Poems

Front matter

S

BY

SECOND EDITION,

Apprehension

.

The Sun Dial's Matins

So, patient I wait, uncomplaining and fearless, Nor faint when thy face is withdrawn; For, never has night been so lengthened or cheerless, It has not been followed by dawn.

I turn not to earth; for she ever has given Obscurity, vapor and dust; I ask not of self, but I look up to heaven For guidance, with hope and with trust.

Though clouds oft have gathered to tempt or persuade me My God and my faith to deny, Thy beams, darting through them, have ever repaid me For placing my treasure on high.

Then, hail to thy rising! bright god, in thy splendor! While glory is marking thy way, Darkness and damps their dominion surrender, And fly from the monarch of day!

O light! thou art truth! though to me but diurnal, On thee my affections shall feed. And he, who will look in the Sun-Dial's journal, My life and its moral may read!

The White Cloud

Vapor deceitful! cloud of the morn! Like thee are the hopes that of earth are born! Their forms are varying, high and fair; But melted by light—rent in pieces by air! Bright vision of falsehood, thou shalt teach The soul, in her search for joys, to reach To a world of truth, where deceit is o'er— Where changes and clouds shall be known no more!

The Ground Laurel

Thou didst reward my ramble By shining at my feet, When, over brake and bramble, I sought thy lone retreat,—

As some sweet flower of pleasure Upon our path may bloom, 'Mid rocks and thorns that measure Our journey to the tomb!

The Fortune-Teller

The few grizzled hairs, from her temples that strayed, Seemed turning to serpents, that hissed as they played, Defying the fillet to keep them in check, Across the deep seams of my oracle's neck. The thread of my life at that moment seemed hung, In its many-hued twist, from the tip of her tongue. And she opened her lips with such bright and fair things, That, my head all on fire, and my fancy on wings, I flew to my home, and retired to my bed, To gild my gay dreamings with all she had said.

But years have since taught me how foolish and vain Was the "refuge of lies," for a pitiful gain. Of the hut or its inmate no vestige is seen But the mound, where the prophetess sleeps on the green. My fortune—the path of my life has been made O'er flowers and o'er brambles—through sunshine and shade— So changeful and chequered, I would not be told, One hour, what the leaf of the next may unfold. While fearless I trust to a finger divine To point out my footsteps and mark every line, May I look above earth for a light to my mind, Till I leave superstition and error behind, And drop this short lesson to childhood and youth— "Shun falsehood!—love science, and seek only truth!"

The Snow-Flake

In a drop from the unlock'd fountain: Or leaving the valley, the meadow and heath, The streamlet, the flowers and all beneath, Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath Encircling the brow of the mountain.

"Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies! Go shine in the Iris; I'll let thee arise, And appear in the many and glorious dyes A pencil of sunbeams is blending! But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, I'll give thee a new and vernal birth, When thou shalt recover thy primal worth, "And never regret descending!"

"Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake; "But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make Is not in the flowers, nor the dew to wake; Nor the.mist, that shall pass with the morning. For, things of thyself, they expire with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me, They rise and will live, from thy dust set free, To the regions above returning.

"And, if true to thy word, and just thou art, Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart, Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart And return to my native heaven. For, I would be placed in the beautiful bow, From time to time, in thy sight to glow, So thou may'st remember the Flake of Snow, By the promise that God hath given!"

The Black at Church

Or, will the dearer ransom, paid for all, A Saviour's blood, impress me with the seal Of everlasting freedom from my thrall, And wash me white and this crushed spirit heal?

Then, will I meekly bear these lingering pains, And suffer scorn, and be by man opprest, If, at the grave, I may put off my chains, And thou wilt take me where the weary rest!

The Little Foot

Or, is it for the battle-plain, Beside the slayer and the slain? Will there its final step be taken? There, sleep thine eye no more to waken? Is it to glory or to shame— To sully, or to gild thy name? Is it to happiness or wo This little foot is made to go?

But wheresoe'er its lines may fall, Whether in cottage or in hall; O, may it ever shun the ground Where'er his foot was never found, Who, on his path of life, hath shed A living light, that all may tread Upon his earthly steps; and none E'er dash the foot against a stone!

