Poems

Front matter

CONTENTS.

The Angel's Story

A BOOK OF VERSES.

FIRST SERIES.

"Our tokens of love are for the most part barbarous. Cold and lifeless, because they do not represent our life, The only gift is a portion of thyself. Therefore let the farmer give his corn; the miner, a gem; the sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his picture; and the poet, his poem."—Emerson's Essays.

A. A. P.

May, 1858.

Rich and poor felt love and blessing From the gracious season fall; Joy and plenty in the cottage, Peace and feasting in the hall; And the voices of the children Ringing clear above it all!

Yet one house was dim and darkened; Gloom, and sickness, and despair, Dwelling in the gilded chambers, Creeping up the marble stair, Even stilled the voice of mourning,— For a child lay dying there.

Silken curtains fell around him, Velvet carpets hushed the tread, Many costly toys were lying, All unheeded, by his bed; And his tangled golden ringlets Were on downy pillows spread.

The skill of that mighty City To save one little life was vain,— One little thread from being broken, One fatal word from being spoken; Nay, his very mother's pain, And the mighty love within her, Could not give him health again.

So she knelt there still beside him, She alone with strength to smile, Promising that he should suffer No more in a little while, Murmuring tender song and story Weary hours to beguile.

Suddenly an unseen Presence Checked those constant moaning cries, Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, Raised those blue and wondering eyes, Fixed on some mysterious vision, With a startled sweet surprise.

For a radiant angel hovered, Smiling, o'er the little bed; White his raiment, from his shoulders Snowy dove-like pinions spread, And a starlike light was shining In a Glory round his head.

While, with tender love, the angel, Leaning o'er the little nest, In his arms the sick child folding, Laid him gently on his breast, Sobs and wailings told the mother That her darling was at rest.

So the angel, slowly rising, Spread his wings, and through the air Bore the child, and, while he held him To his heart with loving care, Placed a branch of crimson roses Tenderly beside him there.

While the child, thus clinging, floated Towards the mansions of the Blest, Gazing from his shining guardian To the flowers upon his breast, Thus the angel spake, still smiling On the little heavenly guest:

"Know, dear little one, that Heaven Does no earthly thing disdain, Man's poor joys find there an echo Just as surely as his pain; Love, on earth so feebly striving, Lives divine in Heaven again!

"Once in that great town below us, In a poor and narrow street, Dwelt a little sickly orphan; Gentle aid, or pity sweet, Never in life's rugged pathway Guided his poor tottering feet.

"All the striving anxious forethought That should only come with age Weighed upon his baby spirit, Showed him soon life's sternest page; Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow Was his only heritage.

"All too weak for childish pastimes, Drearily the hours sped; On his hands so small and trembling Leaning his poor aching head, Or, through dark and painful hours, Lying sleepless on his bed.

"Dreaming strange and longing fancies Of cool forests far away; And of rosy, happy children, Laughing merrily at play, Coming home through green lanes, bearing Trailing boughs of blooming May.

"Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven Gleamed above that narrow street, And the sultry air of summer (That you call so warm and sweet) Fevered the poor orphan, dwelling In the crowded alley's heat.

"One bright day, with feeble footsteps Slowly forth he tried to crawl, Through the crowded city's pathways, Till he reached a garden-wall, Where 'mid princely halls and mansions Stood the lordliest of all.

"There were trees with giant branches, Velvet glades where shadows hide; There were sparkling fountains glancing, Flowers, which in luxuriant pride Even wafted breaths of perfume To the child who stood outside.

"He against the gate of iron Pressed his wan and wistful face, Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure At the glories of the place; Never had his brightest day-dream Shone with half such wondrous grace.

"You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air, Laughing when the petals floated Downwards on your golden hair; And the fond eyes watching o'er you, And the splendor spread before you, Told a House's Hope was there.

"When your servants, tired of seeing Such a face of want and woe, Turning to the ragged orphan, Gave him coin, and bade him go, Down his cheeks so thin and wasted Bitter tears began to flow.

