Opening…

AN APRIL DAY

When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, ’Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-on of storms.

From the earth’s loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with Winter’s cold, The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows.

And, when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o’er-reaching far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide, Stand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows throw; And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below.

Sweet April!—many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life’s golden fruit is shed.

AUTUMN.

With what a glory comes and goes the year! The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy Life’s newness, and earth’s garniture spread out. And when the silvery habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with A sober gladness the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned; And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

O what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear.

SUNRISE ON THE HILLS

I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide arch Was glorious with the sun’s returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. The clouds were far beneath me;—bathed in light, They gathered midway round the wooded height, And, in their fading glory, shone Like hosts in battle overthrown, As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance, And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river’s flow Was darkened by the forest’s shade, Or glistened in the white cascade; Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash,— And richly, by the blue lake’s silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o’er the vale, with gentle swell, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, That faint and far the glen sent out, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.

If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills!—No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

WOODS IN WINTER

When Winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill That overbrows the lonely vale.

O’er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river’s gradual tide, Shrilly the skaters’ iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day.

But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year,— I listen, and it cheers me long.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI’S BANNER.

When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The blood-red banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there.

And the nun’s sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.

“Take thy banner! May it wave Proudly o’er the good and brave; When the battle’s distant wail Breaks the sabbath of our vale, When the clarion’s music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills, When the spear in conflict shakes, And the strong lance shivering breaks.

“Take thy banner! and, beneath The battle-cloud’s encircling wreath, Guard it!—till our homes are free! Guard it!—God will prosper thee! In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will shield thee then.

“Take thy banner! But, when night Closes round the ghastly fight, If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare him!—By our holy vow, By our prayers and many tears, By the mercy that endears, Spare him!—he our love hath shared! Spare him!—as thou wouldst be spared!

“Take thy banner!—and if e’er Thou shouldst press the soldier’s bier, And the muffled drums should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee.”

The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud!

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK

On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple’s leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its brazen leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian’s soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, grey forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave.

They sang, that by his native bowers He stood in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior’s head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days.

A dark cloak of the roebuck’s skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war were laid; The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads.

Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death-dirge of the slain; Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief.

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd.

They buried the dark chief—they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose,—and, on the dead man’s plain, The rider grasps his steed again.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where’er the gentle south wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild-flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast-ushering star of Morning comes O’er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.

And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,— The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,— Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature,—of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird’s wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,— It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, from the morning’s dewy flowers, it comes Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy To have it round us,—and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

Voices of the Night.

1839.

Πότνια, πότνια νὺξ, ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν πολυπόνων βροτῶν, Ἐρεβόθεν ἴθι· μόλε μόλε κατάπτερος Ἀγαμεμνόνιον ἐπὶ δόμον· ὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων, ὑπό τε συμφορᾶς διοιχόμεθ’, οἰχόμεθα.—EURIPIDES.

PRELUDE.

Pleasant it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Alternate come and go;

Or, where the denser grove receives No sunlight from above, But the dark foliage interweaves In one unbroken roof of leaves, Underneath whose sloping eaves The shadows hardly move.

Beneath some patriarchal tree, I lay upon the ground; His hoary arms uplifted he, And all the broad leaves over me Clapped their little hands in glee, With one continuous sound;—

A slumberous sound,—a sound that brings The feelings of a dream,— As of innumerable wings; As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings O’er meadow, lake, and stream.

And dreams of that which cannot die, Bright visions, came to me, As lapped in thought I used to lie, And gaze into the summer sky, Where the sailing clouds went by, Like ships upon the sea;

Dreams that the soul of youth engage Ere fancy has been quelled; Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And chronicles of eld.

And, loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city’s throng I feel the freshness of the streams, That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams, The holy land of song.

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings The Spring, clothed like a bride, When nestling buds unfold their wings, And bishop’s-caps have golden rings, Musing upon many things, I sought the woodlands wide.

The green trees whispered low and mild; It was a sound of joy! They were my playmates when a child, And rocked me in their arms so wild! Still they looked at me and smiled, As if I were a boy;

And ever whispered, mild and low, “Come, be a child once more!” And waved their long arms to and fro, And beckoned solemnly and slow; Oh, I could not choose but go Into the woodlands hoar;

Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer! Like one in prayer I stood.

Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue, In long and sloping lines.

And, falling on my weary brain Like a fast-falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again, Low lispings of the summer rain, Dropping on the ripened grain, As once upon the flower.

Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! Ye were so sweet and wild! And distant voices seemed to say, “It cannot be! They pass away! Other themes demand thy lay; Thou art no more a child!

“The land of song within thee lies, Watered by living springs; The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyes Are gates unto that Paradise, Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, Its clouds are angels’ wings.

“Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, Not mountains capped with snow, Nor forests sounding like the sea, Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, Where the woodlands bend to see The bending heavens below.

“There is a forest where the din Of iron branches sounds! A mighty river roars between, And whosoever looks therein, Sees the heavens all black with sin,— Sees not its depths nor bounds.

“Athwart the swinging branches cast, Soft rays of sunshine pour; Then comes the fearful wintry blast; Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast; Pallid lips say, ‘It is past! We can return no more!’

“Look, then, into thine heart, and write! Yes, into Life’s deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright— Be these henceforth thy theme.”

HYMN TO THE NIGHT

Ἀσπασίη, τρίλλιστος.

I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls,

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o’er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet’s rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,— From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before: Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer; Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best belovèd Night!

A PSALM OF LIFE

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, “Life is but an empty dream!” For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; “Dust thou art, to dust returnest,” Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act—act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;—

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS

When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The belovèd, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the road-side fell and perished, Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depress’d and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died!

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

“Shall I have nought that is fair,” saith he; “Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again.”

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves.

“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,” The Reaper said, and smiled; “Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where He was once a child.

“They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.”

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above.

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; ’Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away.

THE LIGHT OF STARS

The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? Oh, no! from that blue tent above A hero’s armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand, And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light, But the cold light of stars; I give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm.

Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

FLOWERS

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth’s firmament do shine.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars, which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of His love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth,—these golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the selfsame universal being Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the selfsame powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing, And in Summer’s green emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield;

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY

I have read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry’s pace; The mist-like banners clasped the air As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmèd air.

Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life’s rushing stream, In Fancy’s misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life’s wave.

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR

Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely,—sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain-passes The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn masses, Singing, “Pray for this poor soul, Pray,—pray!”

And the hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers;— But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despisèd Lear, A king,—a king!

Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice! His joy! his last! Oh, the old man grey Loveth that ever-soft voice, Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith, To the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter’s breath, “Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!”

And now the sweet day is dead! Cold in his arms it lies; No stain from its breath is spread Over the glassy skies, No mist or stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, “Vex not his ghost!”

Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon, The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! Would the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast, There shall be a darker day; And the stars, from heaven downcast, Like red leaves be swept away! Kyrie, eleyson! Christe, eleyson!

L’ENVOI.

Ye voices, that arose After the Evening’s close, And whispered to my restless heart repose!

Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, “Be of good cheer!”

Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel’s psalm!

Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest, dark and hoar!

Tongues of the dead, not lost, But speaking from death’s frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain where Death encamps!

Ballads.

1842.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR

PREFATORY NOTE.

The following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the sea-shore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armour; and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the Mémoires de la Société Royale des Antiquaires du Nord, for 1838-39, says:—

“There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of the twelfth century; that style which some authors have, from one of its most striking characteristics, called the round-arch style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture.

“On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all who are familiar with Old Northern architecture will concur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently received; for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses, for example, as the substructure of a windmill, and latterly as a hay magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fireplace, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could not have been erected for a windmill is what an architect will easily discern.”

I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well established for the purpose of a ballad, though doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho, “God bless me! did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but a windmill? and nobody could mistake it but one who had the like in his head.”

“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?”

Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water’s flow Under December’s snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart’s chamber.

“I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man’s curse! For this I sought thee.

“Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic’s strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on.

“Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf’s bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow.

“But when I older grew, Joining a corsair’s crew, O’er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild with the life we led; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders.

“Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk’s tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Filled to o’erflowing.

“Once, as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning, yet tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendour.

“I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest’s shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted.

“Bright in her father’s hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter’s hand, Mute did the minstrel stand To hear my story.

“While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly.

“She was a Prince’s child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew’s flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded?

“Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me,— Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen!— When on the white-sea strand, Waving his armèd hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen.

“Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us.

“And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, Death! was the helmsman’s hail, Death without quarter! Mid-ships with iron-keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water.

“As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden: So toward the open main, Beating the sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden.

“Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o’er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady’s bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward.

“There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden’s tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne’er shall the sun arise On such another!

“Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful!

“Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, Skoal! to the Northland! Skoal!”[1] —Thus the tale ended.

[1] In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in order to preserve the correct pronunciation.Return to passage

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr, To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailòr, Had sailed the Spanish Main, “I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane.

“Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!” The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the North-east; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable’s length.

“Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.”

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat, Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast.

“O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say what may it be?” “’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”— And he steered for the open sea.

“O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?” “Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!”

“O father, I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?” But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves Look soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on a bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow; Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman’s Woe!

Poems on Slavery.

1842.

[The following Poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing’s death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.]

TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING

The pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said, “Servant of God! well done!”

Well done! Thy words are great and bold; At times they seem to me Like Luther’s, in the days of old, Half-battles for the free.

Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Insult humanity.

A voice is ever at thy side, Speaking in tones of might, Like the prophetic voice, that cried To John in Patmos, “Write!”

Write! and tell out this bloody tale; Record this dire eclipse, This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, This dread Apocalypse!

THE SLAVE’S DREAM

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain-road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand!— A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids, And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger’s bank; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion’s flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew; From morn till night he followed their flight, O’er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyæna scream; And the river-horse as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free, That he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver’s whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away!

THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And heard at times a horse’s tramp, And a bloodhound’s distant bay.

Where will-o’-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, In bulrush and in brake; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake;

Where hardly a human foot could pass, Or a human heart would dare, On the quaking turf of the green morass He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, Like a wild beast in his lair.

A poor old slave, infirm and lame; Great scars deformed his face; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, Were the livery of disgrace.

All things above were bright and fair, All things were glad and free; Lithe squirrels darted here and there, And wild birds filled the echoing air With songs of Liberty!

On him alone was the doom of pain, From the morning of his birth; On him alone the curse of Cain Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, And struck him to the earth!

THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY

She dwells by great Kenhawa’s side, In valleys green and cool; And all her hope and all her pride Are in the village school.

Her soul, like the transparent air That robes the hills above, Though not of earth, encircles there All things with arms of love.

And thus she walks among her girls With praise and mild rebukes; Subduing even rude village churls By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventide Of One who came to save; To cast the captive’s chains aside, And liberate the slave.

And oft the blessed time foretells When all men shall be free; And musical, as silver bells, Their falling chains shall be.

And following her beloved Lord, In decent poverty, She makes her life one sweet record And deed of charity.

For she was rich and gave up all To break the iron bands Of those who waited in her hall, And laboured in her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea Their outbound sails have sped, While she, in meek humility, Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers, which never cease, That clothe her with such grace; Their blessing is the light of peace That shines upon her face.

THE QUADROON GIRL

The Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale.

Under the shore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew Watched the gray alligator slide Into the still bayou.

Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, Reached them from time to time, Like airs that breathe from Paradise Upon a world of crime.

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, Smoked thoughtfully and slow; The Slaver’s thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go.

He said, “My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon; I only wait the evening tides, And the rising of the moon.”

Before them, with her face upraised, In timid attitude, Like one half curious, half amazed, A Quadroon maiden stood.

Her eyes were large, and full of light, Her arms and neck were bare; No garment she wore, save a kirtle bright, And her own long, raven hair.

And on her lips there played a smile As holy, meek, and faint, As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint.

“The soil is barren,—the farm is old;” The thoughtful Planter said; Then looked upon the Slaver’s gold, And then upon the maid.

His heart within him was at strife With such accursèd gains; For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak; He took the glittering gold! Then pale as death grew the maiden’s cheek, Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour In a strange and distant land!

THE WITNESSES

In Ocean’s wide domains, Half buried in the sands, Lie skeletons in chains, With shackled feet and hands.

Beyond the fall of dews, Deeper than plummet lies, Float ships with all their crews, No more to sink nor rise.