Yet, if thy way is marked by fate, As, guilty, dark and desolate; If thou must float, by vice and crime, A wreck, upon the stream of time! Oh! rather than behold that day, I'd know this foot, in lightsome play, Would bound, with guiltless, infant glee, Upon the sod that sheltered me!

The Winds

Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand; We come and we go at his command. Tho' joy or sorrow may mark our track, His will is our guide and we may look not back: And if,in our wrath, ye would turn us away? Or win us in gentle airs to play, Then, lift up our hearts to him who binds, Or frees, as he will, the obedient Winds!

The Trunk from Sea

Here is the vesture!—here's the faithful friend, Wrapped in deep silence, in its case of gold, Whose little hand was by him to the end, Nor rested till its master's hand was cold. Here is the seal, that all his letters bear; The chain—the gift that near his heart was worn. This—sad memorial! 'tis a lock of hair That from his head some careful hand hath shorn!

And here's the lamp that shone upon his way, God's everlasting Word, his trust and guide. It is the food that fed him day by day; The fountain that his draught of life supplied. It is the sacred casket whence he took The goodly pearl that in his crown is set; The radiant centre where he loved to look On justice, peace, and truth, and mercy met.

To its pure Author every glowing line, That forms this hallow'd book, he fondly traced. Thus o'er my soul pour in, O light divine, And I will open where his mark is placed! 'Tis at the Saviour's tomb!—but here, instead Of the pale clay, are angels shining now! The grave is broken! for, behold! the dead Is risen, and sweetly asks, "Why weepest thou?"

Who is My Neighbor

Columbia, favored of the skies! How can thy banner wave, While at thy feet, thy neighbor lies A crushed and fettered slave? There is a blot among its stars; A stain upon thy hand; A mark upon thy face, that mars The beauty of our land!

Thou noble tree of liberty, Should not thy verdure fade O'er him who would his neighbor see Excluded from thy shade? Did they who reared thee by their toil Not will thy fruit to be, Alike, for all who tread thy soil, A harvest sweet and free?

What is This

Then, thou slumbering soul, awake! Let these earthly baubles break, Let the mildew blight the tree! Here's no fruit to nourish thee. Up! and from the ruins haste; Look not back upon the waste! Up! and fasten on the prize That is offered from the skies!

The Frost

But he did one thing that was hardly fair. He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there, That all had forgotten for him to prepare, "Now, just to set them a-thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three; And the glass of water they 've left for me Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I 'm drinking!"

The Scar of Lexington

When thou to manhood shalt be grown, And I am gone in dust to sleep, May freedom's rights be still thine own, And thou and thine in quiet reap The unblighted product of the toil In which my blood bedewed the soil! And, while those fruits thou shalt enjoy, Bethink thee of this scar, my boy!

But, should thy country's voice be heard To bid her children fly to arms, Gird on thy Grandsire's trusty sword; And, undismayed by war's alarms, Remember, on the battle-field, I made the hand of God my shield! And, be thou spared, like me, to tell What bore thee up, while others fell!

The Broken Hearted

I bent o'er her pale and breathless clay, As it shone in the light, like a frozen flower, That stands in the air of a winter's day, Ere a leaf has drooped at the sunbeam's power!

'Twas wrapped in a sweet and holy calm, That bade each shadow of grief depart! The spirit had risen to breathe the balm, Which Gilead sheds for the pure in heart!

A Voice from Mount Auburn

"But this is all earthly! while thus ye enclose A spot where your ashes in peace may repose— Where the living may come and commune with the dead, With God and his soul, and with reverence tread On the sod, which he soon may be sleeping below,— Have ye chosen the home where the spirit shall go?

"Shall it dwell where the gardens of Paradise bloom, And flowers are not opening to die on the tomb? With the song of an angel, a vesture of light, Shall it live in a world free from shadow and blight; Where the waters are pure, from a fount never-sealed, And the secrets of heaven are in glory revealed?

