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 My love is fixed on things inanimate, 
 Yet animate with me — the wind — the storm ! 
 I am not of the flesh with which I'm rate, 
 Though human in my fate, though of man's 
 
 form 
 I am not of his spirit, and the charm 
 Of his existence is not minel Behold 
 Yonder ocean thundering its alarm! 
 Behold the tempest sailing loud and bold, 
 And yon crag sheltering o'er the sea ! Behold ! 
 
 behold! 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Strange reckoner of thy course, of thy speed, 
 Which comest from ^olus; in thy gale; 
 
6S t^etefson's Poems. 
 
 Thy lull ; thy lengthening calm what dost thou 
 
 heed? 
 By day; by silent night; by shivered sail, 
 Speaking now in thunder, now in a wail! 
 Ye winged winds! how fierce thine accents 
 
 flow, 
 Or else how fevered in thy false detail, 
 Thou whisper of the World ! thou strange echo 
 From the mysterious, how can I love you so! 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Dawn Cometh in his mists, but dawn must fade ! 
 And midday in his splendor yields to noon ! 
 And noon in her fleet chariot is stayed. 
 For Night is softening evening with her 
 
 moon — 
 And restless Night must pale to a buffoon, 
 Giving the reins of Earth to morn again 
 All gray with weird shapes, at times, too soon ! 
 But the Wind is unchangeable ! inane 
 Is all Nature, Earth, Sea and Man, to Its do- 
 main. 
 
Reflections. 67 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 The seasons are its creatures, and the zones 
 Its begotten; the Soul its harp, and man 
 Its faint aggressor, and his desert bones 
 Its rattler on the role of Time's errand ; 
 The hope of all is centered in its hand, 
 Shattering now the roof which claims the birth 
 Of Kings ; splintering the forest's command, 
 And howling o'er the fast forsaken Earth, 
 It dwellest, alone, upon its dismembered hearth. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Hear the war cry of the Elements ! hear 
 Their peal from out the armies of the air; 
 They're laying low Earth's children far and 
 
 near! 
 Hear the minstrelsy of Nature everywhere! 
 Watch the thunderbolt rift the dark cloud bare, 
 Gaze on the Night ; look at the lightning's leap, 
 Forking his tongue from out his muttering 
 
 lair. 
 And you will find that man's contemptuous 
 
 creep 
 Is but a bubble on the wild Elements' sweep. 
 
68 Peterson's Poems 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Reposing on a distant, western isle 
 
 A city slumbered quietly and long, 
 
 While swept from out the Ocean's briny wild 
 
 The dirges of a melancholy song. 
 
 No sign of tempest stirred the merry throng 
 
 Which gathered 'round the festive board that 
 
 night, 
 The good ; the evil ; the righteous or the wrong 
 Prevailed in each to mingle with the sight 
 That waked a stricken land, and hid a morn- 
 ing's light. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 Full many a soul that night had lain the care 
 
 That came from other hearts, to rest in vain, 
 
 Or added to its woes another share 
 
 Of disappointed hopes ; another stain 
 
 Of proud regret to teach the heart disdain: 
 
 Some sweetly slept, some the hot pillow 
 
 pressed 
 And found in darkness yet a drearier bane. 
 Others reveled — to find in that some rest 
 From the monotony of life — that's found the 
 
 bestf 
 
Reflections. 69 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Did they not hear the awful gathering sound 
 Which seemed to grasp and hurl the waters on, 
 And bury thunderbolts in every mound — • 
 And strike from wave to Heaven, groan for 
 
 groan ? 
 Did not each echo respond tone for tone? 
 Did not their peal recoil, and splash and splash 
 Make mirthful mockery of every moan? 
 Son, sire, forgotten or unknown, poor trash 
 .Which sunk into the gloom, didst thou not hear 
 
 the crash? 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Heard ye it not! stranger or citizen, 
 As, on, the waters rolled into thy shore? 
 And sung their sighs as every wave went in 
 From watery plain — from out the Ocean's 
 
 roar? 
 Which stilled the heart-beats that should throb 
 
 no more 
 After the dismal task was done ? Was sleep 
 
70 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 So peaceful then, or was it as before 
 That revelry and Bacchus' cup was sweet, 
 Which stunned the maddened cry which her- 
 alded at thy feet ! 
 
 xu 
 
 City ! whose laws the minds of man arranged 
 
 To turn nations; to silence every foe 
 
 Who bared his arm! wandering from thy 
 
 changed 
 And direful sight, thy children from thee go ! 
 And o'er the land a wail is heard to pour 
 From stricken victims of that boisterous wave 
 Which washes on, serenely in its flow. 
 Which sunk thy gardens 'neath its crested lave, 
 And stretched thy sons uncoffined in its cav- 
 
 erned grave. 
 
 XLI 
 
 'A few days past beheld thy mart in pride, 
 A sharer of the wealth of this fair land. 
 
Reflections. 71 
 
 But now no vessels linger by thy side, 
 Thy sons are swept away as so much sand! 
 And now but few are seen upon thy strand! 
 Dull man must learn a lesson ere he tries; 
 His days are but the turning of a hand, 
 What can he do, e'en all his strength should 
 
 rise; 
 Poor thing whose hope is but a moment, ere 
 
 it dies. 
 
 XLII 
 
 When we reflect our youth, and, alas, feel 
 That things are not what once they feigned to 
 
 seem, 
 Our feet would falter and our brains woul reel ; 
 The time when hope would shed her brighten- 
 ing beam, 
 And beauty reign o'er love's triumphant dream, 
 Forms a sanctuary of holy thoughts 
 Which wake our midnight slumbers, and which 
 
 gleam 
 As real visions from our tomb of faults. 
 Degrading the victim whom honor's voice ex- 
 alts. 
 
72 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 xLiir 
 
 Youth is the crown of hfe; manhood its thorn; 
 Age its derehct; and death its last fire; 
 Yet, in a moment, we are come and gone ; 
 A crown, a thorn, a derehct ! expire. 
 But not before you of the journey tire, 
 And we shall call that Death, whether or not 
 Our souls are to be burned by heavenly ire, 
 Or sleep within a quiet church-yard lot. 
 Anything, Lord! anything — just to be forgot. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 I love that mansion which is bowed in age, 
 For desolation, as the heart's decline 
 Breathes silent beauty from its worn-out cage. 
 And mingles thought with Beauty's last repine : 
 Such cannot but appeal to every mind! 
 The ruined wall; the hoary castle's site: 
 The empty niche; the oft forsaken shrine, 
 Subdues the eye that views their mournful 
 
 plight, 
 Which weeps the grandeur that would speak 
 
 from out their fright. 
 
Reflections. 73 
 
 XLV 
 
 Behold Carthage! behold what Grace hath done 
 To ornament the ruin which moulders there, 
 And consecrate what industry begun ! 
 Grace dwells amid her ashes of despair 
 And hovers where once walked the fairy fair! 
 The sunset sky that's pictured in her fate, 
 The hectic hue of death which lingers where 
 Napoleon shook Egypt's ancient state. 
 Sheds grandeur o'er the graves where sleep the 
 vanquished great. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 Behold Greece ! — birthplace of all beauty, home 
 Of all elegance, and the place where thrived 
 The mother of the arts, who cradled Rome ; 
 And sacred earth where Thebe and Spartan 
 
 strived — 
 Where Homer sung and Alexander lived! 
 Greece did not perish with Thermopylae — 
 Nor fade when Pindar died ! It has survived, 
 And still we muse o'er Sappho's reverie. 
 Or Euripides, warring in his ecstacy. 
 
74 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 XLVIl 
 
 So lives the land where Glory shed a plume, 
 Or honor left a fragment of esteem; 
 And while we walk by desolated tomb 
 Strange thoughts appear, as though within a 
 
 dream. 
 And pillage barkens in its breathless scream. 
 And while beside the scenes which we survey, 
 The heart, reluctant, turns from what is seen, 
 Not in sorrow, yet in pity for the clay 
 That moulders 'neath the ancient city's obloquy. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Who would not live as of the past and be 
 Of what has been ; and who would scarcely feel 
 A portion of the things that he must see ; 
 Who would not fly from earth, nor quite con- 
 ceal 
 His indifference for its rushing wheel. 
 When life is — oh! I cannot tell. 
 And hope is rooted in a barren field. 
 And peace, alone, is found in a farewell — 
 What auR-uish is haunted within this human 
 cell! 
 
Reflections. 75 
 
 XUX 
 
 Fierce wrath that I have kindled 'gainst myself, 
 Thou tyrant Woe, that rules my very soul ! 
 Strange sorrow, grief, or spirit in me left, 
 Or Fortune which would leave the breast so 
 
 cold! 
 It is sufficient that I can behold 
 My years so young, and yet so sparely spent, 
 Indwelling in my ruin as to console 
 My mind in ruins far greater in extent, 
 And different in their nature and their element. 
 
 It is sufficient that I cannot see 
 
 T'he future doom which waits the one now 
 
 sealed ! 
 This empty vase ; this void wherein I be ; 
 This haunt of misery thou hast revealed 
 Is ample for the present. That concealed 
 Whate'er its woe, is welcome to the heart 
 Whose desolation, hatred has congealed; 
 Fate holds the reins, I care not when they part 
 To free a thousand pangs from out a poisoned 
 
 dart! 
 
76 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 LI 
 
 i 
 O Fate ! Devisor of all Destiny ; 
 
 Of that which we can scarcely violate, 
 
 And yet, we murmur at its sanctity 
 
 That made life false, and joy a triumph late ! 
 
