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diff --git a/38520-8.txt b/38520-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 31493eb..0000000 --- a/38520-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,25130 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Poems of James Russell Lowell, by James Russell Lowell - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Poems of James Russell Lowell - With biographical sketch by Nathan Haskell Dole - -Author: James Russell Lowell - -Release Date: January 7, 2012 [EBook #38520] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL *** - - - - -Produced by Brian Sogard, Carol Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. - - - - - - - - - - - POEMS - - OF - - JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL - - _WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH_ - - BY - - NATHAN HASKELL DOLE - - NEW YORK - THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. - PUBLISHERS - - - - |Copyright|, 1892, 1898, - By T.Y. CROWELL & CO. - - Norwood Press - J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith - Norwood Mass. U.S.A. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - |Biographical Sketch| ix - - EARLY POEMS. - - Sonnet 1 - - Hakon's Lay 1 - - Out of Doors 3 - - A Reverie 4 - - In Sadness 6 - - Farewell 7 - - A Dirge 10 - - Fancies about a Rosebud 15 - - New Year's Eve, 1844 17 - - A Mystical Ballad 20 - - Opening Poem to A Year's Life 23 - - Dedication to Volume of Poems entitled A Year's Life 24 - - The Serenade 24 - - Song 26 - - The Departed 27 - - The Bobolink 30 - - Forgetfulness 32 - - Song 33 - - The Poet 34 - - Flowers 35 - - The Lover 39 - - To E. W. G. 40 - - Isabel 42 - - Music 43 - - Song 46 - - Ianthe 48 - - Love's Altar 52 - - Impartiality 54 - - Bellerophon 54 - - Something Natural 58 - - A Feeling 58 - - The Lost Child 59 - - The Church 60 - - The Unlovely 61 - - Love-Song 62 - - Song 63 - - A Love-Dream 65 - - Fourth of July Ode 66 - - Sphinx 67 - - "Goe, Little Booke!" 69 - - Sonnets 71 - - Sonnets on Names 82 - - - MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. - - Threnodia 85 - - The Sirens 87 - - Irené 90 - - Serenade 93 - - With a Pressed Flower 93 - - The Beggar 94 - - My Love 95 - - Summer Storm 97 - - Love 100 - - To Perdita, Singing 101 - - The Moon 103 - - Remembered Music 104 - - Song 105 - - Allegra 105 - - The Fountain 106 - - Ode 107 - - The Fatherland 112 - - The Forlorn 112 - - Midnight 114 - - A Prayer 115 - - The Heritage 116 - - The Rose: A Ballad 118 - - A Legend of Brittany 120 - - Prometheus 139 - - Song 147 - - Rosaline 148 - - The Shepherd of King Admetus 151 - - The Token 152 - - An Incident in a Railroad Car 153 - - Rhoecus 156 - - The Falcon 160 - - Trial 161 - - A Requiem 161 - - A Parable 162 - - A Glance behind the Curtain 164 - - Song 172 - - A Chippewa Legend 172 - - Stanzas on Freedom 176 - - Columbus 176 - - An Incident of the Fire at Hamburg 183 - - The Sower 185 - - Hunger and Cold 187 - - The Landlord 189 - - To a Pine-Tree 190 - - Si Descendero in Infernum, Ades 191 - - To the Past 192 - - To the Future 194 - - Hebe 196 - - The Search 197 - - The Present Crisis 199 - - An Indian-Summer Reverie 203 - - The Growth of the Legend 211 - - A Contrast 213 - - Extreme Unction 214 - - The Oak 216 - - Ambrose 217 - - Above and Below 219 - - The Captive 220 - - The Birch-Tree 223 - - An Interview with Miles Standish 224 - - On the Capture of Certain Fugitive Slaves near Washington 228 - - To the Dandelion 230 - - The Ghost-Seer 231 - - Studies for Two Heads 236 - - On a Portrait of Dante by Giotto 239 - - On the Death of a Friend's Child 240 - - Eurydice 242 - - She Came and Went 245 - - The Changeling 245 - - The Pioneer 247 - - Longing 248 - - Ode to France 249 - - A Parable 254 - - Ode 255 - - Lines 257 - - To ---- 258 - - Freedom 259 - - Bibliolatres 261 - - Beaver Brook 262 - - Appledore 263 - - Dara 265 - - TO J. F. H. 267 - - MEMORIAL VERSES. - - Kossuth 268 - - To Lamartine 269 - - To John G. Palfrey 271 - - To W. L. Garrison 273 - - On the Death of C. T. Torrey 274 - - Elegy on the Death of Dr. Channing 275 - - To the Memory of Hood 277 - - - - Sonnets 278 - - L'envoi 289 - - The Vision of Sir Launfal 293 - - A Fable for Critics 303 - - The Biglow Papers 357 - - The Unhappy Lot of Mr Knott 471 - - An Oriental Apologue 496 - - - - - JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. - - BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. - - -In the year 1639 Percival Lowle, or Lowell, a merchant of Bristol, -England, landed at the little seaport town of Newbury, Mass. - -We generally speak of a man's descent. In the case of James Russell -Lowell's ancestry it was rather an ascent through eight generations. -Percival Lowle's son, John Lowell, was a worthy cooper in old Newbury; -his great-grandson was a shoemaker, his great-great-grandson was the -Rev. John Lowell of Newburyport, the father of the Hon. John Lowell, who -is regarded as the author of the clause in the Massachusetts -Constitution abolishing slavery. - -Judge Lowell's son, Charles, was a Unitarian minister, "learned, -saintly, and discreet." He married Miss Harriet Traill Spence, of -Portsmouth,--a woman of superior mind, of great wit, vivacity, and an -impetuosity that reached eccentricity. She was of Keltic blood, of a -family that came from the Orkneys, and claimed descent from the Sir -Patrick Spens of "the grand old ballad." Several of her family were -connected with the American navy. Her father was Keith Spence, purser of -the frigate "Philadelphia," and a prisoner at Tripoli. - -By ancestry on both sides, and by connections with the Russells and -other distinguished families, Lowell was a good type of the New England -gentleman. - -He was born on the 22d of February, 1819, at Elmwood, not far from -Brattle Street, Cambridge. - -This three-storied colonial mansion of wood, was built in 1767 by Thomas -Oliver, the last royal Lieutenant-Governor, before the Revolution.[1] -Like other houses in "Tory Row," it was abandoned by its owners. Soon -afterwards it came into possession of Elbridge Gerry, Governor of -Massachusetts, and fifth Vice-President of the United States, whose -memory and name are kept alive by the term "_gerrymander_." It next -became the property of Dr. Lowell about a year before the birth of his -youngest child, and it was the home of the poet until his death. - - [Footnote 1: Thomas Oliver was graduated from Harvard - College in the class of 1758. He was a gentleman of fortune, - and lived first in Roxbury. He bought the property on - Elmwood Avenue in 1766. When he accepted the royal - commission of Lieutenant-Governor, he became President of - the Council appointed by the King. On Sept. 2, 1774, about - four thousand Middlesex freeholders assembled at Cambridge - and compelled the mandamus councillors to resign. The - President of the Council urged the propriety of delay, but - the Committee would not spare him. He was forced to sign an - agreement, "as a man of honor and a Christian, that he would - never hereafter, upon any terms whatsoever, accept a seat at - said Board on the present novel and oppressive form of - government." He immediately quitted Cambridge; and when the - British troops evacuated Boston he accompanied them. By an - odd coincidence he went to reside at Bristol, England, where - he died at the age of eighty-two years, in 1815, shortly - before the Lowells, who were of Bristol origin, took - possession of his former home. In Underwood's sketch of - Lowell, Thomas Oliver is confused with Chief Justice Peter - Oliver, a man of a very different type of character.] - -Lowell's early education was obtained mainly at a school kept nearly -opposite Elmwood by a retired publisher, an Englishman, Mr. William -Wells. He also studied in the classical school of Mr. Danial G. Ingraham -in Boston. He was graduated from Harvard College in the class of 1838. -He is reported as declaring that he read almost everything except the -class-books prescribed by the faculty. Lowell says, in one of his early -poems referring to Harvard,-- - - "Tho' lightly prized the ribboned parchments three, - Yet _collegisse juvat_, I am glad - That here what colleging was mine I had." - -He was secretary of the Hasty Pudding Society, and one of the editors of -the college periodical _Harvardiana_, to which he contributed various -articles in prose and verse. His neglect of prescribed studies, and -disregard of college discipline, resulted in his rustication just before -commencement in 1838. He was sent to Concord, where he resided in the -family of Barzillai Frost, and made the acquaintance of Emerson, then -beginning to rouse the ire of conservative Unitarianism by his -transcendental philosophy, of the brilliant but overestimated Margaret -Fuller, who afterwards severely criticised Lowell's verse, and of other -well-known residents of the pretty town. He had been elected poet of his -class. His removal from college prevented him from delivering the poem -which was afterwards published anonymously for private distribution. It -contained a satire on abolitionists and reformers. "I know the village," -he writes long afterwards in the person of Hosea Biglow, Esquire. - - "I know the village though, was sent there once - A-schoolin', 'cause to home I played the dunce!" - -On his return to Cambridge he took up the study of law, and, in 1840, -received the degree of LL.B. He even went so far as to open an office in -Boston; but it is a question whether there was any actual basis of fact -in a whimsical sketch of his entitled "My First Client," published in -the short-lived _Boston Miscellany_, edited by Nathan Hale. - -Several things engrossed Lowell's attention to the exclusion of law. -Society at Cambridge was particularly attractive at that time. Allston -the painter was living at Cambridgeport. Judge Story's pleasant home was -on Brattle Street. The Fays then occupied the house which has since -become the seat of Radcliffe College. Longfellow, described as "a -slender, blond young professor," was established in the Craigie House. -The famous names of Dr. Palfrey, Professor Andrews Norton, father of -Lowell's friend and biographer, the "saintly" Henry Ware, and others -will occur to the reader. He was fond of walking and knew every inch of -the beautiful ground then called "Sweet Auburn," now turned by the hand -of misguided man into that most distressing of monstrosities--a modern -cemetery. He haunted the poetic shades of the Waverley Oaks, heard the -charming music of Beaver Brook, and climbed the hills of Belmont and -Arlington. - -He himself took his turn in establishing a magazine. In January, 1843, -he started _The Pioneer_, to which Hawthorne, John Neal, Miss Barrett, -Poe, Whittier, Story, Parsons, and others contributed, and which, in -spite of such an array of talent, perished untimely during the winds of -March. - -He had already published, in 1841, a little volume of poems entitled "A -Year's Life." They were marked by no great originality, betrayed little -promise of future eminence, and Margaret Fuller, who reviewed them, was -quite right in asserting that "neither the imagery nor the music of -Lowell's verses was his own." The first sonnet in the present volume -(page 1) practically acknowledges the force of this criticism. The -influence of Wordsworth and Tennyson may be distinctly traced in most of -them. But many of the lines were harsh and many of the rhymes were -careless. Lowell's later and correcter taste omitted most of them from -his collected works. - -Not far from Elmwood, but in the adjoining village of Watertown, lived -one of Lowell's classmates, whose sister, Maria White, a slender, -delicate girl, with a poetic genius in some respects more regulated and -lofty than his own, early inspired him with a true and saving love. -Speaking of the influences that moulded his life, George William Curtis -says:-- - - "The first and most enduring was an early and happy passion - for a lovely and high-minded woman who became his wife--the - Egeria who exalted his youth and confirmed his noblest - aspirations; a heaven-eyed counsellor of the serener air, - who filled his mind with peace and his life with joy." - -The young lady's prudent father objected to the marriage until the newly -fledged lawyer should be in a position to support a wife. - -Shortly after the shipwreck of _The Pioneer_, Lowell was offered a -hundred dollars by _Graham's Monthly_ for ten poems. When Pegasus is -able to earn such princely sums, there seems no reason why Love should -be kept waiting at the cottage door. In 1844 Lowell published a new -edition of his poems, and married Miss White. It was her influence that -decided him to cast in his lot with the abolitionists. It was her -refined taste that shaped and tempered his impetuous verse. A volume of -her poems was in 1855, in an edition of fifty copies, privately printed, -and is now very rare. It is an odd circumstance that in Lowell's -library, from which Harvard College was allowed to select any volumes -not in Gore Hall, neither this book nor any of Lowell's own early poems -was to be found. - -The young couple took up their residence at Elmwood, and here were born -three daughters and a son. All but one of his children died in infancy. -Many of the tenderest of his poems refer with touching pathos to his -bereavement: such for instance are "The Changeling" and "The First -Snowfall." - -In 1845 appeared "The Vision of Sir Launfal,"--a genuine inspiration -composed in two days in a sort of ecstasy of poetic fervor. That more -than anything established his fame. He recognized that he was dedicated -to the Muses. - -In 1846 he wrote:-- - - "If I have any vocation, it is the making of verse. When I - take my pen for that, the world opens itself ungrudgingly - before me; everything seems clear and easy, as it seems - sinking to the bottom could be as one leans over the edge of - his boat in one of those dear coves at Fresh Pond.... My - true place is to serve the cause as a poet. Then my heart - leaps before me into the conflict." - -The same year he began his "Biglow Papers" in the Boston _Courier_. Such -_jeux d'esprit_ are apt to be ephemeral. Lowell's are immortal. They -preserved in literary form a fast-fading dialect; they caught and -embalmed the mighty issues of a tremendous world-problem. Their -influence was incalculable. He gathered them into a volume in 1848, and -became corresponding editor of the _Anti-Slavery Standard_. Fortunate -man who throws himself into an unpopular cause which is in harmony with -the Right! How different from Wordsworth who attacked the ballot and -took sides against reform! - -Lowell's penchant for satire was exemplified again the same year in his -"Fable for Critics." - -In this Lowell with no sparing hand laid on his portraits most droll and -amusing colors. It is a comic portrait gallery, a series of caricatures -whose greatest value (as in all good caricatures) lies in the accurate -presentation of characteristic features. He did not spare himself:-- - - "There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb - With a whole bale of _isms_ tied together with rhyme. - He might get on alone, spite of troubles and bowlders, - But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders. - The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching - Till he learns the distinctions 'twixt singing and preaching; - His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, - But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, - And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem - At the head of a march to the last New Jerusalem." - -Some of his thrusts left embittered feelings, but in general the tone -was so good-natured that only the thin-skinned could object, and it must -be confessed many of his judgments have been confirmed by Time. - -In 1851 Lowell visited Europe, and spent upwards of a year widening his -acquaintance with the polite languages. But it is remarkable that Lowell -gave the world almost no metrical translations. Shortly after his return -his wife died (Oct. 27, 1853) after a slow decline. In reference to this -bereavement Longfellow wrote his beautiful poem, "The Two Angels." - -The following year Longfellow resigned the Smith Professorship of the -French and Spanish Languages and Literature and Belles Lettres, and -Lowell was appointed his successor with two years' leave of absence. He -had won his spurs. He had collected his poems in two volumes, not -including "A Year's Life," the "Biglow Papers," or the "Fable for -Critics." He was known as one of the most brilliant contributors to -_Putnam's Monthly_ and other magazines. - -In 1854 he delivered a series of twelve lectures on English poetry -before the Lowell Institute. Ten years before he had published a volume -of "Conversations on the Poets." The contrast between the two works is -no less pronounced than that between his earlier and later poems. - -In both, however, there is a tendency toward a confusing -over-elaboration--Metaphors trample on the heels of Similes, and quaint -and often grotesque conceits sometimes pall upon the taste, just as in -the poems a flash of incongruous wit sometimes disturbs the serenity -that is desirable. - -On his return from Europe, Mr. Lowell occupied the chair which he -adorned by his brilliant attainments and made memorable by his fame. He -lectured on Dante, Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Cervantes, and delighted -his audiences. At the same time he was editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_ -for several years. From 1863 until 1872 he was associated with Professor -Charles Eliot Norton in the conduct of the _North American Review_. - -In 1857 he married Miss Frances Dunlap of Portland, Me., a cultivated -lady who had been the governess of his daughter. She had unerring -literary taste and sound judgment, and Mr. Lowell soon came to entrust -to her the management of his financial affairs. She was enabled to make -their comparatively small income more than meet the exigencies of an -exacting position. - -The second series of the "Biglow Papers," relating to the War of the -Rebellion, were first published in the _Atlantic_. They were collected -into a volume in 1865. That year was rendered notable by his -"Commemoration Ode," the worthy crowning of one of the grandest poetic -opportunities ever granted to man. "Under the Willows" appeared in 1869; -"The Cathedral" in 1870. - -In 1864 he had issued a collection of his early descriptive articles -under the title, "Fireside Travels." In 1870 came "Among my Books." The -second series followed in 1876. "My Study Windows" was published in -1871. All these prose works were marked by an exuberant, vivid, poetic, -impassioned style. The tropical efflorescence of imagery was -characteristic of them all. He ought to have remembered his own words,-- - - "Over-ornament ruins both poem and prose." - -In 1876 appeared three memorial poems: that read at Concord, April 19, -1875; that read at Cambridge under the Washington Elm, July 3, 1875; and -the Fourth of July Ode of 1876. This year Mr. Lowell was appointed one -of the presidential electors; and the following year President Hayes -first offered him the Austrian mission, and, on his refusal of that, -gave him the honorary post at Madrid, which had been adorned by Everett, -Irving, and Prescott. He was there three years, and, on the retirement -of Mr. Welsh in 1880, was transferred to the Court of St. James, or, as -one of the English papers expressed it, he became "His Excellency the -Ambassador of American Literature to the Court of Shakespeare." - -He was extremely popular. Known in private as "one of the most -marvellous of story-tellers," he became the lion of many public -occasions. The _London News_ spoke of the "Extraordinary felicity of his -occasional speeches." At Birmingham he delivered a noble address on -Democracy. He was selected to deliver the oration at the dedication of -the Dean Stanley Memorial. He spoke on Fielding at Taunton, on Coleridge -at Westminster Abbey, on Gray at Cambridge. He was President of the -Wordsworth Society. All sorts of honors were heaped upon him, both at -home and abroad. - -He returned to America in 1885, and once more occupied the somewhat -dilapidated historic mansion at Elmwood. Once more he moved amid his -rare and precious books, and heard the birds singing in the elms that -his father had planted, or in the clustered bushes back of the house. He -took a deep interest in the struggle for international copyright. He was -President of the American Copyright League, and wrote the memorable -lines:-- - - "In vain we call old notions fudge, - And bend our conscience to our dealing; - The Ten Commandments will not budge; - And stealing _will_ continue stealing." - -He used the leisure of his failing health in revising his works. His -last volume of poems was entitled "Heart's Ease and Rue." One of his -latest poems, "My Book," appeared in the Christmas number of the New -York _Ledger_ in 1890. In the December number of the _Atlantic_ his hand -was visible in the anonymous "Contributor's Club." - -During the last years his health was a matter of grave anxiety to his -friends. In the spring of 1891 he seemed better. He was engaged in -writing a life of Nathaniel Hawthorne. When the present writer call to -see him one beautiful spring day, he found him in his library, at that -moment engaged in making suggestions for the inscriptions on the new -Boston Public Library. His manner was the perfection of courtesy and -high breeding. His keen eyes seemed to read the very soul. Simplicity -and beautiful dignity, tempered by evident feebleness of health, made -him a memorable figure. - -Toward the end of the summer he suddenly grew more seriously ill. He -suffered severely, and his last words were, "Oh! why don't you let me -die?" - -He drew his last breath in the early morning of Aug. 12, 1891. He was -buried at Mount Auburn, in the shadow of Indian Ridge, not far from -Longfellow's grave, in a lot unenclosed and marked by no monument. - -Memorial services were held in many places. Lord Tennyson cabled a -message of sympathy: "England and America will mourn Mr. Lowell's death. -They loved him and he loved them." The Queen publicly expressed her -respect and sorrow. - -Few men have left a deeper impress on their age. Few men have used noble -powers more nobly. In private life and public station there is not a -shadow to stain the whiteness of his fame. - -As a poet he stands in the front rank of those who have yet appeared in -America. As a critic he was generous and just; as a humorist he used his -shafts of ridicule only to wound wrong; as a statesman and diplomat he -was actuated by broad, far-seeing views; as a man he was a type to be -upheld and followed. America has just cause to reverence his memory; and -the whole English-speaking world, without geographical distinction, -claims him as its own. - - |Nathan Haskell Dole.| - - - - - EARLY POEMS. - - - - - SONNET. - - - If some small savor creep into my rhyme - Of the old poets, if some words I use, - Neglected long, which have the lusty thews - Of that gold-haired and earnest-hearted time, - Whose loving joy and sorrow all sublime - Have given our tongue its starry eminence,-- - It is not pride, God knows, but reverence - Which hath grown in me since my childhood's prime; - Wherein I feel that my poor lyre is strung - With soul-strings like to theirs, and that I have - No right to muse their holy graves among, - If I can be a custom-fettered slave, - And, in mine own true spirit, am not brave - To speak what rusheth upward to my tongue. - - - - - HAKON'S LAY. - - - Then Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate, - Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, - And said: "O, Skald, sing now an olden song, - Such as our fathers heard who led great lives; - And, as the bravest on a shield is borne - Along the waving host that shouts him king, - So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas!" - - Then the old man arose: white-haired he stood, - White-bearded, and with eyes that looked afar - From their still region of perpetual snow, - Over the little smokes and stirs of men: - His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years, - As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, - But something triumphed in his brow and eye, - Which whoso saw it, could not see and crouch: - Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused, - Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle - Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods, - So wheeled his soul into the air of song - High o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang: - - "The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out - Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light; - And, from a quiver full of such as these, - The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, - Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. - Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate? - What archer of his arrows is so choice, - Or hits the white so surely? They are men, - The chosen of her quiver; nor for her - Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick - At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked: - Such answer household ends; but she will have - Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound - Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips - All needless stuff, all sapwood, hardens them, - From circumstance untoward feathers plucks - Crumpled and cheap, and barbs with iron will: - The hour that passes is her quiver-boy; - When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind, - Nor 'gainst the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings, - For sun and wind have plighted faith to her: - Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold, - In the butt's heart her trembling messenger! - - "The song is old and simple that I sing: - Good were the days of yore, when men were tried - By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold; - But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men, - And the free ocean, still the days are good; - Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity - And knocks at every door of hut or hall, - Until she finds the brave soul that she wants." - - He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide - Of interrupted wassail roared along; - But Leif, the son of Eric, sate apart - Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, - Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen; - But then with that resolve his heart was bent, - Which, like a humming shaft, through many a strife - Of day and night across the unventured seas, - Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands - The first rune in the Saga of the West. - - - - - OUT OF DOORS. - - 'Tis good to be abroad in the sun, - His gifts abide when day is done; - Each thing in nature from his cup - Gathers a several virtue up; - The grace within its being's reach - Becomes the nutriment of each, - And the same life imbibed by all - Makes each most individual: - Here the twig-bending peaches seek - The glow that mantles in their cheek-- - Hence comes the Indian-summer bloom - That hazes round the basking plum, - And, from the same impartial light, - The grass sucks green, the lily white. - - Like these the soul, for sunshine made, - Grows wan and gracile in the shade, - Her faculties, which God decreed - Various as Summer's dædal breed, - With one sad color are imbued, - Shut from the sun that tints their blood; - The shadow of the poet's roof - Deadens the dyes of warp and woof; - Whate'er of ancient song remains - Has fresh air flowing in its veins, - For Greece and eldest Ind knew well - That out of doors, with world-wide swell - Arches the student's lawful cell. - - Away, unfruitful lore of books, - For whose vain idiom we reject - The spirit's mother-dialect, - Aliens among the birds and brooks, - Dull to interpret or believe - What gospels lost the woods retrieve, - Or what the eaves-dropping violet - Reports from God, who walketh yet - His garden in the hush of eve! - Away, ye pedants city-bred, - Unwise of heart, too wise of head, - Who handcuff Art with _thus and so_, - And in each other's footprints tread, - Like those who walk through drifted snow; - - Who, from deep study of brick walls - Conjecture of the water-falls, - By six square feet of smoke-stained sky - Compute those deeps that overlie - The still tarn's heaven-anointed eye, - And, in your earthen crucible, - With chemic tests essay to spell - How nature works in field and dell! - Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold? - Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold; - To beach and rock repeats the sea - The mystic _Open Sesame_; - Old Greylock's voices not in vain - Comment on Milton's mountain strain, - And cunningly the various wind - Spenser's locked music can unbind. - - - - - A REVERIE. - - - In the twilight deep and silent - Comes thy spirit unto mine, - When the moonlight and the starlight - Over cliff and woodland shine, - And the quiver of the river - Seems a thrill of joy benign. - - Then I rise and wander slowly - To the headland by the sea, - When the evening star throbs setting - Through the cloudy cedar tree, - And from under, mellow thunder - Of the surf comes fitfully. - - Then within my soul I feel thee - Like a gleam of other years, - Visions of my childhood murmur - Their old madness in my ears, - Till the pleasance of thy presence - Cools my heart with blissful tears. - - All the wondrous dreams of boyhood-- - All youth's fiery thirst of praise-- - All the surer hopes of manhood - Blossoming in sadder days-- - Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me - With a better wreath than bays-- - - All the longings after freedom-- - The vague love of human kind, - Wandering far and near at random - Like a winged seed in the wind-- - The dim yearnings and fierce burnings - Of an undirected mind-- - - All of these, oh best belovèd, - Happiest present dreams and past, - In thy love find safe fulfilment, - Ripened into truths at last; - Faith and beauty, hope and duty - To one centre gather fast. - - How my nature, like an ocean, - At the breath of thine awakes, - Leaps its shores in mad exulting - And in foamy thunder breaks, - Then downsinking, lieth shrinking - At the tumult that it makes! - - Blazing Hesperus hath sunken - Low within the pale-blue west, - And with golden splendor crowneth - The horizon's piny crest; - Thoughtful quiet stills the riot - Of wild longing in my breast. - - Home I loiter through the moonlight, - Underneath the quivering trees, - Which, as if a spirit stirred them, - Sway and bend, till by degrees - The far surge's murmur merges - In the rustle of the breeze. - - - - - IN SADNESS. - - - There is not in this life of ours - One bliss unmixed with fears, - The hope that wakes our deepest powers - A face of sadness wears, - And the dew that showers our dearest flowers - Is the bitter dew of tears. - - Fame waiteth long, and lingereth - Through weary nights and morns-- - And evermore the shadow Death - With mocking finger scorns - That underneath the laurel wreath - Should be a wreath of thorns. - - The laurel leaves are cool and green, - But the thorns are hot and sharp, - Lean Hunger grins and stares between - The poet and his harp; - Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been, - Grim want thrusts in the warp. - - And if beyond this darksome clime - Some fair star Hope may see, - That keeps unjarred the blissful chime - Of its golden infancy-- - Where the harvest-time of faith sublime - Not always is to be-- - - Yet would the true soul rather choose - Its home where sorrow is, - Than in a sated peace to lose - Its life's supremest bliss-- - The rainbow hues that bend profuse - O'er cloudy spheres like this-- - - The want, the sorrow and the pain, - That are Love's right to cure-- - The sunshine bursting after rain-- - The gladness insecure - That makes us fain strong hearts to gain, - To do and to endure. - - High natures must be thunder-scarred - With many a searing wrong; - From mother Sorrow's breasts the bard - Sucks gifts of deepest song, - Nor all unmarred with struggles hard - Wax the Soul's sinews strong. - - Dear Patience, too, is born of woe, - Patience that opes the gate - Wherethrough the soul of man must go - Up to each nobler state, - Whose voice's flow so meek and low - Smooths the bent brows of Fate. - - Though Fame be slow, yet Death is swift, - And, o'er the spirit's eyes, - Life after life doth change and shift - With larger destinies: - As on we drift, some wider rift - Shows us serener skies. - - And though naught falleth to us here - But gains the world counts loss, - Though all we hope of wisdom clear - When climbed to seems but dross, - Yet all, though ne'er Christ's faith they wear, - At least may share his cross. - - - - FAREWELL. - - - Farewell! as the bee round the blossom - Doth murmur drowsily, - So murmureth round my bosom - The memory of thee; - Lingering, it seems to go, - When the wind more full doth flow, - Waving the flower to and fro, - But still returneth, Marian! - - My hope no longer burneth, - Which did so fiercely burn, - My joy to sorrow turneth, - Although loath, loath to turn-- - I would forget-- - And yet--and yet - My heart to thee still yearneth, Marian! - - Fair as a single star thou shinest, - And white as lilies are - The slender hands wherewith thou twinest - Thy heavy auburn hair; - Thou art to me - A memory - Of all that is divinest: - Thou art so fair and tall, - Thy looks so queenly are, - Thy very shadow on the wall, - Thy step upon the stair, - The thought that thou art nigh, - The chance look of thine eye - Are more to me than all, Marian, - And will be till I die! - - As the last quiver of a bell - Doth fade into the air, - With a subsiding swell - That dies we know not where, - So my hope melted and was gone: - I raised mine eyes to bless the star - That shared its light with me so far - Below its silver throne, - And gloom and chilling vacancy - Were all was left to me, - In the dark, bleak night I was alone! - Alone in the blessed Earth, Marian, - For what were all to me-- - Its love, and light, and mirth, Marian, - If I were not with thee? - - My heart will not forget thee - More than the moaning brine - Forgets the moon when she is set; - The gush when first I met thee - That thrilled my brain like wine, - Doth thrill as madly yet; - My heart cannot forget thee, - Though it may droop and pine, - Too deeply it had set thee - In every love of mine; - No new moon ever cometh, - No flower ever bloometh, - No twilight ever gloometh - But I'm more only thine. - Oh look not on me, Marian, - Thine eyes are wild and deep, - And they have won me, Marian, - From peacefulness and sleep; - The sunlight doth not sun me, - The meek moonshine doth shun me, - All sweetest voices stun me-- - There is no rest - Within my breast - And I can only weep, Marian! - - As a landbird far at sea - Doth wander through the sleet - And drooping downward wearily - Finds no rest for her feet, - So wandereth my memory - O'er the years when we did meet: - I used to say that everything - Partook a share of thee, - That not a little bird could sing, - Or green leaf flutter on a tree, - That nothing could be beautiful - Save part of thee were there, - That from thy soul so clear and full - All bright and blessèd things did cull - The charm to make them fair; - And now I know - That it was so, - Thy spirit through the earth doth flow - And face me wheresoe'er I go-- - What right hath perfectness to give - Such weary weight of woe - Unto the soul which cannot live - On anything more low? - Oh leave me, leave me, Marian, - There's no fair thing I see - But doth deceive me, Marian, - Into sad dreams of thee! - - A cold snake gnaws my heart - And crushes round my brain, - And I should glory but to part - So bitterly again, - Feeling the slow tears start - And fall in fiery rain: - There's a wide ring round the moon, - The ghost-like clouds glide by, - And I hear the sad winds croon - A dirge to the lowering sky; - There's nothing soft or mild - In the pale moon's sickly light, - But all looks strange and wild - Through the dim, foreboding night: - I think thou must be dead - In some dark and lonely place, - With candles at thy head, - And a pall above thee spread - To hide thy dead, cold face; - But I can see thee underneath - So pale, and still, and fair, - Thine eyes closed smoothly and a wreath - Of flowers in thy hair; - I never saw thy face so clear - When thou wast with the living, - As now beneath the pall, so drear, - And stiff, and unforgiving; - I cannot flee thee, Marian, - I cannot turn away, - Mine eyes must see thee, Marian, - Through salt tears night and day. - - - - - A DIRGE. - - - Poet! lonely is thy bed, - And the turf is overhead-- - Cold earth is thy cover; - But thy heart hath found release, - And it slumbers full of peace - 'Neath the rustle of green trees - And the warm hum of the bees, - Mid the drowsy clover; - Through thy chamber, still as death, - A smooth gurgle wandereth, - As the blue stream murmureth - To the blue sky over. - Three paces from the silver strand, - Gently in the fine, white sand, - With a lily in thy hand, - Pale as snow, they laid thee; - In no coarse earth wast thou hid, - And no gloomy coffin-lid - Darkly overweighed thee. - Silently as snow-flakes drift, - The smooth sand did sift and sift - O'er the bed they made thee; - All sweet birds did come and sing - At thy sunny burying-- - Choristers unbidden, - And, beloved of sun and dew, - Meek forget-me-nots upgrew - Where thine eyes so large and blue - 'Neath the turf were hidden. - - Where thy stainless clay doth lie, - Blue and open is the sky, - And the white clouds wander by, - Dreams of summer silently - Darkening the river; - Thou hearest the clear water run; - And the ripples every one, - Scattering the golden sun, - Through thy silence quiver; - Vines trail down upon the stream, - Into its smooth and glassy dream - A green stillness spreading, - And the shiner, perch, and bream - Through the shadowed waters gleam - 'Gainst the current heading. - - White as snow, thy winding sheet - Shelters thee from head to feet, - Save thy pale face only; - Thy face is turned toward the skies, - The lids lie meekly o'er thine eyes, - And the low-voiced pine-tree sighs - O'er thy bed so lonely. - All thy life thou lov'dst its shade: - Underneath it thou art laid, - In an endless shelter; - Thou hearest it forever sigh - As the wind's vague longings die - In its branches dim and high-- - Thou hear'st the waters gliding by - Slumberously welter. - - Thou wast full of love and truth, - Of forgiveness and ruth-- - Thy great heart with hope and youth - Tided to o'erflowing. - Thou didst dwell in mysteries, - And there lingered on thine eyes - Shadows of serener skies, - Awfully wild memories, - That were like foreknowing; - Through the earth thou would'st have gone, - Lighted from within alone, - Seeds from flowers in Heaven grown - With a free hand sowing. - - Thou didst remember well and long - Some fragments of thine angel-song, - And strive, through want of woe and wrong, - To win the world unto it; - Thy sin it was to see and hear - Beyond To-day's dim hemisphere-- - Beyond all mists of hope and fear, - Into a life more true and clear, - And dearly thou didst rue it; - Light of the new world thou hadst won, - O'erflooded by a purer sun-- - Slowly Fate's ship came drifting on, - And through the dark, save thou, not one - Caught of the land a token. - Thou stood'st upon the farthest prow, - Something within thy soul said "Now!" - And leaping forth with eager brow, - Thou fell'st on shore heart-broken. - - Long time thy brethren stood in fear; - Only the breakers far and near, - White with their anger, they could hear; - The sounds of land, which thy quick ear - Caught long ago, they heard not. - And, when at last they reached the strand, - They found thee lying on the sand - With some wild flowers in thy hand, - But thy cold bosom stirred not; - They listened, but they heard no sound - Save from the glad life all around - A low, contented murmur. - The long grass flowed adown the hill, - A hum rose from a hidden rill, - But thy glad heart, that knew no ill - But too much love, lay dead and still-- - The only thing that sent a chill - Into the heart of summer. - - Thou didst not seek the poet's wreath - But too soon didst win it; - Without 'twas green, but underneath - Were scorn and loneliness and death, - Gnawing the brain with burning teeth, - And making mock within it. - Thou, who wast full of nobleness, - Whose very life-blood 'twas to bless, - Whose soul's one law was giving, - Must bandy words with wickedness, - Haggle with hunger and distress, - To win that death which worldliness - Calls bitterly a living. - - "Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap!" - Muttered earth, turning in her sleep; - "Come home to the Eternal Deep!" - Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep - Of wings through thy soul's hush did creep, - As of thy doom o'erflying; - It seem'd that thy strong heart would leap - Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep, - But not with fear of dying; - Men could not fathom thy deep fears, - They could not understand thy tears, - The hoarded agony of years - Of bitter self-denying. - So once, when high above the spheres - Thy spirit sought its starry peers, - It came not back to face the jeers - Of brothers who denied it; - Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps - Of God, and thy white body sleeps - Where the lone pine forever keeps - Patient watch beside it. - - Poet! underneath the turf, - Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow, - Thou hast struggled through the surf - Of wild thoughts and want and sorrow. - Now, beneath the moaning pine, - Full of rest, thy body lieth, - While far up is clear sunshine, - Underneath a sky divine, - Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth; - Oft she strove to spread them here, - But they were too white and clear - For our dingy atmosphere. - - Thy body findeth ample room - In its still and grassy tomb - By the silent river; - But thy spirit found the earth - Narrow for the mighty birth - Which it dreamed of ever; - Thou wast guilty of a rhyme - Learned in a benigner clime, - And of that more grievous crime, - An ideal too sublime - For the low-hung sky of Time. - - The calm spot where thy body lies - Gladdens thy soul in Paradise, - It is so still and holy; - Thy body sleeps serenely there, - And well for it thy soul may care, - It was so beautiful and fair, - Lily white so wholly. - From so pure and sweet a frame - Thy spirit parted as it came, - Gentle as a maiden; - Now it lieth full of rest-- - Sods are lighter on its breast - Than the great, prophetic guest - Wherewith it was laden. - - - - - FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, - - PRESSED IN AN OLD COPY OF SPENSER. - - - Who prest you here? The Past can tell, - When summer skies were bright above, - And some full heart did leap and swell - Beneath the white new moon of love. - - Some Poet, haply, when the world - Showed like a calm sea, grand and blue, - Ere its cold, inky waves had curled - O'er the numb heart once warm and true; - - When, with his soul brimful of morn, - He looked beyond the vale of Time, - Nor saw therein the dullard scorn - That made his heavenliness a crime; - - When, musing o'er the Poets olden, - His soul did like a sun upstart - To shoot its arrows, clear and golden, - Through slavery's cold and darksome heart. - - Alas! too soon the veil is lifted - That hangs between the soul and pain, - Too soon the morning-red hath drifted - Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain! - - Or were you prest by one who nurst - Bleak memories of love gone by, - Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst - In dark and erring vacancy? - - To him you still were fresh and green - As when you grew upon the stalk, - And many a breezy summer scene - Came back--and many a moonlit walk; - - And there would be a hum of bees, - A smell of childhood in the air, - And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze - That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair! - - Then would you suddenly be blasted - By the keen wind of one dark thought, - One nameless woe, that had outlasted - The sudden blow whereby 'twas brought. - - Or were you prest here by two lovers - Who seemed to read these verses rare, - But found between the antique covers - What Spenser could not prison there: - - Songs which his glorious soul had heard, - But his dull pen could never write, - Which flew, like some gold-wingèd bird, - Through the blue heaven out of sight? - - My heart is with them as they sit, - I see the rosebud in her breast, - I see her small hand taking it - From out its odorous, snowy nest; - - I hear him swear that he will keep it, - In memory of that blessed day, - To smile on it or over-weep it - When she and spring are far away. - - Ah me! I needs must droop my head, - And brush away a happy tear, - For they are gone, and, dry and dead, - The rosebud lies before me here. - - Yet is it in no stranger's hand, - For I will guard it tenderly, - And it shall be a magic wand - To bring mine own true love to me. - - My heart runs o'er with sweet surmises, - The while my fancy weaves her rhyme, - Kind hopes and musical surprises - Throng round me from the olden time. - - I do not care to know who prest you: - Enough for me to feel and know - That some heart's love and longing blest you, - Knitting to-day with long-ago. - - - - - NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. - - A FRAGMENT. - - - The night is calm and beautiful; the snow - Sparkles beneath the clear and frosty moon - And the cold stars, as if it took delight - In its own silent whiteness; the hushed earth - Sleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue, - Secure as if angelic squadrons yet - Encamped about her, and each watching star - Gained double brightness from the flashing arms - Of wingèd and unsleeping sentinels. - Upward the calm of infinite silence deepens, - The sea that flows between high heaven and earth, - Musing by whose smooth brink we sometimes find - A stray leaf floated from those happier shores, - And hope, perchance not vainly, that some flower - Which we had watered with our holiest tears, - Pale blooms, and yet our scanty garden's best, - O'er the same ocean piloted by love, - May find a haven at the feet of God, - And be not wholly worthless in his sight. - O, high dependence on a higher Power, - Sole stay for all these restless faculties - That wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bare - Wherein our human knowledge hath its home, - Shifting their light-framed tents from day to day, - With each new-found oasis, wearied soon, - And only certain of uncertainty! - O, mighty humbleness that feels with awe, - Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less, - That this huge Minster of the Universe, - Whose smallest oratories are glorious worlds, - With painted oriels of dawn and sunset; - Whose carvèd ornaments are systems grand, - Orion kneeling in his starry niche, - The Lyre whose strings give music audible - To holy ears, and countless splendors more, - Crowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o'er all; - Whose organ music is the solemn stops - Of endless Change breathed through by endless Good; - Whose choristers are all the morning stars; - Whose altar is the sacred human heart - Whereon Love's candles burn unquenchably, - Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace; - With all its arches and its pinnacles - That stretch forever and forever up, - Is founded on the silent heart of God, - Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life - Through the least veins of all created things. - Fit musings these for the departing year; - And God be thanked for such a crystal night - As fills the spirit with good store of thoughts, - That, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackle - Upon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast - A mild home-glow o'er all Humanity! - Yes, though the poisoned shafts of evil doubts - Assail the skyey panoply of Faith, - Though the great hopes which we have had for man, - Foes in disguise, because they based belief - On man's endeavor, not on God's decree-- - Though these proud-visaged hopes, once turned to fly, - Hurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart - That rankles in the soul and makes it sick - With vain regret, nigh verging on despair-- - Yet, in such calm and earnest hours as this, - We well can feel how every living heart - That sleeps to-night in palace or in cot, - Or unroofed hovel, or which need hath known - Of other homestead than the arching sky, - Is circled watchfully with seraph fires; - How our own erring will it is that hangs - The flaming sword o'er Eden's unclosed gate, - Which gives free entrance to the pure in heart, - And with its guarding walls doth fence the meek. - Sleep then, O Earth, in thy blue-vaulted cradle, - Bent over always by thy mother Heaven! - We all are tall enough to reach God's hand, - And angels are no taller: looking back - Upon the smooth wake of a year o'erpast, - We see the black clouds furling, one by one, - From the advancing majesty of Truth, - And something won for Freedom, whose least gain - Is as a firm and rock-built citadel - Wherefrom to launch fresh battle on her foes; - Or, leaning from the time's extremest prow, - If we gaze forward through the blinding spray, - And dimly see how much of ill remains, - How many fetters to be sawn asunder - By the slow toil of individual zeal, - Or haply rusted by salt tears in twain, - We feel, with something of a sadder heart, - Yet bracing up our bruisèd mail the while, - And fronting the old foe with fresher spirit, - How great it is to breathe with human breath, - To be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranks - Of our old exiled king, Humanity; - Encamping after every hard-won field - Nearer and nearer Heaven's happy plains. - - Many great souls have gone to rest, and sleep - Under this armor, free and full of peace: - If these have left the earth, yet Truth remains, - Endurance, too, the crowning faculty - Of noble minds, and Love, invincible - By any weapons; and these hem us round - With silence such that all the groaning clank - Of this mad engine men have made of earth - Dulls not some ears for catching purer tones, - That wander from the dim surrounding vast, - Or far more clear melodious prophecies, - The natural music of the heart of man, - Which by kind Sorrow's ministry hath learned - That the true sceptre of all power is love - And humbleness the palace-gate of truth. - What man with soul so blind as sees not here - The first faint tremble of Hope's morning-star, - Foretelling how the God-forged shafts of dawn, - Fitted already on their golden string, - Shall soon leap earthward with exulting flight - To thrid the dark heart of that evil faith - Whose trust is in the clumsy arms of Force, - The ozier hauberk of a ruder age? - Freedom! thou other name for happy Truth, - Thou warrior-maid, whose steel-clad feet were never - Out of the stirrup, nor thy lance uncouched, - Nor thy fierce eye enticèd from its watch, - Thou hast learned now, by hero-blood in vain - Poured to enrich the soil which tyrants reap; - By wasted lives of prophets, and of those - Who, by the promise in their souls upheld, - Into the red arms of a fiery death - Went blithely as the golden-girdled bee - Sinks in the sleepy poppy's cup of flame - By the long woes of nations set at war, - That so the swollen torrent of their wrath - May find a vent, else sweeping off like straws - The thousand cobweb threads, grown cable-huge - By time's long gathered dust, but cobwebs still, - Which bind the Many that the Few may gain - Leisure to wither by the drought of ease - What heavenly germs in their own souls were sown;-- - By all these searching lessons thou hast learned - To throw aside thy blood-stained helm and spear - And with thy bare brow daunt the enemy's front, - Knowing that God will make the lily stalk, - In the soft grasp of naked Gentleness, - Stronger than iron spear to shatter through - The sevenfold toughness of Wrong's idle shield. - - - - - A MYSTICAL BALLAD. - - - I. - - The sunset scarce had dimmed away - Into the twilight's doubtful gray; - One long cloud o'er the horizon lay, - 'Neath which, a streak of bluish white, - Wavered between the day and night; - Over the pine trees on the hill - The trembly evening-star did thrill, - And the new moon, with slender rim, - Through the elm arches gleaming dim, - Filled memory's chalice to the brim. - - - II. - - On such an eve the heart doth grow - Full of surmise, and scarce can know - If it be now or long ago, - Or if indeed it doth exist;-- - A wonderful enchanted mist - From the new moon doth wander out, - Wrapping all things in mystic doubt, - So that this world doth seem untrue, - And all our fancies to take hue - From some life ages since gone through. - - - III. - - The maiden sat and heard the flow - Of the west wind so soft and low - The leaves scarce quivered to and fro; - Unbound, her heavy golden hair - Rippled across her bosom bare, - Which gleamed with thrilling snowy white - Far through the magical moonlight: - The breeze rose with a rustling swell, - And from afar there came the smell - Of a long-forgotten lily-bell. - - - IV. - - The dim moon rested on the hill, - But silent, without thought or will, - Where sat the dreamy maiden still; - And now the moon's tip, like a star, - Drew down below the horizon's bar; - To her black noon the night hath grown, - Yet still the maiden sits alone, - Pale as a corpse beneath a stream - And her white bosom still doth gleam - Through the deep midnight like a dream. - - - V. - - Cloudless the morning came and fair, - And lavishly the sun doth share - His gold among her golden hair, - Kindling it all, till slowly so - A glory round her head doth glow; - A withered flower is in her hand, - That grew in some far distant land, - And, silently transfigurèd, - With wide calm eyes, and undrooped head, - They found the stranger-maiden dead. - - - VI. - - A youth, that morn, 'neath other skies, - Felt sudden tears burn in his eyes, - And his heart throng with memories; - All things without him seemed to win - Strange brotherhood with things within, - And he forever felt that he - Walked in the midst of mystery, - And thenceforth, why, he could not tell, - His heart would curdle at the smell - Of his once-cherished lily-bell. - - - VII. - - Something from him had passed away; - Some shifting trembles of clear day, - Through starry crannies in his clay, - Grew bright and steadfast, more and more, - Where all had been dull earth before; - And, through these chinks, like him of old, - His spirit converse high did hold - With clearer loves and wider powers, - That brought him dewy fruits and flowers - From far Elysian groves and bowers. - - - VIII. - - Just on the farther bound of sense, - Unproved by outward evidence, - But known by a deep influence - Which through our grosser clay doth shine - With light unwaning and divine, - Beyond where highest thought can fly - Stretcheth the world of Mystery-- - And they not greatly overween - Who deem that nothing true hath been - Save the unspeakable Unseen. - - - IX. - - One step beyond life's work-day things, - One more beat of the soul's broad wings, - One deeper sorrow sometimes brings - The spirit into that great Vast - Where neither future is nor past; - None knoweth how he entered there, - But, waking, finds his spirit where - He thought an angel could not soar, - And, what he called false dreams before, - The very air about his door. - - - X. - - These outward seemings are but shows - Whereby the body sees and knows; - Far down beneath, forever flows - A stream of subtlest sympathies - That make our spirits strangely wise - In awe, and fearful bodings dim - Which, from the sense's outer rim, - Stretch forth beyond our thought and sight, - Fine arteries of circling light, - Pulsed outward from the Infinite. - - - - - OPENING POEM TO - A YEAR'S LIFE. - - - Hope first the youthful Poet leads, - And he is glad to follow her; - Kind is she, and to all his needs - With a free hand doth minister. - - But, when sweet Hope at last hath fled, - Cometh her sister, Memory; - She wreathes Hope's garlands round her head, - And strives to seem as fair as she. - - Then Hope comes back, and by the hand - She leads a child most fair to see, - Who with a joyous face doth stand - Uniting Hope and Memory. - - So brighter grew the Earth around, - And bluer grew the sky above; - The Poet now his guide hath found, - And follows in the steps of Love. - - - - - DEDICATION - TO VOLUME OF POEMS ENTITLED - A YEAR'S LIFE. - - - The gentle Una I have loved, - The snowy maiden, pure and mild, - Since ever by her side I roved, - Through ventures strange, a wondering child, - In fantasy a Red Cross Knight, - Burning for her dear sake to fight. - - If there be one who can, like her, - Make sunshine in life's shady places, - One in whose holy bosom stir - As many gentle household graces-- - And such I think there needs must be-- - Will she accept this book from me? - - - - - THE SERENADE. - - - Gentle, Lady, be thy sleeping, - Peaceful may thy dreamings be, - While around thy soul is sweeping, - Dreamy-winged, our melody; - Chant we, Brothers, sad and slow, - Let our song be soft and low - As the voice of other years, - Let our hearts within us melt, - To gentleness, as if we felt - The dropping of our mother's tears. - - Lady! now our song is bringing - Back again thy childhood's hours-- - Hearest thou the humbee singing - Drowsily among the flowers? - Sleepily, sleepily - In the noontide swayeth he, - Half rested on the slender stalks - That edge those well-known garden walks; - Hearest thou the fitful whirring - Of the humbird's viewless wings-- - Feel'st not round thy heart the stirring - Of childhood's half-forgotten things? - - Seest thou the dear old dwelling - With the woodbine round the door? - Brothers, soft! her breast is swelling - With the busy thoughts of yore; - Lowly sing ye, sing ye mildly, - House her spirit not so wildly, - Lest she sleep not any more. - 'Tis the pleasant summertide, - Open stands the window wide-- - Whose voices, Lady, art thou drinking? - Who sings the best belovèd tune - In a clear note, rising, sinking, - Like a thrush's song in June? - Whose laugh is that which rings so clear - And joyous in thine eager ear? - - Lower, Brothers, yet more low - Weave the song in mazy twines; - She heareth now the west wind blow - At evening through the clump of pines; - O! mournful is their tune, - As of a crazèd thing - Who, to herself alone, - Is ever murmuring, - Through the night and through the day, - For something that hath passed away. - Often, Lady, hast thou listened, - Often have thy blue eyes glistened, - Where the summer evening breeze - Moaned sadly through those lonely trees, - Or with the fierce wind from the north - Wrung their mournful music forth. - Ever the river floweth - In an unbroken stream, - Ever the west wind bloweth, - Murmuring as he goeth, - And mingling with her dream; - Onward still the river sweepeth - With a sound of long-agone; - Lowly, Brothers, lo! she weepeth, - She is now no more alone; - Long-loved forms and long-loved faces - Round about her pillow throng, - Through her memory's desert places - Flow the waters of our song. - Lady! if thy life be holy - As when thou wert yet a child, - Though our song be melancholy, - It will stir no anguish wild; - For the soul that hath lived well, - For the soul that child-like is, - There is quiet in the spell - That brings back early memories. - - - - - SONG. - - - I. - - Lift up the curtains of thine eyes - And let their light outshine! - Let me adore the mysteries - Of those mild orbs of thine, - Which ever queenly calm do roll, - Attunèd to an ordered soul! - - - II. - - Open thy lips yet once again - And, while my soul doth hush - With awe, pour forth that holy strain - Which seemeth me to gush, - A fount of music, running o'er - From thy deep spirit's inmost core! - - - III. - - The melody that dwells in thee - Begets in me as well - A spiritual harmony, - A mild and blessèd spell; - Far, far above earth's atmosphere - I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear. - - - - - THE DEPARTED. - - - Not they alone are the departed, - Who have laid them down to sleep - In the grave narrow and lonely, - Not for them only do I vigils keep, - Not for them only am I heavy-hearted, - Not for them only! - - Many, many, there are many - Who no more are with me here, - As cherished, as beloved as any - Whom I have seen upon the bier. - I weep to think of those old faces, - To see them in their grief or mirth; - I weep--for there are empty places - Around my heart's once crowded hearth; - The cold ground doth not cover them, - The grass hath not grown over them, - Yet are they gone from me on earth;-- - O! how more bitter is this weeping, - Than for those lost ones who are sleeping - Where sun will shine and flowers blow, - Where gentle winds will whisper low, - And the stars have them in their keeping! - Wherefore from me who loved you so, - O! wherefore did ye go? - I have shed full many a tear, - I have wrestled oft in prayer-- - But ye do not come again; - How could anything so dear, - How could anything so fair, - Vanish like the summer rain? - No, no, it cannot be, - But ye are still with me! - - And yet, O! where art thou, - Childhood, with sunny brow - And floating hair? - Where art thou hiding now? - I have sought thee everywhere, - All among the shrubs and flowers - Of those garden-walks of ours-- - Thou art not there! - When the shadow of Night's wings - Hath darkened all the Earth, - I listen for thy gambolings - Beside the cheerful hearth-- - Thou art not there! - I listen to the far-off bell, - I murmur o'er the little songs - Which thou didst love so well, - Pleasant memories come in throngs - And mine eyes are blurred with tears, - But no glimpse of thee appears: - Lonely am I in the Winter, lonely in the Spring, - Summer and Harvest bring no trace of thee-- - Oh! whither, whither art thou wandering, - Thou who didst once so cleave to me? - - And Love is gone;-- - I have seen him come, - I have seen him, too, depart, - Leaving desolate his home, - His bright home in my heart. - I am alone! - Cold, cold is his hearth-stone, - Wide open stands the door; - The frolic and the gentle one - Shall I see no more, no more? - At the fount the bowl is broken, - I shall drink it not again, - All my longing prayers are spoken, - And felt, ah, woe is me, in vain! - Oh, childish hopes and childish fancies, - Whither have ye fled away? - I long for you in mournful trances, - I long for you by night and day; - Beautiful thoughts that once were mine, - Might I but win you back once more, - Might ye about my being twine - And cluster as ye did of yore! - O! do not let me pray in vain-- - How good and happy I should be, - How free from every shade of pain, - If ye would come again to me! - O, come again! come, come again! - Hath the sun forgot its brightness, - Have the stars forgot to shine, - That they bring not their wonted lightness - To this weary heart of mine? - 'Tis not the sun that shone on thee, - Happy childhood, long ago-- - Not the same stars silently - Looking on the same bright snow-- - Not the same that Love and I - Together watched in days gone by! - No, not the same, alas for me! - - Would God that those who early went - To the house dark and low, - For whom our mourning heads were bent, - For whom our steps were slow; - O, would that these alone had left us, - That Fate of these alone had reft us, - Would God indeed that it were so! - Many leaves too soon must wither, - Many flowers too soon must die, - Many bright ones wandering hither, - We know not whence, we know not why, - Like the leaves and like the flowers, - Vanish, ere the summer hours, - That brought them to us, have gone by. - - O for the hopes and for the feelings, - Childhood, that I shared with thee-- - The high resolves, the bright revealings - Of the soul's might, which thou gav'st me, - Gentle Love, woe worth the day, - Woe worth the hour when thou wert born, - Woe worth the day thou fled'st away-- - A shade across the wind-waved corn-- - A dewdrop falling from the leaves - Chance-shaken in a summer's morn! - Woe, woe is me! my sick heart grieves, - Companionless and anguish-worn! - I know it well, our manly years - Must be baptized in bitter tears; - Full many fountains must run dry - That youth has dreamed for long hours by, - Choked by convention's siroc blast - Or drifting sands of many cares; - Slowly they leave us all at last, - And cease their flowing unawares. - - - - - THE BOBOLINK. - - - Anacreon of the meadow, - Drunk with the joy of spring! - Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow - I lie and drink thy jargoning; - My soul is full with melodies, - One drop would overflow it, - And send the tears into mine eyes-- - But what car'st thou to know it? - Thy heart is free as mountain air, - And of thy lays thou hast no care, - Scattering them gayly everywhere, - Happy, unconscious poet! - - Upon a tuft of meadow grass, - While thy loved-one tends the nest, - Thou swayest as the breezes pass, - Unburthening thine o'erfull breast - Of the crowded songs that fill it, - Just as joy may choose to will it. - Lord of thy love and liberty, - The blithest bird of merry May, - Thou turnest thy bright eyes on me, - That say as plain as eye can say-- - "Here sit we, here in the summer weather, - I and my modest mate together; - Whatever your wise thoughts may be, - Under that gloomy old pine tree, - We do not value them a feather." - - Now, leaving earth and me behind, - Thou beatest up against the wind, - Or, floating slowly down before it, - Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest - And thy bridal love-song utterest, - Raining showers of music o'er it, - Weary never, still thou trillest, - Spring-gladsome lays, - As of moss-rimmed water-brooks - Murmuring through pebbly nooks - In quiet summer days. - My heart with happiness thou fillest, - I seem again to be a boy - Watching thee, gay, blithesome lover, - O'er the bending grass-tops hover, - Quivering thy wings for joy. - There's something in the apple-blossom, - The greening grass and bobolink's song, - That wakes again within my bosom - Feelings which have slumbered long. - As long, long years ago I wandered, - I seem to wander even yet, - The hours the idle school-boy squandered, - The man would die ere he'd forget. - O hours that frosty eld deemed wasted, - Nodding his gray head toward my books, - I dearer prize the lore I tasted - With you, among the trees and brooks, - Than all that I have gained since then - From learnèd books or study-withered men! - Nature, thy soul was one with mine, - And, as a sister by a younger brother - Is loved, each flowing to the other, - Such love for me was thine. - Or wert thou not more like a loving mother - With sympathy and loving power to heal, - Against whose heart my throbbing heart I'd lay - And moan my childish sorrows all away, - Till calm and holiness would o'er me steal? - Was not the golden sunset a dear friend? - Found I no kindness in the silent moon, - And the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend, - Low singing evermore their pleasant tune? - Felt I no heart in dim and solemn woods-- - No loved-one's voice in lonely solitudes? - Yes, yes! unhoodwinked then my spirit's eyes, - Blind leaders had not _taught me_ to be wise. - - Dear hours! which now again I over-live, - Hearing and seeing with the ears and eyes - Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive - Of my young heart came laden with rich prize, - Gathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to be - My spirit's food in days more wintery. - Yea, yet again ye come! ye come! - And, like a child once more at home - After long sojourning in alien climes, - I lie upon my mother's breast, - Feeling the blessedness of rest, - And dwelling in the light of other times. - - O ye whose living is not _Life_, - Whose dying is but death, - Song, empty toil and petty strife, - Rounded with loss of breath! - Go, look on Nature's countenance, - Drink in the blessing of her glance; - Look on the sunset, hear the wind, - The cataract, the awful thunder; - Go, worship by the sea; - Then, and then only, shall ye find, - With ever-growing wonder, - Man is not all in all to ye; - Go with a meek and humble soul, - Then shall the scales of self unroll - From off your eyes--the weary packs - Drop from your heavy-laden backs; - And ye shall see, - With reverent and hopeful eyes, - Glowing with new-born energies, - How great a thing it is to |be|! - - - - - FORGETFULNESS. - - - There's a haven of sure rest - From the loud world's bewildering stress - As a bird dreaming on her nest, - As dew hid in a rose's breast, - As Hesper in the glowing West; - So the heart sleeps - In thy calm deeps, - Serene Forgetfulness! - - No sorrow in that place may be, - The noise of life grows less and less: - As moss far down within the sea, - As, in white lily caves, a bee, - As life in a hazy reverie; - So the heart's wave - In thy dim cave, - Hushes, Forgetfulness! - - Duty and care fade far away - What toil may be we cannot guess: - As a ship anchored in the bay, - As a cloud at summer-noon astray, - As water-blooms in a breezeless day; - So,'neath thine eyes, - The full heart lies, - And dreams, Forgetfulness! - - - - - SONG. - - - I. - - What reck I of the stars, when I - May gaze into thine eyes, - O'er which the brown hair flowingly - Is parted maidenwise - From thy pale forehead, calm and bright, - Over thy cheeks so rosy white? - - - II. - - What care I for the red moon-rise? - Far liefer would I sit - And watch the joy within thine eyes - Gush up at sight of it; - Thyself my queenly moon shall be, - Ruling my heart's deep tides for me! - - - III. - - What heed I if the sky be blue? - So are thy holy eyes, - And bright with shadows ever new - Of changeful sympathies, - Which in thy soul's unruffled deep - Rest evermore, but never sleep. - - - - - THE POET. - - - He who hath felt Life's mystery - Press on him like thick night, - Whose soul hath known no history - But struggling after light;-- - He who hath seen dim shapes arise - In the soundless depths of soul, - Which gaze on him with meaning eyes - Full of the mighty whole, - Yet will no word of healing speak, - Although he pray night-long, - "O, help me, save me! I am weak, - And ye are wondrous strong!"-- - Who, in the midnight dark and deep, - Hath felt a voice of might - Come echoing through the halls of sleep - From the lone heart of Night, - And, starting from his restless bed, - Hath watched and wept to know - What meant that oracle of dread - That stirred his being so; - He who hath felt how strong and great - This Godlike soul of man, - And looked full in the eyes of Fate, - Since Life and Thought began; - The armor of whose moveless trust - Knoweth no spot of weakness, - Who hath trod fear into the dust - Beneath the feet of meekness;-- - He who hath calmly borne his cross, - Knowing himself the king - Of time, nor counted it a loss - To learn by suffering;-- - And who hath worshipped woman still - With a pure soul and lowly, - Nor ever hath in deed or will - Profaned her temple holy-- - He is the Poet, him unto - The gift of song is given, - Whose life is lofty, strong, and true, - He is the Poet, from his lips - To live forevermore, - Majestical as full-sailed ships, - The words of Wisdom pour. - - - - - FLOWERS. - - - "Hail be thou, holie hearbe, - Growing on the ground, - All in the mount Calvary - First wert thou found; - Thou art good for manie a sore, - Thou healest manie a wound, - In the name of sweete Jesus - I take thee from the ground." - --_Ancient Charm-verse._ - - - I. - - When, from a pleasant ramble, home - Fresh-stored with quiet thoughts, I come, - I pluck some wayside flower - And press it in the choicest nook - Of a much-loved and oft-read book; - And, when upon its leaves I look - In a less happy hour, - Dear memory bears me far away - Unto her fairy bower, - And on her breast my head I lay, - While, in a motherly, sweet strain, - She sings me gently back again - To by-gone feelings, until they - Seem children born of yesterday. - - - II. - - Yes, many a story of past hours - I read in these dear withered flowers, - And once again I seem to be - Lying beneath the old oak tree, - And looking up into the sky, - Through thick leaves rifted fitfully, - Lulled by the rustling of the vine, - Or the faint low of far-off kine; - And once again I seem - To watch the whirling bubbles flee, - Through shade and gleam alternately, - Down the vine-bowered stream; - Or 'neath the odorous linden trees, - When summer twilight lingers long, - To hear the flowing of the breeze - And unseen insects' slumberous song, - That mingle into one and seem - Like dim murmurs of a dream; - Fair faces, too, I seem to see, - Smiling from pleasant eyes at me, - And voices sweet I hear, - That, like remembered melody, - Flow through my spirit's ear. - - - III. - - A poem every flower is, - And every leaf a line, - And with delicious memories - They fill this heart of mine: - No living blossoms are so clear - As these dead relics treasured here; - One tells of Love, of friendship one, - Love's quiet after-sunset time, - When the all-dazzling light is gone, - And, with the soul's low vesper-chime, - O'er half its heaven doth out-flow - A holy calm and steady glow. - Some are gay feast-songs, some are dirges, - In some a joy with sorrow merges; - One sings the shadowed woods, and one the roar - Of ocean's everlasting surges, - Tumbling upon the beach's hard-beat floor, - Or sliding backward from the shore - To meet the landward waves and slowly plunge once more. - O flowers of grace, I bless ye all - By the dear faces ye recall! - - - IV. - - Upon the banks of Life's deep streams - Full many a flower groweth, - Which with a wondrous fragrance teems, - And in the silent water gleams, - And trembles as the water floweth, - Many a one the wave upteareth, - Washing ever the roots away, - And far upon its bosom beareth, - To bloom no more in Youth's glad May; - As farther on the river runs, - Flowing more deep and strong, - Only a few pale, scattered ones - Are seen the dreary banks along; - And where those flowers do not grow, - The river floweth dark and chill, - Its voice is sad, and with its flow - Mingles ever a sense of ill; - Then, Poet, thou who gather dost - Of Life's best flowers the brightest, - O, take good heed they be not lost - While with the angry flood thou fightest! - - - V. - - In the cool grottos of the soul, - Whence flows thought's crystal river, - Whence songs of joy forever roll - To Him who is the Giver-- - There store thou them, where fresh and green - Their leaves and blossoms may be seen, - A spring of joy that faileth never; - There store thou them, and they shall be - A blessing and a peace to thee, - And in their youth and purity - Thou shalt be young forever! - Then, with their fragrance rich and rare, - Thy living shall be rife, - Strength shall be thine thy cross to bear, - And they shall be a chaplet fair, - Breathing a pure and holy air, - To crown thy holy life. - - - VI. - - O Poet! above all men blest, - Take heed that thus thou store them; - Love, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest, - Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest!) - Watchfully brooding o'er them. - And from those flowers of Paradise - Scatter thou many a blessèd seed, - Wherefrom an offspring may arise - To cheer the hearts and light the eyes - Of after-voyagers in their need. - They shall not fall on stony ground, - But, yielding all their hundred-fold, - Shall shed a peacefulness around, - Whose strengthening joy may not be told, - So shall thy name be blest of all, - And thy remembrance never die; - For of that seed shall surely fall - In the fair garden of Eternity. - Exult then in the nobleness - Of this thy work so holy, - Yet be not thou one jot the less - Humble and meek and lowly, - But let thine exultation be - The reverence of a bended knee; - And by thy life a poem write, - Built strongly day by day-- - And on the rock of Truth and Right - Its deep foundations lay. - - - VII. - - It is thy |DUTY|! Guard it well! - For unto thee hath much been given, - And thou canst make this life a Hell, - Or Jacob's-ladder up to Heaven. - Let not thy baptism in Life's wave - Make thee like him whom Homer sings-- - A sleeper in a living grave, - Callous and hard to outward things; - But open all thy soul and sense - To every blessèd influence - That from the heart of Nature springs: - Then shall thy Life-flowers be to thee, - When thy best years are told, - As much as these have been to me-- - Yea, more, a thousand-fold! - - - - - THE LOVER. - - - I. - - Go from the world from East to West, - Search every land beneath the sky, - You cannot find a man so blest, - A king so powerful as I, - Though you should seek eternally. - - - II. - - For I a gentle lover be, - Sitting at my loved-one's side; - She giveth her whole soul to me - Without a wish or thought of pride, - And she shall be my cherished bride. - - - III. - - No show of gaudiness hath she, - She doth not flash with jewels rare; - In beautiful simplicity - She weareth leafy garlands fair, - Or modest flowers in her hair. - - - IV. - - Sometimes she dons a robe of green, - Sometimes a robe of snowy white, - But, in whatever garb she's seen, - It seems most beautiful and right, - And is the loveliest to my sight. - - - V. - - Not I her lover am alone, - Yet unto all she doth suffice, - None jealous is, and every one - Reads love and truth within her eyes, - And deemeth her his own dear prize. - - - VI. - - And so thou art, Eternal Nature! - Yes, bride of Heaven, so thou art; - Thou, wholly lovest every creature, - Giving to each no stinted part, - But filling every peaceful heart. - - - - - TO E. W. G. - - - "Dear Child! dear happy Girl! if thou appear - Heedless--untouched with awe or serious thought, - Thy nature is not therefore less divine: - Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; - And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, - God being with thee when we know it not." - --_Wordsworth._ - - - As through a strip of sunny light - A white dove flashes swiftly on, - So suddenly before my sight - Thou gleamed'st a moment and wert gone; - And yet I long shall bear in mind - The pleasant thoughts thou left'st behind. - - Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes, - And happy with thine open smile, - And, as I write, sweet memories - Come thronging round me all the while; - Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes-- - And gentle feelings long forgot - Looked up and oped their eyes, - Like violets when they see a spot - Of summer in the skies. - - Around thy playful lips did glitter - Heat-lightnings of a girlish scorn; - Harmless they were, for nothing bitter - In thy dear heart was ever born-- - That merry heart that could not lie - Within its warm nest quietly, - But ever from each full, dark eye - Was looking kindly night and morn. - - There was an archness in thine eyes, - Born of the gentlest mockeries, - And thy light laughter rang as clear - As water-drops I loved to hear - In days of boyhood, as they fell - Tinkling far down the dim, still well; - And with its sound come back once more - The feelings of my early years, - And half aloud I murmured o'er-- - "Sure I have heard that sound before, - It is so pleasant in mine ears." - - Whenever thou didst look on me - I thought of merry birds, - And something of spring's melody - Came to me in thy words; - Thy thoughts did dance and bound along - Like happy children in their play, - Whose hearts run over into song - For gladness of the summer's day; - And mine grew dizzy with the sight, - Still feeling lighter and more light, - Till, joining hands, they whirled away, - As blithe and merrily as they. - - I bound a larch-twig round with flowers, - Which thou didst twine among thy hair, - And gladsome were the few, short hours - When I was with thee there; - So now that thou art far away, - Safe-nestled in thy warmer clime, - In memory of a happier day - I twine this simple wreath of rhyme. - - Dost mind how she, whom thou dost love - More than in light words may be said, - A coronal of amaranth wove - About thy duly-sobered head, - Which kept itself a moment still - That she might have her gentle will? - Thy childlike grace and purity - O keep forevermore, - And as thou art, still strive to be, - That on the farther shore - Of Time's dark waters ye may meet, - And she may twine around thy brow - A wreath of those bright flowers that grow - Where blessèd angels set their feet! - - - - - ISABEL. - - - As the leaf upon the tree, - Fluttering, gleaming constantly, - Such a lightsome thing was she, - My gay and gentle Isabel! - Her heart was fed with love-springs sweet, - And in her face you'd see it beat - To hear the sound of welcome feet-- - And were not mine so, Isabel? - - She knew it not, but she was fair, - And like a moonbeam was her hair, - That falls where flowing ripples are - In summer evenings, Isabel! - Her heart and tongue were scarce apart, - Unwittingly her lips would part, - And love came gushing from her heart, - The woman's heart of Isabel. - - So pure her flesh-garb, and like dew, - That in her features glimmered through - Each working of her spirit true, - In wondrous beauty, Isabel! - A sunbeam struggling through thick leaves, - A reaper's song mid yellow sheaves, - Less gladsome were;--my spirit grieves - To think of thee, mild Isabel! - - I know not when I loved thee first; - Not loving, I had been accurst, - Yet, having loved, my heart will burst, - Longing for thee, dear Isabel! - With silent tears my cheeks are wet, - I would be calm, I would forget, - But thy blue eyes gaze on me yet, - When stars have risen, Isabel. - - The winds mourn for thee, Isabel, - The flowers expect thee in the dell, - Thy gentle spirit loved them well; - And I for thy sake, Isabel! - The sunsets seem less lovely now - Than when, leaf checkered, on thy brow - They fell as lovingly as thou - Lingered'st till moon-rise, Isabel! - - At dead of night I seem to see - Thy fair, pale features constantly - Upturned in silent prayer for me, - O'er moveless clasped hands, Isabel! - I call thee, thou dost not reply; - The stars gleam coldly on thine eye, - As like a dream thou flittest by, - And leav'st me weeping, Isabel! - - - - - MUSIC. - - - I. - - I seem to lie with drooping eyes, - Dreaming sweet dreams, - Half longings and half memories, - In woods where streams - With trembling shades and whirling gleams, - Many and bright, - In song and light, - Are ever, ever flowing; - While the wind, if we list to the rustling grass, - Which numbers his footsteps as they pass, - Seems scarcely to be blowing; - And the far-heard voice of Spring, - From sunny slopes comes wandering, - Calling the violets from the sleep, - That bound them under snow-drifts deep, - To open their childlike, asking eyes - On the new summer's paradise, - And mingled with the gurgling waters-- - As the dreamy witchery - Of Acheloüs' silver-voiced daughters - Rose and fell with the heaving sea, - Whose great heart swelled with ecstasy-- - The song of many a floating bird, - Winding through the rifted trees, - Is dreamily half-heard-- - A sister stream of melodies - Rippled by the flutterings - Of rapture-quivered wings. - - - II. - - And now beside a cataract - I lie, and through my soul, - From over me and under, - The never-ceasing thunder - Arousingly doth roll; - Through the darkness all compact, - Through the trackless sea of gloom, - Sad and deep I hear it boom; - At intervals the cloud is cracked - And a livid flash doth hiss - Downward from its floating home, - Lighting up the precipice - And the never-resting foam - With a dim and ghastly glare, - Which, for a heart-beat, in the air, - Shows the sweeping shrouds - Of the midnight clouds - And their wildly-scattered hair. - - - III. - - Now listening to a woman's tone, - In a wood I sit alone-- - Alone because our souls are one;-- - All around my heart it flows, - Lulling me in deep repose; - I fear to speak, I fear to move, - Lest I should break the spell I love-- - Low and gentle, calm and clear, - Into my inmost soul it goes, - As if my brother dear, - Who is no longer here, - Had bended from the sky - And murmured in my ear - A strain of that high harmony, - Which they may sing alone - Who worship round the throne. - - - IV. - - Now in a fairy boat, - On the bright waves of song, - Full merrily I float, - Merrily float along; - My helm is veered, I care not how, - My white sail bellies over me, - And bright as gold the ripples be - That plash beneath the bow; - Before, behind, - They feel the wind, - And they are dancing joyously-- - While, faintly heard, along the far-off shore - The surf goes plunging with a lingering roar; - Or anchored in a shadowy cove, - Entranced with harmonies, - Slowly I sink and rise - As the slow waves of music move. - - - V. - - Now softly dashing, - Bubbling, plashing, - Mazy, dreamy, - Faint and streamy, - Ripples into ripples melt, - Not so strongly heard as felt; - Now rapid and quick, - While the heart beats thick, - The music silver wavelets crowd, - Distinct and clear, but never loud - And now all solemnly and slow, - In mild, deep tones they warble low, - Like the glad song of angels, when - They sang good will and peace to men; - Now faintly heard and far, - As if the spirit's ears - Had caught the anthem of a star - Chanting with his brother-spheres - In the midnight dark and deep, - When the body is asleep - And wondrous shadows pour in streams - From the twofold gate of dreams; - Now onward roll the billows, swelling - With a tempest-sound of might, - As of voices doom foretelling - To the silent ear of Night; - And now a mingled ecstasy - Of all sweet sounds it is;-- - O! who may tell the agony - Of rapture such as this? - - - VI. - - I have drunk of the drink of immortals, - I have drunk of the life-giving wine, - And now I may pass the bright portals - That open into a realm divine! - I have drunk it through mine ears - In the ecstasy of song, - When mine eyes would fill with tears - That its life were not more long; - I have drunk it through mine eyes - In beauty's every shape, - And now around my soul it lies, - No juice of earthly grape! - Wings! wings are given to me, - I can flutter, I can rise, - Like a new life gushing through me - Sweep the heavenly harmonies! - - - - - SONG. - - - O! I must look on that sweet face once more before I die; - God grant that it may lighten up with joy when I draw nigh; - God grant that she may look on me as kindly as she seems - In the long night, the restless night, i' the sunny land of dreams! - - I hoped, I thought, she loved me once, and yet, I know not why, - There is a coldness in her speech, and a coldness in her eye. - Something that in another's look would not seem cold to me, - And yet like ice I feel it chill the heart of memory. - - She does not come to greet me so frankly as she did, - And in her utmost openness I feel there's something hid; - She almost seems to shun me, as if she thought that I - Might win her gentle heart again to feelings long gone by. - - I sought the first spring-buds for her, the fairest and the best, - And she wore them for their loveliness upon her spotless breast, - The blood-root and the violet, the frail anemone, - She wore them, and alas! I deemed it was for love of me! - - As flowers in a darksome place stretch forward to the light, - So to the memory of her I turn by day and night; - As flowers in a darksome place grow thin and pale and wan, - So is it with my darkened heart, now that her light is gone. - - The thousand little things that love doth treasure up for aye, - And brood upon with moistened eyes when she that's loved's away, - The word, the look, the smile, the blush, the ribbon that she wore, - Each day they grow more dear to me, and pain me more and more. - - My face I cover with my hands, and bitterly I weep, - That the quick-gathering sands of life should choke a love so deep, - And that the stream, so pure and bright, must turn it from its track, - Or to the heart-springs, whence it rose, roll its full waters back! - - As calm as doth the lily float close by the lakelet's brim, - So calm and spotless, down time's stream, her peaceful days did swim, - And I had longed, and dreamed, and prayed, that closely by her side, - Down to a haven still and sure, my happy life might glide. - - But now, alas! those golden days of youth and hope are o'er, - And I must dream those dreams of joy, those guiltless dreams no more; - Yet there is something in my heart that whispers ceaselessly, - "Would God that I might see that face once more before I die!" - - - - - IANTHE. - - - I. - - There is a light within her eyes, - Like gleams of wandering fire-flies; - From light to shade it leaps and moves - Whenever in her soul arise - The holy shapes of things she loves; - Fitful it shines and changes ever, - Like star-lit ripples on a river, - Or summer sunshine on the eaves - Of silver-trembling poplar leaves, - Where the lingering dew-drops quiver. - I may not tell the blessedness - Her mild eyes send to mine, - The sunset-tinted haziness - Of their mysterious shine, - The dim and holy mournfulness - Of their mellow light divine; - The shadow of the lashes lie - Over them so lovingly, - That they seem to melt away - In a doubtful twilight-gray, - While I watch the stars arise - In the evening of her eyes, - I love it, yet I almost dread - To think what it foreshadoweth; - And, when I muse how I have read - That such strange light betokened death-- - Instead of fire-fly gleams, I see - Wild corpse-lights gliding waveringly. - - - II. - - With wayward thoughts her eyes are bright, - Like shiftings of the northern-light, - Hither, thither, swiftly glance they, - In a mazy twining dance they, - Like ripply lights the sunshine weaves, - Thrown backward from a shaken nook, - Below some tumbling water-brook, - On the o'erarching platan-leaves, - All through her glowing face they flit, - And rest in their deep dwelling-place, - Those fathomless blue eyes of hers, - Till, from her burning soul re-lit, - While her upheaving bosom stirs, - They stream again across her face - And with such hope and glory fill it, - Death could not have the heart to chill it. - Yet when their wild light fades again, - I feel a sudden sense of pain, - As if, while yet her eyes were gleaming, - And like a shower of sun-lit rain - Bright fancies from her face were streaming, - Her trembling soul might flit away - As swift and suddenly as they. - - - III. - - A wild, inspirèd earnestness - Her inmost being fills, - And eager self-forgetfulness, - That speaks not what it wills, - But what unto her soul is given, - A living oracle from Heaven, - Which scarcely in her breast is born - When on her trembling lips it thrills, - And, like a burst of golden skies - Through storm-clouds on a sudden torn, - Like a glory of the morn, - Beams marvellously from her eyes. - And then, like a Spring-swollen river, - Roll the deep waves of her full-hearted thought - Crested with sun-lit spray, - Her wild lips curve and quiver, - And my rapt soul, on the strong tide upcaught, - Unwittingly is borne away, - Lulled by a dreamful music ever, - Far--through the solemn twilight-gray - Of hoary woods--through valleys green - Which the trailing vine embowers, - And where the purple-clustered grapes are seen - Deep-glowing through rich clumps of waving flowers-- - Now over foaming rapids swept - And with maddening rapture shook-- - Now gliding where the water-plants have slept - For ages in a moss-rimmed nook-- - Enwoven by a wild-eyed band - Of earth-forgetting dreams, - I float to a delicious land - By a sunset heaven spanned, - And musical with streams;-- - Around, the calm, majestic forms - And god-like eyes of early Greece I see, - Or listen, till my spirit warms, - To songs of courtly chivalry, - Or weep, unmindful if my tears be seen, - For the meek, suffering love of poor Undine. - - - IV. - - Her thoughts are never memories, - But ever changeful, ever new, - Fresh and beautiful as dew - That in a dell at noontide lies, - Or, at the close of summer day, - The pleasant breath of new-mown hay: - Swiftly they come and pass - As golden birds across the sun, - As light-gleams on tall meadow-grass - Which the wind just breathes upon. - And when she speaks, her eyes I see - Down-gushing through their silken lattices, - Like stars that quiver tremblingly - Through leafy branches of the trees, - And her pale cheeks do flush and glow - With speaking flashes bright and rare - As crimson North-lights on new-fallen snow, - From out the veiling of her hair-- - Her careless hair that scatters down - On either side her eyes, - A waterfall leaf-tinged with brown - And lit with the sunrise. - - - V. - - When first I saw her, not of earth, - But heavenly both in grief and mirth, - I thought her; she did seem - As fair and full of mystery, - As bodiless, as forms we see - In the rememberings of a dream; - A moon-lit mist, a strange, dim light, - Circled her spirit from my sight;-- - Each day more beautiful she grew, - More earthly every day, - Yet that mysterious, moony hue - Faded not all away; - She has a sister's sympathy - With all the wanderers of the sky, - But most I've seen her bosom stir - When moonlight round her fell, - For the mild moon it loveth her, - She loveth it as well, - And of their love perchance this grace - Was born into her wondrous face. - I cannot tell how it may be, - For both, methinks, can scarce be true, - Still, as she earthly grew to me, - She grew more heavenly too; - She seems one born in Heaven - With earthly feelings, - For, while unto her soul are given - More pure revealings - Of holiest love and truth, - Yet is the mildness of her eyes - Made up of quickest sympathies, - Of kindliness and ruth; - So, though some shade of awe doth stir - Our souls for one so far above us, - We feel secure that she will love us, - And cannot keep from loving her. - She is a poem, which to me - In speech and look is written bright, - And to her life's rich harmony - Doth ever sing itself aright; - Dear, glorious creature! - With eyes so dewy bright, - And tenderest feeling - Itself revealing - In every look and feature, - Welcome as a homestead light - To one long-wandering in a clouded night, - O, lovelier for her woman's weakness, - Which yet is strongly mailed - In armor of courageous meekness - And faith that never failed! - - - VI. - - Early and late, at her soul's gate, - Sits Chastity in warderwise, - No thoughts unchallenged, small or great, - Go thence into her eyes; - Nor may a low, unworthy thought - Beyond that virgin warder win, - Nor one, whose password is not "ought," - May go without or enter in. - I call her, seeing those pure eyes, - The Eve of a new Paradise, - Which she by gentle word and deed, - And look no less, doth still create - About her, for her great thoughts breed - A calm that lifts us from our fallen state, - And makes us while with her both good and great-- - Nor is their memory wanting in our need: - With stronger loving, every hour, - Turneth my heart to this frail flower, - Which, thoughtless of the world, hath grown - To beauty and meek gentleness, - Here in a fair world of its own-- - By woman's instinct trained alone-- - A lily fair which God did bless, - And which from Nature's heart did draw - Love, wisdom, peace, and Heaven's perfect law. - - - - - LOVE'S ALTAR. - - - I. - - I built an altar in my soul, - I builded it to one alone; - And ever silently I stole, - In happy days of long-agone, - To make rich offerings to that ONE. - - - II. - - 'Twas garlanded with purest thought, - And crowned with fancy's flowers bright, - With choicest gems 'twas all inwrought - Of truth and feeling; in my sight - It seemed a spot of cloudless light. - - - III. - - Yet when I made my offering there, - Like Cain's, the incense would not rise; - Back on my heart down-sank the prayer, - And altar-stone and sacrifice - Grew hateful in my tear-dimmed eyes. - - - IV. - - O'er-grown with age's mosses green, - The little altar firmly stands; - It is not, as it once hath been, - A selfish shrine;--these time-taught hands - Bring incense now from many lands. - - - V. - - Knowledge doth only widen love; - The stream, that lone and narrow rose, - Doth, deepening ever, onward move, - And with an even current flows - Calmer and calmer to the close. - - - VI. - - The love, that in those early days - Girt round my spirit like a wall, - Hath faded like a morning haze, - And flames, unpent by self's mean thrall, - Rise clearly to the perfect |ALL|. - - - - - IMPARTIALITY. - - - I. - - I cannot say a scene is fair - Because it is beloved of thee, - But I shall love to linger there, - For sake of thy dear memory; - I would not be so coldly just - As to love only what I must. - - - II. - - I cannot say a thought is good - Because thou foundest joy in it; - Each soul must choose its proper food - Which Nature hath decreed most fit; - But I shall ever deem it so - Because it made thy heart o'erflow. - - - III. - - I love thee for that thou art fair; - And that thy spirit joys in aught - Createth a new beauty there, - With thine own dearest image fraught; - And love, for others' sake that springs, - Gives half their charm to lovely things. - - - - - BELLEROPHON. - - DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND, JOHN F. HEATH. - - - I. - - I feel the bandages unroll - That bound my inward seeing; - Freed are the bright wings of my soul, - Types of my god-like being; - High thoughts are swelling in my heart - And rushing through my brain; - May I never more lose part - In my soul's realm again! - All things fair, where'er they be, - In earth or air, in sky or sea, - I have loved them all, and taken - All within my throbbing breast; - No more my spirit can be shaken - From its calm and kingly rest! - Love hath shed its light around me, - Love hath pierced the shades that bound me; - Mine eyes are opened, I can see - The universe's mystery, - The mighty heart and core - Of After and Before - I see, and I am weak no more! - - - II. - - Upward! upward evermore, - To Heaven's open gate I soar! - Little thoughts are far behind me, - Which, when custom weaves together, - All the nobler man can tether-- - Cobwebs now no more can bind me! - Now fold thy wings a little while, - My trancèd soul, and lie - At rest on this Calypso-isle - That floats in mellow sky, - A thousand isles with gentle motion - Rock upon the sunset ocean; - A thousand isles of thousand hues, - How bright! how beautiful! how rare! - Into my spirit they infuse - A purer, a diviner air; - The earth is growing dimmer, - And now the last faint glimmer - Hath faded from the hill; - But in my higher atmosphere - The sun-light streameth red and clear, - Fringing the islets still;-- - Love lifts us to the sun-light, - Though the whole world would be dark; - Love, wide Love, is the one light, - All else is but a fading spark; - Love is the nectar which doth fill - Our soul's cup even to overflowing, - And, warming heart, and thought, and will, - Doth lie within us mildly glowing, - From its own centre raying out - Beauty and Truth on all without. - - - III. - - Each on his golden throne, - Full royally, alone, - I see the stars above me, - With sceptre and with diadem; - Mildly they look down and love me, - For I have ever yet loved them; - I see their ever-sleepless eyes - Watching the growth of destinies; - Calm, sedate, - The eyes of Fate, - They wink not, nor do roll, - But search the depths of soul-- - And in those mighty depths they see - The germs of all Futurity, - Waiting but the fitting time - To burst and ripen into prime, - As in the womb of mother Earth - The seeds of plants and forests lie - Age upon age and never die-- - So in the souls of all men wait, - Undyingly the seeds of Fate; - Chance breaks the clod and forth they spring, - Filling blind men with wondering. - Eternal stars! with holy awe, - As if a present God I saw, - I look into those mighty eyes - And see great destinies arise, - As in those of mortal men - Feelings glow and fade again! - All things below, all things above, - Are open to the eyes of Love. - - - IV. - - Of Knowledge Love is master-key, - Knowledge of Beauty; passing dear - Is each to each, and mutually - Each one doth make the other clear; - Beauty is Love, and what we love - Straightway is beautiful, - So is the circle round and full, - And so dear Love doth live and move - And have his being, - Finding his proper food - By sure inseeing, - In all things pure and good, - Which he at will doth cull, - Like a joyous butterfly - Hiving in the sunny bowers - Of the soul's fairest flowers, - Or, between the earth and sky, - Wandering at liberty - For happy, happy hours! - - - V. - - The thoughts of Love are Poesy, - As this fair earth and all we see - Are the thoughts of Deity-- - And Love is ours by our birthright! - He hath cleared mine inward sight; - Glorious shapes with glorious eyes - Round about my spirit glance, - Shedding a mild and golden light - On the shadowy face of Night; - To unearthly melodies, - Hand in hand, they weave their dance, - While a deep, ambrosial lustre - From their rounded limbs doth shine, - Through many a rich and golden cluster - Of streaming hair divine. - In our gross and earthly hours - We cannot see the Love-given powers - Which ever round the soul await - To do its sovereign will, - When, in its moments calm and still, - It re-assumes its royal state, - Nor longer sits with eyes downcast, - A beggar, dreaming of the past, - At its own palace-gate. - - - VI. - - I too am a Maker and a Poet; - Through my whole soul I feel it and know it; - My veins are fired with ecstasy! - All-mother Earth - Did ne'er give birth - To one who shall be matched with me; - The lustre of my coronal - Shall cast a dimness over all.