There the black Slave-ship swims, Freighted with human forms, Whose fettered, fleshless limbs Are not the sport of storms.

These are the bones of Slaves; They gleam from the abyss; They cry, from yawning waves, “We are the Witnesses!”

Within Earth’s wide domains Are markets for men’s lives; Their necks are galled with chains, Their wrists are cramped with gyves.

Dead bodies, that the kite In deserts makes its prey; Murders, that with affright Scare school-boys from their play!

All evil thoughts and deeds; Anger, and lust, and pride; The foulest, rankest weeds. That choke Life’s groaning tide!

These are the woes of Slaves; They glare from the abyss; They cry from unknown graves, “We are the Witnesses!”

THE WARNING

Beware! The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path,—when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind In prison, and at last led forth to be A pander to Philistine revelry,—

Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow Destroyed himself, and with him those who made A cruel mockery of his sightless woe; The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, Expired, and thousands perished in the fall!

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, Till the vast Temple of our liberties A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies.

THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT

Loud he sang the Psalm of David! He, a Negro, and enslaved, Sang of Israel’s victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour, when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, In a voice so sweet and clear That I could not choose but hear.

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the swart Egyptians, When upon the Red Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host.

And the voice of his devotion Filled my soul with strange emotion; For its tones by turns were glad, Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake’s arm of might Broke their dungeon-gates at night.

But, alas! what holy angel Brings the slave this glad evangel? And what earthquake’s arm of might Breaks his dungeon-gates at night?

Miscellaneous Poems.

1841-46.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY

NO HAY PÁJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTAÑO. Spanish Proverb.

The sun is bright, the air is clear, The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear The blue-bird prophesying Spring.

So blue yon winding river flows, It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new;—the buds, the leaves, That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves;— There are no birds in last year’s nest!

All things rejoice in youth and love, The fulness of their first delight! And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For O! it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, To some good angel leave the rest; For time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year’s nest.

THE RAINY DAY

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate’er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter’s voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.

ENDYMION

The rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this, She woke Endymion with a kiss, When sleeping in the grove, He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought; Nor voice nor sound betrays Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes—the beautiful, the free, The crown of all humanity— In silence and alone To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep Are life’s oblivion, the soul’s sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him who slumbering lies.

O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes! O, drooping souls whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own.

Responds—as if with unseen wings An angel touched its quivering strings; And whispers, in its song, “Where hast thou stayed so long?”

GOD’S-ACRE

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God’s-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust.

God’s-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life—alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel’s blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow.

TO THE RIVER CHARLES

River! that in silence windest Through the meadows bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest In the bosom of the sea!

Four long years of mingled feeling, Half in rest, and half in strife, I have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou hast taught me, Silent River! Many a lesson, deep and long; Thou hast been a generous giver; I can give thee but a song.

Oft in sadness and in illness, I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide.

And in better hours and brighter, When I saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter, And leap onward with thy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue.

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, And have made thy margin dear.

More than this;—thy name reminds me Of three friends, all true and tried; And that name, like magic, binds me Closer, closer to thy side.

Friends my soul with joy remembers! How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers On the hearthstone of my heart!

’Tis for this, thou Silent River! That my spirit leans to thee; Thou hast been a generous giver, Take this idle song from me.

BLIND BARTIMEUS

Blind Bartimeus at the gates Of Jericho in darkness waits; He hears the crowd;—he hears a breath Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth!” And calls in tones of agony, =Ἰηδοῦ, ἐλέηδόν υε!=

The thronging multitudes increase; Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace! But still, above the noisy crowd, The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud; Until they say, “He calleth thee!” =Θάξσει, ἔλξιζαι, φωνεἶ σε!=

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands The crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?” And he replies, “O give me light! Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight!” And Jesus answers, “=Υπαγε= =Ἠ πίστις σον σέσωκέ σε!=”

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, In darkness and in misery, Recall those mighty Voices Three, =Ἰηδοῦ, ἐλέηδόν υε!= =Θάξσει, ἔλξιζαι, Υπαγε!= =Ἠ πίστις σον σέσωκέ σε!=”

THE GOBLET OF LIFE

Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles swim, And chant a melancholy hymn With solemn voice and slow.

