Poems

Preface

I can ofl'er no excuse to the public for the appearance of these Poems. Their publication is only the fulfillment of a desire preaominant in my mind for several years. Had I been able to publish them as I intended to at that time, expectations on my part would be immaterial. Because I would have either been so justly criticized as to divert me altogether from literary labors (though I doubt it) or so judicially criticized as to reveal the path henceforth before me.

With a very few exceptions the poems in this volume were written before my twentieth year. As they are, I request the public to accept them. Feeling confideut that when an author produces productions of his pen that were written under the belief of his being especially ordained by a superior power for such a calling, that they cannot fail to make an impression. They were not written for a triviality, nor to disperse the melancholly broodings of a mind naturally sensitive in the highest degree, but composed under a stern conviction of the. necessity of their being composed. A necessity as eternal as the soul by which it is generated. Certainly their number may surprise many, but it is not my fault. All along I have seen the result of such an ambition as is mine. All along I have seen the result resulting from such an ambition, and though dwelling amidst circumstances more than detrimental to such a lofty aspiration, I have never deviated, because I could not.

There are two distinctive periods in the life of man. One is from his childhood to his manhood, the other from his manhood to his age. Standing before the portals of the latter as I do, I wish to pass over its threshold with the productions of my youth behind me, and this more than anything else has conducted to their publication. Perhaps I have scarcely used proper judgment in the matter; indeed, there is a solemn conviction stealing over my mind even as I write, that I may have been prematurely hasty and overwisely indiscreet, but it is too late to regret or reflect. Yet in extenuation let me say that the language in which I present myself to the public is an entirely acquired one, and though acquired at an early period of life, also at a time when the rudiments of my own (the Italian) were already deeply instilled within me and become part of my very existence.

My own judgment of these poems has been already made. It only remains to see if the critical and discerning public can be as impartial as commiserate to their immature imperfections and their faults.

I have often flattered myself with the hope that they are not entirely devoid of a little genius, which with deeper study and intenser application may yet be made to bloom forth a sturdy plant in,the forest of America Literature, though did I not consider them as a premonition of nobler labors they had never seen the light of public day.

POEMS

ISLAND OF ATLANTIS.

Outward in the ocean calm.

Is a glorious Isle.

'i'here the airs go breathinj^ balm

Through thick a r borage ot polm.

Broad-leaf palm, beneath whose shade

One woula linger ever.

And banana trees full-filled

With most delicious fruit ;

While groves of oranges in bloom,

Near a crystal cavern-river.

Far diffuse their rich perfume ;

Till the air is odor-laid.

And is languor-mute.

There the purole juice is spilled

From the grape by gentle hands ;

There cocoa-nuts abound.

Richest figs, and luscious dates ;

While birds, with gorgeous plumes,

bands Seek their different -winging mates In the cilron-thl(^kets round. O, lone beauty-glorious isle. Where the heaveiiS ever smile , Jt I ween most surely is The Island of Atlamis.

Ever in the unknown seas Doth tills island lie.

Silken sails with gentle breeze. Have oft wafted galleys far. Guided by no azure star ; Seeking aye its lovely shore- Seeking aye its golden leas. Yet what balmy Summers passed, Since these galleys sailed away ; Years of Autumn, AVinter, Spring. But not one deoarted thence Knew returning anymore.

And now many beings say.

After weary years went by.

That such island is at last

In man's frail imagining.

Only fancy born awhile.

And still wonder wneii and whence

Came the fable of this isle.

Yet one ship in olden time,

Left a fair and tropic clime,

With no shore to seek or find.

Though it left a shore behind.

Its snowy sails with eager lips

Imbibed the breeze and inly swelled,

While gayly on the pilgrim-ship

Its billow-course as gayly held.

And days went by and suns did i-ise.

And days went by and suns did set ;

And months went by and they were yet

Alone upon the waters.

And nights went by. and in the skies

Was often seen the fair white moon.

With fiery stars as amulet ;

Whose beauty charms at highest noon

Earih's sons and blushing daughters.