 'Curst be the Godhead of remorseless fate, 
 
 Whose edict is the torture, that I see 
 
 Imposed on those who fain would change their 
 
 state 
 
 Victims of its caprice; of its grim glee; 
 
 Or guests to swell the minstrelsy of Hecate. 
 
 LII 
 
 Our natures are untrue to what they seem, 
 And what we find in earth is not sincere. 
 And life, at best, is but a thwarted dream 
 Of what is not, yet what we can but fear. 
 The grave seems cold, but what a panacea 
 Is death? — the end of nothingness and pain. 
 Of rottenness and vice and guilt, whene'er 
 It wraps a human in its linkless chain. 
 And mixes that with dust, which birth would 
 all contain. I 
 
Reflections. 77 
 
 LIII 
 
 What was this earth for Heaven! — should I 
 
 ask 
 What means this dream of an eternity ; 
 What means this hard lot of our daily task; 
 Those stars which meet the wanderer's weary 
 
 eye; 
 That silent moon w4iich sails across the sky ? 
 Poor son of man w^ho bow^s before his God! 
 How vainly he appeals for a reply, 
 How shortly shall another nation trod 
 O'er the cold ground where nothing marks 
 
 where he is sod. 
 
 LIV 
 
 And yet, how do w^e struggle in this life, 
 And tire of the unequal toil — and taste 
 Of all the bitter fruits w^hich fill the brief — 
 Mixing each joy with grief in our haste? 
 Ere long we give our bodies up a waste; 
 Age numbers from the deeds we w^ould essay, 
 Not by the fleeting moments we should chase, 
 The past must be the stage of every play. 
 To-day we linger 'bout the graves of yesterday. 
 
78 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 LV 
 
 A youth is just from college, and he sees ! 
 He sees ! a struggling world before him lies ; 
 He feels new vigor from each freshening 
 
 breeze ; 
 Manhood is in his step; behold his prize — 
 A subdued world — whose power he defies ! 
 Ambition's fire is planted in his breast, 
 And victory is written in his eyes. 
 He launches now his ship, see him depart, 
 And sail upon an unknown sea without a chart ! 
 
 LVI 
 
 Whither his course he knows not, nor he cares 
 But he must be in motion; on he speeds; 
 He founds a land ; or sect ; or tribe ; or bears 
 The banners of a host which Earthdom heeds. 
 And subjugates, or mows men down as weeds; 
 The nations weep to satiate his thirst. 
 And bend before him like so many reeds; 
 He rides upon the storm his strength has burst. 
 And frowns upon his own — cold, merciless, ac- 
 curst. 
 
Reflections. 79 
 
 LVII 
 
 Alas, his destiny has set; alas 
 
 His restlessness is turned to bitter rest : 
 
 Infamy, disgrace, and hatred, alas ! 
 
 Prey on the slow fire of his aching breast. 
 
 No more is splendor on his bosom prest, 
 
 No more is honor with his fate allied. 
 
 He sinks, he sinks, — infamous and unblest, 
 
 With enemies arrayed on every side — 
 
 Alike his Eastern god — he dies unsatisfied. 
 
 Lvni 
 
 And what is Glory? What a mock is fame! 
 Are not we dead and thrown in our graves 
 Before the world will laudit our true name? 
 And glory is a feeling which enslaves 
 The restlessness against which genius raves 
 Until the cage which binds the soul will break, 
 And yield the censure which the spirit craves — 
 And gives those charms which other minds for- 
 sake, 
 And leaves its hero lost, at last, with a heart- 
 ache. 
 
80 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 LIX 
 
 Hard was the fight upon Waterloo's field — 
 Stifling the sulphurous smoke which hid its 
 
 blood : 
 Brave were the souls who burnished cannon 
 
 wield, 
 Fierce the charging steed, and marshalling 
 
 flood— 
 And after it, many lain and few stood. 
 But who reck'd wretched homes within fair 
 
 France, 
 As from the plains surviving hosts were 
 
 mowed ; 
 Who reck'd the dangers from an English lance 
 ,Or shame, when genius 'rose sadly from its 
 
 trance. 
 
 LX 
 
 Napoleon was wearied on the night, 
 Which, as a dark-plumed vulture bathed in ink, 
 Shed darkness o'er the fields of English right — 
 He should have been, if heedlessness can think 
 Of retribution for false fancy's drink. 
 How! how! could he appease a Mother's 
 pain — 
 
Reflections 81 
 
 La France ! La France ! — his parents' love must 
 
 shrink ! 
 Her star must set, it ne'er should rise again. 
 Withered by loss of blood which her own son 
 
 would drain. 
 
 LXI 
 
 Some say this life's a battle ! — it is so ! 
 No fiercer contest ever waged on High! 
 'Tis not with measured strength; with bended 
 
 bow — 
 Nor marshalled hosts to make battalions fly ! 
 It is not such as armies can defy, 
 But one continuous struggle with the mind 
 To bear the thoughts which cannot with us 
 
 die, — • 
 That casts a gloom we dare not to define, 
 Upon a sickened heart and brain convulsed with 
 
 crime. 
 
 LXH 
 
 And life is but an epic, and upon 
 
 Its pilgrimage, subdued, we fain would bear 
 
 Our scanty portion without derision. 
 
 But how can we love what but seems to tear 
 
82 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 The things most dear from our paltry share ! 
 Existence is a heartache ! can I not 
 Prove merriment a lie and grace a stare 
 Upon this stage of fools; of flesh; this spot 
 Where I would walk contented in my lonely 
 lot! 
 
 LXIII 
 
 But let not life be filled with discontent! 
 All beings suffer some ! why should not I ? 
 Whate'er should be my destiny, what bent 
 Should bear my spirit onward, should I fly 
 The judgment which I dare not to defy? 
 Or set my strength against it? I allow 
 My soul to yield without another sigh; 
 Before the Chastener humbly let me bow — 
 And ask forgiveness for the faults which I feel 
 now. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 I would not deem mankind to be all false; 
 Some good remains within this world of care — 
 A kind thought throbs with every beating pulse 
 A manly action with each minor fear. 
 
Reflections. 83 
 
 There's recompense for every well-shed tear — 
 Bread cast upon the waters shall return 
 And bless the giver in a double share. 
 And swollen hearts, and aching eyes which burn 
 Will find reward which pride or wealth could 
 never earn. 
 
 LXV 
 
 There is a Minister to our woes, 
 There is a Comforter for our cares ; 
 While sorrow o'er the heart its fountain pours, 
 Blessings await to wipe away our tears, 
 And calm our souls and dispel our fears. 
 Who knows for our lot, what should be best 
 Save Providence, who lists with open ears 
 To every pang which knows the human breast, 
 And every frightful dream which will not let 
 us rest? 
 
 LXVI 
 
 A sparrow falleth to the ground; 'tis seen! 
 Its faint appeal, on high, is heard to voice ! 
 Man's nature is so wont on heaven to lean 
 That he despairs the wisdom of his choice — 
 
84 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 And looks up to his God, e'en to rejoice! 
 Should he then say what should be or should 
 
 not; 
 Poor being of uncertainty and vice! 
 But let him gaze upon his lowly lot — 
 'Twill be enough to bring disgust upon his rot. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 We are interdependent ; we are things 
 Wrapt in each other; that is when we will 
 But I have learned to hate man's innate springs. 
 Go ask him who has drunk life to its fill, 
 Seen all that can move, felt all that can thrill — 
 Until his heart has overflown with deeds, 
 Until no future waits him to fulfil. 
 And youth is stifled by unwholesome weeds — 
 And he will tell you why his bosom swells and 
 bleeds. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 Twas in Habana's city that I stood, 
 To view the ruins usurped by foreign power. 
 And lingered o'er the scenes where maidenhood 
 Of Spanish royalty hath built its bower; 
 
Reflections. 85 
 
 And Baltis doth with every fruit endower, 
 While Nature's gardens, fountained haunts, 
 
 festoon 
 With vineclad heaths entwined with fairest 
 
 flower ; 
 And where the heat of Moloch's fiery zone, 
 Makes Summer Autumn's eve, and Spring of 
 Winter's noon. 
 
 LXIX 
 
 But what a sadness do her halls present. 
 Grim spectacles which haunt your every way — 
 The creaking gates where poisoned air gives 
 
 vent, 
 And awful sounds which in her dungeons stay! 
 "Relics of ancient usage," so they say — 
 "That from Sir Francis or his followers 
 
 sprung, 
 When prince or pirate sailed into the bay 
 And claimed a prison rather than be hung" — 
 Infamous creed which through barbarous ages 
 
 rung. 
 
86 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 LXX 
 
 As I wandered by the dire broken wall 
 Which circles with its mass the palace yard, 
 Erected to that queen whose name we call 
 "While musing o'er the soil Columbus marred 
 With civilization; I saw the scarred 
 And beaten gates disclosing, on each side, 
 The mansion Catharina's spirits guard, 
 Which lifts its form against the silvery tide — 
 That sweeps from out the waves which by dark 
 Morro stride. 
 
 LXXI 
 
 And of this maid no harp hath hither sung, 
 
 No Muse declared the anguish of her share; 
 
 No wreath of ivy by her name is hung, 
 
 No daughters whisper of her dark despair; 
 
 No artist traced her solitary lair! 
 
 A creature whom the crown of monarchs 
 
 crushed, 
 Save of her virgin beauty lingering where 
 Her breathles? body now is cold and hushed ; 
 'Neath the green grave, whereon the tread of 
 
 armies rushed. 
 
