A RHYMED LESSON (URANIA)
This poem was delivered before the Boston Mercantile Library Association, October 14, 1846.
YES, dear Enchantress,--wandering far and long, In realms unperfumed by the breath of song, Where flowers ill-flavored shed their sweets around, And bitterest roots invade the ungenial ground, Whose gems are crystals from the Epsom mine, Whose vineyards flow with antimonial wine, Whose gates admit no mirthful feature in, Save one gaunt mocker, the Sardonic grin, Whose pangs are real, not the woes of rhyme That blue-eyed misses warble out of time;-- Truant, not recreant to thy sacred claim, Older by reckoning, but in heart the same, Freed for a moment from the chains of toil, I tread once more thy consecrated soil; Here at thy feet my old allegiance own, Thy subject still, and loyal to thy throne!
My dazzled glance explores the crowded hall; Alas, how vain to hope the smiles of all! I know my audience. All the gay and young Love the light antics of a playful tongue; And these, remembering some expansive line My lips let loose among the nuts and wine, Are all impatience till the opening pun Proclaims the witty shamfight is begun. Two fifths at least, if not the total half, Have come infuriate for an earthquake laugh; I know full well what alderman has tied His red bandanna tight about his side; I see the mother, who, aware that boys Perform their laughter with superfluous noise, Beside her kerchief brought an extra one To stop the explosions of her bursting son; I know a tailor, once a friend of mine, Expects great doings in the button line,-- For mirth's concussions rip the outward case, And plant the stitches in a tenderer place. I know my audience,--these shall have their due; A smile awaits them ere my song is through!
I know myself. Not servile for applause, My Muse permits no deprecating clause; Modest or vain, she will not be denied One bold confession due to honest pride; And well she knows the drooping veil of song Shall save her boldness from the caviller's wrong. Her sweeter voice the Heavenly Maid imparts To tell the secrets of our aching hearts For this, a suppliant, captive, prostrate, bound, She kneels imploring at the feet of sound; For this, convulsed in thought's maternal pains, She loads her arms with rhyme's resounding chains; Faint though the music of her fetters be, It lends one charm,--her lips are ever free!
Think not I come, in manhood's fiery noon, To steal his laurels from the stage buffoon; His sword of lath the harlequin may wield; Behold the star upon my lifted shield Though the just critic pass my humble name, And sweeter lips have drained the cup of fame, While my gay stanza pleased the banquet's lords, The soul within was tuned to deeper chords! Say, shall my arms, in other conflicts taught To swing aloft the ponderous mace of thought, Lift, in obedience to a school-girl's law, Mirth's tinsel wand or laughter's tickling straw? Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling spear The pure, warm hearts that bid me welcome here? No! while I wander through the land of dreams, To strive with great and play with trifling themes, Let some kind meaning fill the varied line. You have your judgment; will you trust to mine?
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Between two breaths what crowded mysteries lie,-- The first short gasp, the last and long-drawn sigh! Like phantoms painted on the magic slide, Forth from the darkness of the past we glide, As living shadows for a moment seen In airy pageant on the eternal screen, Traced by a ray from one unchanging flame, Then seek the dust and stillness whence we came.
But whence and why, our trembling souls inquire, Caught these dim visions their awakening fire? Oh, who forgets when first the piercing thought Through childhood's musings found its way unsought? I AM;--I LIVE. The mystery and the fear When the dread question, WHAT HAS BROUGHT ME HERE? Burst through life's twilight, as before the sun Roll the deep thunders of the morning gun!
Are angel faces, silent and serene, Bent on the conflicts of this little scene, Whose dream-like efforts, whose unreal strife, Are but the preludes to a larger life?
Or does life's summer see the end of all, These leaves of being mouldering as they fall, As the old poet vaguely used to deem, As WESLEY questioned in his youthful dream? Oh, could such mockery reach our souls indeed, Give back the Pharaohs' or the Athenian's creed; Better than this a Heaven of man's device,-- The Indian's sports, the Moslem's paradise!
Or is our being's only end and aim To add new glories to our Maker's name, As the poor insect, shrivelling in the blaze, Lends a faint sparkle to its streaming rays? Does earth send upward to the Eternal's ear The mingled discords of her jarring sphere To swell his anthem, while creation rings With notes of anguish from its shattered strings? Is it for this the immortal Artist means These conscious, throbbing, agonized machines?
Dark is the soul whose sullen creed can bind In chains like these the all-embracing Mind; No! two-faced bigot, thou dost ill reprove The sensual, selfish, yet benignant Jove, And praise a tyrant throned in lonely pride, Who loves himself, and cares for naught beside; Who gave thee, summoned from primeval night, A thousand laws, and not a single right,-- A heart to feel, and quivering nerves to thrill, The sense of wrong, the death-defying will; Who girt thy senses with this goodly frame, Its earthly glories and its orbs of flame, Not for thyself, unworthy of a thought, Poor helpless victim of a life unsought, But all for him, unchanging and supreme, The heartless centre of thy frozen scheme.
Trust not the teacher with his lying scroll, Who tears the charter of thy shuddering soul; The God of love, who gave the breath that warms All living dust in all its varied forms, Asks not the tribute of a world like this To fill the measure of his perfect bliss. Though winged with life through all its radiant shores, Creation flowed with unexhausted stores Cherub and seraph had not yet enjoyed; For this he called thee from the quickening void! Nor this alone; a larger gift was thine, A mightier purpose swelled his vast design Thought,--conscience,--will,--to make them all thine own, He rent a pillar from the eternal throne!
Made in his image, thou must nobly dare The thorny crown of sovereignty to share. With eye uplifted, it is thine to view, From thine own centre, Heaven's o'erarching blue; So round thy heart a beaming circle lies No fiend can blot, no hypocrite disguise; From all its orbs one cheering voice is heard, Full to thine ear it bears the Father's word, Now, as in Eden where his first-born trod "Seek thine own welfare, true to man and God!" Think not too meanly of thy low estate; Thou hast a choice; to choose is to create! Remember whose the sacred lips that tell, Angels approve thee when thy choice is well; Remember, One, a judge of righteous men, Swore to spare Sodom if she held but ten! Use well the freedom which thy Master gave, (Think'st thou that Heaven can tolerate a slave?) And He who made thee to be just and true Will bless thee, love thee,--ay, respect thee too!
Nature has placed thee on a changeful tide, To breast its waves, but not without a guide; Yet, as the needle will forget its aim, Jarred by the fury of the electric flame, As the true current it will falsely feel, Warped from its axis by a freight of steel; So will thy CONSCIENCE lose its balanced truth If passion's lightning fall upon thy youth, So the pure effluence quit its sacred hold Girt round too deeply with magnetic gold. Go to yon tower, where busy science plies Her vast antennae, feeling through the skies That little vernier on whose slender lines The midnight taper trembles as it shines, A silent index, tracks the planets' march In all their wanderings through the ethereal arch; Tells through the mist where dazzled Mercury burns, And marks the spot where Uranus returns. So, till by wrong or negligence effaced, The living index which thy Maker traced Repeats the line each starry Virtue draws Through the wide circuit of creation's laws; Still tracks unchanged the everlasting ray Where the dark shadows of temptation stray, But, once defaced, forgets the orbs of light, And leaves thee wandering o'er the expanse of night.
"What is thy creed?" a hundred lips inquire; "Thou seekest God beneath what Christian spire?" Nor ask they idly, for uncounted lies Float upward on the smoke of sacrifice; When man's first incense rose above the plain, Of earth's two altars one was built by Cain! Uncursed by doubt, our earliest creed we take; We love the precepts for the teacher's sake; The simple lessons which the nursery taught Fell soft and stainless on the buds of thought, And the full blossom owes its fairest hue To those sweet tear-drops of affection's dew. Too oft the light that led our earlier hours Fades with the perfume of our cradle flowers; The clear, cold question chills to frozen doubt; Tired of beliefs, we dread to live without Oh then, if Reason waver at thy side, Let humbler Memory be thy gentle guide; Go to thy birthplace, and, if faith was there, Repeat thy father's creed, thy mother's prayer!
Faith loves to lean on Time's destroying arm, And age, like distance, lends a double charm; In dim cathedrals, dark with vaulted gloom, What holy awe invests the saintly tomb! There pride will bow, and anxious care expand, And creeping avarice come with open hand; The gay can weep, the impious can adore, From morn's first glimmerings on the chancel floor Till dying sunset sheds his crimson stains Through the faint halos of the irised panes. Yet there are graves, whose rudely-shapen sod Bears the fresh footprints where the sexton trod; Graves where the verdure has not dared to shoot, Where the chance wild-flower has not fixed its root, Whose slumbering tenants, dead without a name, The eternal record shall at length proclaim Pure as the holiest in the long array Of hooded, mitred, or tiaraed clay!
Come, seek the air; some pictures we may gain Whose passing shadows shall not be in vain; Not from the scenes that crowd the stranger's soil, Not from our own amidst the stir of toil, But when the Sabbath brings its kind release, And Care lies slumbering on the lap of Peace.
The air is hushed, the street is holy ground; Hark! The sweet bells renew their welcome sound As one by one awakes each silent tongue, It tells the turret whence its voice is flung. The Chapel, last of sublunary things That stirs our echoes with the name of Kings, Whose bell, just glistening from the font and forge, Rolled its proud requiem for the second George, Solemn and swelling, as of old it rang, Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous clang; The simpler pile, that, mindful of the hour When Howe's artillery shook its half-built tower, Wears on its bosom, as a bride might do, The iron breastpin which the "Rebels" threw, Wakes the sharp echoes with the quivering thrill Of keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill; Aloft, suspended in the morning's fire, Crash the vast cymbals from the Southern spire; The Giant, standing by the elm-clad green, His white lance lifted o'er the silent scene, Whirling in air his brazen goblet round, Swings from its brim the swollen floods of sound; While, sad with memories of the olden time, Throbs from his tower the Northern Minstrel's chime,-- Faint, single tones, that spell their ancient song, But tears still follow as they breathe along.