"But that look of childish sorrow On your tender child-heart fell, And you plucked the reddest roses From the tree you loved so well, Passed them through the stern cold grating, Gently bidding him 'Farewell!'

"Dazzled by the fragrant treasure And the gentle voice he heard, In the poor forlorn boy's spirit, Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred; In his hand he took the flowers, In his heart the loving word.

"So he crept to his poor garret; Poor no more, but rich and bright, For the holy dreams of childhood— Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light— Floated round the orphan's pillow Through the starry summer night,

"Day dawned, yet the visions lasted; All too weak to rise he lay; Did he dream that none spake harshly,— All were strangely kind that day? Surely then his treasured roses Must have charmed all ills away.

"And he smiled, though they were fading; One by one their leaves were shed; 'Such bright things could never perish, They would bloom again,' he said. When the next day's sun had risen Child and flowers both were dead.

"Know, dear little one! our Father Will no gentle deed disdain: Love on the cold earth beginning Lives divine in Heaven again, While the angel hearts that beat there Still all tender thoughts retain."

So the angel ceased, and gently O'er his little burthen leant; While the child gazed from the shining, Loving eyes that o'er him bent, To the blooming roses by him, Wondering what that mystery meant.

Thus the radiant angel answered, And with tender meaning smiled: "Ere your childlike, loving spirit, Sin and the hard world defiled, God has given me leave to seek you,— I was once that little child!"

In the church-yard of that city Rose a tomb of marble rare, Decked, as soon as Spring awakened, With her buds and blossoms fair,— And a humble grave beside it,— No one knew who rested there.

A False Genius

If a simple, humble heart Seem to thee a meaner part Than thy noblest aim and art;

If he bid thee bow before Crowned Mind and nothing more, The great idol men adore;

And with starry veil enfold Sin, the trailing serpent old, Till his scales shine out like gold;

Though his words seem true and wise, Soul, I say to thee, Arise, He is a Demon in disguise!

My Picture

Little care I who the painter, How obscure a name he bore; Nor, when some have named Velasques Did I value it the more.

As it is, I would not give it For the rarest piece of art; It has dwelt with me, and listened To the secrets of my heart.

Many a time, when to my garret, Weary, I returned at night, It has seemed to look a welcome That has made my poor room bright.

Many a time, when ill and sleepless, I have watched the quivering gleam Of my lamp upon that picture, Till it faded in my dream.

When dark days have come, and friendship Worthless seemed, and life in vain, That bright friendly smile has sent me Boldly to my task again.

Sometimes when hard need has pressed ma To bow down where I despise, I have read stern words of counsel In those sad, reproachful eyes.

Nothing that my brain imagined, Or my weary hand has wrought, But it watched the dim Idea Spring forth into armed Thought.

It has smiled on my successes, Raised me when my hopes were low, And by turns has looked upon me With all the loving eyes I know.

Do you wonder that my picture Has become so like a friend?— It has seen my life's beginnings, It shall stay and cheer the end!

Judge not

And judge none lost; but wait and see, With hopeful pity, not disdain; The depth of the abyss may be The measure of the height of pain And love and glory that may raise This soul to God in after days!

Friend Sorrow

Bid her with a strong clasp hold her, By her dusky wings, Listening for the murmured blessing Sorrow always brings.

One by One

Every hour that fleets so slowly Has its task to do or bear; Luminous the crown, and holy, When each gem is set with care.

Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond; Nor, the daily toil forgetting, Look too eagerly beyond.

Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done.

True Honors

Sixty Christmas Days have found me Useless, helpless, blind—and here!

Yes, I feel my darling stealing Warm soft fingers into mine: Shall I tell her what I fancied In that strange old dream of mine? I was kneeling by the window, Reading how a noble band, With the red cross on their breastplates, Went to gain the Holy Land.

While with cager eyes of wonder Over the dark page I bent, Slowly twilight shadows gathered Till the letters came and went; Slowly, till the night was round me; Then my heart beat loud and fast, For I felt before I saw it That a spirit near me passed.