Reflections. 87 
 
 LXXII 
 
 Catharina was of proud origin, 
 
 But her heart was simple and her soul sincere ; 
 
 Her heritage, a mind unscathed by sin; 
 
 Her nature such as though 'twere born to bear 
 
 The inroads of reproach upon the ear. 
 
 Unlike other princesses, before 
 
 Her dignity was marked a line of care ; 
 
 Of calumny; that on her head would pour 
 
 Out its flood of malice from her parental foe. 
 
 Lxxni 
 
 A queen of all, was she, who met her gaze, 
 
 In Madrid's gardens or in Cuban halls ; 
 
 We mourn her death and now her name we 
 
 praise ! 
 While standing by Habana's cruel walls, 
 A whisper from the past, her name falls 
 With such a sweetness on the foreign ear! 
 Her fate more strangely every heart appals, 
 For royalty was not bred to appear 
 A sacrifice upon a princess* funeral bier. 
 
88 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 I saw proud Cuba's monuments in age, 
 The ivied sculpture of her envied great; 
 Relics of those who filled her brightest page. 
 'Tis sad to gaze on Cuba's injured state — 
 Departed worth, degraded Castile's fate — 
 Lifting its weeping face as one walks by 
 Cathedral or tomb, palace, or prison gate ; 
 Where once all honor looked in beauty's eye, 
 And Mothers sung their babes their noontide 
 lullaby. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 But Cuba's state has failed; her glory's past; 
 And as I stroll beneath the evening shade 
 I view her ancient graces falling fast; 
 Bowed is her knee before the Saxon blade — 
 Her breast is bleeding, yet her fame is made! 
 No more the tyrant sways his sceptered throne, 
 No more you hear the evening serenade ; 
 jHer gayety, at last, is overborne 
 And prestige sleeps where Pity now is heard to 
 mourn. 
 
Reflections. 89 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 In childhood's days, beside the sea I roamed. 
 
 At Portersville, or Petti-bois' shore 
 
 And longed its bosom as its waters stormed 
 
 And Mexico ! still do I love thy roar ; 
 
 And still thy waves are wont to bear me o'er; 
 
 Unfolding, now, in thine unvarying deep, 
 
 Thy beauty seems to haunt me more and more ; 
 
 Now freshening in thy rage and maddening 
 
 sweep, 
 Thy waves become armies — massing their mar- 
 shalled heap. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 A son had bade remaining friends farev/ell. 
 
 And left the hearth where early youth was 
 reared — 
 
 He yearned, for what, his heart could scarcely 
 tell. 
 
 And found it not with whom he was en- 
 deared — 
 
 He yearned to wander, nor his passions cared 
 
90 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Whither his thoughts should lead his wayward 
 
 form — 
 No furrows with his classic features shared, 
 The careless waters offered him a home, 
 And he had early learned to love their playful 
 
 storm. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 His sail is set, and flying on the wave, 
 His vessel bears him swiftly from the shore. 
 Now passing by some monumental grave, 
 Or viewing new scenes stealing by him slow — 
 He leaves the channel for a louder roar. 
 While now a flag is seen to raise on high 
 From parapet of ancient fort and flow 
 Its parting to the western breezes' sigh, 
 The ship sinks into night's cold, dark enameled 
 dye. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 "Airs well !" the Captain shouts, "an'd on tKe 
 
 morn 
 A cloudless sun shall rise to give us cheer, 
 For as the sun set every cloud was gone! 
 And come, my son ! a little wine to cheer 
 
Reflections. 91 
 
 iYe saddened brow — and wipe away your care 1'* 
 The youth now drinks a rather heavy draught, 
 'Twas really more than his young brain could 
 
 bear — • 
 While onward flies the Captain's sturdy craft, 
 And onward bears the wind — God knows where 
 
 it shall waft 1 
 
 LXXX 
 
 And he had loved, and in that love's dim light 
 He seemed to see a shadow which forbade 
 His soul rejoice at what it would invite; 
 That love had waned, and left his spirit sad 
 And much perturbed his noble mind, and had 
 Bereft him of the spirit of his youth ; 
 Midst storm and strife, his soul alone was glad, 
 And caprice hid his bitter heart from truth. 
 His life grew dark with misery or sin — or 
 both. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 But I must stop ; I started to unfold 
 
 The maddened sway which left this youth in 
 
 ruin ; 
 .^vA show how soon his life, in deeds, grew old; 
 
 I \:gu1k] not have the world his lesson learn, 
 
92 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Or show how oft it made his own eyes burn; 
 Suffice it that he traversed many a shore, 
 Suffixce it that, at last, he should return 
 And find all dear had faded evermore; 
 And left his land again, where should he, 
 blighted, go! 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 Reflection is a virtue, yet it shows 
 
 The secrets which we should not care to find; 
 
 It shows the vice, the falsity one knows 
 
 Pervades humanity — whate'er its kind; 
 
 Beauty, chivalry ; the graces which bind 
 
 Life unto life are but as mockeries, 
 
 And purity with Eden's fiowers pined. 
 
 And left no vestige of her levities. 
 
 And sanctity perished with the Corybantes. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 The lofty summit of the peak which rears, 
 Above a thousand storms, its adamant. 
 Heeds no rebuke, and knows no friends or 
 
 fears 
 For what it views beneath its element; 
 
Reflections. 93 
 
 And frowns with scorn from its high firmament 
 At that which howls and scoffs beneath its 
 
 place ; 
 Magnanimous o'er tempests that are spent 
 On its bold brow; about its pallid face— 
 Or thunder rolling tumultuously at its base. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 The fury of the tempest quells its fright, 
 And mountain blasts misspend their strength 
 
 in rage, 
 And Calumny is buried in her Night, 
 And hate is victim of its own ravage. 
 And I have learned to solve life's lowly stage, 
 Not hating, and yet shunning all I see, 
 I am content to turn from the carnage 
 That's bred into the beings who would be 
 The substance and the sink of life's epitome. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 Thrice blessed is the man who can arise 
 From poor contempt, and shake his wrath 
 
 away. 
 And look with pity on who dare despise ! 
 Thrice blessed is he who survives the sway 
 
94 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Of foul injustice baffling all his way ! 
 The crown of right will conquer every foe, 
 The sun of truth will light each cloudy day, 
 And Wisdom rises 'midst Hate's deafening 
 
 roar — 
 Goddess of all she views, about, above, below. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 What majesty pervades the martyr's brow! 
 All death itself, and that the direst death 
 Shakes not the victim in his darkest hour ; 
 While struggling for his fast departing breath 
 Glory is weaving him a wondrous wreath; 
 The fiercer be the fire which licks his limbs. 
 Still surer fame rests 'bout his native heath ! 
 Behold him as the scene before him swims — 
 A hero e'en to those who reck not of their 
 crimes. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 And it is morn! my lily sail! fly on! 
 Come be my playmate, ye distorted winds — 
 And howl ye tempests, for I love thy storm; 
 Ye blackened cloud which o'er the ocean bends ! 
 Awake thy thunder, and my joy begins : 
 
fteflectionst. SS 
 
 Awake ! awake ! ye sullen cloud and speak, 
 And flash thy fiery tongue to Heaven's ends — 
 And voice thy trumpet 'til my mast shall 
 
 creak ; 
 No terrors ride the deep when white's the 
 
 wave's high peak. 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 Bright isles which shine amid this morning's 
 
 light, 
 All robed in tenderest hues of sea and sky, 
 Which send such rapture to my journeyed 
 
 flight. 
 And gem the waters that few vessels ply. 
 And start a sympathy from out mine eye! 
 How dare the works of man disturb thy wilds, 
 When thou, alone, dost all his strength defy? 
 How can the tempests storm thy Southern 
 
 smiles — 
 Sweet coraled speck! deserted strand! bright 
 
 isles ! 
 
96 Peterson's Poeiiis. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 Perhaps lies buried 'neath thy marbled crest 
 The remnant of a mighty nation's host ; 
 Perhaps brave souls within thy caverns rest — 
 He's sod the deepest whom man honored 
 
 most — 
 Where are they now, and where their pompous 
 
 boast ! 
 Perhaps a mighty people thrived in vain 
 Upon thy soil, where roams its restless ghost; 
 And lived and died and failed and fell for gain, 
 Where now the mournful wavelets sweep thy 
 
 proud domain. 
 
 XC 
 
 Perhaps a Caesar, springing from some wrong, 
 Trod loud upon the wrecks of thine empires. 
 And taught them, that the day cannot be long 
 When vice will fall beneath despotic ires; 
 And kindled ashes on their funeral pyres ! 
 And where lies Csesar in his poor decay — 
 Encoffined deep where Rome had felt his fires, 
 And all forgetful of his armed array 
 He battles lone with dust, for Csesar was but 
 clay! 
 
Reflections. 9? 
 
 XCI 
 
 O for a distant place where I could go 
 And hide myself forever from this Earth 
 Of bitterness, of solitude, of woe ! 
 And leave behind the passions of my birth — 
 The passions which subdue my very worth; 
 Tossing my shipwrecked body on the wave 
 Of discontent, of sorrow, yet of mirth; 
 Scorching my brain within its fiery lave — 
 And leading my faint footsteps to an early 
 grave ! 
 
 XCII 
 
 And passion is a flower which would bloom 
 In the bare castle where the heart would stay ! 
 What instincts mingle in the unnamed gloom 
 Flickering its last fire on life's dim fray? 
 Where dwells the feeble watchlight of the day, 
 That flower absorbs as does the mistletoe — 
 A candle which must die before the play; 
 A sustenance which saps — it would be so ! 
 Why falls the soul a victim to a friendly foe? 
 