-- - Alas! alas! what have I spoken? - My strong, my eagle wings are broken, - And back again to earth I fall! - - - - - SOMETHING NATURAL. - - - I. - - When first I saw thy soul-deep eyes, - My heart yearned to thee instantly, - Strange longing in my soul did rise; - I cannot tell the reason why, - But I must love thee till I die. - - - II. - - The sight of thee hath well-nigh grown - As needful to me as the light; - I am unrestful when alone, - And my heart doth not beat aright - Except it dwell within thy sight. - - - III. - - And yet--and yet--O selfish love! - I am not happy even with thee; - I see thee in thy brightness move, - And cannot well contented be, - Save thou should'st shine alone for me. - - - IV. - - We should love beauty even as flowers-- - For all, 'tis said, they bud and blow, - They are the world's as well as ours-- - But thou--alas! God made thee grow - So fair, I cannot love thee so! - - - - - A FEELING. - - - The flowers and the grass to me - Are eloquent reproachfully; - For would they wave so pleasantly - Or look so fresh and fair, - If a man, cunning, hollow, mean, - Or one in anywise unclean, - Were looking on them there? - - No; he hath grown so foolish-wise - He cannot see with childhood's eyes; - He hath forgot that purity - And lowliness which are the key - Of Nature's mysteries; - No; he hath wandered off so long - From his own place of birth, - That he hath lost his mother-tongue, - And, like one come from far-off lands, - Forgetting and forgot, he stands - Beside his mother's hearth. - - - - - THE LOST CHILD. - - - I. - - I wandered down the sunny glade - And ever mused, my love, of thee; - My thoughts, like little children, played, - As gayly and as guilelessly. - - - II. - - If any chanced to go astray, - Moaning in fear of coming harms, - Hope brought the wanderer back alway, - Safe nestled in her snowy arms. - - - III. - - From that soft nest the happy one - Looked up at me and calmly smiled; - Its hair shone golden in the sun, - And made it seem a heavenly child. - - - IV. - - Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down, - And blest it with a love so deep, - That, like a nursling of her own, - It clasped her neck and fell asleep. - - - - - THE CHURCH. - - - I. - - I love the rites of England's church; - I love to hear and see - The priest and people reading slow - The solemn Litany; - I love to hear the glorious swell - Of chanted psalm and prayer, - And the deep organ's bursting heart, - Throb through the shivering air. - - - II. - - Chants, that a thousand years have heard, - I love to hear again, - For visions of the olden time - Are wakened by the strain; - With gorgeous hues the window-glass - Seems suddenly to glow, - And rich and red the streams of light - Down through the chancel flow. - - - III. - - And then I murmur, "Surely God - Delighteth here to dwell; - This is the temple of his Son - Whom he doth love so well;" - But, when I hear the creed which saith, - This church alone is His, - I feel within my soul that He - Hath purer shrines than this. - - - IV. - - For his is not the builded church, - Nor organ-shaken dome; - In every thing that lovely is - He loves and hath his home; - And most in soul that loveth well - All things which he hath made, - Knowing no creed but simple faith - That may not be gainsaid. - - - V. - - His church is universal Love, - And whoso dwells therein - Shall need no customed sacrifice - To wash away his sin; - And music in its aisles shall swell, - Of lives upright and true, - Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps - Down-quivering through the blue. - - - VI. - - They shall not ask a litany, - The souls that worship there, - But every look shall be a hymn, - And every word a prayer; - Their service shall be written bright - In calm and holy eyes, - And every day from fragrant hearts - Fit incense shall arise. - - - - - THE UNLOVELY. - - - The pretty things that others wear - Look strange and out of place on me, - I never seem dressed tastefully, - Because I am not fair; - And, when I would most pleasing seem, - And deck myself with joyful care, - I find it is an idle dream, - Because I am not fair. - - If I put roses in my hair, - They bloom as if in mockery; - Nature denies her sympathy, - Because I am not fair; - Alas! I have a warm, true heart, - But when I show it people stare; - I must forever dwell apart, - Because I am not fair. - - I am least happy being where - The hearts of others are most light, - And strive to keep me out of sight, - Because I am not fair; - The glad ones often give a glance, - As I am sitting lonely there, - That asks me why I do not dance-- - Because I am not fair. - - And if to smile on them I dare, - For that my heart with love runs o'er, - They say: "What is she laughing for?"-- - Because I am not fair; - Love scorned or misinterpreted-- - It is the hardest thing to bear; - I often wish that I were dead, - Because I am not fair. - - In joy or grief I must not share, - For neither smiles nor tears on me - Will ever look becomingly, - Because I am not fair; - Whole days I sit alone and cry, - And in my grave I wish I were-- - Yet none will weep me if I die, - Because I am not fair. - - My grave will be so lone and bare, - I fear to think of those dark hours, - For none will plant it o'er with flowers, - Because I am not fair; - They will not in the summer come - And speak kind words above me there; - To me the grave will be no home, - Because I am not fair. - - - - - LOVE-SONG. - - - Nearer to thy mother-heart, - Simple Nature, press me, - Let me know thee as thou art, - Fill my soul and bless me! - I have loved thee long and well, - I have loved thee heartily; - Shall I never with thee dwell, - Never be at one with thee? - - Inward, inward to thy heart, - Kindly Nature, take me, - Lovely even as thou art, - Full of loving make me! - Thou knowest naught of dead-cold forms, - Knowest naught of littleness, - Lifeful Truth thy being warms, - Majesty and earnestness. - - Homeward, homeward to thy heart, - Dearest Nature, call me; - Let no halfness, no mean part, - Any longer thrall me! - I will be thy lover true, - I will be a faithful soul, - Then circle me, then look me through, - Fill me with the mighty Whole. - - - - - SONG. - - - All things are sad:-- - I go and ask of Memory, - That she tell sweet tales to me - To make me glad; - And she takes me by the hand, - Leadeth to old places, - Showeth the old faces - In her hazy mirage-land; - O, her voice is sweet and low, - And her eyes are fresh to mine - As the dew - Gleaming through - The half-unfolded Eglantine, - Long ago, long ago! - But I feel that I am only - Yet more sad, and yet more lonely! - - Then I turn to blue-eyed Hope, - And beg of her that she will ope - Her golden gates for me; - She is fair and full of grace, - But she hath the form and face - Of her mother Memory; - Clear as air her glad voice ringeth, - Joyous are the songs she singeth, - Yet I hear them mournfully;-- - They are songs her mother taught her, - Crooning to her infant daughter, - As she lay upon her knee. - Many little ones she bore me, - Woe is me! in by-gone hours, - Who danced along and sang before me, - Scattering my way with flowers; - One by one - They are gone, - And their silent graves are seen, - Shining fresh with mosses green, - Where the rising sunbeams slope - O'er the dewy land of Hope. - - But, when sweet Memory faileth, - And Hope looks strange and cold; - When youth no more availeth, - And Grief grows over bold;-- - When softest winds are dreary, - And summer sunlight weary, - And sweetest things uncheery - We know not why:-- - When the crown of our desires - Weighs upon the brow and tires, - And we would die, - Die for, ah! we know not what, - Something we seem to have forgot, - Something we had, and now have not;-- - When the present is a weight - And the future seems our foe, - And with shrinking eyes we wait, - As one who dreads a sudden blow - In the dark, he knows not whence;-- - When Love at last his bright eye closes, - And the bloom upon his face, - That lends him such a living grace, - Is a shadow from the roses - Wherewith we have decked his bier, - Because he once was passing dear;-- - When we feel a leaden sense - Of nothingness and impotence, - Till we grow mad-- - Then the body saith, - "There's but one true faith; - All things are sad!" - - - - - A LOVE-DREAM. - - - Pleasant thoughts come wandering, - When thou art far, from thee to me; - On their silver wings they bring - A very peaceful ecstasy, - A feeling of eternal spring; - So that Winter half forgets - Everything but that thou art, - And, in his bewildered heart, - Dreameth of the violets, - Or those bluer flowers that ope, - Flowers of steadfast love and hope, - Watered by the living wells, - Of memories dear, and dearer prophecies, - When young spring forever dwells - In the sunshine of thine eyes. - - I have most holy dreams of thee, - All night I have such dreams; - And, when I awake, reality - No whit the darker seems; - Through the twin gates of Hope and Memory - They pour in crystal streams - From out an angel's calmèd eyes, - Who, from twilight till sunrise, - Far away in the upper deep, - Poised upon his shining wings, - Over us his watch doth keep, - And, as he watcheth, ever sings. - - Through the still night I hear him sing, - Down-looking on our sleep; - I hear his clear, clear harp-strings ring, - And, as the golden notes take wing, - Gently downward hovering, - For very joy I weep; - He singeth songs of holy Love, - That quiver through the depths afar, - Where the blessèd spirits are, - And lingeringly from above - Shower till the morning star - His silver shield hath buckled on - And sentinels the dawn alone, - Quivering his gleamy spear - Through the dusky atmosphere. - - Almost, my love, I fear the morn, - When that blessèd voice shall cease, - Lest it should leave me quite forlorn, - Stript of my snowy robe of peace; - And yet the bright reality - Is fairer than all dreams can be, - For, through my spirit, all day long, - Ring echoes of that angel-song - In melodious thoughts of thee; - And well I know it cannot die - Till eternal morn shall break, - For, through life's slumber, thou and I - Will keep it for each other's sake, - And it shall not be silent when we wake. - - - - - FOURTH OF JULY ODE. - - - I. - - Our fathers fought for Liberty, - They struggled long and well, - History of their deeds can tell-- - But did they leave us free? - - - II. - - Are we free from vanity, - Free from pride, and free from self, - Free from love of power and pelf, - From everything that's beggarly? - - - III. - - Are we free from stubborn will, - From low hate and malice small, - From opinion's tyrant thrall? - Are none of us our own slaves still? - - - IV. - - Are we free to speak our thought, - To be happy, and be poor, - Free to enter Heaven's door, - To live and labor as we ought? - - - V. - - Are we then made free at last - From the fear of what men say, - Free to reverence To-day, - Free from the slavery of the Past? - - - VI. - - Our fathers fought for liberty, - They struggled long and well, - History of their deeds can tell-- - But _ourselves_ must set us free. - - - - - SPHINX. - - - I. - - Why mourn we for the golden prime - When our young souls _were_ kingly, strong, and true? - The soul is greater than all time, - It changes not, but yet is ever new. - - - II. - - But that the soul _is_ noble, we - Could never know what nobleness had been; - Be what ye dream! and earth shall see - A greater greatness than she e'er hath seen. - - - III. - - The flower pines not to be fair, - It never asketh to be sweet and dear, - But gives itself to sun and air, - And so is fresh and full from year to year. - - - IV. - - Nothing in Nature weeps its lot, - Nothing, save man, abides in memory, - Forgetful that the Past is what - Ourselves may choose the coming time to be. - - - V. - - All things are circular; the Past - Was given us to make the Future great; - And the void Future shall at last - Be the strong rudder of an after fate. - - - VI. - - We sit beside the Sphinx of Life, - We gaze into its void, unanswering eyes, - And spend ourselves in idle strife - To read the riddle of their mysteries. - - - VII. - - Arise! be earnest and be strong! - The Sphinx's eyes shall suddenly grow clear, - And speak as plain to thee ere long, - As the dear maiden's who holds thee most dear. - - - VIII. - - The meaning of all things in _us_-- - Yea, in the lives we give our souls--doth lie; - Make, then, their meaning glorious - By such a life as need not fear to die! - - - IX. - - There is no heart-beat in the day, - Which bears a record of the smallest deed, - But holds within its faith alway - That which in doubt we vainly strive to read. - - - X. - - One seed contains another seed, - And that a third, and so for evermore; - And promise of as great a deed - Lies folded in the deed that went before. - - - XI. - - So ask not fitting space or time, - Yet could not dream of things which could not be; - Each day shall make the next sublime, - And Time be swallowed in Eternity. - - - XII. - - God bless the Present! it is |ALL|; - It has been Future, and it shall be Past; - Awake and live! thy strength recall, - And in one trinity unite them fast. - - - XIII. - - Action and Life--lo! here the key - Of all on earth that seemeth dark and wrong; - Win this--and, with it, freely ye - May enter that bright realm for which ye long. - - - XIV. - - Then all these bitter questionings - Shall with a full and blessèd answer meet; - Past worlds, whereof the Poet sings, - Shall be the earth beneath his snow-white fleet. - - - - - "GOE, LITTLE BOOKE!" - - - Go little book! the world is wide, - There's room and verge enough for thee; - For thou hast learned that only pride - Lacketh fit opportunity, - Which comes unbid to modesty. - - Go! win thy way with gentleness: - I send thee forth, my first-born child, - Quite, quite alone, to face the stress - Of fickle skies and pathways wild, - Where few can keep them undefiled. - - Thou earnest from a poet's heart, - A warm, still home, and full of rest; - Far from the pleasant eyes thou art - Of those who know and love thee best, - And by whose hearthstones thou wert blest. - - Go! knock thou softly at the door - Where any gentle spirits bin, - Tell them thy tender feet are sore, - Wandering so far from all thy kin, - And ask if thou may enter in. - - Beg thou a cup-full from the spring - Of Charity, in Christ's dear name; - Few will deny so small a thing, - Nor ask unkindly if thou came - Of one whose life might do thee shame. - - We all are prone to go astray, - Our hopes are bright, our lives are dim; - But thou art pure, and if they say, - "We know thy father, and our whim - He pleases not,"--plead thou for him. - - For many are by whom all truth, - That speaks not in their mother-tongue, - Is stoned to death with hands unruth, - Or hath its patient spirit wrung - Cold words and colder looks among. - - Yet fear not! for skies are fair - To all whose souls are fair within; - Thou wilt find shelter everywhere - With those to whom a different skin - Is not a damning proof of sin. - - But, if all others are unkind, - There's _one_ heart whither thou canst fly - For shelter from the biting wind; - And, in that home of purity, - It were no bitter thing to die. - - - - - SONNETS. - - - - - I. - - DISAPPOINTMENT. - - - I pray thee call not this society; - I asked for bread, thou givest me a stone; - I am an hungered, and I find not one - To give me meat, to joy or grieve with me; - I find not here what I went out to see-- - Souls of true men, of women who can move - The deeper, better part of us to love, - Souls that can hold with mine communion free. - Alas! must then these hopes, these longings high, - This yearning of the soul for brotherhood, - And all that makes us pure, and wise, and good, - Come broken-hearted, home again to die? - No, Hope is left, and prays with bended head, - "Give us this day, O God, our daily bread!" - - - - - II. - - - Great human nature, whither art thou fled? - Are these things creeping forth and back agen, - These hollow formalists and echoes, men? - Art thou entombèd with the mighty dead? - In God's name, no! not yet hath all been said, - Or done, or longed for, that is truly great; - These pitiful dried crusts will never sate - Natures for which pure Truth is daily bread; - We were not meant to plod along the earth, - Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange; - We were not meant to struggle from our birth - To skulk and creep, and in mean pathways range; - Act! with stern truth, large faith, and loving will! - Up and be doing! God is with us still. - - - - - III. - - TO A FRIEND. - - - One strip of bark may feed the broken tree, - Giving to some few limbs a sickly green; - And one light shower on the hills, I ween, - May keep the spring from drying utterly. - Thus seemeth it with these our hearts to be; - Hope is the strip of bark, the shower of rain, - And so they are not wholly crushed with pain. - But live and linger on, far sadder sight to see; - Much do they err, who tell us that the heart - May not be broken; what, then, can we call - A broken heart, if this may not be so, - This death in life, when, shrouded in its pall, - Shunning and shunned, it dwelleth all apart, - Its power, its love, its sympathy laid low? - - - - - IV. - - - So may it be, but let it not be so, - O, let it not be so with thee, my friend; - Be of good courage, bear up to the end, - And on thine after way rejoicing go! - We all must suffer, if we aught would know; - Life is a teacher stern, and wisdom's crown - Is oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling down, - Blood, mixed with tears, blinding her eyes doth flow - But Time, a gentle nurse, shall wipe away - This bloody sweat, and thou shalt find on earth, - That woman is not all in all to Love, - But, living by a new and second birth, - Thy soul shall see all things below, above, - Grow bright and brighter to the perfect day. - - - - - V. - - - O child of Nature! O most meek and free, - Most gentle spirit of true nobleness! - Thou doest not a worthy deed the less - Because the world may not its greatness see; - What were a thousand triumphings to thee, - Who, in thyself, art as a perfect sphere - Wrapt in a bright and natural atmosphere - Of mighty-souledness and majesty? - Thy soul is not too high for lowly things, - Feels not its strength seeing its brother weak, - Not for itself unto itself is dear, - But for that it may guide the wanderings - Of fellow-men, and to their spirits speak - The lofty faith of heart that knows no fear. - - - - - VI. - - TO ---- - - - Deem it no Sodom-fruit of vanity, - Or fickle fantasy of unripe youth - Which ever takes the fairest shows for truth, - That I should wish my verse beloved of thee; - 'Tis love's deep thirst which may not quenchèd be. - There is a gulf of longing and unrest, - A wild love-craving not to be represt, - Whereto, in all our hearts, as to the sea, - The streams of feeling do forever flow. - Therefore it is that thy well-meted praise - Falleth so shower-like and fresh on me, - Filling those springs which else had sunk full low, - Lost in the dreary desert-sands of woe, - Or parched by passion's fierce and withering blaze. - - - - - VII. - - - Might I but be beloved, and, O most fair - And perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee, - How should I feel a cloud of earthly care, - If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me? - O woman's love! O flower most bright and rare! - That blossom'st brightest in extremest need, - Woe, woe is me! that thy so precious seed - Is ever sown by Fancy's changeful air, - And grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts, - Who can be little even in the light - Of thy meek holiness--while souls more great - Are left to wander in a starless night, - Praying unheard--and yet the hardest parts - Befit those best who best can cope with Fate. - - - - - VIII. - - - Why should we ever weary of this life? - Our souls should widen ever, not contract, - Grow stronger, and not harder, in the strife, - Filling each moment with a noble act; - If we live thus, of vigor all compact, - Doing our duty to our fellow-men, - And striving rather to exalt our race - Than our poor selves, with earnest hand or pen - We shall erect our names a dwelling-place - Which not all ages shall cast down agen; - Offspring of Time shall then be born each hour, - Which, as of old, earth lovingly shall guard, - To live forever in youth's perfect flower, - And guide her future children Heavenward. - - - - - IX. - - GREEN MOUNTAINS. - - - Ye mountains, that far off lift up your heads, - Seen dimly through their canopies of blue, - The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds - Distance-created beauty over you; - I am not well content with this far view; - How may I know what foot of loved-one treads - Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds? - We should love all things better, if we knew - What claims the meanest have upon our hearts: - Perchance even now some eye, that would be bright - To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms; - Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts - To souls that have encircled mine with light-- - O brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms! - - - - - X. - - - My friend, adown Life's valley, hand in hand, - With grateful change of grave and merry speech - Or song, our hearts unlocking each to each, - We'll journey onward to the silent land; - And when stern Death shall loose that loving band, - Taking in his cold hand a hand of ours, - The one shall strew the other's grave with flowers, - Nor shall his heart a moment be unmanned. - My friend and brother! if thou goest first, - Wilt thou no more re-visit me below? - Yea, when my heart seems happy, causelessly - And swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst - With joy unspeakable--my soul shall know - That thou, unseen, art bending over me. - - - - - XI. - - - Verse cannot say how beautiful thou art, - How glorious the calmness of thine eyes, - Full of unconquerable energies, - Telling that thou hast acted well thy part. - No doubt or fear thy steady faith can start, - No thought of evil dare come nigh to thee, - Who hast the courage meek of purity, - The self-stayed greatness of a loving heart, - Strong with serene, enduring fortitude; - Where'er thou art, that seems thy fitting place, - For not of forms, but Nature, art thou child; - And lowest things put on a noble grace - When touched by ye, O patient, Ruth-like, mild - And spotless hands of earnest womanhood. - - - - - XII. - - - The soul would fain its loving kindness tell, - But custom hangs like lead upon the tongue; - The heart is brimful, hollow crowds among, - When it finds one whose life and thought are well; - Up to the eyes its gushing love doth swell, - The angel cometh and the waters move, - Yet it is fearful still to say "I love," - And words come grating as a jangled bell. - O might we only speak but what we feel, - Might the tongue pay but what the heart doth owe, - Not Heaven's great thunder, when, deep peal on peal, - It shakes the earth, could rouse our spirits so, - Or to the soul such majesty reveal, - As two short words half-spoken faint and low! - - - - - XIII. - - - I saw a gate: a harsh voice spake and said, - "This is the gate of Life;" above was writ, - "Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it;" - Then shrank my heart within itself for dread; - But, softer than the summer rain is shed, - Words dropt upon my soul, and they did say, - "Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and pray!" - So, without fear I lifted up my head, - And lo! that writing was not, one fair word - Was carven in its stead, and it was "Love." - Then rained once more those sweet tones from above - With healing on their wings: I humbly heard, - "I am the Life, ask and it shall be given! - I am the way, by me ye enter Heaven!" - - - - - XIV. - - - To the dark, narrow house where loved ones go, - Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door - None but the sexton knocks at any more, - Are they not sometimes with us yet below? - The longings of the soul would tell us so; - Although, so pure and fine their being's essence, - Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence, - Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow, - Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever - With great thoughts worthy of their high behests - Our souls are filled, those bright ones with us be, - As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests;-- - O let us live so worthily, that never - We may be far from that blest company. - - - - - XV. - - - I fain would give to thee the loveliest things, - For lovely things belong to thee of right, - And thou hast been as peaceful to my sight, - As the still thoughts that summer twilight brings; - Beneath the shadow of thine angel wings - O let me live! O let me rest in thee, - Growing to thee more and more utterly, - Upbearing and upborn, till outward things - Are only as they share in thee a part! - Look kindly on me, let thy holy eyes - Bless me from the deep fulness of thy heart; - So shall my soul in its right strength arise, - And nevermore shall pine and shrink and start, - Safe-sheltered in thy full souled sympathies. - - - XVI. - - Much I had mused of Love, and in my soul - There was one chamber where I dared not look, - So much its dark and dreary voidness shook - My spirit, feeling that I was not whole: - All my deep longings flowed toward one goal - For long, long years, but were not answerèd, - Till Hope was drooping, Faith well-nigh stone-dead, - And I was still a blind, earth-delving mole; - Yet did I know that God was wise and good, - And would fulfil my being late or soon; - Nor was such thought in vain, for, seeing thee, - Great Love rose up, as, o'er a black pine wood, - Round, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full moon, - Filling my soul with glory utterly. - - - XVII. - - Sayest thou, most beautiful, that thou wilt wear - Flowers and leafy crowns when thou art old, - And that thy heart shall never grow so cold - But they shall love to wreath thy silvered hair - And into age's snows the hope of spring-tide bear? - O, in thy child-like wisdom's moveless hold - Dwell ever! still the blessings manifold - Of purity, of peace, and untaught care - For other's hearts, around thy pathway shed, - And thou shalt have a crown of deathless flowers - To glorify and guard thy blessèd head - And give their freshness to thy life's last hours; - And, when the Bridegroom calleth, they shall be - A wedding-garment white as snow for thee. - - - XVIII. - - Poet! who sittest in thy pleasant room, - Warming thy heart with idle thoughts of love, - And of a holy life that leads above, - Striving to keep life's spring-flowers still in bloom, - And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume-- - O, there were other duties meant for thee, - Than to sit down in peacefulness and Be! - O, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom, - Souls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin, - So crusted o'er with baseness, that no ray - Of heaven's blessed light may enter in! - Come down, then, to the hot and dusty way, - And lead them back to hope and peace again-- - For, save in Act, thy Love is all in vain. - - - XIX. - - "NO MORE BUT SO?" - - No more but so? Only with uncold looks, - And with a hand not laggard to clasp mine, - Think'st thou to pay what debt of love is thine? - No more but so? Like gushing water-brooks, - Freshening and making green the dimmest nooks - Of thy friend's soul thy kindliness should flow; - But, if 'tis bounded by not saying "no," - I can find more of friendship in my books, - All lifeless though they be, and more, far more - In every simplest moss, or flower, or tree; - Open to me thy heart of hearts' deep core, - Or never say that I am dear to thee; - Call me not Friend, if thou keep close the door - That leads into thine inmost sympathy. - - - XX. - - TO A VOICE HEARD IN MOUNT AUBURN. - - Like the low warblings of a leaf-hid bird, - Thy voice came to me through the screening trees, - Singing the simplest, long-known melodies; - I had no glimpse of thee, and yet I heard - And blest thee for each clearly-carolled word; - I longed to thank thee, and my heart would frame - Mary or Ruth, some sisterly, sweet name - For thee, yet could I not my lips have stirred; - I knew that thou wert lovely, that thine eyes - Were blue and downcast, and methought large tears, - Unknown to thee, up to their lids must rise - With half-sad memories of other years, - As to thyself alone thou sangest o'er - Words that to childhood seemed to say "No More!" - - - XXI. - - ON READING SPENSER AGAIN. - - Dear, gentle Spenser! thou my soul dost lead, - A little child again, through Fairy land, - By many a bower and stream of golden sand, - And many a sunny plain whose light doth breed - A sunshine in my happy heart, and feed - My fancy with sweet visions; I become - A knight, and with my charmèd arms would roam - To seek for fame in many a wondrous deed - Of high emprize--for I have seen the light - Of Una's angel's face, the golden hair - And backward eyes of startled Florimel; - And, for their holy sake, I would outdare - A host of cruel Paynims in the fight, - Or Archimage and all the powers of Hell. - - - XXII. - - Light of mine eyes! with thy so trusting look, - And thy sweet smile of charity and love, - That from a treasure well uplaid above, - And from a hope in Christ its blessing took; - Light of my heart! which, when it could not brook - The coldness of another's sympathy, - Finds ever a deep peace and stay in thee, - Warm as the sunshine of a mossy nook; - Light of my soul! who, by thy saintliness - And faith that acts itself in daily life, - Canst raise me above weakness, and canst bless - The hardest thraldom of my earthly strife-- - I dare not say how much thou art to me - Even to myself--and O, far less to thee! - - - XXIII. - - Silent as one who treads on new-fallen snow, - Love came upon me ere I was aware; - Not light of heart, for there was troublous care - Upon his eyelids, drooping them full low, - As with sad memory of a healèd woe; - The cold rain shivered in his golden hair, - As if an outcast lot had been his share, - And he seemed doubtful whither he should go: - Then he fell on my neck, and, in my breast - Hiding his face, awhile sobbed bitterly, - As half in grief to be so long distrest, - And half in joy at his security-- - At last, uplooking from his place of rest, - His eyes shone blessedness and hope on me. - - - XXIV. - - A gentleness that grows of steady faith; - A joy that sheds its sunshine everywhere; - A humble strength and readiness to bear - Those burthens which strict duty ever lay'th - Upon our souls;--which unto sorrow saith, - "Here is no soil for thee to strike thy roots, - Here only grow those sweet and precious fruits; - Which ripen for the soul that well obey'th; - A patience which the world can neither give - Nor take away; a courage strong and high, - That dares in simple usefulness to live, - And without one sad look behind to die - When that day comes;--these tell me that our love - Is building for itself a home above." - - - XXV. - - When the glad soul is full to overflow, - Unto the tongue all power it denies, - And only trusts its secret to the eyes; - For, by an inborn wisdom, it doth know - There is no other eloquence but so; - And, when the tongue's weak utterance doth suffice, - Prisoned within the body's cell it lies, - Remembering in tears its exiled woe: - That word which all mankind so long to hear, - Which bears the spirit back to whence it came, - Maketh this sullen clay as crystal clear, - And will not be enclouded in a name; - It is a truth which we can feel and see, - But is as boundless as Eternity. - - - XXVI. - - TO THE EVENING-STAR. - - When we have once said lowly "Evening-Star!" - Words give no more--for, in thy silver pride, - Thou shinest as naught else can shine beside: - The thick smoke, coiling round the sooty bar - Forever, and the customed lamp-light mar - The stillness of my thought--seeing things glide - So samely:--then I ope my windows wide, - And gaze in peace to where thou shin'st afar. - The wind that comes across the faint-white snow - So freshly, and the river dimly seen, - Seem like new things that never had been so - Before; and thou art bright as thou hast been - Since thy white rays put sweetness in the eyes - Of the first souls that loved in Paradise. - - - XXVII. - - READING. - - As one who on some well-known landscape looks, - Be it alone, or with some dear friend nigh, - Each day beholdeth fresh variety, - New harmonies of hills, and trees, and brooks-- - So is it with the worthiest choice of books, - And oftenest read: if thou no meaning spy, - Deem there is meaning wanting in thine eyes; - We are so lured from judgment by the crooks - And winding ways of covert fantasy, - Or turned unwittingly down beaten tracks - Of our foregone conclusions, that we see, - In our own want, the writer's misdeemed lacks: - It is with true books as with Nature, each - New day of living doth new insight teach. - - - XXVIII. - - TO ----, AFTER A SNOW-STORM. - - Blue as thine eyes the river gently flows - Between his banks, which, far as eye can see, - Are whiter than aught else on earth may be, - Save inmost thoughts that in thy soul repose; - The trees all crystalled by the melted snows, - Sparkle with gems and silver, such as we - In childhood saw 'mong groves of Faërie, - And the dear skies are sunny-blue as those; - Still as thy heart, when next mine own it lies - In love's full safety, is the bracing air; - The earth is all enwrapt with draperies - Snow-white as that pure love might choose to wear-- - O for one moment's look into thine eyes, - To share the joy such scene would kindle there! - - - - - SONNETS ON NAMES. - - - EDITH. - - A Lily with its frail cup filled with dew, - Down-bending modestly, snow-white and pale, - Shedding faint fragrance round its native vale, - Minds me of thee, Sweet Edith, mild and true, - And of thy eyes so innocent and blue, - Thy heart is fearful as a startled hare, - Yet hath in it a fortitude to bear - For Love's sake, and a gentle faith which grew - Of Love: need of a stay whereon to lean, - Felt in thyself, hath taught thee to uphold - And comfort others, and to give, unseen, - The kindness thy still love cannot withhold: - Maiden, I would my sister thou hadst been, - That round thee I my guarding arms might fold. - - - ROSE. - - My ever-lightsome, ever-laughing Rose, - Who always speakest first and thinkest last, - Thy full voice is as clear as bugle-blast; - Right from the ear down to the heart it goes - And says, "I'm beautiful! as who but knows?" - Thy name reminds me of old romping days, - Of kisses stolen in dark passage-ways, - Or in the parlor, if the mother-nose - Gave sign of drowsy watch. I wonder where - Are gone thy tokens, given with a glance - So full of everlasting love till morrow, - Or a day's endless grieving for the dance - Last night denied, backed with a lock of hair, - That spake of broken hearts and deadly sorrow. - - - MARY. - - Dark hair, dark eyes--not too dark to be deep - And full of feeling, yet enough to glow - With fire when angered; feelings never slow, - But which seem rather watching to forthleap - From her full breast; a gently-flowing sweep - Of words in common talk, a torrent-rush, - Whenever through her soul swift feelings gush, - A heart less ready to be gay than weep, - Yet cheerful ever; a calm matron-smile, - That bids God bless you; a chaste simpleness, - With somewhat, too, of "proper pride," in dress;-- - This portrait to my mind's eye came, the while - I thought of thee, the well-grown woman Mary, - Whilome a gold-haired, laughing little fairy. - - - CAROLINE. - - A staidness sobers o'er her pretty face, - Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes, - And a quaint look about her lips denies; - A lingering love of girlhood you can trace - In her checked laugh and half-restrainèd pace; - And, when she bears herself most womanly, - It seems as if a watchful mother's eye - Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace: - Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free - As water long held back by little hands, - Within a pump, and let forth suddenly, - Until, her task remembering, she stands - A moment silent, smiling doubtfully, - Then laughs aloud and scorns her hated bands. - - - ANNE. - - There is a pensiveness in quiet Anne, - A mournful drooping of the full gray eye, - As if she had shook hands with misery, - And known some care since her short life began; - Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan, - And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack, - You feel as if she must be dressed in black; - Yet is she not of those who, all they can, - Strive to be gay, and striving, seem most sad-- - Hers is not grief, but silent soberness; - You would be startled if you saw her glad, - And startled if you saw her weep, no less; - She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath day, - She decorously glides to church to pray. - - - - - MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. - - - - - THRENODIA. - - - Gone, gone from us! and shall we see - These sibyl-leaves of destiny, - Those calm eyes, nevermore? - Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, - Wherein the fortunes of the man - Lay slumbering in prophetic light, - In characters a child might scan? - So bright, and gone forth utterly! - O stern word--Nevermore! - - The stars of those two gentle eyes - Will shine no more on earth; - Quenched are the hopes that had their birth, - As we watched them slowly rise, - Stars of a mother's fate; - And she would read them o'er and o'er, - Pondering as she sate, - Over their dear astrology, - Which she had conned and conned before, - Deeming she needs must read aright - What was writ so passing bright. - And yet, alas! she knew not why, - Her voice would falter in its song, - And tears would slide from out her eye, - Silent, as they were doing wrong. - O stern word--Nevermore! - - The tongue that scarce had learned to claim - An entrance to a mother's heart - By that dear talisman, a mother's name, - Sleeps all forgetful of its art! - I loved to see the infant soul - (How mighty in the weakness - Of its untutored meekness!) - Peep timidly from out its nest, - His lips, the while, - Fluttering with half-fledged words, - Or hushing to a smile - That more than words expressed, - When his glad mother on him stole - And snatched him to her breast! - O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, - That would have soared like strong-winged birds - Far, far, into the skies, - Gladding the earth with song, - And gushing harmonies, - Had he but tarried with us long! - O stern word--Nevermore! - - How peacefully they rest, - Crossfolded there - Upon his little breast, - Those small, white hands that ne'er were still before, - But ever sported with his mother's hair, - Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore! - Her heart no more will beat - To feel the touch of that soft palm, - That ever seemed a new surprise - Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes - To bless him with their holy calm,-- - Sweet thoughts! they made her eyes as sweet. - How quiet are the hands - That wove those pleasant bands! - But that they do not rise and sink - With his calm breathing, I should think - That he were dropped asleep. - Alas! too deep, too deep - Is this his slumber! - Time scarce can number - The years ere he will wake again. - O, may we see his eyelids open then! - O stern word--Nevermore! - - As the airy gossamere, - Floating in the sunlight clear, - Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly, - Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, - So from his spirit wandered out - Tendrils spreading all about, - Knitting all things to its thrall - With a perfect love of all: - O stern word--Nevermore! - - He did but float a little way - Adown the stream of time, - With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, - Or listening their fairy chime; - His slender sail - Ne'er felt the gale; - He did but float a little way, - And, putting to the shore - While yet 'twas early day, - Went calmly on his way, - To dwell with us no more! - No jarring did he feel, - No grating on his vessel's keel, - A strip of silver sand - Mingled the waters with the land - Where he was seen no more: - O stern word--Nevermore! - - Full short his journey was; no dust - Of earth unto his sandals clave; - The weary weight that old men must, - He bore not to the grave. - He seemed a cherub who had lost his way - And wandered hither, so his stay - With us was short, and 'twas most meet - That he should be no delver in earth's clod - Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet - To stand before his God: - O blest word--Evermore! - - 1839. - - - - - THE SIRENS. - - - The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, - The sea is restless and uneasy; - Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, - Wandering thou knowest not whither;-- - Our little isle is green and breezy, - Come and rest thee! O come hither; - Come to this peaceful home of ours, - Where evermore - The low west-wind creeps panting up the shore - To be at rest among the flowers; - Full of rest, the green moss lifts, - As the dark waves of the sea - Draw in and out of rocky rifts, - Calling solemnly to thee - With voices deep and hollow,-- - "To the shore - Follow! O, follow! - To be at rest forevermore! - Forevermore!" - - Look how the gray old Ocean - From the depth of his heart rejoices, - Heaving with a gentle motion, - When he hears our restful voices; - List how he sings in an under-tone, - Chiming with our melody; - And all sweet sounds of earth and air - Melt into one low voice alone, - That murmurs over the weary sea, - And seems to sing from everywhere,-- - "Here mayst thou harbor peacefully, - Here mayst thou rest from the aching oar; - Turn thy curvèd prow ashore, - And in our green isle rest for evermore! - Forevermore!" - And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, - And, to her heart so calm and deep, - Murmurs over in her sleep, - Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, - "Evermore!" - Thus, on Life's weary sea, - Heareth the marinere - Voices sweet, from far and near, - Ever singing low and clear, - Ever singing longingly. - - Is it not better here to be, - Than to be toiling late and soon? - In the dreary night to see - Nothing but the blood-red moon - Go up and down into the sea; - Or, in the loneliness of day, - To see the still seals only - Solemnly lift their faces gray, - Making it yet more lonely? - Is it not better, than to hear - Only the sliding of the wave - Beneath the plank, and feel so near - A cold and lonely grave, - A restless grave, where thou shalt lie - Even in death unquietly? - Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, - Lean over the side and see - The leaden eye of the sidelong shark - Upturnèd patiently, - Ever waiting there for thee: - Look down and see those shapeless forms, - Which ever keep their dreamless sleep - Far down within the gloomy deep, - And only stir themselves in storms, - Rising like islands from beneath, - And snorting through the angry spray, - As the frail vessel perisheth - In the whirls of their unwieldy play; - Look down! Look down! - Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, - That waves its arms so lank and brown, - Beckoning for thee! - Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark - Into the cold depth of the sea! - Look down! Look down! - Thus on Life's lonely sea, - Heareth the marinere - Voices sad, from far and near, - Ever singing full of fear, - Ever singing drearfully. - - Here all is pleasant as a dream; - The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, - The green grass floweth like a stream - Into the ocean's blue; - Listen! O, listen! - Here is a gush of many streams, - A song of many birds, - And every wish and longing seems - Lulled to a numbered flow of words,-- - Listen! O, listen! - Here ever hum the golden bees - Underneath full-blossomed trees, - At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned;-- - The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, - That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land - All around with a slumberous sound, - The singing waves slide up the strand, - And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, - The waters gurgle longingly, - As if they fain would seek the shore, - To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, - To be at rest forevermore,-- - Forevermore. - Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, - Heareth the marinere - Voices sweet, from far and near, - Ever singing in his ear, - "Here is rest and peace for thee." - - |Nantasket|, _July, 1840._ - - - - - IRENÉ. - - - Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear, - Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, - Free without boldness, meek without a fear, - Quicker to look than speak its sympathies; - Far down into her large and patient eyes - I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, - As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, - I look into the fathomless blue skies. - - So circled lives she with Love's holy light, - That from the shade of self she walketh free; - The garden of her soul still keepeth she - An Eden where the snake did never enter; - She hath a natural, wise sincerity, - A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her - A dignity as moveless as the centre; - So that no influence of earth can stir - Her steadfast courage, nor can take away - The holy peacefulness, which, night and day, - Unto her queenly soul doth minister. - - Most gentle is she; her large charity - (An all unwitting, child-like gift in her) - Not freer is to give than meek to bear; - And, though herself not unacquaint with care, - Hath in her heart wide room for all that be,-- - Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, - But open is as eglantine full blown. - Cloudless forever is her brow serene, - Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence - Welleth a noiseless spring of patience, - That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green - And full of holiness, that every look, - The greatness of her woman's soul revealing, - Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling - As when I read in God's own holy book. - - A graciousness in giving that doth make - The small'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek - Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take - From others, but which always fears to speak - Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake;-- - The deep religion of a thankful heart, - Which rests instinctively in Heaven's law - With a full peace, that never can depart - From its own steadfastness;--a holy awe - For holy things,--not those which men call holy, - But such as are revealèd to the eyes - Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly - Before the face of daily mysteries;-- - A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly - To the full goldenness of fruitful prime, - Enduring with a firmness that defies - All shallow tricks of circumstance and time, - By a sure insight knowing where to cling, - And where it clingeth never withering;-- - These are Irené's dowry, which no fate - Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state. - - In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth - No less than loveth, scorning to be bound - With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth - To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, - If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes, - Giving itself a pang for others' sakes; - No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye, - Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride - That passeth by upon the other side; - For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. - Right from the hand of God her spirit came - Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence - It came, nor wandered far from thence, - But laboreth to keep her still the same, - Near to her place of birth, that she may not - Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot. - - Yet sets she not her soul so steadily - Above, that she forgets her ties to earth, - But her whole thought would almost seem to be - How to make glad one lowly human hearth; - For with a gentle courage she doth strive - In thought and word and feeling so to live - As to make earth next heaven; and her heart - Herein doth show its most exceeding worth, - That, bearing in our frailty her just part, - She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, - But hath gone calmly forth into the strife, - And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood - With lofty strength of patient womanhood: - For this I love her great soul more than all, - That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall, - She walks so bright and heaven-like therein,-- - Too wise, too meek, too womanly, to sin. - - Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen - By sailors, tempest-toss'd upon the sea, - Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh, - Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been, - Her sight as full of hope and calm to me;-- - For she unto herself hath builded high - A home serene, wherein to lay her head, - Earth's noblest thing, a Woman perfected. - - 1840. - - - - - SERENADE. - - - From the close-shut windows gleams no spark, - The night is chilly, the night is dark, - The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan, - My hair by the autumn breeze is blown, - Under thy window I sing alone, - Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! - - The darkness is pressing coldly around, - The windows shake with a lonely sound, - The stars are hid and the night is drear, - The heart of silence throbs in thine ear, - In thy chamber thou sittest alone, - Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! - - The world is happy, the world is wide, - Kind hearts are beating on every side; - Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled - Alone in the shell of this great world? - Why should we any more be alone? - Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! - - O, 'tis a bitter and dreary word, - The saddest by man's ear ever heard! - We each are young, we each have a heart, - Why stand we ever coldly apart? - Must we forever, then, be alone? - Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! - - 1840. - - - - WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. - - - This little flower from afar - Hath come from other lands to thine; - For, once, its white and drooping star - Could see its shadow in the Rhine. - - Perchance some fair-haired German maid - Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk, - And numbered over, half afraid, - Its petals in her evening walk. - - "He loves me, loves me not," she cries; - "He loves me more than earth or heaven!" - And then glad tears have filled her eyes - To find the number was uneven. - - And thou must count its petals well, - Because it is a gift from me; - And the last one of all shall tell - Something I've often told to thee. - - But here at home, where we were born, - Thou wilt find flowers just as true, - Down-bending every summer morn - With freshness of New-England dew. - - For Nature, ever kind to love, - Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, - Whether with German skies above, - Or here our granite rocks among. - - 1840. - - - - THE BEGGAR. - - - A beggar, through the world am I,-- - From place to place I wander by. - Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, - For Christ's sweet sake and charity! - - A little of thy steadfastness, - Rounded with leafy gracefulness, - Old oak, give me,-- - That the world's blasts may round me blow, - And I yield gently to and fro, - While my stout-hearted trunk below - And firm-set roots unshaken be. - - Some of thy stern, unyielding might, - Enduring still through day and night - Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,-- - That I may keep at bay - The changeful April sky of chance - And the strong tide of circumstance,-- - Give me, old granite gray. - - Some of thy pensiveness serene, - Some of thy never-dying green, - Put in this scrip of mine,-- - That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light, - And deck me in a robe of white, - Ready to be an angel bright,-- - O sweetly-mournful pine. - - A little of thy merriment, - Of thy sparkling, light content, - Give me, my cheerful brook,-- - That I may still be full of glee - And gladsomeness, where'er I be, - Though fickle fate hath prisoned me - In some neglected nook. - - Ye have been very kind and good - To me, since I've been in the wood; - Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart; - But good-bye, kind friends, every one, - I've far to go ere set of sun; - Of all good things I would have part, - The day was high ere I could start, - And so my journey's scarce begun. - - Heaven help me! how could I forget - To beg of thee, dear violet! - Some of thy modesty, - That blossoms here as well, unseen, - As if before the world thou'dst been, - O, give, to strengthen me. - - 1839. - - - - - MY LOVE. - - - I. - - Not as all other women are - Is she that to my soul is dear; - Her glorious fancies come from far, - Beneath the silver evening-star, - And yet her heart is ever near. - - - II. - - Great feelings hath she of her own, - Which lesser souls may never know; - God giveth them to her alone, - And sweet they are as any tone - Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. - - - III. - - Yet in herself she dwelleth not, - Although no home were half so fair; - No simplest duty is forgot, - Life hath no dim and lowly spot - That doth not in her sunshine share. - - - IV. - - She doeth little kindnesses, - Which most leave undone, or despise; - For naught that sets one heart at ease, - And giveth happiness or peace, - Is low-esteemèd in her eyes. - - - V. - - She hath no scorn of common things, - And, though she seem of other birth, - Round us her heart entwines and clings, - And patiently she folds her wings - To tread the humble paths of earth. - - - VI. - - Blessing she is: God made her so, - And deeds of weekday holiness - Fall from her noiseless as the snow, - Nor hath she ever chanced to know - That aught were easier than to bless. - - - VII. - - She is most fair, and thereunto - Her life doth rightly harmonize; - Feeling or thought that was not true - Ne'er made less beautiful the blue - Unclouded heaven of her eyes. - - - VIII. - - She is a woman: one in whom - The spring-time of her childish years - Hath never lost its fresh perfume, - Though knowing well that life hath room - For many blights and many tears. - - - IX. - - I love her with a love as still - As a broad river's peaceful might, - Which, by high tower and lowly mill, - Goes wandering at its own will, - And yet doth ever flow aright. - - - X. - - And, on its full, deep breast serene, - Like quiet isles my duties lie; - It flows around them and between, - And makes them fresh and fair and green, - Sweet homes wherein to live and die. - - 1840. - - - - - SUMMER STORM. - - - Untremulous in the river clear, - Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge - So still the air that I can hear - The slender clarion of the unseen midge; - Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep, - Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases, - Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases, - The huddling trample of a drove of sheep - Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases - In dust on the other side; life's emblem deep, - A confused noise between two silences, - Finding at last in dust precarious peace. - On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses - Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming tide - Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes - Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide - Wavers the long green sedge's shade from side to side; - But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge, - Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened spray; - Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge, - And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway. - - Suddenly all the sky is hid - As with the shutting of a lid, - One by one great drops are falling - Doubtful and slow, - Down the pane they are crookedly crawling, - And the wind breathes low; - Slowly the circles widen on the river, - Widen and mingle, one and all; - Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver, - Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall. - - Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter, - The wind is gathering in the west; - The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter, - Then droop to a fitful rest; - Up from the stream with sluggish flap - Struggles the gull and floats away; - Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap,-- - We shall not see the sun go down to-day: - Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, - And tramples the grass with terrified feet, - The startled river turns leaden and harsh. - You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat. - - Look! look! that livid flash! - And instantly follows the rattling thunder, - As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, - Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, - On the Earth, which crouches in silence under; - And now a solid gray wall of rain - Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile; - For a breath's space I see the blue wood again, - And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile, - That seemed but now a league aloof, - Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof; - Against the windows the storm comes dashing, - Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, - The blue lightning flashes, - The rapid hail clashes, - The white waves are tumbling, - And, in one baffled roar, - Like the toothless sea mumbling - A rock-bristled shore, - The thunder is rumbling - And crashing and crumbling,-- - Will silence return never more? - - Hush! Still as death, - The tempest holds his breath - As from a sudden will; - The rain stops short, but from the eaves - You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, - All is so bodingly still; - Again, now, now, again - Plashes the rain in heavy gouts, - The crinkled lightning - Seems ever brightening, - And loud and long - Again the thunder shouts - His battle-song,-- - One quivering flash, - One wildering crash, - Followed by silence dead and dull, - As if the cloud, let go, - Leapt bodily below - To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow, - And then a total lull. - - Gone, gone, so soon! - No more my half-crazed fancy there - Can shape a giant in the air, - No more I see his streaming hair, - The writhing portent of his form;-- - The pale and quiet moon - Makes her calm forehead bare, - And the last fragments of the storm, - Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, - Silent and few, are drifting over me. - - 1839. - - - - - LOVE. - - - True Love is but a humble, low-born thing, - And hath its food served up in earthen ware; - It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, - Through the everydayness of this work-day world, - Baring its tender feet to every roughness, - Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray - From Beauty's law of plainness and content. - A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile - Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a home; - Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must, - And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless, - Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth - In bleak November, and, with thankful heart, - Smile on its ample stores of garnered fruit, - As full of sunshine to our aged eyes - As when it nursed the blossoms of our spring. - Such is true Love, which steals into the heart - With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn - That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark, - And hath its will through blissful gentleness,-- - Not like a rocket, which, with savage glare, - Whirrs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night - Painfully quivering on the dazèd eyes; - A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults, - Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points, - But loving-kindly ever looks them down - With the o'ercoming faith of meek forgiveness; - A love that shall be new and fresh each hour, - As is the golden mystery of sunset, - Or the sweet coming of the evening star, - Alike, and yet most unlike, every day, - And seeming ever best and fairest _now_; - A love that doth not kneel for what it seeks, - But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer, - Showing its worthiness of noble thoughts - By a clear sense of inward nobleness; - A love that in its object findeth not - All grace and beauty, and enough to sate - Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good - Found there, it sees but Heaven-granted types - Of good and beauty in the soul of man, - And traces, in the simplest heart that beats, - A family-likeness to its chosen one, - That claims of it the rights of brotherhood. - For love is blind but with the fleshly eye, - That so its inner sight may be more clear; - And outward shows of beauty only so - Are needful at the first, as is a hand - To guide and to uphold an infant's steps: - Great spirits need them not: their earnest look - Pierces the body's mask of thin disguise, - And beauty ever is to them revealed, - Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of clay, - With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze, - Yearning to be but understood and loved. - - 1840. - - - - - TO PERDITA, SINGING. - - - Thy voice is like a fountain, - Leaping up in clear moonshine; - Silver, silver, ever mounting, - Ever sinking, - Without thinking, - To that brimful heart of thine. - - Every sad and happy feeling, - Thou hast had in bygone years, - Through thy lips come stealing, stealing, - Clear and low; - All thy smiles and all thy tears - In thy voice awaken, - And sweetness, wove of joy and woe, - From their teaching it hath taken - Feeling and music move together, - Like a swan and shadow ever - Heaving on a sky-blue river - In a day of cloudless weather. - - It hath caught a touch of sadness, - Yet it is not sad; - It hath tones of clearest gladness, - Yet it is not glad; - A dim, sweet, twilight voice it is - Where to-day's accustomed blue - Is over-grayed with memories, - With starry feelings quivered through. - - Thy voice is like a fountain - Leaping up in sunshine bright, - And I never weary counting - Its clear droppings, lone and single, - Or when in one full gush they mingle, - Shooting in melodious light. - - Thine is music such as yields - Feelings of old brooks and fields, - And, around this pent-up room, - Sheds a woodland, free perfume; - O, thus forever sing to me! - O, thus forever! - The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me, - Flowing like an emerald river, - And the bright blue skies above! - O, sing them back, as fresh as ever, - Into the bosom of my love,-- - The sunshine and the merriment, - The unsought, evergreen content, - Of that never cold time, - The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went - Through and through the old time! - - Peace sits within thine eyes, - With white hands crossed in joyful rest, - While, through thy lips and face, arise - The melodies from out thy breast; - She sits and sings, - With folded wings - And white arms crost, - "Weep not for passed things, - They are not lost: - The beauty which the summer time - O'er thine opening spirit shed, - The forest oracles sublime - That filled thy soul with joyous dread, - The scent of every smallest flower - That made thy heart sweet for an hour,-- - Yea, every holy influence, - Flowing to thee, thou knewest not whence, - In thine eyes to-day is seen, - Fresh as it hath ever been; - Promptings of Nature, beckonings sweet, - Whatever led thy childish feet, - Still will linger unawares - The guiders of thy silver hairs; - Every look and every word - Which thou givest forth to-day, - Tell of the singing of the bird - Whose music stilled thy boyish play." - - Thy voice is like a fountain, - Twinkling up in sharp starlight, - When the moon behind the mountain - Dims the low East with faintest white, - Ever darkling, - Ever sparkling, - We know not if 'tis dark or bright; - But, when the great moon hath rolled round, - And, sudden-slow, its solemn power - Grows from behind its black, clear-edged bound, - No spot of dark the fountain keepeth, - But, swift as opening eyelids, leapeth - Into a waving silver flower. - - 1841. - - - - - THE MOON. - - - My soul was like the sea, - Before the moon was made, - Moaning in vague immensity, - Of its own strength afraid, - Unrestful and unstaid. - - Through every rift it foamed in vain, - About its earthly prison, - Seeking some unknown thing in pain, - And sinking restless back again, - For yet no moon had risen: - Its only voice a vast dumb moan, - Of utterless anguish speaking, - It lay unhopefully alone, - And lived but in an aimless seeking. - - So was my soul; but when'twas full - Of unrest to o'erloading, - A voice of something beautiful - Whispered a dim foreboding, - And yet so soft, so sweet, so low, - It had not more of joy than woe; - And, as the sea doth oft lie still, - Making its waters meet, - As if by an unconscious will, - For the moon's silver feet, - So lay my soul within mine eyes - When thou, its guardian moon, didst rise. - And now, howe'er its waves above - May toss and seem uneaseful, - One strong, eternal law of Love, - With guidance sure and peaceful, - As calm and natural as breath, - Moves its great deeps through life and death. - - - - - REMEMBERED MUSIC. - - A FRAGMENT. - - - Thick-rushing, like an ocean vast - Of bisons the far prairie shaking, - The notes crowd heavily and fast - As surfs, one plunging while the last - Draws seaward from its foamy breaking. - - Or in low murmurs they began, - Rising and rising momently, - As o'er a harp Æolian - A fitful breeze, until they ran - Up to a sudden ecstasy. - - And then, like minute drops of rain - Ringing in water silvery, - They lingering dropped and dropped again, - Till it was almost like a pain - To listen when the next would be. - - 1840. - - - - - SONG. - - TO M. L. - - - A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, - A lily-bud not opened quite, - That hourly grew more pure and white, - By morning, and noontide, and evening nursed: - In all of nature thou hadst thy share; - Thou wast waited on - By the wind and sun; - The rain and the dew for thee took care; - It seemed thou never couldst be more fair. - - A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, - A lily-bud; but O, how strange, - How full of wonder was the change, - When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full bloom burst! - How did the tears to my glad eyes start, - When the woman-flower - Reached its blossoming hour, - And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart! - - Glad death may pluck thee, but never before - The gold dust of thy bloom divine - Hath dropped from thy heart into mine, - To quicken its faint germs of heavenly lore; - For no breeze comes nigh thee but carries away - Some impulses bright - Of fragrance and light, - Which fall upon souls that are lone and astray, - To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day. - - - - - ALLEGRA. - - - I would more natures were like thine, - That never casts a glance before,-- - Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine - So lavishly to all dost pour, - That we who drink forget to pine, - And can but dream of bliss in store. - - Thou canst not see a shade in life; - With sunward instinct thou dost rise, - And, leaving clouds below at strife, - Gazest undazzled at the skies, - With all their blazing splendors rife, - A songful lark with eagle's eyes. - - Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours - Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth; - Some influence more gay than ours - Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, - As if thy natal stars were flowers - That shook their seeds round thee on earth. - - And thou, to lull thine infant rest, - Wast cradled like an Indian child; - All pleasant winds from south and west - With lullabies thine ears beguiled, - Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest, - Till Nature looked at thee and smiled. - - Thine every fancy seems to borrow - A sunlight from thy childish years, - Making a golden cloud of sorrow, - A hope-lit rainbow out of tears,-- - Thy heart is certain of to-morrow, - Though 'yond to-day it never peers. - - I would more natures were like thine, - So innocently wild and free, - Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and shine, - Like sunny wavelets in the sea, - Making us mindless of the brine, - In gazing on the brilliancy. - - - - - THE FOUNTAIN. - - - Into the sunshine, - Full of the light, - Leaping and flashing - From morn till night! - - Into the moonlight, - Whiter than snow, - Waving so flower-like - When the winds blow! - - Into the starlight, - Rushing in spray, - Happy at midnight, - Happy by day! - - Ever in motion, - Blithesome and cheery. - Still climbing heavenward, - Never aweary;-- - - Glad of all weathers, - Still seeming best, - Upward or downward, - Motion thy rest;-- - - Full of a nature - Nothing can tame, - Changed every moment, - Ever the same;-- - - Ceaseless aspiring, - Ceaseless content, - Darkness or sunshine - Thy element;-- - - Glorious fountain! - Let my heart be - Fresh, changeful, constant, - Upward, like thee! - - - - - ODE. - - - I. - - In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, - The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife; - He saw the mysteries which circle under - The outward shell and skin of daily life. - Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, - His soul was led by the eternal law; - There was in him no hope of fame, no passion, - But, with calm, god-like eyes, he only saw. - He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried, - Chief-mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, - Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried - Alone were fitting themes of epic verse: - He could believe the promise of to-morrow, - And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day; - He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow - Than the world's seeming loss could take away. - To know the heart of all things was his duty, - All things did sing to him to make him wise, - And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty, - The soul of all looked grandly from his eyes. - He gazed on all within him and without him, - He watched the flowing of Time's steady tide, - And shapes of glory floated all about him - And whispered to him, and he prophesied. - Than all men he more fearless was and freer, - And all his brethren cried with one accord,-- - "Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer! - Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!" - He to his heart with large embrace had taken - The universal sorrow of mankind, - And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, - The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. - He could interpret well the wondrous voices - Which to the calm and silent spirit come; - He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices - In the star's anthem than the insect's hum. - He in his heart was ever meek and humble, - And yet with kingly pomp his numbers ran, - As he foresaw how all things false should crumble - Before the free, uplifted soul of man: - And, when he was made full to overflowing - With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, - Out rushed his song, like molten iron glowing, - To show God sitting by the humblest hearth. - With calmest courage he was ever ready - To teach that action was the truth of thought, - And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady, - An anchor for the drifting world he wrought. - So did he make the meanest man partaker - Of all his brother-gods unto him gave; - All souls did reverence him and name him Maker, - And when he died heaped temples on his grave. - And still his deathless words of light are swimming - Serene throughout the great, deep infinite - Of human soul, unwaning and undimming, - To cheer and guide the mariner at night. - - - II. - - But now the Poet is an empty rhymer - Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, - And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, - To all men's prides and fancies as they pass. - Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, - Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, - Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, - And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars. - Maker no more,--O, no! unmaker rather, - For he unmakes who doth not all put forth - The power given by our loving Father - To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth. - Awake! great spirit of the ages olden! - Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, - And let man's soul be yet again beholden - To thee for wings to soar to her desire. - O, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, - Be no more shame-faced to speak out for Truth, - Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, - The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth! - O, prophesy no more the Maker's coming, - Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear - In the dim void, like to the awful humming - Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere. - O, prophesy no more, but be the Poet! - This longing was but granted unto thee - That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it, - That beauty in its highest thou couldst be. - O, thou who moanest tost with sea-like longings, - Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, - Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings - Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, - Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews - And soul by Mother-Earth with freedom fed, - In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, - The old free nature is not chained or dead, - Arouse! let thy soul break in music-thunder, - Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, - Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder - And tell the age what all its signs have meant, - Where'er thy wildered crowd of brethren jostles, - Where'er there lingers but a shade of wrong, - There still is need of martyrs and apostles, - There still are texts for never-dying song: - From age to age man's still aspiring spirit - Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes, - And thou in larger measure dost inherit - What made thy great forerunners free and wise. - Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain - Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, - And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain, - That all may drink and find the rest they seek. - Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven, - A silence of deep awe and wondering; - For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, - To hear a mortal like an angel sing. - - - III. - - Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking - For one to bring the Maker's name to light, - To be the voice of that almighty speaking - Which every age demands to do it right. - Proprieties our silken bards environ; - He who would be the tongue of this wide land - Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron - And strike it with a toil-embrownèd hand; - One who hath dwelt with Nature well-attended, - Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books, - Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended, - So that all beauty awes us in his looks; - Who not with body's waste his soul hath pampered, - Who as the clear northwestern wind is free, - Who walks with Form's observances unhampered, - And follows the One Will obediently; - Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit, - Control a lovely prospect every way; - Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet, - And find a bottom still of worthless clay; - Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working, - Knowing that one sure wind blows on above, - And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking, - One God-built shrine of reverence and love; - Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches - Around the centre fixed of Destiny, - Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches - The moving globe of being like a sky; - Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are nearer - Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, - Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom dearer - Than that of all his brethren, low or high; - Who to the Right can feel himself the truer - For being gently patient with the wrong, - Who sees a brother in the evil-doer, - And finds in Love the heart's-blood of his song;-- - This, this is he for whom the world is waiting - To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, - Too long hath it been patient with the grating - Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art. - To him the smiling soul of man shall listen, - Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside, - And once again in every eye shall glisten - The glory of a nature satisfied. - His verse shall have a great, commanding motion, - Heaving and swelling with a melody - Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean, - And all the pure, majestic things that be. - Awake, then, thou! we pine for thy great presence - To make us feel the soul once more sublime, - We are of far too infinite an essence - To rest contented with the lies of Time. - Speak out! and, lo! a hush of deepest wonder - Shall sink o'er all this many-voicèd scene, - As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder - Shatters the blueness of a sky serene. - - 1841. - - - - - THE FATHERLAND. - - - Where is the true man's fatherland? - Is it where he by chance is born? - Doth not the yearning spirit scorn - In such scant borders to be spanned? - O, yes! his fatherland must be - As the blue heaven wide and free! - - Is it alone where freedom is, - Where God is God and man is man? - Doth he not claim a broader span - For the soul's love of home than this? - O, yes! his fatherland must be - As the blue heaven wide and free! - - Where'er a human heart doth wear - Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves, - Where'er a human spirit strives - After a life more true and fair, - There is the true man's birthplace grand, - His is a world-wide fatherland! - - Where'er a single slave doth pine, - Where'er one man may help another,-- - Thank God for such a birthright, brother,-- - That spot of earth is thine and mine! - There is the true man's birthplace grand, - His is a world-wide fatherland! - - - - - THE FORLORN. - - - The night is dark, the stinging sleet, - Swept by the bitter gusts of air, - Drives whistling down the lonely street, - And stiffens on the pavement bare. - - The street-lamps flare and struggle dim - Through the white sleet-clouds as they pass, - Or, governed by a boisterous whim, - Drop down and rattle on the glass. - - One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl - Faces the east-wind's searching flaws, - And, as about her heart they whirl, - Her tattered cloak more tightly draws. - - The flat brick walls look cold and bleak, - Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze; - Yet dares she not a shelter seek, - Though faint with hunger and disease. - - The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, - And, piercing through her garments thin, - Beats on her shrunken breast, and there - Makes colder the cold heart within. - - She lingers where a ruddy glow - Streams outward through an open shutter, - Adding more bitterness to woe, - More loneness to desertion utter. - - One half the cold she had not felt, - Until she saw this gush of light - Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt - Its slow way through the deadening night. - - She hears a woman's voice within, - Singing sweet words her childhood knew, - And years of misery and sin - Furl off, and leave her heaven blue. - - Her freezing heart, like one who sinks - Outwearied in the drifting snow, - Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks - No longer of its hopeless woe: - - Old fields, and clear blue summer days, - Old meadows, green with grass and trees - That shimmer through the trembling haze - And whiten in the western breeze,-- - - Old faces,--all the friendly past - Rises within her heart again, - And sunshine from her childhood cast - Makes summer of the icy rain. - - Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow, - From all humanity apart, - She hears old footsteps wandering slow - Through the lone chambers of her heart. - - Outside the porch before the door, - Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone, - She lies, no longer foul and poor, - No longer dreary and alone. - - Next morning something heavily - Against the opening door did weigh, - And there, from sin and sorrow free, - A woman on the threshold lay. - - A smile upon the wan lips told - That she had found a calm release, - And that, from out the want and cold, - The song had borne her soul in peace. - - For, whom the heart of man shuts out, - Sometimes the heart of God takes in, - And fences them all round about - With silence mid the world's loud din; - - And one of his great charities - Is Music, and it doth not scorn - To close the lids upon the eyes - Of the polluted and forlorn; - - Far was she from her childhood's home, - Farther in guilt had wandered thence, - Yet thither it had bid her come - To die in maiden innocence. - - 1842. - - - - - MIDNIGHT. - - - The moon shines white and silent - On the mist, which, like a tide - Of some enchanted ocean, - O'er the wide marsh doth glide, - Spreading its ghost-like billows - Silently far and wide. - - A vague and starry magic - Makes all things mysteries, - And lures the earth's dumb spirit - Up to the longing skies,-- - I seem to hear dim whispers, - And tremulous replies. - - The fireflies o'er the meadow - In pulses come and go; - The elm-trees' heavy shadow - Weighs on the grass below; - And faintly from the distance - The dreaming cock doth crow. - - All things look strange and mystic, - The very bushes swell - And take wild shapes and motions, - As if beneath a spell,-- - They seem not the same lilacs - From childhood known so well. - - The snow of deepest silence - O'er everything doth fall, - So beautiful and quiet, - And yet so like a pall,-- - As if all life were ended, - And rest were come to all. - - O wild and wondrous midnight, - There is a might in thee - To make the charmèd body - Almost like spirit be, - And give it some faint glimpses - Of immortality! - - 1842. - - - - - A PRAYER. - - - God! do not let my loved one die, - But rather wait until the time - That I am grown in purity - Enough to enter thy pure clime - Then take me, I will gladly go, - So that my love remain below! - - O, let her stay! She is by birth - What I through death must learn to be, - We need her more on our poor earth, - Than thou canst need in heaven with thee; - She hath her wings already, I - Must burst this earth-shell ere I fly. - - Then, God, take me! We shall be near, - More near than ever, each to each: - Her angel ears will find more clear - My heavenly than my earthly speech; - And still, as I draw nigh to thee, - Her soul and mine shall closer be. - - 1841. - - - - - THE HERITAGE. - - - The rich man's son inherits lands, - And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, - And he inherits soft white hands, - And tender flesh that fears the cold, - Nor dares to wear a garment old; - A heritage, it seems to me, - One scarce would wish to hold in fee. - - The rich man's son inherits cares; - The bank may break, the factory burn, - A breath may burst his bubble shares, - And soft white hands could hardly earn - A living that would serve his turn; - A heritage, it seems to me, - One scarce would wish to hold in fee. - - The rich man's son inherits wants, - His stomach craves for dainty fare; - With sated heart, he hears the pants - Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, - And wearies in his easy chair; - A heritage, it seems to me, - One scarce would wish to hold in fee. - - What doth the poor man's son inherit? - Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, - A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; - King of two hands, he does his part - In every useful toil and art; - A heritage, it seems to me, - A king might wish to hold in fee. - - What doth the poor man's son inherit? - Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, - A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, - Content that from employment springs, - A heart that in his labor sings; - A heritage, it seems to me, - A king might wish to hold in fee. - - What doth the poor man's son inherit? - A patience learned of being poor, - Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, - A fellow-feeling that is sure - To make the outcast bless his door; - A heritage, it seems to me, - A king might wish to hold in fee. - - O, rich man's son! there is a toil, - That with all others level stands; - Large charity doth never soil, - But only whiten, soft white hands,-- - This is the best crop from thy lands; - A heritage, it seems to be, - Worth being rich to hold in fee. - - O, poor man's son! scorn not thy state; - There is worse weariness than thine, - In merely being rich and great; - Toil only gives the soul to shine, - And makes rest fragrant and benign, - A heritage, it seems to me, - Worth being poor to hold in fee. - - Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, - Are equal in the earth at last; - Both, children of the same dear God, - Prove title to your heirship vast - By record of a well-filled past; - A heritage, it seems to me, - Well worth a life to hold in fee. - - - - - THE ROSE: A BALLAD. - - - I. - - In his tower sat the poet - Gazing on the roaring sea, - "Take this rose," he sighed, "and throw it - Where there's none that loveth me. - On the rock the billow bursteth - And sinks back into the seas, - But in vain my spirit thirsteth - So to burst and be at ease. - Take, O, sea! the tender blossom - That hath lain against my breast; - On thy black and angry bosom - It will find a surer rest. - Life is vain, and love is hollow, - Ugly death stands there behind, - Hate and scorn and hunger follow - Him that toileth for his kind." - Forth into the night he hurled it, - And with bitter smile did mark - How the surly tempest whirled it - Swift into the hungry dark. - Foam and spray drive back to leeward, - And the gale, with dreary moan, - Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, - Through the breakers all alone. - - - II. - - Stands a maiden, on the morrow, - Musing by the wave-beat strand, - Half in hope and half in sorrow, - Tracing words upon the sand: - "Shall I ever then behold him - Who hath been my life so long,-- - Ever to this sick heart fold him,-- - Be the spirit of his song? - Touch not, sea, the blessed letters - I have traced upon thy shore, - Spare his name whose spirit fetters - Mine with love forevermore!" - Swells the tide and overflows it, - But, with omen pure and meet, - Brings a little rose, and throws it - Humbly at the maiden's feet. - Full of bliss she takes the token, - And, upon her snowy breast, - Soothes the ruffled petals broken - With the ocean's fierce unrest. - "Love is thine, O heart! and surely - Peace shall also be thine own, - For the heart that trusteth purely - Never long can pine alone." - - - III. - - In his tower sits the poet, - Blisses new and strange to him - Fill his heart and overflow it - With a wonder sweet and dim. - Up the beach the ocean slideth - With a whisper of delight, - And the noon in silence glideth - Through the peaceful blue of night. - Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder - Flows a maiden's golden hair, - Maiden-lips, with love grown bolder, - Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. - "Life is joy, and love is power, - Death all fetters doth unbind, - Strength and wisdom only flower - When we toil for all our kind. - Hope is truth,--the future giveth - More than present takes away, - And the soul forever liveth - Nearer God from day to day." - Not a word the maiden uttered, - Fullest hearts are slow to speak, - But a withered rose-leaf fluttered - Down upon the poet's cheek. - - 1842. - - - - - A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. - - PART FIRST. - - - I. - - Fair as a summer dream was Margaret,-- - Such dream as in a poet's soul might start, - Musing of old loves while the moon doth set: - Her hair was not more sunny than her heart, - Though like a natural golden coronet - It circled her dear head with careless art, - Mocking the sunshine, that would fain have lent - To its frank grace a richer ornament. - - - II. - - His loved one's eyes could poet ever speak, - So kind, so dewy, and so deep were hers,-- - But, while he strives, the choicest phrase, too weak - Their glad reflection in his spirit blurs; - As one may see a dream dissolve and break - Out of his grasp when he to tell it stirs, - Like that sad Dryad doomed no more to bless - The mortal who revealed her loveliness. - - - III. - - She dwelt forever in a region bright, - Peopled with living fancies of her own, - Where naught could come but visions of delight, - Far, far aloof from earth's eternal moan: - A summer cloud thrilled through with rosy light, - Floating beneath the blue sky all alone, - Her spirit wandered by itself, and won - A golden edge from some unsetting sun. - - - IV. - - The heart grows richer that its lot is poor,-- - God blesses want with larger sympathies,-- - Love enters gladliest at the humble door, - And makes the cot a palace with his eyes; - So Margaret's heart a softer beauty wore, - And grew in gentleness and patience wise, - For she was but a simple herdsman's child, - A lily chance-sown in the rugged wild. - - - V. - - There was no beauty of the wood or field - But she its fragrant bosom-secret knew, - Nor any but to her would freely yield - Some grace that in her soul took root and grew: - Nature to her glowed ever new-revealed, - All rosy fresh with innocent morning dew, - And looked into her heart with dim, sweet eyes - That