Child of the soil, whom fortune sends to range Where man and nature, faith and customs change, Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone Mourns on the winds that sigh in every zone. When Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed breeze Through the warm billows of the Indian seas; When--ship and shadow blended both in one-- Flames o'er thy mast the equatorial sun, From sparkling midnight to refulgent noon Thy canvas swelling with the still monsoon; When through thy shrouds the wild tornado sings, And thy poor sea-bird folds her tattered wings,-- Oft will delusion o'er thy senses steal, And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal Then, dim with grateful tears, in long array Rise the fair town, the island-studded bay, Home, with its smiling board, its cheering fire, The half-choked welcome of the expecting sire, The mother's kiss, and, still if aught remain, Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent strain. Ah, let the dreamer o'er the taffrail lean To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen; Fear not the tropic's dews, the evening's chills, His heart lies warm among his triple hills!
Turned from her path by this deceitful gleam, My wayward fancy half forgets her theme. See through the streets that slumbered in repose The living current of devotion flows, Its varied forms in one harmonious band Age leading childhood by its dimpled hand; Want, in the robe whose faded edges fall To tell of rags beneath the tartan shawl; And wealth, in silks that, fluttering to appear, Lift the deep borders of the proud cashmere. See, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn and pale, Those sunken cheeks beneath the widow's veil; Alone she wanders where with HIM she trod, No arm to stay her, but she leans on God. While other doublets deviate here and there, What secret handcuff binds that pretty pair? Compactest couple! pressing side to side,-- Ah, the white bonnet that reveals the bride! By the white neckcloth, with its straitened tie, The sober hat, the Sabbath-speaking eye, Severe and smileless, he that runs may read The stern disciple of Geneva's creed Decent and slow, behold his solemn march; Silent he enters through yon crowded arch. A livelier bearing of the outward man, The light-hued gloves, the undevout rattan, Now smartly raised or half profanely twirled,-- A bright, fresh twinkle from the week-day world,-- Tell their plain story; yes, thine eyes behold A cheerful Christian from the liberal fold. Down the chill street that curves in gloomiest shade What marks betray yon solitary maid? The cheek's red rose that speaks of balmier air, The Celtic hue that shades her braided hair, The gilded missal in her kerchief tied,-- Poor Nora, exile from Killarney's side! Sister in toil, though blanched by colder skies, That left their azure in her downcast eyes, See pallid Margaret, Labor's patient child, Scarce weaned from home, the nursling of the wild, Where white Katahdin o'er the horizon shines, And broad Penobscot dashes through the pines. Still, as she hastes, her careful fingers hold The unfailing hymn-book in its cambric fold. Six days at drudgery's heavy wheel she stands, The seventh sweet morning folds her weary hands. Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well be sure He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor!
This weekly picture faithful Memory draws, Nor claims the noisy tribute of applause; Faint is the glow such barren hopes can lend, And frail the line that asks no loftier end. Trust me, kind listener, I will yet beguile Thy saddened features of the promised smile. This magic mantle thou must well divide, It has its sable and its ermine side; Yet, ere the lining of the robe appears, Take thou in silence what I give in tears.
Dear listening soul, this transitory scene Of murmuring stillness, busily serene,-- This solemn pause, the breathing-space of man, The halt of toil's exhausted caravan,-- Comes sweet with music to thy wearied ear; Rise with its anthems to a holier sphere!
Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide The lowliest brother straying from thy side If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own; If wrong, the verdict is for God alone.
What though the champions of thy faith esteem The sprinkled fountain or baptismal stream; Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves of life?
Let my free soul, expanding as it can, Leave to his scheme the thoughtful Puritan; But Calvin's dogma shall my lips deride? In that stern faith my angel Mary died; Or ask if mercy's milder creed can save, Sweet sister, risen from thy new-made grave?
True, the harsh founders of thy church reviled That ancient faith, the trust of Erin's child; Must thou be raking in the crumbled past For racks and fagots in her teeth to cast? See from the ashes of Helvetia's pile The whitened skull of old Servetus smile! Round her young heart thy "Romish Upas" threw Its firm, deep fibres, strengthening as she grew; Thy sneering voice may call them "Popish tricks," Her Latin prayers, her dangling crucifix, But De Profundis blessed her father's grave, That "idol" cross her dying mother gave! What if some angel looks with equal eyes On her and thee, the simple and the wise, Writes each dark fault against thy brighter creed, And drops a tear with every foolish bead! Grieve, as thou must, o'er history's reeking page; Blush for the wrongs that stain thy happier age; Strive with the wanderer from the better path, Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath; Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall, Have thine own faith,--but hope and pray for all!
Faith; Conscience; Love. A meaner task remains, And humbler thoughts must creep in lowlier strains. Shalt thou be honest? Ask the worldly schools, And all will tell thee knaves are busier fools; Prudent? Industrious? Let not modern pens Instruct "Poor Richard's" fellow-citizens.
Be firm! One constant element in luck Is genuine solid old Teutonic pluck. See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's thrill, Clung to its base, and greets the sunrise still.
Stick to your aim: the mongrel's hold will slip, But only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip; Small as he looks, the jaw that never yields Drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields!
Yet in opinions look not always back,-- Your wake is nothing, mind the coming track; Leave what you've done for what you have to do; Don't be "consistent," but be simply true.
Don't catch the fidgets; you have found your place Just in the focus of a nervous race, Fretful to change and rabid to discuss, Full of excitements, always in a fuss. Think of the patriarchs; then compare as men These lean-cheeked maniacs of the tongue and pen! Run, if you like, but try to keep your breath; Work like a man, but don't be worked to death; And with new notions,--let me change the rule,-- Don't strike the iron till it 's slightly cool.
Choose well your set; our feeble nature seeks The aid of clubs, the countenance of cliques; And with this object settle first of all Your weight of metal and your size of ball. Track not the steps of such as hold you cheap, Too mean to prize, though good enough to keep; The "real, genuine, no-mistake Tom Thumbs" Are little people fed on great men's crumbs. Yet keep no followers of that hateful brood That basely mingles with its wholesome food The tumid reptile, which, the poet said, Doth wear a precious jewel in his head.
If the wild filly, "Progress," thou wouldst ride, Have young companions ever at thy side; But wouldst thou stride the stanch old mare, "Success," Go with thine elders, though they please thee less. Shun such as lounge through afternoons and eves, And on thy dial write, "Beware of thieves!" Felon of minutes, never taught to feel The worth of treasures which thy fingers steal, Pick my left pocket of its silver dime, But spare the right,--it holds my golden time!
Does praise delight thee? Choose some ultra side,-- A sure old recipe, and often tried; Be its apostle, congressman, or bard, Spokesman or jokesman, only drive it hard; But know the forfeit which thy choice abides, For on two wheels the poor reformer rides,-- One black with epithets the anti throws, One white with flattery painted by the pros.
Though books on MANNERS are not out of print, An honest tongue may drop a harmless hint. Stop not, unthinking, every friend you meet, To spin your wordy fabric in the street; While you are emptying your colloquial pack, The fiend Lumbago jumps upon his back. Nor cloud his features with the unwelcome tale Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale; Health is a subject for his child, his wife, And the rude office that insures his life. Look in his face, to meet thy neighbor's soul, Not on his garments, to detect a hole; "How to observe" is what thy pages show, Pride of thy sex, Miss Harriet Martineau! Oh, what a precious book the one would be That taught observers what they 're NOT to see!
I tell in verse--'t were better done in prose-- One curious trick that everybody knows; Once form this habit, and it's very strange How long it sticks, how hard it is to change. Two friendly people, both disposed to smile, Who meet, like others, every little while, Instead of passing with a pleasant bow, And "How d' ye do?" or "How 's your uncle now?"
Impelled by feelings in their nature kind, But slightly weak and somewhat undefined, Rush at each other, make a sudden stand, Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand; Each looks quite radiant, seems extremely struck, Their meeting so was such a piece of luck; Each thinks the other thinks he 's greatly pleased To screw the vice in which they both are squeezed; So there they talk, in dust, or mud, or snow, Both bored to death, and both afraid to go! Your hat once lifted, do not hang your fire, Nor, like slow Ajax, fighting still, retire; When your old castor on your crown you clap, Go off; you've mounted your percussion cap.
Some words on LANGUAGE may be well applied, And take them kindly, though they touch your pride. Words lead to things; a scale is more precise,-- Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, vice. Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips The native freedom of the Saxon lips; See the brown peasant of the plastic South, How all his passions play about his mouth! With us, the feature that transmits the soul, A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole. The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk Tie the small muscles when he strives to talk; Not all the pumice of the polished town Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down; Rich, honored, titled, he betrays his race By this one mark,--he's awkward in the face;-- Nature's rude impress, long before he knew The sunny street that holds the sifted few. It can't be helped, though, if we're taken young, We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue; But school and college often try in vain To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain One stubborn word will prove this axiom true,-- No quondam rustic can enunciate view.
A few brief stanzas may be well employed To speak of errors we can all avoid. Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope The careless lips that speak of so'ap for soap; Her edict exiles from her fair abode The clownish voice that utters ro'ad for road Less stern to him who calls his coat a co'at, And steers his boat, believing it a bo'at, She pardoned one, our classic city's boast, Who said at Cambridge mo'st instead of most, But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot To hear a Teacher call a root a ro'ot.
Once more: speak clearly, if you speak at all; Carve every word before you let it fall; Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star, Try over-hard to roll the British R; Do put your accents in the proper spot; Don't,--let me beg you,--don't say "How?" for "What?" And when you stick on conversation's burs, Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs.
From little matters let us pass to less, And lightly touch the mysteries of DRESS; The outward forms the inner man reveal,-- We guess the pulp before we cut the peel.
I leave the broadcloth,--coats and all the rest,-- The dangerous waistcoat, called by cockneys "vest," The things named "pants" in certain documents, A word not made for gentlemen, but "gents;" One single precept might the whole condense Be sure your tailor is a man of sense; But add a little care, a decent pride, And always err upon the sober side.
Three pairs of boots one pair of feet demands, If polished daily by the owner's hands; If the dark menial's visit save from this, Have twice the number,--for he 'll sometimes miss. One pair for critics of the nicer sex, Close in the instep's clinging circumflex, Long, narrow, light; the Gallic boot of love, A kind of cross between a boot and glove. Compact, but easy, strong, substantial, square, Let native art compile the medium pair. The third remains, and let your tasteful skill Here show some relics of affection still; Let no stiff cowhide, reeking from the tan, No rough caoutchoue, no deformed brogan, Disgrace the tapering outline of your feet, Though yellow torrents gurgle through the street.