96 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 XCIII 
 
 When night shows her pale form, passion will 
 
 wake ; 
 When she speaks in tempests, passion will burst 
 His shattered cage, and flow forth for night's 
 
 sake — 
 And mingle with the frantic winds unnursed; 
 Battling with the tempests. The head accurst ; 
 Revenge; hatred; love and vice; that which 
 
 fails 
 Or is formed; spirits in sin immersed: 
 All these, and others, with their wastes and 
 
 wails 
 Become a part of night, and shriek amid her 
 
 gales. 
 
 XCIV 
 
 At times a silence comes into our souls; 
 A silence which would sever every thought 
 Save that which o'erpowers us and holds 
 Our beings in the trance which grief hath 
 
 brought ; 
 And conquers what Omnipotence has taught; 
 
Reflections. ^9 
 
 That silence will subdue ; it will pollute 
 
 The crystal fountains which have sprung from 
 
 naught, 
 And teach our hearts that man is but a brute 
 Who writhes beneath the rod— speechless and 
 
 yet not mute. 
 
 xcv 
 
 That silence is the sickness of the soul, 
 A fell disease which preys upon the mind ; 
 A deathless pang which we should not unfold ; 
 Its depth! ah! who would essay to define? 
 My God ! what hells are found in our kind ! 
 What burning sand will often blind the face, 
 What fearful thoughts are read there line by 
 
 line ! 
 O that I could forget the human race, 
 And dwell alone from what's to me a desert 
 
 place. 
 
 XCVI 
 
 Does remorse ever end ! or as disease 
 Which eats into the flesh a separate wound 
 For each one healed, does remorse never cease! 
 Why does it succumb the soul and rebound 
 LofC. 
 
loo Peterson's Poemg. 
 
 The awful past — where but remorse is found ? 
 Or as a dragon with his forked fang 
 Why does it poison existence, while 'round 
 The heart its tightening coils the meanwhile 
 
 hang, 
 Panting with heated breath each fresh en- 
 venomed pang? 
 
 XCVII 
 
 weary, wasted, pilgrimage of life ! 
 
 A thought of thee once more — it shall be brief ! 
 For I am wont to leave thy scenes of strife, 
 And learn of something which gives some re- 
 lief; 
 
 1 would not always bow my head in grief ! 
 Nothing of thee hath cured my heart its ache. 
 No flower springs beneath thy withered leaf, 
 Yet I forgive, although my breast shorJ 1 
 
 break — 
 I yield, if not for thine, at least, for torture's 
 sake! 
 
Reflections. 101 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 I love to roam deep in the Autumn woods; 
 I love the shaded brook which by me sings; 
 I love the charms of nature's solitudes, 
 I love the breath which from each flower 
 
 springs ; 
 I love the home of beasts ; the vine which clings 
 To riven oak sharing its sad decline, 
 That binds its boughs within its tendril strings, 
 Or droops in memory of its sire's repine; 
 Or how sweet is the breath of the wild jesa- 
 
 mine! 
 
 XCIX 
 
 I love the fields when they are seared and bare ; 
 And often when the sunset leaves the slope 
 Which rises from yon stream, it leaves me 
 
 there ; 
 For when I meet with beauty I must stop ! 
 I love the gale, when all has fled but hope ; 
 For in the gale a cheer comes from afar, 
 Speaking of things which might be or be not! 
 I love the twilight of the evening star; 
 Reigning in his lonely ray o'er high Matajar. 
 
102 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 I love antiquity and its domain ; 
 
 The voiceless ministers of Time; and why? 
 
 They do not only elevate the mind 
 
 And cultivate its visionary eye, 
 
 But turn us to where Earth's most noble lie; 
 
 The barbarian and his lot ; and those times 
 
 When Honor's son was seen to win or die! 
 
 That age of doubt when virtue knew no 
 crimes — 
 
 Which kindled the torchlight on martyrs' swol- 
 len limbs. 
 
 CI 
 
 A fit spot is Huelva in decay 
 To yet preserve where, first, Columbus sailed ; 
 Mingling its sacred ashes with the bay 
 Which beats the shore where Glory hath 
 
 availed ! 
 Andalusia! thy wealth's gone; thy pomp hath 
 
 failed, 
 And yet, upon thy once frequented plains — 
 Now desolate to all, save who prevailed 
 To love that soil which others would profane, 
 I cannot silent go, nor shun thee with disdain I 
 
Reflections. 103 
 
 CII 
 
 Thy grace hath sources where but grace can 
 
 thrive, 
 It mingles not its beauty with the fair ; 
 Thy charms would shun the spot where others 
 
 strive, 
 And hide thy graces in thy grim despair; 
 By thy soft vales ; or by thy mountain lair 
 Still, grandeur lifts its purple-haunted peak, 
 Bewildering the stranger's lingering stare. 
 While all thy plains the blood of heroes speak, 
 Where battle burnished tears on hatred's mar- 
 bled cheek. 
 
 cm 
 
 And thou sweet river! silent in thy flow, 
 That freshens Palos with exotic breath. 
 And plied by naught save mystics as they go 
 With lateen sails from greenly covered heath 
 Which shades thy waters as they pass beneath ! 
 
104 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Thy marts are gone, and on yon trackless 
 
 strand 
 Sinks in decay thy people and thy wealth; 
 And none but pilgrims, such as now I stand, 
 Tread where once festivity plucked her first 
 
 riband. 
 
 CIV 
 
 Odiel! mighty instrument of Time! 
 
 So changeless and unnoticed in thy sway — 
 
 With woods and skies deep-pictured in thy 
 
 slime. 
 And, ah ! a fairy face, too, in thy bay ; 
 I see a careless form that's far away, 
 Mirrored as though within thy fadeless glass, 
 It is a young face ! let me catch one ray 
 That burns sad visions in my mind, alas. 
 And hides my heedless heart in thy unheeding 
 
 mass! 
 
 CV 
 
 O that her image were of granite stone, 
 That I might find a substance for the mind ; 
 And hiding her within my heart, alone 
 Would dwell with that my eye could ever find — 
 
Reflections. 1C5 
 
 And live with what is real ; or else repine 
 Beside the features thou wouldst so derange 
 To flitting shadows of a torturing kind, 
 Which come and go; which sadden and 
 
 estrange 
 My being into fancy's fault, and frenzy's 
 
 change. 
 
 CVI 
 
 The day grows dark — the sun his downward 
 
 course 
 Is yielding, now, his red unto the west ; 
 And as night nears, the wind becomes more 
 
 hoarse. 
 The clouds are flying by yon mountain crest; 
 The sea is dark, and by its swollen breast 
 I wander lone, as oft I have before; 
 My mind is in a fever ; I must rest ! 
 Alas! what is this life which we adore? 
 What is this flame which burns my breast 
 
 where'er I go ? 
 
106 Peterson*s Poems. 
 
 (5VTL 
 
 A gale is on ! Dark-heaving in its mass 
 The Ocean shrieks ; the heavens burst ; the rain 
 Descends in rivulets on the morass ; 
 Yon forest screams; all Nature sighs in vain; 
 The waters become mountains, and would fain 
 Surmount their awful summits as they go 
 From hill to hill upon the watery plain ; 
 While lightning plays about their crested roar, 
 And licks his forked tongue within their fiery 
 flow. 
 
 CVIII 
 
 But hark! a wail is heard from out the wild. 
 And I must end this tale ! as though enraged 
 The waters seem to speak; and now revile 
 Who stands beside their beauty still engaged! 
 My soul is too full ! it must be encaged ; 
 My task is done, and I would leave who here 
 Would view a young heart blighted, seared and 
 
 aged; 
 Perchance its story shall induce a tear, 
 Or teach to other hearts part of its grief to bear, i 
 
When Sorrow Sits. 107 
 
 Wbeti Sorrow Sits. 
 
 I 
 
 When sorrow sits to chill the heart, 
 And sweeps its sadness o'er the mind; 
 When pensive anguish saith : "Thou art 
 But human in thy breed and kind !" 
 'Tis then we turn from life's fray, 
 And wander by the Ocean's side, 
 And marvel why we love the play 
 Which starts the tears we cannot hide. 
 
 II 
 
 Full oft upon the mountain crag 
 I view the struggling mass beneath. 
 And when the haze of Night will drag 
 Her mantle o'er the purpled heath ; 
 
108 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 And shroud the Earth in her black lake 
 And leaves me in the lonely wood, 
 I feel as though my heart would break- 
 And yet I know not why it should. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And when I view the wild, gay brook 
 That sings its freedom by my side, 
 And often see strange faces look 
 From out the current's foaming tide; 
 Faces with cheerful smiles for all 
 Who with rude Nature's tenants dwell- 
 I weep, at last, when Night shall fall, 
 Yet why, I cannot, cannot tell 
 
 IV 
 
 It is a fever of the mind 
 Which makes us sad and desolate; 
 It is the hope we left behind. 
 Or 'tis the future of our fate ; 
 Or 'tis the loneliness we feel; 
 Or 'tis the misery we know 
 Or restlessness which makes us reel 
 Beneath the bondage of our woe! 
 
When Sorrow Sits. 109 
 
 When sorrow sits to chill the heart 
 And sweeps its sadness o'er the mind ; 
 When hopes are lost and pleasures part 
 From out the lives of human kind ; 
 'Tis then we turn from life's dull fray, 
 And wander, wander, from unrest, 
 And marvel why we love the play 
 Which chills the heart and tears the breast. 
 
110 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 CI)C Speculation. 
 