left it full of sylvan memories. - - - VI. - - O, what a face was hers to brighten light, - And give back sunshine with an added glow, - To wile each moment with a fresh delight, - And part of memory's best contentment grow! - O, how her voice, as with an inmate's right, - Into the strangest heart would welcome go, - And make it sweet, and ready to become - Of white and gracious thoughts the chosen home! - - - VII. - - None looked upon her but he straightway thought - Of all the greenest depths of country cheer, - And into each one's heart was freshly brought - What was to him the sweetest time of year, - So was her every look and motion fraught - With out-of-door delights and forest lere: - Not the first violet on a woodland lea - Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she. - - - VIII. - - Is love learned only out of poets' books? - Is there not somewhat in the dropping flood, - And in the nunneries of silent nooks, - And in the murmured longing of the wood, - That could make Margaret dream of lovelorn looks, - And stir a thrilling mystery in her blood - More trembly secret than Aurora's tear - Shed in the bosom of an eglatere? - - - IX. - - Full many a sweet forewarning hath the mind, - Full many a whispering of vague desire, - Ere comes the nature destined to unbind - Its virgin zone, and all its deeps inspire,-- - Low stirrings in the leaves, before the wind - Wakes all the green strings of the forest lyre, - Faint heatings in the calyx, ere the rose - Its warm voluptuous breast doth all unclose. - - - X. - - Long in its dim recesses pines the spirit, - Wildered and dark, despairingly alone; - Though many a shape of beauty wander near it, - And many a wild and half-remembered tone - Tremble from the divine abyss to cheer it, - Yet still it knows that there is only one - Before whom it can kneel and tribute bring, - At once a happy vassal and a king. - - - XI. - - To feel a want, yet scarce know what it is, - To seek one nature that is always new, - Whose glance is warmer than another's kiss, - Whom we can bare our inmost beauty to, - Nor feel deserted afterwards,--for this - But with our destined co-mate we can do,-- - Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope - Of the young soul with one mysterious hope. - - - XII. - - So Margaret's heart grew brimming with the lore - Of love's enticing secrets; and although - She had found none to cast it down before, - Yet oft to Fancy's chapel she would go - To pay her vows, and count the rosary o'er - Of her love's promised graces:--haply so - Miranda's hope had pictured Ferdinand - Long ere the gaunt wave tossed him on the strand. - - - XIII. - - A new-made star that swims the lonely gloom, - Unwedded yet and longing for the sun, - Whose beams, the bride-gifts of the lavish groom - Blithely to crown the virgin planet run, - Her being was, watching to see the bloom - Of love's fresh sunrise roofing one by one - Its clouds with gold, a triumph-arch to be - For him who came to hold her heart in fee. - - - XIV. - - Not far from Margaret's cottage dwelt a knight - Of the proud Templars, a sworn celibate, - Whose heart in secret fed upon the light - And dew of her ripe beauty, through the grate - Of his close vow catching what gleams he might - Of the free heaven, and cursing--all too late-- - The cruel faith whose black walls hemmed him in, - And turned life's crowning bliss to deadly sin. - - - XV. - - For he had met her in the wood by chance, - And, having drunk her beauty's wildering spell, - His heart shook like the pennon of a lance - That quivers in a breeze's sudden swell, - And thenceforth, in a close-enfolded trance, - From mistily golden deep to deep he fell; - Till earth did waver and fade far away - Beneath the hope in whose warm arms he lay. - - - XVI. - - A dark, proud man he was, whose half-blown youth - Had shed its blossoms even in opening, - Leaving a few that with more winning ruth - Trembling around grave manhood's stem might cling, - More sad than cheery, making, in good sooth, - Like the fringed gentian, a late autumn spring:-- - A twilight nature, braided light and gloom, - A youth half-smiling by an open tomb. - - - XVII. - - Fair as an angel, who yet inly wore - A wrinkled heart foreboding his near fall; - Who saw him always wished to know him more, - As if he were some fate's defiant thrall - And nursed a dreaded secret at its core; - Little he loved, but power most of all, - And that he seemed to scorn, as one who knew - By what foul paths men choose to crawl thereto. - - - XVIII. - - He had been noble, but some great deceit - Had turned his better instinct to a vice: - He strove to think the world was all a cheat, - That power and fame were cheap at any price, - That the sure way of being shortly great - Was even to play life's game with loaded dice, - Since he had tried the honest play and found - That vice and virtue differed but in sound. - - - XIX. - - Yet Margaret's sight redeemed him for a space - From his own thraldom; man could never be - A hypocrite when first such maiden grace - Smiled in upon his heart; the agony - Of wearing all day long a lying face - Fell lightly from him, and, a moment free, - Erect with wakened faith his spirit stood - And scorned the weakness of its demon-mood. - - - XX. - - Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her thought, - Which would not let the common air come near, - Till from its dim enchantment it had caught - A musical tenderness that brimmed his ear - With sweetness more ethereal than aught - Save silver-dropping snatches that whilere - Rained down from some sad angel's faithful harp - To cool her fallen lover's anguish sharp. - - - XXI. - - Deep in the forest was a little dell - High overarchèd with the leafy sweep - Of a broad oak, through whose gnarled roots there fell - A slender rill that sung itself asleep, - Where its continuous toil had scooped a well - To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep - The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook - From its small urn a drizzly murmur shook. - - - XXII. - - The wooded hills sloped upward all around - With gradual rise, and made an even rim, - So that it seemed a mighty casque unbound - From some huge Titan's brow to lighten him, - Ages ago, and left upon the ground, - Where the slow soil had mossed it to the brim, - Till after countless centuries it grew - Into this dell, the haunt of noontide dew. - - - XXIII. - - Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun-flecked green, - Wound through the thickset trunks on every side, - And, toward the west, in fancy might be seen - A gothic window in its blazing pride, - When the low sun, two arching elms between, - Lit up the leaves beyond, which, autumn-dyed - With lavish hues, would into splendor start, - Shaming the labored panes of richest art. - - - XXIV. - - Here, leaning once against the old oak's trunk, - Mordred, for such was the young Templar's name, - Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon shrunk - From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame - Made him forget that he was vowed a monk, - And all the outworks of his pride o'ercame: - Flooded he seemed with bright delicious pain, - As if a star had burst within his brain. - - - XXV. - - Such power hath beauty and frank innocence: - A flower bloomed forth, that sunshine glad to bless, - Even from his love's long leafless stem; the sense - Of exile from Hope's happy realm grew less, - And thoughts of childish peace, he knew not whence, - Thronged round his heart with many an old caress, - Melting the frost there into pearly dew - That mirrored back his nature's morning-blue. - - - XXVI. - - She turned and saw him, but she felt no dread, - Her purity, like adamantine mail, - Did so encircle her; and yet her head - She drooped, and made her golden hair her veil, - Through which a glow of rosiest lustre spread, - Then faded, and anon she stood all pale, - As snow o'er which a blush of northern-light - Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows white. - - - XXVII. - - She thought of Tristrem and of Lancilot, - Of all her dreams, and of kind fairies' might, - And how that dell was deemed a haunted spot, - Until there grew a mist before her sight, - And where the present was she half forgot, - Borne backward through the realms of old delight,-- - Then, starting up awake, she would have gone, - Yet almost wished it might not be alone. - - - XXVIII. - - How they went home together through the wood, - And how all life seemed focussed into one - Thought-dazzling spot that set ablaze the blood, - What need to tell? Fit language there is none - For the heart's deepest things. Who ever wooed - As in his boyish hope he would have done? - For, when the soul is fullest, the hushed tongue - Voicelessly trembles like a lute unstrung. - - - XXIX. - - But all things carry the heart's messages - And know it not, nor doth the heart well know, - But nature hath her will; even as the bees, - Blithe go-betweens, fly singing to and fro - With the fruit-quickening pollen;--hard if these - Found not some all unthought-of way to show - Their secret each to each; and so they did, - And one heart's flower-dust into the other slid. - - - XXX. - - Young hearts are free; the selfish world it is - That turns them miserly and cold as stone, - And makes them clutch their fingers on the bliss - Which but in giving truly is their own;-- - She had no dreams of barter, asked not his, - But gave hers freely as she would have thrown - A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth - Its generous fragrance, thoughtless of its worth. - - - XXXI. - - Her summer nature felt a need to bless, - And a like longing to be blest again; - So, from her sky-like spirit, gentleness - Dropt ever like a sunlit fall of rain, - And his beneath drank in the bright caress - As thirstily as would a parchèd plain, - That long hath watched the showers of sloping gray - Forever, ever, falling far away. - - - XXXII. - - How should she dream of ill? the heart filled quite - With sunshine, like the shepherd's-clock at noon, - Closes its leaves around its warm delight; - Whate'er in life is harsh or out of tune - Is all shut out, no boding shade of light - Can pierce the opiate ether of its swoon: - Love is but blind as thoughtful justice is, - But naught can be so wanton-blind as bliss. - - - XXXIII. - - All beauty and all life he was to her; - She questioned not his love, she only knew - That she loved him, and not a pulse could stir - In her whole frame but quivered through and through - With this glad thought, and was a minister - To do him fealty and service true, - Like golden ripples hasting to the land - To wreck their freight of sunshine on the strand. - - - XXXIV. - - O dewy dawn of love! O hopes that are - Hung high, like the cliff-swallow's perilous nest, - Most like to fall when fullest, and that jar - With every heavier billow! O unrest - Than balmiest deeps of quiet sweeter far! - How did ye triumph now in Margaret's breast, - Making it readier to shrink and start - Than quivering gold of the pond-lily's heart. - - - XXXV. - - Here let us pause: O, would the soul might ever - Achieve its immortality in youth, - When nothing yet hath damped its high endeavor - After the starry energy of truth! - Here let us pause, and for a moment sever - This gleam of sunshine from the days unruth - That sometime come to all, for it is good - To lengthen to the last a sunny mood. - - - PART SECOND. - - - I. - - As one who, from the sunshine and the green, - Enters the solid darkness of a cave, - Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen - May yawn before him with its sudden grave, - And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean, - Dreaming he hears the plashing of a wave - Dimly below, or feels a damper air - From out some dreary chasm, he knows not where;-- - - - II. - - So, from the sunshine and the green of love, - We enter on our story's darker part; - And, though the horror of it well may move - An impulse of repugnance in the heart, - Yet let us think, that, as there's naught above - The all-embracing atmosphere of Art, - So also there is naught that falls below - Her generous reach, though grimed with guilt and woe. - - - III. - - Her fittest triumph is to show that good - Lurks in the heart of evil evermore, - That love, though scorned, and outcast, and withstood, - Can without end forgive, and yet have store; - God's love and man's are of the self-same blood, - And He can see that always at the door - Of foulest hearts the angel-nature yet - Knocks to return and cancel all its debt. - - - IV. - - It ever is weak falsehood's destiny - That her thick mask turns crystal to let through - The unsuspicious eyes of honesty; - But Margaret's heart was too sincere and true - Aught but plain truth and faithfulness to see, - And Mordred's for a time a little grew - To be like hers, won by the mild reproof - Of those kind eyes that kept all doubt aloof. - - - V. - - Full oft they met, as dawn and twilight meet - In northern climes; she full of growing day - As he of darkness, which before her feet - Shrank gradual, and faded quite away, - Soon to return; for power had made love sweet - To him, and, when his will had gained full sway, - The taste began to pall; for never power - Can sate the hungry soul beyond an hour. - - - VI. - - He fell as doth the tempter ever fall, - Even in the gaining of his loathsome end; - God doth not work as man works, but makes all - The crooked paths of ill to goodness tend; - Let him judge Margaret! If to be the thrall - Of love, and faith too generous to defend - Its very life from him she loved, be sin, - What hope of grace may the seducer win? - - - VII. - - Grim-hearted world, that look'st with Levite eyes - On those poor fallen by too much faith in man. - She that upon thy freezing threshold lies, - Starved to more sinning by thy savage ban,-- - Seeking that refuge because foulest vice - More god-like than thy virtue is, whose span - Shuts out the wretched only,--is more free - To enter Heaven than thou wilt ever be! - - - VIII. - - Thou wilt not let her wash thy dainty feet - With such salt things as tears, or with rude hair - Dry them, soft Pharisee, that sit'st at meat - With him who made her such, and speak'st him fair, - Leaving God's wandering lamb the while to bleat - Unheeded, shivering in the pitiless air: - Thou hast made prisoned virtue show more wan - And haggard than a vice to look upon. - - - IX. - - Now many months flew by, and weary grew - To Margaret the sight of happy things; - Blight fell on all her flowers, instead of dew; - Shut round her heart were now the joyous wings - Wherewith it wont to soar; yet not untrue, - Though tempted much, her woman's nature clings - To its first pure belief, and with sad eyes - Looks backward o'er the gate of Paradise. - - - X. - - And so, though altered Mordred came less oft, - And winter frowned where spring had laughed before, - In his strange eyes, yet half her sadness doffed, - And in her silent patience loved him more: - Sorrow had made her soft heart yet more soft, - And a new life within her own she bore - Which made her tenderer, as she felt it move - Beneath her breast, a refuge for her love. - - - XI. - - This babe, she thought, would surely bring him back, - And be a bond forever them between; - Before its eyes the sullen tempest-rack - Would fade, and leave the face of heaven serene; - And love's return doth more than fill the lack, - Which in his absence withered the heart's green; - And yet a dim foreboding still would flit - Between her and her hope to darken it. - - - XII. - - She could not figure forth a happy fate, - Even for this life from heaven so newly come; - The earth must needs be doubly desolate - To him scarce parted from a fairer home: - Such boding heavier on her bosom sate - One night, as, standing in the twilight gloam, - She strained her eyes beyond that dizzy verge - At whose foot faintly breaks the future's surge. - - - XIII. - - Poor little spirit! naught but shame and woe - Nurse the sick heart whose lifeblood nurses thine: - Yet not those only; love hath triumphed so, - As for thy sake makes sorrow more divine: - And yet, though thou be pure, the world is foe - To purity, if born in such a shrine; - And, having trampled it for struggling thence, - Smiles to itself, and calls it Providence. - - - XIV. - - As thus she mused, a shadow seemed to rise - From out her thought, and turn to dreariness - All blissful hopes and sunny memories, - And the quick blood doth curdle up and press - About her heart, which seemed to shut its eyes - And hush itself, as who with shuddering guess - Harks through the gloom and dreads e'en now to feel - Through his hot breast the icy slide of steel. - - - XV. - - But, at the heart-beat, while in dread she was, - In the low wind the honeysuckles gleam, - A dewy thrill flits through the heavy grass, - And, looking forth, she saw, as in a dream, - Within the wood the moonlight's shadowy mass: - Night's starry heart yearning to hers doth seem, - And the deep sky, full-hearted with the moon, - Folds round her all the happiness of June. - - - XVI. - - What fear could face a heaven and earth like this? - What silveriest cloud could hang 'neath such a sky? - A tide of wondrous and unwonted bliss - Rolls back through all her pulses suddenly, - As if some seraph, who had learned to kiss - From the fair daughters of the world gone by, - Had wedded so his fallen light with hers, - Such sweet, strange joy through soul and body stirs. - - - XVII. - - Now seek we Mordred: He who did not fear - The crime, yet fears the latent consequence: - If it should reach a brother Templar's ear, - It haply might be made a good pretence - To cheat him of the hope he held most dear; - For he had spared no thought's or deed's expense, - That, by-and-by might help his wish to clip - Its darling bride,--the high grand mastership. - - - XVIII. - - The apathy, ere a crime resolved is done, - Is scarce less dreadful than remorse for crime; - By no allurement can the soul be won - From brooding o'er the weary creep of time: - Mordred stole forth into the happy sun, - Striving to hum a scrap of Breton rhyme, - But the sky struck him speechless, and he tried - In vain to summon up his callous pride. - - - XIX. - - In the court-yard a fountain leaped alway, - A Triton blowing jewels through his shell - Into the sunshine; Mordred turned away, - Weary because the stone face did not tell - Of weariness, nor could he bear to-day, - Heartsick, to hear the patient sink and swell - Of winds among the leaves, or golden bees - Drowsily humming in the orange-trees. - - - XX. - - All happy sights and sounds now came to him - Like a reproach: he wandered far and wide, - Following the lead of his unquiet whim, - But still there went a something at his side - That made the cool breeze hot, the sunshine dim; - It would not flee, it could not be defied, - He could not see it, but he felt it there, - By the damp chill that crept among his hair. - - - XXI. - - Day wore at last; the evening star arose, - And throbbing in the sky grew red and set; - Then with a guilty, wavering step he goes - To the hid nook where they so oft had met - In happier season, for his heart well knows - That he is sure to find poor Margaret - Watching and waiting there with lovelorn breast - Around her young dream's rudely scattered nest. - - - XXII. - - Why follow here that grim old chronicle - Which counts the dagger-strokes and drops of blood? - Enough that Margaret by his mad steel fell, - Unmoved by murder from her trusting mood, - Smiling on him as Heaven smiles on Hell, - With a sad love, remembering when he stood - Not fallen yet, the unsealer of her heart, - Of all her holy dreams the holiest part. - - - XXIII. - - His crime complete, scarce knowing what he did, - (So goes the tale,) beneath the altar there - In the high church the stiffening corpse he hid, - And then, to 'scape that suffocating air, - Like a scared ghoul out of the porch he slid; - But his strained eyes saw bloodspots everywhere, - And ghastly faces thrust themselves between - His soul and hopes of peace with blasting mien. - - - XXIV. - - His heart went out within him, like a spark - Dropt in the sea; wherever he made bold - To turn his eyes, he saw, all stiff and stark, - Pale Margaret lying dead; the lavish gold - Of her loose hair seemed in the cloudy dark - To spread a glory, and a thousandfold - More strangely pale and beautiful she grew: - Her silence stabbed his conscience through and through: - - - XXV. - - Or visions of past days,--a mother's eyes - That smiled down on the fair boy at her knee, - Whose happy upturned face to hers replies,-- - He saw sometimes: or Margaret mournfully - Gazed on him full of doubt, as one who tries - To crush belief that does love injury; - Then she would wring her hands, but soon again - Love's patience glimmered out through cloudy pain. - - - XXVI. - - Meanwhile he dared not go and steal away - The silent, dead-cold witness of his sin; - He had not feared the life, but that dull clay, - Those open eyes that showed the death within, - Would surely stare him mad; yet all the day - A dreadful impulse, whence his will could win - No refuge, made him linger in the aisle, - Freezing with his wan look each greeting smile. - - - XXVII. - - Now, on the second day there was to be - A festival in church: from far and near - Came flocking in the sunburnt peasantry, - And knights and dames with stately antique cheer, - Blazing with pomp, as if all faërie - Had emptied her quaint halls, or, as it were, - The illuminated marge of some old book, - While we were gazing, life and motion took. - - - XXVIII. - - When all were entered, and the roving eyes - Of all were staid, some upon faces bright, - Some on the priests, some on the traceries - That decked the slumber of a marble knight, - And all the rustlings over that arise - From recognizing tokens of delight, - When friendly glances meet,--then silent ease - Spread o'er the multitude by slow degrees. - - - XXIX. - - Then swelled the organ: up through choir and nave - The music trembled with an inward thrill - Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave - Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until - The hushed air shivered with the throb it gave, - Then, poising for a moment, it stood still, - And sank and rose again, to burst in spray - That wandered into silence far away. - - - XXX. - - Like to a mighty heart the music seemed, - That yearns with melodies it cannot speak, - Until, in grand despair of what it dreamed, - In the agony of effort it doth break, - Yet triumphs breaking; on it rushed and streamed - And wantoned in its might, as when a lake, - Long pent among the mountains, bursts its walls - And in one crowding gush leaps forth and falls. - - - XXXI. - - Deeper and deeper shudders shook the air, - As the huge bass kept gathering heavily, - Like thunder when it rouses in its lair, - And with its hoarse growl shakes the low-hung sky, - It grew up like a darkness everywhere, - Filling the vast cathedral;--suddenly, - From the dense mass a boy's clear treble broke - Like lightning, and the full-toned choir awoke. - - - XXXII. - - Through gorgeous windows shone the sun aslant, - Brimming the church with gold and purple mist, - Meet atmosphere to bosom that rich chant, - Where fifty voices in one strand did twist - Their varicolored tones, and left no want - To the delighted soul, which sank abyssed - In the warm music cloud, while, far below, - The organ heaved its surges to and fro. - - - XXXIII. - - As if a lark should suddenly drop dead - While the blue air yet trembled with its song, - So snapped at once that music's golden thread, - Struck by a nameless fear that leapt along - From heart to heart, and like a shadow spread - With instantaneous shiver through the throng, - So that some glanced behind, as half aware - A hideous shape of dread were standing there. - - - XXXIV. - - As when a crowd of pale men gather round, - Watching an eddy in the leaden deep, - From which they deem the body of one drowned - Will be cast forth, from face to face doth creep - An eager dread that holds all tongues fast bound - Until the horror, with a ghastly leap, - Starts up, its dead blue arms stretched aimlessly, - Heaved with the swinging of the careless sea,-- - - - XXXV. - - So in the faces of all these there grew, - As by one impulse, a dark, freezing awe, - Which, with a fearful fascination drew - All eyes toward the altar; damp and raw - The air grew suddenly, and no man knew - Whether perchance his silent neighbor saw - The dreadful thing which all were sure would rise - To scare the strained lids wider from their eyes. - - - XXXVI. - - The incense trembled as it upward sent - Its slow, uncertain thread of wandering blue, - As 't were the only living element - In all the church, so deep the stillness grew, - It seemed one might have heard it, as it went, - Give out an audible rustle, curling through - The midnight silence of that awe-struck air, - More hushed than death, though so much life was there. - - - XXXVII. - - Nothing they saw, but a low voice was heard - Threading the ominous silence of that fear, - Gentle and terrorless as if a bird, - Wakened by some volcano's glare, should cheer - The murk air with his song; yet every word - In the cathedral's farthest arch seemed near - As if it spoke to every one apart, - Like the clear voice of conscience in each heart. - - - XXXVIII. - - "O Rest, to weary hearts thou art most dear! - O Silence, after life's bewildering din, - Thou art most welcome, whether in the sear - Days of our age thou comest, or we win - Thy poppy-wreath in youth! then wherefore here - Linger I yet, once free to enter in - At that wished gate which gentle Death doth ope, - Into the boundless realm of strength and hope? - - - XXXIX. - - "Think not in death my love could ever cease; - If thou wast false, more need there is for me - Still to be true; that slumber were not peace, - If 't were unvisited with dreams of thee: - And thou hadst never heard such words as these, - Save that in heaven I must ever be - Most comfortless and wretched, seeing this - Our unbaptizèd babe shut out from bliss. - - - XL. - - "This little spirit with imploring eyes - Wanders alone the dreary wild of space; - The shadow of his pain forever lies - Upon my soul in this new dwelling-place; - His loneliness makes me in Paradise - More lonely, and, unless I see his face, - Even here for grief could I lie down and die, - Save for my curse of immortality. - - - XLI. - - "World after world he sees around him swim - Crowded with happy souls, that take no heed - Of the sad eyes that from the night's faint rim - Gaze sick with longing on them as they speed - With golden gates, that only shut out him; - And shapes sometimes from Hell's abysses freed - Flap darkly by him, with enormous sweep - Of wings that roughen wide the pitchy deep. - - - XLII. - - "I am a mother,--spirits do not shake - This much of earth from them,--and I must pine - Till I can feel his little hands, and take - His weary head upon this heart of mine; - And, might it be, full gladly for his sake - Would I this solitude of bliss resign, - And be shut out of Heaven to dwell with him - Forever in that silence drear and dim. - - - XLIII. - - "I strove to hush my soul, and would not speak - At first, for thy dear sake; a woman's love - Is mighty, but a mother's heart is weak, - And by its weakness overcomes; I strove - To smother bitter thoughts with patience meek, - But still in the abyss my soul would rove, - Seeking my child, and drove me here to claim - The rite that gives him peace in Christ's dear name. - - - XLIV. - - "I sit and weep while blessed spirits sing; - I can but long and pine the while they praise, - And, leaning o'er the wall of Heaven, I fling - My voice to where I deem my infant strays, - Like a robbed bird that cries in vain to bring - Her nestlings back beneath her wings' embrace; - But still he answers not, and I but know - That Heaven and earth are both alike in woe." - - - XLV. - - Then the pale priests, with ceremony due, - Baptized the child within its dreadful tomb - Beneath that mother's heart, whose instinct true - Star-like had battled down the triple gloom - Of sorrow, love, and death: young maidens, too, - Strewed the pale corpse with many a milkwhite bloom, - And parted the bright hair, and on the breast - Crossed the unconscious hands in sign of rest. - - - XLVI. - - Some said, that, when the priest had sprinkled o'er - The consecrated drops, they seemed to hear - A sigh, as of some heart from travail sore - Released, and then two voices singing clear, - _Misereatur Deus_, more and more - Fading far upward, and their ghastly fear - Fell from them with that sound, as bodies fall - From souls upspringing to celestial hall. - - - - - PROMETHEUS. - - - One after one the stars have risen and set, - Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain: - The Bear, that prowled all night about the fold - Of the North-star, hath shrunk into his den, - Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn, - Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient; - And now bright Lucifer grows less and less, - Into the heaven's blue quiet deep-withdrawn. - Sunless and starless all, the desert sky - Arches above me, empty as this heart - For ages hath been empty of all joy, - Except to brood upon its silent hope, - As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now. - All night have I heard voices: deeper yet - The deep low breathing of the silence grew, - While all about, muffled in awe, there stood - Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart, - But, when I turned to front them, far along - Only a shudder through the midnight ran, - And the dense stillness walled me closer round. - But still I heard them wander up and down - That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings - Did mingle with them, whether of those hags - Let slip upon me once from Hades deep, - Or of yet direr torments, if such be, - I could but guess; and then toward me came - A shape as of a woman: very pale - It was, and calm; its cold eyes did not move, - And mine moved not, but only stared on them. - Their fixed awe went through my brain like ice, - A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart, - And a sharp chill, as if a dank night fog - Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt: - And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh, - A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips - Stiffening in death, close to mine ear. I thought - Some doom was close upon me, and I looked - And saw the red moon through the heavy mist, - Just setting, and it seemed as if it were falling, - Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead - And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged - Into the rising surges of the pines, - Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins - Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength, - Sent up a murmur in the morning wind, - Sad as the wail that from the populous earth - All day and night to high Olympus soars, - Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O Jove! - - Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn - From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom. - And are these tears? Nay, do not triumph, Jove, - They are wrung from me but by the agonies - Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall - From clouds in travail of the lightning, when - The great wave of the storm high-curled and black - Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break. - Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type - Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force? - True Power was never born of brutish Strength, - Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs - Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts, - That quell the darkness for a space, so strong - As the prevailing patience of meek Light, - Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace, - Wins it to be a portion of herself? - Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast - The never-sleeping terror at thy heart, - That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear - Than this thy ravening bird on which I smile? - Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold - What kind of doom it is whose omen flits - Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves - The fearful shadow of the kite. What need - To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save? - Evil its errand hath, as well as Good; - When thine is finished, thou art known no more: - There is a higher purity than thou, - And higher purity is greater strength; - Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart - Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might. - Let man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled - With thought of that drear silence and deep night - Which, like a dream, shall swallow thee and thine: - Let man but will, and thou art god no more, - More capable of ruin than the gold - And ivory that image thee on earth. - He who hurled down the monstrous Titan-brood - Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned, - Is weaker than a simple human thought. - My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze, - That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair, - Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole: - For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow - In my wise heart the end and doom of all. - - Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown - By years of solitude,--that holds apart - The past and future, giving the soul room - To search into itself,--and long commune - With this eternal silence;--more a god, - In my long-suffering and strength to meet - With equal front the direst shafts of fate, - Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism, - Girt with thy baby-toys of force and wrath. - Yes, I am that Prometheus who brought down - The light to man, which thou, in selfish fear, - Hadst to thyself usurped,--his by sole right, - For Man hath right to all save Tyranny,-- - And which shall free him yet from thy frail throne. - Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance, - Begotten by the slaves they trample on, - Who, could they win a glimmer of the light, - And see that Tyranny is always weakness, - Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease, - Would laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain - Which their own blindness feigned for adamant. - Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right - To the firm centre lays its moveless base. - The tyrant trembles, if the air but stirs - The innocent ringlets of a child's free hair, - And crouches, when the thought of some great spirit, - With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale, - Over men's hearts, as over standing corn, - Rushes, and bends them to its own strong will. - So shall some thought of mine yet circle earth, - And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove! - - And, wouldst thou know of my supreme revenge - Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart, - Realmless in soul, as tyrants ever are, - Listen! and tell me if this bitter peak, - This never-glutted vulture, and these chains - Shrink not before it; for it shall befit - A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart. - Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand - On a precipitous crag that overhangs - The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see, - As in a glass, the features dim and vast - Of things to come, the shadows, as it seems, - Of what have been. Death ever fronts the wise; - Not fearfully, but with clear promises - Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne, - Their out-look widens, and they see beyond - The horizon of the Present and the Past, - Even to the very source and end of things. - Such am I now: immortal woe hath made - My heart a seer, and my soul a judge - Between the substance and the shadow of Truth. - The sure supremeness of the Beautiful, - By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure - Of such as I am, this is my revenge, - Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch, - Through which I see a sceptre and a throne. - The pipings of glad shepherds on the hills, - Tending the flocks no more to bleed for thee,-- - The songs of maidens pressing with white feet - The vintage on thine altars poured no more,-- - The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath - Dim grape-vine bowers, whose rosy bunches press - Not half so closely their warm cheeks, unpaled - By thoughts of thy brute lust,--the hive-like hum - Of peaceful commonwealths, where sunburnt Toil - Reaps for itself the rich earth made its own - By its own labor, lightened with glad hymns - To an omnipotence which thy mad bolts - Would cope with as a spark with the vast sea,-- - Even the spirit of free love and peace, - Duty's sure recompense through life and death,-- - These are such harvests as all master-spirits - Reap, haply not on earth, but reap no less - Because the sheaves are bound by hands not theirs; - These are the bloodless daggers wherewithal - They stab fallen tyrants, this their high revenge: - For their best part of life on earth is when, - Long after death, prisoned and pent no more, - Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, have become - Part of the necessary air men breathe; - When, like the moon, herself behind a cloud, - They shed down light before us on life's sea, - That cheers us to steer onward still in hope. - Earth with her twining memories ivies o'er - Their holy sepulchres; the chainless sea, - In tempest or wide calm, repeats their thoughts; - The lightning and the thunder, all free things, - Have legends of them for the ears of men. - All other glories are as falling stars, - But universal Nature watches theirs: - Such strength is won by love of human kind. - - Not that I feel that hunger after fame, - Which souls of a half-greatness are beset with; - But that the memory of noble deeds - Cries, shame upon the idle and the vile, - And keeps the heart of Man forever up - To the heroic level of old time. - To be forgot at first is little pain - To a heart conscious of such high intent - As must be deathless on the lips of men; - But, having been a name, to sink and be - A something which the world can do without, - Which, having been or not, would never change - The lightest pulse of fate,--this is indeed - A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, - And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs. - Endless despair shall be thy Caucasus, - And memory thy vulture; thou wilt find - Oblivion far lonelier than this peak,-- - Behold thy destiny! Thou think'st it much - That I should brave thee, miserable god! - But I have braved a mightier than thou, - Even the tempting of this soaring heart, - Which might have made me, scarcely less than thou, - A god among my brethren weak and blind,-- - Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing - To be down-trodden into darkness soon. - But now I am above thee, for thou art - The bungling workmanship of fear, the block - That awes the swart Barbarian; but I - Am what myself have made,--a nature wise - With finding in itself the types of all,-- - With watching from the dim verge of the time - What things to be are visible in the gleams - Thrown forward on them from the luminous past,-- - Wise with the history of its own frail heart, - With reverence and sorrow, and with love, - Broad as the world, for freedom and for man. - - Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love, - By whom and for whose glory, ye shall cease: - And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard - From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I - Shall be a power and a memory, - A name to fright all tyrants with, a light - Unsetting as the pole-star, a great voice - Heard in the breathless pauses of the fight - By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong, - Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake - Huge echoes that from age to age live on - In kindred spirits, giving them a sense - Of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung: - And many a glazing eye shall smile to see - The memory of my triumph, (for to meet - Wrong with endurance, and to overcome - The present with a heart that looks beyond, - Are triumph,) like a prophet eagle, perch - Upon the sacred banner of the Right. - Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed, - And feeds the green earth with its swift decay, - Leaving it richer for the growth of truth; - But Good, once put in action or in thought, - Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down - The ripe germs of a forest. Thou; weak god, - Shalt fade and be forgotten! but this soul, - Fresh-living still in the serene abyss, - In every heaving shall partake, that grows - From heart to heart among the sons of men,-- - As the ominous hum before the earthquake runs - Far through the Ægean from roused isle to isle,-- - Foreboding wreck to palaces and shrines, - And mighty rents in many a cavernous error - That darkens the free light to man:--This heart, - Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth - Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and claws - Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall - In all the throbbing exultations share - That wait on freedom's triumphs, and in all - The glorious agonies of martyr-spirits,-- - Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged clouds - That veil the future, showing them the end,-- - Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth, - Girding the temples like a wreath of stars. - This is a thought, that, like a fabled laurel, - Makes my faith thunder-proof; and thy dread bolts - Fall on me like the silent flakes of snow - On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus: - But, O thought far more blissful, they can rend - This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star! - - Unleash thy crouching thunders now, O Jove! - Free this high heart, which, a poor captive long, - Doth knock to be let forth, this heart which still, - In its invincible manhood, overtops - Thy puny godship, as this mountain doth - The pines that moss its roots. O, even now, - While from my peak of suffering I look down, - Beholding with a far-spread gush of hope - The sunrise of that Beauty, in whose face, - Shone all around with love, no man shall look - But straightway like a god he is uplift - Unto the throne long empty for his sake, - And clearly oft foreshadowed in wide dreams - By his free inward nature, which nor thou, - Nor any anarch after thee, can bind - From working its great doom,--now, now set free - This essence, not to die, but to become - Part of that awful Presence which doth haunt - The palaces of tyrants, to hunt off, - With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings - And hideous sense of utter loneliness, - All hope of safety, all desire of peace, - All but the loathed forefeeling of blank death,-- - Part of that spirit which doth ever brood - In patient calm on the unpilfered nest - Of man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow fledged - To sail with darkening shadow o'er the world, - Filling with dread such souls as dare not trust - In the unfailing energy of Good, - Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make - Of some o'erbloated wrong,--that spirit which - Scatters great hopes in the seed-field of man, - Like acorns among grain, to grow and be - A roof for freedom in all coming time! - - But no, this cannot be; for ages yet, - In solitude unbroken, shall I hear - The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout, - And Euxine answer with a muffled roar, - On either side storming the giant walls - Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam, - (Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow,) - That draw back baffled but to hurl again, - Snatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil, - Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst, - My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove, - Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad - In vain emprise. The moon will come and go - With her monotonous vicissitude; - Once beautiful, when I was free to walk - Among my fellows, and to interchange - The influence benign of loving eyes, - But now by aged use grown wearisome;-- - False thought! most false! for how could I endure - These crawling centuries of lonely woe - Unshamed by weak complaining, but for thee, - Loneliest, save me, of all created things, - Mild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter, - With thy pale smile of sad benignity? - - Year after year will pass away and seem - To me, in mine eternal agony, - But as the shadows of dumb summer clouds, - Which I have watched so often darkening o'er - The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first, - But, with still swiftness lessening on and on - Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle where - The gray horizon fades into the sky, - Far, far to the northward. Yes, for ages yet - Must I lie here upon my altar huge, - A sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be, - As it hath been, his portion; endless doom, - While the immortal with the mortal linked - Dreams of its wings and pines for what it dreams, - With upward yearn unceasing. Better so: - For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child, - And empire over self, and all the deep - Strong charities that make men seem like gods; - And love, that makes them be gods, from her breasts - Sucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood. - Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems, - Having two faces, as some images - Are carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill; - But one heart lies beneath, and that is good, - As are all hearts, when we explore their depths. - Therefore, great heart, bear up! thou art but type - Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain - Would win men back to strength and peace through love: - Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart - Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong - With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left; - And faith, which is but hope grown wise; and love - And patience, which at last shall overcome. - - 1843. - - - - - SONG. - - - Violet! sweet violet! - Thine eyes are full of tears; - Are they wet - Even yet - With the thought of other years? - Or with gladness are they full, - For the night so beautiful, - And longing for those far-off spheres? - - Loved-one of my youth thou wast, - Of my merry youth, - And I see, - Tearfully, - All the fair and sunny past, - All its openness and truth, - Ever fresh and green in thee - As the moss is in the sea. - - Thy little heart, that hath with love - Grown colored like the sky above, - On which thou lookest ever, - Can it know - All the woe - Of hope for what returneth never, - All the sorrow and the longing - To these hearts of ours belonging? - - Out on it! no foolish pining - For the sky - Dims thine eye, - Or for the stars so calmly shining; - Like thee let this soul of mine - Take hue from that wherefor I long, - Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, - Not satisfied with hoping--but divine. - Violet! dear violet! - Thy blue eyes are only wet - With joy and love of him who sent thee, - And for the fulfilling sense - Of that glad obedience - Which made thee all that Nature meant thee! - - 1841. - - - - - ROSALINE. - - - Thou look'dst on me all yesternight, - Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright - As when we murmured our troth-plight - Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline! - Thy hair was braided on thy head, - As on the day we two were wed, - Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead, - But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline! - - The death-watch ticked behind the wall, - The blackness rustled like a pall, - The moaning wind did rise and fall - Among the bleak pines, Rosaline! - My heart beat thickly in mine ears; - The lids may shut out fleshly fears, - But still the spirit sees and hears,-- - Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline! - - A wildness rushing suddenly, - A knowing some ill-shape is nigh, - A wish for death, a fear to die,-- - Is not this vengeance, Rosaline? - A loneliness that is not lone, - A love quite withered up and gone, - A strong soul trampled from its throne,-- - What wouldst thou further, Rosaline? - - 'Tis drear such moonless nights as these, - Strange sounds are out upon the breeze, - And the leaves shiver in the trees, - And then thou comest, Rosaline! - I seem to hear the mourners go, - With long black garments trailing slow, - And plumes anodding to and fro, - As once I heard them, Rosaline! - - Thy shroud is all of snowy white, - And, in the middle of the night, - Thou standest moveless and upright, - Gazing upon me, Rosaline! - There is no sorrow in thine eyes, - But evermore that meek surprise,-- - O, God! thy gentle spirit tries - To deem me guiltless, Rosaline! - - Above thy grave the robin sings, - And swarms of bright and happy things - Flit all about with sunlit wings,-- - But I am cheerless, Rosaline! - The violets on the hillock toss, - The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss; - For nature feels not any loss,-- - But I am cheerless, Rosaline! - - I did not know when thou wast dead; - A blackbird whistling overhead - Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled, - But dared not leave thee, Rosaline! - The sun rolled down, and very soon, - Like a great fire, the awful moon - Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon - Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline! - - The stars came out; and, one by one, - Each angel from his silver throne - Looked down and saw what I had done; - I dared not hide me, Rosaline! - I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry - Against me to God's quiet sky, - I thought I saw the blue lips try - To utter something, Rosaline! - - I waited with a maddened grin - To hear that voice all icy thin - Slide forth and tell my deadly sin - To hell and heaven, Rosaline! - But no voice came, and then it seemed - That, if the very corpse had screamed, - The sound like sunshine glad had streamed - Through that dark stillness, Rosaline! - - And then, amid the silent night, - I screamed with horrible delight, - And in my brain an awful light - Did seem to crackle, Rosaline! - It is my curse! sweet memories fall - From me like snow,--and only all - Of that one night, like cold worms crawl - My doomed heart over, Rosaline! - - Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, - Wherein such blessed memories, - Such pitying forgiveness lies, - Than hate more bitter, Rosaline? - Woe's me! I know that love so high - As thine, true soul, could never die, - And with mean clay in churchyard lie,-- - Would it might be so, Rosaline! - - 1841. - - - - - THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS. - - - There came a youth upon the earth, - Some thousand years ago, - Whose slender hands were nothing worth, - Whether to plough, or reap, or sow. - - Upon an empty tortoise-shell - He stretched some chords, and drew - Music that made men's bosoms swell - Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. - - Then King Admetus, one who had - Pure taste by right divine, - Decreed his singing not too bad - To hear between the cups of wine: - - And so, well-pleased with being soothed - Into a sweet half-sleep, - Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, - And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. - - His words were simple words enough, - And yet he used them so, - That what in other mouths was rough - In his seemed musical and low. - - Men called him but a shiftless youth, - In whom no good they saw; - And yet, unwittingly, in truth, - They made his careless words their law. - - They knew not how he learned at all, - For idly, hour by hour, - He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, - Or mused upon a common flower. - - It seemed the loveliness of things - Did teach him all their use, - For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, - He found a healing power profuse. - - Men granted that his speech was wise, - But, when a glance they caught - Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, - They laughed, and called him good-for-naught. - - Yet after he was dead and gone, - And e'en his memory dim, - Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, - More full of love, because of him. - - And day by day more holy grew - Each spot where he had trod, - Till after-poets only knew - Their first-born brother as a god. - - 1842. - - - - - THE TOKEN. - - - It is a mere wild rosebud, - Quite sallow now, and dry, - Yet there 's something wondrous in it,-- - Some gleams of days gone by,-- - Dear sights and sounds that are to me - The very moons of memory, - And stir my heart's blood far below - Its short-lived waves of joy and woe. - - Lips must fade and roses wither, - All sweet times be o'er,-- - They only smile, and, murmuring "Thither!" - Stay with us no more: - And yet ofttimes a look or smile, - Forgotten in a kiss's while, - Years after from the dark will start, - And flash across the trembling heart. - - Thou hast given me many roses, - But never one, like this, - O'erfloods both sense and spirit - With such a deep, wild bliss; - We must have instincts that glean up - Sparse drops of this life in the cup, - Whose taste shall give us all that we - Can prove of immortality. - - Earth's stablest things are shadows, - And, in the life to come, - Haply some chance-saved trifle - May tell of this old home: - As now sometimes we seem to find, - In a dark crevice of the mind, - Some relic, which, long pondered o'er, - Hints faintly at a life before. - - - - - AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. - - - He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough - Pressed round to hear the praise of one - Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, - As homespun as their own. - - And, when he read, they forward leaned, - Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, - His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned - From humble smiles and tears. - - Slowly there grew a tender awe, - Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, - As if in him who read they felt and saw - Some presence of the bard. - - It was a sight for sin and wrong - And slavish tyranny to see, - A sight to make our faith more pure and strong - In high humanity. - - I thought, these men will carry hence - Promptings their former life above, - And something of a finer reverence - For beauty, truth, and love. - - God scatters love on every side, - Freely among his children all, - And always hearts are lying open wide, - Wherein some grains may fall. - - There is no wind but soweth seeds - Of a more true and open life, - Which burst, unlooked-for, into high-souled deeds, - With wayside beauty rife. - - We find within these souls of ours - Some wild germs of a higher birth, - Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers - Whose fragrance fills the earth. - - Within the hearts of all men lie - These promises of wider bliss, - Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, - In sunny hours like this. - - All that hath been majestical - In life or death, since time began, - Is native in the simple heart of all, - The angel heart of man. - - And thus, among the untaught poor, - Great deeds and feelings find a home, - That cast in shadow all the golden lore - Of classic Greece and Rome. - - O, mighty brother-soul of man, - Where'er thou art, in low or high, - Thy skiey arches with exulting span - O'er-roof infinity! - - All thoughts that mould the age begin - Deep down within the primitive soul, - And from the many slowly upward win - To one who grasps the whole: - - In his wide brain the feeling deep - That struggled on the many's tongue - Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap - O'er the weak thrones of wrong. - - All thought begins in feeling,--wide - In the great mass its base is hid, - And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, - A moveless pyramid. - - Nor is he far astray who deems - That every hope, which rises and grows broad - In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams - From the great heart of God. - - God wills, man hopes: in common souls - Hope is but vague and undefined, - Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls - A blessing to his kind. - - Never did Poesy appear - So full of heaven to me, as when - I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear - To the lives of coarsest men. - - It may be glorious to write - Thoughts that shall glad the two or three - High souls, like those far stars that come in sight - Once in a century;-- - - But better far it is to speak - One simple word, which now and then - Shall waken their free nature in the weak - And friendless sons of men; - - To write some earnest verse or line, - Which, seeking not the praise of art, - Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine - In the untutored heart. - - He who doth this, in verse or prose, - May be forgotten in his day, - But surely shall be crowned at last with those - Who live and speak for aye. - - 1842. - - - - - RHOECUS. - - - God sends his teachers unto every age, - To every clime, and every race of men, - With revelations fitted to their growth - And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth - Into the selfish rule of one sole race: - Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed - The life of man, and given it to grasp - The master-key of knowledge, reverence, - Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right; - Else never had the eager soul, which loathes - The slothful down of pampered ignorance, - Found in it even a moment's fitful rest. - - There is an instinct in the human heart - Which makes that all the fables it hath coined, - To justify the reign of its belief - And strengthen it by beauty's right divine, - Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, - Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands, - Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. - For, as in nature naught is made in vain, - But all things have within their hull of use - A wisdom and a meaning which may speak - Of spiritual secrets to the ear - Of spirit; so, in whatsoe'er the heart - Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, - To make its inspirations suit its creed, - And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring - Its needful food of truth, there ever is - A sympathy with Nature, which reveals, - Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light - And earnest parables of inward lore. - Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, - As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still - As the immortal freshness of that grace - Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. - - A youth named Rhoecus, wandering in the wood, - Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall, - And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, - He propped its gray trunk with admiring care, - And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. - But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind - That murmured "Rhoecus!" 'Twas as if the leaves, - Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it, - And, while he paused bewildered, yet again - It murmured "Rhoecus!" softer than a breeze. - He started and beheld with dizzy eyes - What seemed the substance of a happy dream - Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow - Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak. - It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair - To be a woman, and with eyes too meek - For any that were wont to mate with gods. - All naked like a goddess stood she there, - And like a goddess all too beautiful - To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. - "Rhoecus, I am the Dryad of this tree," - Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words - Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew, - "And with it I am doomed to live and die; - The rain and sunshine are my caterers, - Nor have I other bliss than simple life; - Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give, - And with a thankful joy it shall be thine." - - Then Rhoecus, with a flutter at the heart, - Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold, - Answered: "What is there that can satisfy - The endless craving of the soul but love? - Give me thy love, or but the hope of that - Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." - After a little pause she said again, - But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, - "I give it, Rhoecus, though a perilous gift; - An hour before the sunset meet me here." - And straightway there was nothing he could see - But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak, - And not a sound came to his straining ears - But the low trickling rustle of the leaves, - And far away upon an emerald slope - The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. - - Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, - Men did not think that happy things were dreams - Because they overstepped the narrow bourne - Of likelihood, but reverently deemed - Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful - To be the guerdon of a daring heart. - So Rhoecus made no doubt that he was blest, - And all along unto the city's gate - Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked, - The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, - And he could scarce believe he had not wings - Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins - Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. - - Young Rhoecus had a faithful heart enough, - But one that in the present dwelt too much, - And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er - Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that, - Like the contented peasant of a vale, - Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond. - So, haply meeting in the afternoon - Some comrades who were playing at the dice - He joined them and forgot all else beside. - - The dice were rattling at the merriest, - And Rhoecus, who had met but sorry luck, - Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, - When through the room there hummed a yellow bee - That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs - As if to light. And Rhoecus laughed and said, - Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, - "By Venus! does he take me for a rose?" - And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand. - But still the bee came back, and thrice again - Rhoecus did beat him off with growing wrath. - Then through the window flew the wounded bee, - And Rhoecus, tracking him with angry eyes, - Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly - Against the red disc of the setting sun,-- - And instantly the blood sank from his heart, - As if its very walls had caved away. - Without a word he turned, and, rushing forth, - Ran madly through the city and the gate, - And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade, - By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim, - Darkened wellnigh unto the city's wall. - - Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, - And, listening fearfully, he heard once more - The low voice murmur "Rhoecus!" close at hand: - Whereat he looked around him, but could see - Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. - Then sighed the voice, "Oh, Rhoecus! nevermore - Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, - Me, who would fain have blessed thee with a love - More ripe and bounteous than ever yet - Filled up with nectar any mortal heart: - But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, - And sent'st him back to me with bruisèd wings. - We spirits only show to gentle eyes. - We ever ask an undivided love, - And he who scorns the least of Nature's works - Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. - Farewell! for thou canst never see me more." - - Then Rhoecus beat his breast, and groaned aloud - And cried, "Be pitiful! forgive me yet - This once, and I shall never need it more!" - "Alas!" the voice returned, "'t is thou art blind, - Not I unmerciful; I can forgive, - But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes; - Only the soul hath power o'er itself." - With that again there murmured "Nevermore!" - And Rhoecus after heard no other sound, - Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, - Like the long surf upon a distant shore, - Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. - The night had gathered round him: o'er the plain - The city sparkled with its thousand lights, - And sounds of revel fell upon his ear - Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, - With all its bright sublimity of stars, - Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze; - Beauty was all around him and delight, - But from that eve he was alone on earth. - - - - - THE FALCON. - - - I know a falcon swift and peerless - As e'er was cradled in the pine; - No bird had ever eye so fearless, - Or wings so strong as this of mine. - - The winds not better love to pilot - A cloud with molten gold o'errun, - Than him, a little burning islet, - A star above the coming sun. - - For with a lark's heart he doth tower, - By a glorious, upward instinct drawn; - No bee nestles deeper in the flower - Than he in the bursting rose of dawn. - - No harmless dove, no bird that singeth, - Shudders to see him overhead; - The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth - To innocent hearts no thrill of dread. - - Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver, - For still between them and the sky - The falcon Truth hangs poised forever - And marks them with his vengeful eye. - - - - - TRIAL. - - - I. - - Whether the idle prisoner through his grate - Watches the waving of the grass-tuft small, - Which, having colonized its rift i' the wall, - Takes its free risk of good or evil fate, - And, from the sky's just helmet draws its lot - Daily of shower or sunshine, cold or hot;-- - Whether the closer captive of a creed, - Cooped up from birth to grind out endless chaff, - Sees through his treadmill-bars the noonday laugh, - And feels in vain his crumpled pinions breed;-- - Whether the Georgian slave look up and mark, - With bellying sails puffed full, the tall cloud-bark - Sink northward slowly,--thou alone seem'st good, - Fair only thou, O Freedom, whose desire - Can light in muddiest souls quick seeds of fire, - And strain life's chords to the old heroic mood. - - - II. - - Yet are there other gifts more fair than thine, - Nor can I count him happiest who has never - Been forced with his own hand his chains to sever, - And for himself find out the way divine; - He never knew the aspirer's glorious pains, - He never earned the struggle's priceless gains. - O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor, - Lifelong we build these human natures up - Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine, - And Trial ever consecrates the cup - Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine. - - - - - A REQUIEM. - - - Ay, pale and silent maiden, - Cold as thou liest there, - Thine was the sunniest nature - That ever drew the air, - The wildest and most wayward, - And yet so gently kind, - Thou seemedst but to body - A breath of summer wind. - - Into the eternal shadow - That girds our life around, - Into the infinite silence - Wherewith Death's shore is bound, - Thou hast gone forth, belovèd! - And I were mean to weep, - That thou hast left Life's shallows, - And dost possess the Deep. - - Thou liest low and silent, - Thy heart is cold and still, - Thine eyes are shut forever, - And Death hath had his will; - He loved and would have taken, - I loved and would have kept, - We strove,--and he was stronger, - And I have never wept. - - Let him possess thy body, - Thy soul is still with me, - More sunny and more gladsome - Than it was wont to be: - Thy body was a fetter - That bound me to the flesh, - Thank God that it is broken, - And now I live afresh! - - Now I can see thee clearly; - The dusky cloud of clay, - That hid thy starry spirit, - Is rent and blown away: - To earth I give thy body, - Thy spirit to the sky, - I saw its bright wings growing, - And knew that thou must fly. - - Now I can love thee truly, - For nothing comes between - The senses and the spirit, - The seen and the unseen; - Lifts the eternal shadow, - The silence bursts apart, - And the soul's boundless future - Is present in my heart. - - - - - A PARABLE. - - - Worn and footsore was the Prophet, - When he gained the holy hill; - "God has left the earth," he murmured, - "Here his presence lingers still. - - "God of all the olden prophets, - Wilt thou speak with men no more? - Have I not as truly served thee, - As thy chosen ones of yore? - - "Hear me, guider of my fathers, - Lo! a humble heart is mine; - By thy mercy I beseech thee, - Grant thy servant but a sign!" - - Bowing then his head, he listened - For an answer to his prayer; - No loud burst of thunder followed, - Not a murmur stirred the air:-- - - But the tuft of moss before him - Opened while he waited yet, - And, from out the rock's hard bosom, - Sprang a tender violet. - - "God! I thank thee," said the Prophet - "Hard of heart and blind was I, - Looking to the holy mountain - For the gift of prophecy. - - "Still thou speakest with thy children - Freely as in eld sublime; - Humbleness, and love, and patience, - Still give empire over time. - - "Had I trusted in my nature, - And had faith in lowly things, - Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me, - And set free my spirit's wings. - - "But I looked for signs and wonders, - That o'er men should give me sway, - Thirsting to be more than mortal, - I was even less than clay. - - "Ere I entered on my journey, - As I girt my loins to start, - Ran to me my little daughter, - The beloved of my heart;-- - - "In her hand she held a flower, - Like to this as like may be, - Which, beside my very threshold, - She had plucked and brought to me." - - 1842. - - - - - A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. - - - We see but half the causes of our deeds, - Seeking them wholly in the outer life, - And heedless of the encircling spirit-world, - Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us - All germs of pure and world-wide purposes. - From one stage of our being to the next - We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge, - The momentary work of unseen hands, - Which crumbles down behind us; looking back, - We see the other shore, the gulf between, - And, marvelling how we won to where we stand, - Content ourselves to call the builder Chance, - We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall, - Not to the birth-throes of a mighty Truth - Which, for long ages in blank Chaos dumb, - Yet yearned to be incarnate, and had found - At last a spirit meet to be the womb - From which it might be born to bless mankind,-- - Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all - The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years, - And waiting but one ray of sunlight more - To blossom fully. - - But whence came that ray? - We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought - Rather to name our high successes so. - Only the instincts of great souls are Fate, - And have predestined sway: all other things, - Except by leave of us, could never be. - For Destiny is but the breath of God - Still moving in us, the last fragment left - Of our unfallen nature, waking oft - Within our thought, to beckon us beyond - The narrow circle of the seen and known, - And always tending to a noble end, - As all things must that overrule the soul, - And for a space unseat the helmsman, Will. - The fate of England and of freedom once - Seemed wavering in the heart of one plain man, - One step of his and the great dial-hand, - That marks the destined progress of the world - In the eternal round from wisdom on - To higher wisdom, had been made to pause - A hundred years. That step he did not take,-- - He knew not why, nor we, but only God,-- - And lived to make his simple oaken chair - More terrible and grandly beautiful, - More full of majesty than any throne - Before or after, of a British king. - - Upon the pier stood two stern-visaged men, - Looking to where a little craft lay moored, - Swayed by the lazy current of the Thames, - Which weltered by in muddy listlessness. - Grave men they were, and battlings of fierce thought - Had trampled out all softness from their brows, - And ploughed rough furrows there before their time, - For another crop than such as homebred Peace - Sows broadcast in the willing soil of Youth. - Care, not of self, but of the commonweal, - Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead - A look of patient power and iron will, - And something fiercer, too, that gave broad hint - Of the plain weapons girded at their sides. - The younger had an aspect of command,-- - Not such as trickles down, a slender stream, - In the shrunk channel of a great descent,-- - But such as lies entowered in heart and head, - And an arm prompt to do the 'hests of both. - His was a brow where gold were out of place, - And yet it seemed right worthy of a crown, - (Though he despised such,) were it only made - Of iron, or some serviceable stuff - That would have matched his sinewy, brown face. - The elder, although he hardly seemed, - (Care makes so little of some five short years,) - Had a clear, honest face, whose rough-hewn strength - Was mildened by the scholar's wiser heart - To sober courage, such as best befits - The unsullied temper of a well-taught mind, - Yet so remained that one could plainly guess - The hushed volcano smouldering underneath. - He spoke: the other, hearing, kept his gaze - Still fixed, as on some problem in the sky. - - "O, Cromwell, we are fallen on evil times! - There was a day when England had wide room - For honest men as well as foolish kings; - But now the uneasy stomach of the time - Turns squeamish at them both. Therefore let us - Seek out that savage clime, where men as yet - Are free: there sleeps the vessel on the tide, - Her languid canvas drooping for the wind; - Give us but that, and what need we to fear - This Order of the Council? The free waves - Will not say, No, to please a wayward king, - Nor will the winds turn traitors at his beck: - All things are fitly cared for, and the Lord - Will watch as kindly o'er the exodus - Of us his servants now, as in old time. - We have no cloud or fire, and haply we - May not pass dry-shod through the ocean-stream; - But, saved or lost, all things are in His hand." - So spake he, and meantime the other stood - With wide gray eyes still reading the blank air, - As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw - Some mystic sentence, written by a hand - Such as of old made pale the Assyrian king, - Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast. - - "Hampden! a moment since, my purpose was - To fly with thee,--for I will call it flight, - Nor flatter it with any smoother name,-- - But something in me bids me not to go; - And I am one, thou knowest, who, unmoved - By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed - And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul - Whispers of warning to the inner ear. - Moreover, as I know that God brings round - His purposes in ways undreamed by us, - And makes the wicked but his instruments - To hasten on their swift and sudden fall, - I see the beauty of his providence - In the King's order: blind, he will not let - His doom part from him, but must bid it stay - As 't were a cricket, whose enlivening chirp - He loved to hear beneath his very hearth. - Why should we fly? Nay, why not rather stay - And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls, - Not, as of old the walls of Thebes were built, - By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be, - With the more potent music of our swords? - Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea - Claim more God's care than all of England here? - No: when he moves His arm, it is to aid - Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed, - As some are ever, when the destiny - Of man takes one stride onward nearer home. - Believe it, 'tis the mass of men He loves; - And, where there is most sorrow and most want, - Where the high heart of man is trodden down - The most, 'tis not because He hides his face - From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate. - Not so: there most is He, for there is He - Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad - Are not so near his heart as they who dare - Frankly to face her where she faces them, - On their own threshold, where their souls are strong - To grapple with and throw her; as I once, - Being yet a boy, did cast this puny king, - Who now has grown so dotard as to deem - That he can wrestle with an angry realm, - And throw the brawned Antæus of men's rights. - No, Hampden! they have half-way conquered Fate - Who go half-way to meet her,--as will I. - Freedom hath yet a work for me to do; - So speaks that inward voice which never yet - Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on - To noble deeds for country and mankind. - And, for success, I ask no more than this,-- - To bear unflinching witness to the truth. - All true, whole men succeed: for what is worth - Success's name, unless it be the thought, - The inward surety, to have carried out - A noble purpose to a noble end, - Although it be the gallows or the block? - 'Tis only Falsehood that doth ever need - These outward shows of gain to bolster her. - Be it we prove the weaker with our swords; - Truth only needs to be for once spoke out, - And there's such music in her, such strange rhythm, - As makes men's memories her joyous slaves, - And clings around the soul, as the sky clings - Round the mute earth, forever beautiful, - And, if o'erclouded, only to burst forth - More all-embracingly divine and clear: - Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis like - A star new-born, that drops into its place, - And which, once circling in its placid round, - Not all the tumult of the earth can shake. - - "What should we do in that small colony - Of pinched fanatics, who would rather choose - Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair, - Than the great chance of setting England free? - Not there, amid the stormy wilderness, - Should we learn wisdom; or if learned, what room - To put it into act,--else worse than naught? - We learn our souls more, tossing for an hour - Upon this huge and ever-vexèd sea - Of human thought, where kingdoms go to wreck - Like fragile bubbles yonder in the stream, - Than in a cycle of New England sloth, - Broke only by some petty Indian war, - Or quarrel for a letter more or less, - In some hard word, which, spelt in either way - Not their most learned clerks can understand. - New times demand new measures and new men; - The world advances, and in time outgrows - The laws that in our fathers' day were best; - And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme - Will be shaped out by wiser men than we, - Made wiser by the steady growth of truth. - We cannot bring Utopia by force; - But better, almost, be at work in sin; - Than in a brute inaction browse and sleep. - No man is born into the world, whose work - Is not born with him; there is always work, - And tools to work withal, for those who will; - And blessèd are the horny hands of toil! - The busy world shoves angrily aside - The man who stands with arms akimbo set, - Until occasion tells him what to do; - And he who waits to have his task marked out - Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. - Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds: - Reason and Government, like two broad seas, - Yearn for each other with outstretched arms - Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, - And roll their white surf higher every day. - One age moves onward, and the next builds up - Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood - The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild, - Rearing from out the forests they had felled - The goodly framework of a fairer state; - The builder's trowel and the settler's axe - Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand; - Ours is the harder task, yet not the less - Shall we receive the blessing for our toil - From the choice spirits of the aftertime. - My soul is not a palace of the past, - Where outworn creeds, like Rome's gray senate quake, - Hearing afar the Vandal's trumpet hoarse, - That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. - The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change; - Then let it come: I have no dread of what - Is called for by the instinct of mankind; - Nor think I that God's world will fall apart, - Because we tear a parchment more or less. - Truth is eternal, but her effluence, - With endless change is fitted to the hour; - Her mirror is turned forward to reflect - The promise of the future, not the past. - He who would win the name of truly great - Must understand his own age and the next, - And make the present ready to fulfil - Its prophecy, and with the future merge - Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave. - The future works out great men's destinies; - The present is enough for common souls, - Who, never looking forward, are indeed - Mere clay, wherein the footprints of their age - Are petrified forever: better those - Who lead the blind old giant by the hand - From out the pathless desert where he gropes, - And set him onward in his darksome way. - I do not fear to follow out the truth, - Albeit along the precipice's edge. - Let us speak plain: there is more force in names - Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep - Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk - Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name, - Let us call tyrants, _tyrants_, and maintain, - That only freedom comes by grace of God, - And all that comes not by his grace must fall - For men in earnest have no time to waste - In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth. - - "I will have one more grapple with the man - Charles Stuart: whom the boy o'ercame, - The man stands not in awe of. I, perchance, - Am one raised up by the Almighty arm - To witness some great truth to all the world. - Souls destined to o'erleap the vulgar lot, - And mould the world unto the scheme of God, - Have a fore-consciousness of their high doom, - As men are known to shiver at the heart, - When the cold shadow of some coming ill - Creeps slowly o'er their spirits unawares. - Hath Good less power of prophecy than Ill? - How else could men whom God hath called to sway - Earth's rudder, and to steer the bark of Truth, - Beating against the tempest tow'rd her port, - Bear all the mean and buzzing grievances, - The petty martyrdoms, wherewith Sin strives - To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, - The sneers, the unrecognizing look of friends, - Who worship the dead corpse of old king Custom, - Where it doth lie in state within the Church, - Striving to cover up the mighty ocean - With a man's palm, and making even the truth - Lie for them, holding up the glass reversed, - To make the hope of man seem farther off? - My God! when I read o'er the bitter lives - Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great - To beat beneath the cramped mode of the day, - And see them mocked at by the world they love, - Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths - Of that reform which their hard toil will make - The common birthright of the age to come,-- - When I see this, spite of my faith in God, - I marvel how their hearts bear up so long; - Nor could they, but for this same prophecy, - This inward feeling of the glorious end. - - "Deem me not fond; but in my warmer youth, - Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed away, - I had great dreams of mighty things to come; - Of conquest, whether by the sword or pen - I knew not; but some conquest I would have, - Or else swift death: now wiser grown in years, - I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings - Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar - In aftertime to win a starry throne; - And so I cherish them, for they were lots, - Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. - Now will I draw them, since a man's right hand, - A right hand guided by an earnest soul, - With a true instinct, takes the golden prize - From out a thousand blanks. What men call luck - Is the prerogative of valiant souls, - The fealty life pays its rightful kings. - The helm is shaking now, and I will stay - To pluck my lot forth; it were sin to flee!" - - So they two turned together; one to die, - Fighting for freedom on the bloody field; - The other, far more happy, to become - A name earth wears forever next her heart; - One of the few that have a right to rank - With the true Makers: for his spirit wrought - Order from Chaos; proved that right divine - Dwelt only in the excellence of truth; - And far within old Darkness' hostile lines - Advanced and pitched the shining tents of Light. - Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell, - That--not the least among his many claims - To deathless honor--he was Milton's friend, - A man not second among those who lived - To show us that the poet's lyre demands - An arm of tougher sinew than the sword. - - 1843. - - - - - SONG. - - - O, moonlight deep and tender, - A year and more agone, - Your mist of golden splendor - Round my betrothal shone! - - O, elm-leaves dark and dewy, - The very same ye seem, - The low wind trembles through ye, - Ye murmur in my dream! - - O, river, dim with distance, - Flow thus forever by: - A part of my existence - Within your heart doth lie! - - O, stars, ye saw our meeting, - Two beings and one soul, - Two hearts so madly beating - To mingle and be whole! - - O, happy night, deliver - Her kisses back to me, - Or keep them all, and give her - A blissful dream of me! - - 1842. - - - - - A CHIPPEWA LEGEND.[A] - - - algeina men moi kai legein estin tade - algos de sigan. - Æschylus, Prom. Vinct. 197. - - [Footnote A: For the leading incidents in this tale, I am - indebted to the very valuable "Algic Researches" of Henry R. - Schoolcraft, Esq.] - - - The old Chief, feeling now well-nigh his end, - Called his two eldest children to his side, - And gave them, in few words, his parting charge:-- - "My son and daughter, me ye see no more; - The happy hunting-grounds await me, green - With change of spring and summer through the year: - But, for remembrance, after I am gone, - Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake: - Weakling he is and young, and knows not yet - To set the trap, or draw the seasoned bow; - Therefore of both your loves he hath more need, - And he, who needeth love, to love hath right; - It is not like our furs and stores of corn, - Whereto we claim sole title by our toil, - But the Great Spirit plants it in our hearts, - And waters it, and gives it sun, to be - The common stock and heritage of all: - Therefore be kind to Sheemah, that yourselves - May not be left deserted in your need." - - Alone, beside a lake, their wigwam stood, - Far from the other dwellings of their tribe; - And, after many moons, the loneliness - Wearied the elder brother, and he said, - "Why should I dwell here all alone, shut out - From the free, natural joys that fit my age? - Lo, I am tall and strong, well skilled to hunt, - Patient of toil and hunger, and not yet - Have seen the danger which I dared not look - Full in the face; what hinders me to be - A mighty Brave and Chief among my kin?" - So, taking up his arrows and his bow, - As if to hunt, he journeyed swiftly on, - Until he gained the wigwams of his tribe, - Where, choosing out a bride, he soon forgot, - In all the fret and bustle of new life, - The little Sheemah and his father's charge. - - Now when the sister found her brother gone, - And that, for many days, he came not back, - She wept for Sheemah more than for herself; - For Love bides longest in a woman's heart, - And flutters many times before he flies, - And then doth perch so nearly, that a word - May lure him back, as swift and glad as light; - And Duty lingers even when Love is gone - Oft looking out in hope of his return; - And, after Duty hath been driven forth, - Then Selfishness creeps in the last of all, - Warming her lean hands at the lonely hearth, - And crouching o'er the embers, to shut out - Whatever paltry warmth and light are left, - With avaricious greed, from all beside. - So, for long months, the sister hunted wide, - And cared for little Sheemah tenderly; - But, daily more and more, the loneliness - Grew wearisome, and to herself she sighed, - "Am I not fair? at least the glassy pool, - That hath no cause to flatter, tells me so; - But, O, how flat and meaningless the tale, - Unless it tremble on a lover's tongue! - Beauty hath no true glass, except it be - In the sweet privacy of loving eyes." - Thus deemed she idly, and forgot the lore - Which she had learned of nature and the woods, - That beauty's chief reward is to itself, - And that the eyes of Love reflect alone - The inward fairness, which is blurred and lost - Unless kept clear and white by Duty's care - So she went forth and sought the haunts of men, - And, being wedded, in her household cares, - Soon, like the elder brother, quite forgot - The little Sheemah and her father's charge. - - But Sheemah, left alone within the lodge, - Waited and waited, with a shrinking heart, - Thinking each rustle was his sister's step, - Till hope grew less and less, and then went out, - And every sound was changed from hope to fear. - Few sounds there were:--the dropping of a nut, - The squirrel's chirrup, and the jay's harsh scream, - Autumn's sad remnants of blithe Summer's cheer, - Heard at long intervals, seemed but to make - The dreadful void of silence silenter. - Soon what small store his sister left was gone, - And, through the Autumn, he made shift to live - On roots and berries, gathered in much fear - Of wolves, whose ghastly howl he heard ofttimes, - Hollow and hungry, at the dead of night. - But Winter came at last, and, when the snow, - Thick-heaped for gleaming leagues o'er hill and plain, - Spread its unbroken silence over all, - Made bold by hunger, he was fain to glean, - (More sick at heart than Ruth, and all alone,) - After the harvest of the merciless wolf, - Grim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and gaunt, yet feared - A thing more wild and starving than himself; - Till, by degrees, the wolf and he grew friends, - And shared, together all the winter through. - - Late in the Spring, when all the ice was gone, - The elder brother, fishing in the lake, - Upon whose edge his father's wigwam stood, - Heard a low moaning noise upon the shore: - Half like a child it seemed, half like a wolf, - And straightway there was something in his heart - That said, "It is thy brother Sheemah's voice." - So, paddling swiftly to the bank, he saw, - Within a little thicket close at hand, - A child that seemed fast changing to a wolf, - From the neck downward, gray with shaggy hair - That still crept on and upward as he looked. - The face was turned away, but well he knew - That it was Sheemah's, even his brother's face. - Then with his trembling hands he hid his eyes, - And bowed his head, so that he might not see - The first look of his brother's eyes, and cried, - "O, Sheemah! O, my brother, speak to me! - Dost thou not know me, that I am thy brother? - Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt dwell - With me henceforth, and know no care or want!" - Sheemah was silent for a space, as if - 'T were hard to summon up a human voice, - And, when he spake, the sound was of a wolf's: - "I know thee not, nor art thou what thou say'st; - I have none other brethren than the wolves, - And, till thy heart be changed from what it is, - Thou art not worthy to be called their kin." - Then groaned the other, with a choking tongue, - "Alas! my heart is changed right bitterly; - 'Tis shrunk and parched within me even now!" - And, looking upward fearfully, he saw - Only a wolf that shrank away and ran, - Ugly and fierce, to hide among the woods. - - - - - STANZAS ON FREEDOM - - - Men! whose boast it is that ye - Come of fathers brave and free, - If there breathe on earth a slave, - Are ye truly free and brave? - If ye do not feel the chain, - When it works a brother's pain, - Are ye not base slaves indeed, - Slaves unworthy to be freed? - - Women! who shall one day bear - Sons to breathe New England air, - If ye hear, without a blush, - Deeds to make the roused blood rush - Like red lava through your veins, - For your sisters now in chains,-- - Answer! are ye fit to be - Mothers of the brave and free? - - Is true Freedom but to break - Fetters for our own dear sake, - And, with leathern hearts, forget - That we owe mankind a debt? - No! true freedom is to share - All the chains our brothers wear, - And, with heart and hand, to be - Earnest to make others free! - - They are slaves who fear to speak - For the fallen and the weak, - They are slaves who will not choose - Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, - Rather than in silence shrink - From the truth they needs must think; - They are slaves who dare not be - In the right with two or three. - - - - - COLUMBUS. - - - The cordage creaks and rattles in the wind, - With freaks of sudden hush; the reeling sea - Now thumps like solid rock beneath the stern, - Now leaps with clumsy wrath, strikes short, and, falling - Crumbled to whispery foam, slips rustling down - The broad backs of the waves, which jostle and crowd - To fling themselves upon that unknown shore, - Their used familiar since the dawn of time, - Whither this foredoomed life is guided on - To sway on triumph's hushed, aspiring poise - One glittering moment, then to break fulfilled. - - How lonely is the sea's perpetual swing, - The melancholy wash of endless waves, - The sigh of some grim monster undescried, - Fear-painted on the canvas of the dark, - Shifting on his uneasy pillow of brine! - Yet night brings more companions than the day - To this drear waste; new constellations burn, - And fairer stars, with whose calm height my soul - Finds nearer sympathy than with my herd - Of earthen souls, whose vision's scanty ring - Makes me its prisoner to beat my wings - Against the cold bars of their unbelief, - Knowing in vain my own free heaven beyond. - O God! this world, so crammed with eager life, - That comes and goes and wanders back to silence - Like the idle wind, which yet man's shaping mind - Can make his drudge to swell the longing sails - Of highest endeavor,--this mad, unthrift world, - Which, every hour, throws life enough away - To make her deserts kind and hospitable, - Lets her great destinies be waved aside - By smooth, lip-reverent, formal infidels, - Who weigh the God they not believe with gold, - And find no spot in Judas, save that he, - Driving a duller bargain than he ought, - Saddled his guild with too cheap precedent. - O Faith! if thou art strong, thine opposite - Is mighty also, and the dull fool's sneer - Hath ofttimes shot chill palsy through the arm, - Just lifted to achieve its crowning deed, - And made the firm-based heart, that would have quailed - The rack or fagot, shudder like a leaf - Wrinkled with frost, and loose upon its stem. - The wicked and the weak, by some dark law, - Have a strange power to shut and rivet down - Their own horizon round us, to unwing - Our heaven-aspiring visions, and to blur - With surly clouds the Future's gleaming peaks, - Far seen across the brine of thankless years. - If the chosen soul could never be alone - In deep mid-silence, open-doored to God, - No greatness ever had been dreamed or done; - Among dull hearts a prophet never grew; - The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude. - - The old world is effete; there man with man - Jostles, and, in the brawl for means to live, - Life is trod under-foot,--Life, the one block - Of marble that's vouchsafed wherefrom to carve - Our great thoughts, white and god-like, to shine down - The future, Life, the irredeemable block, - Which one o'er-hasty chisel-dint oft mars, - Scanting our room to cut the features out - Of our full hope, so forcing us to crown - With a mean head the perfect limbs, or leave - The god's face glowing o'er a satyr's trunk, - Failure's brief epitaph. - Yes, Europe's world - Reels on to judgment; there the common need, - Losing God's sacred use, to be a bond - 'Twixt Me and Thee, sets each one scowlingly - O'er his own selfish hoard at bay; no state, - Knit strongly with eternal fibres up - Of all men's separate and united weals, - Self-poised and sole as stars, yet one as light. - Holds up a shape of large Humanity - To which by natural instinct every man - Pays loyalty exulting, by which all - Mould their own lives, and feel their pulses filled - With the red fiery blood of the general life, - Making them mighty in peace, as now in war - They are, even in the flush of victory, weak, - Conquering that manhood which should them subdue. - And what gift bring I to this untried world? - Shall the same tragedy be played anew, - And the same lurid curtain drop at last - On one dread desolation, one fierce crash - Of that recoil which on its makers God - Lets Ignorance and Sin and Hunger make, - Early or late? Or shall that commonwealth - Whose potent unity and concentric force - Can draw these scattered joints and parts of men - Into a whole ideal man once more, - Which sucks not from its limbs the life away, - But sends it flood-tide and creates itself - Over again in every citizen, - Be there built up? For me, I have no choice; - I might turn back to other destinies, - For one sincere key opes all Fortune's doors; - But whoso answers not God's earliest call, - Forfeits or dulls that faculty supreme - Of lying open to his genius - Which makes the wise heart certain of its ends. - - Here am I; for what end God knows, not I; - Westward still points the inexorable soul: - Here am I, with no friend but the sad sea, - The beating heart of this great enterprise, - Which, without me, would stiffen in swift death; - This have I mused on, since mine eye could first - Among the stars distinguish and with joy - Rest on that God-fed Pharos of the north, - On some blue promontory of heaven lighted - That juts far out into the upper sea; - To this one hope my heart hath clung for years, - As would a foundling to the talisman - Hung round his neck by hands he knew not whose. - A poor, vile thing and dross to all beside, - Yet he therein can feel a virtue left - By the sad pressure of a mother's hand, - And unto him it still is tremulous - With palpitating haste and wet with tears, - The key to him of hope and humanness, - The coarse shell of life's pearl, Expectancy. - This hope hath been to me for love and fame, - Hath made me wholly lonely on the earth, - Building me up as in a thick-ribbed tower, - Wherewith enwalled my watching spirit burned, - Conquering its little island from the Dark, - Sole as a scholar's lamp, and heard men's steps, - In the far hurry of the outward world, - Pass dimly forth and back, sounds heard in dream - As Ganymede by the eagle was snatched up - From the gross sod to be Jove's cupbearer, - So was I lifted by my great design: - And who hath trod Olympus, from his eye - Fades not that broader outlook of the gods; - His life's low valleys overbrow earth's clouds, - And that Olympian spectre of the past - Looms towering up in sovereign memory, - Beckoning his soul from meaner heights of doom. - Had but the shadow of the Thunderer's bird, - Flashing athwart my spirit, made of me - A swift-betraying vision's Ganymede, - Yet to have greatly dreamed precludes low ends - Great days have ever such a morning-red, - On such a base great futures are built up, - And aspiration, though not put in act, - Comes back to ask its plighted troth again, - Still watches round its grave the unlaid ghost - Of a dead virtue, and makes other hopes, - Save that implacable one, seem thin and bleak - As shadows of bare trees upon the snow, - Bound freezing there by the unpitying moon. - - While other youths perplexed their mandolins, - Praying that Thetis would her fingers twine - In the loose glories of her lover's hair, - And wile another kiss to keep back day, - I, stretched beneath the many-centuried shade - Of some writhed oak, the wood's Laocoön, - Did of my hope a dryad mistress make, - Whom I would woo to meet me privily, - Or underneath the stars, or when the moon - Flecked all the forest floor with scattered pearls. - O days whose memory tames to fawning down - The surly fell of Ocean's bristled neck! - - I know not when this hope enthralled me first, - But from my boyhood up I loved to hear - The tall-pine-forests of the Apennine - Murmur their hoary legends of the sea, - Which hearing, I in vision clear beheld; - The sudden dark of tropic night shut down - O'er the huge whisper of great watery wastes, - The while a pair of herons trailingly - Flapped inland, where some league-wide river hurled - The yellow spoil of unconjectured realms - Far through a gulf's green silence, never scarred - By any but the Northwind's hurrying keels. - And not the pines alone; all sights and sounds - To my world-seeking heart paid fealty, - And catered for it as the Cretan bees - Brought honey to the baby Jupiter, - Who in his soft hand crushed a violet, - God-like foremusing the rough thunder's gripe; - Then did I entertain the poet's song, - My great Idea's guest, and, passing o'er - That iron bridge the Tuscan built to hell, - I heard Ulysses tell of mountain-chains - Whose adamantine links, his manacles, - The western main shook growling, and still gnawed. - I brooded on the wise Athenian's tale - Of happy Atlantis, and heard Björne's keel - Crunch the gray pebbles of the Vinland shore: - For I believed the poets; it is they - Who utter wisdom from the central deep, - And, listening to the inner flow of things, - Speak to the age out of eternity. - - Ah me! old hermits sought for solitude - In caves and desert places of the earth, - Where their own heart-beat was the only stir - Of living thing that comforted the year; - But the bald pillar-top of Simeon, - In midnight's blankest waste, were populous, - Matched with the isolation drear and deep - Of him who pines among the swarm of men, - At once a new thought's king and prisoner, - Feeling the truer life within his life, - The fountain of his spirit's prophecy, - Sinking away and wasting, drop by drop, - In the ungrateful sands of sceptic ears. - He in the palace-aisles of untrod woods - Doth walk a king; for him the pent-up cell - Widens beyond the circles of the stars, - And all the sceptred spirits of the past - Come thronging in to greet him as their peer; - But in the market-place's glare and throng - He sits apart, an exile, and his brow - Aches with the mocking memory of its crown. - But to the spirit select there is no choice; - He cannot say, This will I do, or that, - For the cheap means putting Heaven's ends in pawn, - And bartering his bleak rocks, the freehold stern - Of destiny's first-born, for smoother fields - That yield no crop of self-denying will; - A hand is stretched to him from out the dark, - Which grasping without question, he is led - Where there is work that he must do for God. - The trial still is the strength's complement, - And the uncertain, dizzy path that scales - The sheer heights of supremest purposes - Is steeper to the angel than the child. - Chances have laws as fixed as planets have, - And disappointment's dry and bitter root, - Envy's harsh berries, and the choking pool - Of the world's scorn, are the right mother-milk - To the tough hearts that pioneer their kind, - And break a pathway to those unknown realms - That in the earth's broad shadow lie enthralled; - Endurance is the crowning quality, - And patience all the passion of great hearts; - These are their stay, and when the leaden world - Sets its hard face against their fateful thought, - And brute strength, like a scornful conqueror, - Clangs his huge mace down in the other scale, - The inspired soul but flings his patience in, - And slowly that outweighs the ponderous globe,-- - One faith against a whole earth's unbelief, - One soul against the flesh of all mankind. - - Thus ever seems it when my soul can hear - The voice that errs not; then my triumph gleams, - O'er the blank ocean beckoning, and all night - My heart flies on before me as I sail; - Far on I see my lifelong enterprise, - Which rose like Ganges mid the freezing snows - Of a world's sordidness, sweep broadening down, - And, gathering to itself a thousand streams, - Grow sacred ere it mingle with the sea; - I see the ungated wall of chaos old, - With blocks Cyclopean hewn of solid night, - Fade like a wreath of unreturning mist - Before the irreversible feet of light;-- - And lo, with what clear omen in the east - On day's gray threshold stands the eager dawn, - Like young Leander rosy from the sea - Glowing at Hero's lattice! - - One day more - These muttering shoalbrains leave the helm to me. - God, let me not in their dull ooze be stranded; - Let not this one frail bark, to hollow which - I have dug out the pith and sinewy heart - Of my aspiring life's fair trunk, be so - Cast up to warp and blacken in the sun, - Just as the opposing wind 'gins whistle off - His cheek-swollen mates, and from the leaning mast - Fortune's full sail strains forward! - One poor day!