Wear seemly gloves; not black, nor yet too light, And least of all the pair that once was white; Let the dead party where you told your loves Bury in peace its dead bouquets and gloves; Shave like the goat, if so your fancy bids, But be a parent,--don't neglect your kids.
Have a good hat; the secret of your looks Lives with the beaver in Canadian brooks; Virtue may flourish in an old cravat, But man and nature scorn the shocking hat. Does beauty slight you from her gay abodes? Like bright Apollo, you must take to Rhoades,-- Mount the new castor,--ice itself will melt; Boots, gloves, may fail; the hat is always felt.
Be shy of breastpins; plain, well-ironed white, With small pearl buttons,--two of them in sight,-- Is always genuine, while your gems may pass, Though real diamonds, for ignoble glass. But spurn those paltry Cisatlantic lies That round his breast the shabby rustic ties; Breathe not the name profaned to hallow things The indignant laundress blushes when she brings!
Our freeborn race, averse to every check, Has tossed the yoke of Europe from its neck; From the green prairie to the sea-girt town, The whole wide nation turns its collars down. The stately neck is manhood's manliest part; It takes the life-blood freshest from the heart. With short, curled ringlets close around it spread, How light and strong it lifts the Grecian head! Thine, fair Erechtheus of Minerva's wall; Or thine, young athlete of the Louvre's hall, Smooth as the pillar flashing in the sun That filled the arena where thy wreaths were won, Firm as the band that clasps the antlered spoil Strained in the winding anaconda's coil I spare the contrast; it were only kind To be a little, nay, intensely blind. Choose for yourself: I know it cuts your ear; I know the points will sometimes interfere; I know that often, like the filial John, Whom sleep surprised with half his drapery on, You show your features to the astonished town With one side standing and the other down;-- But, O, my friend! my favorite fellow-man! If Nature made you on her modern plan, Sooner than wander with your windpipe bare,-- The fruit of Eden ripening in the air,-- With that lean head-stalk, that protruding chin, Wear standing collars, were they made of tin! And have a neckcloth--by the throat of Jove!-- Cut from the funnel of a rusty stove!
The long-drawn lesson narrows to its close, Chill, slender, slow, the dwindled current flows; Tired of the ripples on its feeble springs, Once more the Muse unfolds her upward wings.
Land of my birth, with this unhallowed tongue, Thy hopes, thy dangers, I perchance had sung; But who shall sing, in brutal disregard Of all the essentials of the "native bard"? Lake, sea, shore, prairie, forest, mountain, fall, His eye omnivorous must devour them all; The tallest summits and the broadest tides His foot must compass with its giant strides, Where Ocean thunders, where Missouri rolls, And tread at once the tropics and the poles; His food all forms of earth, fire, water, air, His home all space, his birthplace everywhere.
Some grave compatriot, having seen perhaps The pictured page that goes in Worcester's Maps, And, read in earnest what was said in jest, "Who drives fat oxen"--please to add the rest,-- Sprung the odd notion that the poet's dreams Grow in the ratio of his hills and streams; And hence insisted that the aforesaid "bard," Pink of the future, fancy's pattern-card, The babe of nature in the "giant West," Must be of course her biggest and her best.
Oh! when at length the expected bard shall come, Land of our pride, to strike thine echoes dumb, (And many a voice exclaims in prose and rhyme, It's getting late, and he's behind his time,) When all thy mountains clap their hands in joy, And all thy cataracts thunder, "That 's the boy,"-- Say if with him the reign of song shall end, And Heaven declare its final dividend!
Becalm, dear brother! whose impassioned strain Comes from an alley watered by a drain; The little Mincio, dribbling to the Po, Beats all the epics of the Hoang Ho; If loved in earnest by the tuneful maid, Don't mind their nonsense,--never be afraid!
The nurse of poets feeds her winged brood By common firesides, on familiar food; In a low hamlet, by a narrow stream, Where bovine rustics used to doze and dream, She filled young William's fiery fancy full, While old John Shakespeare talked of beeves and wool!
No Alpine needle, with its climbing spire, Brings down for mortals the Promethean fire, If careless nature have forgot to frame An altar worthy of the sacred flame. Unblest by any save the goatherd's lines, Mont Blanc rose soaring through his "sea of pines;" In vain the rivers from their ice-caves flash; No hymn salutes them but the Ranz des Vaches, Till lazy Coleridge, by the morning's light, Gazed for a moment on the fields of white, And lo! the glaciers found at length a tongue, Mont Blanc was vocal, and Chamouni sung!
Children of wealth or want, to each is given One spot of green, and all the blue of heaven! Enough if these their outward shows impart; The rest is thine,--the scenery of the heart.
If passion's hectic in thy stanzas glow, Thy heart's best life-blood ebbing as they flow; If with thy verse thy strength and bloom distil, Drained by the pulses of the fevered thrill; If sound's sweet effluence polarize thy brain, And thoughts turn crystals in thy fluid strain,-- Nor rolling ocean, nor the prairie's bloom, Nor streaming cliffs, nor rayless cavern's gloom, Need'st thou, young poet, to inform thy line; Thy own broad signet stamps thy song divine! Let others gaze where silvery streams are rolled, And chase the rainbow for its cup of gold; To thee all landscapes wear a heavenly dye, Changed in the glance of thy prismatic eye; Nature evoked thee in sublimer throes, For thee her inmost Arethusa flows,-- The mighty mother's living depths are stirred,-- Thou art the starred Osiris of the herd!
A few brief lines; they touch on solemn chords, And hearts may leap to hear their honest words; Yet, ere the jarring bugle-blast is blown, The softer lyre shall breathe its soothing tone.
New England! proudly may thy children claim Their honored birthright by its humblest name Cold are thy skies, but, ever fresh and clear, No rank malaria stains thine atmosphere; No fungous weeds invade thy scanty soil, Scarred by the ploughshares of unslumbering toil. Long may the doctrines by thy sages taught, Raised from the quarries where their sires have wrought, Be like the granite of thy rock-ribbed land,-- As slow to rear, as obdurate to stand; And as the ice that leaves thy crystal mine Chills the fierce alcohol in the Creole's wine, So may the doctrines of thy sober school Keep the hot theories of thy neighbors cool!
If ever, trampling on her ancient path, Cankered by treachery or inflamed by wrath, With smooth "Resolves" or with discordant cries, The mad Briareus of disunion rise, Chiefs of New England! by your sires' renown, Dash the red torches of the rebel down! Flood his black hearthstone till its flames expire, Though your old Sachem fanned his council-fire!
But if at last, her fading cycle run, The tongue must forfeit what the arm has won, Then rise, wild Ocean! roll thy surging shock Full on old Plymouth's desecrated rock! Scale the proud shaft degenerate hands have hewn, Where bleeding Valor stained the flowers of June! Sweep in one tide her spires and turrets down, And howl her dirge above Monadnock's crown!
List not the tale; the Pilgrim's hallowed shore, Though strewn with weeds, is granite at the core; Oh, rather trust that He who made her free Will keep her true as long as faith shall be! Farewell! yet lingering through the destined hour, Leave, sweet Enchantress, one memorial flower!
An Angel, floating o'er the waste of snow That clad our Western desert, long ago, (The same fair spirit who, unseen by day, Shone as a star along the Mayflower's way,)-- Sent, the first herald of the Heavenly plan, To choose on earth a resting-place for man,-- Tired with his flight along the unvaried field, Turned to soar upwards, when his glance revealed A calm, bright bay enclosed in rocky bounds, And at its entrance stood three sister mounds.
The Angel spake: "This threefold hill shall be The home of Arts, the nurse of Liberty! One stately summit from its shaft shall pour Its deep-red blaze along the darkened shore; Emblem of thoughts that, kindling far and wide, In danger's night shall be a nation's guide. One swelling crest the citadel shall crown, Its slanted bastions black with battle's frown, And bid the sons that tread its scowling heights Bare their strong arms for man and all his rights! One silent steep along the northern wave Shall hold the patriarch's and the hero's grave; When fades the torch, when o'er the peaceful scene The embattled fortress smiles in living green, The cross of Faith, the anchor staff of Hope, Shall stand eternal on its grassy slope; There through all time shall faithful Memory tell, 'Here Virtue toiled, and Patriot Valor fell; Thy free, proud fathers slumber at thy side; Live as they lived, or perish as they died!'"
AN AFTER-DINNER POEM
(TERPSICHORE)
Read at the Annual Dinner of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, August 24, 1843.
IN narrowest girdle, O reluctant Muse, In closest frock and Cinderella shoes, Bound to the foot-lights for thy brief display, One zephyr step, and then dissolve away!
. . . . . . . . . .
Short is the space that gods and men can spare To Song's twin brother when she is not there. Let others water every lusty line, As Homer's heroes did their purple wine; Pierian revellers! Know in strains like these The native juice, the real honest squeeze,--- Strains that, diluted to the twentieth power, In yon grave temple might have filled an hour. Small room for Fancy's many-chorded lyre, For Wit's bright rockets with their trains of fire, For Pathos, struggling vainly to surprise The iron tutor's tear-denying eyes, For Mirth, whose finger with delusive wile Turns the grim key of many a rusty smile, For Satire, emptying his corrosive flood On hissing Folly's gas-exhaling brood, The pun, the fun, the moral, and the joke, The hit, the thrust, the pugilistic poke,-- Small space for these, so pressed by niggard Time, Like that false matron, known to nursery rhyme,-- Insidious Morey,--scarce her tale begun, Ere listening infants weep the story done.
Oh, had we room to rip the mighty bags That Time, the harlequin, has stuffed with rags! Grant us one moment to unloose the strings, While the old graybeard shuts his leather wings. But what a heap of motley trash appears Crammed in the bundles of successive years! As the lost rustic on some festal day Stares through the concourse in its vast array,-- Where in one cake a throng of faces runs, All stuck together like a sheet of buns,-- And throws the bait of some unheeded name, Or shoots a wink with most uncertain aim, So roams my vision, wandering over all, And strives to choose, but knows not where to fall.