But when a year had nassed away.

Their helmsman on a golden morn.

Descried upon the ocean-way

An isle that seemed as heaven born ;

So fair it was, so calm it lay

Upon the billows blue.

So beautiful its mountain-sites ;

So beautiful its valleys broad ;

So beautiful its forest heights ;

So beautiful its flowery sod ;

So radiant to the view.

That there unon they landed there,

The hoary eld, the youthful fair ;

Then loosed the cable of their ship.

When lightened of its cargo bright.

Rich silks and purples of delight,

Their massy store of golden things ;

Their dazzling show of glorious wealth,

Untainted by the stain of stealth.

ISLAND OF ATLANTIS.

Not bucanneers were these who strip Rich-freighted Argo-barks complete. Then scud away on silken wings And shame the swiftest galley-fleet.

They loosed the cable of their ship.

To let it sail the water:^ wide.

For said they all with happy lips.

Forever will we here abide.

Their chief was one of mighty foi'ra.

Of noble face and godly mien.

Themselves were all a giant race.

Like giants old of Anakim ;

Majestically tall when seen.

Yet they did reverence to him

Who guided them from place to place.

And so they all with ardor warm.

High purposes and passion-vim.

Worked many days with mighty zeal ;

And delved from earth its metals bright.

And molded them to curious size;

Then marble from the hills was brought.

And chiseled with the highest thought.

Till in the valleys did arise

Those palaces you now behold.

Embossed with amethyst and gold.

Outrivaling the Grecian's art.

Or glorious shrines of far Cathay,

From Ciandu unto Cambalu ;

The Paradise of Kublai Khan,

The Eden -East which men in part

Have magnified as being true.

Those regions being fairer than

The regions of Eternal day !

The chiefs possessed each mountain height ;

And ere a cycle passed they built

Those palaces of silver gilt ;

With terraces and wide arcades,

And bright expanse of blazoned roof.

Profusely wrought with pearl and gold,

Upheld by pillars tapering ;

So slim and fragil to behold.

They scarcely seemed a moment's proof.

And woven around with idle braids

Of ivy ; while each marble base

Had sculpturing upon its face

Of fairest youths and virgin maids ;

Who in their hands did laurels bring.

And round a shrine did seem to sing.

They built all these ; but they are gone ! And Silence which cannot unseal The secrets of its solitude. Alone remaineth here to brood Above all things, too sadly real. For on this morn, this Summer morn Of which I happily may speak, From lowest vale to highest peak, Nought fluttered in its scented air. Except some lightly- winging pair, Where nature dwelt in perfect bliss. Upon the Island of Atlantis.

Sigh not, be merry ! Yet who would not

sigh Beholding such a gorgeous beauty-show ?

And knowing many beings pass it by

Unconscious of its loveliness below.

Though we be not all Poesy inwrought.

Who would not sigh at such a dreary thought?

Yet let us worship what we can behold.

Skies purple-dark, and grey, and crimson-gold;

Then flowers dew-impearled, both white and blue ;

And safFron-tinted, red, and pinky, too.

Near murmuring rivers, flowing under shades

And tapering palms and myrrh in valleyglades,

And gentle hills, and founts, and torrentshowers.

Ah surely such a beauty is

Upon the Island of Atlantis.

Let the flowers weep their dew.

Knowing they must wither.

Golden summer-clouds anew

Are now floating hither.

They will shed their balmy showers

Ere they pass away.

Cheering many drooping flowers

In their sad decay.

But sit upon this mossy bank,

Or on this lawn declining

To the forest edge ;

Bordered with the sweetest sedge;

See the radiant sun-beams shining

On the water-lilies dank ;

Or on the primroses bending

Where the bluebell-mead hath ending.

Lie beneath this palmy shade,

While leaf-fans will to and fro

Softly cool thy flushing brow,

Gentlier than any maid

With fair trembling hands could ply.

While the Zephyrs gamboled by.

Step within this dancing bark.