"A day hastens on,—and an arm shall then break The bars of the tomb—the dread trump shall awake The dead from their sleep in the earth and the sea, And, 'Render up thine!' shall be sounded to me! Prepare for that hour, that my people may stand Unawed by the scene at the Judge's right hand!"

The Weeper

She, who so lately was weeping, Wounded, despairing and lost, At rest is now quietly sleeping! Life's troubled waters are crossed!

The Dying Exile

Say, my last regrets were centred, All my fondness lingered there, Till upon a home I entered Free from banishment and care;

That my glad, unburdened spirit Soared triumphantly at last; That, a country I inherit Worth all sighs and anguish past.

Faith and hope, your strength is doubling! Soon that home will be possessed, "Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest!"

The Star

Monarch's form and vassal's clay Turned to dust and swept away: E'en to tell where once they lay, I am left alone!

When I've been from age to age, Questioned by the lettered sage What a star might be, I've answered not; for soon, I knew, He 'd have a clearer, nobler view, And look the world of mysteries through In vast eternity!

Mortals, since ye pass as dew, Seize the promise made for you Ere your day is o'er. The righteous, says a page divine, Are as the firmament to shine; And like the stars, when I and mine Are quenched to beam no more!

The Wounded Bird

Ere the night-coming, your mother will lie Motionless, under the tree— Helpless and silent, I still shall be nigh, While ye are moaning for me!

To the Siamese Twins

But, what do you do when your slumbers come, When ye 've sweetly sunken to rest? Do your spirits, side by side, fly home, Still linked, to your mother's breast? Did ye ever dream that your bond was broke; That ye were asunder thrown? And how did ye feel at the severing stroke, When each was forever alone?

No—ye would not think of yourselves apart, Even in fancy's wildest mood, For each would seem but a broken heart, And the world but a solitude! Dear youths, may your lives be a flowery way, And, watched by your Maker's eye, May both, at the close, one call obey To shine as twin stars on high!

Warning from the Gold Mine

I will be a spur to crime, Ye shall sell your peace through time; And a long eternity Of remorse shall come, for me! Now I'm here without defence; But, if once I'm taken hence, Man shall eat the bitter fruit Springing from a golden root!

The Fly's Revenge

He buzzed about at a lady's ear, Just as a youth, with piteous sigh, Popped the question she would not hear, But only answered, "a saucy fly!"

He washed his feet in the worthless tear A belle at the theatre chanced to weep; Rouge in the bath!" he cried, "my dear, Your cheek has a blush that is not skin deep!"

On the astronomer's pointed glass He leisurely stood and stretched his wing; For here, he knew, he was sure to pass For quite a great and important thing.

"Now is the time," said he, "my man, To measure the fly from head to heel! Number the miles, and, if you can, Name the planets that I conceal.

What do you call the twinkling star Over the spot where you see me tread; And the beautiful cluster of lights afar, Ranged in the heavens above my head?

"Ah! it is station that swells us all, At once, to a size that were else unknown! And now, if ever I hear you call My race an order beneath your own,

I'll tell the world of this comic scene; And how will they laugh to hear that I, Small as you think me, can stand between You and your views of the spacious sky!"

The Voice of the Eagle

Were rattling down, to crush the world beneath. Just then, a ship came struggling in the bay, With cables parted, bow and anchors lost— Her life-boat weltering in the distant surge; Now she was tossed high up the mountain waves, Then into gaping watery caverns thrown— And when she struck the consummating rock, While she was parting, I beheld the crew, Trembling, with faces paler than the sheets Hung, rent and fluttering round them; but there beamed From every eye a fire so strangely bright, It seemed its radiance might have lasted lives. One fell despairing from the loosening shroud, Another wildly clasped the shivered mast; And some, with hands upraised, as if they sought To meet an arm extended from on high, By which to hold them from their yawning graves, Were going to kneel. He who was last— The feeble lone one on the mighty deep, Clinging a moment to a floating beam, While his bright locks, that late so closely curled, All darkened, wet and heavy, fell apart, Leaving his smooth, white forehead, marble cold, Thrice, with his latest breath, called out thy name, As the black meeting billows closed him in.