Skins of flayed authors, husks of dead reviews, The turn-coat's clothes, the office-seeker's shoes, Scraps from cold feasts, where conversation runs Through mouldy toasts to oxidated puns, And grating songs a listening crowd endures, Rasped from the throats of bellowing amateurs; Sermons, whose writers played such dangerous tricks Their own heresiarchs called them heretics, (Strange that one term such distant poles should link, The Priestleyan's copper and the Puseyan's zinc); Poems that shuffle with superfluous legs A blindfold minuet over addled eggs, Where all the syllables that end in ed, Like old dragoons, have cuts across the head; Essays so dark Champollion might despair To guess what mummy of a thought was there, Where our poor English, striped with foreign phrase, Looks like a zebra in a parson's chaise; Lectures that cut our dinners down to roots, Or prove (by monkeys) men should stick to fruits,-- Delusive error, as at trifling charge Professor Gripes will certify at large; Mesmeric pamphlets, which to facts appeal, Each fact as slippery as a fresh-caught eel; And figured heads, whose hieroglyphs invite To wandering knaves that discount fools at sight: Such things as these, with heaps of unpaid bills, And candy puffs and homoeopathic pills, And ancient bell-crowns with contracted rim, And bonnets hideous with expanded brim, And coats whose memory turns the sartor pale, Their sequels tapering like a lizard's tale,-- How might we spread them to the smiling day, And toss them, fluttering like the new-mown hay, To laughter's light or sorrow's pitying shower, Were these brief minutes lengthened to an hour.
The narrow moments fit like Sunday shoes,-- How vast the heap, how quickly must we choose! A few small scraps from out his mountain mass We snatch in haste, and let the vagrant pass. This shrunken CRUST that Cerberus could not bite, Stamped (in one corner) "Pickwick copyright," Kneaded by youngsters, raised by flattery's yeast, Was once a loaf, and helped to make a feast. He for whose sake the glittering show appears Has sown the world with laughter and with tears, And they whose welcome wets the bumper's brim Have wit and wisdom,--for they all quote him. So, many a tongue the evening hour prolongs With spangled speeches,--let alone the songs; Statesmen grow merry, lean attorneys laugh, And weak teetotals warm to half and half, And beardless Tullys, new to festive scenes, Cut their first crop of youth's precocious greens, And wits stand ready for impromptu claps, With loaded barrels and percussion caps, And Pathos, cantering through the minor keys, Waves all her onions to the trembling breeze; While the great Feasted views with silent glee His scattered limbs in Yankee fricassee.
Sweet is the scene where genial friendship plays The pleasing game of interchanging praise. Self-love, grimalkin of the human heart, Is ever pliant to the master's art; Soothed with a word, she peacefully withdraws And sheathes in velvet her obnoxious claws, And thrills the hand that smooths her glossy fur With the light tremor of her grateful purr.
But what sad music fills the quiet hall, If on her back a feline rival fall! And oh, what noises shake the tranquil house If old Self-interest cheats her of a mouse.
Thou, O my country, hast thy foolish ways, Too apt to purr at every stranger's praise; But if the stranger touch thy modes or laws, Off goes the velvet and out come the claws! And thou, Illustrious! but too poorly paid In toasts from Pickwick for thy great crusade, Though, while the echoes labored with thy name, The public trap denied thy little game, Let other lips our jealous laws revile,-- The marble Talfourd or the rude Carlyle,-- But on thy lids, which Heaven forbids to close Where'er the light of kindly nature glows, Let not the dollars that a churl denies Weigh like the shillings on a dead man's eyes! Or, if thou wilt, be more discreetly blind, Nor ask to see all wide extremes combined. Not in our wastes the dainty blossoms smile That crowd the gardens of thy scanty isle. There white-cheeked Luxury weaves a thousand charms; Here sun-browned Labor swings his naked arms. Long are the furrows he must trace between The ocean's azure and the prairie's green; Full many a blank his destined realm displays, Yet sees the promise of his riper days Far through yon depths the panting engine moves, His chariots ringing in their steel-shod grooves; And Erie's naiad flings her diamond wave O'er the wild sea-nymph in her distant cave! While tasks like these employ his anxious hours, What if his cornfields are not edged with flowers? Though bright as silver the meridian beams Shine through the crystal of thine English streams, Turbid and dark the mighty wave is whirled That drains our Andes and divides a world!
But lo! a PARCHMENT! Surely it would seem The sculptured impress speaks of power supreme; Some grave design the solemn page must claim That shows so broadly an emblazoned name. A sovereign's promise! Look, the lines afford All Honor gives when Caution asks his word: There sacred Faith has laid her snow-white hands, And awful Justice knit her iron bands; Yet every leaf is stained with treachery's dye, And every letter crusted with a lie. Alas! no treason has degraded yet The Arab's salt, the Indian's calumet; A simple rite, that bears the wanderer's pledge, Blunts the keen shaft and turns the dagger's edge; While jockeying senates stop to sign and seal, And freeborn statesmen legislate to steal. Rise, Europe, tottering with thine Atlas load, Turn thy proud eye to Freedom's blest abode, And round her forehead, wreathed with heavenly flame, Bind the dark garland of her daughter's shame! Ye ocean clouds, that wrap the angry blast, Coil her stained ensign round its haughty mast, Or tear the fold that wears so foul a scar, And drive a bolt through every blackened star! Once more,--once only,--- we must stop so soon: What have we here? A GERMAN-SILVER SPOON; A cheap utensil, which we often see Used by the dabblers in aesthetic tea, Of slender fabric, somewhat light and thin, Made of mixed metal, chiefly lead and tin; The bowl is shallow, and the handle small, Marked in large letters with the name JEAN PAUL. Small as it is, its powers are passing strange, For all who use it show a wondrous change; And first, a fact to make the barbers stare, It beats Macassar for the growth of hair. See those small youngsters whose expansive ears Maternal kindness grazed with frequent shears; Each bristling crop a dangling mass becomes, And all the spoonies turn to Absaloms Nor this alone its magic power displays, It alters strangely all their works and ways; With uncouth words they tire their tender lungs, The same bald phrases on their hundred tongues "Ever" "The Ages" in their page appear, "Alway" the bedlamite is called a "Seer;" On every leaf the "earnest" sage may scan, Portentous bore! their "many-sided" man,-- A weak eclectic, groping vague and dim, Whose every angle is a half-starved whim, Blind as a mole and curious as a lynx, Who rides a beetle, which he calls a "Sphinx." And oh, what questions asked in clubfoot rhyme Of Earth the tongueless and the deaf-mute Time!
Here babbling "Insight" shouts in Nature's ears His last conundrum on the orbs and spheres; There Self-inspection sucks its little thumb, With "Whence am I?" and "Wherefore did I come?" Deluded infants! will they ever know Some doubts must darken o'er the world below, Though all the Platos of the nursery trail Their "clouds of glory" at the go-cart's tail? Oh might these couplets their attention claim That gain their author the Philistine's name (A stubborn race, that, spurning foreign law, Was much belabored with an ass's jaw.)
Melodious Laura! From the sad retreats That hold thee, smothered with excess of sweets, Shade of a shadow, spectre of a dream, Glance thy wan eye across the Stygian stream! The slipshod dreamer treads thy fragrant halls, The sophist's cobwebs hang thy roseate walls, And o'er the crotchets of thy jingling tunes The bard of mystery scrawls his crooked "runes." Yes, thou art gone, with all the tuneful hordes That candied thoughts in amber-colored words, And in the precincts of thy late abodes The clattering verse-wright hammers Orphic odes. Thou, soft as zephyr, wast content to fly On the gilt pinions of a balmy sigh; He, vast as Phoebus on his burning wheels, Would stride through ether at Orion's heels. Thy emblem, Laura, was a perfume-jar, And thine, young Orpheus, is a pewter star. The balance trembles,--be its verdict told When the new jargon slumbers with the old!
. . . . . . . .
Cease, playful goddess! From thine airy bound Drop like a feather softly to the ground; This light bolero grows a ticklish dance, And there is mischief in thy kindling glance. To-morrow bids thee, with rebuking frown, Change thy gauze tunic for a home-made gown, Too blest by fortune if the passing day Adorn thy bosom with its frail bouquet, But oh, still happier if the next forgets Thy daring steps and dangerous pirouettes!
MEDICAL POEMS
THE MORNING VISIT
A sick man's chamber, though it often boast The grateful presence of a literal toast, Can hardly claim, amidst its various wealth, The right unchallenged to propose a health; Yet though its tenant is denied the feast, Friendship must launch his sentiment at least, As prisoned damsels, locked from lovers' lips, Toss them a kiss from off their fingers' tips.
The morning visit,--not till sickness falls In the charmed circles of your own safe walls; Till fever's throb and pain's relentless rack Stretch you all helpless on your aching back; Not till you play the patient in your turn, The morning visit's mystery shall you learn.
'T is a small matter in your neighbor's case, To charge your fee for showing him your face; You skip up-stairs, inquire, inspect, and touch, Prescribe, take leave, and off to twenty such.
But when at length, by fate's transferred decree, The visitor becomes the visitee, Oh, then, indeed, it pulls another string; Your ox is gored, and that's a different thing! Your friend is sick: phlegmatic as a Turk, You write your recipe and let it work; Not yours to stand the shiver and the frown, And sometimes worse, with which your draught goes down. Calm as a clock your knowing hand directs, Rhei, jalapae ana grana sex, Or traces on some tender missive's back, Scrupulos duos pulveris ipecac; And leaves your patient to his qualms and gripes, Cool as a sportsman banging at his snipes. But change the time, the person, and the place, And be yourself "the interesting case," You'll gain some knowledge which it's well to learn; In future practice it may serve your turn. Leeches, for instance,--pleasing creatures quite; Try them,--and bless you,--don't you find they bite? You raise a blister for the smallest cause, But be yourself the sitter whom it draws, And trust my statement, you will not deny The worst of draughtsmen is your Spanish fly! It's mighty easy ordering when you please, Infusi sennae capiat uncias tres; It's mighty different when you quackle down Your own three ounces of the liquid brown. Pilula, pulvis,--pleasant words enough, When other throats receive the shocking stuff; But oh, what flattery can disguise the groan That meets the gulp which sends it through your own! Be gentle, then, though Art's unsparing rules Give you the handling of her sharpest tools; Use them not rashly,--sickness is enough; Be always "ready," but be never "rough."