Then I raised my eyes, and, shining Where the moon's first ray was bright, Stood a wingèd Angel-warrior Clothed and panoplied in light: So, with Heaven's love upon him, Stern in calm and resolute will, Looked St. Michael,—does the picture Hang in the old cloister still?

Threefold were the dreams of honor That absorbed my heart and brain; Threefold crowns the Angel promised, Each one to be bought by pain:

ppoem| start=follow| While he spoke, a threefold blessing

Fell upon my soul like rain.

{sc}Helper of the poor and suffering;

{sc}Victor in a glorious strife;

{sc}Singer of a noble poem;

Such the honors of my life.

Ah, that dream! Long years that gave me

Joy and grief as real things

Never touched the tender memory

Sweet and solemn that it brings,—

Never quite effaced the feeling

Of those white and shadowing wings.

Do those blue eyes open wider?

Does my faith too foolish seem?

Yes, my darling, years have taught me

It was nothing but a dream.

Soon, too soon, the bitter knowledge

Of a fearful trial rose,

Rose to crush my heart, and sternly

Bade my young ambition close.

More and more my eyes were clouded,

Till at last God's glorious light

Passed away from me forever,

And I lived and live in night.

Dear, I will not dim your pleasure,

Christmas should be only gay:—

In my night the stars have risen,

And I wait the dawn of day.

Spite of all I could be happy;

For my brothers' tender care

|end=follow

In their boyish pastimes ever Made me take, or feel a share. Philip, even then so thoughtful, Max so noble, brave, and tall, And your father, little Godfrey, The most loving of them all.

Philip reasoned down my sorrow, Max would laugh my gloom away, Godfrey's little arms put round me Helped me through my dreariest day; While the promise of my Angel, Like a star, now bright, now pale, Hung in blackest night above me, And I felt it could not fail.

Years passed on, my brothers left me, Each went out to take his share In the struggle of life; my portion Was a humble one—to bear. Here I dwelt, and learnt to wander Through the woods and fields alone, Every cottage in the village Had a corner called my own.

Old and young, all brought their troubles, Great or small, for me to hear; I have often blessed my sorrow That drew others' grief so near. Ah, the people needed helping— Needed love—(for Love and Heaven Are the only gifts not bartered, They alone are freely given)—

ppoem| start=stanza| And I gave it. Philip's bounty

(We were orphans, dear) made toil

Prosper, and want never fastened

On the tenants of the soil.

Philip's name (O, how I gloried,

He so young, to see it rise!)

Soon grew noted among statesmen

As a patriot true and wise.

And his people all felt honored

To be ruled by such a name;

I was proud too that they loved me;

Through their pride in him it came.

He had gained what I had longed for,

I meanwhile grew glad and gay,

'Mid his people, to be serving

Him and them, in some poor way.

How his noble earnest speeches

With untiring fervor came!

{sc}Helper of the poor and suffering;

Truly he deserved the name!

Had my Angel's promise failed me?

Had that word of hope grown dim?

Why, my Philip had fulfilled it,

And I loved it best in him!

Max meanwhile—ah, you, my darling,

Can his loving words recall—

'Mid the bravest and the noblest,

Braver, nobler, than them all.

How I loved him! how my heart thrilled

When his sword clanked by his side,

When I touched his gold embroidery,

Almost saw him in his pride!

|end=stanza

So we parted; he all eager To uphold the name he bore, Leaving in my charge—he loved me— Some one whom he loved still more: I must tend this gentle flower, I must speak to her of him, For he feared—Love still is fearful— That his memory might grow dim.

I must guard her from all sorrow, I must play a brother's part, Shield all grief and trial from her, If it need be, with my heart. Years passed, and his name grew famous; We were proud, both she and I; And we lived upon his letters, While the slow days fleeted by.

Then at last—you know the story, How a fearful rumor spread, Till all hope had slowly faded, And we heard that he was dead. Dead! O, those were bitter hours; Yet within my soul there dwelt A warning, and while others mourned hims. Something like a hope I felt.