No purple flowers,—no garlands green, Conceal the goblet’s shade or sheen, Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between Thick leaves of mistletoe.

This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart, When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart, Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round, With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned Are in its waters steeped and drowned, And give a bitter taste.

Above the lowly plants it towers, The fennel, with its yellow flowers, And in an earlier age than ours Was gifted with the wondrous powers, Lost vision to restore.

It gave new strength, and fearless mood; And gladiators, fierce and rude, Mingled it in their daily food; And he who battled and subdued, A wreath of fennel wore.

Then in Life’s goblet freely press The leaves that give it bitterness, Nor prize the coloured waters less, For in thy darkness and distress New light and strength they give!

And he who has not learned to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe, With which its brim may overflow, He has not learned to live.

The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate fight, The blackness of that noonday night, He asked but the return of sight, To see his foeman’s face.

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Be, too, for light,—for strength to bear Our portion of the weight of care, That crushes into dumb despair One half the human race.

O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, and yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried!

I pledge you in this cup of grief, Where floats the fennel’s bitter leaf, The Battle of our Life is brief, The alarm,—the struggle,—the relief,— Then sleep we side by side.

THE SEA-DIVER

My way is on the bright blue sea, My sleep upon the rocky tide; And many an eye has followed me, Where billows clasp the worn sea-side.

My plumage bears the crimson blush, When ocean by the sun is kissed! When fades the evening’s purple flush, My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.

Full many a fathom down beneath The bright arch of the splendid deep, My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe O’er living myriads in their sleep.

They rested by the coral throne, And by the pearly diadem, Where the pale sea-grape had overgrown The glorious dwelling made for them.

At night, upon my storm-drenched wing, I poised above a helmless bark, And soon I saw the shattered thing Had passed away and left no mark.

And when the wind and storm had done, A ship, that had rode out the gale, Sunk down without a signal-gun, And none was left to tell the tale.

I saw the pomp of day depart— The cloud resign its golden crown, When to the ocean’s beating heart The sailor’s wasted corse went down.

Peace be to those whose graves are made Beneath the bright and silver sea! Peace that their relics there were laid, With no vain pride and pageantry.

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES.

CARILLON. 1845.

In the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city, As the evening shades descended, Low and loud and sweetly blended, Low at times and loud at times, And changing like a poet’s rhymes, Rang the beautiful wild chimes, From the Belfry in the market Of the ancient town of Bruges.

Then, with deep sonorous clangour Calmly answering their sweet anger, When the wrangling bells had ended, Slowly struck the clock eleven, And, from out the silent heaven, Silence on the town descended. Silence, silence everywhere, On the earth and in the air, Save that footsteps here and there Of some burgher home returning, By the street lamps faintly burning, For a moment woke the echoes Of the ancient town of Bruges.

But amid my broken slumbers Still I heard those magic numbers, As they loud proclaimed the flight And stolen marches of the night; Till their chimes in sweet collision Mingled with each wandering vision, Mingled with the fortune-telling Gipsy-bands of dreams and fancies, Which amid the waste expanses Of the silent land of trances Have their solitary dwelling. All else seemed asleep in Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city.

And I thought how like these chimes Are the poet’s airy rhymes, All his rhymes and roundelays, His conceits, and songs, and ditties, From the belfry of his brain, Scattered downward, though in vain, On the roofs and stones of cities! For by night the drowsy ear Under its curtains cannot hear, And by day men go their ways, Hearing the music as they pass, But deeming it no more, alas! Than the hollow sound of brass.

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, Lodging at some humble inn In the narrow lanes of life, When the dusk and hush of night Shut out the incessant din Of daylight and its toil and strife, May listen with a calm delight To the poet’s melodies, Till he hears, or dreams he hears, Intermingled with the song, Thoughts that he has cherished long; Hears amid the chime and singing The bells of his own village ringing, And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes Wet with most delicious tears.

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé, Listening with a wild delight To the chimes that, through the night, Rang their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city.

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the town.

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapours grey, Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air.

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high, And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky.

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes.

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar.

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;

All the Foresters of Flanders,[2]—mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer,[3] Lyderick du Bucq[4] and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre.[5]

I beheld the pageants splendid, that adorned those days of old; Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold;

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease.