Of all the ills that suffering man endures, The largest fraction liberal Nature cures; Of those remaining, 't is the smallest part Yields to the efforts of judicious Art; But simple Kindness, kneeling by the bed To shift the pillow for the sick man's head, Give the fresh draught to cool the lips that burn, Fan the hot brow, the weary frame to turn,-- Kindness, untutored by our grave M. D.'s, But Nature's graduate, when she schools to please, Wins back more sufferers with her voice and smile Than all the trumpery in the druggist's pile.
Once more, be quiet: coming up the stair, Don't be a plantigrade, a human bear, But, stealing softly on the silent toe, Reach the sick chamber ere you're heard below. Whatever changes there may greet your eyes, Let not your looks proclaim the least surprise; It's not your business by your face to show All that your patient does not want to know; Nay, use your optics with considerate care, And don't abuse your privilege to stare. But if your eyes may probe him overmuch, Beware still further how you rudely touch; Don't clutch his carpus in your icy fist, But warm your fingers ere you take the wrist. If the poor victim needs must be percussed, Don't make an anvil of his aching bust; (Doctors exist within a hundred miles Who thump a thorax as they'd hammer piles;) If you must listen to his doubtful chest, Catch the essentials, and ignore the rest. Spare him; the sufferer wants of you and art A track to steer by, not a finished chart. So of your questions: don't in mercy try To pump your patient absolutely dry; He's not a mollusk squirming in a dish, You're not Agassiz; and he's not a fish.
And last, not least, in each perplexing case, Learn the sweet magic of a cheerful face; Not always smiling, but at least serene, When grief and anguish cloud the anxious scene. Each look, each movement, every word and tone, Should tell your patient you are all his own; Not the mere artist, purchased to attend, But the warm, ready, self-forgetting friend, Whose genial visit in itself combines The best of cordials, tonics, anodynes.
Such is the visit that from day to day Sheds o'er my chamber its benignant ray. I give his health, who never cared to claim Her babbling homage from the tongue of Fame; Unmoved by praise, he stands by all confest, The truest, noblest, wisest, kindest, best.
1849.
THE TWO ARMIES
As Life's unending column pours, Two marshalled hosts are seen,-- Two armies on the trampled shores That Death flows black between.
One marches to the drum-beat's roll, The wide-mouthed clarion's bray, And bears upon a crimson scroll, "Our glory is to slay."
One moves in silence by the stream, With sad, yet watchful eyes, Calm as the patient planet's gleam That walks the clouded skies.
Along its front no sabres shine, No blood-red pennons wave; Its banner bears the single line, "Our duty is to save."
For those no death-bed's lingering shade; At Honor's trumpet-call, With knitted brow and lifted blade In Glory's arms they fall.
For these no clashing falchions bright, No stirring battle-cry; The bloodless stabber calls by night,-- Each answers, "Here am I!"
For those the sculptor's laurelled bust, The builder's marble piles, The anthems pealing o'er their dust Through long cathedral aisles.
For these the blossom-sprinkled turf That floods the lonely graves When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf In flowery-foaming waves.
Two paths lead upward from below, And angels wait above, Who count each burning life-drop's flow, Each falling tear of Love.
Though from the Hero's bleeding breast Her pulses Freedom drew, Though the white lilies in her crest Sprang from that scarlet dew,--
While Valor's haughty champions wait Till all their scars are shown, Love walks unchallenged through the gate, To sit beside the Throne.
THE STETHOSCOPE SONG
A PROFESSIONAL BALLAD
THERE was a young man in Boston town, He bought him a stethoscope nice and new, All mounted and finished and polished down, With an ivory cap and a stopper too.
It happened a spider within did crawl, And spun him a web of ample size, Wherein there chanced one day to fall A couple of very imprudent flies.
The first was a bottle-fly, big and blue, The second was smaller, and thin and long; So there was a concert between the two, Like an octave flute and a tavern gong.
Now being from Paris but recently, This fine young man would show his skill; And so they gave him, his hand to try, A hospital patient extremely ill.
Some said that his liver was short of bile, And some that his heart was over size, While some kept arguing, all the while, He was crammed with tubercles up to his eyes.
This fine young man then up stepped he, And all the doctors made a pause; Said he, The man must die, you see, By the fifty-seventh of Louis's laws.
But since the case is a desperate one, To explore his chest it may be well; For if he should die and it were not done, You know the autopsy would not tell.
Then out his stethoscope he took, And on it placed his curious ear; Mon Dieu! said he, with a knowing look, Why, here is a sound that 's mighty queer.
The bourdonnement is very clear,-- Amphoric buzzing, as I'm alive Five doctors took their turn to hear; Amphoric buzzing, said all the five.
There's empyema beyond a doubt; We'll plunge a trocar in his side. The diagnosis was made out,-- They tapped the patient; so he died.
Now such as hate new-fashioned toys Began to look extremely glum; They said that rattles were made for boys, And vowed that his buzzing was all a hum.
There was an old lady had long been sick, And what was the matter none did know Her pulse was slow, though her tongue was quick; To her this knowing youth must go.
So there the nice old lady sat, With phials and boxes all in a row; She asked the young doctor what he was at, To thump her and tumble her ruffles so.
Now, when the stethoscope came out, The flies began to buzz and whiz Oh ho! the matter is clear, no doubt; An aneurism there plainly is.
The bruit de rape and the bruit de scie And the bruit de diable are all combined; How happy Bouillaud would be, If he a case like this could find!
Now, when the neighboring doctors found A case so rare had been descried, They every day her ribs did pound In squads of twenty; so she died.
Then six young damsels, slight and frail, Received this kind young doctor's cares; They all were getting slim and pale, And short of breath on mounting stairs.
They all made rhymes with "sighs" and "skies," And loathed their puddings and buttered rolls, And dieted, much to their friends' surprise, On pickles and pencils and chalk and coals.
So fast their little hearts did bound, The frightened insects buzzed the more; So over all their chests he found The rale sifflant and the rale sonore.
He shook his head. There's grave disease,-- I greatly fear you all must die; A slight post-mortem, if you please, Surviving friends would gratify.
The six young damsels wept aloud, Which so prevailed on six young men That each his honest love avowed, Whereat they all got well again.
This poor young man was all aghast; The price of stethoscopes came down; And so he was reduced at last To practise in a country town.
The doctors being very sore, A stethoscope they did devise That had a rammer to clear the bore, With a knob at the end to kill the flies.
Now use your ears, all you that can, But don't forget to mind your eyes, Or you may be cheated, like this young man, By a couple of silly, abnormal flies.
EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM
THE STABILITY OF SCIENCE
THE feeble sea-birds, blinded in the storms, On some tall lighthouse dash their little forms, And the rude granite scatters for their pains Those small deposits that were meant for brains. Yet the proud fabric in the morning's sun Stands all unconscious of the mischief done; Still the red beacon pours its evening rays For the lost pilot with as full a blaze,-- Nay, shines, all radiance, o'er the scattered fleet Of gulls and boobies brainless at its feet.
I tell their fate, though courtesy disclaims To call our kind by such ungentle names; Yet, if your rashness bid you vainly dare, Think of their doom, ye simple, and beware.
See where aloft its hoary forehead rears The towering pride of twice a thousand years! Far, far below the vast incumbent pile Sleeps the gray rock from art's AEgean isle Its massive courses, circling as they rise, Swell from the waves to mingle with the skies; There every quarry lends its marble spoil, And clustering ages blend their common toil; The Greek, the Roman, reared its ancient walls, The silent Arab arched its mystic halls; In that fair niche, by countless billows laved, Trace the deep lines that Sydenham engraved; On yon broad front that breasts the changing swell, Mark where the ponderous sledge of Hunter fell; By that square buttress look where Louis stands, The stone yet warm from his uplifted hands; And say, O Science, shall thy life-blood freeze, When fluttering folly flaps on walls like these?
A PORTRAIT
Thoughtful in youth, but not austere in age; Calm, but not cold, and cheerful though a sage; Too true to flatter and too kind to sneer, And only just when seemingly severe; So gently blending courtesy and art That wisdom's lips seemed borrowing friendship's heart.
Taught by the sorrows that his age had known In others' trials to forget his own, As hour by hour his lengthened day declined, A sweeter radiance lingered o'er his mind. Cold were the lips that spoke his early praise, And hushed the voices of his morning days, Yet the same accents dwelt on every tongue, And love renewing kept him ever young.
A SENTIMENT O Bios Bpaxus,--life is but a song; H rexvn uakpn,--art is wondrous long; Yet to the wise her paths are ever fair, And Patience smiles, though Genius may despair. Give us but knowledge, though by slow degrees, And blend our toil with moments bright as these; Let Friendship's accents cheer our doubtful way, And Love's pure planet lend its guiding ray,-- Our tardy Art shall wear an angel's wings, And life shall lengthen with the joy it brings!
A POEM
FOR THE MEETING OF THE AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION AT NEW YORK, MAY 5, 1853
I HOLD a letter in my hand,-- A flattering letter, more's the pity,-- By some contriving junto planned, And signed per order of Committee. It touches every tenderest spot,-- My patriotic predilections, My well-known-something--don't ask what,-- My poor old songs, my kind affections.
They make a feast on Thursday next, And hope to make the feasters merry; They own they're something more perplexed For poets than for port and sherry. They want the men of--(word torn out); Our friends will come with anxious faces, (To see our blankets off, no doubt, And trot us out and show our paces.)
They hint that papers by the score Are rather musty kind of rations,-- They don't exactly mean a bore, But only trying to the patience; That such as--you know who I mean-- Distinguished for their--what d' ye call 'em-- Should bring the dews of Hippocrene To sprinkle on the faces solemn.
--The same old story: that's the chaff To catch the birds that sing the ditties; Upon my soul, it makes me laugh To read these letters from Committees! They're all so loving and so fair,-- All for your sake such kind compunction; 'T would save your carriage half its wear To touch its wheels with such an unction!
Why, who am I, to lift me here And beg such learned folk to listen, To ask a smile, or coax a tear Beneath these stoic lids to glisten? As well might some arterial thread Ask the whole frame to feel it gushing, While throbbing fierce from heel to head The vast aortic tide was rushing.
As well some hair-like nerve might strain To set its special streamlet going, While through the myriad-channelled brain The burning flood of thought was flowing; Or trembling fibre strive to keep The springing haunches gathered shorter, While the scourged racer, leap on leap, Was stretching through the last hot quarter!