The Young Artist

As thy native castle, sublimely grand, A beautiful structure, thou may'st stand High and unmoved by the tempest's strife, The bolt and the blast of the storms of life. But should it be thus, there must come a day When thy house will shake, and its strength decay; When the light that will gild its crumbling towers Must be left by the sun of thy childish hours! Then, may their memory, like the vine, Mantling over the ruin, twine, And, spreading a living vesture, climb To cover the rust and the tooth of time, And curtain with verdure the mouldering walls, Which shall not fade till the fabric falls!

Sister, gather the buds of Spring, All dewy and bright, as they 're opening! Treasure them up from the frost and blight, For a lowering day and a starless night. And they will be fresh in thy bosom still When all without may be dark and chill. Another will seek to be crowned by thee Lord of thy heart and thy destiny! Thou may'st bestow, in thy riper years, Laurels to water with daily tears. Then will memory love to come Through mist and shade, to thine early home, Within the halo that brightly beams Around the scene of thine infant dreams. Again thou wilt playfully sit, and look On the artlesss ketch of thy brother's book,

And own no moment of earthly bliss So pure, so holy, and sweet as this!

Children, Time is a fleeting day, The brighter its scenes, the sooner away! Look to the mansion, and seek the crown That shall not decay when the sun goes down!

The Empaled Butterfly

"Many a one that has loathed the sight Of the piteous worm, will take delight In welcoming me, as I look so bright In my new and beautiful dress. But some I shall pass with a scornful glance, Some with elegant nonchalance, And others will woo me, till I advance To give them a slight caress."

"Ha!" said the pin, "you are just the one Through which I >'m commissioned, at once, to run From back to breast, till, your fluttering done, Your form may be fairly shown. And when my point shall have reached your heart, 'T will be like a balm to the wounded part, To think how you will be copied by art, And your beauty will all be known!"

The Robe

A smile had left its trace On her lip, at the parting breath, And the beauty in that lovely face Was fixed with the seal of death!

The Choice of a Prize

Hast thou a steady eye To Honor, Splendor, Glory, Fame, or Gold, As an attainment worth the toil of life, The mortal race? The mighty leveller Admits of no distinction where he reigns, Save, 'twixt himself and those beneath his throne. Honor!—Oh, how it dwindles into nought! None shrinks aside to yield the highest place To him, who cometh where the sleepers are! Splendor!—The covering of the vassal's couch Is bright as his, whose fitful, guilty dream Was under silken drapery! Lord and slave, In death's calm fellowship, sleep side by side. Glory!—The damps and shadows of the grave Put out the brightest halo earth can light: Fame!—Can her trump delight this slumberer; Or pour in sweetness to his heavy ear? Her loudest blast is passing, empty air To him, who here retires to lay him down, Crushing the laurels he has proudly worn! Gold!—Is the miser clenching here the key To wealth, for which he sold the key of Heaven? His gold is strewn, as dust upon the wind, Though he, who bought it with eternal life, Hugged it until he felt his soul required, And earth, withdrawing, leave him to the waves That take the dross, which never shall consume! Shall aught of these invite thee? "Oh! no! no! Beauty—may that of holiness be mine!

May power be given me to o'ercome the world! For pleasure, may I have a hand to pour The oil and wine upon another's wound! For honor, may I bear my Savior's cross; For splendor, light that from his follower beams; And be my glory his approving smile. My fame, the world's reproaches for his sake; My wealth, a conscience where no rust corrodes— One that may look into a coming world, As nature shall dissolve, and feel secure! With these to aid me in the mortal strife, May I the palm of victory o'er the grave Make my immortal prize!

Mount Olivet

While these sad pictures, hung upon thy sides, Thou consecrated height, dissolve the heart In pious sorrow; yet thy brow is crowned With a bright, glorious scene! Now, O my soul, On the blest summit light a holy flame! From the last foot-print of the Prince of peace, The Conqueror of death, let incense rise, And enter heaven with thine ascending Lord! Shake of the chains and all the dust of earth! Go up and breathe in the sweet atmosphere His presence purified, as he arose! Come! from the Mount of Olives pluck thy branch, And bear it, like a dove, to yon bright ark Of rest and safety!