-- - Remember whose and not how short it is! - It is God's day, it is Columbus's. - A lavish day! One day, with life and heart, - Is more than time enough to find a world. - - 1844. - - - - - AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURG. - - - The tower of old Saint Nicholas soared upward to the skies, - Like some huge piece of Nature's make, the growth of centuries; - You could not deem its crowding spires a work of human art, - They seemed to struggle lightward from a sturdy living heart. - - Not Nature's self more freely speaks in crystal or in oak, - Than, through the pious builder's hand, in that gray pile she spoke; - And as from acorn springs the oak, so, freely and alone, - Sprang from his heart this hymn to God, sung in obedient stone. - - It seemed a wondrous freak of chance, so perfect, yet so rough, - A whim of Nature crystallized slowly in granite tough; - The thick spires yearned towards the sky in quaint, harmonious lines, - And in broad sunlight basked and slept, like a grove of blasted pines. - - Never did rock or stream or tree lay claim with better right - To all the adorning sympathies of shadow and of light; - And, in that forest petrified, as forester there dwells - Stout Herman, the old sacristan, sole lord of all its bells. - - Surge leaping after surge, the fire roared onward red as blood, - Till half of Hamburg lay engulfed beneath the eddying flood; - For miles away, the fiery spray poured down its deadly rain, - And back and forth the billows sucked, and paused, and burst again. - - From square to square with tiger leaps panted the lustful fire, - The air to leeward shuddered with the gasps of its desire; - And church and palace, which even now stood whelmed but to the knee, - Lift their black roofs like breakers lone amid the whirling sea. - - Up in his tower old Herman sat and watched with quiet look; - His soul had trusted God too long to be at last forsook; - He could not fear, for surely God a pathway would unfold - Through this red sea for faithful hearts, as once he did of old. - - But scarcely can he cross himself, or on his good saint call, - Before the sacrilegious flood o'erleaped the churchyard wall; - And, ere a _pater_ half was said, mid smoke and crackling glare, - His island tower scarce juts its head above the wide despair. - - Upon the peril's desperate peak his heart stood up sublime; - His first thought was for God above, his next was for his chime; - "Sing now and make your voices heard in hymns of praise," cried he, - "As did the Israelites of old, safe walking through the sea! - - "Through this red sea our God hath made the pathway safe to shore; - Our promised land stands full in sight; shout now as ne'er before!" - And as the tower came crushing down, the bells, in clear accord, - Pealed forth the grand old German hymn,--"All good souls, praise the - Lord!" - - - - - THE SOWER. - - - I saw a Sower walking slow - Across the earth, from east to west; - His hair was white as mountain snow, - His head drooped forward on his breast. - - With shrivelled hands he flung his seed, - Nor ever turned to look behind; - Of sight or sound he took no heed; - It seemed he was both deaf and blind. - - His dim face showed no soul beneath, - Yet in my heart I felt a stir, - As if I looked upon the sheath - That once had clasped Excalibur. - - I heard, as still the seed he cast, - How, crooning to himself, he sung,-- - "I sow again the holy Past, - The happy days when I was young. - - "Then all was wheat without a tare, - Then all was righteous, fair, and true; - And I am he whose thoughtful care - Shall plant the Old World in the New. - - "The fruitful germs I scatter free, - With busy hand, while all men sleep; - In Europe now, from sea to sea, - The nations bless me as they reap." - - Then I looked back along his path, - And heard the clash of steel on steel, - Where man faced man, in deadly wrath, - While clanged the tocsin's hurrying peal. - - The sky with burning towns flared red, - Nearer the noise of fighting rolled, - And brothers' blood, by brothers shed, - Crept, curdling, over pavements cold. - - Then marked I how each germ of truth - Which through the dotard's fingers ran - Was mated with a dragon's tooth - Whence there sprang up an armed man. - - I shouted, but he could not hear; - Made signs, but these he could not see; - And still, without a doubt or fear, - Broadcast he scattered anarchy. - - Long to my straining ears the blast - Brought faintly back the words he sung:-- - "I sow again the holy Past, - The happy days when I was young." - - - - - HUNGER AND COLD. - - - Sisters two, all praise to you, - With your faces pinched and blue; - To the poor man you've been true - From of old: - You can speak the keenest word, - You are sure of being heard, - From the point you're never stirred, - Hunger and Cold! - - Let sleek statesmen temporize; - Palsied are their shifts and lies - When they meet your bloodshot eyes, - Grim and bold; - Policy you set at naught, - In their traps you'll not be caught, - You're too honest to be bought, - Hunger and Cold! - - Bolt and bar the palace-door; - While the mass of men are poor, - Naked truth grows more and more - Uncontrolled; - You had never yet, I guess, - Any praise for bashfulness, - You can visit sans court-dress, - Hunger and Cold! - - While the music fell and rose, - And the dance reeled to its close, - Where her round of costly woes - Fashion strolled, - I beheld with shuddering fear - Wolves' eyes through the windows peer; - Little dream they you are near, - Hunger and Cold! - - When the toiler's heart you clutch, - Conscience is not valued much, - He recks not a bloody smutch - On his gold: - Everything to you defers, - You are potent reasoners, - At your whisper Treason stirs, - Hunger and Cold! - - Rude comparisons you draw, - Words refuse to sate your maw, - Your gaunt limbs the cobweb law - Cannot hold: - You 're not clogged with foolish pride, - But can seize a right denied; - Somehow God is on your side, - Hunger and Cold! - - You respect no hoary wrong - More for having triumphed long; - Its past victims, haggard throng, - From the mould - You unbury: swords and spears - Weaker are than poor men's tears, - Weaker than your silent years, - Hunger and Cold! - - Let them guard both hall and bower; - Through the window you will glower, - Patient till your reckoning hour - Shall be tolled: - Cheeks are pale, but hands are red, - Guiltless blood may chance be shed, - But ye must and will be fed, - Hunger and Cold! - - God has plans man must not spoil, - Some were made to starve and toil, - Some to share the wine and oil, - We are told: - Devil's theories are these, - Stifling hope and love and peace, - Framed your hideous lusts to please, - Hunger and Cold! - - Scatter ashes on thy head, - Tears of burning sorrow shed, - Earth! and be by pity led - To Love's fold; - Ere they block the very door - With lean corpses of the poor, - And will hush for naught but gore,-- - Hunger and Cold! - - 1844. - - - - - THE LANDLORD. - - - What boot your houses and your lands? - In spite of close-drawn deed and fence, - Like water, 'twixt your cheated hands, - They slip into the graveyard's sands - And mock your ownership's pretence. - - How shall you speak to urge your right, - Choked with that soil for which you lust - The bit of clay, for whose delight - You grasp, is mortgaged, too; Death might - Foreclose this very day in dust. - - Fence as you please, this plain poor man, - Whose only fields are in his wit, - Who shapes the world, as best he can, - According to God's higher plan, - Owns you and fences as is fit. - - Though yours the rents, his incomes wax - By right of eminent domain; - From factory tall to woodman's axe, - All things on earth must pay their tax, - To feed his hungry heart and brain. - - He takes you from your easy-chair, - And what he plans, that you must do. - You sleep in down, eat dainty fare,-- - He mounts his crazy garret-stair - And starves, the landlord over you. - - Feeding the clods your idlesse drains, - You make more green six feet of soil; - His fruitful word, like suns and rains, - Partakes the seasons' bounteous pains, - And toils to lighten human toil. - - Your lands, with force or cunning got, - Shrink to the measure of the grave; - But Death himself abridges not - The tenures of almighty thought, - The titles of the wise and brave. - - - - - TO A PINE-TREE. - - - Far up on Katahdin thou towerest, - Purple-blue with the distance and vast; - Like a cloud o'er the lowlands thou lowerest, - That hangs poised on a lull in the blast, - To its fall leaning awful. - - In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened, - Thou singest and tossest thy branches; - Thy heart with the terror is gladdened, - Thou forebodest the dread avalanches, - When whole mountains swoop valeward. - - In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys - With thine arms, as if blessings imploring, - Like an old king led forth from his palace, - When his people to battle are pouring - From the city beneath him. - - To the lumberer asleep 'neath thy glooming - Thou dost sing of wild billows in motion, - Till he longs to be swung mid their booming - In the tents of the Arabs of ocean, - Whose finned isles are their cattle. - - For the gale snatches thee for his lyre, - With mad hand crashing melody frantic, - While he pours forth his mighty desire - To leap down on the eager Atlantic, - Whose arms stretch to his playmate. - - The wild storm makes his lair in thy branches, - Preying thence on the continent under; - Like a lion, crouched close on his haunches, - There awaiteth his leap the fierce thunder, - Growling low with impatience. - - Spite of winter, thou keep'st thy green glory, - Lusty father of Titans past number! - The snow-flakes alone make thee hoary, - Nestling close to thy branches in slumber, - And thee mantling with silence. - - Thou alone know'st the splendor of winter, - Mid thy snow-silvered, hushed precipices, - Hearing crags of green ice groan and splinter, - And then plunge down the muffled abysses - In the quiet of midnight. - - Thou alone know'st the glory of summer, - Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest, - On thy subjects that send a proud murmur - Up to thee, to their sachem, who towerest - From thy bleak throne to heaven. - - - - - SI DESCENDERO IN INFERNUM, ADES. - - - O, wandering dim on the extremest edge - Of God's bright providence, whose spirits sigh - Drearily in you, like the winter sedge - That shivers o'er the dead pool stiff and dry, - A thin, sad voice, when the bold wind roars by - From the clear North of Duty,-- - Still by cracked arch and broken shaft I trace - That here was once a shrine and holy place - Of the supernal Beauty,-- - A child's play-altar reared of stones and moss, - With wilted flowers for offering laid across, - Mute recognition of the all-ruling Grace. - - How far are ye from the innocent, from those - Whose hearts are as a little lane serene, - Smooth-heaped from wall to wall with unbroke snows, - Or in the summer blithe with lamb-cropped green, - Save the one track, where naught more rude is seen - Than the plump wain at even - Bringing home four months' sunshine bound in sheaves!-- - How far are ye from those! yet who believes - That ye can shut out heaven? - Your souls partake its influence, not in vain - Nor all unconscious, as that silent lane - Its drift of noiseless apple-blooms receives. - - Looking within myself, I note how thin - A plank of station, chance, or prosperous fate, - Doth fence me from the clutching waves of sin;-- - In my own heart I find the worst man's mate, - And see not dimly the smooth-hingèd gate - That opes to those abysses - Where ye grope darkly,--ye who never knew - On your young hearts love's consecrating dew, - Or felt a mother's kisses, - Or home's restraining tendrils round you curled. - Ah, side by side with heart's-ease in this world - The fatal night-shade grows and bitter rue! - - One band ye cannot break,--the force that clips - And grasps your circles to the central light; - Yours is the prodigal comet's long ellipse, - Self-exiled to the farthest verge of night; - Yet strives with you no less that inward might - No sin hath e'er imbruted; - The god in you the creed-dimmed eye eludes; - The Law brooks not to have its solitudes - By bigot feet polluted;-- - Yet they who watch your god-compelled return - May see your happy perihelion burn - Where the calm sun his unfledged planets broods. - - - - - TO THE PAST. - - - Wondrous and awful are thy silent halls, - O kingdom of the past! - There lie the bygone ages in their palls, - Guarded by shadows vast,-- - There all is hushed and breathless, - Save when some image of old error falls - Earth worshipped once as deathless. - - There sits drear Egypt, mid beleaguering sands, - Half woman and half beast, - The burnt-out torch within her mouldering hands - That once lit all the East; - A dotard bleared and hoary, - There Asser crouches o'er the blackened brands - Of Asia's long-quenched glory. - - Still as a city buried 'neath the sea, - Thy courts and temples stand; - Idle as forms on wind-waved tapestry - Of saints and heroes grand, - Thy phantasms grope and shiver, - Or watch the loose shores crumbling silently - Into Time's gnawing river. - - Titanic shapes with faces blank and dun, - Of their old godhead lorn, - Gaze on the embers of the sunken sun, - Which they misdeem for morn; - And yet the eternal sorrow - In their unmonarched eyes says day is done - Without the hope of morrow. - - O realm of silence and of swart eclipse, - The shapes that haunt thy gloom - Make signs to us and move their withered lips - Across the gulf of doom; - Yet all their sound and motion - Bring no more freight to us than wraiths of ships - On the mirage's ocean. - - And if sometimes a moaning wandereth - From out thy desolate halls, - If some grim shadow of thy living death - Across our sunshine falls - And scares the world to error, - The eternal life sends forth melodious breath - To chase the misty terror. - - Thy mighty clamors, wars, and world-noised deeds - Are silent now in dust, - Gone like a tremble of the huddling reeds - Beneath some sudden gust; - Thy forms and creeds have vanished, - Tossed out to wither like unsightly weeds - From the world's garden banished. - - Whatever of true life there was in thee - Leaps in our age's veins; - Wield still thy bent and wrinkled empery, - And shake thine idle chains;-- - To thee thy dross is clinging, - For us thy martyrs die, thy prophets see, - Thy poets still are singing. - - Here, mid the bleak waves of our strife and care, - Float the green Fortunate Isles, - Where all thy hero-spirits dwell, and share - Our martyrdoms and toils; - The present moves attended - With all of brave and excellent and fair - That made the old time splendid. - - - - - TO THE FUTURE. - - - O Land of Promise! from what Pisgah's height - Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers, - Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight, - Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers? - Gazing upon the sunset's high-heaped gold, - Its crags of opal and of chrysolite, - Its deeps on deeps of glory, that unfold - Still brightening abysses, - And blazing precipices, - Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven, - Sometimes a glimpse is given - Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted blisses. - - O Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf - Of the perturbèd Present rolls and sleeps; - Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf - And lure out blossoms; to thy bosom leaps, - As to a mother's, the o'erwearied heart, - Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart, - The hurrying feet, the curses without number, - And, circled with the glow Elysian, - Of thine exulting vision, - Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace and slumber. - - To thee the Earth lifts up her fettered hands - And cries for vengeance; with a pitying smile - Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands, - And her old woe-worn face a little while - Grows young and noble; unto thee the Oppressor - Looks, and is dumb with awe; - The eternal law, - Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser, - Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding, - And he can see the grim-eyed Doom - From out the trembling gloom - Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading. - - What promises hast thou for Poets' eyes, - Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong! - To all their hopes what overjoyed replies! - What undreamed ecstasies for blissful song! - Thy happy plains no war-trump's brawling clangor - Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor; - The humble glares not on the high with anger; - Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for more; - In vain strives Self the god-like sense to smother; - From the soul's deeps - It throbs and leaps; - The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long-lost brother. - - To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires - Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit free; - To thee the Poet mid his toil aspires, - And grief and hunger climb about his knee, - Welcome as children; thou upholdest - The lone Inventor by his demon haunted; - The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest, - And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak abyss, - Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss, - And stretch its happy arms and leap up disenchanted. - - Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving-kindly - The guilty thinks it pity; taught by thee, - Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly - Their own souls they were scarring; conquerors see - With horror in their hands the accursed spear - That tore the meek One's side on Calvary, - And from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear; - Thou, too, art the Forgiver, - The beauty of man's soul to man revealing; - The arrows from thy quiver - Pierce Error's guilty heart, but only pierce for healing. - - O, whither, whither, glory-wingèd dreams, - From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye bear me? - Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams,-- - This agony of hopeless contrast spare me! - Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night! - He is a coward, who would borrow - A charm against the present sorrow - From the vague Future's promise of delight: - As life's alarums nearer roll, - The ancestral buckler calls, - Self-clanging from the walls - In the high temple of the soul; - Where are most sorrows, there the poet's sphere is, - To feed the soul with patience, - To heal its desolations - With words of unshorn truth, with love that never wearies. - - - - - HEBE. - - - I saw the twinkle of white feet, - I saw the flash of robes descending; - Before her ran an influence fleet, - That bowed my heart like barley bending. - - As, in bare fields, the searching bees - Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, - It led me on, by sweet degrees, - Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. - - Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates; - With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me; - The long-sought Secret's golden gates - On musical hinges swung before me. - - I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp - Thrilling with godhood; like a lover - I sprang the proffered life to clasp;-- - The beaker fell; the luck was over. - - The Earth has drunk the vintage up; - What boots it patch the goblet's splinters? - Can Summer fill the icy cup, - Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's? - - O spendthrift, haste! await the Gods; - Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience; - Haste scatters on unthankful sods - The immortal gift in vain libations. - - Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, - And shuns the hands would seize upon her, - Follow thy life, and she will sue - To pour for thee the cup of honor. - - - - - THE SEARCH. - - - I went to seek for Christ, - And Nature seemed so fair - That first the woods and fields my youth enticed, - And I was sure to find him there: - The temple I forsook, - And to the solitude - Allegiance paid; but winter came and shook - The crown and purple from my wood; - His snows, like desert sands, with scornful drift, - Besieged the columned aisle and palace-gate; - My Thebes, cut deep with many a solemn rift, - But epitaphed her own sepulchred state: - Then I remembered whom I went to seek, - And blessed blunt Winter for his counsel bleak. - - Back to the world I turned, - For Christ, I said, is king; - So the cramped alley and the hut I spurned, - As far beneath his sojourning: - Mid power and wealth I sought, - But found no trace of him, - And all the costly offerings I had brought - With sudden rust and mould grew dim: - I found his tomb, indeed, where, by their laws, - All must on stated days themselves imprison, - Mocking with bread a dead creed's grinning jaws, - Witless how long the life had thence arisen; - Due sacrifice to this they set apart, - Prizing it more than Christ's own living heart. - - So from my feet the dust - Of the proud World I shook; - Then came dear Love and shared with me his crust, - And half my sorrow's burden took. - After the World's soft bed, - Its rich and dainty fare, - Like down seemed Love's coarse pillow to my head, - His cheap food seemed as manna rare; - Fresh-trodden prints of bare and bleeding feet, - Turned to the heedless city whence I came, - Hard by I saw, and springs of worship sweet - Gushed from my cleft heart smitten by the same; - Love looked me in the face and spake no words, - But straight I knew those foot-prints were the Lord's. - - I followed where they led - And in a hovel rude, - With naught to fence the weather from his head, - The King I sought for meekly stood - A naked, hungry child - Clung round his gracious knee, - And a poor hunted slave looked up and smiled - To bless the smile that set him free; - New miracles I saw his presence do,-- - No more I knew the hovel bare and poor, - The gathered chips into a woodpile grew, - The broken morsel swelled to goodly store; - I knelt and wept: my Christ no more I seek, - His throne is with the outcast and the weak. - - - - - THE PRESENT CRISIS. - - - When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast - Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west, - And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb - To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime - Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time. - - Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instantaneous throe, - When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro; - At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start, - Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart, - And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the Future's heart. - - So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill, - Under continent to continent, the sense of coming ill, - And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies with God - In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by the sod, - Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the nobler clod. - - For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along, - Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flush of right or wrong; - Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast frame - Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or shame;-- - In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim. - - Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, - In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; - Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, - Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, - And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light. - - Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand, - Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land? - Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone is strong, - And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng - Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong. - - Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments see, - That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's sea; - Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry - Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff - must fly; - Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by. - - Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record - One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word; - Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne,-- - Yet that scaffold sways the Future, and, behind the dim unknown, - Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own. - - We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great, - Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate, - But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din, - List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,-- - "They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin." - - Slavery, the earthborn Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood, - Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with - blood, - Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day, - Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey;-- - Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless children play? - - Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust, - Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just; - Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, - Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, - And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied. - - Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes,--they were souls that stood alone, - While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone, - Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline - To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine, - By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design. - - By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track, - Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back, - And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned - One new word of that grand _Credo_ which in prophet-hearts hath burned - Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned. - - For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands, - On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; - Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, - While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return - To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn. - - 'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves - Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves, - Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;-- - Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time? - Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth rock sublime? - - They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts, - Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's; - But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free, - Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee - The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea. - - They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires, - Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires; - Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay, - From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away - To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day? - - New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth; - They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth; - Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be, - Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, - Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key. - - _December, 1845._ - - - - - AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. - - - What visionary tints the year puts on, - When falling leaves falter through motionless air - Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! - How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, - As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills - The bowl between me and those distant hills, - And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair! - - No more the landscape holds its wealth apart. - Making me poorer in my poverty, - But mingles with my senses and my heart; - My own projected spirit seems to me - In her own reverie the world to steep; - 'Tis she that waves to sympathetic sleep, - Moving, as she is moved, each field and hill, and tree. - - How fuse and mix, with what unfelt degrees, - Clasped by the faint horizon's languid arms, - Each into each, the hazy distances! - The softened season all the landscape charms; - Those hills, my native village that embay, - In waves of dreamier purple roll away, - And floating in mirage seem all the glimmering farms. - - Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee - Close at my side; far distant sound the leaves; - The fields seem fields of dream, where Memory - Wanders like gleaning Ruth; and as the sheaves - Of wheat and barley wavered in the eye - Of Boaz as the maiden's glow went by, - So tremble and seem remote all things the sense receives. - - The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn, - Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates, - Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne, - Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's Straits; - Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails; - Silently overhead the henhawk sails, - With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits. - - The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, - Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer; - The squirrel on the shingly shagbark's bough, - Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear, - Then drops his nut, and, with a chipping bound, - Whisks to his winding fastness underground; - The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere. - - O'er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadows - Drowse on the crisp, gray moss; the ploughman's call - Creeps faint as smoke from black, fresh-furrowed meadows; - The single crow a single caw lets fall; - And all around me every bush and tree - Says Autumn 's here, and Winter soon will be - Who snows his soft, white sleep and silence over all. - - The birch, most shy and lady-like of trees, - Her poverty, as best she may, retrieves, - And hints at her foregone gentilities - With some saved relics of her wealth of leaves; - The swamp-oak, with his royal purple on, - Glares red as blood across the sinking sun, - As one who proudlier to a falling fortune cleaves. - - He looks a sachem, in red blanket wrapt, - Who, mid some council of the sad-garbed whites, - Erect and stern, in his own memories lapt, - With distant eye broods over other sights, - Sees the hushed wood the city's flare replace, - The wounded turf heal o'er the railway's trace, - And roams the savage Past of his undwindled rights. - - The red-oak, softer-grained, yields all for lost, - And, with his crumpled foliage stiff and dry, - After the first betrayal of the frost, - Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky; - The chestnuts, lavish of their long-hid gold, - To the faint Summer, beggared now and old, - Pour back the sunshine hoarded 'neath her favoring eye. - - The ash her purple drops forgivingly - And sadly, breaking not the general hush; - The maple-swamps glow like a sunset sea, - Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush; - All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze - Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days, - Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush. - - O'er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone, - Where vines, and weeds, and scrub-oaks intertwine - Safe from the plough, whose rough, discordant stone - Is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine, - The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weaves - A prickly network of ensanguined leaves; - Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black-alders shine. - - Pillaring with flame this crumbling boundary, - Whose loose blocks topple 'neath the ploughboy's foot, - Who, with each sense shut fast except the eye, - Creeps close and scares the jay he hoped to shoot, - The woodbine up the elm's straight stem aspires. - Coiling it, harmless, with autumnal fires; - In the ivy's paler blaze the martyr oak stands mute. - - Below, the Charles--a stripe of nether sky, - Now hid by rounded apple-trees between, - Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by, - Now flickering golden through a woodland screen, - Then spreading out at his next turn beyond, - A silver circle like an inland pond-- - Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and green. - - Dear marshes! vain to him the gift of sight - Who cannot in their various incomes share, - From every season drawn, of shade and light, - Who sees in them but levels brown and bare; - Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free - On them its largesse of variety, - For nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare. - - In Spring they lie one broad expanse of green, - O'er which the light winds run with glimmering feet; - Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen, - There, darker growths o'er hidden ditches meet; - And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd, - As if the silent shadow of a cloud - Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet. - - All round, upon the river's slippery edge, - Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide, - Whispers and leans the breeze-entangling sedge; - Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide, - Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun, - And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run - Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide. - - In Summer 'tis a blithesome sight to see, - As, step by step, with measured swing, they pass, - The wide-ranked mowers wading to the knee, - Their sharp scythes panting through the thick-set grass; - Then, stretched beneath a rick's shade in a ring, - Their nooning take, while one begins to sing - A stave that droops and dies 'neath the close sky of brass. - - Meanwhile the devil-may-care, the bobolink, - Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops - Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink, - And 'twixt the winrows most demurely drops, - A decorous bird of business, who provides - For his brown mate and fledglings six besides, - And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops. - - Another change subdues them in the Fall, - But saddens not; they still show merrier tints, - Though sober russet seems to cover all; - When the first sunshine through their dew-drops glints, - Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across, - Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss, - As Dawn's feet there had touched and left their rosy prints. - - Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest, - Lean o'er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill, - While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west, - Glow opposite;--the marshes drink their fill - And swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade - Through pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade, - Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond's darkening hill. - - Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts, - Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates, - And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts, - While firmer ice the eager boy awaits, - Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire, - And until bed-time plays with his desire, - Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates;-- - - Then, every morn, the river's banks shine bright - With smooth plate-armor, treacherous and frail, - By the frost's clinking hammers forged at night, - 'Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail, - Giving a pretty emblem of the day - When guiltier arms in light shall melt away, - And states shall move free-limbed, loosed from war's cramping mail. - - And now those waterfalls the ebbing river - Twice every day creates on either side - Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots they shiver - In grass-arched channels to the sun denied; - High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow, - The silvered flats gleam frostily below, - Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the glassy tide. - - But, crowned in turn by vying seasons three, - Their winter halo hath a fuller ring; - This glory seems to rest immovably,-- - The others were too fleet and vanishing; - When the hid tide is at its highest flow, - O'er marsh and stream one breathless trance of snow - With brooding fulness awes and hushes everything. - - The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind, - As pale as formal candles lit by day; - Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind; - The brown ricks, snow-thatched by the storm in play, - Show pearly breakers combing o'er their lee, - White crests as of some just enchanted sea, - Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised midway. - - But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant, - From mid-sea's prairies green and rolling plains - Drives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt, - And the roused Charles remembers in his veins - Old Ocean's blood and snaps his gyves of frost, - That tyrannous silence on the shores is tost - In dreary wreck, and crumbling desolation reigns. - - Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like device, - With leaden pools between or gullies bare, - The blocks lie strewn, a bleak Stonehenge of ice; - No life, no sound, to break the grim despair, - Save sullen plunge, as through the sedges stiff - Down crackles riverward some thaw-sapped cliff, - Or when the close-wedged fields of ice crunch here and there. - - But let me turn from fancy-pictured scenes - To that whose pastoral calm before me lies: - Here nothing harsh or rugged intervenes; - The early evening with her misty dyes - Smooths off the ravelled edges of the nigh, - Relieves the distant with her cooler sky, - And tones the landscape down, and soothes the wearied eyes. - - There gleams my native village, dear to me, - Though higher change's waves each day are seen, - Whelming fields famed in boyhood's history, - Sanding with houses the diminished green; - There, in red brick, which softening time defies, - Stand square and stiff the Muses' factories;-- - How with my life knit up is every well-known scene! - - Flow on, dear river! not alone you flow - To outward sight, and through your marshes wind; - Fed from the mystic springs of long-ago, - Your twin flows silent through my world of mind: - Grow dim, dear marshes, in the evening's gray! - Before my inner sight ye stretch away, - And will forever, though these fleshly eyes grow blind. - - Beyond that hillock's house-bespotted swell, - Where Gothic chapels house the horse and chaise, - Where quiet cits in Grecian temples dwell, - Where Coptic tombs resound with prayer and praise, - Where dust and mud the equal year divide, - There gentle Allston lived, and wrought, and died, - Transfiguring street and shop with his illumined gaze. - - _Virgilium vidi tantum_,--I have seen - But as a boy, who looks alike on all, - That misty hair, that fine Undine-like mien, - Tremulous as down to feeling's faintest call;-- - Ah, dear old homestead! count it to thy fame - That thither many times the Painter came;-- - One elm yet bears his name, a feathery tree and tall. - - Swiftly the present fades in memory's glow,-- - Our only sure possession is the past; - The village blacksmith died a month ago, - And dim to me the forge's roaring blast; - Soon fire-new mediævals we shall see - Oust the black smithy from its chestnut tree, - And that hewn down, perhaps, the beehive green and vast. - - How many times, prouder than king on throne, - Loosed from the village school-dame's A's and B's, - Panting have I the creaky bellows blown, - And watched the pent volcano's red increase, - Then paused to see the ponderous sledge, brought down - By that hard arm voluminous and brown, - From the white iron swarm its golden vanishing bees. - - Dear native town! whose choking elms each year - With eddying dust before their time turn gray, - Pining for rain,--to me thy dust is dear; - It glorifies the eve of summer day, - And when the westering sun half-sunken burns, - The mote-thick air to deepest orange turns, - The westward horseman rides through clouds of gold away, - - So palpable, I've seen those unshorn few, - The six old willows at the causey's end, - (Such trees Paul Potter never dreamed nor drew,) - Through this dry mist their checkering shadows send, - Striped, here and there, with many a long-drawn thread, - Where streamed through leafy chinks the trembling red, - Past which, in one bright trail, the hangbird's flashes blend. - - Yes, dearer far thy dust than all that e'er, - Beneath the awarded crown of victory, - Gilded the blown Olympic charioteer; - Though lightly prized the ribboned parchments three, - Yet _collegisse juvat_, I am glad - That here what colleging was mine I had,-- - It linked another tie, dear native town, with thee! - - Nearer art thou than simply native earth, - My dust with thine concedes a deeper tie; - A closer claim thy soil may well put forth, - Something of kindred more than sympathy; - For in thy bounds I reverently laid away - That blinding anguish of forsaken clay, - That title I seemed to have in earth and sea and sky, - - That portion of my life more choice to me - (Though brief, yet in itself so round and whole) - Than all the imperfect residue can be;-- - The Artist saw his statue of the soul - Was perfect; so, with one regretful stroke, - The earthen model into fragments broke, - And without her the impoverished seasons roll. - - - - - THE GROWTH OF THE LEGEND. - - A FRAGMENT. - - - A legend that grew in the forest's hush - Slowly as tear-drops gather and gush, - When a word some poet chanced to say - Ages ago, in his careless way, - Brings our youth back to us out of its shroud - Clearly as under yon thunder-cloud - I see that white sea-gull. It grew and grew, - From the pine-trees gathering a sombre hue, - Till it seems a mere murmur out of the vast - Norwegian forests of the past; - And it grew itself like a true Northern pine, - First a little slender line, - Like a mermaid's green eyelash, and then anon - A stem that a tower might rest upon, - Standing spear-straight in the waist-deep moss, - Its bony roots clutching around and across, - As if they would tear up earth's heart in their grasp - Ere the storm should uproot them or make them unclasp; - Its cloudy boughs singing, as suiteth the pine, - To shrunk snow-bearded sea-kings old songs of the brine, - Till they straightened and let their staves fall to the floor, - Hearing waves moan again on the perilous shore - Of Vinland, perhaps, while their prow groped its way - 'Twixt the frothy gnashed tusks of some ship-crunching bay. - - So, pine-like, the legend grew, strong-limbed and tall, - As the Gipsy child grows that eats crusts in the hall; - It sucked the whole strength of the earth and the sky, - Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, all brought it supply; - 'Twas a natural growth, and stood fearlessly there, - A true part of the landscape as sea, land, and air; - For it grew in good times, ere the fashion it was - To force up these wild births of the woods under glass, - And so, if 'tis told as it should be told, - Though 't were sung under Venice's moonlight of gold, - You would hear the old voice of its mother, the pine, - Murmur sea-like and northern through every line, - And the verses should hang, self-sustained and free, - Round the vibrating stem of the melody, - Like the lithe sun-steeped limbs of the parent tree. - - Yes, the pine is the mother of legends; what food - For their grim roots is left when the thousand-yeared wood-- - The dim-aisled cathedral, whose tall arches spring - Light, sinewy, graceful, firm-set as the wing - From Michael's white shoulder--is hewn and defaced - By iconoclast axes in desperate waste, - And its wrecks seek the ocean it prophesied long, - Cassandra-like, crooning its mystical song? - Then the legends go with them,--even yet on the sea - A wild virtue is left in the touch of the tree, - And the sailor's night-watches are thrilled to the core - With the lineal offspring of Odin and Thor. - - Yes, wherever the pine-wood has never let in, - Since the day of creation, the light and the din - Of manifold life, but has safely conveyed - From the midnight primeval its armful of shade, - And has kept the weird Past with its sagas alive - Mid the hum and the stir of To-day's busy hive, - There the legend takes root in the age-gathered gloom, - And its murmurous boughs for their tossing find room. - - Where Aroostook, far-heard, seems to sob as he goes - Groping down to the sea 'neath his mountainous snows; - Where the lake's frore Sahara of never-tracked white, - When the crack shoots across it, complains to the night - With a long, lonely moan, that leagues northward is lost, - As the ice shrinks away from the tread of the frost; - Where the lumberers sit by the log-fires which throw - Their own threatening shadows far round o'er the snow, - When the wolf howls aloof, and the wavering glare - Flashes out from the blackness the eyes of the bear, - When the wood's huge recesses, half-lighted, supply - A canvas where Fancy her mad brush may try, - Blotting in giant Horrors that venture not down - Through the right-angled streets of the brisk, whitewashed town, - But skulk in the depths of the measureless wood - Mid the Dark's creeping whispers that curdle the blood, - When the eye, glanced in dread o'er the shoulder, may dream, - Ere it shrinks to the camp-fire's companioning gleam, - That it saw the fierce ghost of the Red Man crouch back - To the shroud of the tree-trunk's invincible black;-- - There the old shapes crowd thick round the pine-shadowed camp, - Which shun the keen gleam of the scholarly lamp, - And the seed of the legend finds true Norland ground, - While the border-tale's told and the canteen flits round. - - - - - A CONTRAST. - - - Thy love thou sentest oft to me, - And still as oft I thrust it back; - Thy messengers I could not see - In those who everything did lack,-- - The poor, the outcast, and the black. - - Pride held his hand before mine eyes, - The world with flattery stuffed mine ears; - I looked to see a monarch's guise, - Nor dreamed thy love would knock for years, - Poor, naked, fettered, full of tears. - - Yet, when I sent my love to thee, - Thou with a smile didst take it in, - And entertain'dst it royally, - Though grimed with earth, with hunger thin, - And leprous with the taint of sin. - - Now every day thy love I meet, - As o'er the earth it wanders wide, - With weary step and bleeding feet, - Still knocking at the heart of pride - And offering grace, though still denied. - - - - - EXTREME UNCTION. - - - Go! leave me, Priest; my soul would be - Alone with the consoler, Death; - Far sadder eyes than thine will see - This crumbling clay yield up its breath; - These shrivelled hands have deeper stains - Than holy oil can cleanse away,-- - Hands that have plucked the world's coarse gains - As erst they plucked the flowers of May. - - Call, if thou canst, to these gray eyes - Some faith from youth's traditions wrung; - This fruitless husk which dustward dries - Has been a heart once, has been young; - On this bowed head the awful Past - Once laid its consecrating hands; - The Future in its purpose vast - Paused, waiting my supreme commands. - - But look! whose shadows block the door? - Who are those two that stand aloof? - See! on my hands this freshening gore - Writes o'er again its crimson proof! - My looked-for death-bed guests are met;-- - There my dead Youth doth wring its hands, - And there, with eyes that goad me yet, - The ghost of my Ideal stands! - - God bends from out the deep and says,-- - "I gave thee the great gift of life; - Wast thou not called in many ways? - Are not my earth and heaven at strife? - I gave thee of my seed to sow, - Bringest thou me my hundred-fold?" - Can I look up with face aglow, - And answer, "Father, here is gold?" - - I have been innocent; God knows - When first this wasted life began, - Not grape with grape more kindly grows, - Than I with every brother-man: - Now here I gasp; what lose my kind, - When this fast-ebbing breath shall part? - What bands of love and service bind - This being to the world's sad heart? - - Christ still was wandering o'er the earth, - Without a place to lay his head; - He found free welcome at my hearth, - He shared my cup and broke my bread: - Now, when I hear those steps sublime, - That bring the other world to this, - My snake-turned nature, sunk in slime, - Starts sideway with defiant hiss. - - Upon the hour when I was born, - God said, "Another man shall be," - And the great Maker did not scorn - Out of himself to fashion me; - He sunned me with his ripening looks, - And Heaven's rich instincts in me grew, - As effortless as woodland nooks - Send violets up and paint them blue. - - Yes, I who now, with angry tears, - Am exiled back to brutish clod, - Have borne unquenched for fourscore years - A spark of the eternal God; - And to what end? How yield I back - The trust for such high uses given? - Heaven's light hath but revealed a track - Whereby to crawl away from heaven. - - Men think it is an awful sight - To see a soul just set adrift - On that drear voyage from whose night - The ominous shadows never lift; - But 'tis more awful to behold - A helpless infant, newly born, - Whose little hands unconscious hold - The keys of darkness and of morn. - - Mine held them once; I flung away - Those keys that might have open set - The golden sluices of the day, - But clutch the keys of darkness yet;-- - I hear the reapers singing go - Into God's harvest; I, that might - With them have chosen, here below - Grope shuddering at the gates of night. - - O glorious Youth, that once wast mine! - O high ideal! all in vain - Ye enter at this ruined shrine - Whence worship ne'er shall rise again, - The bat and owl inhabit here, - The snake nests in the altar-stone, - The sacred vessels moulder near, - The image of the God is gone. - - - - - THE OAK. - - - What gnarlèd stretch, what depth of shade, is his! - There needs no crown to mark the forest's king; - How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss! - Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring, - Which he with such benignant royalty - Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent; - All nature seems his vassal proud to be, - And cunning only for his ornament. - - How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows, - An unquelled exile from the summer's throne, - Whose plain, uncinctured front more kingly shows, - Now that the obscuring courtier leaves are flown. - His boughs make music of the winter air, - Jewelled with sleet, like some cathedral front - Where clinging snow-flakes with quaint art repair - The dints and furrows of time's envious brunt. - - How doth his patient strength the rude March wind - Persuade to seem glad breaths of summer breeze, - And win the soil that fain would be unkind, - To swell his revenues with proud increase! - He is the gem; and all the landscape wide - (So doth his grandeur isolate the sense) - Seems but the setting, worthless all beside, - An empty socket, were he fallen thence. - - So, from off converse with life's wintry gales, - Should man learn how to clasp with tougher roots - The inspiring earth;--how otherwise avails - The leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots? - So every year that falls with noiseless flake - Should fill old scars upon the stormward side, - And make hoar age revered for age's sake, - Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride. - - So from the pinched soil of a churlish fate, - True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth, - So between earth and heaven stand simply great, - That these shall seem but their attendants both; - For nature's forces with obedient zeal - Wait on the rooted faith and oaken will; - As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel, - And turn mad Pucks to flout and mock him still. - - Lord! all thy works are lessons,--each contains - Some emblem of man's all-containing soul; - Shall he make fruitless all thy glorious pains, - Delving within thy grace an eyeless mole? - Make me the least of thy Dodona-grove, - Cause me some message of thy truth to bring, - Speak but a word through me, nor let thy love - Among my boughs disdain to perch and sing. - - - - - AMBROSE. - - - Never, surely, was holier man - Than Ambrose, since the world began; - With diet spare and raiment thin, - He shielded himself from the father of sin; - With bed of iron and scourgings oft, - His heart to God's hand as wax made soft. - - Through earnest prayer and watchings long - He sought to know 'twixt right and wrong, - Much wrestling with the blessed Word - To make it yield the sense of the Lord, - That he might build a storm-proof creed - To fold the flock in at their need. - - At last he builded a perfect faith, - Fenced round about with _The Lord thus saith_; - To himself he fitted the doorway's size, - Meted the light to the need of his eyes, - And knew, by a sure and inward sign, - That the work of his fingers was divine. - - Then Ambrose said, "All those shall die - The eternal death who believe not as I;" - And some were boiled, some burned in fire, - Some sawn in twain, that his heart's desire, - For the good of men's souls, might be satisfied, - By the drawing of all to the righteous side. - - One day, as Ambrose was seeking the truth - In his lonely walk, he saw a youth - Resting himself in the shade of a tree; - It had never been given him to see - So shining a face, and the good man thought - 'T were pity he should not believe as he ought. - - So he set himself by the young man's side, - And the state of his soul with questions tried; - But the heart of the stranger was hardened indeed - Nor received the stamp of the one true creed, - And the spirit of Ambrose waxed sore to find - Such face the porch of so narrow a mind. - - "As each beholds in cloud and fire - The shape that answers his own desire, - So each," said the youth, "in the Law shall find - The figure and features of his mind; - And to each in his mercy hath God allowed - His several pillar of fire and cloud." - - The soul of Ambrose burned with zeal - And holy wrath for the young man's weal: - "Believest thou then, most wretched youth," - Cried he, "a dividual essence in Truth? - I fear me thy heart is too cramped with sin - To take the Lord in his glory in." - - Now there bubbled beside them where they stood, - A fountain of waters sweet and good; - The youth to the streamlet's brink drew near - Saying, "Ambrose, thou maker of creeds, look here!" - Six vases of crystal then he took, - And set them along the edge of the brook. - - "As into these vessels the water I pour, - There shall one hold less, another more, - And the water unchanged, in every case, - Shall put on the figure of the vase; - O thou, who wouldst unity make through strife, - Canst thou fit this sign to the Water of Life?" - - When Ambrose looked up, he stood alone, - The youth and the stream and the vases were gone; - But he knew, by a sense of humbled grace, - He had talked with an angel face to face, - And felt his heart change inwardly, - As he fell on his knees beneath the tree. - - - - - ABOVE AND BELOW. - - - I. - - O dwellers in the valley-land, - Who in deep twilight grope and cower, - Till the slow mountain's dial-hand - Shortens to noon's triumphal hour,-- - While ye sit idle, do ye think - The Lord's great work sits idle too? - That light dare not o'erleap the brink - Of morn, because 'tis dark with you? - - Though yet your valleys skulk in night, - In God's ripe fields the day is cried, - And reapers with their sickles bright, - Troop, singing, down the mountain side. - Come up, and feel what health there is - In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes, - As, bending with a pitying kiss, - The night-shed tears of Earth she dries! - - The Lord wants reapers: O, mount up, - Before night comes, and says,--"Too late!" - Stay not for taking scrip or cup, - The Master hungers while ye wait; - 'Tis from these heights alone your eyes - The advancing spears of day can see, - Which o'er the eastern hill-tops rise, - To break your long captivity. - - - II. - - Lone watcher on the mountain-height! - It is right precious to behold - The first long surf of climbing light - Flood all the thirsty east with gold; - But we, who in the shadow sit, - Know also when the day is nigh, - Seeing thy shining forehead lit - With his inspiring prophecy. - - Thou hast thine office; we have ours; - God lacks not early service here, - But what are thine eleventh hours - He counts with us for morning cheer - Our day, for Him, is long enough, - And when he giveth work to do, - The bruisèd reed is amply tough - To pierce the shield of error through. - - But not the less do thou aspire - Light's earlier messages to preach; - Keep back no syllable of fire,-- - Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech. - Yet God deems not thine aëried sight - More worthy than our twilight dim,-- - For meek Obedience, too, is Light, - And following that is finding Him. - - - - - THE CAPTIVE. - - - It was past the hour of trysting, - But she lingered for him still; - Like a child, the eager streamlet - Leaped and laughed adown the hill, - Happy to be free at twilight - From its toiling at the mill. - - Then the great moon on a sudden - Ominous, and red as blood, - Startling as a new creation, - O'er the eastern hill-top stood, - Casting deep and deeper shadows - Through the mystery of the wood. - - Dread closed huge and vague about her, - And her thoughts turned fearfully - To her heart, if there some shelter - From the silence there might be, - Like bare cedars leaning inland - From the blighting of the sea. - - Yet he came not, and the stillness - Dampened round her like a tomb; - She could feel cold eyes of spirits - Looking on her through the gloom, - She could hear the groping footsteps - Of some blind, gigantic doom. - - Suddenly the silence wavered - Like a light mist in the wind, - For a voice broke gently through it, - Felt like sunshine by the blind, - And the dread, like mist in sunshine, - Furled serenely from her mind. - - "Once my love, my love forever,-- - Flesh or spirit still the same; - If I missed the hour of trysting, - Do not think my faith to blame. - I, alas, was made a captive, - As from Holy Land I came. - - "On a green spot in the desert, - Gleaming like an emerald star, - Where a palm-tree, in lone silence, - Yearning for its mate afar, - Droops above a silver runnel, - Slender as a scimitar,-- - - "There thou'lt find the humble postern - To the castle of my foe; - If thy love burn clear and faithful, - Strike the gateway, green and low, - Ask to enter, and the warder - Surely will not say thee no." - - Slept again the aspen silence, - But her loneliness was o'er; - Round her heart a motherly patience - Wrapt its arms for evermore; - From her soul ebbed back the sorrow, - Leaving smooth the golden shore. - - Donned she now the pilgrim scallop, - Took the pilgrim staff in hand; - Like a cloud-shade, flitting eastward, - Wandered she o'er sea and land; - And her footsteps in the desert - Fell like cool rain on the sand. - - Soon, beneath the palm-tree's shadow, - Knelt she at the postern low; - And thereat she knocketh gently, - Fearing much the warder's no; - All her heart stood still and listened, - As the door swung backward slow. - - There she saw no surly warder - With an eye like bolt and bar; - Through her soul a sense of music - Throbbed,--and, like a guardian Lar, - On the threshold stood an angel, - Bright and silent as a star. - - Fairest seemed he of God's seraphs, - And her spirit, lily-wise, - Blossomed when he turned upon her - The deep welcome of his eyes, - Sending upward to that sunlight - All its dew for sacrifice. - - Then she heard a voice come onward - Singing with a rapture new, - As Eve heard the songs in Eden, - Dropping earthward with the dew; - Well she knew the happy singer, - Well the happy song she knew. - - Forward leaped she o'er the threshold, - Eager as a glancing surf; - Fell from her the spirit's languor, - Fell from her the body's scurf;-- - 'Neath the palm next day some Arabs - Found a corpse upon the turf. - - - - - THE BIRCH-TREE. - - - Rippling through thy branches goes the sunshine, - Among thy leaves that palpitate forever; - Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned, - The soul once of some tremulous inland river, - Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb forever! - - While all the forest, witched with slumberous moonshine, - Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence, - Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended,-- - I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy islands, - And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung silence. - - Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet, - Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad, - Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow - Slopes quivering down the water's dusky quiet, - Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge would some startled Dryad. - - Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers; - Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping; - Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience, - And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring and weeping - Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy keeping. - - Thou art to me like my beloved maiden, - So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences; - Thy shadow scarce seems shade, thy pattering leaflets - Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er my senses, - And Nature gives me all her summer confidences. - - Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble, - Thou sympathizest still; wild and unquiet, - I fling me down; thy ripple, like a river, - Flows valleyward, where calmness is, and by it - My heart is floated down into the land of quiet. - - - - - AN INTERVIEW WITH MILES STANDISH. - - - I sat one evening in my room, - In that sweet hour of twilight - When blended thoughts, half light, half gloom, - Throng through the spirit's skylight; - The flames by fits curled round the bars, - Or up the chimney crinkled, - While embers dropped like falling stars, - And in the ashes tinkled. - - I sat and mused; the fire burned low, - And, o'er my senses stealing, - Crept something of the ruddy glow - That bloomed on wall and ceiling; - My pictures (they are very few,-- - The heads of ancient wise men) - Smoothed down their knotted fronts, and grew - As rosy as excisemen. - - My antique high-backed Spanish chair - Felt thrills through wood and leather, - That had been strangers since whilere, - Mid Andalusian heather, - The oak that made its sturdy frame - His happy arms stretched over - The ox whose fortunate hide became - The bottom's polished cover. - - It came out in that famous bark - That brought our sires intrepid, - Capacious as another ark - For furniture decrepit;-- - For, as that saved of bird and beast - A pair for propagation, - So has the seed of these increased - And furnished half the nation. - - Kings sit, they say, in slippery seats; - But those slant precipices - Of ice the northern voyager meets - Less slippery are than this is; - To cling therein would pass the wit - Of royal man or woman, - And whatsoe'er can stay in it - Is more or less than human. - - I offer to all bores this perch, - Dear well-intentioned people - With heads as void as week-day church, - Tongues longer than the steeple; - To folks with missions, whose gaunt eyes - See golden ages rising,-- - Salt of the earth! in what queer Guys - Thou'rt fond of crystallizing! - - My wonder, then, was not unmixed - With merciful suggestion, - When, as my roving eyes grew fixed - Upon the chair in question, - I saw its trembling arms enclose - A figure grim and rusty, - Whose doublet plain and plainer hose - Were something worn and dusty. - - Now even such men as Nature forms - Merely to fill the street with, - Once turned to ghosts by hungry worms, - Are serious things to meet with; - Your penitent spirits are no jokes, - And, though I'm not averse to - A quiet shade, even they are folks - One cares not to speak first to. - - Who knows, thought I, but he has come, - By Charon kindly ferried, - To tell me of a mighty sum - Behind my wainscot buried? - There is a buccaneerish air - About that garb outlandish---- - Just then the ghost drew up his chair - And said "My name is Standish. - - "I come from Plymouth, deadly bored - With toasts, and songs, and speeches, - As long and flat as my old sword, - As threadbare as my breeches: - _They_ understand us Pilgrims! they, - Smooth men with rosy faces, - Strength's knots and gnarls all pared away, - And varnish in their places! - - "We had some toughness in our grain, - The eye to rightly see us is - Not just the one that lights the brain - Of drawing-room Tyrtæuses: - _They_ talk about their Pilgrim blood, - Their birthright high and holy!-- - A mountain-stream that ends in mud - Methinks is melancholy. - - "He had stiff knees, the Puritan, - That were not good at bending; - The homespun dignity of man - He thought was worth defending; - He did not, with his pinchbeck ore, - His country's shame forgotten, - Gild Freedom's coffin o'er and o'er, - When all within was rotten. - - "These loud ancestral boasts of yours, - How can they else than vex us? - Where were your dinner orators - When slavery grasped at Texas? - Dumb on his knees was every one - That now is bold as Cæsar,-- - Mere pegs to hang an office on - Such stalwart men as these are." - - "Good Sir," I said, "you seem much stirred - The sacred compromises----" - "Now God confound the dastard word! - My gall thereat arises: - Northward it hath this sense alone, - That you, your conscience blinding, - Shall bow your fool's nose to the stone, - When slavery feels like grinding. - - "'Tis shame to see such painted sticks - In Vane's and Winthrop's places, - To see your spirit of Seventy-six - Drag humbly in the traces, - With slavery's lash upon her back, - And herds of office-holders - To shout applause, as, with a crack, - It peels her patient shoulders. - - "_We_ forefathers to such a rout!-- - No, by my faith in God's word!" - Half rose the ghost, and half drew out - The ghost of his old broadsword, - Then thrust it slowly back again, - And said, with reverent gesture, - "No, Freedom, no! blood should not stain - The hem of thy white vesture. - - "I feel the soul in me draw near - The mount of prophesying; - In this bleak wilderness I hear - A John the Baptist crying; - Far in the east I see upleap - The streaks of first forewarning, - And they who sowed the light shall reap - The golden sheaves of morning. - - "Child of our travail and our woe, - Light in our day of sorrow, - Through my rapt spirit I foreknow - The glory of thy morrow; - I hear great steps, that through the shade - Draw nigher still and nigher, - And voices call like that which bade - The prophet come up higher." - - I looked, no form mine eyes could find, - I heard the red cock crowing, - And through my window-chinks the wind - A dismal tune was blowing; - Thought I, My neighbor Buckingham - Hath somewhat in him gritty, - Some Pilgrim-stuff that hates all sham, - And he will print my ditty. - - - - - ON THE CAPTURE OF CERTAIN FUGITIVE - SLAVES NEAR WASHINGTON. - - - Look on who will in apathy, and stifle they who can, - The sympathies, the hopes, the words, that make man truly man; - Let those whose hearts are dungeoned up with interest or with ease - Consent to hear with quiet pulse of loathsome deeds like these! - - I first drew in New England's air, and from her hardy breast - Sucked in the tyrant-hating milk that will not let me rest; - And if my words seem treason to the dullard and the tame, - 'Tis but my Bay-State dialect,--our fathers spake the same! - - Shame on the costly mockery of piling stone on stone - To those who won our liberty, the heroes dead and gone, - While we look coldly on, and see law-shielded ruffians slay - The men who fain would win their own, the heroes of to-day! - - Are we pledged to craven silence? O fling it to the wind, - The parchment wall that bars us from the least of human kind,-- - That makes us cringe and temporize, and dumbly stand at rest, - While Pity's burning flood of words is red-hot in the breast! - - Though we break our fathers' promise, we have nobler duties first; - The traitor to Humanity is the traitor most accursed; - Man is more than Constitutions; better rot beneath the sod, - Than be true to Church and State while we are doubly false to God! - - We owe allegiance to the State; but deeper, truer, more, - To the sympathies that God hath set within our spirit's core;-- - Our country claims our fealty; we grant it so, but then - Before Man made us citizens, great Nature made us men. - - He's true to God who's true to man; wherever wrong is done, - To the humblest and the weakest, neath the all-beholding sun, - That wrong is also done to us; and they are slaves most base, - Whose love of right is for themselves, and not for all their race. - - God works for all. Ye cannot hem the hope of being free - With parallels of latitude, with mountain-range or sea. - Put golden padlocks on Truth's lips, be callous as ye will, - From soul to soul o'er all the world, leaps one electric thrill. - - Chain down your slaves with ignorance, ye cannot keep apart, - With all your craft of tyranny, the human heart from heart: - When first the Pilgrims landed on the Bay-State's iron shore, - The word went forth that slavery should one day be no more. - - Out from the land of bondage 'tis decreed our slaves shall go, - And signs to us are offered, as erst to Pharaoh; - If we are blind, their exodus, like Israel's of yore, - Through a Red Sea is doomed to be, whose surges are of gore. - 'Tis ours to save our brethren, with peace and love to win - Their darkened hearts from error, ere they harden it to sin; - But if before his duty man with listless spirit stands, - Ere long the Great Avenger takes the work from out his hands. - - - - - TO THE DANDELION. - - - Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, - Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, - First pledge of blithesome May, - Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, - High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they - An Eldorado in the grass have found, - Which not the rich earth's ample round - May match in wealth,--thou art more dear to me - Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. - - Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow - Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, - Nor wrinkled the lean brow - Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; - 'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now - To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, - Though most hearts never understand - To take it at God's value, but pass by - The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. - - Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; - To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; - The eyes thou givest me - Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: - Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee - Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment - In the white lily's breezy tent, - His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first - From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. - - Then think I of deep shadows on the grass,-- - Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, - Where, as the breezes pass, - The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways,-- - Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, - Or whiten in the wind,--of waters blue - That from the distance sparkle through - Some woodland gap,--and of a sky above, - Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. - - My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; - The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, - Who, from the dark old tree - Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, - And I, secure in childish piety, - Listened as if I heard an angel sing - With news from heaven, which he could bring - Fresh every day to my untainted ears, - When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. - - How like a prodigal doth nature seem, - When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! - Thou teachest me to deem - More sacredly of every human heart, - Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam - Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show - Did we but pay the love we owe, - And with a child's undoubting wisdom look - On all these living pages of God's book. - - - - - THE GHOST-SEER. - - - Ye who, passing graves by night, - Glance not to the left or right, - Lest a spirit should arise, - Cold and white, to freeze your eyes, - Some weak phantom, which your doubt - Shapes upon the dark without - From the dark within, a guess - At the spirit's deathlessness, - Which ye entertain with fear - In your self-built dungeon here, - Where ye sell your God-given lives - Just for gold to buy you gyves,-- - Ye without a shudder meet - In the city's noonday street, - Spirits sadder and more dread - Than from out the clay have fled, - Buried, beyond hope of light, - In the body's haunted night! - - See ye not that woman pale? - There are bloodhounds on her trail! - Bloodhounds two, all gaunt and lean,-- - For the soul their scent is keen,-- - Want and Sin, and Sin is last,-- - They have followed far and fast, - Want gave tongue, and, at her howl, - Sin awakened with a growl. - Ah, poor girl! she had a right - To a blessing from the light, - Title-deeds to sky and earth - God gave to her at her birth, - But, before they were enjoyed, - Poverty had made them void, - And had drunk the sunshine up - From all nature's ample cup, - Leaving her a first-born's share - In the dregs of darkness there. - Often, on the sidewalk bleak, - Hungry, all alone, and weak, - She has seen, in night and storm, - Rooms o'erflow with firelight warm, - Which, outside the window-glass, - Doubled all the cold, alas! - Till each ray that on her fell - Stabbed her like an icicle, - And she almost loved the wail - Of the bloodhounds on her trail. - Till the floor becomes her bier, - She shall feel their pantings near, - Close upon her very heels, - Spite of all the din of wheels; - Shivering on her pallet poor, - She shall hear them at the door - Whine and scratch to be let in, - Sister bloodhounds, Want and Sin! - - Hark! that rustle of a dress, - Stiff with lavish costliness! - Here comes one whose cheek would flush - But to have her garment brush - 'Gainst the girl whose fingers thin - Wove the weary broidery in, - Bending backward from her toil, - Lest her tears the silk might soil, - And, in midnight's chill and murk, - Stitched her life into the work, - Shaping from her bitter thought - Heart's-ease and forget-me-not, - Satirizing her despair - With the emblems woven there. - Little doth the wearer heed - Of the heart-break in the brede; - A hyena by her side - Skulks, down-looking,--it is Pride. - He digs for her in the earth, - Where lie all her claims of birth, - With his foul paws rooting o'er - Some long-buried ancestor, - Who, perhaps, a statue won - By the ill deeds he had done, - By the innocent blood he shed, - By the desolation spread - Over happy villages, - Blotting out the smile of peace. - - There walks Judas, he who sold - Yesterday his Lord for gold, - Sold God's presence in his heart - For a proud step in the mart; - He hath dealt in flesh and blood,-- - At the bank his name is good, - At the bank, and only there, - 'Tis a marketable ware. - In his eyes that stealthy gleam - Was not learned of sky or stream, - But it has the cold, hard glint - Of new dollars from the mint. - Open now your spirit's eyes, - Look through that poor clay disguise - Which has thickened, day by day, - Till it keeps all light at bay, - And his soul in pitchy gloom - Gropes about its narrow tomb, - From whose dank and slimy walls - Drop by drop the horror falls. - Look! a serpent lank and cold - Hugs his spirit fold on fold; - From his heart, all day and night, - It doth suck God's blessed light. - Drink it will, and drink it must, - Till the cup holds naught but dust; - All day long he hears it hiss, - Writhing in its fiendish bliss; - All night long he sees its eyes - Flicker with foul ecstasies, - As the spirit ebbs away - Into the absorbing clay. - - Who is he that skulks, afraid - Of the trust he has betrayed, - Shuddering if perchance a gleam - Of old nobleness should stream - Through the pent, unwholesome room, - Where his shrunk soul cowers in gloom,-- - Spirit sad beyond the rest - By more instinct for the best? - 'Tis a poet who was sent - For a bad world's punishment, - By compelling it to see - Golden glimpses of To Be, - By compelling it to hear - Songs that prove the angels near; - Who was sent to be the tongue - Of the weak and spirit-wrung, - Whence the fiery-winged Despair - In men's shrinking eyes might flare. - 'Tis our hope doth fashion us - To base use or glorious: - He who might have been a lark - Of Truth's morning, from the dark - Raining down melodious hope - Of a freer, broader scope, - Aspirations, prophecies, - Of the spirit's full sunrise, - Chose to be a bird of night, - Which with eyes refusing light, - Hooted from some hollow tree - Of the world's idolatry. - 'Tis his punishment to hear - Flutterings of pinions near, - And his own vain wings to feel - Drooping downward to his heel, - All their grace and import lost, - Burdening his weary ghost: - Ever walking by his side - He must see his angel guide, - Who at intervals doth turn - Looks on him so sadly stern, - With such ever-new surprise - Of hushed anguish in her eyes, - That it seems the light of day - From around him shrinks away, - Or drops blunted from the wall - Built around him by his fall. - Then the mountains, whose white peaks - Catch the morning's earliest streaks, - He must see, where prophets sit, - Turning east their faces lit, - Whence, with footsteps beautiful, - To the earth, yet dim and dull, - They the gladsome tidings bring, - Of the sunlight's hastening: - Never can those hills of bliss - Be o'erclimbed by feet like his! - - But enough! O, do not dare - From the next the veil to tear, - Woven of station, trade, or dress, - More obscene than nakedness, - Wherewith plausible culture drapes - Fallen Nature's myriad shapes! - Let us rather love to mark - How the unextinguished spark - Will shine through the thin disguise - Of our customs, pomps, and lies, - And, not seldom blown to flame, - Vindicate its ancient claim. - - 1844. - - - - - STUDIES FOR TWO HEADS. - - - I. - - Some sort of heart I know is hers,-- - I chanced to feel her pulse one night; - A brain she has that never errs, - And yet is never nobly right; - It does not leap to great results, - But in some corner out of sight, - Suspects a spot of latent blight, - And, o'er the impatient infinite, - She bargains, haggles, and consults. - - Her eye,--it seems a chemic test - And drops upon you like an acid; - It bites you with unconscious zest, - So clear and bright, so coldly placid; - It holds you quietly aloof, - It holds,--and yet it does not win you; - It merely puts you to the proof - And sorts what qualities are in you; - It smiles, but never brings you nearer, - It lights,--her nature draws not nigh; - 'Tis but that yours is growing clearer - To her assays;--yes, try and try, - You'll get no deeper than her eye. - - There, you are classified: she's gone - Far, far away into herself; - Each with its Latin label on, - Your poor components, one by one, - Are laid upon their proper shelf - In her compact and ordered mind, - And what of you is left behind - Is no more to her than the wind; - In that clear brain, which, day and night, - No movement of the heart e'er jostles, - Her friends are ranged on left and right,-- - Here, silex, hornblende, sienite; - There, animal remains and fossils. - - And yet, O subtile analyst, - That canst each property detect - Of mood or grain, that canst untwist - Each tangled skein of intellect, - And with thy scalpel eyes lay bare - Each mental nerve more fine than air,-- - O brain exact, that in thy scales - Canst weigh the sun and never err, - For once thy patient science fails, - One problem still defies thy art;-- - Thou never canst compute for her - The distance and diameter - Of any simple human heart. - - - II. - - Hear him but speak, and you will feel - The shadows of the Portico - Over your tranquil spirit steal, - To modulate all joy and woe - To one subdued, subduing glow; - Above our squabbling business-hours, - Like Phidian Jove's, his beauty lowers, - His nature satirizes ours; - A form and front of Attic grace, - He shames the higgling market-place, - And dwarfs our more mechanic powers. - - What throbbing verse can fitly render - That face,--so pure, so trembling-tender? - Sensation glimmers through its rest, - It speaks unmanacled by words, - As full of motion as a nest - That palpitates with unfledged birds; - 'Tis likest to Bethesda's stream, - Forewarned through all its thrilling springs, - White with the angel's coming gleam, - And rippled with his fanning wings. - - Hear him unfold his plots and plans, - And larger destinies seem man's; - You conjure from his glowing face - The omen of a fairer race; - With one grand trope he boldly spans - The gulf wherein so many fall, - 'Twixt possible and actual; - His first swift word, talaria-shod, - Exuberant with conscious God, - Out of the choir of planets blots - The present earth with all its spots. - - Himself unshaken as the sky, - His words, like whirlwinds, spin on high - Systems and creeds pellmell together; - 'Tis strange as to a deaf man's eye, - While trees uprooted splinter by, - The dumb turmoil of stormy weather; - Less of iconoclast than shaper, - His spirit, safe behind the reach - Of the tornado of his speech, - Burns calmly as a glowworm's taper. - - So great in speech, but, ah! in act - So overrun with vermin troubles, - The coarse, sharp-cornered, ugly fact - Of life collapses all his bubbles: - Had he but lived in Plato's day, - He might, unless my fancy errs, - Have shared that golden voice's sway - O'er barefooted philosophers. - Our nipping climate hardly suits - The ripening of ideal fruits: - His theories vanquish us all summer, - But winter makes him dumb and dumber - To see him mid life's needful things - Is something painfully bewildering; - He seems an angel with clipt wings - Tied to a mortal wife and children, - And by a brother seraph taken - In the act of eating eggs and bacon. - Like a clear fountain, his desire - Exults and leaps toward the light, - In every drop it says "Aspire!" - Striving for more ideal height; - And as the fountain, falling thence, - Crawls baffled through the common gutter - So, from his speech's eminence, - He shrinks into the present tense, - Unkinged by foolish bread and butter. - - Yet smile not, worldling, for in deeds - Not all of life that's brave and wise is; - He strews an ampler future's seeds, - 'Tis your fault if no harvest rises; - Smooth back the sneer; for is it naught - That all he is and has is Beauty's? - By soul the soul's gains must be wrought, - The Actual claims our coarser thought, - The Ideal hath its higher duties. - - - - - ON A PORTRAIT OF DANTE BY GIOTTO. - - - Can this be thou who, lean and pale, - With such immitigable eye - Didst look upon those writhing souls in bale, - And note each vengeance, and pass by - Unmoved, save when thy heart by chance - Cast backward one forbidden glance, - And saw Francesca, with child's glee, - Subdue and mount thy wild-horse knee - And with proud hands control its fiery prance? - - With half-drooped lids, and smooth, round brow, - And eye remote, that inly sees - Fair Beatrice's spirit wandering now - In some sea-lulled Hesperides, - Thou movest through the jarring street, - Secluded from the noise of feet - By her gift-blossom in thy hand, - Thy branch of palm from Holy Land;-- - No trace is here of ruin's fiery sleet. - - Yet there is something round thy lips - That prophesies the coming doom, - The soft, gray herald-shadow ere the eclipse - Notches the perfect disk with gloom; - A something that would banish thee, - And thine untamed pursuer be, - From men and their unworthy fates, - Though Florence had not shut her gates, - And grief had loosed her clutch and let thee free. - - Ah! he who follows fearlessly - The beckonings of a poet-heart - Shall wander, and without the world's decree, - A banished man in field and mart; - Harder than Florence' walls the bar - Which with deaf sternness holds him far - From home and friends, till death's release, - And makes his only prayer for peace, - Like thine, scarred veteran of a lifelong war! - - - - - ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. - - - Death never came so nigh to me before, - Nor showed me his mild face: oft had I mused - Of calm and peace and deep forgetfulness, - Of folded hands, closed eye, and heart at rest, - And slumber sound beneath a flowery turf, - Of faults forgotten, and an inner place - Kept sacred for us in the heart of friends; - But these were idle fancies, satisfied - With the mere husk of this great mystery, - And dwelling in the outward shows of things. - Heaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams, - Nor doth the unthankful happiness of youth - Aim thitherward, but floats from bloom to bloom, - With earth's warm patch of sunshine well content - 'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up, - Whose golden rounds are our calamities, - Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God - The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. - - True is it that Death's face seems stern and cold, - When he is sent to summon those we love, - But all God's angels come to us disguised; - Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, - One after other lift their frowning masks, - And we behold the seraph's face beneath, - All radiant with the glory and the calm - Of having looked upon the front of God. - With every anguish of our earthly part - The spirit's sight grows clearer; this was meant - When Jesus touched the blind man's lids with clay. - Life is the jailer, Death the angel sent - To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free. - He flings not ope the ivory gate of Rest,-- - Only the fallen spirit knocks at that,-- - But to