Ah me! you take the bud that came Self-sown in your poor garden's borders, And hand it to the stately dame That florists breed for, all she orders. She thanks you,--it was kindly meant,-- (A pale afair, not worth the keeping,)-- Good morning; and your bud is sent To join the tea-leaves used for sweeping.
Not always so, kind hearts and true,-- For such I know are round me beating; Is not the bud I offer you, Fresh gathered for the hour of meeting, Pale though its outer leaves may be, Rose-red in all its inner petals?-- Where the warm life we cannot see-- The life of love that gave it--settles.
We meet from regions far away, Like rills from distant mountains streaming; The sun is on Francisco's bay, O'er Chesapeake the lighthouse gleaming; While summer girds the still bayou In chains of bloom, her bridal token, Monadnock sees the sky grow blue, His crystal bracelet yet unbroken.
Yet Nature bears the selfsame heart Beneath her russet-mantled bosom As where, with burning lips apart, She breathes and white magnolias blossom; The selfsame founts her chalice fill With showery sunlight running over, On fiery plain and frozen hill, On myrtle-beds and fields of clover.
I give you Home! its crossing lines United in one golden suture, And showing every day that shines The present growing to the future,-- A flag that bears a hundred stars In one bright ring, with love for centre, Fenced round with white and crimson bars No prowling treason dares to enter!
O brothers, home may be a word To make affection's living treasure, The wave an angel might have stirred, A stagnant pool of selfish pleasure; HOME! It is where the day-star springs And where the evening sun reposes, Where'er the eagle spreads his wings, From northern pines to southern roses!
A SENTIMENT
A TRIPLE health to Friendship, Science, Art, From heads and hands that own a common heart! Each in its turn the others' willing slave, Each in its season strong to heal and save.
Friendship's blind service, in the hour of need, Wipes the pale face, and lets the victim bleed. Science must stop to reason and explain; ART claps his finger on the streaming vein.
But Art's brief memory fails the hand at last; Then SCIENCE lifts the flambeau of the past. When both their equal impotence deplore, When Learning sighs, and Skill can do no more, The tear of FRIENDSHIP pours its heavenly balm, And soothes the pang no anodyne may calm May 1, 1855.
RIP VAN WINKLE, M. D.
AN AFTER-DINNER PRESCRIPTION TAKEN BY THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY, AT THEIR MEETING HELD MAY 25, 1870
CANTO FIRST
OLD Rip Van Winkle had a grandson, Rip, Of the paternal block a genuine chip,-- A lazy, sleepy, curious kind of chap; He, like his grandsire, took a mighty nap, Whereof the story I propose to tell In two brief cantos, if you listen well.
The times were hard when Rip to manhood grew; They always will be when there's work to do. He tried at farming,--found it rather slow,-- And then at teaching--what he did n't know; Then took to hanging round the tavern bars, To frequent toddies and long-nine cigars, Till Dame Van Winkle, out of patience, vexed With preaching homilies, having for their text A mop, a broomstick, aught that might avail To point a moral or adorn a tale, Exclaimed, "I have it! Now, then, Mr. V. He's good for something,--make him an M. D.!"
The die was cast; the youngster was content; They packed his shirts and stockings, and he went. How hard he studied it were vain to tell; He drowsed through Wistar, nodded over Bell, Slept sound with Cooper, snored aloud on Good; Heard heaps of lectures,--doubtless understood,-- A constant listener, for he did not fail To carve his name on every bench and rail.
Months grew to years; at last he counted three, And Rip Van Winkle found himself M. D. Illustrious title! in a gilded frame He set the sheepskin with his Latin name, RIPUM VAN WINKLUM, QUEM we--SCIMUS--know IDONEUM ESSE--to do so and so. He hired an office; soon its walls displayed His new diploma and his stock in trade, A mighty arsenal to subdue disease, Of various names, whereof I mention these Lancets and bougies, great and little squirt, Rhubarb and Senna, Snakeroot, Thoroughwort, Ant. Tart., Vin. Colch., Pil. Cochiae, and Black Drop, Tinctures of Opium, Gentian, Henbane, Hop, Pulv. Ipecacuanhae, which for lack Of breath to utter men call Ipecac, Camphor and Kino, Turpentine, Tolu, Cubebs, "Copeevy," Vitriol,--white and blue,-- Fennel and Flaxseed, Slippery Elm and Squill, And roots of Sassafras, and "Sassaf'rill," Brandy,--for colics,--Pinkroot, death on worms,-- Valerian, calmer of hysteric squirms, Musk, Assafoetida, the resinous gum Named from its odor,--well, it does smell some,-- Jalap, that works not wisely, but too well, Ten pounds of Bark and six of Calomel.
For outward griefs he had an ample store, Some twenty jars and gallipots, or more: Ceratum simplex--housewives oft compile The same at home, and call it "wax and ile;" Unguentum resinosum--change its name, The "drawing salve" of many an ancient dame; Argenti Nitras, also Spanish flies, Whose virtue makes the water-bladders rise-- (Some say that spread upon a toper's skin They draw no water, only rum or gin); Leeches, sweet vermin! don't they charm the sick? And Sticking-plaster--how it hates to stick Emplastrum Ferri--ditto Picis, Pitch; Washes and Powders, Brimstone for the--which, Scabies or Psora, is thy chosen name Since Hahnemann's goose-quill scratched thee into fame, Proved thee the source of every nameless ill, Whose sole specific is a moonshine pill, Till saucy Science, with a quiet grin, Held up the Acarus, crawling on a pin? --Mountains have labored and have brought forth mice The Dutchman's theory hatched a brood of--twice I've well-nigh said them--words unfitting quite For these fair precincts and for ears polite.
The surest foot may chance at last to slip, And so at length it proved with Doctor Rip. One full-sized bottle stood upon the shelf, Which held the medicine that he took himself; Whate'er the reason, it must be confessed He filled that bottle oftener than the rest; What drug it held I don't presume to know-- The gilded label said "Elixir Pro."
One day the Doctor found the bottle full, And, being thirsty, took a vigorous pull, Put back the "Elixir" where 't was always found, And had old Dobbin saddled and brought round. --You know those old-time rhubarb-colored nags That carried Doctors and their saddle-bags; Sagacious beasts! they stopped at every place Where blinds were shut--knew every patient's case-- Looked up and thought--The baby's in a fit-- That won't last long--he'll soon be through with it; But shook their heads before the knockered door Where some old lady told the story o'er Whose endless stream of tribulation flows For gastric griefs and peristaltic woes.
What jack-o'-lantern led him from his way, And where it led him, it were hard to say; Enough that wandering many a weary mile Through paths the mountain sheep trod single file, O'ercome by feelings such as patients know Who dose too freely with "Elixir Pro.," He tumbl--dismounted, slightly in a heap, And lay, promiscuous, lapped in balmy sleep.
Night followed night, and day succeeded day, But snoring still the slumbering Doctor lay. Poor Dobbin, starving, thought upon his stall, And straggled homeward, saddle-bags and all. The village people hunted all around, But Rip was missing,--never could be found. "Drownded," they guessed;--for more than half a year The pouts and eels did taste uncommon queer; Some said of apple-brandy--other some Found a strong flavor of New England rum.
Why can't a fellow hear the fine things said About a fellow when a fellow's dead? The best of doctors--so the press declared-- A public blessing while his life was spared, True to his country, bounteous to the poor, In all things temperate, sober, just, and pure; The best of husbands! echoed Mrs. Van, And set her cap to catch another man.
So ends this Canto--if it's quantum suff., We'll just stop here and say we've had enough, And leave poor Rip to sleep for thirty years; I grind the organ--if you lend your ears To hear my second Canto, after that We 'll send around the monkey with the hat.
CANTO SECOND
So thirty years had passed--but not a word In all that time of Rip was ever heard; The world wagged on--it never does go back-- The widow Van was now the widow Mac---- France was an Empire--Andrew J. was dead, And Abraham L. was reigning in his stead. Four murderous years had passed in savage strife, Yet still the rebel held his bloody knife.
--At last one morning--who forgets the day When the black cloud of war dissolved away The joyous tidings spread o'er land and sea, Rebellion done for! Grant has captured Lee! Up every flagstaff sprang the Stars and Stripes-- Out rushed the Extras wild with mammoth types-- Down went the laborer's hod, the school-boy's book-- "Hooraw!" he cried, "the rebel army's took!" Ah! what a time! the folks all mad with joy Each fond, pale mother thinking of her boy; Old gray-haired fathers meeting--"Have--you--heard?" And then a choke--and not another word; Sisters all smiling--maidens, not less dear, In trembling poise between a smile and tear; Poor Bridget thinking how she 'll stuff the plums In that big cake for Johnny when he comes; Cripples afoot; rheumatics on the jump; Old girls so loving they could hug the pump; Guns going bang! from every fort and ship; They banged so loud at last they wakened Rip.
I spare the picture, how a man appears Who's been asleep a score or two of years; You all have seen it to perfection done By Joe Van Wink--I mean Rip Jefferson. Well, so it was; old Rip at last came back, Claimed his old wife--the present widow Mac---- Had his old sign regilded, and began To practise physic on the same old plan. Some weeks went by--it was not long to wait-- And "please to call" grew frequent on the slate. He had, in fact, an ancient, mildewed air, A long gray beard, a plenteous lack of hair,-- The musty look that always recommends Your good old Doctor to his ailing friends. --Talk of your science! after all is said There's nothing like a bare and shiny head; Age lends the graces that are sure to please; Folks want their Doctors mouldy, like their cheese.
So Rip began to look at people's tongues And thump their briskets (called it "sound their lungs"), Brushed up his knowledge smartly as he could, Read in old Cullen and in Doctor Good. The town was healthy; for a month or two He gave the sexton little work to do.
About the time when dog-day heats begin, The summer's usual maladies set in; With autumn evenings dysentery came, And dusky typhoid lit his smouldering flame; The blacksmith ailed, the carpenter was down, And half the children sickened in the town. The sexton's face grew shorter than before-- The sexton's wife a brand-new bonnet wore-- Things looked quite serious--Death had got a grip On old and young, in spite of Doctor Rip.