Let us float adown the stream ;

Long it is before the dark,

Though the sun has cooled his beam.

See those towers mountain high.

On the mountains standing ;

By the honeysuckles lined,

Clamberingly and quaintly twined

Round the shining walls.

See each polished marble landing.

We silently are floating by.

And chance in weekly festivals.

Silk banners fluttered gaily

From those steep turrets daily ;

When youths and maidens left their

tillage, Or the quiet valley-village ; Left their mountain-summit cities ; While the pipes of minstrels eld Played their soul entrancing ditties :

THE DEAD VIRGIN.

And the sages grey beheld Tender youths and maidens mingling, Each their blusliing lover singling From the merry sportive throng. Then the many-chanted song. Which they trilled, was wafted high. From the echoes of the caves. Over vales and mountains-nigh To the gleaming ocean waves. But silent now and lonely is The Island of Atlantis.

Not a voice, except the sigh Of sad Zephyrs fleeting by. Or. the sound of falling brooks, Cool and murmurous rivulets. Trickling from their cavern nooks. Passing fragrant mignionettes, Lulling grots of asphodel. Are before each ci-ystal cell. Where if one should enter in, Echo would his accents din; Where all brilliantly is shining. From the stalactites and gems. In its ebon diadems.

To the lofty arches twining With fantastic crystal-spars ; And gigantic coluran-stone*'. Pillars based with circling zones, Blazoned too with coral stars. While fair porphyry and onyx, Agate seats, and steps of gold. Figures sculptured like the Sphinx, In these caves of silentness Could the startled eye behold ; Weirdly beautiful— no less.

* Wander outward in the air. See the brightness glowing there. Mountains flushed with lusc ous fruits. Valleys clad with colored flowers. W^ind-tones. softer than a lute's. Musical in odorous bowers. Oranges with glossy skin, Golden as the fiery beams Which the sun is shooting in Through the boscage seams. Apples rosey-red, and figs Hanging from the swaying twigs. While beyond the valley border. Ranged in glorious beauty-order. Are high marble palaces.

And many a silver shrine.

Where once perchance gold chalices Libations held for God divine. For here there dwelt a mystic race. That worshiped God and Christ and Cross ; But they have left their dwelling place ; Their palace-gates are draped with moss. Their towers and their battlements. Display too well the lightning-rents. Few echoes come across the hill, AH else is silent— all is still. Tis the chant of bright-plumed birds In the bowers singing ;

Or the whirr of others winging Through the perfume-scented ether; And soft bleat of mild-eyed herds Browsing on the meads together. Ah, surely now most glorious is This Island of Atlantis; Where Beauty yet victorious is Upon the Isle Atlantis.

THE DEAD VIRGIN.

Ye tender Muses that have given cheer And gentle inspiration to my verse. Until alike was charmed tne listening ear At joyful strains that deigned it to rehearse; If ever once thy favors were Drelude To aerial tones of happy joyousness. Discard thy mirth, and" help me to express In somber rhyming and in sacred mood The lonely sorrow of my solitude. A s erst for fairy scenes I tuned my praise. When harp and lyre warmed from their

lighter lays.

So pensive chant the sacred song divine. For she is dead, that being precious more Than hidden pearl in spirit-guarded snrine; The heavenly chord of all my soulful lore! Come sisters choral and with garlands

crown Thy weeping head. Of willow and of

cypress; Of rosemary and the myrtle brown. As for some marble-looking princess. And tune thy lyres, Till hymenial choirs Of melody bereave the ears. My own is damp with tears. That flow incessantly and ever bring. As some swift- ringing messenger. Remembrance and fresh grief for her. Whose soul etherially hath taken wing

O, she was fair, as heavenly angels fair! As the snow-tinted lily she was pure! With glossy braids of sunny-golden hair. And eyes which could the brighest orben-

diire.

Were we not wont, long flowery brooks

anon At early morn, when first the drowsy sun With crimson cheeks aroused from heavy

sleep, Over the mountain-tops would surely peep. To woo the songsters from their pendant

nests.