I beheld proud Maximilian,[6] kneeling humbly on the ground; I beheld the gentle Mary,[7] hunting with her hawk and hound;

And her lighted bridal chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, And the armèd guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between.[8]

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold;[9]

Saw the fight at Minnewater,[10] saw the White Hoods moving West, Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon’s nest;[11]

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin’s throat;

Till the bell of Ghent responded o’er lagoon and dike of sand, “I am Roland! I am Roland![12] there is victory in the land!”

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city’s roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more.

Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.

[2] The title of “Foresters of Flanders” was given by the French kings to those governors whom they appointed.Return to passage

[3] Who stole the daughter of Charles the Bald from the French court, and married her at Bruges.Return to passage

[4] Lyderick du Bucq was the first governor of Flanders in the reign of Clotaire II.Return to passage

[5] Succeeding Foresters who took the title of Count.Return to passage

[6] Archduke of Austria.Return to passage

[7] The daughter of Charles the Bold, who succeeded him as Duchess of Burgundy and Countess of Flanders, 1471.Return to passage

[8] See long notes in Appendix.Return to passage

[9] Fought, 11th of July 1302, between the French and Flemings. The flower of the French nobility perished in it; and it was named from the number of golden spurs found on the field of battle. Seven hundred were hung up in the church of Notre-Dame du Courtray.Return to passage

[10] The battle at Minnewater was fought with the citizens of Ghent, who wished to prevent the Flemings from opening a canal there. The White Hoods were a military body of Ghent.Return to passage

[11] The Golden Dragon was taken from Bruges to Antwerp by Philip von Artevelot. It came originally from the Church of St. Sophia in Constantinople.Return to passage

[12] On the alarm-bell of Bruges is inscribed: “My name is Roland; when I toll, there is fire; when I ring, there is victory in the land.”Return to passage

MAIDENHOOD

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies, Like the dusk in evening skies!

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run!

Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet’s swift advance, On the river’s broad expanse!

Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian?

Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon’s shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract’s roar?

O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,—Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered;— Age, that bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth.

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds, that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;

And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art.

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song, And loud, amid the universal clamour, O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent’s skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldier’s revels in the midst of pillage; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursèd instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts:

The warrior’s name would be a name abhorrèd! And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!”

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War’s great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise.

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE

This is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past The forms that once have been.

The Past and Present here unite Beneath Time’s flowing tide, Like footprints hidden by a brook, But seen on either side.

Here runs the highway to the town; There the green lane descends, Through which I walked to church with thee, O gentlest of my friends!

The shadow of the linden-trees Lay moving on the grass; Between them and the moving boughs, A shadow, thou didst pass.

Thy dress was like the lilies, And thy heart as pure as they: One of God’s holy messengers Did walk with me that day.

I saw the branches of the trees Bend down thy touch to meet, The clover-blossoms in the grass Rise up to kiss thy feet.

“Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born!” Solemnly sang the village choir On that sweet Sabbath morn.

Through the closed blinds the golden sun Poured in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen By Jacob in his dream.

And ever and anon the wind, Sweet-scented with the hay, Turned o’er the hymn-book’s fluttering leaves That on the window lay.

Long was the good man’s sermon, Yet it seemed not so to me; For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, And still I thought of thee.

Long was the prayer he uttered, Yet it seemed not so to me; For in my heart I prayed with him, And still I thought of thee.

But now, alas! the place seems changed; Thou art no longer here: Part of the sunshine of the scene With thee did disappear.

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Like pine-trees, dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh;

This memory brightens o’er the past, As when the sun, concealed Behind some cloud that near us hangs, Shines on a distant field.

NUREMBERG

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg the ancient stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng:

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.[13]

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde’s hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior[14] singing Kaiser Maximilian’s praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,[15] And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and laboured Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Dead he is not,—but departed,—for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Master-singers, chanting rude poetic strains.

From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame’s great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil’s chime;

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge’s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

Here Hans Sachs,[16] the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed.

But his house is now an alehouse, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door;

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman’s song,[17] As “the old man grey and dove-like,” with his great beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master’s antique chair.

Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world’s regard; But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs, thy cobbler-bard.

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay:

Gathering from the pavement’s crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The nobility of labour,—the long pedigree of toil.