 I 
 
 Whai I forget an Argus past 
 That looms a thousand tortured awes; 
 When women lose their charms ; and cast 
 My mind upon my creditors; 
 When all is empty save the flask 
 That sparkles for my midnight gaze 
 Then I shall turn to Time and ask— 
 "What do I owe thee for my plays ?" 
 
 II 
 
 When I shall, from this dubious sight 
 Of empty thieves and vassals turn; 
 When life is composed in a night 
 Whose starlights cannot cease to burn ; 
 
The Speculation. Ill 
 
 When I have finished my poor task 
 And gone where hate can breed no wrong, 
 Then shall I turn to man and ask — 
 "How could I stand your rot so long?" 
 
 Ill 
 
 When I shall close these eyes in death, 
 And my cold clay is sod unwept; 
 And fate shall free this spirit's breath 
 From out the form whence life hath swept; 
 When kindred throng about my cask 
 And place the veil upon my brow. 
 Then I shall turn to them and ask — 
 "What can your calumny do now?" 
 
 When I shall view that peaceful gleam 
 Of Death's unwakening ; and shall know 
 That death is but a sleep — a dream — 
 Wherefrom but revelry can flow ; 
 When Pluto's wine my spirits try. 
 And devils dance at my wild strain. 
 Then I shall turn to Earth and cry — 
 "I would not be with you again" 
 
112 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Co matnie. 
 
 I hear a voice within my breast 
 
 Which binds my being in its spell ; 
 
 A voice which bids me say "farewell 
 
 To thoughts of peace or dreams of rest :" 
 
 My spirit hears its pensive tone, 
 
 And says to me, ''Go on ! go on !'* 
 
 Again I leave thee! fairest maid 
 That ever waked my heart's desire, 
 That ever breathed my spirit's fire, 
 That ever' in my fancy stayed ; 
 Again thy face shall miss this one, 
 A voice has said, ''Go on ! go on !" 
 
 Oft in thy father's halls, when thou 
 
 Would press thy sweet face into mine, 
 
 YouVe asked me what should be the crime 
 
 That made me roam — as I do now ; 
 
 But, 'tis enough that T. alone, 
 
 Should know the bane which says, "Go on!" 
 
To Mamie. *^3 
 
 In all my paths o'er land and sea, 
 From native heath to foreign isle, 
 Save she who reared me as a child, 
 There' re none whom I have loved as thee; 
 Yet, now, my love for thee is gone — 
 A voice has said, '*Go on ! go on !" 
 
 If every face could wear thy smile, 
 And every heart could be sincere, 
 And every hope without its tear, 
 This life might be a pleasant while; — 
 But, 'tis not so; it cannot be, 
 For thou, alone, canst be of thee! 
 
 Life's just the same where'er I go; 
 
 A morsel of hypocrisy, 
 
 Save thou, alone, who could'st not be 
 
 As others of this earthly show ! 
 
 I tire of everything I see 
 
 But thy sweet form, and thy dark eye ! 
 
 Good-by! good-by! my lady love, 
 My bark is flying from the shore. 
 Perchance I ne'er shall see thee more; 
 Yet, howe'er far from thee I rove, 
 Still shall my passion sigh for thee, 
 For thee — for thee, and only thee! 
 
114 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Good-by ! good-by ! across the wave 
 The Hghtship, now, is fading fast; 
 My sail is higher on the mast, 
 The wind is growing loud and brave ! 
 Fair one ! farewell ! *tis done, 'tis done ! 
 A voice has said, "Go on! go on!'* 
 
 Good-by! my restless spirit screams. 
 To all my hopes and joys and fears; 
 To all my trials, griefs and cares; 
 To all my past, distempered dreams! 
 Good-by! where'er their breeze be blown- 
 A voice has said, *'Go on ! go on !" 
 
 And let the past rest 'neath some shade — 
 The burial-ground of all my woes, 
 And let forgiveness shame my foes, 
 And bless the curses they have kid; 
 For I am on the billows borne — 
 A voice has said, "Go on ! go on !" 
 
 "Go on! go on!" and, on I must! 
 My soul's as restless as yon tide ! 
 A voice is whispering at my side, 
 A voice which I am wont to trust ; 
 The same which in youth's holy morn 
 Proclaimed the strange edict, "Go on !" 
 
To Mamie. 115 
 
 Farewell, my lady, yet farewell ! 
 The night has closed yon western sky ! 
 The wild winds shriek their wildest cry, 
 And I must close this parting tale! 
 Farewell ! for I am from thee borne, 
 A voice has said, "Go on ! go on !" 
 
116 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Cbe Coue We ne'er Can Know- 
 
 I 
 
 Love has its sphere in every life. 
 How rude soe'er the plain ! 
 It answers woe, and conquers strife 
 When else has proven vain! 
 
 II 
 
 When revelry has lost the charm 
 Which long, has cheered the way, 
 The queenly calm of woman's form 
 Attracts the heart's delay. 
 
 Ill 
 
 When, oft, I but a stranger passed, 
 And met her darkened eye, 
 'Twould leave the heart estranged, at last, 
 And yet, I know not why. 
 
Love We Ne'er Can Know. 117 
 
 IV, 
 
 'Tis strange that I cannot forget 
 The hand I ne'er shall press, 
 And love the one I never met — 
 With love that cannot rest ! 
 
 AH nature shows her image now, 
 Reflected in each sigh 
 From out the Ocean's purple brow 
 Or Autumn's azure dye! 
 
 VI 
 
 And oft, beside the brook's wild race 
 I watch the mirrored stream, 
 And view, therein, her ^gyl face — 
 That gives to life its dream! 
 
 VII 
 
 Why so should fortune thus divide 
 Who ne'er shall meet again, 
 And leave me but a hope I hide, 
 And wish that gives me pain ? ^ 
 
118 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 vni 
 
 Why so should passion thus consume 
 The fountain it should flow, 
 And, self-inflicted, blight the bloom 
 Of love we ne'er can know ? 
 
To Lida. 119 
 
 Co £ida. 
 
 I 
 
 Why am I now so far from thee 
 First being of my early love? 
 Why do I drift from sea to sea, 
 Why do my restless passions rove? 
 
 II 
 
 Why should I brave the cheerless tide? 
 Where else could such enjoyment be 
 As that which lingers by thy side, 
 As that which I have found in thee? 
 
 Ill 
 
 In early youth, each fancy cheered 
 My playful spirits with delight. 
 Why am I now so cold and seared — 
 So withered in untimely blight? 
 
120 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 IV 
 
 I know not what my fate shall be; 
 I care not what my vision sees ! 
 Thou hast, at last, forsaken me — 
 And no one else could pain or please. 
 
 V 
 
 I know, not how it is with thee — 
 For I cannot thy side attend; 
 I know this much — you once loved me, 
 And now Fm lone — without a friend. 
 
To Catherine. 121 
 
 Co CatDcrltie. 
 
 If I could only live at ease 
 Beside thy beauty; and there stay, 
 My life would not be as it is — 
 Fair flower of my heart's decay ! 
 
 II 
 
 I once had pleasure in thy smile, 
 And rapture in thy childish grace, 
 And innocence was mine awhile — 
 'Til when thou loved another face ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 My being, once, was rapt in thine 
 And naught I cared for revelry; 
 My being, now, is rapt in sin 
 And maddest spells of gayety! 
 
122 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 IV 
 
 O how I would my path forsake, 
 
 And dwell with love that points to heaven, 
 
 But ne'er shall I of that partake 
 
 Which to another has been given ! 
 
 V 
 
 And how would I despise the din 
 Of midnight's mirth, and wine's poor cheer, 
 Could I but live where love has been — 
 And be where love was once sincere! 
 
 VI 
 
 For thy sake, fair one ! I depart 
 To mourn o'er beauty's strange exile. 
 From who was young, yet strong in heart- 
 From who was pure but now defiled ! 
 
 VII 
 
 And if upon distant plain 
 Of Ocean's wild — I sigh for thee, 
 Forgive the heart that sighs in vain 
 For what was best but could not be ! 
 
A Wine Song. 123 
 
 n wine Sons. 
 
 I 
 
 Let's light the spark of life, my friends! 
 And cheer our wearied hearts with wine, 
 For years are fleet, and pleasure ends, 
 Her love is dead, and so is mine. 
 
 II 
 
 Who would not fill the cup with joy 
 That hides the heartaches of the past, 
 And reckon life as but a toy. 
 And say to pain : "Thou canst not last" ? 
 
 Ill 
 
 Forget the watchful past, my friends! 
 And grace the sparkling goblet now — 
 Fill up the cup with all your sins. 
 And Angels soon shall light your brow. 
 
124 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 IV 
 
 And let us drink the sacred draught 
 So mixed with every woe of life, 
 And, into our soul's engraft 
 The liquid which will drown our grief ! 
 
 V. 
 
 In all this world of care and woe, 
 IVe only found a partial bliss; 
 And that is when my spirits go 
 To drink, or utter listlessness. 
 
The F^arting, izS 
 
 Cbe Parting. 
 
 I 
 
 Two parted — ^ne'er to meet again 
 In this life's fitful fever; 
 With her was love, with him was pain, 
 With both a sad forever. 
 
 II 
 
 I saw the youth who stood beside 
 Castilia's fairest daughter, 
 I saw the bark, I saw the tide 
 That soon should waft^him from her. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The cold wave swept by Morro's base 
 And bathed her pallid fortress ; 
 A sadness seemed to spell the place, 
 And mingle with their distress. 
 
126 Peterson's Poemsi. 
 
 IV 
 
 I saw him on the ship's proud bow, 
 I saw his dark eye wander 
 To haunts more loved than ever now, 
 And memories grown fonder. 
 