The Consignment

This must go! for, on the seal When I broke the solemn yew, Keener was the pang than steel; 'T was a heart-string breaking too! Here comes up the blotted leaf, Blistered o'er by many a tear. Hence! thou waking shade of grief! Go, forever disappear!

This is his, who seemed to be High as heaven, and fair as light; But the visor rose, and he— Spare, O memory! spare the sight Of the face that frowned beneath, While I take it, hand and name, And entwine it with a wreath Of the purifying flame!

These—the hand is in the grave, And the soul is in the skies, Whence they came! 'T is pain to save Cold remains of sundered ties! Go together, all, and burn, Once the treasures of my heart! Still, my breast shall be an urn To preserve your better part!

The Musical Box

And while his powerful, magic hand O'er memory's chords is sweeping, To wake and bring from the spirit-land The things that else were sleeping— It lifts my thoughts to a world to come, Where those parted here shall meet, From the storms of life secure at home, And sing, that home is sweet!

Address to the Automaton Chess Player

I thought if, e'en within thy glove, Thy cold and fleshless hand should move To rest on me, the touch would prove Far worse than death; That I should be transformed, and see Thousands, and thousands gaze on me, A living, moving thing, like thee, Devoid of breath.

When busy, curious, learned and wise Regard thee with inquiring eyes To find wherein thy mystery lies, On thy stiff neck, Turning thy head with grave precision, Their optic light and mental vision Alike defying, with decision, Thou giv'st them "check!"

Some say a little man resides Between thy narrow, bony sides; And round the world within thee rides: Absurd the notion! For what's the human thing 't would lurk In thine unfeeling breast, Sir Turk, Performing thus thine inward work, And outward motion?

Some whisper that thou 'rt he, who fell From Heaven's high courts, down, down, to dwell In that deep place of sulphury smell And lurid flame.

Thy keeper then deserves a pension, For seeking out this wise invention To hold thee harmless, in detention, Close at thy game.

Now, though all Europe has confessed, That in thy master Maelzel's breast Hidden, thy secret still must rest, Yet, 't were great pity, With all our intellectual light, That none should view thy nature right,— But thou must leave in fog and night Our keen-eyed city.

Then just confide in me, and show, Or tell, how things within thee go! Speak in my ear so quick and low None else shall know it. But, mark me! if I should discover Without thine aid, thy secret mover, With thee forever all is over, I'll quickly blow it!

The Empty Bird's Nest

Thou hast made me to think of each heart-woven tie; Of the child's first home, and of her, whose eye Watched fondly o'er those, who were reared to die Where the grave of a distant shore Received to its bosom the strangers' clay; For when, as thy birds, they had passed away, 'T was not to return, and the mother and they In time were to meet no more!

The Soul's Farewell

There must the deeds, which we together wrought, Be all remembered—each a witness made; The outward action and the secret thought Before the silent soul must there be weighed.

Lo! I behold the seraph throng descend To waft me up where love and mercy dwell! Away, vain fears! the Judge will be my friend; It is my Father calls—pale clay, farewell!

The Maniac

Yet, when the cherished illusion breaks, When fancy's vision its farewell takes, And flies, as the thing of a blissful dream, Her eye will wander across the stream, And the big tear stand on her cold pale cheek; But the name, she never is heard to speak.

Her sorrow was that which none must hear— Too sacred and deep for an earthly ear; 'T was such, when its waves in the bosom swell, As we to no friend, but our God, can tell. Like the stricken bird, that will feebly fly To the nearest covert, alone to die, She hid the arrow that pierced her breast, And the wound that had robbed her soul of rest. For they came from him to whom alone Her love was pledged at her Maker's throne. She had tried to smile till her lip was white, And her eye with weeping had quenched its light Till the clouds of care her brow had shaded, Her cheek was sunk, and its rose had faded. From the joys of life in its morning torn, The hapless maniac, dark and lorn, With the future a void—a waste the past, And the present a dream, on the world was cast. The faithless she never again may meet Till they both shall stand at the judgment seat!