But all in vain for me to charm them down. While they in mazy circles would fly round, With golden plumage some, or snowy,

breasts.

And redder-tinted, with the shades of blue. Her shapely head as if to sip the dew

THE DEAD VIRGIN.

Which on her lips reposed, like manna

sweet.

Or pluck the dew-buds entwined grace-

fully Among her silken coils, and her would

greet With chirpings clear and twitterings of

glee.

But she is dead.

In death eternal !

Her gracious soul has fled. To realms of bliss supernal. And I must weep, for now I cannot sing. But pray attend, O ye of wood and vale. And blossoms-garlanded repeat the tale Which is the cause of all my sorrowing.

Ye cannot stir her from this slumber deep.

Is she not fair as Niobe was fair?

Though burning tears which over her I

weep, Have made her cheeks glow as with

blushes there.

Yet lingering view the fresh and youthful

face.

Those tender orbs whose happiness is past. O, bliss ; too blissful well I knew to last ! Come back. Again the snowy veil replace. And strow the flowers, the ground with

flowers spread ; For where her mourning followers shall

tread.

Nought but pure lily-buds must greet the

eyes.

And as your chants are mingled with yovir

sighs, Slow to the chapel bear her beauteous

form.

There to the holy dome snail organs peal ; And bells shall sadly toll, as if to storm The heavy grief we all of us now feel Speak softly , as the winds do softly blow, As if this heavenly essence they did know. More gently speak.

Soft be thy whisperings.

Do you not see how pale, and calm, and

meek.

She is to earthly things?

Such excellence and gentleness did dwell Within this fairest shape, that scarce can I Deem such a form of loveliness couid die ; And so become but deaths receptable.

Hush ye gay songsters ! Ye gay minstrels

hush !

Be stilled your sweet but merry-luted

strains.

Do you not see they re-awaken pains? But slow issue from nests of downy plush ; And warble all, or chant in tender trills. Some plaintive song that shall the echoes

list In rustling grots, where murmur glistening

rills.

By pale Narcissus and primroses kissed.

For she is dead ! Thy mistress fair is dead ! She who at matin-prime meek-looking

came.

And thy young bills with crumbs or millet fed.

While calling each by improvised name. Wherefore shall blossoms glisten now

with dew Since she is gone who kissed their dewy

leaves.

Or bloom to loveliness their grace to shew? No, every floweret most sadly gi ieves, And lowly bends upon its pliant stem. As if her death had taken life from them. But come ye heavenly graces, In garments white bedecked. And show thy beauteous faces. Around her form snow-flecked. Yet do not hate against thy rival show ; And in thy hands the slender lily bring. To place upon her forehead of pure snow. And fairest posies round her hair to cling. She is asleep. A sleep that looks a dream ! Her lotus-hands are folded on her breast. And her two lids of pinK and pinky cream. Have poppy-lulled her azure eyes to rest; When they shone bright they shamed the

Vestal-beams Of holy incense that were wont to blend On virgin-shrines, and heavenward ascend.

O, weep for her, for still this Peri seems To live in death. Come forth ye virgin in

train.

And her surround ; and while ye view her

face.

Which as when Cynthia hath for hours

lain Upon the snowy clouds, is fair in grace ; Some dew-drop weep above the beauty

here.

This lily bud that only needs a tear. How shall the hours, the ever winging

hours.

In Eden's realm of Paradise begot. Know ever joy, when she hath lost her

powers Who did to them all happiness allot ? No, cease their flight, O, Time, so it may seem Onenightalone. one willow- wreathed night She is in this sweet dream ! Their cherub moments bear her far from

me.

Would ye this love-queen from my presence bring?

Nay bid them fold each sorrow-laden wing, And let their rest like hers eternal be !

Hide not thy beams fair sun to bring us,

gloom.

Let still thy radiance bless these features

dear.

For now we march and slowly to her tomb, Ys virgin maids suiround the virgin here

PYRAMUS AND THISBE.