benigner regions beckons us, - To destinies of more rewarded toil. - In the hushed chamber, sitting by the dead, - It grates on us to hear the flood of life - Whirl rustling onward, senseless of our loss. - The bee hums on; around the blossomed vine - Whirs the light humming-bird; the cricket chirps; - The locust's shrill alarum stings the ear; - Hard by, the cock shouts lustily; from farm to farm, - His cheery brothers, telling of the sun, - Answer, till far away the joyance dies: - We never knew before how God had filled - The summer air with happy living sounds; - All round us seems an overplus of life, - And yet the one dear heart lies cold and still. - It is most strange, when the great miracle - Hath for our sakes been done, when we have had - Our inwardest experience of God, - When with his presence still the room expands, - And is awed after him, that naught is changed, - That Nature's face looks unacknowledging, - And the mad world still dances heedless on - After its butterflies, and gives no sign. - 'Tis hard at first to see it all aright; - In vain Faith blows her trump to summon back - Her scattered troop; yet, through the clouded glass - Of our own bitter tears, we learn to look - Undazzled on the kindness of God's face; - Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone shines through. - It is no little thing, when a fresh soul - And a fresh heart, with their unmeasured scope - For good, not gravitating earthward yet, - But circling in diviner periods, - Are sent into the world,--no little thing, - When this unbounded possibility - Into the outer silence is withdrawn. - Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread - Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, - The visionary hand of Might-have-been - Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim! - - How changed, dear friend, are thy part and thy child's! - He bends above _thy_ cradle now, or holds - His warning finger out to be thy guide; - Thou art the nurseling now; he watches thee - Slow learning, one by one, the secret things - Which are to him used sights of every day; - He smiles to see thy wondering glances con - The grass and pebbles of the spirit world, - To thee miraculous; and he will teach - Thy knees their due observances of prayer. - Children are God's apostles, day by day - Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace, - Nor hath thy babe his mission left undone. - To me, at least, his going hence hath given - Serener thoughts and nearer to the skies, - And opened a new fountain in my heart - For thee, my friend, and all: and, O, if Death - More near approaches meditates, and clasps - Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand, - God, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see - That 'tis thine angel, who, with loving haste, - Unto the service of the inner shrine - Doth waken thy belovèd with a kiss! - - 1844. - - - - - EURYDICE. - - - Heaven's cup held down to me I drain, - The sunshine mounts and spurs my brain; - Bathing in grass, with thirsty eye - I suck the last drop of the sky; - With each hot sense I draw to the lees - The quickening out-door influences, - And empty to each radiant comer - A supernaculum of summer: - Not, Bacchus, all thy grosser juice - Could bring enchantment so profuse, - Though for its press each grape-bunch had - The white feet of an Oread. - - Through our coarse art gleam, now and then, - The features of angelic men; - 'Neath the lewd Satyr's veiling paint - Glows forth the Sibyl, Muse, or Saint; - The dauber's botch no more obscures - The mighty Master's portraitures. - And who can say what luckier beam - The hidden glory shall redeem, - For what chance clod the soul may wait - To stumble on its nobler fate, - Or why, to his unwarned abode, - Still by surprises comes the God? - Some moment, nailed on sorrow's cross, - May mediate a whole youth's loss, - Some windfall joy, we know not whence, - Redeem a lifetime's rash expense, - And, suddenly wise, the soul may mark, - Stripped of their simulated dark, - Mountains of gold that pierce the sky, - Girdling its valleyed poverty. - - I feel ye, childhood's hopes, return, - With olden heats my pulses burn,-- - Mine be the self-forgetting sweep, - The torrent impulse swift and wild, - Wherewith Taghkanic's rockborn child - Dares gloriously the dangerous leap, - And, in his sky-descended mood, - Transmutes each drop of sluggish blood, - By touch of bravery's simple wand, - To amethyst and diamond, - Proving himself no bastard slip, - But the true granite-cradled one, - Nursed with the rock's primeval drip, - The cloud-embracing mountain's son! - - Prayer breathed in vain! no wish's sway - Rebuilds the vanished yesterday; - For plated wares of Sheffield stamp - We gave the old Aladdin's lamp; - 'Tis we are changed; ah, whither went - That undesigned abandonment, - That wise, unquestioning content, - Which could erect its microcosm - Out of a weed's neglected blossom, - Could call up Arthur and his peers - By a low moss's clump of spears, - Or, in its shingle trireme launched, - Where Charles in some green inlet branched, - Could venture for the golden fleece - And dragon-watched Hesperides, - Or, from its ripple-shattered fate, - Ulysses' chances recreate? - When, heralding life's every phase, - There glowed a goddess-veiling haze, - A plenteous, forewarning grace, - Like that more tender dawn that flies - Before the full moon's ample rise? - Methinks thy parting glory shines - Through yonder grove of singing pines; - At that elm-vista's end I trace - Dimly thy sad leave-taking face, - Eurydice! Eurydice! - The tremulous leaves repeat to me - Eurydice! Eurydice! - No gloomier Orcus swallows thee - Than the unclouded sunset's glow; - Thine is at least Elysian woe; - Thou hast Good's natural decay, - And fadest like a star away - Into an atmosphere whose shine - With fuller day o'ermasters thine, - Entering defeat as 't were a shrine; - For us,--we turn life's diary o'er - To find but one word,--Nevermore. - - 1845. - - - - - SHE CAME AND WENT. - - - As a twig trembles, which a bird - Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, - So is my memory thrilled and stirred;-- - I only know she came and went. - - As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, - The blue dome's measureless content, - So my soul held that moment's heaven;-- - I only know she came and went. - - As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps - The orchards full of bloom and scent, - So clove her May my wintry sleeps;-- - I only know she came and went. - - An angel stood and met my gaze, - Through the low doorway of my tent; - The tent is struck, the vision stays;-- - I only know she came and went. - - O, when the room grows slowly dim, - And life's last oil is nearly spent, - One gush of light these eyes will brim, - Only to think she came and went. - - - - - THE CHANGELING. - - - I had a little daughter, - And she was given to me - To lead me gently backward - To the Heavenly Father's knee, - That I, by the force of nature, - Might in some dim wise divine - The depth of his infinite patience - To this wayward soul of mine. - - I know not how others saw her, - But to me she was wholly fair, - And the light of the heaven she came from - Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; - For it was as wavy and golden, - And as many changes took, - As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples - On the yellow bed of a brook. - - To what can I liken her smiling - Upon me, her kneeling lover, - How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids, - And dimpled her wholly over, - Till her outstretched hands smiled also, - And I almost seemed to see - The very heart of her mother - Sending sun through her veins to me! - - She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth, - And it hardly seemed a day, - When a troop of wandering angels - Stole my little daughter away; - Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari - But loosed the hampering strings, - And when they had opened her cage-door - My little bird used her wings. - - But they left in her stead a changeling, - A little angel child, - That seems like her bud in full blossom, - And smiles as she never smiled: - When I wake in the morning, I see it - Where she always used to lie, - And I feel as weak as a violet - Alone 'neath the awful sky. - - As weak, yet as trustful also; - For the whole year long I see - All the wonders of faithful Nature - Still worked for the love of me; - Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, - Rain falls, suns rise and set, - Earth whirls, and all but to prosper - A poor little violet. - - This child is not mine as the first was, - I cannot sing it to rest, - I cannot lift it up fatherly - And bliss it upon my breast; - Yet it lies in my little one's cradle - And sits in my little one's chair, - And the light of the heaven she's gone to - Transfigures its golden hair. - - - - - THE PIONEER. - - - What man would live coffined with brick and stone, - Imprisoned from the influences of air, - And cramped with selfish land-marks everywhere, - When all before him stretches, furrowless and lone, - The unmapped prairie none can fence or own? - - What man would read and read the selfsame faces, - And, like the marbles which the windmill grinds, - Rub smooth forever with the same smooth minds, - This year retracing last year's, every year's, dull traces, - When there are woods and un-man-stifled places? - - What man o'er one old thought would pore and pore, - Shut like a book between its covers thin - For every fool to leave his dog's-ears in, - When solitude is his, and God for evermore, - Just for the opening of a paltry door? - - What man would watch life's oozy element - Creep Letheward forever, when he might - Down some great river drift beyond men's sight, - To where the undethronèd forest's royal tent - Broods with its hush o'er half a continent? - - What man with men would push and altercate, - Piecing out crooked means for crooked ends, - When he can have the skies and woods for friends, - Snatch back the rudder of his undismantled fate, - And in himself be ruler, church, and state? - - Cast leaves and feathers rot in last year's nest, - The wingèd brood, flown thence, new dwellings plan; - The serf of his own Past is not a man; - To change and change is life, to move and never rest;-- - Not what we are, but what we hope, is best. - - The wild, free woods make no man halt or blind; - Cities rob men of eyes and hands and feet, - Patching one whole of many incomplete; - The general preys upon the individual mind, - And each alone is helpless as the wind. - - Each man is some man's servant; every soul - Is by some other's presence quite discrowned; - Each owes the next through all the imperfect round, - Yet not with mutual help; each man is his own goal, - And the whole earth must stop to pay his toll. - - Here, life the undiminished man demands; - New faculties stretch out to meet new wants; - What Nature asks, that Nature also grants; - Here man is lord, not drudge, of eyes and feet and hands, - And to his life is knit with hourly bands. - - Come out, then, from the old thoughts and old ways, - Before you harden to a crystal cold - Which the new life can shatter, but not mould; - Freedom for you still waits, still, looking backward, stays, - But widens still the irretrievable space. - - - - - LONGING. - - - Of all the myriad moods of mind - That through the soul come thronging, - Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, - So beautiful as Longing? - The thing we long for, that we are - For one transcendent moment, - Before the Present poor and bare - Can make its sneering comment. - - Still, through our paltry stir and strife, - Glows down the wished Ideal, - And Longing moulds in clay what Life - Carves in the marble Real; - To let the new life in, we know, - Desire must ope the portal;-- - Perhaps the longing to be so - Helps make the soul immortal. - - Longing is God's fresh heavenward will - With our poor earthward striving; - We quench it that we may be still - Content with merely living; - But, would we learn that heart's full scope - Which we are hourly wronging, - Our lives must climb from hope to hope - And realize our longing. - - Ah! let us hope that to our praise - Good God not only reckons - The moments when we tread his ways, - But when the spirit beckons,-- - That some slight good is also wrought - Beyond self-satisfaction, - When we are simply good in thought, - Howe'er we fail in action. - - - - - ODE TO FRANCE. - - FEBRUARY, 1848. - - - I. - - As, flake by flake, the beetling avalanches - Build up their imminent crags of noiseless snow, - Till some chance thrill the loosened ruin launches - And the blind havoc leaps unwarned below, - So grew and gathered through the silent years - The madness of a People, wrong by wrong. - There seemed no strength in the dumb toiler's tears,-- - No strength in suffering;--but the Past was strong: - The brute despair of trampled centuries - Leaped up with one hoarse yell and snapped its bands, - Groped for its right with horny, callous hands, - And stared around for God with bloodshot eyes. - What wonder if those palms were all too hard - For nice distinctions,--if that mænad throng-- - They whose thick atmosphere no bard - Had shivered with the lightning of his song, - Brutes with the memories and desires of men, - Whose chronicles were writ with iron pen, - In the crooked shoulder and the forehead low-- - Set wrong to balance wrong, - And physicked woe with woe? - - - II. - - They did as they were taught; not theirs the blame, - If men who scattered firebrands reaped the flame: - They trampled Peace beneath their savage feet, - And by her golden tresses drew - Mercy along the pavement of the street. - O, Freedom! Freedom! is thy morning-dew - So gory red? Alas, thy light had ne'er - Shone in upon the chaos of their lair! - They reared to thee such symbol as they knew, - And worshipped it with flame and blood, - A Vengeance, axe in hand, that stood - Holding a tyrant's head up by the clotted hair. - - - III. - - What wrongs the Oppressor suffered, these we know; - These have found piteous voice in song and prose; - But for the Oppressed, their darkness and their woe, - Their grinding centuries,--what Muse had those? - Though hall and palace had nor eyes nor ears, - Hardening a people's heart to senseless stone, - Thou knowest them, O Earth, that drank their tears, - O Heaven, that heard their inarticulate moan! - They noted down their fetters, link by link; - Coarse was the hand that scrawled, and red the ink; - Rude was their score, as suits unlettered men,-- - Notched with a headman's axe upon a block: - What marvel if, when came the avenging shock, - 'Twas Ate, not Urania, held the pen? - - - IV. - - With eye averted and an anguished frown, - Loathingly glides the Muse through scenes of strife, - Where, like the heart of Vengeance up and down, - Throbs in its framework the blood-muffled knife; - Slow are the steps of Freedom, but her feet - Turn never backward: hers no bloody glare; - Her light is calm, and innocent, and sweet, - And where it enters there is no despair: - Not first on palace and cathedral spire - Quivers and gleams that unconsuming fire; - While these stand black against her morning skies, - The peasant sees it leap from peak to peak - Along his hills; the craftsman's burning eyes - Own with cool tears its influence mother-meek; - It lights the poet's heart up like a star;-- - Ah! while the tyrant deemed it still afar, - And twined with golden threads his futile snare, - That swift, convicting glow all round him ran; - 'Twas close beside him there, - Sunrise whose Memnon is the soul of man. - - - V. - - O Broker-King, is this thy wisdom's fruit? - A dynasty plucked out as 't were a weed - Grown rankly in a night, that leaves no seed! - Could eighteen years strike down no deeper root? - But now thy vulture eye was turned on Spain,-- - A shout from Paris, and thy crown falls off, - Thy race has ceased to reign, - And thou become a fugitive and scoff: - Slippery the feet that mount by stairs of gold, - And weakest of all fences one of steel;-- - Go and keep school again like him of old, - The Syracusan tyrant;--thou mayst feel - Royal amid a birch-swayed commonweal! - - - VI. - - Not long can he be ruler who allows - His time to run before him; thou wast naught - Soon as the strip of gold about thy brows - Was no more emblem of the People's thought: - Vain were thy bayonets against the foe - Thou hadst to cope with; thou didst wage - War not with Frenchmen merely;--no, - Thy strife was with the Spirit of the Age, - The invisible Spirit whose first breath divine - Scattered thy frail endeavor, - And, like poor last year's leaves, whirled thee and thine - Into the Dark forever! - - - VII. - - Is here no triumph? Nay, what though - The yellow blood of Trade meanwhile should pour - Along its arteries a shrunken flow, - And the idle canvas droop around the shore? - These do not make a state, - Nor keep it great; - I think God made - The earth for man, not trade; - And where each humblest human creature - Can stand, no more suspicious or afraid, - Erect and kingly in his right of nature, - To heaven and earth knit with harmonious ties,-- - Where I behold the exultation - Of manhood glowing in those eyes - That had been dark for ages,-- - Or only lit with bestial loves and rages-- - There I behold a Nation: - The France which lies - Between the Pyrenees and Rhine - Is the least part of France; - I see her rather in the soul whose shine - Burns through the craftsman's grimy countenance, - In the new energy divine - Of Toil's enfranchised glance. - - - VIII. - - And if it be a dream,-- - If the great Future be the little Past - 'Neath a new mask, which drops and shows at last - The same weird, mocking face to balk and blast,-- - Yet, Muse, a gladder measure suits the theme, - And the Tyrtæan harp - Loves notes more resolute and sharp, - Throbbing, as throbs the bosom, hot and fast: - Such visions are of morning, - Theirs is no vague forewarning, - The dreams which nations dream come true, - And shape the world anew; - If this be a sleep, - Make it long, make it deep, - O Father, who sendest the harvests men reap! - While Labor so sleepeth - His sorrow is gone, - No longer he weepeth, - But smileth and steepeth - His thoughts in the dawn; - He heareth Hope yonder - Rain, lark-like, her fancies, - His dreaming hands wander - Mid heart's-ease and pansies; - "'Tis a dream! 'Tis a vision!" - Shrieks Mammon aghast; - "The day's broad derision - Will chase it at last; - Ye are mad, ye have taken, - A slumbering kraken - For firm land of the Past!" - Ah! if he awaken, - God shield us all then, - If this dream rudely shaken - Shall cheat him again! - - - IX. - - Since first I heard our North wind blow, - Since first I saw Atlantic throw - On our fierce rocks his thunderous snow, - I loved thee, Freedom; as a boy - The rattle of thy shield at Marathon - Did with a Grecian joy - Through all my pulses run; - But I have learned to love thee now - Without the helm upon thy gleaming brow, - A maiden mild and undefiled - Like her who bore the world's redeeming child; - And surely never did thy altars glance - With purer fires than now in France; - While, in their bright white flashes, - Wrong's shadow, backward cast, - Waves cowering o'er the ashes - Of the dead, blaspheming Past, - O'er the shapes of fallen giants, - His own unburied brood, - Whose dead hands clench defiance - At the overpowering Good: - And down the happy future runs a flood - Of prophesying light; - It shows an Earth no longer stained with blood, - Blossom and fruit where now we see the bud - Of Brotherhood and Right. - - - - - A PARABLE. - - - Said Christ our Lord, "I will go and see - How the men, my brethren, believe in me." - He passed not again through the gate of birth, - But made himself known to the children of earth. - - Then said the chief priests, and rulers, and kings, - "Behold, now, the Giver of all good things; - Go to, let us welcome with pomp and state - Him who alone is mighty and great." - - With carpets of gold the ground they spread - Wherever the Son of Man should tread, - And in palace-chambers lofty and rare - They lodged him, and served him with kingly fare. - - Great organs surged through arches dim - Their jubilant floods in praise of him, - And in church and palace, and judgment-hall, - He saw his image high over all. - - But still, wherever his steps they led, - The Lord in sorrow bent down his head, - And from under the heavy foundation-stones, - The son of Mary heard bitter groans. - - And in church and palace, and judgment-hall, - He marked great fissures that rent the wall, - And opened wider and yet more wide - As the living foundation heaved and sighed. - - "Have ye founded your thrones and altars, then, - On the bodies and souls of living men? - And think ye that building shall endure, - Which shelters the noble and crushes the poor? - - "With gates of silver and bars of gold, - Ye have fenced my sheep from their Father's fold: - I have heard the dropping of their tears - In heaven, these eighteen hundred years." - - "O Lord and Master, not ours the guilt, - We build but as our fathers built; - Behold thine images, how they stand, - Sovereign and sole, through all our land. - - "Our task is hard,--with sword and flame - To hold thy earth forever the same, - And with sharp crooks of steel to keep - Still, as thou leftest them, thy sheep." - - Then Christ sought out an artisan, - A low-browed, stunted, haggard man, - And a motherless girl, whose fingers thin - Pushed from her faintly want and sin. - - These set he in the midst of them, - And as they drew back their garment-hem, - For fear of defilement, "Lo, here," said he, - "The images ye have made of me!" - - - - - ODE - - WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE INTRODUCTION OF THE - COCHITUATE WATER INTO THE CITY OF BOSTON. - - - My name is Water: I have sped - Through strange, dark ways, untried before, - By pure desire of friendship led, - Cochituate's ambassador; - He sends four royal gifts by me: - Long life, health, peace, and purity. - - I'm Ceres' cup-bearer; I pour, - For flowers and fruits and all their kin, - Her crystal vintage, from of yore - Stored in old Earth's selectest bin, - Flora's Falernian ripe, since God - The wine-press of the deluge trod. - - In that far isle whence, iron-willed, - The New World's sires their bark unmoored, - The fairies' acorn-cups I filled - Upon the toadstool's silver board, - And, 'neath Herne's oak, for Shakspeare's sight, - Strewed moss and grass with diamonds bright. - - No fairies in the Mayflower came, - And, lightsome as I sparkle here, - For Mother Bay-State, busy dame, - I've toiled and drudged this many a year, - Throbbed in her engines' iron veins, - Twirled myriad spindles for her gains. - - I, too, can weave; the warp I set - Through which the sun his shuttle throws, - And, bright as Noah saw it, yet - For you the arching rainbow glows, - A sight in Paradise denied - To unfallen Adam and his bride. - - When Winter held me in his grip, - You seized and sent me o'er the wave, - Ungrateful! in a prison-ship; - But I forgive, not long a slave, - For, soon as summer south-winds blew, - Homeward I fled, disguised as dew. - - For countless services I'm fit, - Of use, of pleasure, and of gain, - But lightly from all bonds I flit, - Nor lose my mirth, nor feel a stain; - From mill and wash-tub I escape, - And take in heaven my proper shape. - - So, free myself, to-day, elate - I come from far o'er hill and mead, - And here, Cochituate's envoy, wait - To be your blithesome Ganymede, - And brim your cups with nectar true - That never will make slaves of you. - - - - - LINES - - SUGGESTED BY THE GRAVES OF TWO ENGLISH SOLDIERS - ON CONCORD BATTLE-GROUND. - - - The same good blood that now refills - The dotard Orient's shrunken veins, - The same whose vigor westward thrills, - Bursting Nevada's silver chains, - Poured here upon the April grass, - Freckled with red the herbage new; - On reeled the battle's trampling mass, - Back to the ash the bluebird new. - - Poured here in vain;--that sturdy blood - Was meant to make the earth more green, - But in a higher, gentler mood - Than broke this April noon serene; - Two graves are here; to mark the place, - At head and foot, an unhewn stone, - O'er which the herald lichens trace - The blazon of Oblivion. - - These men were brave enough, and true - To the hired soldier's bull-dog creed; - What brought them here they never knew, - They fought as suits the English breed; - They came three thousand miles, and died, - To keep the Past upon its throne; - Unheard, beyond the ocean tide, - Their English mother made her moan. - - The turf that covers them no thrill - Sends up to fire the heart and brain; - No stronger purpose nerves the will, - No hope renews its youth again: - From farm to farm the Concord glides, - And trails my fancy with its flow; - O'erhead the balanced henhawk slides, - Twinned in the river's heaven below. - - But go, whose Bay-State bosom stirs, - Proud of thy birth and neighbor's right, - Where sleep the heroic villagers - Borne red and stiff from Concord fight; - Thought Reuben, snatching down his gun, - Or Seth, as ebbed the life away, - What earthquake rifts would shoot and run - World-wide from that short April fray? - - What then? With heart and hand they wrought - According to their village light; - 'Twas for the Future that they fought, - Their rustic faith in what was right. - Upon earth's tragic stage they burst - Unsummoned, in the humble sock; - Theirs the fifth act; the curtain first - Rose long ago on Charles's block. - - Their graves have voices; if they threw - Dice charged with fates beyond their ken, - Yet to their instincts they were true, - And had the genius to be men. - Fine privilege of Freedom's host, - Of even foot-soldiers for the Right!-- - For centuries dead, ye are not lost, - Your graves send courage forth, and might. - - - - - TO ----. - - - We, too, have autumns, when our leaves - Drop loosely through the dampened air, - When all our good seems bound in sheaves, - And we stand reaped and bare. - - Our seasons have no fixed returns, - Without our will they come and go; - At noon our sudden summer burns, - Ere sunset all is snow. - - But each day brings less summer cheer, - Crimps more our ineffectual spring, - And something earlier every year - Our singing birds take wing. - - As less the olden glow abides, - And less the chillier heart aspires, - With drift-wood beached in past spring-tides - We light our sullen fires. - - By the pinched rushlight's starving beam - We cower and strain our wasted sight, - To stitch youth's shroud up, seam by seam, - In the long arctic night. - - It was not so--we once were young-- - When Spring, to womanly Summer turning, - Her dew-drops on each grass-blade strung, - In the red sunrise burning. - - We trusted then, aspired, believed - That earth could be remade to-morrow;-- - Ah, why be ever undeceived? - Why give up faith for sorrow? - - O thou, whose days are yet all spring, - Faith, blighted once, is past retrieving; - Experience is a dumb, dead thing; - The victory's in believing. - - - - - FREEDOM. - - - Are we, then, wholly fallen? Can it be - That thou, North wind, that from thy mountains bringest - Their spirit to our plains, and thou, blue sea, - Who on our rocks thy wreaths of freedom flingest, - As on an altar,--can it be that ye - Have wasted inspiration on dead ears, - Dulled with the too familiar clank of chains? - The people's heart is like a harp for years - Hung where some petrifying torrent rains - Its slow-incrusting spray: the stiffened chords - Faint and more faint make answer to the tears - That drip upon them: idle are all words; - Only a silver plectrum wakes the tone - Deep buried 'neath that ever-thickening stone. - - We are not free: Freedom doth not consist - In musing with our faces toward the Past, - While petty cares, and crawling interests, twist - Their spider-threads about us, which at last - Grow strong as iron chains, to cramp and bind - In formal narrowness heart, soul, and mind. - Freedom is recreated year by year, - In hearts wide open on the Godward side, - In souls calm-cadenced as the whirling sphere, - In minds that sway the future like a tide. - No broadest creeds can hold her, and no codes; - She chooses men for her august abodes, - Building them fair and fronting to the dawn; - Yet, when we seek her, we but find a few - Light footprints, leading morn-ward through the dew; - Before the day had risen, she was gone. - - And we must follow: swiftly runs she on, - And, if our steps should slacken in despair, - Half turns her face, half smiles through golden hair, - Forever yielding, never wholly won: - That is not love which pauses in the race - Two close-linked names on fleeting sand to trace; - Freedom gained yesterday is no more ours; - Men gather but dry seeds of last year's flowers: - Still there's a charm ungranted, still a grace, - Still rosy Hope, the free, the unattained, - Makes us Possession's languid hand let fall; - 'Tis but a fragment of ourselves is gained,-- - The Future brings us more, but never all. - - And, as the finder of some unknown realm, - Mounting a summit whence he thinks to see - On either side of him the imprisoning sea, - Beholds, above the clouds that overwhelm - The valley-land, peak after snowy peak - Stretch out of sight, each like a silver helm - Beneath its plume of smoke, sublime and bleak, - And what he thought an island finds to be - A continent to him first oped,--so we - Can from our height of Freedom look along - A boundless future, ours if we be strong; - Or if we shrink, better remount our ships - And, fleeing God's express design, trace back - The hero-freighted Mayflower's prophet-track - To Europe, entering her blood-red eclipse. - - - - - BIBLIOLATRES. - - - Bowing thyself in dust before a Book, - And thinking the great God is thine alone, - O rash iconoclast, thou wilt not brook - What gods the heathen carves in wood and stone, - As if the Shepherd who from outer cold - Leads all his shivering lambs to one sure fold - Were careful for the fashion of his crook. - - There is no broken reed so poor and base, - No rush, the bending tilt of swamp-fly blue, - But he therewith the ravening wolf can chase, - And guide his flock to springs and pastures new; - Through ways unlooked for, and through many lands, - Far from the rich folds built with human hands, - The gracious footprints of his love I trace. - - And what art thou, own brother of the clod, - That from his hand the crook wouldst snatch away - And shake instead thy dry and sapless rod, - To scare the sheep out of the wholesome day? - Yea, what art thou, blind, unconverted Jew, - That with thy idol-volume's covers two - Wouldst make a jail to coop the living God? - - Thou hear'st not well the mountain organ-tones - By prophet ears from Hor and Sinai caught, - Thinking the cisterns of those Hebrew brains - Drew dry the springs of the All-knower's thought, - Nor shall thy lips be touched with living fire, - Who blow'st old altar-coals with sole desire - To weld anew the spirit's broken chains. - - God is not dumb, that he should speak no more; - If thou hast wanderings in the wilderness - And find'st not Sinai, 'tis thy soul is poor; - There towers the mountain of the Voice no less, - Which whoso seeks shall find, but he who bends, - Intent on manna still and mortal ends, - Sees it not, neither hears its thundered lore. - - Slowly the Bible of the race is writ, - And not on paper leaves nor leaves of stone; - Each age, each kindred adds a verse to it, - Texts of despair or hope, of joy or moan. - While swings the sea, while mists the mountains shroud, - While thunder's surges burst on cliffs of cloud, - Still at the prophets' feet the nations sit. - - - - - BEAVER BROOK. - - - Hushed with broad sunlight lies the hill, - And, minuting the long day's loss, - The cedar's shadow, slow and still, - Creeps o'er its dial of gray moss. - - Warm noon brims full the valley's cup, - The aspen's leaves are scarce astir, - Only the little mill sends up - Its busy, never-ceasing burr. - - Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems - The road along the mill-pond's brink, - From 'neath the arching barberry-stems, - My footstep scares the shy chewink. - - Beneath a bony buttonwood - The mill's red door lets forth the din; - The whitened miller, dust-imbued, - Flits past the square of dark within. - - No mountain torrent's strength is here; - Sweet Beaver, child of forest still, - Heaps its small pitcher to the ear, - And gently waits the miller's will. - - Swift slips Undine along the race - Unheard, and then, with flashing bound, - Floods the dull wheel with light and grace, - And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge round. - - The miller dreams not at what cost - The quivering mill-stones hum and whirl, - Nor how for every turn, are tost - Armfuls of diamond and of pearl. - - But Summer cleared my happier eyes - With drops of some celestial juice, - To see how Beauty underlies - For evermore each form of Use. - - And more: methought I saw that flood, - Which now so dull and darkling steals, - Thick, here and there, with human blood, - To turn the world's laborious wheels. - - No more than doth the miller there, - Shut in our several cells, do we - Know with what waste of beauty rare - Moves every day's machinery. - - Surely the wiser time shall come - When this fine overplus of might, - No longer sullen, slow, and dumb, - Shall leap to music and to light. - - In that new childhood of the Earth - Life of itself shall dance and play; - Fresh blood in Time's shrunk veins make mirth, - And labor meet delight half-way. - - - - - APPLEDORE. - - - How looks Appledore in a storm? - I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic, - Butting against the maddened Atlantic, - When surge after surge would heap enorme, - Cliffs of Emerald topped with snow, - That lifted and lifted and then let go - A great white avalanche of thunder, - A grinding, blinding, deafening ire - Monadnock might have trembled under; - And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below - To where they are warmed with the central fire, - You could feel its granite fibres racked, - As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill - Right at the breast of the swooping hill, - And to rise again, snorting a cataract - Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge, - While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep, - And the next vast breaker curled its edge, - Gathering itself for a mighty leap. - - North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers, - You would never dream of in smooth weather, - That toss and gore the sea for acres, - Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together; - Look northward, where Duck Island lies, - And over its crown you will see arise, - Against a background of slaty skies, - A row of pillars still and white - That glimmer and then are out of sight, - As if the moon should suddenly kiss, - While you crossed the gusty desert by night, - The long colonnades of Persepolis, - And then as sudden a darkness should follow - To gulp the whole scene at single swallow, - The city's ghost, the drear, brown waste, - And the string of camels, clumsy-paced:-- - Look southward for White Island light, - The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide; - There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight, - Of dash and roar and tumble and fright, - And surging bewilderment wild and wide, - Where the breakers struggle left and right, - Then a mile or more of rushing sea, - And then the light-house slim and lone; - And whenever the whole weight of ocean is thrown - Full and fair on White Island head, - A great mist-jotun you will see - Lifting himself up silently - High and huge o'er the light-house top, - With hands of wavering spray outspread, - Groping after the little tower, - That seems to shrink, and shorten and cower, - Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop, - And silently and fruitlessly - He sinks again into the sea. - - You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand, - Awaken once more to the rush and roar - And on the rock-point tighten your hand, - As you turn and see a valley deep, - That was not there a moment before, - Suck rattling down between you and a heap - Of toppling billow, whose instant fall - Must sink the whole island once for all-- - Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas - Feeling their way to you more and more; - If they once should clutch you high as the knees - They would whirl you down like a sprig of kelp, - Beyond all reach of hope or help;-- - And such in a storm is Appledore. - - - - - DARA. - - - When Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand - Wilted by harem-heats, and all the land - Was hovered over by those vulture ills - That snuff decaying empire from afar, - Then, with a nature balanced as a star, - Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills. - - He, who had governed fleecy subjects well, - Made his own village, by the self-same spell, - Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold, - Till, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees, - Under his sway, to neighbor villages - Order returned, and faith and justice old. - - Now, when it fortuned that a king more wise - Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes, - He sought on every side men brave and just, - And having heard the mountain-shepherd's praise, - How he rendered the mould of elder days, - To Dara gave a satrapy in trust. - - So Dara shepherded a province wide, - Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride - Than in his crook before; but Envy finds - More soil in cities than on mountains bare, - And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare - Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds. - - Soon it was whispered at the royal ear - That, though wise Dara's province, year by year, - Like a great sponge, drew wealth and plenty up, - Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest, - Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest, - Went to the filling of his private cup. - - For proof, they said that whereso'er he went - A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, - Went guarded, and no other eye had seen - What was therein, save only Dara's own, - Yet, when 'twas opened, all his tent was known - To glow and lighten with heapt jewels' sheen. - - The king set forth for Dara's province straight, - Where, as was fit, outside his city's gate - The viceroy met him with a stately train; - And there, with archers circled, close at hand, - A camel with the chest was seen to stand, - The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain. - - "Open me now," he cried, "yon treasure-chest!" - 'Twas done, and only a worn shepherd's vest - Was found within; some blushed and hung the head, - Not Dara; open as the sky's blue roof - He stood, and "O, my lord, behold the proof - That I was worthy of my trust!" he said. - - "For ruling men, lo! all the charm I had; - My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad, - Still to the unstained past kept true and leal, - Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air, - And Fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear, - Which bend men from the truth, and make them reel. - - "To govern wisely I had shown small skill - Were I not lord of simple Dara still; - That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way!" - Strange dew in royal eyes grew round, and bright - And thrilled the trembling lids; before 'twas night - Two added provinces blest Dara's sway. - - - - - TO J. F. H. - - - Nine years have slipped like hour-glass sand - From life's fast-emptying globe away, - Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, - And lingered on the impoverished land, - Watching the steamer down the bay. - - I held the keepsake which you gave, - Until the dim smoke-pennon curled - O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, - And closed the distance like a grave, - Leaving me to the outer world; - - The old worn world of hurry and heat, - The young, fresh world of thought and scope; - While you, where silent surges fleet - Toward far sky beaches still and sweet, - Sunk wavering down the ocean-slope. - - Come back our ancient walks to tread, - Old haunts of lost or scattered friends, - Amid the Muses' factories red, - Where song, and smoke, and laughter sped - The nights to proctor-hunted ends. - - Our old familiars are not laid, - Though snapped our wands and sunk our books, - They beckon, not to be gainsaid, - Where, round broad meads which mowers wade, - Smooth Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks; - - Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, - From glow to gloom the hillside shifts - Its lakes of rye that surge and flow, - Its plumps of orchard-trees arow, - Its snowy white-weed's summer drifts. - - Or let us to Nantasket, there - To wander idly as we list, - Whether, on rocky hillocks bare, - Sharp cedar-points, like breakers, tear - The trailing fringes of gray mist. - - Or whether, under skies clear-blown, - The heightening surfs with foamy din, - Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown - Against old Neptune's yellow zone, - Curl slow, and plunge forever in. - - For years thrice three, wise Horace said, - A poem rare let silence bind; - And love may ripen in the shade, - Like ours, for nine long seasons laid - In crypts and arches of the mind. - - That right Falernian friendship old - Will we, to grace our feast, call up, - And freely pour the juice of gold, - That keeps life's pulses warm and bold, - Till Death shall break the empty cup. - - - - - MEMORIAL VERSES. - - - - - KOSSUTH. - - - A race of nobles may die out, - A royal line may leave no heir; - Wise Nature sets no guards about - Her pewter plate and wooden ware. - - But they fail not, the kinglier breed, - Who starry diadems attain; - To dungeon, axe, and stake succeed - Heirs of the old heroic strain. - - The zeal of Nature never cools, - Nor is she thwarted of her ends; - When gapped and dulled her cheaper tools, - Then she a saint and prophet spends. - - Land of the Magyars! though it be - The tyrant may relink his chain, - Already thine the victory, - As the just Future measures gain. - - Thou hast succeeded, thou hast won - The deathly travail's amplest worth; - A nation's duty thou hast done, - Giving a hero to our earth. - - And he, let come what will of woe, - Has saved the land he strove to save; - No Cossack hordes, no traitor's blow, - Can quench the voice shall haunt his grave. - - "I Kossuth am: O Future, thou - That clear'st the just and blott'st the vile, - O'er this small dust in reverence bow, - Remembering, what I was erewhile. - - "I was the chosen trump wherethrough - Our God sent forth awakening breath; - Came chains? Came death? The strain He blew - Sounds on, outliving chains and death." - - - - - TO LAMARTINE. - - 1848. - - - I did not praise thee when the crowd, - 'Witched with the moment's inspiration, - Vexed thy still ether with hosannas loud, - And stamped their dusty adoration; - I but looked upward with the rest, - And, when they shouted Greatest, whispered Best. - - They raised thee not, but rose to thee, - Their fickle wreaths about thee flinging; - So on some marble Phoebus the high sea - Might leave his worthless sea-weed clinging, - But pious hands, with reverent care, - Make the pure limbs once more sublimely bare. - - Now thou 'rt thy plain, grand self again, - Thou art secure from panegyric,-- - Thou who gav'st politics an epic strain, - And actedst Freedom's noblest lyric: - This side the Blessed Isles, no tree - Grows green enough to make a wreath for thee. - - Nor can blame cling to thee; the snow - From swinish foot-prints takes no staining, - But, leaving the gross soils of earth below, - Its spirit mounts, the skies regaining, - And unresenting falls again, - To beautify the world with dews and rain. - - The highest duty to mere man vouchsafed - Was laid on thee,--out of wild chaos, - When the roused popular ocean foamed and chafed, - And vulture War from his Imaus - Snuffed blood, to summon homely Peace, - And show that only order is release. - - To carve thy fullest thought, what though - Time was not granted? Aye in history, - Like that Dawn's face which baffled Angelo, - Left shapeless, grander for its mystery, - Thy great Design shall stand, and day - Flood its blind front from Orients far away. - - Who says thy day is o'er? Control, - My heart, that bitter first emotion; - While men shall reverence the steadfast soul, - The heart in silent self-devotion - Breaking, the mild, heroic mien, - Thou'lt need no prop of marble, Lamartine. - - If France reject thee, 'tis not thine, - But her own, exile that she utters; - Ideal France, the deathless, the divine, - Will be where thy white pennon flutters, - As once the nobler Athens went - With Aristides into banishment. - - No fitting metewand hath To-day - For measuring spirits of thy stature,-- - Only the Future can reach up to lay - The laurel on that lofty nature,-- - Bard, who with some diviner art - Has touched the bard's true lyre, a nation's heart. - - Swept by thy hand, the gladdened chords, - Crashed now in discords fierce by others, - Gave forth one note beyond all skill of words, - And chimed together, We are brothers. - O poem unsurpassed! it ran - All round the world, unlocking man to man. - - France is too poor to pay alone - The service of that ample spirit; - Paltry seem low dictatorship and throne, - If balanced with thy simple merit. - They had to thee been rust and loss; - Thy aim was higher,--thou hast climbed a Cross. - - - - - TO JOHN G. PALFREY. - - - There are who triumph in a losing cause, - Who can put on defeat, as 't were a wreath - Unwithering in the adverse popular breath, - Safe from the blasting demagogue's applause; - 'Tis they who stand for Freedom and God's laws. - - And so stands Palfrey now, as Marvell stood, - Loyal to Truth dethroned, nor could be wooed - To trust the playful tiger's velvet paws: - And if the second Charles brought in decay - Of ancient virtue, if it well might wring - Souls that had broadened 'neath a nobler day, - To see a losel, marketable king - Fearfully watering with his realm's best blood - Cromwell's quenched bolts, that erst had cracked and flamed, - Scaring, through all their depths of courtier mud, - Europe's crowned bloodsuckers,--how more ashamed - Ought we to be, who see Corruption's flood - Still rise o'er last year's mark, to mine away - Our brazen idols' feet of treacherous clay! - - O utter degradation! Freedom turned - Slavery's vile bawd, to cozen and betray - To the old lecher's clutch a maiden prey, - If so a loathsome pander's fee be earned! - And we are silent,--we who daily tread - A soil sublime, at least, with heroes' graves!-- - Beckon no more, shades of the noble dead! - Be dumb, ye heaven-touched lips of winds and waves! - Or hope to rouse some Coptic dullard, hid - Ages ago, wrapt stiffly, fold on fold, - With cerements close, to wither in the cold - Forever hushed, and sunless pyramid! - Beauty and Truth, and all that these contain, - Drop not like ripened fruit about our feet; - We climb to them through years of sweat and pain; - Without long struggle, none did e'er attain - The downward look from Quiet's blissful seat: - Though present loss may be the hero's part, - Yet none can rob him of the victor heart - Whereby the broad-realmed future is subdued, - And Wrong, which now insults from triumph's car, - Sending her vulture hope to raven far, - Is made unwilling tributary of Good. - - O Mother State, how quenched thy Sinai fires! - Is there none left of thy staunch Mayflower breed? - No spark among the ashes of thy sires, - Of Virtue's altar-flame the kindling seed? - Are these thy great men, these that cringe and creep, - And writhe through slimy ways to place and power?-- - How long, O Lord, before thy wrath shall reap - Our frail-stemmed summer prosperings in their flower? - O for one hour of that undaunted stock - That went with Vane and Sydney to the block! - - O for a whiff of Naseby, that would sweep, - With its stern Puritan besom, all this chaff - From the Lord's threshing-floor! Yet more than half - The victory is attained, when one or two, - Through the fool's laughter and the traitor's scorn, - Beside thy sepulchre can abide the morn, - Crucified Truth, when thou shalt rise anew. - - - - - TO W. L. GARRISON. - - - "Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city - officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its - editor; that his office was an obscure hole, his only - visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his supporters a few very - insignificant persons of all colors."--_Letter of H. G. - Otis._ - - In a small chamber, friendless and unseen, - Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned young man; - The place was dark, unfurnitured, and mean;-- - Yet there the freedom of a race began. - - Help came but slowly; surely no man yet - Put lever to the heavy world with less: - What need of help? He knew how types were set, - He had a dauntless spirit, and a press. - - Such earnest natures are the fiery pith, - The compact nucleus round which systems grow! - Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith, - And whirls impregnate with the central glow. - - O Truth! O Freedom! how are ye still born - In the rude stable, in the manger nursed! - What humble hands unbar those gates of morn - Through which the splendors of the New Day burst! - - What! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his cell, - Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her frown? - Brave Luther answered Yes; that thunder's swell - Rocked Europe, and discharmed the triple crown. - - Whatever can be known of earth we know, - Sneered Europe's wise men, in their snail-shells curled; - No! said one man in Genoa, and that No - Out of the dark created this New World. - - Who is it will not dare himself to trust? - Who is it hath not strength to stand alone? - Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward |MUST|? - He and his works, like sand, from earth are blown. - - Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here! - See one straightforward conscience put in pawn - To win a world; see the obedient sphere - By bravery's simple gravitation drawn! - - Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old, - And by the Present's lips repeated still, - In our own single manhood to be bold, - Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will? - - We stride the river daily at its spring, - Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, foresee - What myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring, - How like an equal it shall greet the sea. - - O small beginnings, ye are great and strong, - Based on a faithful heart and weariless brain! - Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong, - Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in vain. - - - - - ON THE DEATH OF C. T. TORREY. - - - Woe worth the hour when it is crime - To plead the poor dumb bondman's cause, - When all that makes the heart sublime, - The glorious throbs that conquer time, - Are traitors to our cruel laws! - - He strove among God's suffering poor - One gleam of brotherhood to send; - The dungeon oped its hungry door - To give the truth one martyr more, - Then shut,--and here behold the end! - - O Mother State! when this was done, - No pitying throe thy bosom gave; - Silent thou saw'st the death-shroud spun, - And now thou givest to thy son - The stranger's charity--a grave. - - Must it be thus forever? No! - The hand of God sows not in vain; - Long sleeps the darkling seed below, - The seasons come, and change, and go, - And all the fields are deep with grain. - - Although our brother lie asleep, - Man's heart still struggles, still aspires; - His grave shall quiver yet, while deep - Through the brave Bay State's pulses leap - Her ancient energies and fires. - - When hours like this the senses' gush - Have stilled, and left the spirit room, - It hears amid the eternal hush - The swooping pinions' dreadful rush, - That brings the vengeance and the doom;-- - - Not man's brute vengeance, such as rends - What rivets man to man apart,-- - God doth not so bring round his ends, - But waits the ripened time, and sends - His mercy to the oppressor's heart. - - - - - ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. - - - I do not come to weep above thy pall, - And mourn the dying-out of noble powers; - The poet's clearer eye should see, in all - Earth's seeming woe, the seed of Heaven's flowers. - - Truth needs no champions: in the infinite deep - Of everlasting Soul her strength abides, - From Nature's heart her mighty pulses leap, - Through Nature's veins her strength, undying, tides. - - Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness, - Where force were vain, makes conquest o'er the wave; - And love lives on and hath a power to bless, - When they who loved are hidden in the grave. - - The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields, - And Glory's epitaph is writ in blood; - But Alexander now to Plato yields, - Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood. - - I watch the circle of the eternal years, - And read forever in the storied page - One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears,-- - One onward step of Truth from age to age. - - The poor are crushed; the tyrants link their chain; - The poet sings through narrow dungeon-grates; - Man's hope lies quenched;--and, lo! with steadfast gain - Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates. - - Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross - Make up the groaning record of the past; - But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss, - And sovereign Beauty wins the soul at last. - - No power can die that ever wrought for Truth; - Thereby a law of Nature it became, - And lives unwithered in its sinewy youth, - When he who called it forth is but a name. - - Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone; - The better part of thee is with us still; - Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath thrown, - And only freer wrestles with the Ill. - - Thou livest in the life of all good things; - What words thou spak'st for Freedom shall not die; - Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings - To soar where hence thy Hope could hardly fly. - - And often, from that other world, on this - Some gleams from great souls gone before may shine, - To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, - And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. - - Thou art not idle: in thy higher sphere - Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, - And strength, to perfect what it dreamed of here - Is all the crown and glory that it asks. - - For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room - For love and pity, and for helpful deeds; - Else were our summons thither but a doom - To life more vain than this in clayey weeds. - - From off the starry mountain peak of song, - Thy spirit shows me, in the coming time, - An earth unwithered by the foot of wrong, - A race revering its own soul sublime. - - What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes, may come, - Thou knowest not, nor I; but God will lead - The prodigal soul from want and sorrow home, - And Eden ope her gates to Adam's seed. - - Farewell! good man, good angel now! this hand - Soon, like thine own, shall lose its cunning, too; - Soon shall this soul, like thine, bewildered stand, - Then leap to thread the free, unfathomed blue: - - When that day comes, O, may this hand grow cold, - Busy, like thine, for Freedom and the Right; - O, may this soul, like thine, be ever bold - To face dark Slavery's encroaching blight! - - This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier; - Let worthier hands than these thy wreath entwine; - Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear,-- - For us weep rather thou in calm divine. - - 1842. - - - - - - TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD. - - - Another star 'neath Time's horizon dropped, - To gleam o'er unknown lands and seas; - Another heart that beat for freedom stopped,-- - What mournful words are these! - - O Love Divine, that claspest our tired earth, - And lullest it upon thy heart, - Thou knowest how much a gentle soul is worth - To teach men what thou art! - - His was a spirit that to all thy poor - Was kind as slumber after pain: - Why ope so soon thy heaven-deep Quiet's door - And call him home again? - - Freedom needs all her poets: it is they - Who give her aspirations wings, - And to the wiser law of music sway - Her wild imaginings. - - Yet thou hast called him, nor art thou unkind, - O Love Divine, for 'tis thy will - That gracious natures leave their love behind - To work for Freedom still. - - Let laurelled marbles weigh on other tombs, - Let anthems peal for other dead, - Rustling the bannered depth of minster-glooms - With their exulting spread. - - His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone, - No lichen shall its lines efface, - He needs these few and simple lines alone - To mark his resting-place:-- - - "Here lies a Poet. Stranger, if to thee - His claim to memory be obscure, - If thou wouldst learn how truly great was he, - Go, ask it of the poor." - - - - - SONNETS. - - - I. - - TO A. C. L. - - Through suffering and sorrow thou hast passed - To show us what a woman true may be: - They have not taken sympathy from thee, - Nor made thee any other than thou wast, - Save as some tree, which, in a sudden blast, - Sheddeth those blossoms, that are weakly grown, - Upon the air, but keepeth every one - Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last - So thou hast shed some blooms of gayety, - But never one of steadfast cheerfulness; - Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity - Robbed thee of any faith in happiness, - But rather cleared thy inner eyes to see - How many simple ways there are to bless. - - 1840. - - - II. - - What were I, Love, if I were stripped of thee, - If thine eyes shut me out whereby I live, - Thou, who unto my calmer soul dost give - Knowledge, and Truth, and holy Mystery, - Wherein Truth mainly lies for those who see - Beyond the earthly and the fugitive, - Who in the grandeur of the soul believe, - And only in the Infinite are free? - Without thee I were naked, bleak, and bare - As yon dead cedar on the sea-cliff's brow; - And Nature's teachings, which come to me now, - Common and beautiful as light and air, - Would be as fruitless as a stream which still - Slips through the wheel of some old ruined mill. - - 1841. - - - III. - - I would not have this perfect love of ours - Grow from a single root, a single stem, - Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers - That idly hide life's iron diadem: - It should grow alway like that eastern tree - Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly; - That love for one, from which there doth not spring - Wide love for all, it is but a worthless thing. - Not in another world, as poets prate, - Dwell we apart above the tide of things, - High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings; - But our pure love doth ever elevate - Into a holy bond of brotherhood - All earthly things, making them pure and good. - - 1840. - - - IV. - - "For this true nobleness I seek in vain, - In woman and in man I find it not; - I almost weary of my earthly lot, - My life-springs are dried up with burning pain." - Thou find'st it not? I pray thee look again, - Look _inward_ through the depths of thine own soul. - How is it with thee? Art thou sound and whole? - Doth narrow search show thee no earthly stain? - Be noble! and the nobleness that lies - In other men, sleeping, but never dead, - Will rise in majesty to meet thine own: - Then wilt thou see it gleam in many eyes, - Then will pure light around thy path be shed, - And thou wilt never more be sad and lone. - - 1840. - - - V. - - TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS. - - Great soul, thou sittest with me in my room, - Uplifting me with thy vast, quiet eyes, - On whose full orbs, with kindly lustre, lies - The twilight warmth of ruddy ember-gloom: - Thy clear, strong tones will oft bring sudden bloom - Of hope secure, to him who lonely cries, - Wrestling with the young poet's agonies, - Neglect and scorn, which seem a certain doom: - Yes! the few words which, like great thunderdrops, - Thy large heart down to earth shook doubtfully, - Thrilled by the inward lightning of its might, - Serene and pure, like gushing joy of light, - Shall track the eternal chords of Destiny, - After the moon-led pulse of ocean stops. - - 1841. - - - VI. - - Great Truths are portions of the soul of man; - Great souls are portions of Eternity; - Each drop of blood that e'er through true heart ran - With lofty message, ran for thee and me; - For God's law, since the starry song began, - Hath been, and still for evermore must be, - That every deed which shall outlast Time's span - Must goad the soul to be erect and free; - Slave is no word of deathless lineage sprung,-- - Too many noble souls have thought and died, - Too many mighty poets have lived and sung, - And our good Saxon, from lips purified - With martyr-fire, throughout the world hath rung - Too long to have God's holy cause denied. - - 1841. - - - VII. - - I ask not for those thoughts, that sudden leap - From being's sea, like the isle-seeming Kraken, - With whose great rise the ocean all is shaken - And a heart-tremble quivers through the deep; - Give me that growth which some perchance deem sleep, - Wherewith the steadfast coral-stems uprise, - Which, by the toil of gathering energies, - Their upward way into clear sunshine keep, - Until, by Heaven's sweetest influences, - Slowly and slowly spreads a speck of green - Into a pleasant island in the seas, - Where, mid tall palms, the cane-roofed home is seen, - And wearied men shall sit at sunset's hour, - Hearing the leaves and loving God's dear power. - - 1841. - - - VIII. - - TO M. W. ON HER BIRTHDAY. - - Maiden, when such a soul as thine is born, - The morning stars their ancient music make, - And, joyful, once again their song awake, - Long silent now with melancholy scorn; - And thou, not mindless of so blest a morn, - By no least deed its harmony shalt break, - But shalt to that high chime thy footsteps take, - Through life's most darksome passes unforlorn; - Therefore from thy pure faith thou shalt not fall, - Therefore shalt thou be ever fair and free, - And in thine every motion musical - As summer air, majestic as the sea, - A mystery to those who creep and crawl - Through Time, and part it from Eternity. - - 1841. - - - IX. - - My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die; - Albeit I ask no fairer life than this, - Whose numbering-clock is still thy gentle kiss, - While Time and Peace with hands enlockèd fly,-- - Yet care I not where in Eternity - We live and love, well knowing that there is - No backward step for those who feel the bliss - Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings high: - Love hath so purified my being's core, - Meseems I scarcely should be startled, even, - To find, some morn, that thou hadst gone before; - Since, with thy love, this knowledge too was given, - Which each calm day doth strengthen more and more, - That they who love are but one step from Heaven. - - 1841. - - - X. - - I cannot think that thou shouldst pass away, - Whose life to mine is an eternal law, - A piece of nature that can have no flaw, - A new and certain sunrise every day; - But, if thou art to be another ray - About the Sun of Life, and art to live - Free from all of thee that was fugitive, - The debt of Love I will more fully pay, - Not downcast with the thought of thee so high, - But rather raised to be a nobler man, - And more divine in my humanity, - As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan - My life are lighted by a purer being, - And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it agreeing. - - 1841. - - - XI. - - There never yet was flower fair in vain, - Let classic poets rhyme it as they will; - The seasons toil that it may blow again, - And summer's heart doth feel its every ill; - Nor is a true soul ever born for naught; - Wherever any such hath lived and died, - There hath been something for true freedom wrought, - Some bulwark levelled on the evil side: - Toil on, then, Greatness! thou art in the right, - However narrow souls may call thee wrong; - Be as thou wouldst be in thine own clear sight, - And so thou wilt in all the world's ere long; - For worldlings cannot, struggle as they may, - From man's great soul one great thought hide away. - - 1841. - - - XII. - - SUB PONDERE CRESCIT. - - The hope of Truth grows stronger, day by day; - I hear the soul of Man around me waking, - Like a great sea, its frozen fetters breaking, - And flinging up to heaven its sunlit spray, - Tossing huge continents in scornful play, - And crushing them, with din of grinding thunder, - That makes old emptinesses stare in wonder; - The memory of a glory passed away - Lingers in every heart, as, in the shell, - Resounds the bygone freedom of the sea, - And, every hour new signs of promise tell - That the great soul shall once again be free, - For high, and yet more high, the murmurs swell - Of inward strife for truth and liberty. - - 1841. - - - XIII. - - Belovèd, in the noisy city here, - The thought of thee can make all turmoil cease; - Around my spirit, folds thy spirit clear - Its still, soft arms, and circles it with peace; - There is no room for any doubt or fear - In souls so overfilled with love's increase, - There is no memory of the bygone year - But growth in heart's and spirit's perfect ease; - How hath our love, half nebulous at first, - Rounded itself into a full-orbed sun! - How have our lives and wills (as haply erst - They were, ere this forgetfulness begun,) - Through all their earthly distantness outburst, - And melted, like two rays of light, in one! - - 1842. - - - XIV. - - ON READING WORDSWORTH'S SONNETS IN DEFENCE OF - CAPITAL PUNISHMENT. - - As the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth, - With the majestic beating of his heart, - The mighty tides, whereof its rightful part - Each sea-wide bay and little weed receiveth,-- - So, through his soul who earnestly believeth, - Life from the universal Heart doth flow, - Whereby some conquest of the eternal Woe, - By instinct of God's nature, he achieveth: - A fuller pulse of this all-powerful beauty - Into the poet's gulf-like heart doth tide, - And he more keenly feels the glorious duty - Of serving Truth, despised and crucified,-- - Happy, unknowing sect or creed, to rest - And feel God flow forever through his breast. - - 1842. - - - XV. - - THE SAME CONTINUED. - - Once hardly in a cycle blossometh - A flower-like soul ripe with the seeds of song, - A spirit fore-ordained to cope with wrong, - Whose divine thoughts are natural as breath, - Who the old Darkness thickly scattereth - With starry words, that shoot prevailing light - Into the deeps, and wither, with the blight - Of serene Truth, the coward heart of Death: - Woe, if such spirit thwart its errand high, - And mock with lies the longing soul of man! - Yet one age longer must true Culture lie, - Soothing her bitter fetters as she can, - Until new messages of love outstart - At the next beating of the infinite Heart. - - - XVI. - - THE SAME CONTINUED. - - The love of all things springs from love of one; - Wider the soul's horizon hourly grows, - And over it with fuller glory flows - The sky-like spirit of God; a hope begun - In doubt and darkness 'neath a fairer sun - Cometh to fruitage, if it be of Truth; - And to the law of meekness, faith, and ruth, - By inward sympathy, shall all be won: - This thou shouldst know, who, from the painted feature - Of shifting Fashion, couldst thy brethren turn - Unto the love of ever-youthful Nature, - And of a beauty fadeless and eterne; - And always 'tis the saddest sight to see - An old man faithless in Humanity. - - - XVII. - - THE SAME CONTINUED. - - A poet cannot strive for despotism; - His harp falls shattered; for it still must be - The instinct of great spirits to be free, - And the sworn foes of cunning barbarism: - He, who has deepest searched the wide abysm - Of that life-giving Soul which men call fate, - Knows that to put more faith in lies and hate - Than truth and love is the true atheism: - Upward the soul forever turns her eyes; - The next hour always shames the hour before; - One beauty, at its highest, prophesies - That by whose side it shall seem mean and poor; - No God-like thing knows aught of less and less, - But widens to the boundless Perfectness. - - - XVIII. - - THE SAME CONTINUED. - - Therefore think not the Past is wise alone, - For Yesterday knows nothing of the Best, - And thou shalt love it only as the nest - Whence glory-wingèd things to Heaven have flown: - To the great Soul alone are all things known; - Present and future are to her as past, - While she in glorious madness doth forecast - That perfect bud, which seems a flower full-blown - To each new Prophet, and yet always opes - Fuller and fuller with each day and hour, - Heartening the soul with odor of fresh hopes, - And longings high, and gushings of wide power, - Yet never is or shall be fully blown - Save in the forethought of the Eternal One. - - - XIX. - - THE SAME CONCLUDED. - - Far 'yond this narrow parapet of Time, - With eyes uplift, the poet's soul should look - Into the Endless Promise, nor should brook - One prying doubt to shake his faith sublime; - To him the earth is ever in her prime - And dewiness of morning; he can see - Good lying hid, from all eternity, - Within the teeming womb of sin and crime; - His soul should not be cramped by any bar, - His nobleness should be so God-like high, - That his least deed is perfect as a star, - His common look majestic as the sky, - And all o'erflooded with a light from far, - Undimmed by clouds of weak mortality. - - - XX. - - TO M. O. S. - - Mary, since first I knew thee, to this hour, - My love hath deepened, with my wiser sense - Of what in Woman is to reverence; - Thy clear heart, fresh as e'er was forest-flower, - Still opens more to me its beauteous dower;-- - But let praise hush,--Love asks no evidence - To prove itself well-placed; we know not whence - It gleans the straws that thatch its humble bower: - We can but say we found it in the heart, - Spring of all sweetest thoughts, arch foe of blame, - Sower of flowers in the dusty mart, - Pure vestal of the poet's holy flame,-- - This is enough, and we have done our part - If we but keep it spotless as it came. - - 1842. - - - XXI. - - Our love is not a fading, earthly flower: - Its wingèd seed dropped down from Paradise, - And, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower, - Doth momently to fresher beauty rise: - To us the leafless autumn is not bare, - Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green. - Our summer hearts make summer's fulness, where - No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen: - For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie, - Love,--whose forgetfulness is beauty's death, - Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I - Into the infinite freedom openeth, - And makes the body's dark and narrow grate - The wide-flung leaves of Heaven's palace-gate. - - 1842. - - - XXII. - - IN ABSENCE. - - These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear, - Did I not know, that, in the early spring, - When wild March winds upon their errands sing, - Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air, - Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair, - They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks, - From icy cares, even as thy clear looks - Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care; - When drops with welcome rain the April day, - My flowers shall find their April in thine eyes, - Save there the rain in dreamy clouds doth stay, - As loath to fall out of those happy skies; - Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to May, - That comes with steady sun when April dies. - - 1843. - - - XXIII. - - WENDELL PHILLIPS. - - He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide - The din of battle and of slaughter rose; - He saw God stand upon the weaker side, - That sank in seeming loss before its foes; - Many there were who made great haste and sold - Unto the cunning enemy their swords, - He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold, - And, underneath their soft and flowery words, - Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went - And humbly joined him to the weaker part, - Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content - So he could be the nearer to God's heart, - And feel its solemn pulses sending blood - Through all the wide-spread veins of endless good. - - - XXIV. - - THE STREET. - - They pass me by like shadows, crowds on crowds, - Dim ghosts of men, that hover to and fro, - Hugging their bodies round them, like thin shrouds - Wherein their souls were buried long ago: - They trampled on their youth, and faith, and love, - They cast their hope of human-kind away, - With Heaven's clear messages they madly strove, - And conquered,--and their spirits turned to clay: - Lo! how they wander round the world, their grave, - Whose ever-gaping maw by such is fed, - Gibbering at living men, and idly rave, - "We, only, truly live, but ye are dead." - Alas! poor fools, the anointed eye may trace - A dead soul's epitaph in every face! - - - XXV. - - I grieve not that ripe Knowledge takes away - The charm that Nature to my childhood wore, - For, with that insight, cometh, day by day, - A greater bliss than wonder was before; - The real doth not clip the poet's wings,-- - To win the secret of a weed's plain heart - Reveals some clue to spiritual things, - And stumbling guess becomes firm-footed art: - Flowers are not flowers unto the poet's eyes, - Their beauty thrills him by an inward sense; - He knows that outward seemings are but lies, - Or, at the most, but earthly shadows, whence - The soul that looks within for truth may guess - The presence of some wondrous heavenliness. - - - XXVI. - - TO J. R. GIDDINGS. - - Giddings, far rougher names than thine have grown - Smoother than honey on the lips of men; - And thou shalt aye be honorably known, - As one who bravely used his tongue and pen, - As best befits a freeman,--even for those, - To whom our Law's unblushing front denies - A right to plead against the life-long woes - Which are the Negro's glimpse of Freedom's skies. - Fear nothing, and hope all things, as the Right - Alone may do securely; every hour - The thrones of Ignorance and ancient Night - Lose somewhat of their long-usurpèd power, - And Freedom's lightest word can make them shiver - With a base dread that clings to them forever. - - - XXVII. - - I thought our love at full, but I did err; - Joy's wreath drooped o'er mine eyes; I could not see - That sorrow in our happy world must be - Love's deepest spokesman and interpreter; - But, as a mother feels her child first stir - Under her heart, so felt I instantly - Deep in my soul another bond to thee - Thrill with that life we saw depart from her; - O mother of our angel-child! twice dear! - Death knits as well as parts, and still, I wis, - Her tender radiance shall enfold us here, - Even as the light, borne up by inward bliss, - Threads the void glooms of space without a fear, - To print on farthest stars her pitying kiss. - - - - - L'ENVOI. - - - Whether my heart hath wiser grown or not, - In these three years, since I to thee inscribed, - Mine own betrothed, the firstlings of my muse,-- - Poor windfalls of unripe experience, - Young buds plucked hastily by childish hands - Not patient to await more full-blown flowers,-- - At least it hath seen more of life and men, - And pondered more, and grown a shade more sad, - Yet with no loss of hope or settled trust - In the benignness of that Providence, - Which shapes from out our elements awry - The grace and order that we wonder at, - The mystic harmony of right and wrong, - Both working out His wisdom and our good: - A trust, Beloved, chiefly learned of thee, - Who hast that gift of patient tenderness, - The instinctive wisdom of a woman's heart. - - They tell us that our land was made for song, - With its huge rivers and sky-piercing peaks, - Its sea-like lakes and mighty cataracts, - Its forests vast and hoar, and prairies wide, - And mounds that tell of wondrous tribes extinct. - But Poesy springs not from rocks and woods; - Her womb and cradle are the human heart, - And she can find a nobler theme for song - In the most loathsome man that blasts the sight, - Than in the broad expanse of sea and shore - Between the frozen deserts of the poles. - All nations have their message from on high, - Each the messiah of some central thought, - For the fulfilment and delight of Man: - One has to teach that labor is divine; - Another Freedom; and another Mind; - And all, that God is open-eyed and just, - The happy centre and calm heart of all. - - Are, then, our woods, our mountains, and our streams, - Needful to teach our poets how to sing? - O, maiden rare, far other thoughts were ours, - When we have sat by ocean's foaming marge, - And watched the waves leap roaring on the rocks, - Than young Leander and his Hero had, - Gazing from Sestos to the other shore. - The moon looks down and ocean worships her, - Stars rise and set, and seasons come and go - Even as they did in Homer's elder time, - But we behold them not with Grecian eyes: - Then they were types of beauty and of strength, - But now of freedom, unconfined and pure, - Subject alone to Order's higher law. - What cares the Russian serf or Southern slave - Though we should speak as man spake never yet - Of gleaming Hudson's broad magnificence, - Or green Niagara's never-ending roar? - Our country hath a gospel of her own - To preach and practise before all the world,-- - The freedom and divinity of man, - The glorious claims of human brotherhood,-- - Which to pay nobly, as a freeman should, - Gains the sole wealth that will not fly away,-- - And the soul's fealty to none but God. - These are realities, which make the shows - Of outward Nature, be they ne'er so grand, - Seem small, and worthless, and contemptible. - These are the mountain-summits for our bards, - Which stretch far upward into heaven itself, - And give such wide-spread and exulting view - Of hope, and faith, and onward destiny, - That shrunk Parnassus to a molehill dwindles. - Our new Atlantis, like a morning-star, - Silvers the murk face of slow-yielding Night, - The herald of a fuller truth than yet - Hath gleamed upon the upraisèd face of Man - Since the earth glittered in her stainless prime,-- - Of a more glorious sunrise than of old - Drew wondrous melodies from Memnon huge, - Yea, draws them still, though now he sits waist-deep - In the engulfing flood of whirling sand, - And looks across the wastes of endless gray, - Sole wreck, where once his hundred-gated Thebes - Pained with her mighty hum the calm, blue heaven. - Shall the dull stone pay grateful orisons, - And we till noonday bar the splendor out, - Lest it reproach and chide our sluggard hearts, - Warm-nestled in the down of Prejudice, - And be content, though clad with angel-wings, - Close-clipped, to hop about from perch to perch, - In paltry cages of dead men's dead thoughts? - O, rather like the sky-lark, soar and sing, - And let our gushing songs befit the dawn - And sunrise, and the yet unshaken dew - Brimming the chalice of each full-blown hope, - Whose blithe front turns to greet the growing day. - Never had poets such high call before, - Never can poets hope for higher one, - And, if they be but faithful to their trust, - Earth will remember them with love and joy, - And O, far better, God will not forget. - For he who settles Freedom's principles - Writes the death-warrant of all tyranny; - Who speaks the truth stabs Falsehood to the heart, - And his mere word makes despots tremble more - Than ever Brutus with his dagger could. - Wait for no hints from waterfalls or woods, - Nor dream that tales of red men, brute and fierce, - Repay the finding of this Western World, - Or needed half the globe to give them birth: - Spirit supreme of Freedom! not for this - Did great Columbus tame his eagle soul - To jostle with the daws that perch in courts; - Not for this, friendless, on an unknown sea, - Coping with mad waves and more mutinous spirits, - Battled he with the dreadful ache at heart - Which tempts, with devilish subtleties of doubt, - The hermit of that loneliest solitude, - The silent desert of a great New Thought; - Though loud Niagara were to-day struck dumb, - Yet would this cataract of boiling life, - Rush plunging on and on to endless deeps - And utter thunder till the world shall cease,-- - A thunder worthy of the poet's song, - And which alone can fill it with true life. - The high evangel to our country granted - Could make apostles, yea, with tongues of fire, - Of hearts half-darkened back again to clay! - 'Tis the soul only that is national, - And he who pays true loyalty to that - Alone can claim the wreath of patriotism. - - Beloved! if I wander far and oft - From that which I believe, and feel, and know, - Thou wilt forgive, not with a sorrowing heart, - But with a strengthened hope of better things; - Knowing that I, though often blind and false - To those I love, and O, more false than all - Unto myself, have been most true to thee, - And that whoso in one thing hath been true - Can be as true in all. Therefore thy hope - May yet not prove unfruitful, and thy love - Meet, day by day, with less unworthy thanks - Whether, as now, we journey hand in hand - Or, parted in the body, yet are one - In spirit and the love of holy things. - - - - - THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. - - - PRELUDE TO PART FIRST. - - Over his keys the musing organist, - Beginning doubtfully and far away, - First lets his fingers wander as they list, - And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: - Then, as the touch of his loved instrument - Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, - First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent - Along the wavering vista of his dream. - - * * * * * - - Not only around our infancy - Doth heaven with all its splendors lie, - Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, - We Sinais climb and know it not. - - Over our manhood bend the skies; - Against our fallen and traitor lives - The great winds utter prophecies; - With our faint hearts the mountain strives, - Its arms outstretched, the druid wood - Waits with its benedicite; - And to our age's drowsy blood - Still shouts the inspiring sea. - - Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; - The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, - The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, - We bargain for the graves we lie in; - At the devil's booth are all things sold, - Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; - For a cap and bells our lives we pay, - Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: - 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, - 'Tis only God may be had for the asking, - No price is set on the lavish summer; - June may be had by the poorest comer. - - And what is so rare as a day in June? - Then, if ever, come perfect days; - Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, - And over it softly her warm ear lays: - Whether we look, or whether we listen, - We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; - Every clod feels a stir of might, - An instinct within it that reaches and towers, - And, groping blindly above it for light, - Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; - The flush of life may well be seen - Thrilling back over hills and valleys; - The cowslip startles in meadows green, - The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, - And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean - To be some happy creature's palace; - The little bird sits at his door in the sun, - Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, - And lets his illumined being o'errun - With the deluge of summer it receives; - His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, - And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; - He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- - In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? - - Now is the high-tide of the year, - And whatever of life hath ebbed away - Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, - Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; - Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, - We are happy now because God wills it; - No matter how barren the past may have been, - 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; - We sit in the warm shade and feel right well - How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; - We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing - That skies are clear and grass is growing; - The breeze comes whispering in our ear, - That dandelions are blossoming near, - That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, - That the river is bluer than the sky, - That the robin is plastering his house hard by; - And if the breeze kept the good news back, - For other couriers we should not lack; - We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-- - And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, - Warmed with the new wine of the year, - Tells all in his lusty crowing! - - Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; - Everything is happy now, - Everything is upward striving; - 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true - As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-- - 'Tis the natural way of living: - Who knows whither the clouds have fled? - In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; - And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, - The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; - The soul partakes the season's youth, - And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe - Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, - Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. - What wonder if Sir Launfal now - Remembered the keeping of his vow? - - - |Part First.| - - I. - - "My golden spurs now bring to me, - And bring to me my richest mail, - For to-morrow I go over land and sea - In search of the Holy Grail; - Shall never a bed for me be spread, - Nor shall a pillow be under my head, - Till I begin my vow to keep; - Here on the rushes will I sleep, - And perchance there may come a vision true - Ere day create the world anew." - Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, - Slumber fell like a cloud on him, - And into his soul the vision flew. - - - II. - - The crows flapped over by twos and threes, - In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, - The little birds sang as if it were - The one day of summer in all the year, - And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees, - The castle alone in the landscape lay - Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray; - 'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree, - And never its gates might opened be, - Save to lord or lady of high degree; - Summer besieged it on every side, - But the churlish stone her assaults defied; - She could not scale the chilly wall, - Though round it for leagues her pavilions tall - Stretched left and right, - Over the hills and out of sight; - Green and broad was every tent, - And out of each a murmur went - Till the breeze fell off at night. - - - III. - - The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, - And through the dark arch a charger sprang, - Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, - In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright - It seemed the dark castle had gathered all - Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall - In his siege of three hundred summers long, - And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, - Had cast them forth: so, young and strong, - And lightsome as a locust-leaf, - Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail, - To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. - - - IV. - - It was morning on hill and stream and tree, - And morning in the young knight's heart; - Only the castle moodily - Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, - And gloomed by itself apart; - The season brimmed all other things up - Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. - - V. - - As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, - He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, - Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; - And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; - The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, - The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl, - And midway its leap his heart stood still - Like a frozen waterfall; - For this man, so foul and bent of stature, - Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, - And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,-- - So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. - - - VI. - - The leper raised not the gold from the dust: - "Better to me the poor man's crust, - Better the blessing of the poor, - Though I turn me empty from his door; - That is no true alms which the hand can hold; - He gives nothing but worthless gold - Who gives from a sense of duty; - But he who gives a slender mite, - And gives to that which is out of sight, - That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty - Which runs through all and doth all unite,-- - The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, - The heart outstretches its eager palms, - For a god goes with it and makes it store - To the soul that was starving in darkness before." - - - PRELUDE TO PART SECOND. - - Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, - From the snow five thousand summers old; - On open wold and hill-top bleak - It had gathered all the cold, - And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek - It carried a shiver everywhere - From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; - The little brook heard it and built a roof - 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; - All night by the white stars' frosty gleams - He groined his arches and matched his beams; - Slender and clear were his crystal spars - As the lashes of light that trim the stars: - He sculptured every summer delight - In his halls and chambers out of sight; - Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt - Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, - Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees - Bending to counterfeit a breeze; - Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew - But silvery mosses that downward grew; - Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief - With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; - Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear - For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here - He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops - And hung them thickly with diamond drops, - That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, - And made a star of every one: - No mortal builder's most rare device - Could match this winter-palace of ice; - 'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay - In his depths serene through the summer day, - Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, - Lest the happy model should be lost, - Had been mimicked in fairy masonry - By the elfin builders of the frost. - - Within the hall are song and laughter, - The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly, - And sprouting is every corbel and rafter - With lightsome green of ivy and holly; - Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide - Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide; - The broad flame-pennons droop and flap - And belly and tug as a flag in the wind; - Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, - Hunted to death in its galleries blind; - And swift little troops of silent sparks, - Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, - Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks - Like herds of startled deer. - - But the wind without was eager and sharp, - Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, - And rattles and wrings - The icy strings, - Singing, in dreary monotone, - A Christmas carol of its own, - Whose burden still, as he might guess, - Was--"Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" - - The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch - As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, - And he sat in the gateway and saw all night - The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, - Through the window-slits of the castle old, - Build out its piers of ruddy light - Against the drift of the cold. - - - |Part Second.| - - I. - - There was never a leaf on bush or tree, - The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; - The river was numb and could not speak, - For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; - A single crow on the tree-top bleak - From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun. - Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, - As if her veins were sapless and old, - And she rose up decrepitly - For a last dim look at earth and sea. - - - II. - - Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, - For another heir in his earldom sate; - An old, bent man, worn out and frail, - He came back from seeking the Holy Grail; - Little he recked of his earldom's loss, - No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, - But deep in his soul the sign he wore, - The badge of the suffering and the poor. - - - III. - - Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare - Was idle mail 'gainst the barbèd air, - For it was just at the Christmas time; - So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, - And sought for a shelter from cold and snow - In the light and warmth of long-ago; - He sees the snake-like caravan crawl - O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, - Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, - He can count the camels in the sun, - As over the red-hot sands they pass - To where, in its slender necklace of grass, - The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, - And with its own self like an infant played, - And waved its signal of palms. - - - IV. - - "For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms;"-- - The happy camels may reach the spring, - But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, - The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, - That cowers beside him, a thing as lone - And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas - In the desolate horror of his disease. - - - V. - - And Sir Launfal said,--"I behold in thee - An image of Him who died on the tree; - Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns,-- - Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns,-- - And to thy life were not denied - The wounds in the hands and feet and side: - Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; - Behold, through him, I give to thee!" - - - VI. - - Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes - And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he - Remembered in what a haughtier guise - He had flung an alms to leprosie, - When he girt his young life up in gilded mail - And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. - The heart within him was ashes and dust; - He parted in twain his single crust, - He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, - And gave the leper to eat and drink, - 'Twas a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, - 'Twas water out of a wooden bowl,-- - Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, - And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. - - - VII. - - As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, - A light shone round about the place; - The leper no longer crouched at his side, - But stood before him glorified, - Shining and tall and fair and straight - As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,-- - Himself the Gate whereby men can - Enter the temple of God in Man. - - - VIII. - - His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, - And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, - Which mingle their softness and quiet in one - With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; - And the voice that was calmer than silence said, - "Lo, it is I, be not afraid! - In many climes, without avail, - Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; - Behold it is here,--this cup which thou - Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; - This crust is my body broken for thee, - This water His blood that died on the tree; - The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, - In whatso we share with another's need; - Not what we give, but what we share,-- - For the gift without the giver is bare; - Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,-- - Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." - - - IX. - - Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:-- - "The Grail in my castle here is found! - Hang my idle armor up on the wall, - Let it be the spider's banquet hall; - He must be fenced with stronger mail - Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." - - - X. - - The castle gate stands open now, - And the wanderer is welcome to the hall - As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough; - No longer scowl the turrets tall, - The Summer's long siege at last is o'er; - When the first poor outcast went in at the door, - She entered with him in disguise, - And mastered the fortress by surprise; - There is no spot she loves so well on ground, - She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; - The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land - Has hall and bower at his command; - And there's no poor man in the North Countree - But is lord of the earldom as much as he. - - - |Note|.