[13] An ancient proverb of the town ran thus:—

“Nürnberg’s Hand Geht durch alle Land.”

Nuremberg’s hand Goes through every land.

[14] Melchior Pfinzing, one of the celebrated German poets of the sixteenth century. The hero of his Tenerdank was the reigning Emperor Maximilian (Mary of Burgundy’s former husband); the poem was to the Germans of that age what the Orlando Furioso was to the Italians.

[15] The tomb of St. Sebald in this church is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It was cast in bronze by Peter Vischer and his sons, who laboured on it for thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly a hundred figures, among which are the Twelve Apostles.

[16] He flourished in the sixteenth century, and left behind him 208 plays, 1700 comic tales, and four or five thousand lyric poems. The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original corporation of the Master-singers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though not one of the original Twelve, was the most renowned of the Master-singers, as well as the most voluminous. He left thirty-four folio volumes of manuscript containing the above number of plays, tales, and lyric poetry.Return to passage

[17] Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, describes him as he appeared in a vision:—Return to passage

“An old man, Grey and white, and dove-like, Who had, in sooth, a great beard; And read in a fair great book, Beautiful with golden clasps.”

THE INDIAN HUNTER

When the summer harvest was gathered in, And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin, And the ploughshare was in its furrow left, Where the stubble land had been lately cleft, An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow, Looked down where the valley lay stretched below.

He was a stranger there, and that day Had been out on the hills, a perilous way, But the foot of the deer was far and fleet, And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter’s feet, And bitter feelings passed o’er him then, As he stood by the populous haunts of men.

The winds of autumn came over the woods, As the sun stole out from their solitudes; The moss was white on the maple’s trunk, And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk, And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red Where the trees’ withered leaves around it shed.

The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, And the sickle cut down the yellow corn; The mower sang loud by the meadow side, Where the mists of evening were spreading wide; And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea, And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.

Then the hunter turned away from that scene, Where the home of his fathers once had been, And heard, by the distant and measured stroke, That the woodman hewed down the giant oak— And burning thoughts flashed over his mind, Of the white man’s faith, and love unkind.

The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white,— A footstep was heard in the rustling brake, Where the beech overshadowed the misty lake, A mourning voice, and a plunge from shore, And the hunter was seen on the hills no more.

When years had passed on, by that still lake side, The fisher looked down through the silver tide, And there, on the smooth yellow sand displayed, A skeleton wasted and white was laid, And ’twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, That the hand was still grasping a hunter’s bow.

THE NORMAN BARON

[Dans les moments de la vie où la réflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, où l’intérêt et l’avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de péril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posséder des serfs, comme d’une chose peu agréable à Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes à son image.]

THIERRY, Conquête de l’Angleterre.

In his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying; Loud, without, the tempest thundered, And the castle-turret shook.

In this fight was Death the gainer, Spite of vassal and retainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, Written in the Doomsday Book.

By his bed a monk was seated, Who in a humble voice repeated Many a prayer and pater-noster, From the missal on his knee;

And, amid the tempest pealing, Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, Bells that, from the neighbouring kloster, Rang for the Nativity.

In the hall, the serf and vassal Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; Many a carol, old and saintly, Sang the minstrels and the waits.

And so loud these Saxon gleemen Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, That the storm was heard but faintly, Knocking at the castle-gates.

Till at length the lays they chanted Reached the chamber terror-haunted, Where the monk, with accents holy, Whispered at the baron’s ear.

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, As he paused awhile and listened, And the dying baron slowly Turned his weary head to hear.

“Wassail for the kingly stranger Born and cradled in a manger! King, like David, priest, like Aaron, Christ is born to set us free!”

And the lightning showed the sainted Figures on the casement painted, And exclaimed the shuddering baron, “Miserere, Domine!”

In that hour of deep contrition, He beheld, with clearer vision, Through all outward show and fashion, Justice, the Avenger, rise.

All the pomp of earth had vanished, Falsehood and deceit were banished, Reason spake more loud than passion, And the truth wore no disguise.

Every vassal of his banner, Every serf born to his manor, All those wronged and wretched creatures, By his hand were freed again.

And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features, And the monk replied, “Amen!”

Many centuries have been numbered Since in death the baron slumbered By the convent’s sculptured portal, Mingling with the common dust:

But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.