 I saw his craft fly on the crest 
 Foaming white on the Ocean, 
 He flung farewell from out his breast ; 
 'Twas hushed in the billows' motion. 
 
 VI 
 
 Perchance a woman's fairy hand 
 Waved partings o'er the waters ; 
 But, then, his craft was far from land 
 He could not see where she was. 
 
 VII 
 
 Two parted with a last adieu, 
 
 Their hearts beat swift as ever, 
 
 And both were young, and both were tni< 
 
 And both bled there together. 
 
Dejection. 121 
 
 Dejection 
 
 O why should I be tossed about 
 This winter of my dark despair; 
 With pangs within and pains without — 
 Is it too much for me to bear ? 
 Die, spirit ! die, which in me dwells, 
 And Earth's denied her hosts of Hells ! 
 
 II 
 
 iWhy as an exile should I live — 
 A target for the aim of lies — 
 Df those I hate not nor forgive. 
 Of those I stoop not to despise ? 
 Away! away! perfidious masses — 
 I cannot curse the brays of asses! 
 
128 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Ill 
 
 That hand which rules the stars by night, 
 And quells the storm that heaves the bay, 
 And bears the struggling beam to light. 
 That gives to man another day; 
 Has so fashioned that Earth should be 
 Paradise to who cannot see. 
 
 IV 
 
 For when we see the nothingness; 
 The void in which our lives are cast; 
 We writhe in our restlessness — 
 And wish each breath might be our last. 
 And flounder as a sailless craft — 
 Careless whither the wind shall waft.— 
 
 Then why should this existence gain 
 False praises from who but regrets 
 That everything was made in vain, 
 And life is but a million frets? 
 Friend! choose thou above fame, folly- 
 And simpletons to saints — ^by Golly! 
 
A Toast. 129 
 
 n coast. 
 
 Come cheer my soul, thou aged wine, 
 Else I shall at this moment pine! 
 And let thy fancies rule my heart- 
 El^ peace from out my breast shall part! 
 A drink! for God's sake! but a drink 
 To stir the withered thoughts I think, 
 A toast to her who lives afar 
 ^Vhose love's my light, my lamp, my star! 
 
 O lady ! lady ! as I sip 
 This draught, my spirits dance and skip, 
 And mingle their engendered mirth 
 ^Vith memories of domestic worth; 
 With thoughts that border earnestness, 
 And scenes of bliss and happiness! 
 So, here she goes, my toast is spent— 
 Good-night! God save the President! 
 
I3d Peterson^s Poem$ 
 
 n PllSrlm^s Cast Prapcn 
 
 God of my hope, I am a wanderer; 
 
 My life has been misspent ; my cup of sin 
 
 Is full, O Lord ! I am a transgressor 
 
 Of thy most holy laws ; — I have so been ; 
 
 But now I look to thee to be my guide ! 
 
 O father of the helpless, turn me not aside! 
 
 God of my hope, slow fades my life's last spark ! 
 The rain descends ; and I am far from home ! 
 My path is lost ; the night is growing dark ; 
 The way is rough, I know not where I roam ! 
 My strength is spent; my face in grief I hide, 
 O father of the helpless, turn me not aside! 
 
 God of my hope, my feet are bare and torn; 
 My limbs are faint ; my thoughts are turned to 
 
 thee! 
 My sight grows dim ; O leave me not alone ; 
 The stream of life flows swiftly to the sea ! 
 The waves are splashing on the darkened tide ! 
 O father of the helpless, turn me not aside ! 
 
A Wish. i3i 
 
 O would I were a little child 
 High-tossed upon the foaming billow, 
 Or resting 'neath a mother's smile 
 Breathing soft on an infant's pillow; 
 Unconscious, thoughtless, all the while! 
 
1S2 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 CO jllicc. 
 
 I trust that my friend will excuse this intru- 
 sion, 
 
 (It may be, at its best, but a strange illusion) 
 
 And though I don't know that I have even met 
 her, 
 
 I don't think, at least, I shall ever forget her ! 
 
 Still I am haunted by her sweet, childish fea- 
 tures — ' 
 
 Which show her loveliest of all of God's crea- 
 tures ; 
 
 Still her classic face will not cease to beguile 
 me5 
 
 Still my thoughts of her will not cease to revile 
 me! 
 
 And, as I am feeling, somehow, somewhat 
 frisky, 
 
 I think I shall swallow a few drinks of whiskey. 
 
To Alice. 133 
 
 All hail to the wine then ! forgetting my lady, 
 I'll get drunk to-day if Fm not drunk already ; 
 And thank the good Lord, if her He would not 
 
 give me, 
 At least he furnished some liquor to relieve 
 
 me! 
 
 I 
 
 This isle of the South, where the sunbeams are 
 smiling, 
 
 I hailed, with delight, for a long-promised rest; 
 
 But here, even here, thy sweet face is beguil- 
 ing— 
 
 And, maiden, my heart beats for thy gentle 
 breast ! 
 
 Here still is that pang which so long has pur- 
 sued me — 
 
 That love which consumes its unfortunate fire; 
 
 I cannot forget it ; its glow has subdued me, 
 
 I cannot defy it; its strength will not tire! 
 
 H 
 
 O would that I never had viewed thee while 
 passing, 
 
 But turned from thy beauty with scorn and dis- 
 dain. 
 
134 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 And shunned thy sweet presence for that more 
 
 harassing, 
 And quelled every thought — ^which, e'en now, 
 
 gives me pain : 
 And yet, I but wish that, for once, I had met 
 
 thee 
 And spoken the passion I cannot conceal; 
 Perhaps, if I had, thou would'st not so forget 
 
 me — 
 And leave me to learn the neglect I now feel ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 I know that my life has been given to sorrow. 
 
 To envy, disgrace and to all other woes ; 
 
 What pleases to-day, is but grief on the mor- 
 row — 
 
 And the pang's just the same where'er one 
 goes: ... 
 
 I feel that no friend is about nor above me. 
 
 And I pine 'neath the gaze of my desolate 
 haunts 
 
 And my heart is sad; for I know that I love 
 thee ; 
 
 That for thy gentle form my spirit still pants ! 
 
To Alice. 135 
 
 IV 
 
 A palace, my lady, I have for my dwelling, 
 And wealth floats about me in gorgeous attire ; 
 My slumbers are sung by sweet symphonies, 
 
 telling 
 That revelry rules with his passionate lyre; 
 Around me is mirth — with its mists to console 
 
 me, 
 My mansion is lit with a maiden's fair grace. 
 But O how I long for again to behold thee. 
 And dwell in the smile of thine own lovely 
 
 face! 
 
 Vi 
 
 I know that whatever on earth I now cher- 
 ish 
 
 Must fade into evening, and soon be forgot ; 
 
 That thou, with the rest, as a shadow, shall 
 perish. 
 
 But forget I love thee ! I know I cannot ! 
 
 I know that from pleasure my soul has been 
 banished 
 
 And left as an exile upon a strange land, 
 
136 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 But Fancy forbids that thy form shall have 
 
 vanished ; 
 And my heart is still ruled by thine own wizard 
 
 wand! 
 
 VI 
 
 In the west, the God of the day is now dying, 
 
 The fireflies gather to cheer the lone night, 
 
 And Seraphs, in twilight's last spark, are fly- 
 ing, 
 
 And heralding dusk with a dancing delight ; 
 
 They sky of thy brow is now pictured before 
 me, 
 
 Contentment now reigns where, once, care 
 would abide. 
 
 The spell of thy witchery now hovers o'er 
 me — 
 
 And sorrow has left me as an eventide! 
 
Love's Link. 137 
 
 Cooe's Cittk. 
 
 Love has its dream ; its start ; its wake ; 
 Its birth's a sigh; its end an ache; 
 Its pang; its pilgrimage; its pain; 
 Its sacred harp which sings in vain, 
 Distorts the life that loves but one. 
 And mars the midday of its sun. 
 
 How often have I seen the face 
 Whose glow was rapt by woman's grace, 
 Succumb to sadness when her smile 
 Had left her favorite av/hile, 
 And found another charm to start 
 The caprice of a woman's heart! 
 
 How often, on this journey here, 
 I view who was but too sincere 
 Wandering from his native land, 
 And dwelling on a lonely strand — 
 There, perhaps, to find relief 
 Or sink beneath his wave of grief ! 
 
138 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 It is not fancy which portrays 
 The subject of my midnight gaze! 
 'Tis not that I delight to show 
 The burnings of a secret woe! 
 But I have known the fevered sigh 
 Which burns the brain, and wets the eye; 
 
 And I have seen strange beings cast 
 As mourners o'er a bittered past, 
 That will not hide a frenzied sight, 
 That cannot bury Love's respite ; 
 Whose souls, subdued, at last, will sink 
 As victims to Love's lengthening link. 
 
The Passion of Hate. 139 
 
 Cb« Passion of Rate. 
 
 If every thought in this wide world of care 
 Were centered in a single thought ; and if 
 That harmony were blended in one wish, 
 That wish would cry for vengeance for our 
 
 wrongs, 
 And rise to curse the makers of our woe. 
 Hate is that sympathy which thwarted lives 
 Delight to feed upon. It is that balm 
 Which Evil leaves to cheer her followers ; 
 Stalking forth only in darkened hours 
 It scorns Love, and blights friendship as a 
 
 blast. 
 It rides as the lightning — in its own storm. 
 Hiding all danger in its beauteous glare, 
 And heaving its wave of night midst tempests 
 Of despair — undaunted though forsaken, 
 Until it makes its misery a heaven. 
 