Native Attachment

I find not a gem in my pathway so bright As the fire-fly, pursued by my young feet at night. Earth offers no flowers like the wild ones I wreathed; No breeze comes from heaven like the air I first breathed. No spot seems so pure in the wide vault on high, As that which sent down the first light to my eye!

The Slave Mother's Prayer

And when before thine awful throne My master shall appear, A naked spirit, to atone For all his dealings here;

If pardoning grace can be bestowed, And Heaven has pity then, For him, who here no pity showed Towards his fellow-men,

Thou 'lt spare him, in thy mercy, Lord, The sinner's fearful doom— The wages, for his just reward, Of death beyond the tomb.

The Little Boy to the Cricket

And while he was going, I heard him sing, "Sieze the garland of passing Spring!" But I dared not reach—for the bank was steep; And he bore it away to the far-off deep! Then came a lady—her eye was bright— She was young and fair; and her bark was light. Its mast was a living tree, that spread Its boughs for a sail, o'er the lady's head; And some of the fruits had just begun To flush, on the side that was next the sun; And some with the crimson streak were stained, While others their size had not yet gained. She said, as she passed—"Oh! who can insure The fruits of Summer to get mature? For, fast as the waters beneath me, flowing, Beyond recall, I 'm going! I 'm going!" I turned my eye, and beheld another, That seemed as she might be Summer's mother. She looked more grave; and her cheek was tinged With a deeper brown; her bark was fringed With the tasseled heads of the wheaten sheaves Along its sides—and the yellow leaves, That covered the deck, concealed a throng Of crickets,—I knew by their choral song. At Autumn's feet lay the golden corn, And her hands were raised to invert a horn, That was filled with a sweet and mellow store, And the purple clusters were hanging o'er. She bade me seize on the fruit, that should last, When the harvest was gone, and Autumn had past!

But, when I had paused to make the choice, I saw no bark! and I heard no voice! Then, I looked on a sight that chilled my blood; 'T was a mass of ice, where an old man stood On his frozen raft; while his shriveled hand Had clinched, as a staff by which to stand, A whitened branch that the blast had broke From the lifeless trunk of an aged oak. The icicles hung from the naked limb, And the old man's eye was sunk and dim. But his scattering locks were silver bright, And his beard with the gathering frost was white. The tears congealed on his furrowed cheek, His garb was thin, and the winds were bleak. He faintly uttered, while drawing near, "Winter, the death of the short-lived year, Can yield thee nought, as I downward tend To the boundless sea, where the seasons end. But I trust from others, who 've gone before, Thou 'st clothed thy form, and supplied thy store; And now, what tidings am I to bear Of thee,—for I shall be questioned there?" I asked Mamma, as she o'er me bent, What all this show of the seasons meant? She said 't was a picture of life, I saw; And the useful moral myself must draw! I awoke—and found that thy song was stilled, And the sun with his beams my room had filled! But I think, my cricket, I long shall keep In mind, the dream of my morning sleep!

The Midnight Mail

Perhaps thy treasure 's in the deep, Thy lover in a dreamless sleep, Thy brother where thou canst not weep Upon his distant grave! Thy parent's hoary head no more May shed a silver luster o'er His children grouped—nor death restore Thy son from out the wave!

Thy prattler's tongue, perhaps, is stilled, Thy sister's lip is pale and chilled, Thy blooming bride, perchance, has filled Her corner of the tomb. May be, the home where all thy sweet And tender recollections meet, Has shown its flaming winding sheet, In midnight's awful gloom!

And while, alternate, o'er my soul Those cold or burning wheels will roll Their chill or heat, beyond control, Till morn shall bring relief, Father in heaven, whate'er may be The cup, which thou hast sent for me, I know 't is good, prepared by Thee, Though filled with joy or grief!

A Voice from the Wine Press

Many a stately form shall reel, When our power is felt within; Many a foolish tongue reveal What the recent draught has been; Many a thoughtless, yielding youth, With his promise all in bloom, Go from paths of peace and truth To an early, shameful tomb.