--According to the mythology of the Romancers, the - San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus - partook of the last supper with his disciples. It was - brought into England by Joseph of Arimathea, and remained - there, an object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years - in the keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incumbent - upon those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, - word, and deed; but one of the keepers having broken this - condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was - a favorite enterprise of the knights of Arthur's court to go - in search of it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in - finding it, as we may read in the seventeenth book of the - Romance of King Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the - subject of one of the most exquisite of his poems. - - The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of - the foregoing poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I - have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the - miraculous cup in such a manner as to include, not only - other persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a - period of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's - reign. - - - - - |Reader!| _walk up at once (it will soon be too late) - and buy at a perfectly ruinous rate_ - - A - - FABLE FOR CRITICS: - - OR, BETTER, - - (_I like, as a thing that the reader's first fancy may strike, - an old-fashioned title-page, - such as presents a tabular view of the volume's contents_) - - A GLANCE - - AT A FEW OF OUR LITERARY PROGENIES - - (_Mrs. Malaprop's word_) - - FROM - - _THE TUB OF DIOGENES;_ - - A VOCAL AND MUSICAL MEDLEY, - - THAT IS, - - A SERIES OF JOKES - - |By A Wonderful Quiz|, - - _who accompanies himself with a rub-a-dub-dub, full of - spirit and grace, on the top of the tub_. - - |Set forth in October, the 31st day, - In the year '48, G. P. Putnam, Broadway.| - - - - -It being the commonest mode of procedure, I premise a few candid remarks - -|To the Reader|; - -This trifle, begun to please only myself and my own private fancy, was -laid on the shelf. But some friends, who had seen it, induced me, by -dint of saying they liked it, to put it in print. That is, having come -to that very conclusion, I consulted them when it could make no -confusion. For, (though in the gentlest of ways,) they had hinted it was -scarce worth the while, I should doubtless have printed it. - -I began it, intending a Fable, a frail, slender thing, rhyme-ywinged, -with a sting in its tail. But, by addings and alterings not previously -planned,--digressions chance-hatched, like birds' eggs in the sand,--and -dawdlings to suit every whimsy's demand, (always freeing the bird which -I held in my hand, for the two perched, perhaps out of reach, in the -tree,)--it grew by degrees to the size which you see. I was like the old -woman that carried the calf, and my neighbors, like hers, no doubt, -wonder and laugh, and when, my strained arms with their grown burthen -full, I call it my Fable, they call it a bull. - -Having scrawled at full gallop (as far as that goes) in a style that is -neither good verse nor bad prose, and being a person whom nobody knows, -some people will say I am rather more free with my readers than it is -becoming to be, that I seem to expect them to wait on my leisure in -following wherever I wander at pleasure, that, in short, I take more -than a young author's lawful ease, and laugh in a queer way so like -Mephistopheles, that the public will doubt, as they grope through my -rhythm, if in truth I am making fun _at_ them or _with_ them. - -So the excellent Public is hereby assured that the sale of my book is -already secured. For there is not a poet throughout the whole land, but -will purchase a copy or two out of hand, in the fond expectation of -being amused in it, by seeing his betters cut-up and abused in it. Now, -I find, by a pretty exact calculation, there are something like ten -thousand bards in the nation, of that special variety whom the Review -and Magazine critics call _lofty_ and _true_, and about thirty thousand -(_this_ tribe is increasing) of the kinds who are termed _full of -promise_ and _pleasing_. The Public will see by a glance at this -schedule, that they cannot expect me to be over-sedulous about courting -_them_, since it seems I have got enough fuel made sure of for boiling -my pot. - -As for such of our poets as find not their names mentioned once in my -pages, with praises or blames, let them |SEND IN THEIR CARDS|, without -further |DELAY|, to my friend |G. P. Putnam|, Esquire, in Broadway, -where a |LIST| will be kept with the strictest regard to the day and the -hour of receiving the card. Then, taking them up as I chance to have -time, (that is, if their names can be twisted in rhyme,) I will honestly -give each his |PROPER POSITION|, at the rate of |ONE AUTHOR| to each -|NEW EDITION|. Thus a PREMIUM is offered sufficiently |HIGH| (as the -magazines say when they tell their best lie) to induce bards to |CLUB| -their resources and buy the balance of every edition, until they have -all of them fairly been run through the mill. - -One word to such readers (judicious and wise) as read books with -something behind the mere eyes, of whom in the country, perhaps, there -are two, including myself, gentle reader, and you. All the characters -sketched in this slight _jeu d'esprit_, though, it may be, they seem, -here and there, rather free, and drawn from a Mephistophelian -stand-point, are _meant_ to be faithful, and that is the grand point, -and none but an owl would feel sore at a rub from a jester who tells -you, without any subterfuge, that he sits in Diogenes' tub. - - - - - A PRELIMINARY NOTE TO THE SECOND - EDITION, - - -though it well may be reckoned, of all composition, the species at once -most delightful and healthy, is a thing which an author, unless he be -wealthy and willing to pay for that kind of delight, is not, in all -instances, called on to write. Though there are, it is said, who, their -spirits to cheer, slip in a new title-page three times a year, and in -this way snuff up an imaginary savor of that sweetest of dishes, the -popular favor,--much as if a starved painter should fall to and treat -the Ugolino inside to a picture of meat. - -You remember (if not, pray turn over and look) that, in writing the -preface which ushered my book, I treated you, excellent Public, not -merely with a cool disregard, but downright cavalierly. Now I would not -take back the least thing I then said, though I thereby could butter -both sides of my bread, for I never could see that an author owed aught -to the people he solaced, diverted, or taught; and, as for mere fame, I -have long ago learned that the persons by whom it is finally earned, are -those with whom _your_ verdict weighed not a pin, unsustained by the -higher court sitting within. - -But I wander from what I intended to say--that you have, namely, shown -such a liberal way of thinking, and so much æsthetic perception of -anonymous worth in the handsome reception you gave to my book, spite of -some private piques, (having bought the first thousand in barely two -weeks,) that I think, past a doubt, if you measured the phiz of your's -most devotedly, Wonderful Quiz, you would find that its vertical section -was shorter, by an inch and two tenths, or 'twixt that and a quarter. - -You have watched a child playing--in those wondrous years when belief is -not bound to the eyes and the ears, and the vision divine is so clear -and unmarred, that each baker of pies in the dirt is a bard? Give a -knife and a shingle, he fits out a fleet, and, on that little mud puddle -over the street, his invention, in purest good faith, will make sail -round the globe with a puff of his breath for a gale, will visit, in -barely ten minutes, all climes, and find Northwestern passages hundreds -of times. Or, suppose the young Poet fresh stored with delights from -that Bible of childhood the Arabian Nights, he will turn to a crony and -cry, "Jack, let's play that I am a Genius!" Jacky straightway makes -Aladdin's lamp out of a stone, and, for hours, they enjoy each his own -supernatural powers. This is all very pretty and pleasant, but then -suppose our two urchins have grown into men, and both have turned -authors,--one says to his brother, "Let's play we're the American -somethings or other, (only let them be big enough, no matter what.) -Come, you shall be Goethe or Pope, which you choose; I'll be Coleridge, -and both shall write mutual reviews." So they both (as mere strangers) -before many days, send each other a cord of anonymous bays. Each, in -piling his epithets, smiles in his sleeve to see what his friend can be -made to believe; each, in reading the other's unbiased review, -thinks--Here's pretty high praise, but no more than is true. Well, we -laugh at them both, and yet make no great fuss when the same farce is -acted to benefit us. Even I, who, if asked, scarce a month since, what -Fudge meant, should have answered, the dear Public's critical judgment, -begin to think sharpwitted Horace spoke sooth when he said, that the -Public _sometimes_ hit the truth. - -In reading these lines, you perhaps have a vision of a person in pretty -good health and condition, and yet, since I put forth my primary -edition, I have been crushed, scorched, withered, used up and put down, -(by Smith with the cordial assistance of Brown,) in all, if you put any -faith in my rhymes, to the number of ninety-five several times, and, -while I am writing--I tremble to think of it, for I may at this moment -be just on the brink of it--Molybdostom, angry at being omitted, has -begun a critique,--am I not to be pitied?[B] - - [Footnote B: The wise Scandinavians probably called their - bards by the queer-looking title of Scald, in a delicate - way, as it were, just to hint to the world the hot water - they always get into.] - -Now I shall not crush _them_ since, indeed, for that matter, no pressure -I know of could render them flatter; nor wither, nor scorch them,--no -action of fire could make either them or their articles drier; nor waste -time in putting them down--I am thinking not their own self-inflation -will keep them from sinking; for there's this contradiction about the -whole bevy--though without the least weight, they are awfully heavy. No, -my dear honest bore, _surdo fabulam narras_, they are no more to me than -a rat in the arras. I can walk with the Doctor, get facts from the Don, -or draw out the Lambish quintessence of John, and feel nothing more than -a half-comic sorrow, to think that they all will be lying to-morrow -tossed carelessly up on the waste-paper shelves, and forgotten by all -but their half-dozen selves. Once snug in my attic, my fire in a roar, I -leave the whole pack of them outside the door. With Hakluyt or Purchas I -wander away to the black northern seas or barbaric Cathay; get _fou_ -with O'Shanter, and sober me then with that builder of brick-kilnish -dramas, rare Ben; snuff Herbert, as holy as a flower on a grave; with -Fletcher wax tender, o'er Chapman grow brave; with Marlowe or Kyd take a -fine poet-rave; in Very, most Hebrew of Saxons, find peace; with Lycidas -welter on vext Irish seas; with Webster grow wild, and climb earthward -again, down by mystical Browne's Jacob's-ladder-like brain, to that -spiritual Pepys (Cotton's version) Montaigne; find a new depth in -Wordsworth, undreamed of before,--that divinely-inspired, wise, deep, -tender, grand,--bore. Or, out of my study, the scholar thrown off, -nature holds up her shield 'gainst the sneer and the scoff; the -landscape, forever consoling and kind, pours her wine and her oil on the -smarts of the mind. The waterfall, scattering its vanishing gems; the -tall grove of hemlocks, with moss on their stems, like plashes of -sunlight; the pond in the woods, where no foot but mine and the -bittern's intrudes; these are all my kind neighbors, and leave me no -wish to say aught to you all, my poor critics, but--pish! I have buried -the hatchet; I am twisting an allumette out of one of you now, and -relighting my calumet. In your private capacities, come when you please, -I will give you my hand and a fresh pipe a-piece. - -As I ran through the leaves of my poor little book, to take a fond -author's first tremulous look, it was quite an excitement to hunt the -_errata_, sprawled in as birds' tracks are in some kinds of strata, -(only these made things crookeder.) Fancy an heir, that a father had -seen born well-featured and fair, turning suddenly wry-nosed, -club-footed, squint-eyed, hare-lipped, wapper-jawed, carrot-haired, from -a pride become an aversion,--my case was yet worse. A club-foot (by way -of a change) in a verse, I might have forgiven, an _o_'s being wry, a -limp in an _e_, or a cock in an _i_,--but to have the sweet babe of my -brain served in _pi_! I am not queasy-stomached, but such a Thyestean -banquet as that was quite out of the question. - -In the edition now issued, no pains are neglected, and my verses, as -orators say, stand corrected. Yet some blunders remain of the public's -own make, which I wish to correct for my personal sake. For instance, a -character drawn in pure fun and condensing the traits of a dozen in one, -has been, as I hear by some persons applied to a good friend of mine, -whom to stab in the side, as we walked along chatting and joking -together, would not be _my_ way. I can hardly tell whether a question -will ever arise in which he and I should by any strange fortune agree, -but meanwhile my esteem for him grows as I know him, and, though not the -best judge upon earth of a poem, he knows what it is he is saying and -why, and is honest and fearless, two good points which I have not found -so rife I can easily smother my love for them, whether on my side or -t'other. - -For my other _anonymi_, you may be sure that I know what is meant by a -caricature, and what by a portrait. There are those who think it is -capital fun to be spattering their ink on quiet unquarrelsome folk, but -the minute the game changes sides and the others begin it, they see -something savage and horrible in it. As for me I respect neither women -nor men for their gender, nor own any sex in a pen. I choose just to -hint to some causeless unfriends that, as far as I know, there are -always two ends (and one of them heaviest, too) to a staff, and two -parties also to every good laugh. - - - - - A FABLE FOR CRITICS. - - Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade, - Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made, - For the god being one day too warm in his wooing, - She took to the tree to escape his pursuing; - Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk, - And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk; - And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her, - He somehow or other had never forgiven her; - Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic, - Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic, - And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over, - By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her. - "My case is like Dido's," he sometimes remark'd, - "When I last saw my love, she was fairly embark'd, - In a laurel, as _she_ thought--but (ah how Fate mocks!) - She has found it by this time a very bad box; - Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it, - --You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it. - Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress! - What romance would be left?--who can flatter or kiss trees? - And for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue - With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-- - Not to say that the thought would forever intrude - That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood? - Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves, - To see those loved graces all taking their leaves; - Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now, - As they left me forever, each making its bough! - If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right, - Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite." - - Now, Daphne,--before she was happily treeified,-- - Over all other blossoms the lily had deified, - And when she expected the god on a visit, - ('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit,) - Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care, - To look as if artlessly twined in her hair, - Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses, - Like the day breaking through the long night of her tresses; - So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible, - Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table, - (I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable, - Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel,)-- - He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it, - As I shall at the ----, when they cut up my book in it. - - Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning, - I've got back at last to my story's beginning: - Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress, - As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries, - Or as those puzzling specimens, which, in old histories, - We read of his verses--the Oracles, namely,-- - (I wonder the Greeks should have swallowed them tamely, - For one might bet safely whatever he has to risk, - They were laid at his door by some ancient Miss Asterisk, - And so dull that the men who retailed them out-doors - Got the ill name of augurs, because they were bores,)-- - First, he mused what the animal substance or herb is - Would induce a moustache, for you know he's _imberbis_; - Then he shuddered to think how his youthful position - Was assailed by the age of his son the physician; - At some poems he glanced, had been sent to him lately, - And the metre and sentiment puzzled him greatly. - "Mehercle! I'd make such proceedings felonious,-- - Have they all of them slept in the cave of Trophonius? - Look well to your seat, 'tis like taking an airing - On a corduroy road, and that out of repairing; - It leads one, 'tis true, through the primitive forest, - Grand natural features--but, then, one has no rest; - You just catch a glimpse of some ravishing distance, - When a jolt puts the whole of it out of existence,-- - Why not use their ears, if they happen to have any?" - --Here the laurel-leaves murmured the name of poor Daphne. - - "O, weep with me, Daphne," he sighed, "for you know it's - A terrible thing to be pestered with poets! - But, alas, she is dumb, and the proverb holds good, - She never will cry till she's out of the wood! - What wouldn't I give if I never had known of her? - 'Twere a kind of relief had I something to groan over; - If I had but some letters of hers, now, to toss over, - I might turn for the nonce a Byronic philosopher, - And bewitch all the flats by bemoaning the loss of her. - One needs something tangible, though to begin on-- - A loom, as it were, for the fancy to spin on; - What boots all your grist? it can never be ground - Till a breeze makes the arms of the windmill go round, - (Or, if 'tis a water-mill, alter the metaphor, - And say it won't stir, save the wheel be well wet afore, - Or lug in some stuff about water 'so dreamily,'-- - It is not a metaphor, though, 'tis a simile;) - A lily, perhaps, would set _my_ mill agoing, - For just at this season, I think, they are blowing, - Here, somebody, fetch one, not very far hence - They're in bloom by the score, 'tis but climbing a fence; - There's a poet hard by, who does nothing but fill his - Whole garden, from one end to t'other, with lilies; - A very good plan, were it not for satiety, - One longs for a weed here and there, for variety; - Though a weed is no more than a flower in disguise, - Which is seen through at once, if love give a man eyes." - - Now there happened to be among Phoebus's followers, - A gentleman, one of the omnivorous swallowers, - Who bolt every book that comes out of the press, - Without the least question of larger or less, - Whose stomachs are strong at the expense of their head,-- - For reading new books is like eating new bread, - One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he - Is brought to death's door of a mental dyspepsy. - On a previous stage of existence, our Hero - Had ridden outside, with the glass below zero; - He had been, 'tis a fact you may safely rely on, - Of a very old stock a most eminent scion,-- - A stock all fresh quacks their fierce boluses ply on, - Who stretch the new boots Earth's unwilling to try on, - Whom humbugs of all shapes and sorts keep their eye on, - Whose hair's in the mortar of every new Zion, - Who, when whistles are dear, go directly and buy one, - Who think slavery a crime that we must not say fie on, - Who hunt, if they e'er hunt at all, with the lion, - (Though they hunt lions also, whenever they spy one,) - Who contrive to make every good fortune a wry one, - And at last choose the hard bed of honor to die on, - Whose pedigree traced to earth's earliest years, - Is longer than anything else but their ears;-- - In short, he was sent into life with the wrong key, - He unlocked the door, and stept forth a poor donkey. - Though kicked and abused by his bipedal betters, - Yet he filled no mean place in the kingdom of letters; - Far happier than many a literary hack, - He bore only paper-mill rags on his back; - (For it makes a vast difference which side the mill - One expends on the paper his labor and skill;) - So, when his soul waited a new transmigration, - And Destiny balanced 'twixt this and that station, - Not having much time to expend upon bothers, - Remembering he'd had some connection with authors, - And considering his four legs had grown paralytic,-- - She set him on two, and he came forth a critic. - - Through his babyhood no kind of pleasure he took - In any amusement but tearing a book; - For him there was no intermediate stage, - From babyhood up to straight-laced middle age; - There were years when he didn't wear coat-tails behind, - But a boy he could never be rightly defined; - Like the Irish Good Folk, though in length scarce a span, - From the womb he came gravely, a little old man; - While other boys' trousers demanded the toil - Of the motherly fingers on all kinds of soil, - Red, yellow, brown, black, clayey, gravelly, loamy, - He sat in the corner and read Viri Romæ. - He never was known to unbend or to revel once - In base, marbles, hockey, or kick up the devil once; - He was just one of those who excite the benevolence - Of your old prigs who sound the soul's depths with a ledger, - And are on the lookout for some young men to "edger - cate," as they call it, who won't be too costly, - And who'll afterward take to the ministry mostly; - Who always wear spectacles, always look bilious, - Always keep on good terms with each _mater-familias_ - Throughout the whole parish, and manage to rear - Ten boys like themselves, on four hundred a year; - Who, fulfilling in turn the same fearful conditions, - Either preach through their noses, or go upon missions. - - In this way our hero got safely to college, - Where he bolted alike both his commons and knowledge; - A reading-machine, always wound up and going, - He mastered whatever was not worth the knowing, - Appeared in a gown, and a vest of black satin, - To spout such a Gothic oration in Latin, - That Tully could never have made out a word in it, - (Though himself was the model the author preferred in it,) - And grasping the parchment which gave him in fee, - All the mystic and-so-forths contained in A. B., - He was launched (life is always compared to a sea,) - With just enough learning, and skill for the using it, - To prove he'd a brain, by forever confusing it. - So worthy Saint Benedict, piously burning - With the holiest zeal against secular learning, - _Nesciensque scienter_, as writers express it, - _Indoctusque sapienter â Româ recessit._ - - 'Twould be endless to tell you the things that he knew, - All separate facts, undeniably true, - But with him or each other they'd nothing to do; - No power of combining, arranging, discerning, - Digested the masses he learned into learning; - There was one thing in life he had practical knowledge for, - (And this, you will think, he need scarce go to college for,) - Not a deed would he do, nor a word would he utter, - Till he'd weighed its relations to plain bread and butter. - When he left Alma Mater, he practised his wits - In compiling the journals' historical bits,-- - Of shops broken open, men falling in fits, - Great fortunes in England bequeathed to poor printers, - And cold spells, the coldest for many past winters,-- - Then, rising by industry, knack, and address, - Got notices up for an unbiassed press, - With a mind so wellpoised, it seemed equally made for - Applause or abuse, just which chanced to be paid for; - From this point his progress was rapid and sure, - To the post of a regular heavy reviewer. - - And here I must say he wrote excellent articles - On the Hebraic points, or the force of Greek particles, - They filled up the space nothing else was prepared for; - And nobody read that which nobody cared for; - If any old book reached a fiftieth edition, - He could fill forty pages with safe erudition, - He could gauge the old books by the old set of rules, - And his very old nothings pleased very old fools; - But give him a new book, fresh out of the heart, - And you put him at sea without compass or chart,-- - His blunders aspired to the rank of an art; - For his lore was engraft, something foreign that grew in him, - Exhausting the sap of the native and true in him, - So that when a man came with a soul that was new in him, - Carving new forms of truth out of Nature's old granite, - New and old at their birth, like Le Verrier's planet, - Which, to get a true judgment, themselves must create - In the soul of their critic the measure and weight, - Being rather themselves a fresh standard of grace, - To compute their own judge, and assign him his place, - Our reviewer would crawl all about it and round it, - And, reporting each circumstance just as he found it, - Without the least malice,--his record would be - Profoundly æsthetic as that of a flea, - Which, supping on Wordsworth, should print, for our sakes, - Recollections of nights with the Bard of the Lakes, - Or, borne by an Arab guide, ventured to render a - General view of the ruins of Denderah. - - As I said, he was never precisely unkind, - The defect in his brain was just absence of mind; - If he boasted, 'twas simply that he was self-made, - A position which I, for one, never gainsaid, - My respect for my Maker supposing a skill - In his works which our hero would answer but ill; - And I trust that the mould which he used may be cracked, or he - Made bold by success, may enlarge his phylactery, - And set up a kind of a man-manufactory, - An event which I shudder to think about, seeing - That Man is a moral, accountable being. - - He meant well enough, but was still in the way - As a dunce always is, let him be where he may; - Indeed, they appear to come into existence - To impede other folks with their awkward assistance; - If you set up a dunce on the very North pole, - All alone with himself, I believe, on my soul, - He'd manage to get betwixt somebody's shins, - And pitch him down bodily, all in his sins, - To the grave polar bears sitting round on the ice, - All shortening their grace, to be in for a slice; - Or, if he found nobody else there to pother, - Why, one of his legs would just trip up the other, - For there's nothing we read of in torture's inventions, - Like a well-meaning dunce, with the best of intentions. - - A terrible fellow to meet in society, - Not the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at tea; - There he'd sit at the table and stir in his sugar, - Crouching close for a spring, all the while, like a cougar; - Be sure of your facts, of your measures and weights, - Of your time--he's as fond as an Arab of dates;-- - You'll be telling, perhaps, in your comical way, - Of something you've seen in the course of the day; - And, just as you're tapering out the conclusion, - You venture an ill-fated classic allusion,-- - The girls have all got their laughs ready, when, whack! - The cougar comes down on your thunderstruck back! - You had left out a comma,--your Greek's put in joint, - And pointed at cost of your story's whole point. - In the course of the evening, you venture on certain - Soft speeches to Anne, in the shade of the curtain; - You tell her your heart can be likened to one flower, - "And that, oh most charming of women, 's the sunflower, - Which turns"--here a clear nasal voice, to your terror, - From outside the curtain, says "that's all an error." - As for him, he's--no matter, he never grew tender, - Sitting after a ball, with his feet on the fender, - Shaping somebody's sweet features out of cigar smoke, - (Though he'd willingly grant you that such doings are smoke;) - All women he damns with _mutabile semper_, - And if ever he felt something like love's distemper, - 'Twas towards a young lady who spoke ancient Mexican, - And assisted her father in making a lexicon; - Though I recollect hearing him get quite ferocious - About Mary Clausum, the mistress of Grotius, - Or something of that sort,--but, no more to bore ye - With character-painting, I'll turn to my story. - - Now, Apollo, who finds it convenient sometimes - To get his court clear of the makers of rhymes, - The _genus_, I think it is called, _irritabile_, - Every one of whom thinks himself treated most shabbily, - And nurses a--what is it?--_immedicabile_, - Which keeps him at boiling-point, hot for a quarrel, - As bitter as wormwood, and sourer than sorrel, - If any poor devil but look at a laurel;-- - Apollo, I say, being sick of their rioting, - (Though he sometimes acknowledged their verse had a quieting - Effect after dinner, and seemed to suggest a - Retreat to the shrine of a tranquil siesta,) - Kept our hero at hand, who, by means of a bray, - Which he gave to the life, drove the rabble away; - And if that wouldn't do, he was sure to succeed, - If he took his review out and offered to read; - Or, failing in plans of this milder description, - He would ask for their aid to get up a subscription, - Considering that authorship wasn't a rich craft, - To print the "American drama of Witchcraft." - "Stay, I'll read you a scene,"--but he hardly began, - Ere Apollo shrieked "Help!" and the authors all ran: - And once, when these purgatives acted with less spirit, - And the desperate case asked a remedy desperate, - He drew from his pocket a foolscap epistle, - As calmly as if 'twere a nine-barrelled pistol, - And threatened them all with the judgment to come, - Of "A wandering Star's first impressions of Rome." - "Stop! stop!" with their hands o'er their ears screamed the Muses, - "He may go off and murder himself, if he chooses, - 'Twas a means self-defence only sanctioned his trying, - 'Tis mere massacre now that the enemy's flying; - If he's forced to 't again, and we happen to be there, - Give us each a large handkerchief soaked in strong - ether." - - I call this a "Fable for Critics"; you think it's - More like a display of my rhythmical trinkets; - My plot, like an icicle, 's slender and slippery, - Every moment more slender, and likely to slip awry, - And the reader unwilling _in loco desipere_, - Is free to jump over as much of my frippery - As he fancies, and, if he's a provident skipper, he - May have an Odyssean sway of the gales, - And get safe into port, ere his patience all fails; - Moreover, although 'tis a slender return - For your toil and expense, yet my paper will burn, - And, if you have manfully struggled thus far with me, - You may e'en twist me up, and just light your cigar with me: - If too angry for that, you can tear me in pieces, - And my _membra disjecta_ consign to the breezes, - A fate like great Ratzau's, whom one of those bores, - Who beflead with bad verses poor Louis Quatorze, - Describes, (the first verse somehow ends with _victoire_,) - As _dispersant partout et ses membres et sa gloire_; - Or, if I were over-desirous of earning - A repute among noodles for classical learning, - I could pick you a score of allusions, I wis; - As new as the jests of _Didaskalos tis_; - Better still, I could make out a good solid list - From recondite authors who do not exist,-- - But that would be naughty: at least, I could twist - Something out of Absyrtus, or turn your inquiries - After Milton's prose metaphor, drawn from Osiris;-- - But, as Cicero says he won't say this or that, - (A fetch, I must say, most transparent and flat,) - After saying whate'er he could possibly think of,-- - I simply will state that I pause on the brink of - A mire, ankle-deep, of deliberate confusion, - Made up of old jumbles of classic allusion, - So, when you were thinking yourselves to be pitied, - Just conceive how much harder your teeth you'd have gritted, - An 't were not for the dulness I've kindly omitted. - - I'd apologize here for my many digressions, - Were it not that I'm certain to trip into fresh ones, - ('Tis so hard to escape if you get in their mesh once;) - Just reflect, if you please, how 'tis said by Horatius, - That Mæonides nods now and then, and, my gracious! - It certainly does look a little bit ominous - When he gets under way with _ton d'apameibomenos_. - (Here a something occurs which I'll just clap a rhyme to, - And say it myself, ere a Zoilus have time to,-- - Any author a nap like Van Winkle's may take, - If he only contrive to keep readers awake, - But he'll very soon find himself laid on the shelf, - If _they_ fall a nodding when he nods himself.) - - Once for all, to return, and to stay, will I, nill I-- - When Phoebus expressed his desire for a lily, - Our hero, whose homoeopathic sagacity - With an ocean of zeal mixed his drop of capacity, - Set off for the garden as fast as the wind, - (Or, to take a comparison more to my mind, - As a sound politician leaves conscience behind,) - And leaped the low fence, as a party hack jumps - O'er his principles, when something else turns up trumps. - - He was gone a long time, and Apollo meanwhile, - Went over some sonnets of his with a file, - For of all compositions, he thought that the sonnet - Best repaid all the toil you expended upon it; - It should reach with one impulse the end of its course, - And for one final blow collect all of its force; - Not a verse should be salient, but each one should tend - With a wave-like up-gathering to burst at the end;-- - So, condensing the strength here, there smoothing a wry kink, - He was killing the time, when up walked Mr. ----; - At a few steps behind him, a small man in glasses, - Went dodging about, muttering "murderers! asses!" - From out of his pocket a paper he'd take, - With the proud look of martyrdom tied to its stake, - And, reading a squib at himself, he'd say, "Here I see - 'Gainst American letters a bloody conspiracy, - They are all by my personal enemies written; - I must post an anonymous letter to Britain, - And show that this gall is the merest suggestion - Of spite at my zeal on the Copyright question, - For, on this side the water, 'tis prudent to pull - O'er the eyes of the public their national wool, - By accusing of slavish respect to John Bull, - All American authors who have more or less - Of that anti-American humbug--success, - While in private we're always embracing the knees - Of some twopenny editor over the seas, - And licking his critical shoes, for you know 'tis - The whole aim of our lives to get one English notice; - My American puffs I would willingly burn all, - (They're all from one source, monthly, weekly, diurnal,) - To get but a kick from a transmarine journal!" - - So, culling the gibes of each critical scorner - As if they were plums, and himself were Jack Horner, - He came cautiously on, peeping round every corner, - And into each hole where a weasel might pass in, - Expecting the knife of some critic assassin, - Who stabs to the heart with a caricature, - Not so bad as those daubs of the Sun, to be sure, - Yet done with a dagger-o'-type, whose vile portraits - Disperse all one's good, and condense all one's poor traits. - - Apollo looked up, hearing footsteps approaching, - And slipped out of sight the new rhymes he was broaching,-- - "Good day, Mr. ----, I'm happy to meet - With a scholar so ripe, and a critic so neat, - Who through Grub-street the soul of a gentleman carries,-- - What news from that suburb of London and Paris - Which latterly makes such shrill claims to monopolize - The credit of being the New World's metropolis?" - - "Why, nothing of consequence, save this attack - On my friend there, behind, by some pitiful hack, - Who thinks every national author a poor one, - That isn't a copy of something that's foreign, - And assaults the American Dick--" - "Nay, 'tis clear - That your Damon there's fond of a flea in his ear, - And, if no one else furnished them gratis, on tick - He would buy some himself, just to hear the old click; - Why, I honestly think, if some fool in Japan - Should turn up his nose at the 'Poems on Man,' - Your friend there by some inward instinct would know it, - Would get it translated, reprinted, and show it; - As a man might take off a high stock to exhibit - The autograph round his own neck of the gibbet; - Nor would let it rest so, but fire column after column, - Signed Cato, or Brutus, or something as solemn, - By way of displaying his critical crosses, - And tweaking that poor transatlantic proboscis, - His broadsides resulting (and this there's no doubt of,) - In successively sinking the craft they're fired out of. - Now nobody knows when an author is hit, - If he don't have a public hysterical fit; - Let him only keep close in his snug garret's dim ether, - And nobody 'd think of his critics--or him either; - If an author have any least fibre of worth in him, - Abuse would but tickle the organ of mirth in him, - All the critics on earth cannot crush with their ban, - One word that's in tune with the nature of man." - - "Well, perhaps so; meanwhile I have brought you a book, - Into which if you'll just have the goodness to look, - You may feel so delighted, (when you have got through it,) - As to think it not unworth your while to review it, - And I think I can promise your thoughts, if you do, - A place in the next Democratic Review." - - "The most thankless of gods you must surely have thought me, - For this is the forty-fourth copy you've brought me, - I have given them away, or at least I have tried, - But I've forty-two left, standing all side by side, - (The man who accepted that one copy, died,)-- - From one end of a shelf to the other they reach, - 'With the author's respects' neatly written in each. - The publisher, sure, will proclaim a Te Deum, - When he hears of that order the British Museum - Has sent for one set of what books were first printed - In America, little or big,--for 'tis hinted - That this is the first truly tangible hope he - Has ever had raised for the sale of a copy. - I've thought very often 't would be a good thing - In all public collections of books, if a wing - Were set off by itself, like the seas from the dry lands, - Marked _Literature suited to desolate islands_, - And filled with such books as could never be read - Save by readers of proofs, forced to do it for bread,-- - Such books as one's wrecked on in small country-taverns, - Such as hermits might mortify over in caverns, - Such as Satan, if printing had then been invented, - As the climax of woe, would to Job have presented, - Such as Crusoe might dip in, although there are few so - Outrageously cornered by fate as poor Crusoe; - And since the philanthropists just now are banging - And gibbeting all who're in favor of hanging,-- - (Though Cheever has proved that the Bible and Altar - Were let down from Heaven at the end of a halter, - And that vital religion would dull and grow callous, - Unrefreshed, now and then, with a sniff of the gallows,)-- - And folks are beginning to think it looks odd, - To choke a poor scamp for the glory of God; - And that He who esteems the Virginia reel - A bait to draw saints from their spiritual weal, - And regards the quadrille as a far greater knavery - Than crushing His African children with slavery,-- - Since all who take part in a waltz or cotillion - Are mounted for hell on the Devil's own pillion, - Who, as every true orthodox Christian well knows, - Approaches the heart through the door of the toes,-- - That He, I was saying, whose judgments are stored - For such as take steps in despite of his word, - Should look with delight on the agonized prancing - Of a wretch who has not the least ground for his dancing, - While the State, standing by, sings a verse from the Psalter - About offering to God on his favorite halter, - And, when the legs droop from their twitching divergence, - Sells the clothes to a Jew, and the corpse to the surgeons;-- - - "Now, instead of all this, I think I can direct you all - To a criminal code both humane and effectual;-- - I propose to shut up every doer of wrong - With these desperate books, for such term, short or long, - As by statute in such cases made and provided, - Shall be by your wise legislators decided; - Thus:--Let murderers be shut, to grow wiser and cooler, - At hard labor for life on the works of Miss ----; - Petty thieves, kept from flagranter crimes by their fears, - Shall peruse Yankee Doodle a blank term of years,-- - That American Punch, like the English, no doubt-- - Just the sugar and lemons and spirit left out. - - "But stay, here comes Tityrus Griswold, and leads on - The flocks whom he first plucks alive, and then feeds on,-- - A loud-cackling swarm, in whose feathers warm-drest, - He goes for as perfect a--swan, as the rest. - - "There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, - Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on, - Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows, - Is some of it pr---- No, 'tis not even prose; - I'm speaking of metres; some poems have welled - From those rare depths of soul that have ne'er been excelled; - They 're not epics, but that doesn't matter a pin, - In creating, the only hard thing 's to begin; - A grass-blade's no easier to make than an oak, - If you've once found the way, you've achieved the grand stroke; - In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter, - But thrown in a heap with a crash and a clatter; - Now it is not one thing nor another alone - Makes a poem, but rather the general tone, - The something pervading, uniting the whole, - The before unconceived, unconceivable soul, - So that just in removing this trifle or that, you - Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue; - Roots, wood, bark, and leaves, singly perfect may be, - But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don't make a tree. - - "But, to come back to Emerson, (whom by the way, - I believe we left waiting,)--his is, we may say, - A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range - Has Olympus for one pole, for t'other the Exchange; - He seems, to my thinking, (although I'm afraid - The comparison must, long ere this, have been made,) - A Plotinus-Montaigne, where the Egyptian's gold mist - And the Gascon's shrewd wit cheek-by-jowl coexist; - All admire, and yet scarcely six converts he's got - To I don't (nor they either) exactly know what; - For though he builds glorious temples, 'tis odd - He leaves never a doorway to get in a god. - 'Tis refreshing to old-fashioned people like me, - To meet such a primitive Pagan as he, - In whose mind all creation is duly respected - As parts of himself--just a little projected; - And who's willing to worship the stars and the sun, - A convert to--nothing but Emerson. - So perfect a balance there is in his head, - That he talks of things sometimes as if they were dead; - Life, nature, love, God, and affairs of that sort, - He looks at as merely ideas; in short, - As if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet, - Of such vast extent that our earth's a mere dab in it; - Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her, - Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure lecturer; - You are filled with delight at his clear demonstration, - Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion, - With the quiet precision of science he'll sort 'em, - But you can't help suspecting the whole a _post mortem_. - - "There are persons, mole-blind to the soul's make and style, - Who insist on a likeness 'twixt him and Carlyle; - To compare him with Plato would be vastly fairer, - Carlyle's the more burly, but E. is the rarer; - He sees fewer objects, but clearlier, truelier, - If C.'s as original, E.'s more peculiar; - That he's more of a man you might say of the one, - Of the other he's more of an Emerson; - C.'s the Titan, as shaggy of mind as of limb,-- - E. the clear-eyed Olympian, rapid and slim; - The one's two-thirds Norseman, the other half Greek, - Where the one's most abounding, the other's to seek; - C.'s generals require to be seen in the mass,-- - E.'s specialties gain if enlarged by the glass; - C. gives nature and God his own fits of the blues, - And rims common-sense things with mystical hues,-- - E. sits in a mystery calm and intense, - And looks coolly around him with sharp common sense; - C. shows you how every-day matters unite - With the dim transdiurnal recesses of night,-- - While E., in a plain, preternatural way, - Makes mysteries matters of mere every day; - C. draws all his characters quite _à la_ Fuseli,-- - He don't sketch their bundles of muscles and thews illy, - But he paints with a brush so untamed and profuse, - They seem nothing but bundles of muscles and thews; - E. is rather like Flaxman, lines strait and severe, - And a colorless outline, but full, round, and clear;-- - To the men he thinks worthy he frankly accords - The design of a white marble statue in words. - C. labors to get at the centre, and then - Take a reckoning from there of his actions and men; - E. calmly assumes the said centre as granted, - And, given himself, has whatever is wanted. - - "He has imitators in scores, who omit - No part of the man but his wisdom and wit,-- - Who go carefully o'er the sky-blue of his brain, - And when he has skimmed it once, skim it again; - If at all they resemble him, you may be sure it is - Because their shoals mirror his mists and obscurities, - As a mud-puddle seems deep as heaven for a minute, - While a cloud that floats o'er is reflected within it. - - "There comes ----, for instance; to see him 's rare sport, - Tread in Emerson's tracks with legs painfully short; - How he jumps, how he strains, and gets red in the face, - To keep step with the mystagogue's natural pace - He follows as close as a stick to a rocket, - His fingers exploring the prophet's each pocket. - Fie, for shame, brother bard; with good fruit of your own, - Can't you let neighbor Emerson's orchards alone? - Besides, 'tis no use, you'll not find e'en a core,-- - ---- has picked up all the windfalls before. - They might strip every tree, and E. never would catch 'em, - His Hesperides have no rude dragon to watch 'em; - When they send him a dishfull, and ask him to try 'em, - He never suspects how the sly rogues came by 'em; - He wonders why 'tis there are none such his trees on, - And thinks 'em the best he has tasted this season. - - "Yonder, calm as a cloud, Alcott stalks in a dream, - And fancies himself in thy groves, Academe, - With the Parthenon nigh, and the olive-trees o'er him, - And never a fact to perplex him or bore him, - With a snug room at Plato's, when night comes, to walk to, - And people from morning till midnight to talk to, - And from midnight till morning, nor snore in their listening;-- - So he muses, his face with the joy of it glistening, - For his highest conceit of a happiest state is - Where they'd live upon acorns, and hear him talk gratis; - And indeed, I believe, no man ever talked better-- - Each sentence hangs perfectly poised to a letter; - He seems piling words, but there's royal dust hid - In the heart of each sky-piercing pyramid. - While he talks he is great, but goes out like a taper, - If you shut him up closely with pen, ink, and paper; - Yet his fingers itch for 'em from morning till night, - And he thinks he does wrong if he don't always write; - In this, as in all things, a lamb among men, - He goes to sure death when he goes to his pen. - - "Close behind him is Brownson, his mouth very full - With attempting to gulp a Gregorian bull; - Who contrives, spite of that, to pour out as he goes - A stream of transparent and forcible prose; - He shifts quite about, then proceeds to expound - That 'tis merely the earth, not himself, that turns round, - And wishes it clearly impressed on your mind, - That the weather-cock rules and not follows the wind; - Proving first, then as deftly confuting each side, - With no doctrine pleased that's not somewhere denied, - He lays the denier away on the shelf, - And then--down beside him lies gravely himself. - He's the Salt River boatman, who always stands willing - To convey friend or foe without charging a shilling, - And so fond of the trip that, when leisure's to spare, - He'll row himself up, if he can't get a fare. - The worst of it is, that his logic's so strong, - That of two sides he commonly chooses the wrong; - If there _is_ only one, why, he'll split it in two, - And first pummel this half, then that, black and blue. - That white 's white needs no proof, but it takes a deep fellow - To prove it jet-black, and that jet-black is yellow. - He offers the true faith to drink in a sieve,-- - When it reaches your lips there's naught left to believe - But a few silly- (syllo-, I mean,) -gisms that squat 'em - Like tadpoles, o'erjoyed with the mud at the bottom. - - "There is Willis, so _natty_ and jaunty and gay, - Who says his best things in so foppish a way, - With conceits and pet phrases so thickly o'erlaying 'em, - That one hardly knows whether to thank him for saying 'em; - Over-ornament ruins both poem and prose, - Just conceive of a Muse with a ring in her nose! - His prose had a natural grace of its own, - And enough of it, too, if he'd let it alone; - But he twitches and jerks so, one fairly gets tired, - And is forced to forgive where he might have admired; - Yet whenever it slips away free and unlaced, - It runs like a stream with a musical waste, - And gurgles along with the liquidest sweep;-- - 'Tis not deep as a river, but who'd have it deep? - In a country where scarcely a village is found - That has not its author sublime and profound, - For some one to be slightly shoal is a duty, - And Willis's shallowness makes half his beauty. - His prose winds along with a blithe, gurgling error, - And reflects all of Heaven it can see in its mirror; - 'Tis a narrowish strip, but it is not an artifice,-- - 'Tis the true out-of-doors with its genuine hearty phiz; - It is Nature herself, and there's something in that, - Since most brains reflect but the crown of a hat. - No volume I know to read under a tree, - More truly delicious than his A l' Abri, - With the shadows of leaves flowing over your book, - Like ripple-shades netting the bed of a brook; - With June coming softly your shoulder to look over, - Breezes waiting to turn every leaf of your book over, - And Nature to criticise still as you read,-- - The page that bears that is a rare one indeed. - - "He's so innate a cockney, that had he been born - Where plain bare-skin 's the only full-dress that is worn, - He'd have given his own such an air that you'd say - 'T had been made by a tailor to lounge in Broadway. - His nature's a glass of champagne with the foam on 't, - As tender as Fletcher, as witty as Beaumont; - So his best things are done in the flush of the moment, - If he wait, all is spoiled; he may stir it and shake it, - But, the fixed air once gone, he can never re-make it. - He might be a marvel of easy delightfulness, - If he would not sometimes leave the r out of sprightfulness; - And he ought to let Scripture alone--'t is self-slaughter, - For nobody likes inspiration-and-water. - He'd have been just the fellow to sup at the Mermaid, - Cracking jokes at rare Ben, with an eye to the barmaid, - His wit running up as Canary ran down,-- - The topmost bright bubble on the wave of The Town. - - "Here comes Parker, the Orson of parsons, a man - Whom the Church undertook to put under her ban,-- - (The Church of Socinus, I mean)--his opinions - Being So-(ultra)-cinian, they shocked the Socinians; - They believed--faith I'm puzzled--I think I may call - Their belief a believing in nothing at all, - Or something of that sort; I know they all went - For a general union of total dissent: - He went a step farther; without cough or hem, - He frankly avowed he believed not in them; - And, before he could be jumbled up or prevented - From their orthodox kind of dissent he dissented. - There was heresy here, you perceive, for the right - Of privately judging means simply that light - Has been granted to _me_, for deciding on _you_, - And in happier times, before Atheism grew, - The deed contained clauses for cooking you too. - Now at Xerxes and Knut we all laugh, yet our foot - With the same wave is wet that mocked Xerxes and Knut; - And we all entertain a sincere private notion, - That our _Thus far!_ will have a great weight with the ocean. - 'Twas so with our liberal Christians: they bore - With sincerest conviction their chairs to the shore; - They brandished their worn theological birches, - Bade natural progress keep out of the Churches, - And expected the lines they had drawn to prevail - With the fast-rising tide to keep out of their pale; - They had formerly dammed the Pontifical See, - And the same thing, they thought, would do nicely for P.; - But he turned up his nose at their murmuring and shamming, - And cared (shall I say?) not a d-- for their damming; - So they first read him out of their church, and next minute - Turned round and declared he had never been in it. - But the ban was too small or the man was too big, - For he recks not their bells, books, and candles a fig; - (He don't look like a man who would _stay_ treated shabbily, - Sophroniscus' son's head o'er the features of Rabelais;)-- - He bangs and bethwacks them,--their backs he salutes - With the whole tree of knowledge torn up by the roots; - His sermons with satire are plenteously verjuiced, - And he talks in one breath of Confutzee, Cass, Zerduscht, - Jack Robinson, Peter the Hermit, Strap, Dathan, - Cush, Pitt, (not the bottomless, _that_ he's no faith in,) - Pan, Pillicock, Shakspeare, Paul, Toots, Monsieur Tonson, - Aldebaran, Alcander, Ben Khorat, Ben Jonson, - Thoth, Richter, Joe Smith, Father Paul, Judah Monis, - Musæus, Muretus, _hem_,--mu Scorpionis, - Maccabee, Maccaboy, Mac--Mac--ah! Machiavelli, - Condorcet, Count d'Orsay, Conder, Say, Ganganelli, - Orion, O'Connell, the Chevalier D'O, - (See the Memoirs of Sully) tò pân, the great toe - Of the statue of Jupiter, now made to pass - For that of Jew Peter by good Romish brass,-- - (You may add for yourselves, for I find it a bore, - All the names you have ever, or not, heard before, - And when you've done that--why, invent a few more.) - His hearers can't tell you on Sunday beforehand, - If in that day's discourse they'll be Bibled or Koraned, - For he's seized the idea (by his martyrdom fired,) - That all men (not orthodox) _may be_ inspired; - Yet tho' wisdom profane with his creed he may weave in, - He makes it quite clear what he _doesn't_ believe in, - While some, who decry him, think all Kingdom Come - Is a sort of a, kind of a, species of Hum, - Of which, as it were, so to speak, not a crumb - Would be left, if we didn't keep carefully mum, - And, to make a clean breast, that 'tis perfectly plain - That _all_ kinds of wisdom are somewhat profane; - Now P.'s creed than this may be lighter or darker, - But in one thing, 'tis clear, he has faith, namely--Parker; - And this is what makes him the crowd-drawing preacher, - There's a background of god to each hard-working feature, - Every word that he speaks has been fierily furnaced - In the blast of a life that has struggled in earnest: - There he stands, looking more like a ploughman than priest, - If not dreadfully awkward, not graceful at least, - His gestures all downright and same, if you will, - As of brown-fisted Hobnail in hoeing a drill, - But his periods fall on you, stroke after stroke, - Like the blows of a lumberer felling an oak, - You forget the man wholly, you're thankful to meet - With a preacher who smacks of the field and the street, - And to hear, you're not over-particular whence, - Almost Taylor's profusion, quite Latimer's sense. - - "There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified, - As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified, - Save when by reflection 'tis kindled o' nights - With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Lights. - He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation, - (There's no doubt that he stands in supreme iceolation,) - Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, - But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on,-- - He's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on: - Unqualified merits, I'll grant, if you choose, he has 'em, - But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm; - If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, - Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. - - "He is very nice reading in summer, but _inter_ - _Nos_, we don't want _extra_ freezing in winter; - Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is, - When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. - But, deduct all you can, there's enough that's right good in him, - He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him; - And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er it is, - Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest charities,-- - To you mortals that delve in this trade-ridden planet? - No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their limestone and granite. - If you're one who _in loco_ (add _foco_ here) _desipis_, - You will get of his outermost heart (as I guess) a piece; - But you'd get deeper down if you came as a precipice, - And would break the last seal of its inwardest fountain, - If you only could palm yourself off for a mountain. - Mr. Quivis, or somebody quite as discerning, - Some scholar who's hourly expecting his learning, - Calls B. the American Wordsworth; but Wordsworth - Is worth near as much as your whole tuneful herd's worth. - No, don't be absurd, he's an excellent Bryant; - But, my friends, you'll endanger the life of your client, - By attempting to stretch him up into a giant: - If you choose to compare him, I think there are two per- - sons fit for a parallel--Thomson and Cowper;[C] - I don't mean exactly,--there's something of each, - There's T.'s love of nature, C.'s penchant to preach; - Just mix up their minds so that C.'s spice of craziness - Shall balance and neutralize T.'s turn for laziness, - And it gives you a brain cool, quite frictionless, quiet, - Whose internal police nips the buds of all riot,-- - A brain like a permanent strait-jacket put on - The heart which strives vainly to burst off a button,-- - A brain which, without being slow or mechanic, - Does more than a larger less drilled, more volcanic; - He's a Cowper condensed, with no craziness bitten, - And the advantage that Wordsworth before him has written. - - [Footnote C: - To demonstrate quickly and easily how per- - -versely absurd 'tis to sound this name _Cowper_, - As people in general call him named _super_, - I just add that he rhymes it himself with horse-trooper.] - - - "But, my dear little bardlings, don't prick up your ears, - Nor suppose I would rank you and Bryant as peers; - If I call him an iceberg, I don't mean to say - There is nothing in that which is grand, in its way; - He is almost the one of your poets that knows - How much grace, strength, and dignity lie in Repose; - If he sometimes fall short, he is too wise to mar - His thought's modest fulness by going too far; - 'Twould be well if your authors should all make a trial - Of what virtue there is in severe self-denial, - And measure their writings by Hesiod's staff, - Which teaches that all have less value than half. - - "There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement heart - Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, - And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect, - Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect; - There was ne'er a man born who had more of the swing - Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing; - And his failures arise, (though perhaps he don't know it,) - From the very same cause that has made him a poet,-- - A fervor of mind which knows no separation - 'Twixt simple excitement and pure inspiration, - As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred from not knowing - If 'twere I or mere wind through her tripod was blowing; - Let his mind once get head in its favorite direction - And the torrent of verse bursts the dams of reflection, - While, borne with the rush of the metre along, - The poet may chance to go right or go wrong, - Content with the whirl and delirium of song; - Then his grammar's not always correct, nor his rhymes, - And he's prone to repeat his own lyrics sometimes, - Not his best, though, for those are struck off at white-heats - When the heart in his breast like a trip-hammer beats, - And can ne'er be repeated again any more - Than they could have been carefully plotted before: - Like old what's-his-name there at the battle of Hastings, - (Who, however, gave more than mere rhythmical bastings,) - Our Quaker leads off metaphorical fights - For reform and whatever they call human rights, - Both singing and striking in front of the war - And hitting his foes with the mallet of Thor; - _Anne haec_, one exclaims, on beholding his knocks, - _Vestis filii tui_, O, leather-clad Fox? - Can that be thy son, in the battle's mid din, - Preaching brotherly love and then driving it in - To the brain of the tough old Goliah of sin, - With the smoothest of pebbles from Castaly's spring - Impressed on his hard moral sense with a sling? - - "All honor and praise to the right-hearted bard - Who was true to The Voice when such service was hard, - Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave - When to look but a protest in silence was brave; - All honor and praise to the women and men - Who spoke out for the dumb and the down-trodden then! - I need not to name them, already for each - I see History preparing the statue and niche; - They were harsh, but shall _you_ be so shocked at hard words - Who have beaten your pruning-hooks up into swords, - Whose rewards and hurrahs men are surer to gain - By the reaping of men and of women than grain? - Why should _you_ stand aghast at their fierce wordy war, if - You scalp one another for Bank or for Tariff? - Your calling them cut-throats and knaves all day long - Don't prove that the use of hard language is wrong; - While the World's heart beats quicker to think of such men - As signed Tyranny's doom with a bloody steel-pen, - While on Fourth-of-Julys beardless orators fright one - With hints at Harmodius and Aristogeiton, - You need not look shy at your sisters and brothers - Who stab with sharp words for the freedom of others;-- - No, a wreath, twine a wreath for the loyal and true - Who, for the sake of the many, dared stand with the few, - Not of blood-spattered laurel for enemies braved, - But of broad, peaceful oak-leaves for citizens saved! - - "Here comes Dana, abstractedly loitering along - Involved in a paulo-post-future of song, - Who'll be going to write what'll never be written - Till the Muse, ere he thinks of it, gives him the mitten,-- - Who is so well aware of how things should be done, - That his own works displease him before they're begun,-- - Who so well all that makes up good poetry knows - That the best of his poems is written in prose; - All saddled and bridled stood Pegasus waiting, - He was booted and spurred, but he loitered debating, - In a very grave question his soul was immersed,-- - Which foot in the stirrup he ought to put first; - And, while this point and that he judicially dwelt on, - He, somehow or other, had written Paul Felton, - Whose beauties or faults, whichsoever you see there, - You'll allow only genius could hit upon either. - That he once was the Idle Man none will deplore, - But I fear he will never be anything more; - The ocean of song heaves and glitters before him, - The depth and the vastness and longing sweep o'er him, - He knows every breaker and shoal on the chart, - He has the Coast Pilot and so on by heart, - Yet he spends his whole life, like the man in the fable, - In learning to swim on his library-table. - - "There swaggers John Neal, who has wasted in Maine - The sinews and chords of his pugilist brain, - Who might have been poet, but that, in its stead, he - Preferred to believe that he was so already; - Too hasty to wait till Art's ripe fruit should drop, - He must pelt down an unripe and colicky crop; - Who took to the law, and had this sterling plea for it, - It required him to quarrel, and paid him a fee for it; - A man who's made less than he might have, because - He always has thought himself more than he was,-- - Who, with very good natural gifts as a bard, - Broke the strings of his lyre out by striking too hard, - And cracked half the notes of a truly fine voice, - Because song drew less instant attention than noise. - Ah, men do not know how much strength is in poise, - That he goes the farthest who goes far enough, - And that all beyond that is just bother and stuff. - No vain man matures, he makes too much new wood; - His blooms are too thick for the fruit to be good; - 'Tis the modest man ripens, 'tis he that achieves, - Just what's needed of sunshine and shade he receives; - Grapes, to mellow, require the cool dark of their leaves; - Neal wants balance; he throws his mind always too far, - Whisking out flocks of comets, but never a star; - He has so much muscle, and loves so to show it, - That he strips himself naked to prove he's a poet, - And, to show he could leap Art's wide ditch, if he tried, - Jumps clean o'er it, and into the hedge t'other side. - He has strength, but there's nothing about him in keeping; - One gets surelier onward by walking than leaping; - He has used his own sinews himself to distress, - And had done vastly more had he done vastly less; - In letters, too soon is as bad as too late, - Could he only have waited he might have been great, - But he plumped into Helicon up to the waist, - And muddied the stream ere he took his first taste. - - "There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and rare - That you hardly at first see the strength that is there; - A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet, - So earnest, so graceful, so solid, so fleet, - Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet; - 'Tis as if a rough oak that for ages had stood, - With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood, - Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe, - With a single anemone trembly and rathe; - His strength is so tender, his wildness so meek, - That a suitable parallel sets one to seek,-- - He's a John Bunyan Fouqué, a Puritan Tieck; - When nature was shaping him, clay was not granted - For making so full-sized a man as she wanted, - So, to fill out her model, a little she spared - From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared, - And she could not have hit a more excellent plan - For making him fully and perfectly man. - The success of her scheme gave her so much delight, - That she tried it again, shortly after, in Dwight; - Only, while she was kneading and shaping the clay, - She sang to her work in her sweet childish way, - And found, when she'd put the last touch to his soul, - That the music had somehow got mixed with the whole. - - "Here's Cooper, who's written six volumes to show - He's as good as a lord: well, let's grant that he's so; - If a person prefer that description of praise, - Why, a coronet's certainly cheaper than bays; - But he need take no pains to convince us he's not - (As his enemies say) the American Scott. - Choose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud - That one of his novels of which he's most proud, - And I'd lay any bet that, without ever quitting - Their box, they'd be all, to a man, for acquitting. - He has drawn you one character, though, that is new, - One wildflower he's plucked that is wet with the dew - Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to mince, - He has done naught but copy it ill ever since; - His Indians, with proper respect be it said, - Are just Natty Bumpo daubed over with red, - And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat, - Rigged up in duck pants and a sou'-wester hat, - (Though once in a Coffin, a good chance was found - To have slipt the old fellow away underground.) - All his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks, - The _dernière chemise_ of a man in a fix, - (As a captain besieged, when his garrison's small, - Sets up caps upon poles to be seen o'er the wall;) - And the women he draws from one model don't vary, - All sappy as maples and flat as a prairie. - When a character's wanted, he goes to the task - As a cooper would do in composing a cask; - He picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful, - Just hoops them together as tight as is needful, - And, if the best fortune should crown the attempt, he - Has made at the most something wooden and empty. - - "Don't suppose I would underrate Cooper's abilities, - If I thought you'd do that, I should feel very ill at ease; - The men who have given to _one_ character life - And objective existence, are not very rife, - You may number them all, both prose-writers and singers, - Without overrunning the bounds of your fingers, - And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker - Than Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar. - - "There is one thing in Cooper I like, too, and that is - That on manners he lectures his countrymen gratis, - Not precisely so either, because, for a rarity, - He is paid for his tickets in unpopularity. - Now he may overcharge his American pictures, - But you'll grant there's a good deal of truth in his strictures; - And I honor the man who is willing to sink - Half his present repute for the freedom to think, - And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, - Will risk t' other half for the freedom to speak, - Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store, - Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower. - - "There are truths you Americans need to be told, - And it never'll refute them to swagger and scold; - John Bull, looking o'er the Atlantic, in choler - At your aptness for trade, says you worship the dollar; - But to scorn such i-dollar-try's what very few do, - And John goes to that church as often as you do. - No matter what John says, don't try to outcrow him, - 'Tis enough to go quietly on and outgrow him; - Like most fathers, Bull hates to see Number one - Displacing himself in the mind of his son, - And detests the same faults in himself he'd neglected - When he sees them again in his child's glass reflected; - To love one another you're too like by half, - If he is a bull, you 're a pretty stout calf, - And tear your own pasture for naught but to show - What a nice pair of horns you're beginning to grow. - - "There are one or two things I should just like to hint, - For you don't often get the truth told you in print. - The most of you (this is what strikes all beholders) - Have a mental and physical stoop in the shoulders; - Though you ought to be free as the winds and the waves, - You've the gait and the manners of runaway slaves; - Tho' you brag of your New World, you don't half believe in it, - And as much of the Old as is possible weave in it; - Your goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom girl, - With lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl, - With eyes bold as Herè's, and hair floating free, - And full of the sun as the spray of the sea, - Who can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing, - Who can trip through the forests alone without fearing, - Who can drive home the cows with a song through the grass, - Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked glass, - Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe waist, - And makes herself wretched with transmarine taste; - She loses her fresh country charm when she takes - Any mirror except her own rivers and lakes. - - "You steal Englishmen's books and think Englishmen's thought, - With their salt on her tail your wild eagle is caught; - Your literature suits its each whisper and motion - To what will be thought of it over the ocean; - The cast clothes of Europe your statesmanship tries - And mumbles again the old blarneys and lies;-- - Forget Europe wholly, your veins throb with blood, - To which the dull current in hers is but mud; - Let her sneer, let her say your experiment fails, - In her voice there's a tremble e'en now while she rails, - And your shore will soon be in the nature of things - Covered thick with gilt driftwood of runaway kings, - Where alone, as it were in a Longfellow's Waif, - Her fugitive pieces will find themselves safe. - O, my friends, thank your God, if you have one, that he - 'Twixt the Old World and you set the gulf of a sea, - Be strong-backed, brown-handed, upright as your pines, - By the scale of a hemisphere shape your designs, - Be true to yourselves and this new nineteenth age, - As a statue by Powers, or a picture by Page, - Plough, sail, forge, build, carve, paint, all things make new, - To your own New-World instincts contrive to be true, - Keep your ears open wide to the Future's first call, - Be whatever you will, but yourselves first of all, - Stand fronting the dawn on Toil's heaven-scaling peaks, - And become my new race of more practical Greeks.-- - Hem! your likeness at present, I shudder to tell o't, - Is that you have your slaves, and the Greek had his helot." - - Here a gentleman present, who had in his attic - More pepper than brains, shrieked--"The man's a fanatic, - I'm a capital tailor with warm tar and feathers, - And will make him a suit that'll serve in all weathers; - But we'll argue the point first, I'm willing to reason't, - Palaver before condemnation's but decent, - So, through my humble person, Humanity begs - Of the friends of true freedom a loan of bad eggs." - But Apollo let one such a look of his show forth - As when êïe nukti eoikôs, and so forth, - And the gentleman somehow slunk out of the way, - But, as he was going, gained courage to say,-- - "At slavery in the abstract my whole soul rebels, - I am as strongly opposed to't as any one else." - "Ay, no doubt, but whenever I've happened to meet - With a wrong or a crime, it is always concrete," - Answered Phoebus severely; then turning to us, - "The mistake of such fellows as just made the fuss - Is only in taking a great busy nation - For a part of their pitiful cotton-plantation.-- - But there comes Miranda, Zeus! where shall I flee to? - She has such a penchant for bothering me too! - She always keeps asking if I don't observe a - Particular likeness 'twixt her and Minerva; - She tells me my efforts in verse are quite clever;-- - She's been travelling now, and will be worse than ever; - One would think, though, a sharp-sighted noter she'd be - Of all that's worth mentioning over the sea, - For a woman must surely see well, if she try, - The whole of whose being's a capital I: - She will take an old notion, and make it her own, - By saying it o'er in her Sibylline tone, - Or persuade you 'tis something tremendously deep, - By repeating it so as to put you to sleep; - And she well may defy any mortal to see through it, - When once she has mixed up her infinite me through it. - There is one thing she owns in her own single right, - It is native and genuine--namely, her spite: - Though, when acting as censor, she privately blows - A censer of vanity 'neath her own nose." - - Here Miranda came up, and said, "Phoebus, you know - That the infinite Soul has its infinite woe, - As I ought to know, having lived cheek by jowl - Since the day I was born, with the infinite Soul; - I myself introduced, I myself, I alone, - To my Land's better life authors solely my own, - Who the sad heart of earth on their shoulders have taken, - Whose works sound a depth by Life's quiet unshaken, - Such as Shakspeare, for instance, the Bible, and Bacon, - Not to mention my own works; Time's nadir is fleet, - And, as for myself, I'm quite out of conceit"-- - - "Quite out of conceit! I'm enchanted to hear it," - Cried Apollo aside, "Who'd have thought she was near it? - To be sure one is apt to exhaust those commodities - He uses too fast, yet in this case as odd it is - As if Neptune should say to his turbots and whitings, - 'I'm as much out of salt as Miranda's own writings,' - (Which, as she in her own happy manner has said, - Sound a depth, for 'tis one of the functions of lead.) - She often has asked me if I could not find - A place somewhere near me that suited her mind; - I know but a single one vacant, which she, - With her rare talent that way, would fit to a T. - And it would not imply any pause or cessation - In the work she esteems her peculiar vocation,-- - She may enter on duty to-day, if she chooses, - And remain Tiring-woman for life to the Muses." - - Miranda meanwhile has succeeded in driving - Up into a corner, in spite of their striving, - A small flock of terrified victims, and there, - With an I-turn-the-crank-of-the-Universe air - And a tone which, at least to _my_ fancy, appears - Not so much to be entering as boxing your ears, - Is unfolding a tale (of herself, I surmise, - For 'tis dotted as thick as a peacock's with I's.) - _Apropos_ of Miranda, I'll rest on my oars - And drift through a trifling digression on bores, - For, though not wearing ear-rings _in more majorum_, - Our ears are kept bored just as if we still wore 'em. - There was one feudal custom worth keeping, at least, - Roasted bores made a part of each well-ordered feast, - And of all quiet pleasures the very _ne plus_ - Was in hunting wild bores as the tame ones hunt us. - Archæologians, I know, who have personal fears - Of this wise application of hounds and of spears, - Have tried to make out, with a zeal more than wonted, - 'Twas a kind of wild swine that our ancestors hunted; - But I'll never believe that the age which has strewn - Europe o'er with cathedrals, and otherwise shown - That it knew what was what, could by chance not have known, - (Spending, too, its chief time with its buff on, no doubt,) - Which beast 'twould improve the world most to thin out. - I divide bores myself, in the manner of rifles, - Into two great divisions, regardless of trifles;-- - There's your smooth-bore and screw-bore, who do not much vary - In the weight of cold lead they respectively carry. - The smooth-bore is one in whose essence the mind - Not a corner nor cranny to cling by can find; - You feel as in nightmares sometimes, when you slip - Down a steep slated roof where there's nothing to grip, - You slide and you slide, the blank horror increases, - You had rather by far be at once smashed to pieces, - You fancy a whirlpool below white and frothing, - And finally drop off and light upon--nothing. - The screw-bore has twists in him, faint predilections - For going just wrong in the tritest directions; - When he's wrong he is flat, when he's right he can't show it, - He'll tell you what Snooks said about the new poet,[D] - Or how Fogrum was outraged by Tennyson's Princess; - He has spent all his spare time and intellect since his - Birth in perusing, on each art and science, - Just the books in which no one puts any reliance, - And though _nemo_, we're told, _horis omnibus sapit_, - The rule will not fit him, however you shape it, - For he has a perennial foison of sappiness; - He has just enough force to spoil half your day's happiness, - And to make him a sort of mosquito to be with, - But just not enough to dispute or agree with. - - [Footnote D: - (If you call Snooks an owl, he will show by his looks - That he's morally certain you're jealous of Snooks.)] - - These sketches I made (not to be too explicit) - From two honest fellows who made me a visit, - And broke, like the tale of the Bear and the Fiddle, - My reflections on Halleck short off by the middle, - I shall not now go into the subject more deeply, - For I notice that some of my readers look sleep'ly, - I will barely remark that, 'mongst civilized nations, - There's none that displays more exemplary patience - Under all sorts of boring, at all sorts of hours, - From all sorts of desperate persons, than ours. - Not to speak of our papers, our State legislatures, - And other such trials for sensitive natures, - Just look for a moment at Congress,--appalled, - My fancy shrinks back from the phantom it called; - Why, there's scarcely a member unworthy to frown - 'Neath what Fourier nicknames, the Boreal crown; - Only think what that infinite bore-pow'r could do - If applied with a utilitarian view; - Suppose, for example, we shipped it with care - To Sahara's great desert and let it bore there, - If they held one short session and did nothing else, - They'd fill the whole waste with Artesian wells. - But 'tis time now with pen phonographic to follow - Through some more of his sketches our laughing Apollo:-- - - "There comes Harry Franco, and, as he draws near, - You find that's a smile which you took for a sneer; - One half of him contradicts t'other, his wont - Is to say very sharp things and do very blunt; - His manner's as hard as his feelings are tender, - And a _sortie_ he'll make when he means to surrender; - He's in joke half the time when he seems to be sternest, - When he seems to be joking, be sure he's in earnest; - He has common sense in a way that's uncommon, - Hates humbug and cant, loves his friends like a woman, - Builds his dislikes of cards and his friendships of oak, - Loves a prejudice better than aught but a joke, - Is half upright Quaker, half downright Come-outer, - Loves Freedom too well to go stark mad about her, - Quite artless himself, is a lover of Art, - Shuts you out of his secrets and into his heart, - And though not a poet, yet all must admire - In his letters of Pinto his skill on the liar. - - "There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, - Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge, - Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, - In a way to make people of common-sense damn metres, - Who has written some things quite the best of their kind, - But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind, - Who--but hey-day! What's this? Messieurs Mathews and Poe, - You mustn't fling mud-balls at Longfellow so, - Does it make a man worse that his character's such - As to make his friends love him (as you think) too much? - Why, there is not a bard at this moment alive - More willing than he that his fellows should thrive, - While you are abusing him thus, even now - He would help either one of you out of a slough; - You may say that he's smooth and all that till you're hoarse, - But remember that elegance also is force; - After polishing granite as much as you will, - The heart keeps its tough old persistency still; - Deduct all you can that still keeps you at bay,-- - Why, he'll live till men weary of Collins and Gray. - I'm not over-fond of Greek metres in English, - To me rhyme's a gain, so it be not too jinglish, - And your modern hexameter verses are no more - Like Greek ones than sleek Mr. Pope is like Homer; - As the roar of the sea to the coo of a pigeon is, - So, compared to your moderns, sounds old Melesigenes; - I may be too partial, the reason, perhaps, o'tis - That I've heard the old blind man recite his own rhapsodies, - And my ear with that music impregnate may be, - Like the poor exiled shell with the soul of the sea, - Or as one can't bear Strauss when his nature is cloven - To its deeps within deeps by the stroke of Beethoven; - But, set that aside, and 'tis truth that I speak, - Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, - I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change a line - In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline. - That's not ancient nor modern, its place is apart - Where time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art, - 'Tis a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and strife - As quiet and chaste as the author's own life. - - "There comes Philothea, her face all a-glow, - She has just been dividing some poor creature's woe - And can't tell which pleases her most, to relieve - His want, or his story to hear and believe; - No doubt against many deep griefs she prevails, - For her ear is the refuge of destitute tales; - She knows well that silence is sorrow's best food, - And that talking draws off from the heart its black blood, - So she'll listen with patience and let you unfold - Your bundle of rags as 'twere pure cloth of gold, - Which, indeed, it all turns to as soon as she's touched it, - And, (to borrow a phrase from the nursery,) _muched_ it, - She has such a musical taste, she will go - Any distance to hear one who draws a long bow; - She will swallow a wonder by mere might and main - And thinks it geometry's fault if she's fain - To consider things flat, inasmuch as they're plain; - Facts with her are accomplished, as Frenchmen would say, - They will prove all she wishes them to--either way, - And, as fact lies on this side or that, we must try, - If we're seeking the truth, to find where it don't lie; - I was telling her once of a marvellous aloe - That for thousands of years had looked spindling and sallow, - And, though nursed by the fruitfullest powers of mud, - Had never vouchsafed e'en so much as a bud, - Till its owner remarked, (as a sailor, you know, - Often will in a calm,) that it never would blow, - For he wished to exhibit the plant, and designed - That its blowing should help him in raising the wind; - At last it was told him that if he should water - Its roots with the blood of his unmarried daughter, - (Who was born, as her mother, a Calvinist said, - With a Baxter's effectual caul on her head,) - It would blow as the obstinate breeze did when by a - Like decree of her father died Iphigenia; - At first he declared he himself would be blowed - Ere his conscience with such a foul crime he would load, - But the thought, coming oft, grew less dark than before, - And he mused, as each creditor knocked at his door, - If _this_ were but done they would dun me no more; - I told Philothea his struggles and doubts, - And how he considered the ins and the outs - Of the visions he had, and the dreadful dyspepsy, - How he went to the seer that lives at Po'keepsie, - How the seer advised him to sleep on it first - And to read his big volume in case of the worst, - And further advised he should pay him five dollars - For writing |Dum, Dum|, on his wristbands and collars; - Three years and ten days these dark words he had studied - When the daughter was missed, and the aloe had budded; - I told how he watched it grow large and more large, - And wondered how much for the show he should charge,-- - She had listened with utter indifference to this, till - I told how it bloomed, and discharging its pistil - With an aim the Eumenides dictated, shot - The botanical filicide dead on the spot; - It had blown, but he reaped not his horrible gains, - For it blew with such force as to blow out his brains, - And the crime was blown also, because on the wad, - Which was paper, was writ 'Visitation of God,' - As well as a thrilling account of the deed - Which the coroner kindly allowed me to read. - - "Well, my friend took this story up just, to be sure, - As one might a poor foundling that's laid at one's door; - She combed it and washed it and clothed it and fed it, - And as if 't were her own child most tenderly bred it, - Laid the scene (of the legend, I mean,) far away a- - -mong the green vales underneath Himalaya. - And by artist-like touches, laid on here and there, - Made the whole thing so touching, I frankly declare - I have read it all thrice, and, perhaps I am weak, - But I found every time there were tears on my cheek. - - "The pole, science tells us, the magnet controls, - But she is a magnet to emigrant Poles, - And folks with a mission that nobody knows, - Throng thickly about her as bees round a rose; - She can fill up the _carets_ in such, make their scope - Converge to some focus of rational hope, - And, with sympathies fresh as the morning, their gall - Can transmute into honey,--but this is not all; - Not only for those she has solace, oh, say, - Vice's desperate nursling adrift in Broadway, - Who clingest, with all that is left of thee human, - To the last slender spar from the wreck of the woman, - Hast thou not found one shore where those tired drooping feet - Could reach firm mother-earth, one full heart on whose beat - The soothed head in silence reposing could hear - The chimes of far childhood throb back on the ear? - Ah, there's many a beam from the fountain of day - That to reach us unclouded, must pass, on its way, - Through the soul of a woman, and hers is wide ope - To the influence of Heaven as the blue eyes of Hope; - Yes, a great soul is hers, one that dares to go in - To the prison, the slave-hut, the alleys of sin, - And to bring into each, or to find there some line - Of the never completely out-trampled divine; - If her heart at high floods swamps her brain now and then, - 'Tis but richer for that when the tide ebbs agen, - As, after old Nile has subsided, his plain - Overflows with a second broad deluge of grain; - What a wealth would it bring to the narrow and sour - Could they be as a Child but for one little hour! - - "What! Irving? thrice welcome, warm heart and fine brain, - You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, - And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there - Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair; - Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching,-- - I shan't run directly against my own preaching, - And, having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, - Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; - But allow me to speak what I honestly feel,-- - To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele, - Throw in all of Addison, _minus_ the chill, - With the whole of that partnership's stock and good will, - Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell, - The fine _old_ English Gentleman, simmer it well, - Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain - That only the finest and clearest remain, - Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives - From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves, - And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserving - A name either English or Yankee,--just Irving. - - "There goes,--but _stet nominis umbra_,--his name - You'll be glad enough, some day or other, to claim, - And will all crowd about him and swear that you knew him - If some English hack-critic should chance to review him. - The old _porcos ante ne projiciatis_ - |Margaritas|, for him you have verified gratis; - What matters his name? Why, it may be Sylvester, - Judd, Junior, or Junius, Ulysses, or Nestor, - For aught _I_ know or care; 'tis enough that I look - On the author of 'Margaret,' the first Yankee book - With the _soul_ of Down East in 't, and things farther East, - As far as the threshold of morning, at least, - Where awaits the fair dawn of the simple and true, - Of the day that comes slowly to make all things new. - 'T has a smack of pine woods, of bare field and bleak hill - Such as only the breed of the Mayflower could till; - The Puritan's shown in it, tough to the core, - Such as prayed, smiting Agag on red Marston Moor; - With an unwilling humor, half-choked by the drouth - In brown hollows about the inhospitable mouth; - With a soul full of poetry, though it has qualms - About finding a happiness out of the Psalms; - Full of tenderness, too, though it shrinks in the dark, - Hamadryad-like, under the coarse, shaggy bark; - That sees visions, knows wrestlings of God with the Will, - And has its own Sinais and thunderings still." - - Here,--"Forgive me, Apollo," I cried, "while I pour - My heart out to my birthplace: O, loved more and more - Dear Baystate, from whose rocky bosom thy sons - Should suck milk, strong-will-giving, brave, such as runs - In the veins of old Graylock,--who is it that dares - Call thee peddler, a soul wrapt in bank-books and shares? - It is false! She's a Poet. I see, as I write, - Along the far railroad the steam-snake glide white, - The cataract-throb of her mill-hearts I hear, - The swift strokes of trip-hammers weary my ear, - Sledges ring upon anvils, through logs the saw screams, - Blocks swing to their place, beetles drive home the beams:-- - It is songs such as these that she croons to the din - Of her fast-flying shuttles, year out and year in, - While from earth's farthest corner there comes not a breeze - But wafts her the buzz of her gold-gleaning bees: - What tho' those horn hands have as yet found small time - For painting and sculpture and music and rhyme? - These will come in due order, the need that prest sorest - Was to vanquish the seasons, the ocean, the forest, - To bridle and harness the rivers, the steam, - Making that whirl her mill-wheels, this tug in her team, - To vassalize old tyrant Winter, and make - Him delve surlily for her on river and lake;-- - When this New World was parted, she strove not to shirk - Her lot in the heirdom, the tough, silent Work, - The hero-share ever, from Herakles down - To Odin, the Earth's iron sceptre and crown; - Yes, thou dear, noble Mother! if ever men's praise - Could be claimed for creating heroical lays, - Thou hast won it; if ever the laurel divine - Crowned the Maker and Builder, that glory is thine! - Thy songs are right epic, they tell how this rude - Rock-rib of our earth here was tamed and subdued; - Thou hast written them plain on the face of the planet - In brave, deathless letters of iron and granite; - Thou hast printed them deep for all time; they are set - From the same runic type-fount and alphabet - With thy stout Berkshire hills and the arms of thy Bay,-- - They are staves from the burly old Mayflower lay. - If the drones of the Old World, in querulous ease, - Ask thy Art and thy Letters, point proudly to these, - Or, if they deny these are Letters and Art, - Toil on with the same old invincible heart; - Thou art rearing the pedestal broad-based and grand - Whereon the fair shapes of the Artist shall stand, - And creating, through labors undaunted and long, - The theme for all Sculpture and Painting and Song! - - "But my good mother Baystate wants no praise of mine, - She learned from _her_ mother a precept divine - About something that butters no parsnips, her _forte_ - In another direction lies, work is her sport, - (Though she'll curtsey and set her cap straight, that she will, - If you talk about Plymouth and one Bunker's hill.) - Dear, notable goodwife! by this time of night, - Her hearth is swept clean, and her fire burning bright, - And she sits in a chair (of home plan and make) rocking, - Musing much, all the while, as she darns on a stocking, - Whether turkeys will come pretty high next Thanksgiving, - Whether flour'll be so dear, for, as sure as she's living, - She will use rye-and-injun then, whether the pig - By this time ain't got pretty tolerable big, - And whether to sell it outright will be best, - Or to smoke hams and shoulders and salt down the rest,-- - At this minute, she'd swop all my verses, ah, cruel! - For the last patent stove that is saving of fuel; - So I'll just let Apollo go on, for his phiz - Shows I've kept him awaiting too long as it is." - - "If our friend, there, who seems a reporter, is done - With his burst of emotion, why, _I_ will go on," - Said Apollo; some smiled, and, indeed, I must own - There was something sarcastic, perhaps, in his tone:-- - - "There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; - A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit - The electrical tingles of hit after hit; - In long poems 'tis painful sometimes and invites - A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, - Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully - As if you got more than you'd title to rightfully, - And you find yourself hoping its wild father Lightning - Would flame in for a second and give you a fright'ning. - He has perfect sway of what _I_ call a sham metre, - But many admire it, the English pentameter, - And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse, - With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse, - Nor e'er achieved aught in 't so worthy of praise - As the tribute of Holmes to the grand _Marseillaise_. - You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Timon;-- - Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on, - Heaping verses on verses and tomes upon tomes, - He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of Holmes. - His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric - Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satyric - In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes - That are trodden upon are your own or your foes'. - - "There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb - With a whole bale of _isms_ tied together with rhyme, - He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, - But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders, - The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching - Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching; - His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, - But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, - And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem, - At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem. - - "There goes Halleck, whose Fanny's a pseudo Don Juan, - With the wickedness out that gave salt to the true one, - He's a wit, though, I hear, of the very first order, - And once made a pun on the words soft Recorder; - More than this, he's a very great poet, I'm told, - And has had his works published in crimson and gold, - With something they call 'Illustrations,' to wit, - Like those with which Chapman obscured Holy Writ,[E] - Which are said to illustrate, because, as I view it, - Like _lucus a non_, they precisely don't do it; - Let a man who can write what himself understands - Keep clear, if he can, of designing men's hands, - Who bury the sense, if there's any worth having, - And then very honestly call it engraving. - But, to quit _badinage_, which there isn't much wit in, - Halleck's better, I doubt not, than all he has written; - In his verse a clear glimpse you will frequently find, - If not of a great, of a fortunate mind, - Which contrives to be true to its natural loves - In a world of back-offices, ledgers, and stoves. - When his heart breaks away from the brokers and banks, - And kneels in its own private shrine to give thanks, - There's a genial manliness in him that earns - Our sincerest respect, (read, for instance, his 'Burns,') - And we can't but regret (seek excuse where we may) - That so much of a man has been peddled away. - - [Footnote E: (Cuts rightly called wooden, as all must admit.)] - - "But what's that? a mass-meeting? No, there come in lots - The American Disraelis, Bulwers, and Scotts, - And in short the American everything-elses, - Each charging the others with envies and jealousies;-- - By the way, 'tis a fact that displays what profusions - Of all kinds of greatness bless free institutions, - That while the Old World has produced barely eight - Of such poets as all men agree to call great, - And of other great characters hardly a score, - (One might safely say less than that rather than more,) - With you every year a whole crop is begotten, - They're as much of a staple as corn is, or cotton; - Why, there's scarcely a huddle of log-huts and shanties - That has not brought forth its own Miltons and Dantes; - I myself know ten Byrons, one Coleridge, three Shelleys, - Two Raphaels, six Titians, (I think) one Apelles, - Leonardos and Rubenses plenty as lichens, - One (but that one is plenty) American Dickens, - A whole flock of Lambs, any number of Tennysons,-- - In short, if a man has the luck to have any sons, - He may feel pretty certain that one out of twain - Will be some very great person over again. - There is one inconvenience in all this which lies - In the fact that by contrast we estimate size,[F] - And, where there are none except Titans, great stature - Is only a simple proceeding of nature. - What puff the strained sails of your praise shall you furl at, if - The calmest degree that you know is superlative? - At Rome, all whom Charon took into his wherry must, - As a matter of course, be well _issimus_ed and _errimus_ed, - A Greek, too, could feel, while in that famous boat he tost, - That his friends would take care he was istos-ed and ôtatos-ed, - And formerly we, as through graveyards we past, - Thought the world went from bad to worse fearfully fast; - Let us glance for a moment, 'tis well worth the pains, - And note what an average graveyard contains. - There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves, - There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves, - Horizontally there lie upright politicians, - Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless physicians, - There are slave-drivers quietly whipt underground, - There bookbinders, done up in boards, are fast bound, - There card-players wait till the last trump be played, - There all the choice spirits get finally laid, - There the babe that's unborn is supplied with a berth, - There men without legs get their six feet of earth, - There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case, - There seekers of office are sure of a place, - There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast, - There shoemakers quietly stick to the last, - There brokers at length become silent as stocks, - There stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box, - And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on, - With this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on; - To come to the point, I may safely assert you - Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue;[G] - Each has six truest patriots: four discoverers of ether, - Who never had thought on't nor mentioned it either: - Ten poets, the greatest who ever wrote rhyme: - Two hundred and forty first men of their time: - One person whose portrait just gave the least hint - Its original had a most horrible squint: - One critic, most (what do they call it?) reflective, - Who never had used the phrase ob- or subjective; - Forty fathers of Freedom, of whom twenty bred - Their sons for the rice-swamps, at so much a head, - And their daughters for--faugh! thirty mothers of Gracchi: - Non-resistants who gave many a spiritual black eye: - Eight true friends of their kind, one of whom was a jailer: - Four captains almost as astounding as Taylor: - Two dozen of Italy's exiles who shoot us his - Kaisership daily, stern pen-and-ink Brutuses, - Who, in Yankee back-parlors, with crucified smile,[H] - Mount serenely their country's funereal pile: - Ninety-nine Irish heroes, ferocious rebellers - 'Gainst the Saxon in cis-marine garrets and cellars, - Who shake their dread fists o'er the sea and all that,-- - As long as a copper drops into the hat: - Nine hundred Teutonic republicans stark - From Vaterland's battles just won--in the Park, - Who the happy profession of martyrdom take - Whenever it gives them a chance at a steak: - Sixty-two second Washingtons: two or three Jacksons: - And so many everythings else that it racks one's - Poor memory too much to continue the list, - Especially now they no longer exist;-- - I would merely observe that you've taken to giving - The puffs that belong to the dead to the living, - And that somehow your trump-of-contemporary-doom's tones - Is tuned after old dedications and tombstones."