140 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 As the frowning precipice which receives 
 Shock after shock from the sea-born gale, and 
 Trembles with the tremor of dark thunder, 
 'Til thunder, gale and crag unite as one. 
 Standing defiant as a God, it chides 
 Its hurricanes to weeping mists of rain — 
 Dismantling all its foes. And Hate is that 
 Which cheerless Blight bequeaths to injured 
 
 minds, 
 That they may revel in their own despair, 
 And hate a world which they could never love. 
 
My Heart Refuses Rest. 141 
 
 But Still iRp Reart Refuses Rest 
 
 I 
 
 I dwelt in halls of courtly grace, 
 Beloved, yet loved not by my race. 
 And gorgeous w^ealth and gay attire 
 Attended every faint desire ; 
 But still my heart refused to rest. 
 And still was pain within my breast. 
 
 II 
 
 I left my native land, and sought 
 A solitude in climes untaught ; 
 I roamed about from sea to sea. 
 And stemmed the billow bold and free ; 
 But still my heart refused to rest. 
 And still was pain within my breast. 
 
142 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I sat by Amazon's broad stream. 
 As though enraptured in a dream, 
 And walked beneath her forests' shade. 
 And in her wild a home I made; 
 But still my heart refused to rest, 
 Still was there pain within my breast, 
 
 IV 
 
 I stood on Afric's barren shore. 
 And watched the wild Atlantic's roar; 
 I viewed her parched plains afar, 
 Where sets the lonely Southern star; 
 But still my heart refused to rest. 
 Still was there pain within my breast. 
 
 I found, myself a distant isle, 
 And made myself a lone exile, 
 Refused to look upon the past, 
 And swept each memory but the last; 
 But still my heart refused to rest, 
 And still was pain within my breast. 
 
My Heart Refuses Rest. 143 
 
 VI 
 
 Filled with despair, I sought the home 
 From which my early steps did roam ; 
 But none were there to cheer my heart ; 
 But censure hurled her heedless dart, 
 And still my heart refused to rest. 
 Still was there pain within my breast. 
 
 VII 
 
 O where! O where! where shall I go, 
 
 To heal this eating taint of woe I 
 
 What clime — ^what land — shall succor me? 
 
 What balm shall set this demon free? 
 
 For still my heart refuses rest, 
 
 And still pain throbs within my breast. 
 
144 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 Cberc is a Dream; Cbcre i$ a Sleep. 
 
 "Sed omnes una manet nox 
 Et calcanda semel via lethi." 
 Horace, Book I., Ode xxviii., verse 15. 
 
 There is a dream; there is a sleep 
 
 From which none e'er shall wake to weep ; 
 
 We tread along this world of care, 
 
 And snatch from man our paltry share, 
 
 And bear a load we would not bear ; 
 
 But soon our thoughts must sleep — must sleep. 
 
 II 
 
 There is a dream; there is a sleep! 
 
 We claim a lot we cannot keep, 
 
 For earth must perish 'neath the earth, 
 
 The grave must overtake our mirth. 
 
 For Death was written in our birth ; 
 
 And soon our thoughts must sleep — must sleep. 
 
There is a Dream. 145 
 
 III 
 
 There is a dream; there is a sleep 
 
 Which soon must chill the youthful cheek, 
 
 Which soon must fade the sunny eye, 
 
 Which soon must dark the Summer sky. 
 
 And bring an end to every sigh; 
 
 For Thought, at last, must sleep— must sleep. 
 
 IV 
 
 There is a dream ; there is a sleep 
 
 Which o'er this form at last shall creep. 
 
 And hide this world of bitterness, 
 
 And bring one word of tenderness ; 
 
 And perhaps one of forgiveness; 
 
 When this raked brain shall sleep— shall sleep. 
 
 V 
 
 There is a dream ; there is a sleep, 
 
 There is a restful calm so deep, 
 
 Which soon shall change all human things, 
 
 Which soon shall still the heart's strung 
 
 strings, 
 And which soon from this spirit wrings 
 The thoughts which, here, refuse to sleep. 
 
146 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 VI 
 
 There is a dream"; there is a sleep 
 Which stills all woe in its broad sweep. 
 O what for woe shall it replace, 
 When I shall meet it face to face 
 Beside the Lethe's dark-running race, 
 When all my thoughts are drowned in sleep ? 
 
 VII 
 
 There is a dream; there is a sleep — 
 We all have harvests here to reap — 
 When we shall wake from our dream. 
 When Light shall break the tomb's last seam, 
 Or Hell shall drift us down its stream; 
 Then we shall sleep, forever sleep. 
 
 VIII 
 
 There is a dream; there is a sleep 
 From which none e'er shall wake to weep. 
 There comes a time when strife must cease, 
 When grief must stop, and joy increase; 
 There is a haven-land of peace 
 When we shall sleep ; when we shall sleep. 
 
The Judgment. H'^ 
 
 *<Eryvxicov Ava^ \ Sophocles, CEdip. Colon, verse 1682. 
 ^iWxi" UEdit. Johnson.) 
 
 I dwelt among the clouds— the thunderbolts, 
 And mingled with the storm and mist and ram : 
 Deep shades hung their coils about me. 
 
 I became 
 A child of Chaos and of Night and, on 
 Their spectered shrouds of mysteries, I 
 
 breathed 
 Seraphic ether. 
 
 And the elements, 
 Ungentle as they were, became as breasts 
 Whereon I did lay, sailing silently 
 Over a listless sea of drifting gloom 
 Rolling in dark distress. 
 
148 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 The universe, 
 Shapeless and void, swung from infinitude 
 Over a pit of reflected blackness 
 As the shadow of a noiseless vision 
 Draped in rain, and dreamed in the land of 
 
 myths ; 
 Or as a pendulum of unborn Time, 
 It swung its dusky pace from cloud to cloud. 
 And reckoned with its mournful melody, 
 In dim sepulchral strides, the pulse of Fate's 
 Eternal, Argus, sentinel. 
 
 I looked! 
 There was no sun, no moon, nor starry sky ; 
 No changing seasons ; no sea ; no river. 
 Save of the inky sea of Night, or of 
 The rushing river of a mighty ruin 
 Which swept me on in its strong stream. 
 
 I looked! 
 Behold! a Thing of Light flamed from the 
 
 North, 
 And broke the darkness from my gale-born 
 
 couch ; 
 My vision became blinded as a blank; 
 Mine eyes hid in their sockets as two stones ; 
 My being burned with radiance. 
 
The Judgment. 149 
 
 I sunk 
 Beneath tht awful radiance. 
 
 A hand 
 Was laid upon my prostrate form. 
 
 A voice 
 Spake, and Chaos trembled with dark thun- 
 der — 
 As in a moment I was changed. 
 
 I saw, 
 Beside me a Great Spirit clothed in fire. 
 He grasped me in his dexter grasp, and placed 
 My being in his flaming bosom. 
 
 Wings, 
 Like two blazoned skies o'er a vale of death. 
 Whistled as the shrieking of an ocean — 
 He soared ; he soared ; he soared. 
 
 And on and on, 
 In his passionless bosom, was I borne. 
 Till sweeping by the sources of the Winds, 
 And speeding past the Lightning's aged tower. 
 
150 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 And passing e'en the agate gates of heaven, 
 He hurled me o'er a mighty eminence 
 Far out upon the lazy wings of Night. — 
 I drifted— I drifted;— I fell 
 
 Behold! 
 In a moment was I changed ; by the side 
 Of a fevered mother's breast was I laid — 
 But O how helpless ! and my soul was bound 
 About by a strange decay known as flesh. 
 Hark ! I was but a babe ! but a struggling 
 Thing of life on the morning of a day. 
 Strange beings gazed upon me ; and I heard 
 Strange voices speak in stranger languages. 
 No more I swept the raging tempests; 
 No more I dwelt upon my mountain heights — 
 Alas! 
 
 'Twas night again. About me slept 
 An aching world. Beside me, still, in rest, 
 My wakeless mother's breathings now were 
 
 hushed. 
 I placed my hand upon her breast; that breast 
 Was cold in the chill of frigid death. 
 My baby lios pressed 'gainst her dugs, but ice 
 Had frozen fast the free maternal stream. 
 
The Judgment. 151 
 
 K moonbeam rested on her silent lips, 
 
 Yet feared to pierce her eyes which stared me 
 
 dumb; 
 And hark ! I heard a rushing wind. My limbs 
 Were paralyzed in unnamed fear ; alone 
 I laid. 
 
 Before me moved a grim specter. 
 His ashened face was prest against my lips; 
 He breathed his wizard breath into my breast; 
 And, stretching his cold fingers o'er my brow, 
 Set a dark seal upon my temples. 
 
 Hark! 
 lYears had flown; swift-gliding seasons had 
 
 stole 
 Long marches, and I had merged in childhood. 
 I wandered 'bout the open fields, and roamed 
 Beside the mighty ocean, and I braved 
 The rivers' dashing currents in my glee. 
 But I was sad, and yet I knew not why; 
 A demon seemed to haunt me ; and upon 
 My face was written a strange sign. 
 
 My breast 
 Was filled with strange emotion. 
 
152 Peterson's Poems. 
 
 I wts not 
 As ©thers whd walked ©n the earth ; nor did 
 I become as them. I could not ! 
 
 Aloof 
 I held myself from all mankind, and dwelt 
 Alone with Nature, for I seemed to love 
 The things inanimate with others. 
 