And now the Squire was taken with a chill-- Wife gave "hot-drops"--at night an Indian pill; Next morning, feverish--bedtime, getting worse-- Out of his head--began to rave and curse; The Doctor sent for--double quick he came Ant. Tart. gran. duo, and repeat the same If no et cetera. Third day--nothing new; Percussed his thorax till 't was black and blue-- Lung-fever threatening--something of the sort-- Out with the lancet--let him bleed--a quart-- Ten leeches next--then blisters to his side; Ten grains of calomel; just then he died.
The Deacon next required the Doctor's care-- Took cold by sitting in a draught of air-- Pains in the back, but what the matter is Not quite so clear,--wife calls it "rheumatiz." Rubs back with flannel--gives him something hot-- "Ah!" says the Deacon, "that goes nigh the spot." Next day a rigor--"Run, my little man, And say the Deacon sends for Doctor Van." The Doctor came--percussion as before, Thumping and banging till his ribs were sore-- "Right side the flattest"--then more vigorous raps-- "Fever--that's certain--pleurisy, perhaps. A quart of blood will ease the pain, no doubt, Ten leeches next will help to suck it out, Then clap a blister on the painful part-- But first two grains of Antimonium Tart. Last with a dose of cleansing calomel Unload the portal system--(that sounds well!)"
But when the selfsame remedies were tried, As all the village knew, the Squire had died;
The neighbors hinted. "This will never do; He's killed the Squire--he'll kill the Deacon too."
Now when a doctor's patients are perplexed, A consultation comes in order next-- You know what that is? In a certain place Meet certain doctors to discuss a case And other matters, such as weather, crops, Potatoes, pumpkins, lager-beer, and hops. For what's the use?--there 's little to be said, Nine times in ten your man's as good as dead; At best a talk (the secret to disclose) Where three men guess and sometimes one man knows.
The counsel summoned came without delay-- Young Doctor Green and shrewd old Doctor Gray-- They heard the story--"Bleed!" says Doctor Green, "That's downright murder! cut his throat, you mean Leeches! the reptiles! Why, for pity's sake, Not try an adder or a rattlesnake? Blisters! Why bless you, they 're against the law-- It's rank assault and battery if they draw Tartrate of Antimony! shade of Luke, Stomachs turn pale at thought of such rebuke! The portal system! What's the man about? Unload your nonsense! Calomel's played out! You've been asleep--you'd better sleep away Till some one calls you."
"Stop!" says Doctor Gray-- "The story is you slept for thirty years; With brother Green, I own that it appears You must have slumbered most amazing sound; But sleep once more till thirty years come round, You'll find the lancet in its honored place, Leeches and blisters rescued from disgrace, Your drugs redeemed from fashion's passing scorn, And counted safe to give to babes unborn."
Poor sleepy Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D., A puzzled, serious, saddened man was he; Home from the Deacon's house he plodded slow And filled one bumper of "Elixir Pro." "Good-by," he faltered, "Mrs. Van, my dear! I'm going to sleep, but wake me once a year; I don't like bleaching in the frost and dew, I'll take the barn, if all the same to you. Just once a year--remember! no mistake! Cry, 'Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!' Watch for the week in May when laylocks blow, For then the Doctors meet, and I must go."
Just once a year the Doctor's worthy dame Goes to the barn and shouts her husband's name; "Come, Rip Van Winkle!" (giving him a shake) "Rip! Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake! Laylocks in blossom! 't is the month of May-- The Doctors' meeting is this blessed day, And come what will, you know I heard you swear You'd never miss it, but be always there!"
And so it is, as every year comes round Old Rip Van Winkle here is always found. You'll quickly know him by his mildewed air, The hayseed sprinkled through his scanty hair, The lichens growing on his rusty suit-- I've seen a toadstool sprouting on his boot-- Who says I lie? Does any man presume?-- Toadstool? No matter--call it a mushroom. Where is his seat? He moves it every year; But look, you'll find him,--he is always here,-- Perhaps you'll track him by a whiff you know-- A certain flavor of "Elixir Pro."
Now, then, I give you--as you seem to think We can give toasts without a drop to drink-- Health to the mighty sleeper,--long live he! Our brother Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D.!
SONGS IN MANY KEYS
1849-1861
THE piping of our slender, peaceful reeds Whispers uncared for while the trumpets bray; Song is thin air; our hearts' exulting play Beats time but to the tread of marching deeds, Following the mighty van that Freedom leads, Her glorious standard flaming to the day! The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleeds Breathes nobler lessons than the poet's lay. Strong arms, broad breasts, brave hearts, are better worth Than strains that sing the ravished echoes dumb. Hark! 't is the loud reverberating drum Rolls o'er the prairied West, the rock-bound North The myriad-handed Future stretches forth Its shadowy palms. Behold, we come,--we come!
Turn o'er these idle leaves. Such toys as these Were not unsought for, as, in languid dreams, We lay beside our lotus-feeding streams, And nursed our fancies in forgetful ease. It matters little if they pall or please, Dropping untimely, while the sudden gleams Glare from the mustering clouds whose blackness seems Too swollen to hold its lightning from the trees. Yet, in some lull of passion, when at last These calm revolving moons that come and go-- Turning our months to years, they creep so slow-- Have brought us rest, the not unwelcome past May flutter to thee through these leaflets, cast On the wild winds that all around us blow. May 1, 1861.
AGNES
The story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surriage is told in the ballad with a very strict adhesion to the facts. These were obtained from information afforded me by the Rev. Mr. Webster, of Hopkinton, in company with whom I visited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then standing; from a very interesting Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason, of Medford; and from the manuscript diary of Sir Harry, or more properly Sir Charles Henry Frankland, now in the library of the Massachusetts Historical Society.
At the time of the visit referred to, old Julia was living, and on our return we called at the house where she resided.--[She was living June 10, 1861, when this ballad was published]--Her account is little more than paraphrased in the poem. If the incidents are treated with a certain liberality at the close of the fifth part, the essential fact that Agnes rescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the earthquake, and their subsequent marriage as related, may be accepted as literal truth. So with regard to most of the trifling details which are given; they are taken from the record. It is greatly to be regretted that the Frankland Mansion no longer exists. It was accidentally burned on the 23d of January, 1858, a year or two after the first sketch of this ballad was written. A visit to it was like stepping out of the century into the years before the Revolution. A new house, similar in plan and arrangements to the old one, has been built upon its site, and the terraces, the clump of box, and the lilacs doubtless remain to bear witness to the truth of this story.
The story, which I have told literally in rhyme, has been made the subject of a carefully studied and interesting romance by Mr. E. L. Bynner.
Part First
THE KNIGHT
THE tale I tell is gospel true, As all the bookmen know, And pilgrims who have strayed to view The wrecks still left to show.
The old, old story,--fair, and young, And fond,--and not too wise,-- That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue, To maids with downcast eyes.
Ah! maidens err and matrons warn Beneath the coldest sky; Love lurks amid the tasselled corn As in the bearded rye!
But who would dream our sober sires Had learned the old world's ways, And warmed their hearths with lawless fires In Shirley's homespun days?
'T is like some poet's pictured trance His idle rhymes recite,-- This old New England-born romance Of Agnes and the Knight;
Yet, known to all the country round, Their home is standing still, Between Wachusett's lonely mound And Shawmut's threefold hill.
One hour we rumble on the rail, One half-hour guide the rein, We reach at last, o'er hill and dale, The village on the plain.
With blackening wall and mossy roof, With stained and warping floor, A stately mansion stands aloof And bars its haughty door.
This lowlier portal may be tried, That breaks the gable wall; And lo! with arches opening wide, Sir Harry Frankland's hall!
'T was in the second George's day They sought the forest shade, The knotted trunks they cleared away, The massive beams they laid,
They piled the rock-hewn chimney tall, They smoothed the terraced ground, They reared the marble-pillared wall That fenced the mansion round.
Far stretched beyond the village bound The Master's broad domain; With page and valet, horse and hound, He kept a goodly train.
And, all the midland county through, The ploughman stopped to gaze Whene'er his chariot swept in view Behind the shining bays,
With mute obeisance, grave and slow, Repaid by nod polite,-- For such the way with high and low Till after Concord fight.
Nor less to courtly circles known That graced the three-hilled town With far-off splendors of the Throne, And glimmerings from the Crown;
Wise Phipps, who held the seals of state For Shirley over sea; Brave Knowles, whose press-gang moved of late The King Street mob's decree;
And judges grave, and colonels grand, Fair dames and stately men, The mighty people of the land, The "World" of there and then.
'T was strange no Chloe's "beauteous Form," And "Eyes' celestial Blew," This Strephon of the West could warm, No Nymph his Heart subdue.
Perchance he wooed as gallants use, Whom fleeting loves enchain, But still unfettered, free to choose, Would brook no bridle-rein.
He saw the fairest of the fair, But smiled alike on all; No band his roving foot might snare, No ring his hand enthrall.
Part Second
THE MAIDEN
Why seeks the knight that rocky cape Beyond the Bay of Lynn? What chance his wayward course may shape To reach its village inn?
No story tells; whate'er we guess, The past lies deaf and still, But Fate, who rules to blight or bless, Can lead us where she will.
Make way! Sir Harry's coach and four, And liveried grooms that ride! They cross the ferry, touch the shore On Winnisimmet's side.
They hear the wash on Chelsea Beach,-- The level marsh they pass, Where miles on miles the desert reach Is rough with bitter grass.
The shining horses foam and pant, And now the smells begin Of fishy Swampscott, salt Nahant, And leather-scented Lynn.
Next, on their left, the slender spires And glittering vanes that crown The home of Salem's frugal sires, The old, witch-haunted town.
So onward, o'er the rugged way That runs through rocks and sand, Showered by the tempest-driven spray, From bays on either hand,
That shut between their outstretched arms The crews of Marblehead, The lords of ocean's watery farms, Who plough the waves for bread.
At last the ancient inn appears, The spreading elm below, Whose flapping sign these fifty years Has seesawed to and fro.
How fair the azure fields in sight Before the low-browed inn The tumbling billows fringe with light The crescent shore of Lynn;
Nahant thrusts outward through the waves Her arm of yellow sand, And breaks the roaring surge that braves The gauntlet on her hand;
With eddying whirl the waters lock Yon treeless mound forlorn, The sharp-winged sea-fowl's breeding-rock, That fronts the Spouting Horn;
Then free the white-sailed shallops glide, And wide the ocean smiles, Till, shoreward bent, his streams divide The two bare Misery Isles.