His was no weak life as mine was, But a life, so full and strong— No, I could not think he perished Nameless, 'mid a conquered throng. How she drooped! Years passed; no tidings Came, and yet that little flame Of strange hope within my spirit Still burnt on, and lived the same.

Ah! my child, our hearts will fail us, When to us they strongest seem: I can look back on those hours As a fearful, evil dream. She had long despaired; what wonder That her heart had turned to mine? Earthly loves are deep and tender, Not eternal and divine!

Can I say how bright a future Rose before my soul that day? O, so strange, so sweet, so tender! And I had to turn away. Hard and terrible the struggle, For the pain not mine alone; I called back my Brother's spirit, And I bade him claim his own.

Told her—now I dared to do it— That I felt the day would rise When he would return to gladden My weak heart and her bright eyes. And I pleaded—pleaded sternly— In his name, and for his sake: Now, I can speak calmly of it, Then, I thought my heart would break,

Soon—ah, Love had not deceived me, (Love's true instincts never err,) Wounded, weak, escaped from prison, He returned to me,—to her. I could thank God that bright morning, When I felt my Brother's gaze, That my heart was true and loyal, As in our old boyish days.

ppoem| start=stanza| Bought by wounds and deeds of daring,

Honors he had brought away;

Glory crowned his name—my Brother's;

Mine too!—we were one that day.

Since the crown on him had fallen,

{sc}"Victor in a noble strife,"

I could live and die contented

With my poor ignoble life.

Well, my darling, almost weary

Of my story? Wait awhile;

For the rest is only joyful;

I can tell it with a smile.

One bright promise still was left me,

Wound so close about my soul,

That, as one by one had failed me,

This dream now absorbed the whole.

{sc}"Singer of a noble Poem,"—

Ah, my darling, few and rare

Burn the glorious names of Poets,

Like stars in the purple air.

That too, and I glory in it,

That great gift my Godfrey won

I have my dear share of honor,

Gained by that beloved one.

One day shall my darling read it;

Now she cannot understand

All the noble thoughts that lighten

Through the genius of the land.

I am proud to be his brother,

Proud to think that hope was true;

Though I longed and strove so vainly,

What I failed in, he could do.

|end=stanza

I was long before I knew it, Longer ere I felt it so Then I strung my rhymes together Only for the poor and low. And, it pleases me to know it, (For I love them well indeed,) They care for my humble verses, Fitted for their humble need.

And, it cheers my heart to hear it, Where the far-off settlers roam, My poor words are sung and cherished, Just because they speak of Home. And the little children sing them, (That, I think, has pleased me best,) Often, too, the dying love them, For they tell of Heaven and rest.

So my last vain dream has faded; (Such as I to think of fame!) Yet I will not say it failed me, For it crowned my Godfrey's name, No; my Angel did not cheat me, For my long life has been blest; He did give me Love and Sorrow, He will bring me Light and Rest.

A Woman's Question

One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? Speak now—lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit Change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange?— It may not be thy fault alone—but shield my heart against thy own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim, That Fate, and that to-day's mistake— Not thou—had been to blame? Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not,—I dare not hear, The words would come too late; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So, comfort thee, my Fate— Whatever on my heart may fall—remember, I would risk it all!

The Three Rulers

His name shone bright through blood and pain, His sword flashed back their praise again.

I saw another Ruler rise: His words were noble, good, and wise; With the calm sceptre of his pen He ruled the minds and thoughts of men: Some scoffed, some praised,—while many heard, Only a few obeyed his word.

Another Ruler then I saw: Love and sweet Pity were his law; The greatest and the least had part (Yet most the unhappy) in his heart: The People, in a mighty band, Rose up, and drove him from the land!

A Dead Past

I folded her soft hands upon her bosom, And strewed my flowers upon her,—they still live; Sometimes I like to kiss her closed white eyelids, And think of all the joy she used to give.

Cruel indeed it were to take her from me; She sleeps, she will not wake—no fear—again; And so I laid her, such a gentle burthen, Quietly on my heart to still its pain.