-- - - [Footnote F: - That is in most cases we do, but not all, - Past a doubt, there are men who are innately small, - Such as Blank, who, without being 'minished a tittle, - Might stand for a type of the Absolute Little.] - - [Footnote G: - (And at this just conclusion will surely arrive, - That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive.)] - - [Footnote H: - Not forgetting their tea and their toast, though, the while.] - - Here the critic came in and a thistle presented[I]-- - From a frown to a smile the god's features relented, - As he stared at his envoy, who, swelling with pride, - To the god's asking look, nothing daunted, replied, - "You're surprised, I suppose, I was absent so long - But your godship respecting the lilies was wrong; - I hunted the garden from one end to t' other, - And got no reward but vexation and bother, - Till, tossed out with weeds in a corner to wither, - This one lily I found and made haste to bring hither." - - [Footnote I: - Turn back now to page--goodness only knows what, - And take a fresh hold on the thread of my plot.] - - "Did he think I had given him a book to review? - I ought to have known what the fellow would do," - Muttered Phoebus aside, "for a thistle will pass - Beyond doubt for the queen of all flowers with an ass; - He has chosen in just the same way as he'd choose - His specimens out of the books he reviews; - And now, as this offers an excellent text, - I'll give 'em some brief hints on criticism next." - So, musing a moment, he turned to the crowd, - And, clearing his voice, spoke as follows aloud:-- - - "My friends, in the happier days of the muse, - We were luckily free from such things as reviews, - Then naught came between with its fog to make clearer - The heart of the poet to that of his hearer; - Then the poet brought heaven to the people, and they - Felt that they, too, were poets in hearing his lay; - Then the poet was prophet, the past in his soul - Pre-created the future, both parts of one whole; - Then for him there was nothing too great or too small, - For one natural deity sanctified all; - Then the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods - Save the spirit of silence that hovers and broods - O'er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods - He asked not earth's verdict, forgetting the clods, - His soul soared and sang to an audience of gods. - 'Twas for them that he measured the thought and the line, - And shaped for their vision the perfect design, - With as glorious a foresight, a balance as true, - As swung out the worlds in the infinite blue; - Then a glory and greatness invested man's heart, - The universal, which now stands estranged and apart, - In the free individual moulded, was Art; - Then the forms of the Artist seemed thrilled with desire - For something as yet unattained, fuller, higher, - As once with her lips, lifted hands, and eyes listening, - And her whole upward soul in her countenance glistening, - Eurydice stood--like a beacon unfired, - Which, once touch'd with flame, will leap heav'nward inspired-- - And waited with answering kindle to mark - The first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark. - Then painting, song, sculpture, did more than relieve - The need that men feel to create and believe, - And as, in all beauty, who listens with love, - Hears these words oft repeated--'beyond and above,' - So these seemed to be but the visible sign - Of the grasp of the soul after things more divine; - They were ladders the Artist erected to climb - O'er the narrow horizon of space and of time, - And we see there the footsteps by which men had gained - To the one rapturous glimpse of the never-attained, - As shepherds could erst sometimes trace in the sod - The last spurning print of a sky-cleaving god. - - "But now, on the poet's dis-privacied moods - With _do this_ and _do that_ the pert critic intrudes; - While he thinks he's been barely fulfilling his duty - To interpret 'twixt men and their own sense of beauty, - And has striven, while others sought honor or pelf, - To make his kind happy as he was himself, - He finds he's been guilty of horrid offences - In all kinds of moods, numbers, genders, and tenses; - He's been _ob_ and _sub_jective, what Kettle calls Pot, - Precisely, at all events, what he ought not, - _You have done this_, says one judge; _done that_, says another; - _You should have done this_, grumbles one; _that_, says t' other; - Never mind what he touches, one shrieks out _Taboo!_ - And while he is wondering what he shall do, - Since each suggests opposite topics for song, - They all shout together _you're right!_ and _you're wrong!_ - - "Nature fits all her children with something to do, - He who would write and can't write, can surely review, - Can set up a small booth as critic and sell us his - Petty conceit and his pettier jealousies; - Thus a lawyer's apprentice, just out of his teens, - Will do for the Jeffrey of six magazines; - Having read Johnson's lives of the poets half through, - There's nothing on earth he's not competent to; - He reviews with as much nonchalance as he whistles,-- - He goes through a book and just picks out the thistles, - It matters not whether he blame or commend, - If he's bad as a foe, he's far worse as a friend; - Let an author but write what's above his poor scope, - And he'll go to work gravely and twist up a rope, - And, inviting the world to see punishment done, - Hang himself up to bleach in the wind and the sun; - 'Tis delightful to see, when a man comes along - Who has anything in him peculiar and strong, - Every cockboat that swims clear its fierce (pop) gundeck at him - And make as he passes its ludicrous Peck at him,"-- - - Here Miranda came up and began, "As to that,"-- - Apollo at once seized his gloves, cane, and hat, - And, seeing the place getting rapidly cleared, - I, too, snatched my notes and forthwith disappeared. - - - - - THE BIGLOW PAPERS. - - - - - NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. - - -[I have observed, reader, (bene- or male-volent, as it may happen,) that -it is customary to append to the second editions of books, and to the -second works of authors, short sentences commendatory of the first, -under the title of _Notices of the Press_. These, I have been given to -understand, are procurable at certain established rates, payment being -made either in money or advertising patronage by the publisher, or by an -adequate outlay of servility on the part of the author. Considering -these things with myself, and also that such notices are neither -intended, nor generally believed, to convey any real opinions, being a -purely ceremonial accompaniment of literature, and resembling -certificates to the virtues of various morbiferal panaceas, I conceived -that it would be not only more economical to prepare a sufficient number -of such myself, but also more immediately subservient to the end in view -to prefix them to this our primary edition rather than await the -contingency of a second, when they would seem to be of small utility. To -delay attaching the _bobs_ until the second attempt at flying the kite, -would indicate but a slender experience in that useful art. Neither has -it escaped my notice, nor failed to afford me matter of reflection, -that, when a circus or a caravan is about to visit Jaalam, the initial -step is to send forward large and highly ornamented bills of performance -to be hung in the bar-room and the post-office. These having been -sufficiently gazed at, and beginning to lose their attractiveness except -for the flies, and, truly, the boys also, (in whom I find it impossible -to repress, even during school-hours, certain oral and telegraphic -communications concerning the expected show,) upon some fine morning the -band enters in a gayly-painted wagon, or triumphal chariot, and with -noisy advertisement, by means of brass, wood, and sheepskin, makes the -circuit of our startled village-streets. Then, as the exciting sounds -draw nearer and nearer, do I desiderate those eyes of Aristarchus, -"whose looks were as a breeching to a boy." Then do I perceive, with -vain regret of wasted opportunities, the advantage of a pancratic or -pantechnic education, since he is most reverenced by my little subjects -who can throw the cleanest summerset or walk most securely upon the -revolving cask. The story of the Pied Piper becomes for the first time -credible to me, (albeit confirmed by the Hameliners dating their legal -instruments from the period of his exit,) as I behold how those strains, -without pretence of magical potency, bewitch the pupillary legs, nor -leave to the pedagogic an entire self-control. For these reasons, lest -my kingly prerogative should suffer diminution, I prorogue my restless -commons, whom I also follow into the street, chiefly lest some mischief -may chance befall them. After the manner of such a band, I send forward -the following notices of domestic manufacture, to make brazen -proclamation, not unconscious of the advantage which will accrue, if our -little craft, _cymbula sutilis_, shall seem to leave port with a -clipping breeze, and to carry, in nautical phrase, a bone in her mouth. -Nevertheless, I have chosen, as being more equitable, to prepare some -also sufficiently objurgatory, that readers of every taste may find a -dish to their palate. I have modelled them upon actually existing -specimens, preserved in my own cabinet of natural curiosities. One, in -particular, I had copied with tolerable exactness from a notice of one -of my own discourses, which, from its superior tone and appearance of -vast experience, I concluded to have been written by a man at least -three hundred years of age, though I recollected no existing instance of -such antediluvian longevity. Nevertheless, I afterwards discovered the -author to be a young gentleman preparing for the ministry under the -direction of one of my brethren in a neighboring town, and whom I had -once instinctively corrected in a Latin quantity. But this I have been -forced to omit, from its too great length.--H. W.] - - - _From the Universal Littery Universe._ - -Full of passages which rivet the attention of the reader.... Under a -rustic garb, sentiments are conveyed which should be committed to the -memory and engraven on the heart of every moral and social being.... We -consider this a _unique_ performance.... We hope to see it soon -introduced into our common schools.... Mr. Wilbur has performed his -duties as editor with excellent taste and judgment.... This is a vein -which we hope to see successfully prosecuted.... We hail the appearance -of this work as a long stride toward the formation of a purely -aboriginal, indigenous, native, and American literature. We rejoice to -meet with an author national enough to break away from the slavish -deference, too common among us, to English grammar and orthography.... -Where all is so good, we are at a loss how to make extracts.... On the -whole, we may call it a volume which no library, pretending to entire -completeness, should fail to place upon its shelves. - - - _From the Higginbottomopolis Snapping-turtle._ - -A collection of the merest balderdash and doggerel that it was ever our -bad fortune to lay eyes on. The author is a vulgar buffoon, and the -editor a talkative, tedious old fool. We use strong language, but should -any of our readers peruse the book, (from which calamity Heaven preserve -them!) they will find reasons for it thick as the leaves of -Vallumbrozer, or, to use a still more expressive comparison, as the -combined heads of author and editor. The work is wretchedly got up.... -We should like to know how much _British gold_ was pocketed by this -libeller of our country and her purest patriots. - - - _From the Oldfogrumville Mentor._ - -We have not had time to do more than glance through this handsomely -printed volume, but the name of its respectable editor, the Rev. Mr. -Wilbur, of Jaalam, will afford a sufficient guaranty for the worth of -its contents.... The paper is white, the type clear, and the volume of a -convenient and attractive size.... In reading this elegantly executed -work, it has seemed to us that a passage or two might have been -retrenched with advantage, and that the general style of diction was -susceptible of a higher polish.... On the whole, we may safely leave the -ungrateful task of criticism to the reader. We will barely suggest, that -in volumes intended, as this is, for the illustration of a provincial -dialect and turns of expression, a dash of humor or satire might be -thrown in with advantage.... The work is admirably got up.... This work -will form an appropriate ornament to the centre-table. It is beautifully -printed, on paper of an excellent quality. - - - _From the Dekay Bulwark._ - -We should be wanting in our duty as the conductor of that tremendous -engine, a public press, as an American, and as a man, did we allow such -an opportunity as is presented to us by "The Biglow Papers" to pass by -without entering our earnest protest against such attempts (now, alas! -too common) at demoralizing the public sentiment. Under a wretched mask -of stupid drollery, slavery, war, the social glass, and, in short, all -the valuable and time-honored institutions justly dear to our common -humanity and especially to republicans, are made the butt of coarse and -senseless ribaldry by this low-minded scribbler. It is time that the -respectable and religious portion of our community should be aroused to -the alarming inroads of foreign Jacobinism, sans-culottism, and -infidelity. It is a fearful proof of the wide-spread nature of this -contagion, that these secret stabs at religion and virtue are given from -under the cloak (_credite, posteri!_) of a clergyman. It is a mournful -spectacle indeed to the patriot and Christian to see liberality and new -ideas (falsely so called,--they are as old as Eden) invading the sacred -precincts of the pulpit.... On the whole, we consider this volume as one -of the first shocking results which we predicted would spring out of the -late French "Revolution" (!). - - - _From the Bungtown Copper and Comprehensive Tocsin_ - (_a try-weakly family journal_). - -Altogether an admirable work.... Full of humor, boisterous, but -delicate--of wit withering and scorching, yet combined with a pathos -cool as morning dew,--of satire ponderous as the mace of Richard, yet -keen as the scymitar of Saladin.... A work full of "mountain-mirth," -mischievous as Puck and lightsome as Ariel.... We know not whether to -admire most the genial, fresh, and discursive concinnity of the author, -or his playful fancy, weird imagination, and compass of style, at once -both objective and subjective.... We might indulge in some criticisms, -but were the author other than he is, he would be a different being. As -it is, he has a wonderful _pose_, which flits from flower to flower, and -bears the reader irresistibly along on its eagle pinions (like Ganymede) -to the "highest heaven of invention."... We love a book so purely -objective.... Many of his pictures of natural scenery have an -extraordinary subjective clearness and fidelity.... In fine, we consider -this as one of the most extraordinary volumes of this or any age. We -know of no English author who could have written it. It is a work to -which the proud genius of our country, standing with one foot on the -Aroostook and the other on the Rio Grande, and holding up the -star-spangled banner amid the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds, -may point with bewildering scorn of the punier efforts of enslaved -Europe.... We hope soon to encounter our author among those higher walks -of literature in which he is evidently capable of achieving enduring -fame. Already we should be inclined to assign him a high position in the -bright galaxy of our American bards. - - - _From the Saltriver Pilot and Flag of Freedom._ - -A volume in bad grammar and worse taste.... While the pieces here -collected were confined to their appropriate sphere in the corners of -obscure newspapers, we considered them wholly beneath contempt, but, as -the author has chosen to come forward in this public manner, he must -expect the lash he so richly merits.... Contemptible slanders.... Vilest -Billingsgate.... Has raked all the gutters of our language.... The most -pure, upright, and consistent politicians not safe from his malignant -venom.... General Cushing comes in for a share of his vile calumnies.... -The _Reverend_ Homer Wilbur is a disgrace to his cloth.... - - - _From the World-Harmonic-Æolian-Attachment._ - -Speech is silver: silence is golden. No utterance more Orphic than this. -While, therefore, as highest author, we reverence him whose works -continue heroically unwritten, we have also our hopeful word for those -who with pen (from wing of goose loud-cackling, or seraph -God-commissioned) record the thing that is revealed.... Under mask of -quaintest irony, we detect here the deep, storm-tost (nigh shipwracked) -soul, thunder-scarred, semiarticulate, but ever climbing hopefully -toward the peaceful summits of an Infinite Sorrow.... Yes, thou poor, -forlorn Hosea, with Hebrew fire-flaming soul in thee, for thee also this -life of ours has not been without its aspects of heavenliest pity and -laughingest mirth. Conceivable enough! Through coarse Thersites-cloak, -we have revelation of the heart, wild-glowing, world-clasping, that is -in him. Bravely he grapples with the life-problem as it presents itself -to him, uncombed, shaggy, careless of the "nicer proprieties," inexpert -of "elegant diction," yet with voice audible enough to whoso hath ears, -up there on the gravelly side-hills, or down on the splashy, -Indiarubber-like salt-marshes of native Jaalam. To this soul also the -_Necessity of Creating_ somewhat has unveiled its awful front. If not -OEdipuses and Electras and Alcestices, then in God's name Birdofredum -Sawins! These also shall get born into the world, and filch (if so need) -a Zingali subsistence therein, these lank, omnivorous Yankees of his. He -shall paint the Seen, since the Unseen will not sit to him. Yet in him -also are Nibelungen-lays, and Iliads, and Ulysses-wanderings, and Divine -Comedies,--if only once he could come at them! Therein lies much, nay -all; for what truly is this which we name _All_, but that which we do -_not_ possess?... Glimpses also are given us of an old father Ezekiel, -not without paternal pride, as is the wont of such. A brown, -parchment-hided old man of the geoponic or bucolic species, gray-eyed, -we fancy, _queued_ perhaps, with much weather-cunning and plentiful -September-gale memories, bidding fair in good time to become the Oldest -Inhabitant. After such hasty apparition, he vanishes and is seen no -more.... Of "Rev. Homer Wilbur, A. M., Pastor of the First Church in -Jaalam," we have small care to speak here. Spare touch in him of his -Melesigenes namesake, save, haply, the--blindness! A tolerably -caliginose, nephelegeretous elderly gentleman, with infinite faculty of -sermonizing, muscularized by long practice, and excellent digestive -apparatus, and, for the rest, well-meaning enough, and with small -private illuminations (somewhat tallowy, it is to be feared) of his own. -To him, there, "Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam," our Hosea -presents himself as a quite inexplicable Sphinx-riddle. A rich poverty -of Latin and Greek,--so far is clear enough, even to eyes peering myopic -through horn-lensed editorial spectacles,--but naught farther? O -purblind, well-meaning, altogether fuscous Melesigenes-Wilbur, there are -things in him incommunicable by stroke of birch! Did it ever enter that -old bewildered head of thine that there was the _Possibility of the -Infinite_ in him? To thee, quite wingless (and even featherless) biped, -has not so much even as a dream of wings ever come? "Talented young -parishioner"? Among the Arts whereof thou art _Magister_, does that of -seeing happen to be one? Unhappy _Artium Magister_! Somehow a Nemean -lion, fulvous, torrid-eyed, dry-nursed in broad-howling -sand-wildernesses of a sufficiently rare spirit-Libya (it may be -supposed) has got whelped among the sheep. Already he stands -wild-glaring, with feet clutching the ground as with oak-roots, -gathering for a Remus-spring over the walls of thy little fold. In -Heaven's name, go not near him with that flybite crook of thine! In good -time, thou painful preacher, thou wilt go to the appointed place of -departed Artillery-Election Sermons, Right-Hands of Fellowship, and -Results of Councils, gathered to thy spiritual fathers with much Latin -of the Epitaphial sort; thou, too, shalt have thy reward; but on him the -Eumenides have looked, not Xantippes of the pit, snake-tressed, -finger-threatening, but radiantly calm as on antique gems; for him paws -impatient the winged courser of the gods, champing unwelcome bit; him -the starry deeps, the empyrean glooms, and far-flashing splendors await. - - - _From the Onion Grove Phoenix._ - -A talented young townsman of ours, recently returned from a Continental -tour, and who is already favorably known to our readers by his sprightly -letters from abroad which have graced our columns, called at our office -yesterday. We learn from him, that, having enjoyed the distinguished -privilege, while in Germany, of an introduction to the celebrated Von -Humbug, he took the opportunity to present that eminent man with a copy -of the "Biglow Papers." The next morning he received the following note, -which he has kindly furnished us for publication. We prefer to print it -_verbatim_, knowing that our readers will readily forgive the few errors -into which the illustrious writer has fallen, through ignorance of our -language. - - "|High-Worthy Mister|! - - "I shall also now especially happy starve, because I have - more or less a work of one those aboriginal Red-Men seen in - which I have so deaf an interest ever taken fullworthy on - the self shelf with our Gottsched to be upset. - - "Pardon my in the English-speech unpractice! - - "|Von Humbug.|" - -He also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work on -"Cosmetics," to be presented to Mr. Biglow; but this was taken from our -friend by the English custom-house officers, probably through a petty -national spite. No doubt, it has by this time found its way into the -British Museum. We trust this outrage will be exposed in all our -American papers. We shall do our best to bring it to the notice of the -State Department. Our numerous readers will share in the pleasure we -experience at seeing our young and vigorous national literature thus -encouragingly patted on the head by this venerable and world-renowned -German. We love to see these reciprocations of good-feeling between the -different branches of the great Anglo-Saxon race. - -[The following genuine "notice" having met my eye I gladly insert a -portion of it here, the more especially as it contains one of Mr. -Biglow's poems not elsewhere printed.--H. W.] - - - _From the Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss._ - -... But, while we lament to see our young townsman thus mingling in the -heated contests of party politics, we think we detect in him the -presence of talents which, if properly directed, might give an innocent -pleasure to many. As a proof that he is competent to the production of -other kinds of poetry, we copy for our readers a short fragment of a -pastoral by him, the manuscript of which was loaned us by a friend. The -title of it is "The Courtin'." - - Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, - An' peeked in thru the winder, - An' there sot Huldy all alone, - 'ith no one nigh to hender. - - Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, - An' in amongst 'em rusted - The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young - Fetched back frum Concord busted. - - The wannut logs shot sparkles out - Towards the pootiest, bless her! - An' leetle fires danced all about - The chiny on the dresser. - - The very room, coz she wuz in, - Looked warm frum floor to ceilin', - An' she looked full ez rosy agin - Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'. - - She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu, - Araspin' on the scraper,-- - All ways to once her feelins flew - Like sparks in burnt-up paper. - - He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, - Some doubtfle o' the seekle; - His heart kep' goin' pitypat, - But hern went pity Zekle. - - An' yet she gin her cheer a jerk - Ez though she wished him furder, - An' on her apples kep' to work - Ez ef a wager spurred her. - - "You want to see my Pa, I spose?" - "Wal, no; I come designin'--" - "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es - Agin tomorrow's i'nin'." - - He stood a spell on one foot fust - Then stood a spell on tother, - An' on which one he felt the wust - He couldn't ha' told ye, nuther. - - Sez he, "I'd better call agin;" - Sez she, "think likely, _Mister_;" - The last word pricked him like a pin, - An'--wal, he up and kist her. - - When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, - Huldy sot pale ez ashes, - All kind o' smily round the lips - An' teary round the lashes. - - Her blood riz quick, though, like the tide - Down to the Bay o' Fundy, - An' all I know is they wuz cried - In meetin', come nex Sunday. - - - - -Satis multis sese emptores futuros libri professis, Georgius Nichols, -Cantabrigiensis, opus emittet de parte gravi sed adhuc neglecta historiæ -naturalis, cum titulo sequenti, videlicet: - -_Conatus ad Delineationem naturalem nonnihil perfectiorem Scaraboei -Bombilatoris, vulgo dicti_ |Humbug|, ab |Homero Wilbur|, Artium -Magistro, Societatis historico-naturalis Jaalamensis Præside, -(Secretario, Socioque (eheu!) singulo,) multarumque aliarum Societatum -eruditarum (sive ineruditarum) tarn domesticarum quam transmarinarum -Socio--forsitan futuro. - - - - - PROEMIUM. - -|Lectori Benevolo S.| - - -Toga scholastica nondum deposita, quum systemata varia entomologica, a -viris ejus scientiæ cultoribus studiosissimis summa diligentia -ædificata, penitus indagâssem, non fuit quin luctuose omnibus in iis, -quamvis aliter laude dignissimis, hiatum magni momenti perciperem. Tunc, -nescio quo motu superiore impulsus, aut qua captus dulcedine operis, ad -eum implendum (Curtius alter) me solemniter devovi. Nec ab isto labore, -daimoniôs imposito, abstinui antequam tractatulum sufficienter -inconcinnum lingua vernacula perfeceram. Inde, juveniliter tumefactus, -et barathro ineptiæ tôn bibliopolôn (necnon "Publici Legentis") nusquam -explorato, me composuisse quod quasi placentas præfervidas (ut sic -dicam) homines ingurgitarent credidi. Sed, quum huic et alio bibliopolæ -MSS. mea submisissem et nihil solidius responsione valde negativa in -Musæum meum retulissem, horror ingens atque misericordia, ob -crassitudinem Lambertianam in cerebris homunculorum istius muneris -coelesti quadam ira infixam, me invasere. Extemplo mei solius impensis -librum edere decrevi, nihil omnino dubitans quin "Mundus Scientificus" -(ut aiunt) crumenam meam ampliter repleret. Nullam, attamen, ex agro -illo meo parvulo segetem demessui, præter gaudium vacuum bene de -Republica merendi. Iste panis meus pretiosus super aquas literarias -fæculentas præfidenter jactus, quasi Harpyiarum quarundam (scilicet -bibliopolarum istorum facinorosorum supradictorum) tactu rancidus, intra -perpaucos dies mihi domum rediit. Et, quum ipse tali victu ali non -tolerarem, primum in mentem venit pistori (typographo nempe) nihilominus -solvendum esse. Animum non idcirco demisi, imo æque ac pueri naviculas -suas penes se lino retinent (eo ut e recto cursu delapsas ad ripam -retrahant), sic ego Argô meam chartaceam fluctibus laborantem a quæsitu -velleris aurei, ipse potius tonsus pelleque exutus, mente solida -revocavi. Metaphoram ut mutem, _boomarangam_ meam a scopo aberrantem -retraxi, dum majore vi, occasione ministrante, adversus Fortunam -intorquerem. Ast mihi, talia volventi, et, sicut Saturnus ille -paidoboros, liberos intellectus mei depascere fidenti, casus miserandus, -nec antea inauditus, supervenit. Nam, ut ferunt Scythas pietatis causa -et parsimoniæ, parentes suos mortuos devorâsse, sic filius hic meus -primogenitus, Scythis ipsis minus mansuetus, patrem vivum totum et -calcitrantem exsorbere enixus est. Nec tamen hac de causa sobolem meam -esurientem exheredavi. Sed famem istam pro valido testimonio virilitatis -roborisque potius habui, cibumque ad eam satiandam, salva paterna mea -carne, petii. Et quia bilem illam scaturientem ad æs etiam concoquendum -idoneam esse estimabam, unde æs alienum, ut minoris pretii, haberem, -circumspexi. Rebus ita se habentibus, ab avunculo meo Johanne Doolittle, -Armigero, impetravi ut pecunias necessarias suppeditaret, ne opus esset -mihi universitatem relinquendi antequam ad gradum primum in artibus -pervenissem. Tunc ego, salvum facere patronum meum munificum maxime -cupiens, omnes libros primæ editionis operis mei non venditos una cum -privilegio in omne ævum ejusdem imprimendi et edendi avunculo meo dicto -pigneravi. Ex illo die, atro lapide notando, curæ vociferantes familiæ -singulis annis crescentis eo usque insultabant ut nunquam tam carum -pignus e vinculis istis aheneis solvere possem. - -Avunculo vero nuper mortuo, quum inter alios consanguineos testamenti -ejus lectionem audiendi causa advenissem, erectis auribus verba talia -sequentia accepi:--"Quoniam persuasum habeo meum dilectum nepotem -Homerum, longa et intima rerum angustarum domi experientia, aptissimum -esse qui divitias tueatur, beneficenterque ac prudenter iis divinis -creditis utatur,--ergo, motus hisce cogitationibus, exque amore meo in -ilium magno, do, legoque nepoti caro meo supranominato omnes -singularesque istas possessiones nec ponderabiles nec computabiles meas -quæ sequuntur, scilicet: quingentos libros quos mihi pigneravit dictus -Homerus, anno lucis 1792, cum privilegio edendi et repetendi opus istud -'scientificum' (quod dicunt) suum, si sic elegerit. Tamen D. O. M. -precor oculos Homeri nepotis mei ita aperiat eumque moveat, ut libros -istos in bibliotheca unius e plurimis castellis suis Hispaniensibus tuto -abscondat." - -His verbis (vix credibilibus) auditis, cor meum in pectore exsultavit. -Deinde, quoniam tractatus Anglice scriptus spem auctoris fefellerat, -quippe quum studium Historiæ Naturalis in Republica nostra inter -factionis strepitum languescat, Latine versum edere statui, et eo potius -quia nescio quomodo disciplina academica et duo diplomata proficiant, -nisi quod peritos linguarum omnino mortuarum (et damnandarum, ut dicebat -iste panourgos Gulielmus Cobbett) nos faciant. - -Et mihi adhuc superstes est tota ilia editio prima, quam quasi -crepitaculum per quod dentes caninos dentibam retineo. - - - - - OPERIS SPECIMEN. - - (_Ad exemplum Johannis Physiophili speciminis Monachologiæ._) - - 12. S. B. _Militaris_, |Wilbur|. _Carnifex_, |Jablonsk|. _Profanus_, - |Desfont|. - - -[Male hancce speciem _Cyclopem_ Fabricius vocat, ut qui singulo oculo ad -quod sui interest distinguitur. Melius vero Isaacus Outis nullum inter -S. milit. S. que Belzebul (Fabric. 152) discrimen esse defendit.] - -Habitat civitat. Americ. austral. - -Aureis lineis splendidus; plerumque tamen sordidus, utpote lanienas -valde frequentans, foetore sanguinis allectus. Amat quoque insuper septa -apricari, neque inde, nisi maxima conatione, detruditur. _Candidatus_ -ergo populariter vocatus. Caput cristam quasi pennarum ostendit. Pro -cibo vaccam publicam callide mulget; abdomen enorme; facultas suctus -haud facile estimanda. Otiosus, fatuus; ferox nihilominus, semperque -dimicare paratus. Tortuose repit. - -Capite sæpe maxima cum cura dissecto, ne illud rudimentum etiam cerebri -commune omnibus prope insectis detegere poteram. - -Unam de hoc S. milit. rem singularem notavi; Nam S. Guineens. (Fabric. -143) servos facit, et idcirco a multis summa in reverentia habitus, -quasi scintillas rationis pæne humanæ demonstrans. - - -24. S. B. _Criticus_, |Wilbur|. _Zoilus_, |Fabric|. _Pigmæus_, -|Carlsen|. - -[Stultissime Johannes Stryx cum S. punctato (Fabric. 64-109) confundit. -Specimina quamplurima scrutationi microscopicæ subjeci, nunquam tamen -unum ulla indicia puncti cujusvis prorsus ostendentem inveni.] - -Præcipue formidolosus, insectatusque, in proxima rima anonyma sese -abscondit, _we, we_, creberrime stridens. Ineptus, segnipes. - -Habitat ubique gentium; in sicco; nidum suum terebratione indefessa -ædificans. Cibus. Libros depascit; siccos præcipue. - - - - - _MELIBOEUS-HIPPONAX._ - - THE - - |Biglow Papers|, - - EDITED - - WITH AN INTRODUCTION, NOTES, GLOSSARY, AND - COPIOUS INDEX, - - BY - - HOMER WILBUR, A.M., - - PASTOR OF THE FIRST CHURCH IN JAALAM, AND (PROSPECTIVE) - MEMBER OF MANY LITERARY, LEARNED AND SCIENTIFIC - SOCIETIES, - - (_for which see page 372._) - - The ploughman's whistle, or the trivial flute, - Finds more respect than great Apollo's lute. - _Quarles's Emblems_, b. ii. e. 8. - - Margaritas, munde porcine, calcâsti: en, siliquas accipe. - _Jac. Car. Fil. ad Pub. Leg._ § 1. - - - - - NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. - - -It will not have escaped the attentive eye, that I have, on the -title-page, omitted those honorary appendages to the editorial name -which not only add greatly to the value of every book, but whet and -exacerbate the appetite of the reader. For not only does he surmise that -an honorary membership of literary and scientific societies implies a -certain amount of necessary distinction on the part of the recipient of -such decorations, but he is willing to trust himself more entirely to an -author who writes under the fearful responsibility of involving the -reputation of such bodies as the _S. Archoel. Dahom._, or the _Acad. -Lit. et Scient. Kamtschat._ I cannot but think that the early editions -of Shakspeare and Milton would have met with more rapid and general -acceptance, but for the barrenness of their respective title-pages; and -I believe, that, even now, a publisher of the works of either of those -justly distinguished men would find his account in procuring their -admission to the membership of learned bodies on the Continent,--a -proceeding no whit more incongruous than the reversal of the judgment -against Socrates, when he was already more than twenty centuries beyond -the reach of antidotes, and when his memory had acquired a deserved -respectability. I conceive that it was a feeling of the importance of -this precaution which induced Mr. Locke to style himself "Gent." on the -title-page of his Essay, as who should say to his readers that they -could receive his metaphysics on the honor of a gentleman. - -Nevertheless, finding that, without descending to a smaller size of type -than would have been compatible with the dignity of the several -societies to be named, I could not compress my intended list within the -limits of a single page, and thinking, moreover, that the act would -carry with it an air of decorous modesty, I have chosen to take the -reader aside, as it were, into my private closet, and there not only -exhibit to him the diplomas which I already possess, but also to furnish -him with a prophetic vision of those which I may, without undue -presumption, hope for, as not beyond the reach of human ambition and -attainment. And I am the rather induced to this from the fact, that my -name has been unaccountably dropped from the last triennial catalogue of -our beloved _Alma Mater_. Whether this is to be attributed to the -difficulty of Latinizing any of those honorary adjuncts (with a complete -list of which I took care to furnish the proper persons nearly a year -beforehand), or whether it had its origin in any more culpable motives, -I forbear to consider in this place, the matter being in course of -painful investigation. But, however this may be, I felt the omission the -more keenly, as I had, in expectation of the new catalogue, enriched the -library of the Jaalam Athenæum with the old one then in my possession, -by which means it has come about that my children will be deprived of a -never-wearying winter evening's amusement in looking out the name of -their parent in that distinguished roll. Those harmless innocents had at -least committed no--but I forbear, having intrusted my reflections and -animadversions on this painful topic to the safe-keeping of my private -diary, intended for posthumous publication. I state this fact here, in -order that certain nameless individuals, who are, perhaps, overmuch -congratulating themselves on my silence, may know that a rod is in -pickle which the vigorous hand of a justly incensed posterity will apply -to their memories. - -The careful reader will note, that, in the list which I have prepared, I -have included the names of several Cisatlantic societies to which a -place is not commonly assigned in processions of this nature. I have -ventured to do this, not only to encourage native ambition and genius, -but also because I have never been able to perceive in what way distance -(unless we suppose them at the end of a lever) could increase the weight -of learned bodies. As far as I have been able to extend my researches -among such stuffed specimens as occasionally reach America, I have -discovered no generic difference between the antipodal _Fogrum -Japonicum_ and the _F. Americanum_ sufficiently common in our own -immediate neighborhood. Yet, with a becoming deference to the popular -belief that distinctions of this sort are enhanced in value by every -additional mile they travel, I have intermixed the names of some -tolerably distant literary and other associations with the rest. - -I add here, also, an advertisement, which, that it may be the more -readily understood by those persons especially interested therein, I -have written in that curtailed and otherwise maltreated canine Latin, to -the writing and reading of which they are accustomed. - - - - |Omnib. per tot. Orb. Terrar. Catalog. Academ. Edd.| - -Minim. gent. diplom. ab inclytiss. acad. vest. orans, vir. honorand. -operosiss., at sol. ut sciat. quant. glor. nom. meum (dipl. fort. -concess.) catal. vest. temp. futur. affer., ill. subjec., addit. omnib. -titul. honorar. qu. adh. non tant. opt. quam probab. put. - -*.* _Litt. Uncial. distinx. ut Proes. S. Hist. Nat. Jaal._ - -_HOMERUS WILBUR_, Mr., Episc. Jaalam, S. T. D. 1850, et Yal. 1849, et -Neo-Cæs. et Brun. et Gulielm. 1852, et Gul. et Mar. et Bowd. et -Georgiop. et Viridimont. et Columb. Nov. Ebor. 1853, et Amherst. et -Watervill. et S. Jarlath. Hib. et S. Mar. et S. Joseph. et S. And. Scot. -1854, et Nashvill. et Dart. et Dickins. et Concord. et Wash. et -Columbian. et Charlest. et Jeff. et Dubl. et Oxon. et Cantab, et cæt. -1855, P. U. N. C. H. et J. U. D. Gott. et Osnab. et Heidelb. 1860, et -Acad. Bore US. Berolin. Soc. et SS. RR. Lugd. Bat. et Patav. et Lond. et -Edinb. et Ins. Feejee. et Null. Terr. et Pekin. Soc. Hon. et S. H. S. et -S. P. A. et A. A. S. et S. Humb. Univ. et S. Omn. Rer. Quarund. q. -Aliar. Promov. Passamaquod. et H. P. C. et I. O. H. et Alpha. Delta. -Phi. et Pi. Kappa. Rho. et Phi. Beta. Kappa. et Peucin. et Erosoph. et -Philadelph. et Frat. in Unit. et: Sigma. Tau. et S. Archæolog. Athen. et -Acad. Scient. et Lit. Panorm. et SS. R. H. Matrit. et Beeloochist. et -Caffrar. et Caribb. et M. S. Reg. Paris, et S. Am. Antiserv. Soc. Hon. -et P. D. Gott. et LL.D. 1852, et D. C. L. et Mus. Doc. Oxon. 1860, et M. -M. S. S. et M. D. 1854, et Med. Fac. Univ. Harv. Soc. et S. pro Convers. -Pollywog. Soc. Hon. et Higgl. Piggl. et LL.B. 1853, et S. pro -Christianiz. Moschet. Soc., et SS. Ante-Diluv. ubiq. Gent. Soc. Hon. et -Civit. Cleric. Jaalam. et S. pro Diffus. General. Tenebr. Secret. Corr. - - - - - INTRODUCTION. - - -When, more than three years ago, my talented young parishioner, Mr. -Biglow, came to me and submitted to my animadversions the first of his -poems which he intended to commit to the more hazardous trial of a city -newspaper, it never so much as entered my imagination to conceive that -his productions would ever be gathered into a fair volume, and ushered -into the august presence of the reading public by myself. So little are -we short-sighted mortals able to predict the event! I confess that there -is to me a quite new satisfaction in being associated (though only as -sleeping partner) in a book which can stand by itself in an independent -unity on the shelves of libraries. For there is always this drawback -from the pleasure of printing a sermon, that, whereas the queasy stomach -of this generation will not bear a discourse long enough to make a -separate volume, those religious and godly-minded children (those -Samuels, if I may call them so) of the brain must at first lie buried in -an undistinguished heap, and then get such resurrection as is vouchsafed -to them, mummy-wrapt with a score of others in a cheap binding, with no -other mark of distinction than the word "_Miscellaneous_" printed upon -the back. Far be it from me to claim any credit for the quite unexpected -popularity which I am pleased to find these bucolic strains have -attained unto. If I know myself, I am measurably free from the itch of -vanity; yet I may be allowed to say that I was not backward to recognize -in them a certain wild, puckery, acidulous (sometimes even verging -toward that point which, in our rustic phrase, is termed _shut-eye_) -flavor, not wholly unpleasing, nor unwholesome, to palates cloyed with -the sugariness of tamed and cultivated fruit. It may be, also, that some -touches of my own, here and there, may have led to their wider -acceptance, albeit solely from my larger experience of literature and -authorship.[J] - - [Footnote J: The reader curious in such matters may refer - (if he can find them) to "A Sermon preached on the - Anniversary of the Dark Day," "An Artillery Election - Sermon," "A Discourse on the Late Eclipse," "Dorcas, a - Funeral Sermon on the Death of Madam Submit Tidd, Relict of - the late Experience Tidd, Esq.," &c., &c.] - -I was, at first, inclined to discourage Mr. Biglow's attempts, as -knowing that the desire to poetize is one of the diseases naturally -incident to adolescence, which, if the fitting remedies be not at once -and with a bold hand applied, may become chronic, and render one, who -might else have become in due time an ornament of the social circle, a -painful object even to nearest friends and relatives. But thinking, on a -further experience, that there was a germ of promise in him which -required only culture and the pulling up of weeds from around it, I -thought it best to set before him the acknowledged examples of English -composition in verse, and leave the rest to natural emulation. With this -view, I accordingly lent him some volumes of Pope and Goldsmith, to the -assiduous study of which he promised to devote his evenings. Not long -afterward, he brought me some verses written upon that model, a specimen -of which I subjoin, having changed some phrases of less elegancy, and a -few rhymes objectionable to the cultivated ear. The poem consisted of -childish reminiscences, and the sketches which follow will not seem -destitute of truth to those whose fortunate education began in a country -village. And, first, let us hang up his charcoal portrait of the -school-dame. - - "Propt on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see - The humble school-house of my A, B, C, - Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, - Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, - Then all together, when the signal came, - Discharged their _a-b abs_ against the dame. - Daughter of Danaus, who could daily pour - In treacherous pipkins her Pierian store, - She, mid the volleyed learning firm and calm - Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm, - And, to our wonder, could divine at once - Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce. - - "There young Devotion learned to climb with ease - The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, - And he was most commended and admired - Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired; - Each name was called as many various ways - As pleased the reader's ear on different days, - So that the weather, or the ferule's stings, - Colds in the head, or fifty other things, - Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week - To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, - The vibrant accent skipping here and there, - Just as it pleased invention or despair; - No controversial Hebraist was the Dame; - With or without the points pleased her the same; - If any tyro found a name too tough, - And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough; - She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, - And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring. - - "Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap, - Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap; - From books degraded, there I sat at ease, - A drone, the envy of compulsory bees; - Rewards of merit, too, full many a time, - Each with its woodcut and its moral rhyme, - And pierced half-dollars hung on ribbons gay - About my neck--to be restored next day, - I carried home, rewards as shining then - As those which deck the lifelong pains of men, - More solid than the redemanded praise - With which the world beribbons later days. - - "Ah, dear old times! how brightly ye return! - How, rubbed afresh, your phosphor traces burn! - The ramble schoolward through dewsparkling meads; - The willow-wands turned Cinderella steeds, - The impromptu pinbent hook, the deep remorse - O'er the chance-captured minnow's inchlong corse; - The pockets, plethoric with marbles round, - That still a space for ball and pegtop found, - Nor satiate yet, could manage to confine - Horsechestnuts, flagroot, and the kite's wound twine, - And, like the prophet's carpet could take in, - Enlarging still, the popgun's magazine; - The dinner carried in the small tin pail, - Shared with the dog, whose most beseeching tail - And dripping tongue and eager ears belied - The assumed indifference of canine pride; - The caper homeward, shortened if the cart - Of neighbor Pomeroy, trundling from the mart, - O'ertook me,--then, translated to the seat - I praised the steed, how staunch he was and fleet, - While the bluff farmer, with superior grin, - Explained where horses should be thick, where thin, - And warned me (joke he always had in store) - To shun a beast that four white stockings wore. - What a fine natural courtesy was his! - His nod was pleasure, and his full bow bliss; - How did his well-thumbed hat, with ardor rapt, - Its decorous curve to every rank adapt! - How did it graduate with a courtly ease - The whole long scale of social differences, - Yet so gave each his measure running o'er, - None thought his own was less, his neighbor's more; - The squire was flattered, and the pauper knew - Old times acknowledged 'neath the threadbare blue! - Dropped at the corner of the embowered lane, - Whistling I wade the knee-deep leaves again, - While eager Argus, who has missed all day - The sharer of his condescending play, - Comes leaping onward with a bark elate - And boisterous tail to greet me at the gate; - That I was true in absence to our love - Let the thick dog's-ears in my primer prove." - -I add only one further extract, which will possess a melancholy interest -to all such as have endeavored to glean the materials of revolutionary -history from the lips of aged persons, who took a part in the actual -making of it, and, finding the manufacture profitable, continued the -supply in an adequate proportion to the demand. - - "Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goad - His slow artillery up the Concord road, - A tale which grew in wonder, year by year, - As, every time he told it, Joe drew near - To the main fight, till, faded and grown gray, - The original scene to bolder tints gave way; - Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quick - Beat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick, - And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop, - Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop; - Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight - Had squared more nearly with his sense of right, - And vanquished Percy, to complete the tale, - Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail." - -I do not know that the foregoing extracts ought not to be called my own -rather than Mr. Biglow's, as, indeed, he maintained stoutly that my file -had left nothing of his in them. I should not, perhaps, have felt -entitled to take so great liberties with them, had I not more than -suspected an hereditary vein of poetry in myself, a very near ancestor -having written a Latin poem in the Harvard _Gratulatio_ on the accession -of George the Third. Suffice it to say, that, whether not satisfied with -such limited approbation as I could conscientiously bestow, or from a -sense of natural inaptitude, certain it is that my young friend could -never be induced to any further essays in this kind. He affirmed that it -was to him like writing in a foreign tongue,--that Mr. Pope's -versification was like the regular ticking of one of Willard's clocks, -in which one could fancy, after long listening, a certain kind of rhythm -or tune, but which yet was only a poverty-stricken _tick, tick_, after -all,--and that he had never seen a sweet-water on a trellis growing so -fairly, or in forms so pleasing to his eye, as a fox-grape over a -scrub-oak in a swamp. He added I know not what, to the effect that the -sweet-water would only be the more disfigured by having its leaves -starched and ironed out, and that Pegsus (so he called him) hardly -looked right with his mane and tail in curl-papers. These and other such -opinions I did not long strive to eradicate, attributing them rather to -a defective education and senses untuned by too long familiarity with -purely natural objects, than to a perverted moral sense. I was the more -inclined to this leniency since sufficient evidence was not to seek, -that his verses, wanting as they certainly were in classic polish and -point, had somehow taken hold of the public ear in a surprising manner. -So, only setting him right as to the quantity of the proper name -Pegasus, I left him to follow the bent of his natural genius. - -Yet could I not surrender him wholly to the tutelage of the pagan -(which, literally interpreted, signifies village) muse without yet a -further effort for his conversion, and to this end I resolved that -whatever of poetic fire yet burned in myself, aided by the assiduous -bellows of correct models, should be put in requisition. Accordingly, -when my ingenious young parishioner brought to my study a copy of verses -which he had written touching the acquisition of territory resulting -from the Mexican war, and the folly of leaving the question of slavery -or freedom to the adjudication of chance, I did myself indite a short -fable or apologue after the manner of Gay and Prior, to the end that he -might see how easily even such subjects as he treated of were capable of -a more refined style and more elegant expression. Mr. Biglow's -production was as follows:-- - - - - - THE TWO GUNNERS. - - A FABLE. - - - Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe, - One Sundy mornin' 'greed to go - Agunnin' soon's the bells wuz done - And meetin' finally begun, - So 'st no one wouldn't be about - Ther Sabbath-breakin' to spy out. - - Joe didn't want to go a mite; - He felt ez though 't warnt skeercely right, - But, when his doubts he went to speak on, - Isrel he up and called him Deacon, - An' kep' apokin' fun like sin - An' then arubbin' on it in, - Till Joe, less skeered o' doin' wrong - Than bein' laughed at, went along. - - Past noontime they went trampin' round - An' nary thing to pop at found, - Till, fairly tired o' their spree, - They leaned their guns agin a tree, - An' jest ez they wuz settin' down - To take their noonin', Joe looked roun' - And see (across lots in a pond - That warn't more 'n twenty rod beyond,) - A goose that on the water sot - Ez ef awaitin' to be shot. - - Isrel he ups and grabs his gun; - Sez he, "By ginger, here's some fun!" - "Don't fire," sez Joe, "it aint no use, - Thet's Deacon Peleg's tame wild-goose;" - Sez Isrel, "I don't care a cent, - I've sighted an' I'll let her went;" - _Bang!_ went queen's-arm, ole gander flopped - His wings a spell, an' quorked, an' dropped. - - Sez Joe, "I wouldn't ha' been hired - At that poor critter to ha' fired, - But, sence it's clean gin up the ghost, - We'll hev the tallest kind o' roast; - I guess our waistbands 'll be tight - 'Fore it comes ten o'clock ternight." - - "I won't agree to no such bender," - Sez Isrel, "keep it tell it's tender; - 'T aint wuth a snap afore it's ripe." - Sez Joe, "I'd jest ez lives eat tripe; - You _air_ a buster ter suppose - I'd eat what makes me hol' my nose!" - - So they disputed to an' fro - Till cunnin' Isrel sez to Joe, - "Don't less stay here an' play the fool, - Less wait till both on us git cool, - Jest for a day or two less hide it - An' then toss up an' so decide it." - "Agreed!" sez Joe, an' so they did, - An' the ole goose wuz safely hid. - - Now 't wuz the hottest kind o' weather, - An' when at last they come together, - It didn't signify which won, - Fer all the mischief hed ben done: - The goose wuz there, but, fer his soul, - Joe wouldn't ha' tetched it with a pole; - But Isrel kind o' liked the smell on't - An' made _his_ dinner very well on't. - -My own humble attempt was in manner and form following, and I print it -here, I sincerely trust, out of no vainglory, but solely with the hope -of doing good. - - - - - LEAVING THE MATTER OPEN. - - A TALE. - - BY HOMER WILBUR, A.M. - - - Two brothers once, an ill-matched pair, - Together dwelt (no matter where), - To whom an Uncle Sam, or some one, - Had left a house and farm in common. - The two in principles and habits - Were different as rats from rabbits; - Stout farmer North, with frugal care, - Laid up provision for his heir, - Not scorning with hard sun-browned hands - To scrape acquaintance with his lands; - Whatever thing he had to do - He did, and made it pay him, too; - He sold his waste stone by the pound, - His drains made water-wheels spin round, - His ice in summer-time he sold, - His wood brought profit when 'twas cold, - He dug and delved from morn till night, - Strove to make profit square with right, - Lived on his means, cut no great dash, - And paid his debts in honest cash. - - On tother hand, his brother South - Lived very much from hand to mouth, - Played gentleman, nursed dainty hands, - Borrowed North's money on his lands, - And culled his morals and his graces - From cock-pits, bar-rooms, fights, and races; - His sole work in the farming line - Was keeping droves of long-legged swine, - Which brought great bothers and expenses - To North in looking after fences, - And, when they happened to break through, - Cost him both time and temper too, - For South insisted it was plain - He ought to drive them home again, - And North consented to the work - Because he loved to buy cheap pork. - - Meanwhile, South's swine increasing fast, - His farm became too small at last, - So, having thought the matter over, - And feeling bound to live in clover - And never pay the clover's worth, - He said one day to brother North:-- - - "Our families are both increasing, - And, though we labor without ceasing, - Our produce soon will be too scant - To keep our children out of want; - They who wish fortune to be lasting - Must be both prudent and forecasting; - We soon shall need more land; a lot - I know, that cheaply can be bo't; - You lend the cash, I'll buy the acres, - And we'll be equally partakers." - - Poor North, whose Anglo-Saxon blood - Gave him a hankering after mud, - Wavered a moment, then consented, - And, when the cash was paid, repented; - To make the new land worth a pin, - Thought he, it must be all fenced in, - For, if South's swine once get the run on't - No kind of farming can be done on't; - If that don't suit the other side, - 'Tis best we instantly divide. - - But somehow South could ne'er incline - This way or that to run the line, - And always found some new pretence - 'Gainst setting the division fence; - At last he said:-- - - "For peace's sake, - Liberal concessions I will make; - Though I believe, upon my soul, - I've a just title to the whole, - I'll make an offer which I call - Gen'rous,--we'll have no fence at all; - Then both of us, whene'er we choose, - Can take what part we want to use; - If you should chance to need it first, - Pick you the best, I'll take the worst." - - "Agreed!" cried North; thought he, this fall - With wheat and rye I'll sow it all, - In that way I shall get the start, - And South may whistle for his part; - So thought, so done, the field was sown, - And, winter having come and gone, - Sly North walked blithely forth to spy, - The progress of his wheat and rye; - Heavens, what a sight! his brother's swine - Had asked themselves all out to dine, - Such grunting, munching, rooting, shoving, - The soil seemed all alive and moving, - As for his grain, such work they'd made on't, - He couldn't spy a single blade on't. - - Off in a rage he rushed to South, - "My wheat and rye"--grief choked his mouth; - "Pray don't mind me," said South, "but plant - All of the new land that you want;" - "Yes, but your hogs," cried North; - - "The grain - Won't hurt them," answered South again; - "But they destroy my grain;" - - "No doubt; - 'Tis fortunate you've found it out; - Misfortunes teach, and only they, - You must not sow it in their way;" - "Nay, you," says North, "must keep them out;" - "Did I create them with a snout?" - Asked South demurely; "as agreed, - The land is open to your seed, - And would you fain prevent my pigs - From running there their harmless rigs? - God knows I view this compromise - With not the most approving eyes; - I gave up my unquestioned rights - For sake of quiet days and nights, - I offered then, you know 'tis true, - To cut the piece of land in two." - "Then cut it now," growls North; - - "Abate - Your heat," says South, "'tis now too late; - I offered you the rocky corner, - But you, of your own good the scorner, - Refused to take it; I am sorry; - No doubt you might have found a quarry, - Perhaps a gold-mine, for aught I know, - Containing heaps of native rhino; - You can't expect me to resign - My right"-- - - "But where," quoth North, "are mine?" - "_Your_ rights," says tother, "well, that's funny, - _I_ bought the land"-- - - "_I_ paid the money;" - "That," answered South, "is from the point, - The ownership, you'll grant, is joint; - I'm sure my only hope and trust is - Not law so much as abstract justice, - Though, you remember, 'twas agreed - That so and so--consult the deed; - Objections now are out of date, - They might have answered once, but Fate - Quashes them at the point we've got to; - _Obsta principiis_, that's my motto." - So saying, South began to whistle - And looked as obstinate as gristle, - While North went homeward, each brown paw - Clenched like a knot of natural law, - And all the while, in either ear, - Heard something clicking wondrous clear. - -To turn now to other matters, there are two things upon which it would -seem fitting to dilate somewhat more largely in this place,--the Yankee -character and the Yankee dialect. And, first, of the Yankee character, -which has wanted neither open maligners, nor even more dangerous enemies -in the persons of those unskilful painters who have given to it that -hardness, angularity, and want of proper perspective, which, in truth, -belonged, not to their subject, but to their own niggard and unskilful -pencil. - -New England was not so much the colony of a mother country, as a Hagar -driven forth into the wilderness. The little self-exiled band which came -hither in 1620 came, not to seek gold, but to found a democracy. They -came that they might have the privilege to work and pray, to sit upon -hard benches and listen to painful preachers as long as they would, yea, -even unto thirty-seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. And surely, if -the Greek might boast his Thermopylæ, where three hundred men fell in -resisting the Persian, we may well be proud of our Plymouth Rock, where -a handful of men, women, and children not merely faced, but vanquished, -winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet more invincible _storge_ -that drew them back to the green island far away. These found no lotus -growing upon the surly shore, the taste of which could make them forget -their little native Ithaca; nor were they so wanting to themselves in -faith as to burn their ship, but could see the fair west wind belly the -homeward sail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the terrible -Unknown. - -As Want was the prime foe these hardy exodists had to fortress -themselves against, so it is little wonder if that traditional feud is -long in wearing out of the stock. The wounds of the old warfare were -long ahealing, and an east wind of hard times puts a new ache in every -one of them. Thrift was the first lesson in their hornbook, pointed out, -letter after letter, by the lean finger of the hard schoolmaster, -Necessity. Neither were those plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came -hither, but a hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from -long wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had taught Satan to -dread the new Puritan hug. Add two hundred years' influence of soil, -climate, and exposure, with its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and -we have the present Yankee, full of expedients, half-master of all -trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of shifts, not yet -capable of comfort, armed at all points against the old enemy Hunger, -longanimous, good at patching, not so careful for what is best as for -what will _do_, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his pocket, -not skilled to build against Time, as in old countries, but against -sore-pressing Need, accustomed to move the world with no pou stô but his -own two feet, and no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hybrid, -indeed, did circumstance beget, here in the New World, upon the old -Puritan stock, and the earth never before saw such mystic-practicalism, -such niggard-geniality, such calculating-fanaticism, such -cast-iron-enthusiasm, such sourfaced-humor, such -close-fisted-generosity. This new _Græculus esuriens_ will make a living -out of anything. He will invent new trades as well as tools. His brain -is his capital, and he will get education at all risks. Put him on Juan -Fernandez, and he would make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan -afterward. _In coelum, jusseris, ibit_,--or the other way either,--it is -all one, so anything is to be got by it. Yet, after all, thin, -speculative Jonathan is more like the Englishman of two centuries ago -than John Bull himself is. He has lost somewhat in solidity, has become -fluent and adaptable, but more of the original groundwork of character -remains. He feels more at home with Fulke Greville, Herbert of Cherbury, -Quarles, George Herbert, and Browne, than with his modern English -cousins. He is nearer than John, by at least a hundred years, to Naseby, -Marston Moor, Worcester, and the time when, if ever, there were true -Englishmen. John Bull has suffered the idea of the Invisible to be very -much fattened out of him. Jonathan is conscious still that he lives in -the world of the Unseen as well as of the Seen. To move John, you must -make your fulcrum of solid beef and pudding; an abstract idea will do -for Jonathan. - - - *.* TO THE INDULGENT READER. - - My friend, the Reverend Mr. Wilbur, having been seized with - a dangerous fit of illness, before this Introduction had - passed through the press, and being incapacitated for all - literary exertion, sent to me his notes, memoranda, &c., and - requested me to fashion them into some shape more fitting - for the general eye. This, owing to the fragmentary and - disjointed state of his manuscripts, I have felt wholly - unable to do; yet, being unwilling that the reader should be - deprived of such parts of his lucubrations as seemed more - finished, and not well discerning how to segregate these - from the rest, I have concluded to send them all to the - press precisely as they are. - - |Columbus Nye|, - _Pastor of a church in Bungtown Corner._ - -It remains to speak of the Yankee dialect. And, first, it may be -premised, in a general way, that any one much read in the writings of -the early colonists need not be told that the far greater share of the -words and phrases now esteemed peculiar to New England, and local there, -were brought from the mother country. A person familiar with the dialect -of certain portions of Massachusetts will not fail to recognize, in -ordinary discourse, many words now noted in English vocabularies as -archaic, the greater part of which were in common use about the time of -the King James translation of the Bible. Shakspeare stands less in need -of a glossary to most New Englanders than to many a native of the Old -Country. The peculiarities of our speech, however, are rapidly wearing -out. As there is no country where reading is so universal and newspapers -are so multitudinous, so no phrase remains long local, but is -transplanted in the mail-bags to every remotest corner of the land. -Consequently our dialect approaches nearer to uniformity than that of -any other nation. - -The English have complained of us for coining new words. Many of those -so stigmatized were old ones by them forgotten, and all make now an -unquestioned part of the currency, wherever English is spoken. -Undoubtedly, we have a right to make new words, as they are needed by -the fresh aspects under which life presents itself here in the New -World; and, indeed, wherever a language is alive, it grows. It might be -questioned whether we could not establish a stronger title to the -ownership of the English tongue than the mother-islanders themselves. -Here, past all question, is to be its great home and centre. And not -only is it already spoken here by greater numbers, but with a higher -popular average of correctness, than in Britain. The great writers of -it, too, we might claim as ours, were ownership to be settled by the -number of readers and lovers. - -As regards the provincialisms to be met with in this volume, I may say -that the reader will not find one which is not (as I believe) either -native or imported with the early settlers, nor one which I have not, -with my own ears, heard in familiar use. In the metrical portion of the -book, I have endeavored to adapt the spelling as nearly as possible to -the ordinary mode of pronunciation. Let the reader who deems me -over-particular remember this caution of Martial:-- - - "_Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus; - Sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus._" - -A few further explanatory remarks will not be impertinent. - -I shall barely lay down a few general rules for the reader's guidance. - -1. The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound to the r when he can -help it, and often displays considerable ingenuity in avoiding it even -before a vowel. - -2. He seldom sounds the final _g_, a piece of self-denial, if we -consider his partiality for nasals. The same of the final _d_, as _han'_ -and _stan'_ for _hand_ and _stand_. - -3. The _h_ in such words as _while_, _when_, _where_, he omits -altogether. - -4. In regard to _a_, he shows some inconsistency, sometimes giving a -close and obscure sound, as _hev_ for _have_, _hendy_ for _handy_, _ez_ -for _as_, _thet_ for _that_, and again giving it the broad sound it has -in _father_, as _hânsome_ for _handsome_. - -5. To the sound _ou_ he prefixes an _e_ (hard to exemplify otherwise -than orally). - -The following passage in Shakspeare he would recite thus:-- - - "Neow is the winta uv eour discontent - Med glorious summa by this sun o' Yock, - An' all the cleouds thet leowered upun eour heouse - In the deep buzzum o' the oshin buried; - Neow air eour breows beound 'ith victorious wreaths; - Eour breused arms hung up fer monimunce; - Eour starn alarums changed to merry meetins, - Eour dreffle marches to delightful measures. - Grim-visaged war heth smeuthed his wrinkled front, - An' neow, instid o' mountin' barehid steeds - To fright the souls o' ferfle edverseries, - He capers nimly in a lady's chmber, - To the lascivious pleasin' uv a loot." - -6. _Au_, in such words as _daughter_ and _slaughter_, he pronounces -_ah_. - -7. To the dish thus seasoned add a drawl _ad libitum_. - - [Mr. Wilbur's notes here become entirely fragmentary.--C. N.] - -alpha. Unable to procure a likeness of Mr. Biglow, I thought the curious -reader might be gratified with a sight of the editorial effigies. And -here a choice between two was offered,--the one a profile (entirely -black) cut by Doyle, the other a portrait painted by a native artist of -much promise. The first of these seemed wanting in expression, and in -the second a slight obliquity of the visual organs has been heightened -(perhaps from an over-desire of force on the part of the artist) into -too close an approach to actual _strabismus_. This slight divergence in -my optical apparatus from the ordinary model--however I may have been -taught to regard it in the light of a mercy rather than a cross, since -it enabled me to give as much of directness and personal application to -my discourses as met the wants of my congregation, without risk of -offending any by being supposed to have him or her in my eye (as the -saying is)--seemed yet to Mrs. Wilbur a sufficient objection to the -engraving of the aforesaid painting. We read of many who either -absolutely refused to allow the copying of their features, as especially -did Plotinus and Agesilaus among the ancients, not to mention the more -modern instances of Scioppius, Palæottus, Pinellus, Velserus, Gataker, -and others, or were indifferent thereto, as Cromwell. - - * * * * * - -beta. Yet was Cæsar desirous of concealing his baldness. _Per contra_, -my Lord Protector's carefulness in the matter of his wart might be -cited. Men generally more desirous of being _improved_ in their -portraits than characters. Shall probably find very unflattered -likenesses of ourselves in Recording Angel's gallery. - - * * * * * - -gamma. Whether any of our national peculiarities may be traced to our -use of stoves, as a certain closeness of the lips in pronunciation, and -a smothered smoulderingness of disposition, seldom roused to open flame? -An unrestrained intercourse with fire probably conducive to generosity -and hospitality of soul. Ancient Mexicans used stoves, as the friar -Augustin Ruiz reports, Hakluyt, III., 468,--but the Popish priests not -always reliable authority. - -To-day picked my Isabella grapes. Crop injured by attacks of rose-bug in -the spring. Whether Noah was justifiable in preserving this class of -insects? - - * * * * * - -delta. Concerning Mr. Biglow's pedigree. Tolerably certain that there -was never a poet among his ancestors. An ordination hymn attributed to a -maternal uncle, but perhaps a sort of production not demanding the -creative faculty. - -His grandfather a painter of the grandiose or Michael Angelo school. -Seldom painted objects smaller than houses or barns, and these with -uncommon expression. - - * * * * * - -epsilon. Of the Wilburs no complete pedigree. The crest said to be a -_wild boar_, whence, perhaps, the name.(?) A connection with the Earls -of Wilbraham (_quasi_ wild boar ham) might be made out. This suggestion -worth following up. In 1677, John W. m. Expect----, had issue, 1. John, -2. Haggai, 3. Expect, 4. Ruhamah, 5. Desire. - - "Hear lyes ye bodye of Mrs Expect Wilber, - Ye crewell salvages they kil'd her - Together wth other Christian soles eleaven, - October ye ix daye, 1707. - Ye stream of Jordan sh' as crost ore - And now expeacts me on ye other shore: - I live in hope her soon to join; - Her earthlye yeeres were forty and nine." - _From Gravestone in Pekussett, North Parish._ - -This is unquestionably the same John who afterward (1711) married -Tabitha Hagg or Ragg. - -But if this were the case, she seems to have died early; for only three -years after, namely, 1714, we have evidence that he married Winifred, -daughter of Lieutenant Tipping. - -He seems to have been a man of substance, for we find him in 1696 -conveying "one undivided eightieth part of a salt-meadow" in Yabbok, and -he commanded a sloop in 1702. - -Those who doubt the importance of genealogical studies _fuste potius -quam argumento erudiendi_. - -I trace him as far as 1723, and there lose him. In that year he was -chosen selectman. - -No gravestone. Perhaps overthrown when new hearse-house was built, 1802. - -He was probably the son of John, who came from Bilham Comit. Salop. -circa 1642. - -This first John was a man of considerable importance, being twice -mentioned with the honorable prefix of _Mr._ in the town records. Name -spelt with two _l-s_. - - "Here lyeth ye bod [_stone unhappily broken._] - Mr. Ihon Willber [Esq.] [_I enclose this in brackets as doubtful. To - me it seems clear._] - Ob't die [_illegible; looks like xviii._] ... iii [_prob._ 1693.] - . . . . . paynt - . . . . deseased seinte: - A friend and [fath]er untoe all ye opreast, - Hee gave ye wicked familists noe reast, - When Sat[an bl]ewe his Antinomian blaste, - Wee clong to [Willber as a steadf]ast maste. - [A]gaynst ye horrid Qua[kers] ..." - -It is greatly to be lamented that this curious epitaph is mutilated. It -is said that the sacrilegious British soldiers made a target of this -stone during the war of Independence. How odious an animosity which -pauses not at the grave! How brutal that which spares not the monuments -of authentic history! This is not improbably from the pen of Rev. Moody -Pyram, who is mentioned by Hubbard as having been noted for a silver -vein of poetry. If his papers be still extant, a copy might possibly be -recovered. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - PAGE - - No. I.--A Letter from Mr. Ezekiel Biglow of Jaalam to the Hon. - Joseph T. Buckingham, Editor of the Boston Courier, enclosing - a Poem of his Son, Mr. Hosea Biglow, 388 - - No. II.--A Letter from Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Hon. J. T. - Buckingham, Editor of the Boston Courier, covering a Letter - from Mr. B. Sawin, Private in the Massachusetts Regiment, 393 - - No. III.--What Mr. Robinson thinks, 401 - - No. IV.--Remarks of Increase D. O'Phace, Esquire, at an - Extrumpery Caucus in State Street, reported by Mr. H. Biglow, 408 - - No. V.--The Debate in the Sennit. Sot to a Nusry Rhyme, 416 - - No. VI.--The Pious Editor's Creed, 421 - - No. VII.--A Letter from a Candidate for the Presidency in Answer - to suttin Questions proposed by Mr. Hosea Biglow, enclosed - in a Note from Mr. Biglow to S. H. Gay, Esq., Editor of the - National Anti-slavery Standard, 426 - - No. VIII.--A Second Letter from B. Sawin, Esq., 433 - - No. IX.--A Third Letter from B. Sawin, Esq, 443 - - |Glossary|, 455 - - |Index|, 459 - - - - - THE BIGLOW PAPERS. - - No. I. - - A LETTER - - FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. - BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, ENCLOSING A POEM - OF HIS SON, MR. HOSEA BIGLOW. - - - |Jaylem|, june 1846. - -|Mister Eddyter|:--Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a -cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, -with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt -he thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo's though -he'd jest com down, so he cal'lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn't -take none o' his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck -onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on his -shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater -hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on. - -wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I'd gone to bed I -heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old -Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the -chollery or suthin anuther ses she, don't yon Bee skeered, ses I, he's -oney amakin pottery[K] ses i, he's ollers on hand at that ere busynes -like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares -full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go -reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o' book -larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle -tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit. - - [Footnote K: _Aut insanit, aut versos facit._--H. W.] - -Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the parson kind o' -slicked off sum o' the last varses, but he told Hosee he didn't want to -put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on 'em, bein they wuz verry well As -thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex -Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o' didn't hear him, -for I never hearn o' nobody o' that name in this villadge, and I've -lived here man and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no -wheres a kitting spryer'n I be. - -If you print 'em I wish you 'd jest let folks know who hosy's father is, -cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint -livin though and he's a likely kind o' lad. - - |Ezekiel Biglow|. - - - Thrash away, you'll _hev_ to rattle - On them kittle-drums o' yourn,-- - 'T aint a knowin' kind o' cattle - Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; - Put in stiff, you fifer feller, - Let folks see how spry you be,-- - Guess you'll toot till you are yeller - 'Fore you git ahold o' me! - - Thet air flag's a leetle rotten, - Hope it aint your Sunday's best;-- - Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton - To stuff out a soger's chest: - Sence we farmers hev to pay fer't, - Ef you must wear humps like these, - Sposin' you should try salt hay fer't, - It would du ez slick ez grease. - - 'T wouldn't suit them Southun fellers, - They're a dreffle graspin' set, - We must ollers blow the bellers - Wen they want their irons het; - May be it's all right ez preachin', - But _my_ narves it kind o' grates, - Wen I see the overreachin' - O' them nigger-drivin' States. - - Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, - Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth, - (Helped by Yankee renegaders,) - Thru the vartu o' the North! - We begin to think it's nater - To take sarse an' not be riled;-- - Who'd expect to see a tater - All on eend at bein' biled? - - Ez fer war, I call it murder,-- - There you hev it plain an' flat; - I don't want to go no furder - Than my Testyment fer that; - God hez sed so plump an' fairly, - It's ez long ez it is broad, - An' you've gut to git up airly - Ef you want to take in God. - - 'T aint your eppyletts an' feathers - Make the thing a grain more right; - 'T aint afollerin' your bell-wethers - Will excuse ye in His sight; - Ef you take a sword an' dror it, - An' go stick a feller thru, - Guv'ment aint to answer for it, - God'll send the bill to you. - - Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin' - Every Sabbath, wet or dry, - Ef it's right to go amowin' - Feller-men like oats an' rye? - I dunno but wut it's pooty - Trainin' round in bobtail coats,-- - But it's curus Christian dooty - This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats. - - They may talk o' Freedom's airy - Tell they're pupple in the face,-- - It's a grand gret cemetary - Fer the barthrights of our race; - They jest want this Californy - So's to lug new slave-states in - To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, - An' to plunder ye like sin. - - Aint it cute to see a Yankee - Take sech everlastin' pains, - All to git the Devil's thankee, - Helpin' on 'em weld their chains? - Wy, it's jest ez clear ez figgers, - Clear ez one an' one make two, - Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers - Want to make wite slaves o' you. - - Tell ye jest the eend I've come to - Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, - An' it makes a handy sum, tu, - Any gump could larn by heart; - Laborin' man an' laborin' woman - Hev one glory an' one shame, - Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman - Injers all on 'em the same. - - 'T aint by turnin' out to hack folks - You're agoin' to git your right, - Nor by lookin' down on black folks - Coz you're put upon by wite; - Slavery aint o' nary color, - 'T aint the hide thet makes it wus, - All it keers fer in a feller - 'S jest to make him fill its pus. - - Want to tackle _me_ in, du ye? - I expect you'll hev to wait; - Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye - You'll begin to kal'klate; - 'Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin' - All the carkiss from your bones, - Coz you helped to give a lickin' - To them poor half-Spanish drones? - - Jest go home an' ask our Nancy - Wether I'd be sech a goose - Ez to jine ye,--guess you'd fancy - The etarnal bung wuz loose! - She wants me fer home consumption, - Let alone the hay's to mow,-- - Ef you're arter folks o' gumption, - You've a darned long row to hoe. - - Take them editors thet's crowin' - Like a cockerel three months old,-- - Don't ketch any on 'em goin', - Though they _be_ so blasted bold; - _Aint_ they a prime lot o' fellers? - 'Fore they think on't they will sprout, - (Like a peach thet's got the yellers,) - With the meanness bustin' out. - - Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' - Bigger pens to cram with slaves, - Help the men thet's ollers dealin' - Insults on your fathers' graves; - Help the strong to grind the feeble, - Help the many agin the few, - Help the men thet call your people - Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew! - - Massachusetts, God forgive her, - She's akneelin' with the rest, - She, thet ough' to ha' clung fer ever - In her grand old eagle-nest; - She thet ough' to stand so fearless - Wile the wracks are round her hurled, - Holdin' up a beacon peerless - To the oppressed of all the world! - - Haint they sold your colored seamen? - Haint they made your env'ys wiz? - _Wut_'ll make ye act like freemen? - _Wut_'ll git your dander riz? - Come, I'll tell ye wut I'm thinkin' - Is our dooty in this fix, - They'd ha' done't ez quick ez winkin' - In the days o' seventy-six. - - Clang the bells in every steeple, - Call all true men to disown - The tradoocers of our people, - The enslavers o' their own; - Let our dear old Bay State proudly - Put the trumpet to her mouth, - Let her ring this messidge loudly - In the ears of all the South:-- - - "I'll return ye good fer evil - Much ez we frail mortils can, - But I wun't go help the Devil - Makin' man the cus o' man; - Call me coward, call me traiter, - Jest ez suits your mean idees,-- - Here I stand a tyrant-hater, - An' the friend o' God an' Peace!" - - Ef I'd _my_ way I hed ruther - We should go to work an' part,-- - They take one way, we take t'other,-- - Guess it wouldn't break my heart; - Man hed ough' to put asunder - Them thet God has noways jined; - An' I shouldn't gretly wonder - Ef there's thousands o' my mind. - - [The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive to have - been that individual who is mentioned in the Book of Job _as - going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in - it_. Bishop Latimer will have him to have been a bishop, but - to me that other calling would appear more congenial. The - sect of Cainites is not yet extinct, who esteemed the - first-born of Adam to be the most worthy, not only because - of that privilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was - able to overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a - wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal - Legate, that _it was impossible for men to serve Mars and - Christ at the same time_. Yet in time past the profession of - arms was judged to be kat exochên that of a gentleman, nor - does this opinion want for strenuous upholders even in our - day. Must we suppose, then, that the profession of - Christianity was only intended for losels, or, at best, to - afford an opening for plebeian ambition? Or shall we hold - with that nicely metaphysical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who - was Count Königsmark's chief instrument in the murder of Mr. - Thynne, that the Scheme of Salvation has been arranged with - an especial eye to the necessities of the upper classes, and - that "God would consider a _gentleman_ and deal with him - suitably to the condition and profession he had placed him - in"? It may be said of us all, _Exemplo plus quam ratione - vivimus_.--H. W.] - - - - - No. II. - - A LETTER - -FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON -COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE -MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT. - - - [This letter of Mr. Sawin's was not originally written in - verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly susceptible of - metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak, into his own - vernacular tongue. This is not the time to consider the - question, whether rhyme be a mode of expression natural to - the human race. If leisure from other and more important - avocations be granted, I will handle the matter more at - large in an appendix to the present volume. In this place I - will barely remark, that I have sometimes noticed in the - unlanguaged prattlings of infants a fondness for - alliteration, assonance, and even rhyme, in which natural - predisposition we may trace the three degrees through which - our Anglo-Saxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry - of Pope. I would not be understood as questioning in these - remarks that pious theory which supposes that children, if - left entirely to themselves, would naturally discourse in - Hebrew. For this the authority of one experiment is claimed, - and I could, with Sir Thomas Browne, desire its - establishment, inasmuch as the acquirement of that sacred - tongue would thereby be facilitated. I am aware that - Herodotus states the conclusion of Psammeticus to have been - in favor of a dialect of the Phrygian. But, beside the - chance that a trial of this importance would hardly be - blessed to a Pagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, - we have on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent - investigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will add to - this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though a native of - Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant on the religious - exercises of my congregation. I consider my humble efforts - prospered in that not one of my sheep hath ever indued the - wolf's clothing of war, save for the comparatively innocent - diversion of a militia training. Not that my flock are - backward to undergo the hardships of _defensive_ warfare. - They serve cheerfully in the great army which fights even - unto death _pro aris et focis_, accoutred with the spade, - the axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other - such effectual weapons against want and ignorance and - unthrift. I have taught them (under God) to esteem our human - institutions as but tents of a night, to be stricken - whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips and sounds a march - to the heights of wider-viewed intelligence and more perfect - organization.