O, woe of life ! O, day of woeful days ! Since she mj' Juliet now so calnilj' lays Unconscious of alJ neanng and of si^ht. To all unconscious, both to day and night. O, angel ones that dwell in place unseen! For very pity round her being flj^— Descend in numbers from the opal sky. And bless the sweetness of her beauty's

sheen.

While pearly harps with golden strings

shall tune The saddest and most plaintive melody ; Hegin bright Cherubiins thy choral boon. Of sounds celestial that are wont to be ; And all in robes of holiness arrayed. Be like Madonnas round this marble msid. Then onward shall we march, Weepingly and slowly; Till heaven's glorious arch Those sounds re-echo holy. Yet whither place her cerements of clay? Rather. U Cherubims. spread each a wing, And thereupon her spirit- vesture bring To realms hymeniai of eterxiai day !

Tell me, ye fair assemblage, have thy eyes Ever such loveliness of charms beheld ? These urbs li^e stars of cerulean skies. These cheeks which once no ruse's bloom

excelled, WliL-re Virtue find but in her maiden

breast.

With gi'aces and with reverence combined? Or could pure snows but on her bosom

rest ?

Or live pure thoughts as were within her

mind ?

Was she not all of chastest gentleness ? The fairest fair in fairest maidenhood? Sweet modest V she ever did possess Unspotted faith, affectionate and good. A Cinderella that was worth anew For some fair Prince from fairy-land to

woo.

O heavenly seats thy portal open wide ! For she of all deserves such blessed place. And let ner there forever more abide, A Beatrice in her spotless grace. Maids gaze on her.

Kiss lasc her brow and hair. Angelic-messenger, She is of brightness there. So gently, sadly, slowly her uprise ; And while nroceeding, softly, sweetly

sing.

So earth may know whom to her arms we

bring.

Her soul has long been wafted to the skies.

Toll sadly bells, for now we onward w^end ! Ope wide thy portal, Tempe of the Most

High.

Let thy hushed dome re-echo not a sigh. Except the vesper-chant that shall the

sersicc end.

See how each pillar, draped in folds of white,

Seem vveening angels ; and the dim, dim light

Breathes forth sweet incense to the kneeling throng.

Her to the altar bring, where holy stands

The father reverend ; he with thin hands

Shall bless her; and with hyming song

Now the grand organ a low anthem peals.

Which swelleth gradually through the air;

Then sobbing sadly as it forward steals.

Winds in sweet numbers round her essence fair.

O kiss the altar, virgin-maidens all.

And soulful Dray, and praying do let fall

One crystal tear upon this sacred floor.

For she is dead ! O dead forevermore I

She was so beautiful,

This virgin-blooming flower.

He could not choose but cull

It for His heavenly bower !

Let us depart, since now we have begun

To realize how heavy is our loss.

And pray to Him and to His only Son,

Who lived to die for us upon the Cross.

PYRAMUS AND THTSBE.

I. O could I only sing as Chaucer sung !

Or breathe a note of Spencer's fairie

strain !

And in some grot Tbessalian overhung By palm and laurel, woo unto my plain The heavenly Muses ; till for choral strung Their golden lyres, they should repeat

again This gentle theme ; which is nor stern nor

witty, But a sweet mellow tune for Love and

Pity.

. II.

Chastest Erato wilt thou string thy lyre? Then leave thy myrtle buds and roses fall In dewless desolation. I require From thee a plaint more sweetly sad than

all.

And let the other goddesses retire. While graces weave us Cupid's Coronal. So it is woven now, and those who heed May weep, if haply they love tears indeed.

III. This strain hath not the gloom of Dante's

theme.

Nor the sublimity of Milton's song ; Nor the luxuriousness which Keats did

dream.

Soul-charmed withall, the slumberous

evening long.

PYRAMUS AND THISBE.

'Tis but a ripple on a Hellas-stream,

A follower of Kod- Apollo's throng.

Yet it is true, the ancient legends say.

At which we weep ana moan our Wella-

way !