I do not think that any smiling Present, Any vague Future, spite of all her charms, Could ever rival her. You know you laid her, Long years ago, then living, in my arms.

Leave her at least: while my tears fall upon her, I dream she smiles, just as she did of yore; As dear as ever to me—nay, it may be, Even dearer still—since I have nothing more.

A Doubting Heart

Why must the flowers die? Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. O doubting heart! They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow, While winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays These many days; Will dreary hours never leave the earth? O doubting heart! The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky, That soon (for spring is nigh) Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night. What sound can break the silence of despair? O doubting heart! Thy sky is overcast, Yet stars shall rise at last, Brighter for darkness past, And angels' silver voices stir the air.

A Student

Now Time has fled—the world is strange, Something there is of pain and change; My books lie closed upon the shelf; I miss the old heart in myself.

I miss the sunbeams in my room— It was not always wrapped in gloom: I miss my dreams—they fade so fast, Or flit into some trivial past.

The great stream of the world goes by; None care, or heed, or question, why I, the lone student, cannot raise My voice or hand as in old days.

No echo seems to wake again My heart to anything but pain, Save when a dream of twilight brings The fluttering of an angel's wings!

A Knight Errant

Then his heart and life he offered To his radiant mistress—Truth; Never thought, or dream, or faltering, Marred the promise of his youth.

So he rode forth to defend her, And her peerless worth proclaim; Challenging each recreant doubter Who aspersed her spotless name.

First upon his path stood Ignorance, Hideous in his brutal might; Hard the blows and long the battle Ere the monster took to flight.

Then, with light and fearless spirit, Prejudice he dared to brave; Hunting back the lying craven To her black sulphureous cave.

Followed by his servile minions, Custom, the old Giant, rose; Yet he, too, at last was conquered By the good Knight's weighty blows,

Then he turned, and, flushed with victory, Struck upon the brazen shield Of the world's great king, Opinion, And defied him to the field.

Once again he rose a conqueror, And, though wounded in the fight, With a dying smile of triumph Saw that Truth had gained her right,

On his failing ear re-echoing Came the shouting round her throne; Little cared he that no future With her name would link his own.

Spent with many a hard-fought battle, Slowly ebbed his life away, And the crowd that flocked to greet her Trampled on him where he lay.

Gathering all his strength, he saw her Crowned and reigning in her pride; Looked his last upon her beauty, Raised his eyes to God, and died.

Linger, O Gentle Time

O linger in thy flight! For shadows gather round, and should we part, A dreary, starless night May fill my heart,— Then pause and linger yet ere thou depart.

Linger, I ask no more,— Thou art enough forever—thou alone; What future can restore, When thou art flown, All that I hold from thee and call my own?

Homeward Bound

Gaunt and dreary ran the mountains, With black gorges, up the land; Up to where the lonely Desert Spreads her burning, dreary sand: In the gorges of the mountains, On the plain beside the sea, Dwelt my stern and cruel masters, The black Moors of Barbary.

Ten long years I toiled among them, Hopeless—as I used to say; Now I know Hope burnt within me Fiercer, stronger, day by day: Those dim years of toil and sorrow Like one long, dark dream appear; One long day of weary waiting,— Then each day was like a year.

How I cursed the land, my prison; How I cursed the serpent sea, And the Demon Fate that showered All her curses upon me; I was mad, I think—God pardon Words so terrible and wild— This voyage would have been my last one, For I left a wife and child.

Never did one tender vision Fade away before my sight, Never once through all my slavery, Burning day or dreary night; In my soul it lived, and kept me, Now I feel, from black despair, And my heart was not quite broken, While they lived and blest me there.

When at night my task was over, I would hasten to the shore; (All was strange and foreign inland, Nothing I had known before;) Strange looked the bleak mountain passes, Strange the red glare and black shade, And the Oleanders, waving To the sound the fountains made.