 Hark! 
 Years had flown ; swift-winged years upon the 
 Page of Time. Childhood had merged in 
 
 manhood. 
 As a mountain did I stand against the world; 
 Filled with strange fire and yet unmovable — 
 Warm from within, yet cold and bleak without. 
 
 That fire did prey upon the springs of life; 
 It ate my heart away, and agonized 
 My discontented mind. 
 
 I left the world ; 
 I wandered over unfrequented seas, 
 And walked on barren soils — where ne*er Had 
 
 trod 
 The footprints of a human step. 
 
The Judgment." 153 
 
 I roamed — 
 I roamed. My brain was dark, and in despair 
 I cursed all Nature — all Infinitude. 
 That curse did rebound on my soul. 
 
 A storm 
 Had set its strength against my feeble craft. 
 The winds ne'er howled more loudly, and the 
 
 waves 
 Ne'er tossed so in their leaps into the sky; 
 The sky repulsed their charge with bolts of 
 
 fire: 
 And now my ship had sunk beneath the tides, 
 I drifted upon the angered waters. 
 And now my strength was gone. 
 
 And all was dark — 
 And all was dark ; I sunk ; I sunk ; I sunk ; 
 And gloom encircled me. 
 
 In a moment 
 Was I changed into a brooding tempest 
 Sweeping from ocean to ocean. 
 
 The cloud 
 Again was my rude pillow, and the breeze 
 [Again was m^ enchantress. 
 
154 Peterson's Poems. 1 
 
 I did ride 
 Upon the bold ocean billow, and dashed 
 The instruments of man into the deep. 
 
 And in a moment was I changed to mist 
 And Night and Chaos ; there was no earth, sea 
 Nor sun ; nor moon or starry sky ; and Dark 
 Reigned as a dim specter over Midnight ; 
 There was no water save a lake of ink 
 Wherein I drifted. 
 
 And this is judgment — 
 OPre-judged e'er infancy; and nursed in crime; 
 And set upon a shore of misery; 
 And cursed e'er life is cast into the breath; 
 And flung from rock to rock ; and torn 
 In pain. 
 
 Alas! a struggle against strife, 
 Yet where all strife is vain, to end at last 
 In chilled death forevermore. 
 
Notes. 155 
 
 XI-L 
 
 'The banquet halls are lit, fair women sing 
 And aged wine fills revelry with smiles." 
 
 The Spaniard is decidedly an evening reveler, and 
 those parts of the South seas that are inhabited by the 
 Spanish people are, almost every evening, the scenes 
 of gay and reckless dances. 
 
 It is the custom of all trading vessels before they 
 enter a strange harbor to spend a day or so outside 
 of the bar, in order that the captain may make ar- 
 rangements for landing his cargo. On such occasions, 
 those who desire may go on shore in the lifeboats, as 
 soon as the vessel secures an anchorage. 
 
 A person of rank is at once recognized by the Spanish 
 officials, and generally receives an invitation to attend 
 these festivities above referred to. 
 
 The author has frequently been a visitor to these 
 places, and has always been accorded an enthusiastic 
 welcome. The people are very friendly, and are highly 
 cultivated in all of the celebrated arts. Their music 
 is highly classical; their paintings and sculpture are 
 of the dramatic order, generally representing some wild 
 scene of adventure or some passionate romance suited 
 to the clime; their poetry is generally on the Italian 
 order— a singsong dingle-dangle — filled with mirth and 
 myth, and generally representing heroes of wild and 
 oftentimes, lewd dispositions, and concluding with some 
 unheard-of tragedy that fills the soul with horror. 
 They have great talent for music. 
 
 XII— I. 
 
 "Or dwelling on a shore untaught to strange beauty;" 
 The author refers to natural beauty — the beauty giveij 
 
156 Notes. 
 
 by the God of Nature as distinguished from artificial 
 beauty. 
 
 One who has frequented the distant islands of the 
 South seas, will detect the sublime and natural beauty 
 of those shores that have not as yet been trampled 
 under the foot of man — their grandeur surpasses any 
 scenery in the world. 
 
 XXXI— I. 
 
 "Reposing on a distant western isle." 
 
 This refers to the demolition of the city of Galveston, 
 in the month of September, 1900. The following is the 
 statement which was given of the catastrophe imme- 
 diately after its occurrence. 
 
 "The most appalling calamity in the history of modern 
 times has befallen Galveston. Everywhere there is 
 death and ruin and desolation. A great commercial 
 city is stricken with misfortune, and her people appeal 
 to the outside world for help. Parents mourn their 
 children, and children mourn their parents by the 
 terrible hurricane which swept all of South Texas 
 Saturday and Saturday night. 
 
 "The damage to business and residence property is 
 beyond computation. The city is almost ruined. The 
 wharf front is almost gone. Every ocean steamer is 
 stranded. No pen can depict, or language adequately 
 describe the awfulness of the situation. It is simply 
 immense, unparalleled, and even those who went 
 through the experience of the storm and survived, are 
 so dazed they can hardly realize the enormity of the 
 loss. A stricken city is in misfortune, and asks the 
 people of the country to send food and clothing and 
 water. 
 
Notes. iSIf 
 
 "Galveston is situated on an island extending east and 
 west for twenty-seven miles, and is seven miles in its 
 greatest width north and south. No city could be in 
 greater danger with such a horrible visitation as has 
 come to Galveston. In no part of the city, with its 
 68,000 population, is it more than six feet above the sea 
 level. The flat condition now only points to the des- 
 peration of the situation of the people at such a time 
 as this ; but their danger may be considered emphasized 
 when it is known that exactly where the city is built 
 the island is only one and one-quarter miles wide. 
 
 'The storm commenced raging between nine and 
 ten o'clock Saturday morning, and by noon the waters 
 of the Gulf had inundated the island as far inland as 
 Twelfth street. From there the waters were gradually 
 encroaching further inland, rising about fifteen inches 
 an hour. At six p. m. there was thirty-six inches of 
 water in the lobbies of the Tremont Hotel, the highest 
 point in the city. The storm increased in fury with the 
 hours of the night, the wind reaching a velocity of 
 eighty-four miles an hour, and then the instruments of 
 the Government Observatory were wrecked. 
 
 "When morning dawned the city was in ruins." 
 
 XLV— I. 
 
 "The sunset sky that's pictured o'er her fate." 
 
 In Carthage, just before the sun sets, it assumes a 
 hectic hue as though it were setting for its last time. 
 Such attracts one immediately, when he remembers 
 the untimely fate of ancient Carthage. 
 
158 Notes. 
 
 XLVI— I 
 "The mother of the arts, who cradled Rome," 
 
 It seems unnecessary to state that the Romans de- 
 rived, practically, all of their knowledge of the fine arts 
 from the example of Greece. 
 
 LX— I 
 "How! how! could he appease a mother's pain!" 
 
 France is here spoken of as having been the mother 
 soil of Napoleon. While it is true that Napoleon was 
 by birth a Corsican, yet he allied himself with France 
 (to which government he was then no alien), and 
 his destiny rose and set with that of the French. 
 
 When Corsica was struggling for independence under 
 the leadership of General Paoli, Napoleon was ofifered 
 a command over the insurgents, but refused it, stating 
 that "Corsica could never maintain its independence." 
 Which showed that he felt himself more closely allied 
 to France than to Corsica. To say the least, he was 
 an adopted son. 
 
 LXVIII— I 
 
 "Makes Summer Autumn's eve, and Spring of Winter's 
 noon." 
 
 The natural temperature of Havana is tempered by 
 the continuous breeze which blows from the Gulf, mak- 
 ing it not disagreeable in the summer, and giving it 
 the touch of our spring during the winter months. 
 
Notes. 159 
 
 LXIX— I 
 "And awful sounds which in her dungeons stay." 
 
 Just below The Palace in Havana, may be seen the 
 ancient prison erected by Sir Francis Drake when he 
 landed on the island. This prison originally fronted 
 the Gulf of Mexico, and guarded the pass which opens 
 Havana Bay into the Gulf. Its walls are estimated 
 to be sixteen feet in thickness in some parts, and are 
 built of rugged stone. 
 
 The dungeons of this prison are very damp and deep, 
 and are enclosed by heavy iron gates. The waters of 
 the bay roll against its south side, producing strange 
 sounds within the dungeons — ghostlike sounds — which 
 vary with the violence of the wind and waves outside. 
 
 LXX—I. 
 
 "The mansion Catharina's spirit guard." 
 
 ' Catharina was a young and beautiful princess who, 
 it is alleged, was banished from Spain by her father 
 because of her affection for a young Italian nobleman. 
 She was confined in the prison in Havana for two or 
 three years, and, when about to be set free by her lover, 
 died of a broken heart. Her spirit is said to haunt 
 The Palace in Havana, as well as the room lately oc- 
 cupied by the archives of the Spanish government. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 "At Portersville, or Petti-bois' shore;" 
 
 Portersville is a small hamlet situated on the ex- 
 treme Southern coast of Alabama. The author spent 
 much of his childhood at this place in search of health 
 
160 Notes. 
 
 and strength. Petti-bois' island^is a small island lying 
 just off the Mississippi coast. The author would fre- 
 quently make excursions to the island from Porters- 
 ville, with seafaring men. 
 
 C-I. 
 
 "A fit spot is Huelva in decay. 
 
 It is said that the bells of distant Huelva chimed 
 the departure of Columbus on his first voyage of dis- 
 covery to the New World. 
 
 If one could stand by the river Tinto, just as the 
 evening is dying, and hear those bells chime again, he 
 would forget the decay and desolation which Huelva 
 presents. I regard the place as one of the most beauti- 
 ful as well as historic places in the world. 
 
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