The master's silent signal stays The wearied cavalcade; The coachman reins his smoking bays Beneath the elm-tree's shade.
A gathering on the village green! The cocked-hats crowd to see, On legs in ancient velveteen, With buckles at the knee.
A clustering round the tavern-door Of square-toed village boys, Still wearing, as their grandsires wore, The old-world corduroys!
A scampering at the "Fountain" inn,--- A rush of great and small,-- With hurrying servants' mingled din And screaming matron's call.
Poor Agnes! with her work half done They caught her unaware; As, humbly, like a praying nun, She knelt upon the stair;
Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien She knelt, but not to pray,-- Her little hands must keep them clean, And wash their stains away.
A foot, an ankle, bare and white, Her girlish shapes betrayed,-- "Ha! Nymphs and Graces!" spoke the Knight; "Look up, my beauteous Maid!"
She turned,--a reddening rose in bud, Its calyx half withdrawn,-- Her cheek on fire with damasked blood Of girlhood's glowing dawn!
He searched her features through and through, As royal lovers look On lowly maidens, when they woo Without the ring and book.
"Come hither, Fair one! Here, my Sweet! Nay, prithee, look not down! Take this to shoe those little feet,"-- He tossed a silver crown.
A sudden paleness struck her brow,-- A swifter blush succeeds; It burns her cheek; it kindles now Beneath her golden beads.
She flitted, but the glittering eye Still sought the lovely face. Who was she? What, and whence? and why Doomed to such menial place?
A skipper's daughter,--so they said,-- Left orphan by the gale That cost the fleet of Marblehead And Gloucester thirty sail.
Ah! many a lonely home is found Along the Essex shore, That cheered its goodman outward bound, And sees his face no more!
"Not so," the matron whispered,--"sure No orphan girl is she,-- The Surriage folk are deadly poor Since Edward left the sea,
"And Mary, with her growing brood, Has work enough to do To find the children clothes and food With Thomas, John, and Hugh.
"This girl of Mary's, growing tall,-- (Just turned her sixteenth year,)-- To earn her bread and help them all, Would work as housemaid here."
So Agnes, with her golden beads, And naught beside as dower, Grew at the wayside with the weeds, Herself a garden-flower.
'T was strange, 't was sad,--so fresh, so fair! Thus Pity's voice began. Such grace! an angel's shape and air! The half-heard whisper ran.
For eyes could see in George's time, As now in later days, And lips could shape, in prose and rhyme, The honeyed breath of praise.
No time to woo! The train must go Long ere the sun is down, To reach, before the night-winds blow, The many-steepled town.
'T is midnight,--street and square are still; Dark roll the whispering waves That lap the piers beneath the hill Ridged thick with ancient graves.
Ah, gentle sleep! thy hand will smooth The weary couch of pain, When all thy poppies fail to soothe The lover's throbbing brain!
'T is morn,--the orange-mantled sun Breaks through the fading gray, And long and loud the Castle gun Peals o'er the glistening bay.
"Thank God 't is day!" With eager eye He hails the morning shine:-- "If art can win, or gold can buy, The maiden shall be mine!"
Part Third
THE CONQUEST
"Who saw this hussy when she came? What is the wench, and who?" They whisper. "Agnes--is her name? Pray what has she to do?"
The housemaids parley at the gate, The scullions on the stair, And in the footmen's grave debate The butler deigns to share.
Black Dinah, stolen when a child, And sold on Boston pier, Grown up in service, petted, spoiled, Speaks in the coachman's ear:
"What, all this household at his will? And all are yet too few? More servants, and more servants still,-- This pert young madam too!"
"Servant! fine servant!" laughed aloud The man of coach and steeds; "She looks too fair, she steps too proud, This girl with golden beads!
"I tell you, you may fret and frown, And call her what you choose, You 'll find my Lady in her gown, Your Mistress in her shoes!"
Ah, gentle maidens, free from blame, God grant you never know The little whisper, loud with shame, That makes the world your foe!
Why tell the lordly flatterer's art, That won the maiden's ear,-- The fluttering of the frightened heart, The blush, the smile, the tear?
Alas! it were the saddening tale That every language knows,-- The wooing wind, the yielding sail, The sunbeam and the rose.
And now the gown of sober stuff Has changed to fair brocade, With broidered hem, and hanging cuff, And flower of silken braid;
And clasped around her blanching wrist A jewelled bracelet shines, Her flowing tresses' massive twist A glittering net confines;
And mingling with their truant wave A fretted chain is hung; But ah! the gift her mother gave,-- Its beads are all unstrung!
Her place is at the master's board, Where none disputes her claim; She walks beside the mansion's lord, His bride in all but name.
The busy tongues have ceased to talk, Or speak in softened tone, So gracious in her daily walk The angel light has shown.
No want that kindness may relieve Assails her heart in vain, The lifting of a ragged sleeve Will check her palfrey's rein.
A thoughtful calm, a quiet grace In every movement shown, Reveal her moulded for the place She may not call her own.
And, save that on her youthful brow There broods a shadowy care, No matron sealed with holy vow In all the land so fair.
Part Fourth
THE RESCUE
A ship comes foaming up the bay, Along the pier she glides; Before her furrow melts away, A courier mounts and rides.
"Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the letters bear; "Sir Harry Frankland, These." Sad news to tell the loving pair! The knight must cross the seas.
"Alas! we part!"--the lips that spoke Lost all their rosy red, As when a crystal cup is broke, And all its wine is shed.
"Nay, droop not thus,--where'er," he cried, "I go by land or sea, My love, my life, my joy, my pride, Thy place is still by me!"
Through town and city, far and wide, Their wandering feet have strayed, From Alpine lake to ocean tide, And cold Sierra's shade.
At length they see the waters gleam Amid the fragrant bowers Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream Her belt of ancient towers.
Red is the orange on its bough, To-morrow's sun shall fling O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow The flush of April's wing.
The streets are loud with noisy mirth, They dance on every green; The morning's dial marks the birth Of proud Braganza's queen.
At eve beneath their pictured dome The gilded courtiers throng; The broad moidores have cheated Rome Of all her lords of song.
AH! Lisbon dreams not of the day-- Pleased with her painted scenes-- When all her towers shall slide away As now these canvas screens!
The spring has passed, the summer fled, And yet they linger still, Though autumn's rustling leaves have spread The flank of Cintra's hill.
The town has learned their Saxon name, And touched their English gold, Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame From over sea is told.
Three hours the first November dawn Has climbed with feeble ray Through mists like heavy curtains drawn Before the darkened day.
How still the muffled echoes sleep! Hark! hark! a hollow sound,-- A noise like chariots rumbling deep Beneath the solid ground.
The channel lifts, the water slides And bares its bar of sand, Anon a mountain billow strides And crashes o'er the land.
The turrets lean, the steeples reel Like masts on ocean's swell, And clash a long discordant peal, The death-doomed city's knell.
The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves Beneath the staggering town! The turrets crack--the castle cleaves-- The spires come rushing down.
Around, the lurid mountains glow With strange unearthly gleams; While black abysses gape below, Then close in jagged seams.
And all is over. Street and square In ruined heaps are piled; Ah! where is she, so frail, so fair, Amid the tumult wild?
Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street, Whose narrow gaps afford A pathway for her bleeding feet, To seek her absent lord.
A temple's broken walls arrest Her wild and wandering eyes; Beneath its shattered portal pressed, Her lord unconscious lies.
The power that living hearts obey Shall lifeless blocks withstand? Love led her footsteps where he lay,-- Love nerves her woman's hand.
One cry,--the marble shaft she grasps,-- Up heaves the ponderous stone:-- He breathes,--her fainting form he clasps,-- Her life has bought his own!
Part Fifth
THE REWARD
How like the starless night of death Our being's brief eclipse, When faltering heart and failing breath Have bleached the fading lips!
The earth has folded like a wave, And thrice a thousand score, Clasped, shroudless, in their closing grave, The sun shall see no more!
She lives! What guerdon shall repay His debt of ransomed life? One word can charm all wrongs away,-- The sacred name of WIFE!
The love that won her girlish charms Must shield her matron fame, And write beneath the Frankland arms The village beauty's name.
Go, call the priest! no vain delay Shall dim the sacred ring! Who knows what change the passing day, The fleeting hour, may bring?
Before the holy altar bent, There kneels a goodly pair; A stately man, of high descent, A woman, passing fair.
No jewels lend the blinding sheen That meaner beauty needs, But on her bosom heaves unseen A string of golden beads.
The vow is spoke,--the prayer is said,-- And with a gentle pride The Lady Agnes lifts her head, Sir Harry Frankland's bride.
No more her faithful heart shall bear Those griefs so meekly borne,-- The passing sneer, the freezing stare, The icy look of scorn;
No more the blue-eyed English dames Their haughty lips shall curl, Whene'er a hissing whisper names The poor New England girl.
But stay!--his mother's haughty brow,-- The pride of ancient race,-- Will plighted faith, and holy vow, Win back her fond embrace?
Too well she knew the saddening tale Of love no vow had blest, That turned his blushing honors pale And stained his knightly crest.
They seek his Northern home,--alas He goes alone before;-- His own dear Agnes may not pass The proud, ancestral door.
He stood before the stately dame; He spoke; she calmly heard, But not to pity, nor to blame; She breathed no single word.
He told his love,--her faith betrayed; She heard with tearless eyes; Could she forgive the erring maid? She stared in cold surprise.
How fond her heart, he told,--how true; The haughty eyelids fell;-- The kindly deeds she loved to do; She murmured, "It is well."
But when he told that fearful day, And how her feet were led To where entombed in life he lay, The breathing with the dead,
And how she bruised her tender breasts Against the crushing stone, That still the strong-armed clown protests No man can lift alone,--
Oh! then the frozen spring was broke; By turns she wept and smiled;-- "Sweet Agnes!" so the mother spoke, "God bless my angel child.
"She saved thee from the jaws of death,-- 'T is thine to right her wrongs; I tell thee,--I, who gave thee breath,-- To her thy life belongs!"
Thus Agnes won her noble name, Her lawless lover's hand; The lowly maiden so became A lady in the land!