Then I gazed at the great Ocean, Till she grew a friend again; And because she knew old England, I forgave her all my pain: So the blue still sky above me, With its white clouds' fleecy fold, And the glimmering stars (though brighter), Looked like home and days of old.

And a calm would fall upon me, Worn perhaps with work and pain, The wild hungry longing left me, And I was myself again: Looking at the silver waters, Looking up at the far sky, Dreams of home and all I left there Floated sorrowfully by.

A fair face, but pale with sorrow, With blue eyes, brimful of tears, And the little red mouth, quivering With a smile, to hide its fears; Holding out her baby towards me, From the sky she looked on me; So it was that last I saw her, As the ship put out to sea.

Sometimes (and a pang would seize me That the years were floating on) I would strive to paint her, altered, And the little baby gone: She no longer young and girlish, The child standing by her knee, And her face more pale and saddened With the weariness for me.

Then I saw, as night grew darker, How she taught my child to pray, Holding its small hands together, For its father, far away; And I felt her sorrow, weighing Heavier on me than my own, Pitying her blighted spring-time, And her joy so early flown.

Till upon my hands (now hardened With the rough, harsh toil of years) Bitter drops of anguish falling, Woke me from my dream, to tears; Woke me as a slave, an outcast, Leagues from home, across the deep; So—though you may call it childish— So I sobbed myself to sleep.

Well, the years sped on—my Sorrow, Calmer, and yet stronger grown, Was my shield against all suffering Poorer, meaner than her own. Thus my cruel master's harshness Fell upon me all in vain, Yet the tale of what we sutfered Echoed back from main to main.

You have heard in a far country Of a self-devoted band, Vowed to rescue Christian captives Pining in a foreign land. And these gentle-hearted strangers Year by year go forth from Rome, In their hands the hard-earned ransom, To restore some exiles home.

I was freed: they broke the tidings Gently to me: but indeed Hour by hour sped on, I knew not What the words meant—I was freed! Better so, perhaps; while sorrow (More akin to earthly things) Only strains the sad heart's fibres, Joy, bright stranger, breaks the strings,

Yet at last it rushed upon me, And my heart beat full and fast; What were now my years of waiting, What was all the dreary past? Nothing—to the impatient throbbing I must bear across the sea: Nothing—to the eternal hours Still between my home and me!

How the voyage passed I know not; Strange it was once more to stand With my countrymen around me, And to clasp an English hand. But, through all, my heart was dreaming Of the first words I should hear, In the gentle voice that echoed, Fresh as ever, on my ear.

Should I see her start of wonder, And the sudden truth arise, Flushing all her face and lightening The dimmed splendor of her eyes? Oh! to watch the fear and doubting Stir the silent depths of pain, And the rush of joy—then melting Into perfect peace again.

And the child!—but why remember Foolish fancies that I thought? Every tree and every hedge-row From the well-known past I brought; I would picture my dear cottage, See the crackling wood-fire burn, And the two beside it seated, Watching, waiting, my return.

So at last we reached the harbor. I remember nothing more Till I stood, my sick heart throbbing, With my hand upon the door. There I paused—I heard her speaking; Low, soft, murmuring words she said; Then I first knew the dumb terror I had had lest she were dead.

It was evening in late autumn, And the gusty wind blew chill; Autumn leaves were falling round me, And the red sun lit the hill. Six-and-twenty years are vanished Since then,—I am old and gray,— But I never told to mortal What I saw, until this day.

She was seated by the fire, In her arms she held a child, Whispering baby-words caressing, And then, looking up, she smiled; Smiled on him who stood beside her— Oh! the bitter truth was told, In her look of trusting fondness— I had seen the look of old!

But she rose and turned towards me (Cold and dumb I waited there) With a shriek. of fear and terror, And a white face of despair. He had been an ancient comrade— Not a single word we said, While we gazed upon each other, He the living: I the dead!

I drew nearer, nearer to her, And I took her trembling hand, Looking on her white face, looking That her heart might understand All the love and all the pity That my lips refused to say. I thank God no thought save sorrow Rose in our crushed hearts that day.