--H. W.] - -|Mister Buckinum|, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of -our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff -arter a Drum and fife. it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's -sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, -but I rather cal'late he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I -bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin -bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a _pong-shong_ -for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin -arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat. - -his Folks gin the letter to me and i shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses -it oughter Bee printed. send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, i don't -ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time,[L] ses he, I _du_ like a -feller that ain't a Feared. - -I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o' -prest with Hayin. - - Ewers respecfly - |Hosea Biglow|. - - [Footnote L: In relation to this expression, I cannot but - think that Mr. Biglow has been too hasty in attributing it - to me. Though Time be a comparatively innocent personage to - swear by, and though Longinus in his discourse Peri Hypsous - has commended timely oaths as not only a useful but sublime - figure of speech, yet I have always kept my lips free from - that abomination. _Odi profanum vulgus_, I hate your - swearing and hectoring fellows.--H. W.] - - This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin', - A chap could clear right out from there ef't only looked like rainin', - An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners, - An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners, - (Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted,) an' a feller could cry quarter - Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water. - Recollect wut fun we hed, you'n' I an' Ezry Hollis, - Up there to Waltham plain last fall, along o' the Cornwallis?[M] - This sort o' thing aint _jest_ like thet,--I wish thet I wuz furder,[N]-- - Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder, - (Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Cephas Billins, - An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins,) - There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller, - It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar; - It's glory,--but, in spite o' all my tryin' to git callous, - I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus. - But wen it comes to _bein'_ killed,--I tell ye I felt streakèd - The fust time 't ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked; - Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango, - The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet's furder 'an you can go." - "None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster?" - Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster; - I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us; - Caleb haint no monopoly to court the seenoreetas; - My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!" - An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin' wut would folly, - The everlastin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in me - An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my. - Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole Funnel - Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle, - (It's Mister Secondary Bolles,[O] thet writ the prize peace essay; - Thet's why he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay,) - An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't put _his_ foot in it, - Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin it,-- - Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'em, - Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on 'em; - How dreffle slick he reeled it off, (like Blitz at our lyceum - Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em,) - About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handy - To du the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy), - About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner, - Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner, - An' how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky,-- - I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky. - I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilege - Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage; - I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin', - An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin' - Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison) - An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.[P] - - [Footnote M: i hait the Site of a feller with a muskit as I - du pizn But their _is_ fun to a cornwallis I aint agoin' to - deny it.--H. B.] - - [Footnote N: he means Not quite so fur I guess.--H. B.] - - [Footnote O: the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he - ollers stuck to his books like cobbler's wax to an - ile-stone.--H. B.] - - [Footnote P: it must be aloud that thare's a streak o' nater - in lovin' sho, but it sartinly is 1 of the curusest things - in nater to see a rispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off - a chutch mayby) ariggin' himself out in the Weigh they du - and struttin' round in the Reign aspilin' his trowsis and - makin' wet goods of himself. Ef any thin's foolisher and - moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy gloary.--H. - B.] - - This 'ere's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver - (Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Salt-river); - The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater, - I'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good blue-nose tater; - The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin' - Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin. - - He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all, - The holl on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there a chapparal; - You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat - Is round your throat an' you a copse, 'fore you can say, "Wut air ye - at?"[Q] - You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant - To say I've seen a _scaraboeus pilularius_[R] big ez a year old - elephant,) - The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bug - From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright,--'t wuz jest a common _cimex - lectularius_. - - [Footnote Q: these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank - Heroes, and the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick - tha bekum.--H. B.] - - [Footnote R: it wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the - parson put the Latten instid. i sed tother maid better - meeter, but he said tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and - tha wouldn't stan' it no how. idnow as tha _wood_ and idnow - _as_ tha wood.--H. B.] - - One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin, - I heern a horn, thinks I it's Sol the fisherman hez come agin, - _His_ bellowses is sound enough,--ez I'm a livin' creeter, - I felt a thing go thru my leg,--'t wuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter! - Then there's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito,-- - (Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le' _go_ my toe! - My gracious! it's a scorpion thet's took a shine to play with 't - I darsn't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he'd run away with 't.) - - Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion - Thet Mexicans worn't human beans,[S]--an ourang outang nation, - A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on't arter, - No more 'n a feller 'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter; - I'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkie fashion all, - An' kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind o' national; - But wen I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby, - Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we be, - An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions, - Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions, - Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsis - An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' houses; - Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson! - It must be right, fer Caleb sez it's reg'lar Anglosaxon. - The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water, - An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' to; - Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper - An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez aint proper; - He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly, - (Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly,) - Thet our nation's bigger'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger, - An' thet it's all to make 'em free thet we air pullin' trigger, - Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee 's abreakin' 'em to pieces, - An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases; - Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can, - I know thet "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican; - An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs, - Thet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto State-prison feeturs, - Should come to Jaalam Centre fer to argify an' spout on't, - The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on't. - - [Footnote S: he means human beins, that's wut he means, i - spose he kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle - Poles comes from.--H. B.] - - This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur, - An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I'd home agin short meter; - O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, ef't worn't thet I wuz sartin - They'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin'! - I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state - Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Baystate; - Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you're middlin' well now, be ye? - Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye"; - But now it's "Ware's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an' fetch it! - An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall ketch it!" - Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty, - Ef I hed some on 'em to hum, I 'd give 'em linkum vity, - I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other music follerin'-- - But I must close my letter here, fer one on 'em 's ahollerin', - These Anglosaxon ossifers,--wal, taint no use ajawin', - I'm safe enlisted fer the war, - - Yourn, - |Birdofredom Sawin|. - - [Those have not been wanting (as, indeed, when hath Satan - been to seek for attorneys?) who have maintained that our - late inroad upon Mexico was undertaken, not so much for the - avenging of any national quarrel, as for the spreading of - free institutions and of Protestantism. _Capita vix duabus - Anticyris medenda!_ Verily I admire that no pious sergeant - among these new Crusaders beheld Martin Luther riding at the - front of the host upon a tamed pontifical bull, as, in that - former invasion of Mexico, the zealous Gomara (spawn though - he were of the Scarlet Woman) was favored with a vision of - St. James of Compostella, skewering the infidels upon his - apostolical lance. We read, also, that Richard of the lion - heart, having gone to Palestine on a similar errand of - mercy, was divinely encouraged to cut the throats of such - Paynims as refused to swallow the bread of life (doubtless - that they might be thereafter incapacitated for swallowing - the filthy gobbets of Mahound) by angels of heaven, who - cried to the king and his knights,--_Seigneurs, tuez! tuez!_ - providentially using the French tongue, as being the only - one understood by their auditors. This would argue for the - pantoglottism of these celestial intelligences, while, on - the other hand, the Devil, _teste_ Cotton Mather, is - unversed in certain of the Indian dialects. Yet must he be a - semeiologist the most expert, making himself intelligible to - every people and kindred by signs; no other discourse, - indeed, being needful, than such as the mackerel-fisher - holds with his finned quarry, who, if other bait be wanting, - can by a bare bit of white rag at the end of a string - captivate those foolish fishes. Such piscatorial oratory is - Satan cunning in. Before one he trails a hat and feather, or - a bare feather without a hat; before another, a Presidential - chair, or a tidewaiter's stool, or a pulpit in the city, no - matter what. To us, dangling there over our heads, they seem - junkets dropped out of the seventh heaven, sops dipped in - nectar, but, once in our mouths, they are all one, bits of - fuzzy cotton. - - This, however, by the way. It is time now _revocare gradum_. - While so many miracles of this sort, vouched by - eyewitnesses, have encouraged the arms of Papists, not to - speak of Echetlæus at Marathon and those _Dioscuri_ (whom we - must conclude imps of the pit) who sundry times captained - the pagan Roman soldiery, it is strange that our first - American crusade was not in some such wise also signalized. - Yet it is said that the Lord hath manifestly prospered our - armies. This opens the question, whether, when our hands are - strengthened to make great slaughter of our enemies, it be - absolutely and demonstratively certain that this might is - added to us from above, or whether some Potentate from an - opposite quarter may not have a finger in it, as there are - few pies into which his meddling digits are not thrust. - Would the Sanctifier and Setter-apart of the seventh day - have assisted in a victory gained on the Sabbath, as was one - in the late war? Or has that day become less an object of - his especial care since the year 1697, when so manifest a - providence occurred to Mr. William Trowbridge, in answer to - whose prayers, when he and all on shipboard with him were - starving, a dolphin was sent daily, "which was enough to - serve 'em; only on _Saturdays_ they still catched a couple, - and on the _Lord's Days_ they could catch none at all"? - Haply they might have been permitted, by way of - mortification, to take some few sculpins (those banes of the - salt-water angler), which unseemly fish would, moreover, - have conveyed to them a symbolical reproof for their breach - of the day, being known in the rude dialect of our mariners - as _Cape Cod Clergymen_. - - It has been a refreshment to many nice consciences to know - that our Chief Magistrate would not regard with eyes of - approval the (by many esteemed) sinful pastime of dancing, - and I own myself to be so far of that mind, that I could not - but set my face against this Mexican Polka, though danced to - the Presidential piping with a Gubernatorial second. If ever - the country should be seized with another such mania _de - propagandâ fide_, I think it would be wise to fill our - bombshells with alternate copies of the Cambridge Platform - and the Thirty-nine Articles, which would produce a mixture - of the highest explosive power, and to wrap every one of our - cannon-balls in a leaf of the New Testament, the reading of - which is denied to those who sit in the darkness of Popery. - Those iron evangelists would thus be able to disseminate - vital religion and Gospel truth in quarters inaccessible to - the ordinary missionary. I have seen lads, unimpregnate with - the more sublimated punctiliousness of Walton, secure - pickerel, taking their unwary _siesta_ beneath the lily-pads - too nigh the surface, with a gun and small shot. Why not, - then, since gunpowder was unknown in the time of the - Apostles (not to enter here upon the question whether it - were discovered before that period by the Chinese), suit our - metaphor to the age in which we live, and say _shooters_ as - well as _fishers_ of men? - - I do much fear that we shall be seized now and then with a - Protestant fervor, as long as we have neighbor Naboths whose - wallowings in Papistical mire excite our horror in exact - proportion to the size and desirableness of their vineyards. - Yet I rejoice that some earnest Protestants have been made - by this war,--I mean those who protested against it. Fewer - they were than I could wish, for one might imagine America - to have been colonized by a tribe of those nondescript - African animals the Aye-Ayes, so difficult a word is No to - us all. There is some malformation or defect of the vocal - organs, which either prevents our uttering it at all, or - gives it so thick a pronunciation as to be unintelligible. A - mouth filled with the national pudding, or watering in - expectation thereof, is wholly incompetent to this - refractory monosyllable. An abject and herpetic Public - Opinion is the Pope, the Anti-Christ, for us to protest - against _e corde cordium_. And by what College of Cardinals - is this our God's-vicar, our binder and looser, elected? - Very like, by the sacred conclave of Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, - in the gracious atmosphere of the grog-shop. Yet it is of - this that we must all be puppets. This thumps the - pulpit-cushion, this guides the editor's pen, this wags the - senator's tongue. This decides what Scriptures are - canonical, and shuffles Christ away into the Apocrypha. - According to that sentence fathered upon Solon, Houtô - dêmosion kakon erchetai oikad' hekastô. This unclean spirit is - skilful to assume various shapes. I have known it to enter - my own study and nudge my elbow of a Saturday, under the - semblance of a wealthy member of my congregation. It were a - great blessing, if every particular of what in the sum we - call popular sentiment could carry about the name of its - manufacturer stamped legibly upon it. I gave a stab under - the fifth rib to that pestilent fallacy,--"Our country, - right or wrong,"--by tracing its original to a speech of - Ensign Cilley at a dinner of the Bungtown Fencibles. H. W.] - - - - - No. III. - - WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. - - - [A few remarks on the following verses will not be out of - place. The satire in them was not meant to have any - personal, but only a general, application. Of the gentleman - upon whose letter they were intended as a commentary Mr. - Biglow had never heard, till he saw the letter itself. The - position of the satirist is oftentimes one which he would - not have chosen, had the election been left to himself. In - attacking bad principles, he is obliged to select some - individual who has made himself their exponent, and in whom - they are impersonate, to the end that what he says may not, - through ambiguity, be dissipated _tenues in auras_. For what - says Seneca? _Longum iter per præcepta, breve et efficace - per exempla._ A bad principle is comparatively harmless - while it continues to be an abstraction, nor can the general - mind comprehend it fully till it is printed in that large - type which all men can read at sight, namely, the life and - character, the sayings and doings, of particular persons. It - is one of the cunningest fetches of Satan, that he never - exposes himself directly to our arrows, but, still dodging - behind this neighbor or that acquaintance, compels us to - wound him through them, if at all. He holds our affections - as hostages, the while he patches up a truce with our - conscience. - - Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true - satirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon - falsehood, and, as Truth and Falsehood start from the same - point, and sometimes even go along together for a little - way, his business is to follow the path of the latter after - it diverges, and to show her floundering in the bog at the - end of it. Truth is quite beyond the reach of satire. There - is so brave a simplicity in her, that she can no more be - made ridiculous than an oak or a pine. The danger of the - satirist is, that continual use may deaden his sensibility - to the force of language. He becomes more and more liable to - strike harder than he knows or intends. He may be careful to - put on his boxing-gloves, and yet forget, that, the older - they grow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. - Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly - drawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel glitters - through that dust of the ring which obscures Truth's wreath - of simple leaves. I have sometimes thought that my young - friend, Mr. Biglow, needed a monitory hand laid on his - arm,--_aliquid sufflaminandus erat_. I have never thought it - good husbandry to water the tender plants of reform with - _aqua fortis_, yet, where so much is to do in the beds, he - were a sorry gardener who should wage a whole day's war with - an iron scuffle on those ill weeds that make the - garden-walks of life unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic - salt will wither them up. _Est ars etiam maledicendi_, says - Scaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to say where the - graceful gentleness of the lamb merges in downright - sheepishness. We may conclude with worthy and wise Dr. - Fuller, that "one may be a lamb in private wrongs, but in - hearing general affronts to goodness they are asses which - are not lions."--H. W.] - - Guvener B. is a sensible man; - He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; - He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, - An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;-- - But John P. - Robinson he - Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. - - My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? - We can't never choose him, o' course,--thet's flat; - Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) - An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; - Fer John P. - Robinson he - Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. - - Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: - He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; - But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,-- - He's been true to _one_ party and thet is himself;-- - So John P. - Robinson he - Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. - - Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; - He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud; - Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, - But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? - So John P. - Robinson he - Sez he shall vote fer Gineral G. - - We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, - With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, - We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, - An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint - But John P. - Robinson he - Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. - - The side of our country must ollers be took, - An' Presidunt Polk, you know, _he_ is our country. - An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book - Puts the _debit_ to him, an' to us the _per contry_; - An' John P. - Robinson he - Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. - - Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; - Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest _fee, faw, fum_: - An' thet all this big talk of our destinies - Is half on it ignorance, an' t' other half rum, - But John P. - Robinson he - Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we. - - Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heerd in his life - Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, - An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, - To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes, - But John P. - Robinson he - Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee. - - Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us - The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,-- - God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, - To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough; - Fer John P. - Robinson he - Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee! - - [The attentive reader will doubtless have perceived in the - foregoing poem an allusion to that pernicious - sentiment,--"Our country, right or wrong." It is an abuse of - language to call a certain portion of land, much more, - certain personages, elevated for the time being to high - station, our country. I would not sever nor loosen a single - one of those ties by which we are united to the spot of our - birth, nor minish by a tittle the respect due to the - Magistrate. I love our own Bay State too well to do the one, - and as for the other, I have myself for nigh forty years - exercised, however unworthily, the function of Justice of - the Peace, having been called thereto by the unsolicited - kindness of that most excellent man and upright patriot, - Caleb Strong. _Patriæ fumus igne alieno luculentior_ is best - qualified with this,--_Ubi libertas, ibi patria_. We are - inhabitants of two worlds, and owe a double but not a - divided, allegiance. In virtue of our clay, this little ball - of earth exacts a certain loyalty of us, while, in our - capacity as spirits, we are admitted citizens of an - invisible and holier fatherland. There is a patriotism of - the soul whose claim absolves us from our other and terrene - fealty. Our true country is that ideal realm which we - represent to ourselves under the names of religion, duty, - and the like. Our terrestrial organizations are but far-off - approaches to so fair a model, and all they are verily - traitors who resist not any attempt to divert them from this - their original intendment. When, therefore, one would have - us to fling up our caps and shout with the multitude,--"_Our - country, however bounded!_" he demands of us that we - sacrifice the larger to the less, the higher to the lower, - and that we yield to the imaginary claims of a few acres of - soil our duty and privilege as liegemen of Truth. Our true - country is bounded on the north and the south, on the east - and the west, by Justice, and when she oversteps that - invisible boundary-line by so much as a hair's-breadth, she - ceases to be our mother, and chooses rather to be looked - upon _quasi noverca_. That is a hard choice, when our - earthly love of country calls upon us to tread one path and - our duty points us to another. We must make as noble and - becoming an election as did Penelope between Icarius and - Ulysses. Veiling our faces, we must take silently the hand - of Duty to follow her. - - Shortly after the publication of the foregoing poem, there - appeared some comments upon it in one of the public prints - which seemed to call for animadversion. I accordingly - addressed to Mr. Buckingham, of the Boston Courier, the - following letter. - - |Jaalam|, November 4, 1847. - _'To the Editor of the Courier:_ - - "|Respected Sir|,--Calling at the post-office this morning, - our worthy and efficient postmaster offered for my perusal a - paragraph in the Boston Morning Post of the 3d instant, - wherein certain effusions of the pastoral muse are - attributed to the pen of Mr. James Russell Lowell. For aught - I know or can affirm to the contrary, this Mr. Lowell may be - a very deserving person and a youth of parts (though I have - seen verses of his which I could never rightly understand); - and if he be such, he, I am certain, as well as I, would be - free from any proclivity to appropriate to himself whatever - of credit (or discredit) may honestly belong to another. I - am confident, that, in penning these few lines, I am only - forestalling a disclaimer from that young gentleman, whose - silence hitherto, when rumor pointed to himward, has excited - in my bosom mingled emotions of sorrow and surprise. Well - may my young parishioner, Mr. Biglow, exclaim with the poet, - - 'Sic vos non vobis,' &c.; - - though, in saying this, I would not convey the impression - that he is a proficient in the Latin tongue,--the tongue, I - might add, of a Horace and a Tully. - - "Mr. B. does not employ his pen, I can safely say, for any - lucre of worldly gain, or to be exalted by the carnal - plaudits of men _digito monstrari_, &c. He does not wait - upon Providence for mercies, and in his heart mean _merces_. - But I should esteem myself as verily deficient in my duty - (who am his friend and in some unworthy sort his spiritual - _fidus Achates_, &c.), if I did not step forward to claim - for him whatever measure of applause might be assigned to - him by the judicious. - - "If this were a fitting occasion, I might venture here a - brief dissertation touching the manner and kind of my young - friend's poetry. But I dubitate whether this abstruser sort - of speculation (though enlivened by some apposite instances - from Aristophanes) would sufficiently interest your oppidan - readers. As regards their satirical tone, and their - plainness of speech, I will only say, that, in my pastoral - experience, I have found that the Arch-Enemy loves nothing - better than to be treated as a religious, moral, and - intellectual being, and that there is no _apage Sathanas_! - so potent as ridicule. But it is a kind of weapon that must - have a button of good-nature on the point of it. - - "The productions of Mr. B. have been stigmatized in some - quarters as unpatriotic; but I can vouch that he loves his - native soil with that hearty, though discriminating, - attachment which springs from an intimate social intercourse - of many years' standing. In the ploughing season, no one has - a deeper share in the well-being of the country than he. If - Dean Swift were right in saying that he who makes two blades - of grass grow where one grew before confers a greater - benefit on the state than he who taketh a city, Mr. B. might - exhibit a fairer claim to the Presidency than General Scott - himself. I think that some of those disinterested lovers of - the hard-handed democracy, whose fingers have never touched - anything rougher than the dollars of our common country, - would hesitate to compare palms with him. It would do your - heart good, respected Sir, to see that young man mow. He - cuts a cleaner and wider swarth than any in this town. - - "But it is time for me to be at my Post. It is very clear - that my young friend's shot has struck the lintel, for the - Post is shaken (Amos ix. 1). The editor of that paper is a - strenuous advocate of the Mexican war, and a colonel, as I - am given to understand. I presume, that, being necessarily - absent in Mexico, he has left his journal in some less - judicious hands. At any rate, the Post has been too swift on - this occasion. It could hardly have cited a more - incontrovertible line from any poem than that which it has - selected for animadversion, namely,-- - - 'We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage.' - - "If the Post maintains the converse of this proposition, it - can hardly be considered as a safe guide-post for the moral - and religious portions of its party, however many other - excellent qualities of a post it may be blessed with. There - is a sign in London on which is painted,--'The Green Man.' - It would do very well as a portrait of any individual who - would support so unscriptural a thesis. As regards the - language of the line in question, I am bold to say that He - who readeth the hearts of men will not account any dialect - unseemly which conveys a sound and pious sentiment. I could - wish that such sentiments were more common, however - uncouthly expressed. Saint Ambrose affirms, that _veritas a - quocunque_ (why not, then, _quomodocunque_?) _dicatur, a - spiritu sancto est_. Digest also this of Baxter:--'The - plainest words are the most profitable oratory in the - weightiest matters.' - - "When the paragraph in question was shown to Mr. Biglow, the - only part of it which seemed to give him any dissatisfaction - was that which classed him with the Whig party. He says, - that, if resolutions are a nourishing kind of diet, that - party must be in a very hearty and flourishing condition; - for that they have quietly eaten more good ones of their own - baking than he could have conceived to be possible without - repletion. He has been for some years past (I regret to say) - an ardent opponent of those sound doctrines of protective - policy which form so prominent a portion of the creed of - that party. I confess, that, in some discussions which I - have had with him on this point in my study, he has - displayed a vein of obstinacy which I had not hitherto - detected in his composition. He is also (_horresco - referens_) infected in no small measure with the peculiar - notions of a print called the Liberator, whose heresies I - take every proper opportunity of combating, and of which, I - thank God, I have never read a single line. - - "I did not see Mr. B.'s verses until they appeared in print, - and there is certainly one thing in them which I consider - highly improper. I allude to the personal references to - myself by name. To confer notoriety on an humble individual - who is laboring quietly in his vocation, and who keeps his - cloth as free as he can from the dust of the political arena - (though _væ mihi si non evangelizavero_), is no doubt an - indecorum. The sentiments which he attributes to me I will - not deny to be mine. They were embodied, though in a - different form, in a discourse preached upon the last day of - public fasting, and were acceptable to my entire people (of - whatever political views), except the postmaster, who - dissented _ex officio_. I observe that you sometimes devote - a portion of your paper to a religious summary. I should be - well pleased to furnish a copy of my discourse for insertion - in this department of your instructive journal. By omitting - the advertisements, it might easily be got within the limits - of a single number, and I venture to insure you the sale of - some scores of copies in this town. I will cheerfully render - myself responsible for ten. It might possibly be - advantageous to issue it as an _extra_. But perhaps you will - not esteem it an object, and I will not press it. My offer - does not spring from any weak desire of seeing my name in - print; for I can enjoy this satisfaction at any time by - turning to the Triennial Catalogue of the University, where - it also possesses that added emphasis of Italics with which - those of my calling are distinguished. - - "I would simply add, that I continue to fit ingenuous youth - for college, and that I have two spacious and airy sleeping - apartments at this moment unoccupied. _Ingenuas didicisse_, - &c. Terms, which vary according to the circumstances of the - parents, may be known on application to me by letter, post - paid. In all cases the lad will be expected to fetch his own - towels. This rule, Mrs. W. desires me to add, has no - exceptions. - - "Respectfully, your obedient servant, - "|Homer Wilbur|, A.M. - - "P.S. Perhaps the last paragraph may look like an attempt to - obtain the insertion of my circular gratuitously. If it - should appear to you in that light, I desire that you would - erase it, or charge for it at the usual rates, and deduct - the amount from the proceeds in your hands from the sale of - my discourse, when it shall be printed. My circular is much - longer and more explicit, and will be forwarded without - charge to any who may desire it. It has been very neatly - executed on a letter sheet, by a very deserving printer, who - attends upon my ministry, and is a creditable specimen of - the typographic art. I have one hung over my mantelpiece in - a neat frame, where it makes a beautiful and appropriate - ornament, and balances the profile of Mrs. W., cut with her - toes by the young lady born without arms. H. W." - - I have in the foregoing letter mentioned General Scott in - connection with the Presidency, because I have been given to - understand that he has blown to pieces and otherwise caused - to be destroyed more Mexicans than any other commander. His - claim would therefore be deservedly considered the - strongest. Until accurate returns of the Mexicans killed, - wounded, and maimed be obtained, it will be difficult to - settle these nice points of precedence. Should it prove that - any other officer has been more meritorious and destructive - than General S., and has thereby rendered himself more - worthy of the confidence and support of the conservative - portion of our community, I shall cheerfully insert his - name, instead of that of General S., in a future edition. It - may be thought, likewise, that General S. has invalidated - his claims by too much attention to the decencies of - apparel, and the habits belonging to a gentleman. These - abstruser points of statesmanship are beyond my scope. I - wonder not that successful military achievement should - attract the admiration of the multitude. Rather do I rejoice - with wonder to behold how rapidly this sentiment is losing - its hold upon the popular mind. It is related of Thomas - Warton, the second of that honored name who held the office - of Poetry Professor at Oxford, that, when one wished to find - him, being absconded, as was his wont, in some obscure - alehouse, he was counselled to traverse the city with a drum - and fife, the sound of which inspiring music would be sure - to draw the Doctor from his retirement into the street. We - are all more or less bitten with this martial insanity. - _Nescio quâ dulcedine ... cunctos ducit._ I confess to some - infection of that itch myself. When I see a - Brigadier-General maintaining his insecure elevation in the - saddle under the severe fire of the training-field, and when - I remember that some military enthusiasts, through haste, - inexperience, or an over-desire to lend reality to those - fictitious combats, will sometimes discharge their ramrods, - I cannot but admire, while I deplore, the mistaken devotion - of those heroic officers. _Semel insanivimus omnes._ I was - myself, during the late war with Great Britain, chaplain of - a regiment, which was fortunately never called to active - military duty. I mention this circumstance with regret - rather than pride. Had I been summoned to actual warfare, I - trust that I might have been strengthened to bear myself - after the manner of that reverend father in our New England - Israel, Dr. Benjamin Colman, who, as we are told in Turell's - life of him, when the vessel in which he had taken passage - for England was attacked by a French privateer, "fought like - a philosopher and a Christian,... and prayed all the while - he charged and fired." As this note is already long, I shall - not here enter upon a discussion of the question, whether - Christians may lawfully be soldiers. I think it sufficiently - evident, that, during the first two centuries of the - Christian era, at least, two professions were esteemed - incompatible. Consult Jortin on this head.--H. W.] - - - - - No. IV. - -REMARKS OF INCREASE D. O'PHACE, ESQUIRE, AT AN EXTRUMPERY CAUCUS IN -STATE STREET, REPORTED BY MR. H. BIGLOW. - - - [The ingenious reader will at once understand that no such - speech as the following was ever _totidem verbis_ - pronounced. But there are simpler and less guarded wits, for - the satisfying of which such an explanation may be needful. - For there are certain invisible lines, which as Truth - successively overpasses, she becomes Untruth to one and - another of us, as a large river, flowing from one kingdom - into another, sometimes takes a new name, albeit the waters - undergo no change, how small soever. There is, moreover, a - truth of fiction more veracious than the truth of fact, as - that of the Poet, which represents to us things and events - as they ought to be, rather than servilely copies them as - they are imperfectly imaged in the crooked and smoky glass - of our mundane affairs. It is this which makes the speech of - Antonius, though originally spoken in no wider a forum than - the brain of Shakspeare, more historically valuable than - that other which Appian has reported, by as much as the - understanding of the Englishman was more comprehensive than - that of the Alexandrian. Mr. Biglow, in the present - instance, has only made use of a license assumed by all the - historians of antiquity, who put into the mouths of various - characters such words as seem to them most fitting to the - occasion and to the speaker. If it be objected that no such - oration could ever have been delivered, I answer, that there - are few assemblages for speech-making which do not better - deserve the title of _Parliamentum Indoctorum_ than did the - sixth Parliament of Henry the Fourth, and that men still - continue to have as much faith in the Oracle of Fools as - ever Pantagruel had. Howell, in his letters, recounts a - merry tale of a certain ambassador of Queen Elizabeth, who, - having written two letters, one to her Majesty and the other - to his wife, directed them at cross-purposes, so that the - Queen was beducked and bedeared and requested to send a - change of hose, and the wife was beprincessed and otherwise - unwontedly besuperlatived, till the one feared for the wits - of her ambassador, and the other for those of her husband. - In like manner it may be presumed that our speaker has - misdirected some of his thoughts, and given to the whole - theatre what he would have wished to confide only to a - select auditory at the back of the curtain. For it is seldom - that we can get any frank utterance from men, who address, - for the most part, a Buncombe either in this world or the - next. As for their audiences, it may be truly said of our - people, that they enjoy one political institution in common - with the ancient Athenians: I mean a certain profitless kind - of _ostracism_, wherewith, nevertheless, they seem hitherto - well enough content. For in Presidential elections, and - other affairs of the sort, whereas I observe that the - _oysters_ fall to the lot of comparatively few, the _shells_ - (such as the privileges of voting as they are told to do by - the _ostrivori_ aforesaid, and of huzzaing at public - meetings) are very liberally distributed among the people, - as being their prescriptive and quite sufficient portion. - - The occasion of the speech is supposed to be Mr. Palfrey's - refusal to vote for the Whig candidate for the - Speakership.--H. W.] - - No? Hez he? He haint, though? Wut? Voted agin him? - Ef the bird of our country could ketch him, she'd skin him; - I seem's though I see her, with wrath in each quill, - Like a chancery lawyer, afilin' her bill, - An' grindin' her talents ez sharp ez all nater, - To pounce like a writ on the back o' the traitor. - Forgive me, my friends, ef I seem to be het, - But a crisis like this must with vigor be met; - Wen an Arnold the star-spangled banner bestains, - Holl Fourth o' Julys seem to bile in my veins. - - Who ever'd ha' thought sech a pisonous rig - Would be run by a chap thet wuz chose fer a Wig? - "We knowed wut his principles wuz 'fore we sent him?' - Wut wuz ther in them from this vote to pervent him? - A marciful Providunce fashioned us holler - O' purpose thet we might our principles swaller; - It can hold any quantity on 'em, the belly can, - An' bring 'em up ready fer use like the pelican, - Or more like the kangaroo, who (wich is stranger) - Puts her family into her pouch wen there's danger. - Aint principle precious? then, who's goin' to use it - Wen there's resk o' some chap's gittin' up to abuse it? - I can't tell the wy on 't, but nothin' is so sure - Ez ther principle kind o' gits spiled by exposure;[T] - A man thet lets all sorts o' folks git a sight on 't - Ough' to hev it all took right away, every mite on 't; - Ef he can't keep it all to himself wen it's wise to, - He aint one it's fit to trust nothin' so nice to. - - [Footnote T: The speaker is of a different mind from Tully, - who, in his recently discovered tractate _De Republicâ_, - tells us,--_Nec vero habere virtutem satis est, quasi artem - aliquam, nisi utare_, and from our Milton, who says,--"I - cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised - and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her - adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal - garland is to be run for, _not without dust and - heat_."--_Areop._ He had taken the words out of the Roman's - mouth, without knowing it, and might well exclaim with - Austin (if a saint's name may stand sponsor for a curse.) - _Pereant qui ante nos nostra dixerint!_--H. W.] - - Besides, ther's a wonderful power in latitude - To shift a man's morril relations an' attitude; - Some flossifers think thet a fakkilty's granted - The minnit it's proved to be thoroughly wanted, - Thet a change o' demand makes a change o' condition, - An' thet everythin' 's nothin' except by position, - Ez, fer instance, thet rubber-trees fust begun bearin' - Wen p'litikle conshunces come into wearin',-- - Thet the fears of a monkey, whose holt chanced to fail, - Drawed the vertibry out to a prehensile tail; - So, wen one's chose to Congriss, ez soon ez he's in it, - A collar grows right round his neck in a minnit, - An' sartin it is thet a man cannot be strict - In bein' himself, wen he gits to the Deestrict, - Fer a coat thet sets wal here in ole Massachusetts, - Wen it gits on to Washinton, somehow askew sets. - - Resolves, do you say, o' the Springfield Convention? - Thet's percisely the pint I was goin' to mention; - Resolves air a thing we most gen'ally keep ill, - They're a cheap kind o' dust fer the eyes o' the people; - A parcel o' delligits jest git together - An' chat fer a spell o' the crops an' the weather, - Then, comin' to order, they squabble awile - An' let off the speeches they're ferful 'll spile; - Then--Resolve,--Thet we wunt hev an inch o' slave territory; - Thet President Polk's holl perceedins air very tory; - Thet the war is a damned war, an' them thet enlist in it - Should hev a cravat with a dreffle tight twist in it; - Thet the war is a war fer the spreadin' o' slavery; - Thet our army desarves our best thanks fer their bravery; - Thet we're the original friends o' the nation, - All the rest air a paltry an' base fabrication; - Thet we highly respect Messrs. A, B, an' C, - An' ez deeply despise Messrs. E, F, an' G. - In this way they go to the eend o' the chapter, - An' then they bust out in a kind of a raptur - About their own vartoo, an' folks's stone-blindness - To the men thet 'ould actilly do 'em a kindness,-- - The American eagle,--the Pilgrims thet landed,-- - Till on ole Plymouth Rock they git finally stranded. - Wal, the people they listen and say, "Thet's the ticket; - Ez fer Mexico, t'aint no great glory to lick it, - But 't would be a darned shame to go pullin' o' triggers - To extend the aree of abusin' the niggers." - - So they march in percessions, an' git up hooraws, - An' tramp thru the mud fer the good o' the cause, - An' think they're a kind o' fulfillin' the prophecies, - Wen they're on'y jest changin' the holders of offices; - Ware A sot afore, B is comf'tably seated, - One humbug's victor'ous, an' t' other defeated, - Each honnable doughface gits jest wut he axes, - An' the people--their annool soft-sodder an' taxes. - - Now, to keep unimpared all these glorious feeturs - Thet characterize morril an' reasonin' creeturs, - Thet give every paytriot all he can cram, - Thet oust the untrustworthy Presidunt Flam, - And stick honest Presidunt Sham in his place, - To the manifest gain o' the holl human race, - An' to some indervidgewals on 't in partickler, - Who love Public Opinion an' know now to tickle her,-- - I say thet a party with great aims like these - Must stick jest ez close ez a hive full o' bees. - - I'm willin' a man should go tollable strong - Agin wrong in the abstract, fer thet kind o' wrong - Is ollers unpop'lar an' never gits pitied, - Because it's a crime no one never committed; - But he mus'n't be hard on partickler sins, - Coz then he'll be kickin' the people's own shins; - On'y look at the Demmercrats, see wut they've done - Jest simply by stickin' together like fun; - They've sucked us right into a mis'able war - Thet no one on airth aint responsible for; - They've run us a hundred cool millions in debt, - (An' fer Demmercrat Horners ther's good plums left yet;) - They talk agin tayriffs, but act fer a high one, - An' so coax all parties to build up their Zion; - To the people they're ollers ez slick ez molasses, - An' butter their bread on both sides with The Masses, - Half o' whom they've persuaded, by way of a joke, - Thet Washinton's mantelpiece fell upon Polk. - - Now all o' these blessin's the Wigs might enjoy, - Ef they'd gumption enough the right means to imploy;[U] - Fer the silver spoon born in Dermocracy's mouth - Is a kind of a scringe thet they hev to the South; - Their masters can cuss 'em an' kick 'em an' wale 'em, - An' they notice it less 'an the ass did to Balaam; - In this way they screw into second-rate offices - Wich the slaveholder thinks 'ould substract too much off his ease; - The file-leaders, I mean, du, fer they, by their wiles, - Unlike the old viper, grow fat on their files. - Wal, the Wigs hev been tryin' to grab all this prey frum 'em - An' to hook this nice spoon o' good fortin' away frum 'em - An' they might ha' succeeded, ez likely ez not, - In lickin' the Demmercrats all round the lot, - Ef it warn't thet, wile all faithful Wigs were their knees on, - Some stuffy old codger would holler out,--"Treason! - You must keep a sharp eye on a dog thet hez bit you once, - An' _I_ aint agoin' to cheat my constitoounts,"-- - Wen every fool knows thet a man represents - Not the fellers thet sent him, but them on the fence,-- - Impartially ready to jump either side - An' make the fust use of a turn o' the tide,-- - The waiters on Providunce here in the city, - Who compose wut they call a State Centerl Committy. - Constitoounts air hendy to help a man in, - But arterwards don't weigh the heft of a pin. - Wy, the people can't all live on Uncle Sam's pus, - So they've nothin' to du with 't fer better or wus; - It's the folks thet air kind o' brought up to depend on 't - Thet hev any consarn in 't, an' thet is the end on 't. - - [Footnote U: That was a pithy saying of Persius, and fits - our politicians without a wrinkle,-_Magister artis, - ingeniique largitor venter._--H. W.] - - Now here wuz New England ahevin' the honor - Of a chance at the Speakership showered upon her;-- - Do you say,--"She don't want no more Speakers, but fewer; - She's hed plenty o' them, wut she wants is a _doer_"? - Fer the matter o' thet it's notorous in town - Thet her own representatives du her quite brown. - But thet's nothin' to du with it; wut right hed Palfrey - To mix himself up with fanatical small fry? - Warn't we gittin' on prime with our hot an' cold blowin', - Acondemnin' the war wilst we kep' it agoin'? - We'd assumed with gret skill a commandin' position, - On this side or thet, no one couldn't tell wich one, - So, wutever side wipped, we'd a chance at the plunder - An' could sue fer infringin' our paytented thunder; - We were ready to vote fer whoever wuz eligible, - Ef on all pints at issoo he'd stay unintelligible. - Wal, sposin' we hed to gulp down our perfessions, - We were ready to come out next mornin' with fresh ones; - Besides, ef we did, 'twas our business alone, - Fer couldn't we du wut we would with our own? - An' ef a man can, wen pervisions hev riz so, - Eat up his own words, it's a marcy it is so. - - Wy, these chaps frum the North, with back-bones to 'em, darn 'em, - 'Ould be wuth more 'an Gennle Tom Thumb is to Barnum; - Ther's enough thet to office on this very plan grow, - By exhibitin' how very small a man can grow; - But an M. C. frum here ollers hastens to state he - Belongs to the order called invertebraty, - Wence some gret filologists judge primy fashy - Thet M. C. is M. T. by paronomashy; - An' these few exceptions air _loosus naytury_ - Folks 'ould put down their quarters to stare at, like fury. - - It's no use to open the door o' success, - Ef a member can bolt so fer nothin' or less; - Wy, all o' them grand constitootional pillers - Our fore-fathers fetched with 'em over the billers, - Them pillers the people so soundly hev slep' on, - Wile to slav'ry, invasion, an' debt they were swep' on, - Wile our Destiny higher an' higher kep' mountin', - (Though I guess folks'll stare wen she hends her account in,) - Ef members in this way go kickin' agin 'em, - They wunt hev so much ez a feather left in 'em. - - An', ez fer this Palfrey,[V] we thought wen we'd gut him in, - He'd go kindly in wutever harness we put him in; - Supposin' we _did_ know thet he wuz a peace man? - Doos he think he can be Uncle Sammle's policeman, - An' wen Sam gits tipsy an' kicks up a riot, - Lead him off to the lockup to snooze till he's quiet? - Wy, the war is a war thet true paytriots can bear, ef - It leads to the fat promised land of a tayriff; - We don't go an' fight it, nor aint to be driv on, - Nor Demmercrats nuther, thet hev wut to live on; - Ef it aint jest the thing thet's well pleasin' to God, - It makes us thought highly on elsewhere abroad; - The Rooshian black eagle looks blue in his eerie - An' shakes both his heads wen he hears o' Monteery; - In the Tower Victory sets, all of a fluster, - An' reads, with locked doors, how we won Cherry Buster; - An' old Philip Lewis--thet come an' kep' school here - Fer the mere sake o' scorin' his ryalist ruler - On the tenderest part of our kings _in futuro_-- - Hides his crown underneath an old shut in his bureau, - Breaks off in his brags to a suckle o' merry kings, - How he often hed hided young native Amerrikins, - An', turnin' quite faint in the midst of his fooleries, - Sneaks down stairs to bolt the front door o' the Tooleries.[W] - - [Footnote V: - There is truth yet in this of Juvenal,-- - "Dat veniam corvis, vexat censura columbas." - H. W.] - - [Footnote W: Jortin is willing to allow of other miracles - besides those recorded in Holy Writ, and why not of other - prophecies? It is granting too much to Satan to suppose him, - as divers of the learned have done, the inspirer of the - ancient oracles. Wiser, I esteem it, to give chance the - credit of the successful ones. What is said here of Louis - Philippe was verified in some of its minute particulars - within a few months' time. Enough to have made the fortune - of Delphi or Hammon, and no thanks to Beelzebub neither! - That of Seneca in Medea will suit here:-- - - "Rapida fortuna ac levis - Præcepsque regno eripuit, exsilio dedit." - - Let us allow, even to richly deserved misfortune, our - commiseration, and be not over-hasty meanwhile in our - censure of the French people, left for the first time to - govern themselves, remembering that wise sentence of - Æschylus,-- - - Hapas de trachus hostis an neon kratê. - H. W.] - - You say,--"We'd ha' scared 'em by growin' in peace, - A plaguy sight more then by bobberies like these"? - Who is it dares say thet "our naytional eagle - Wun't much longer be classed with the birds thet air regal, - Coz theirn be hooked beaks, an' she, arter this slaughter, - 'll bring back a bill ten times longer 'n she ough' to"? - Wut's your name? Come, I see ye, you up-country feller, - You've put me out severil times with your beller; - Out with it! Wut? Biglow? I say nothin' furder, - Thet feller would like nothin' better 'n a murder; - He's a traiter, blasphemer, an' wut ruther worse is, - He puts all his ath'ism in dreffle bad verses; - Socity aint safe till sech monsters air out on it, - Refer to the Post, ef you hev the least doubt on it; - Wy, he goes agin war, agin indirect taxes, - Agin sellin' wild lands 'cept to settlers with axes, - Agin holdin' o' slaves, though he knows it's the corner - Our libbaty rests on, the mis'able scorner! - In short, he would wholly upset with his ravages - All thet keeps us above the brute critters an' savages, - An' pitch into all kinds o' briles an' confusions - The holl of our civilized, free institutions; - He writes fer thet ruther unsafe print, the Courier, - An' likely ez not hez a squintin' to Foorier; - I'll be----, thet is, I mean I'll be blest, - Ef I hark to a word frum so noted a pest; - I shan't talk with _him_, my religion's too fervent.-- - Good mornin', my friends, I'm your most humble servant. - - [Into the question, whether the ability to express ourselves - in articulate language has been productive of more good or - evil, I shall not here enter at large. The two faculties of - speech and of speech-making are wholly diverse in their - natures. By the first we make ourselves intelligible, by the - last unintelligible, to our fellows. It has not seldom - occurred to me (noting how in our national legislature every - thing runs to talk, as lettuces, if the season or the soil - be unpropitious, shoot up lankly to seed, instead of forming - handsome heads) that Babel was the first Congress, the - earliest mill erected for the manufacture of gabble. In - these days, what with Town Meetings, School Committees, - Boards (lumber) of one kind and another, Congresses, - Parliaments, Diets, Indian Councils, Palavers, and the like, - there is scarce a village which has not its factories of - this description driven by (milk-and-) water power. I cannot - conceive the confusion of tongues to have been the curse of - Babel, since I esteem my ignorance of other languages as a - kind of Martello-tower, in which I am safe from the furious - bombardments of foreign garrulity. For this reason I have - ever preferred the study of the dead languages, those - primitive formations being Ararats upon whose silent peaks I - sit secure and watch this new deluge without fear, though it - rain figures (_simulacra_, semblances) of speech forty days - and nights together, as it not uncommonly happens. Thus is - my coat, as it were, without buttons by which any but a - vernacular wild bore can seize me. Is it not possible that - the Shakers may intend to convey a quiet reproof and hint, - in fastening their outer garments with hooks and eyes? - - This reflection concerning Babel, which I find in no - Commentary, was first thrown upon my mind when an excellent - deacon of my congregation (being infected with the Second - Advent delusion) assured me that he had received a first - instalment of the gift of tongues as a small earnest of - larger possessions in the like kind to follow. For, of a - truth, I could not reconcile it with my ideas of the Divine - justice and mercy that the single wall which protected - people, of other languages from the incursions of this - otherwise well-meaning propagandist should be broken down. - - In reading Congressional debates, I have fancied, that, - after the subsidence of those painful buzzings in the brain - which result from such exercises, I detected a slender - residuum of valuable information. I made the discovery that - _nothing_ takes longer in the saying than any thing else, - for, as _ex nihilo nihil fit_, so from one polypus _nothing_ - any number of similar ones may be produced. I would - recommend to the attention of _vivâ voce_ debaters and - controversialists the admirable example of the monk Copres, - who, in the fourth century, stood for half an hour in the - midst of a great fire, and thereby silenced a Manichæan - antagonist who had less of the salamander in him. As for - those who quarrel in print, I have no concern with them - here, since the eyelids are a divinely-granted shield - against all such. Moreover, I have observed in many modern - books that the printed portion is becoming gradually - smaller, and the number of blank or fly-leaves (as they are - called) greater. Should this fortunate tendency of - literature continue, books will grow more valuable from year - to year, and the whole Serbonian bog yield to the advances - of firm arable land. - - The sagacious Lacedæmonians hearing that Tesephone had - bragged that he could talk all day long on any given - subject, made no more ado, but forthwith banished him, - whereby they supplied him a topic and at the same time took - care that his experiment upon it should be tried out of - ear-shot. - - I have wondered, in the Representatives' Chamber of our own - Commonwealth, to mark how little impression seemed to be - produced by that emblematic fish suspended over the heads of - the members. Our wiser ancestors, no doubt, hung it there as - being the animal which the Pythagoreans reverenced for its - silence, and which certainly in that particular does not so - well merit the epithet _cold-blooded_, by which naturalists - distinguish it, as certain bipeds, afflicted with - ditch-water on the brain, who take occasion to tap - themselves in Fanueil Halls, meeting-houses, and other - places of public resort.--H. W.] - - - - - No. V. - - THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT. - - SOT TO A NUSRY RHYME. - - - [The incident which gave rise to the debate satirized in the - following verses was the unsuccessful attempt of Drayton and - Sayres to give freedom to seventy men and women, - fellow-beings and fellow-Christians. Had Tripoli, instead of - Washington, been the scene of this undertaking, the unhappy - leaders in it would have been as secure of the theoretic as - they now are of the practical part of martyrdom. I question - whether the Dey of Tripoli is blessed with a District - Attorney so benighted as ours at the seat of government. - Very fitly is he named Key, who would allow himself to be - made the instrument of locking the door of hope against - sufferers in such a cause. Not all the waters of the ocean - can cleanse the vile smutch of the jailer's fingers from off - that little Key. _Ahenea clavis_, a brazen Key indeed! - - Mr. Calhoun, who is made the chief speaker in this - burlesque, seems to think that the light of the nineteenth - century is to be put out as soon as he tinkles his little - cow-bell curfew. Whenever slavery is touched, he sets up his - scarecrow of dissolving the Union. This may do for the - North, but I should conjecture that something more than a - pumpkin-lantern is required to scare manifest and - irretrievable Destiny out of her path. Mr. Calhoun cannot - let go the apron-string of the Past. The Past is a good - nurse, but we must be weaned from her sooner or later, even - though, like Plotinus, we should run home from school to ask - the breast, after we are tolerably well-grown youths. It - will not do for us to hide our faces in her lap, whenever - the strange Future holds out her arms and asks us to come to - her. - - But we are all alike. We have all heard it said, often - enough, that little boys must not play with fire; and yet, - if the matches be taken away from us and put out of reach - upon the shelf, we must needs get into our little corner, - and scowl and stamp and threaten the dire revenge of going - to bed without our supper. The world shall stop till we get - our dangerous plaything again. Dame Earth, meanwhile, who - has more than enough household matters to mind, goes - bustling hither and thither as a hiss or a sputter tells her - that this or that kettle of hers is boiling over and before - bedtime we are glad to eat our porridge cold, and gulp down - our dignity along with it. - - Mr. Calhoun has somehow acquired the name of a great - statesman, and, if it be great statesmanship to put lance in - rest and run a tilt at the Spirit of the Age with the - certainty of being next moment hurled neck and heels into - the dust amid universal laughter, he deserves the title. He - is the Sir Kay of our modern chivalry. He should remember - the old Scandinavian mythus. Thor was the strongest of gods, - but he could not wrestle with Time, nor so much as lift up a - fold of the great snake which knit the universe together; - and when he smote the Earth, though with his terrible - mallet, it was but as if a leaf had fallen. Yet all the - while it seemed to Thor that he had only been wrestling with - an old woman, striving to lift a cat, and striking a stupid - giant on the head. - - And in old times, doubtless, the giants _were_ stupid, and - there was no better sport for the Sir Launcelots and Sir - Gawains than to go about cutting off their great blundering - heads with enchanted swords. But things have wonderfully - changed. It is the giants, now-a-days, that have the science - and the intelligence, while the chivalrous Don Quixotes of - Conservatism still cumber themselves with the clumsy armor - of a by-gone age. On whirls the restless globe through - unsounded time, with its cities and its silences, its births - and funerals, half light, half shade, but never wholly dark, - and sure to swing round into the happy morning at last. With - an involuntary smile, one sees Mr. Calhoun letting slip his - pack-thread cable with a crooked pin at the end of it to - anchor South Carolina upon the bank and shoal of the - Past.--H. W.] - - TO MR. BUCKENAM. - -|Mr. Editer|, As i wuz kinder prunin round, in a little nussry sot out a -year or 2 a go, the Dbait in the sennit cum inter my mine An so i took & -Sot it to wut I call a nussry rime. I hev made sum onnable Gentlemun -speak that dident speak in a Kind uv Poetikul lie sense the seeson is -dreffle backerd up This way - - ewers as ushul - |Hosea Biglow|. - - "Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder! - It's a fact o' wich ther's bushils o' proofs; - Fer how could we trample on't so, I wonder, - Ef 't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?" - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; - "Human rights haint no more - Right to come on this floor, - No more'n the man in the moon," sez he. - - "The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin', - An' you've no idee how much bother it saves; - We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin', - We're _used_ to layin' the string on our slaves," - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- - Sez Mister Foote, - "I should like to shoot - The holl gang, by the great horn spoon," sez he. - - "Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on, - It's sutthin' thet's--wha' d' ye call it?--divine,-- - An' the slaves thet we allers _make_ the most out on - Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line," - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- - "Fer all thet," sez Mangum, - "'T would be better to hang 'em, - An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he. - - "The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, - Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree; - It puts all the cunninest on us in office, - An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee," - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- - "Thet's ez plain," sez Cass, - "Ez thet some one's an ass, - It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he. - - "Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression, - But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, - Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression) - To make cussed free with the rights o' the North," - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- - "Yes," sez Davis o' Miss., - "The perfection o' bliss - Is in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he. - - "Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion, - It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe; - Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!) - Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?" - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- - Sez Mister Hannegan, - Afore he began agin, - "Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he. - - "Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar, - _Your_ merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees, - At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color, - You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please," - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- - Sez Mister Jarnagin, - "They wunt hev to larn agin, - They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he. - - "The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin', - North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance; - No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin, - But they _du_ sell themselves, ef they git a good chance," - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- - Sez Atherton here, - "This is gittin' severe, - I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he. - - "It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom, - An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head, - An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, - 'll go to work raisin' pr'miscoous Ned," - Sez John O. Calhoun, sez he;-- - "Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, - "Ef we Southeners all quit, - Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he. - - "Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin' - In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, - All the wise aristoxy is tumblin' to ruin, - An' the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' their wine," - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- - "Yes," sez Johnson, "in France - They're beginnin' to dance - Beelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he. - - "The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, - Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest - Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery - Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest," - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- - "O," sez Westcott o' Florida, - "Wut treason is horrider - Then our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he. - - "It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints - Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled; - We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, - Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth shan't be spiled," - Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- - "Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis, - "It perfectly true is - Thet slavery 's airth's grettest boon," sez he. - - [It was said of old time, that riches have wings; and, - though this be not applicable in a literal strictness to the - wealth of our patriarchal brethren of the South, yet it is - clear that their possessions have legs, and an unaccountable - propensity for using them in a northerly direction. I marvel - that the grand jury of Washington did not find a true bill - against the North Star for aiding and abetting Drayton and - Sayres. It would have been quite of a piece with the - intelligence displayed by the South on other questions - connected with slavery. I think that no ship of state was - ever freighted with a more veritable Jonah than this same - domestic institution of ours. Mephistopheles himself could - not feign so bitterly, so satirically sad a sight as this of - three millions of human beings crushed beyond help or hope - by this one mighty argument,--_Our fathers knew no better!_ - Nevertheless, it is the unavoidable destiny of Jonahs to be - cast overboard sooner or later. Or shall we try the - experiment of hiding our Jonah in a safe place, that none - may lay hands on him to make jetsam of him? Let us, then, - with equal forethought and wisdom, lash ourselves to the - anchor, and await, in pious confidence, the certain result. - Perhaps our suspicious passenger is no Jonah after all, - being black. For it is well known that a superintending - Providence made a kind of sandwich of Ham and his - descendants, to be devoured by the Caucasian race. - - In God's name, let all, who hear nearer and nearer the - hungry moan of the storm and the growl of the breakers, - speak out! But, alas! we have no right to interfere. If a - man pluck an apple of mine, he shall be in danger of the - justice; but if he steal my brother, I must be silent. Who - says this? Our Constitution, consecrated by the callous - consuetude of sixty years, and grasped in triumphant - argument by the left hand of him whose right hand clutches - the clotted slave-whip. Justice, venerable with the - undethronable majesty of countless æons, says,--|Speak|! The - Past, wise with the sorrows and desolations of ages, from - amid her shattered fanes and wolf-housing palaces, - echoes,--|Speak|! Nature, through her thousand trumpets of - freedom, her stars, her sunrises, her seas, her winds, her - cataracts, her mountains blue with cloudy pines, blows - jubilant encouragement, and cries,--|Speak!| From the soul's - trembling abysses the still, small voice not vaguely - murmurs,--|Speak|! But, alas! the Constitution and the - Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M. C., say,--|Be dumb|! - - It occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of inquiry in this - connection, whether, on that momentous occasion when the - goats and the sheep shall be parted, the Constitution and - the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M. C., will be expected to take - their places on the left as our hircine vicars. - - _Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? - Quem patronum rogaturus?_ - - There is a point where toleration sinks into sheer baseness - and poltroonery. The toleration of the worst leads us to - look on what is barely better as good enough, and to worship - what is only moderately good. Woe to that man, or that - nation, to whom mediocrity has become an ideal! - - Has our experiment of self-government succeeded, if it - barely manage to _rub and go_? Here, now, is a piece of - barbarism which Christ and the nineteenth century say shall - cease, and which Messrs. Smith, Brown, and others say shall - _not_ cease. I would by no means deny the eminent - respectability of these gentlemen, but I confess, that, in - such a wrestling-match, I cannot help having my fears for - them. - - _Discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos._ - H. W.] - - - - - No. VI. - - THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED. - - [At the special instance of Mr. Biglow, I preface the - following satire with an extract from a sermon preached - during the past summer, from Ezekiel xxxiv. 2:--"Son of man, - prophesy against the shepherds of Israel." Since the Sabbath - on which this discourse was delivered, the editor of the - "Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss" has unaccountably absented - himself from our house of worship. - - "I know of no so responsible position as that of the public - journalist. The editor of our day bears the same relation to - his time that the clerk bore to the age before the invention - of printing. Indeed, the position which he holds is that - which the clergyman should hold even now. But the clergyman - chooses to walk off to the extreme edge of the world, and to - throw such seed as he has clear over into that darkness - which he calls the Next Life. As if _next_ did not mean - _nearest_, and as if any life were nearer than that - immediately present one which boils and eddies all around - him at the caucus, the ratification meeting, and the polls! - Who taught him to exhort men to prepare for eternity, as for - some future era of which the present forms no integral part? - The furrow which Time is even now turning runs through the - Everlasting, and in that must he plant, or nowhere. Yet he - would fain believe and teach that we are _going_ to have - more of eternity than we have now. This _going_ of his is - like that of the auctioneer, on which _gone_ follows before - we have made up our minds to bid,--in which manner, not - three months back, I lost an excellent copy of Chappelow on - Job. So it has come to pass that the preacher, instead of - being a living force, has faded into an emblematic figure at - christenings, weddings, and funerals. Or, if he exercise any - other function, it is as keeper and feeder of certain - theologic dogmas, which, when occasion offers, he unkennels - with a _staboy_! 'to bark and bite as 'tis their nature to,' - whence that reproach of _odium theologicum_ has arisen. - - "Meanwhile, see what a pulpit the editor mounts daily, - sometimes with a congregation of fifty thousand within reach - of his voice, and never so much as a nodder, even, among - them! And from what a Bible can he choose his text,--a Bible - which needs no translation, and which no priestcraft can - shut and clasp from the laity,--the open volume of the - world, upon which, with a pen of sunshine or destroying - fire, the inspired Present is even now writing the annals of - God! Methinks the editor who should understand his calling, - and be equal thereto, would truly deserve that title of - poimên laôn, which Homer bestows upon princes. He would be - the Moses of our nineteenth century; and whereas the old - Sinai, silent now, is but a common mountain stared at by the - elegant tourist and crawled over by the hammering geologist, - he must find his tables of the new law here among factories - and cities in this Wilderness of Sin (Numbers xxxiii. 12) - called Progress of Civilization, and be the captain of our - Exodus into the Canaan of a truer social order. - - "Nevertheless, our editor will not come so far within even - the shadow of Sinai as Mahomet did, but chooses rather to - construe Moses by Joe Smith. He takes up the crook, not that - the sheep may be fed, but that he may never want a warm - woollen suit and a joint of mutton. - - _Immemor, O, fidei, pecorumque oblite tuorum!_ - - For which reason I would derive the name _editor_ not so - much from _edo_, to publish, as from _edo_, to eat, that - being the peculiar profession to which he esteems himself - called. He blows up the flames of political discord for no - other occasion than that he may thereby handily boil his own - pot. I believe there are two thousand of these mutton-loving - shepherds in the United States, and of these, how many have - even the dimmest perception of their immense power, and the - duties consequent thereon? Here and there, haply, one. Nine - hundred and ninety-nine labor to impress upon the people the - great principles of _Tweedledum_, and other nine hundred and - ninety-nine preach with equal earnestness the gospel - according to _Tweedledee_."--H. W.] - - - I du believe in Freedom's cause, - Ez fur away ez Payris is; - I love to see her stick her claws - In them infarnal Phayrisees; - It's wal enough agin a king - To dror resolves an' triggers,-- - But libbaty's a kind o' thing - Thet don't agree with niggers. - - I du believe the people want - A tax on teas, an' coffees, - Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,-- - Purvidin' I'm in office; - Fer I hev loved my country sence - My eye-teeth filled their sockets, - An' Uncle Sam I reverence, - Partic'larly his pockets. - - I du believe in _any_ plan - O' levyin' the taxes, - Ez long ez, like a lumberman, - I git jest wut I axes: - I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, - Because it kind o' rouses - The folks to vote,--an' keeps us in - Our quiet custom-houses. - - I du believe it's wise an' good - To sen' out furrin missions, - Thet is, on sartin understood - An' orthydox conditions;-- - I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann., - Nine thousan' more fer outfit, - An' me to recommend a man - The place 'ould jest about fit. - - I du believe in special ways - O' prayin' an' convartin'; - The bread comes back in many days, - An' buttered, tu, fer sartin; - I mean in prayin' till one busts - On wut the party chooses, - An' in convartin' public trusts - To very privit uses. - - I du believe hard coin the stuff - Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; - The people's ollers soft enough - To make hard money out on; - Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, - An' gives a good-sized junk to all,-- - I don't care _how_ hard money is, - Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal. - - I du believe with all my soul - In the gret Press's freedom, - To pint the people to the goal - An' in the traces lead 'em; - Palsied the arm thet forges yokes - At my fat contracts squintin', - An' withered be the nose thet pokes - Inter the gov'ment printin'! - - I du believe thet I should give - Wut's his'n unto Cæsar, - Fer it's by him I move an' live, - Frum him my bread an' cheese air; - I du believe thet all o' me - Doth bear his superscription,-- - Will, conscience, honor, honesty, - An' things o' thet description. - - I du believe in prayer an' praise - To him that hez the grantin' - O' jobs,--in every thin' thet pays, - But most of all in |Cantin|'; - This doth my cup with marcies fill, - This lays all thought o' sin to rest,-- - I _don't_ believe in princerple, - But O, I _du_ in interest. - - I du believe in bein' this - Or thet, ez it may happen - One way or t' other hendiest is - To ketch the people nappin'; - It aint by princerples nor men - My preudunt course is steadied,-- - I scent which pays the best, an' then - Go into it baldheaded. - - I du believe thet holdin' slaves - Comes nat'ral tu a Presidunt, - Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves - To hev a wal-broke precedunt; - Fer any office, small or gret, - I couldn't ax with no face, - Without I'd ben, thru dry an' wet, - Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface. - - I du believe wutever trash - 'll keep the people in blindness,-- - Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash - Right inter brotherly kindness, - Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball - Air good-will's strongest magnets, - Thet peace, to make it stick at all, - Must be druv in with bagnets. - - In short, I firmly du believe - In Humbug generally, - Fer it's a thing thet I perceive - To hev a solid vally; - This heth my faithful shepherd ben, - In pasturs sweet heth led me, - An' this 'll keep the people green - To feed ez they hev fed me. - - [I subjoin here another passage from my before-mentioned - discourse. - - "Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, is the - newspaper. To me, for example, sitting on the critical front - bench of the pit, in my study here in Jaalam, the advent of - my weekly journal is as that of a strolling theatre, or - rather of a puppet-show, on whose stage, narrow as it is, - the tragedy, comedy, and farce of life are played in little. - Behold the whole huge earth sent to me hebdomadally in a - brown-paper wrapper! - - "Hither, to my obscure corner, by wind or steam, on - horseback or dromedary-back, in the pouch of the Indian - runner, or clicking over the magnetic wires, troop all the - famous performers from the four quarters of the globe. - Looked at from a point of criticism, tiny puppets they seem - all, as the editor sets up his booth upon my desk and - officiates as showman. Now I can truly see how little and - transitory is life. The earth appears almost as a drop of - vinegar, on which the solar microscope of the imagination - must be brought to bear in order to make out anything - distinctly. That animalcule there, in the pea-jacket, is - Louis Philippe, just landed on the coast of England. That - other, in the gray surtout and cocked hat, is Napoleon - Bonaparte Smith, assuring France that she need apprehend no - interference from him in the present alarming juncture. At - that spot, where you seem to see a speck of something in - motion, is an immense mass-meeting. Look sharper and you - will see a mite brandishing his mandibles in an excited - manner. That is the great Mr. Soandso, defining his position - amid tumultuous and irrepressible cheers. That infinitesimal - creature, upon whom some score of others, as minute as he, - are gazing in open-mouthed admiration, is a famous - philosopher, expounding to a select audience their capacity - for the infinite. That scarce discernible pufflet of smoke - and dust is a revolution. That speck there is a reformer, - just arranging the lever with which he is to move the world. - And lo, there creeps forward the shadow of a skeleton that - blows one breath between its grinning teeth, and all our - distinguished actors are whisked off the slippery stage into - the dark Beyond. - - "Yes, the little show-box has its solemner suggestions. Now - and then we catch a glimpse of a grim old man, who lays down - a scythe and hour-glass in the corner while he shifts the - scenes. There, too, in the dim background, a weird shape is - ever delving. Sometimes he leans upon his mattock, and - gazes, as a coach whirls by, bearing the newly married on - their wedding jaunt, or glances carelessly at a babe brought - home from christening. Suddenly (for the scene grows larger - and larger as we look) a bony hand snatches back a performer - in the midst of his part, and him, whom yesterday two - infinites (past and future) would not suffice, a handful of - dust is enough to cover and silence forever. Nay, we see the - same fleshless fingers opening to clutch the showman - himself, and guess, not without a shudder, that they are - lying in wait for spectator also. - - "Think of it: for three dollars a year I buy a season-ticket - to this great Globe Theatre, for which God would write the - dramas (only that we like farces, spectacles, and the - tragedies of Apollyon better), whose scene-shifter is Time, - and whose curtain is rung down by Death. - - "Such thoughts will occur to me sometimes as I am tearing - off the wrapper of my newspaper. Then suddenly that - otherwise too often vacant sheet becomes invested for me - with a strange kind of awe. Look! deaths and marriages, - notices of inventions, discoveries, and books, lists of - promotions, of killed, wounded, and missing, news of fires, - accidents, of sudden wealth and as sudden poverty;--I hold - in my hand the ends of myriad invisible electric conductors, - along which tremble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, - hopes, and despairs of as many men and women everywhere. So - that upon that mood of mind which seems to isolate me from - mankind as a spectator of their puppet-pranks, another - supervenes, in which I feel that I, too, unknown and unheard - of, am yet of some import to my fellows. For, through my - newspaper here, do not families take pains to send me, an - entire stranger, news of a death among them? Are not here - two who would have me know of their marriage? And, strangest - of all, is not this singular person anxious to have me - informed that he has received a fresh supply of Dimitry - Bruisgins? But to none of us does the President continue - miraculous (even if for a moment discerned as such). We - glance carelessly at the sunrise, and get used to Orion and - the Pleiades. The wonder wears off, and to-morrow this - sheet, in which a vision was let down to me from Heaven, - shall be the wrappage to a bar of soap or the platter for a - beggar's broken victuals."--H. W.] - - - - - No. VII. - - A LETTER - -FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS -PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIGLOW, ENCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S. -H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY STANDARD. - - - [Curiosity may be said to be the quality which pre-eminently - distinguishes and segregates man from the lower animals. As - we trace the scale of animated nature downward, we find this - faculty (as it may truly be called) of the mind diminished - in the savage, and quite extinct in the brute. The first - object which civilized man proposes to himself I take to be - the finding out whatsoever he can concerning his neighbors. - _Nihil humanum a me alienum puto_; I am curious about even - John Smith. The desire next in strength to this (an opposite - pole, indeed, of the same magnet) is that of communicating - the unintelligence we have carefully picked up. - - Men in general may be divided into the inquisitive and the - communicative. To the first class belong Peeping Toms, - eaves-droppers, navel-contemplating Brahmins, - metaphysicians, travellers, Empedocleses, spies, the various - societies for promoting Rhinothism, Columbuses, Yankees, - discoverers, and men of science, who present themselves to - the mind as so many marks of interrogation wandering up and - down the world, or sitting in studies and laboratories. The - second class I should again subdivide into four. In the - first subdivision I would rank those who have an itch to - tell us about themselves,--as keepers of diaries, - insignificant persons generally, Montaignes, Horace - Walpoles, autobiographers, poets. The second includes those - who are anxious to impart information concerning other - people,--as historians, barbers, and such. To the third - belong those who labor to give us intelligence about nothing - at all,--as novelists, political orators, the large majority - of authors, preachers, lecturers, and the like. In the - fourth come those who are communicative from motives of - public benevolence,--as finders of mares'-nests and bringers - of ill news. Each of us two-legged fowls without feathers - embraces all these subdivisions in himself to a greater or - less degree, for none of us so much as lays an egg, or - incubates a chalk one, but straightway the whole barn-yard - shall know it by our cackle or our cluck. _Omnibus hoc - vitium est._ There are different grades in all these - classes. One will turn his telescope toward a back-yard, - another toward Uranus; one will tell you that he dined with - Smith, another that he supped with Plato. In one particular, - all men may be considered as belonging to the first grand - division, inasmuch as they all seem equally desirous of - discovering the mote in their neighbor's eye. - - To one or another of these species every human being may - safely be referred. I think it beyond a peradventure that - Jonah prosecuted some inquiries into the digestive apparatus - of whales, and that Noah sealed up a letter in an empty - bottle, that news in regard to him might not be wanting in - case of the worst. They had else been super or subter human. - I conceive, also, that, as there are certain persons who - continually peep and pry at the keyhole of that mysterious - door through which, sooner or later, we all make our exits, - so there are doubtless ghosts fidgetting and fretting on the - other side of it, because they have no means of conveying - back to this world the scraps of news they have picked up in - that. For there is an answer ready somewhere to every - question, the great law of _give and take_ runs through all - nature, and if we see a hook, we may be sure that an eye is - waiting for it. I read in every face I meet a standing - advertisement of information wanted in regard to A. B., or - that the friends of C. D. can hear something to his - disadvantage by application to such a one. - - It was to gratify the two great passions of asking and - answering that epistolary correspondence was first invented. - Letters (for by this usurped title epistles are now commonly - known) are of several kinds. First, there are those which - are not letters at all,--as letters-patent, letters - dismissory, letters enclosing bills, letters of - administration, Pliny's letters, letters of diplomacy, of - Cato, of Mentor, of Lords Lyttleton, Chesterfield, and - Orrery, of Jacob Behmen, Seneca (whom St. Jerome includes in - his list of sacred writers), letters from abroad, from sons - in college to their fathers, letters of marque, and letters - generally, which are in nowise letters of mark. Second, are - real letters, such as those of Gray, Cowper, Walpole, Howel, - Lamb, D. Y., the first letters from children, (printed in - staggering capitals,) Letters from New York, letters of - credit, and others, interesting for the sake of the writer - or the thing written. I have read also letters from Europe - by a gentleman named Pinto, containing some curious gossip, - and which I hope to see collected for the benefit of the - curious. There are, besides, letters addressed to - posterity,--as epitaphs, for example, written for their own - monuments by monarchs, whereby we have lately become - possessed of the names of several great conquerors and kings - of kings, hitherto unheard of and still unpronounceable, but - valuable to the student of the entirely dark ages. The - letter which St. Peter sent to King Pepin in the year of - grace 755, that of the Virgin to the magistrates of Messina, - that of St. Gregory Thaumaturgus to the D--l, and that of - this last-mentioned active police-magistrate to a nun of - Girgenti, I would place in a class by themselves, as also - the letters of candidates, concerning which I shall dilate - more fully in a note at the end of the following poem. At - present, _sat prata biberunt_. Only, concerning the shape of - letters, they are all either square or oblong, to which - general figures circular letters and round-robins also - conform themselves.--H. W.] - -|Deer sir| its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s -and i wus chose at a publick Meetin in Jaalam to du wut wus nessary fur -that town. i writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. tha air called -candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here I wich I -send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print -Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus -best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat -wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance fur the cheef -madgustracy.--H. B. - - |Dear Sir|,--You wish, to know my notions - On sartin pints thet rile the land; - There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns - Ez bein' mum or underhand; - I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur - Thet blurts right out wut's in his head, - An' ef I've one pecooler feetur, - It is a nose thet wunt be led. - - So, to begin at the beginnin', - An' come direcly to the pint, - I think the country's underpinnin' - Is some consid'ble out o' jint; - I aint agoin' to try your patience - By tellin' who done this or thet, - I don't make no insinooations, - I jest let on I smell a rat. - - Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, - But, ef the public think I'm wrong, - I wunt deny but wut I be so,-- - An', fact, it don't smell very strong; - My mind's tu fair to lose its balance - An' say wich party hez most sense; - There may be folks o' greater talence - Thet can't set stiddier on the fence. - - I'm an eclectic; ez to choosin' - 'Twixt this an' thet, I'm plaguy lawth; - I leave a side thet looks like losin', - But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both; - I stan' upon the Constitution, - Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned - A way to git the most profusion - O' chances ez to _ware_ they'll stand. - - Ez fer the war, I go agin it,-- - I mean to say I kind o' du,-- - Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, - The best way wuz to fight it thru; - Not but wut abstract war is horrid, - I sign to thet with all my heart,-- - But civlyzation _doos_ git forrid - Sometimes upon a powder-cart. - - About thet darned Proviso matter - I never hed a grain o' doubt, - Nor I aint one my sense to scatter - So'st no one couldn't pick it out; - My love fer North an' South is equil, - So I'll jest answer plump an' frank,-- - No matter wut may be the sequil,-- - Yes, Sir, I _am_ agin a Bank. - - Ez to the answerin' o' questions, - I'm an off ox at bein' druv, - Though I aint one thet ary test shuns - 'll give our folks a helpin' shove; - Kind o' pr'miscoous I go it - Fer the holl country, an' the ground - I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, - Is pooty gen'ally all round. - - I don't appruve o' givin' pledges; - You'd ough' to leave a fellar free, - An' not go knockin' out the wedges - To ketch his fingers in the tree; - Pledges air awfle breachy cattle - Thet preudunt farmers don't turn out,-- - Ez long 'z the people git their rattle, - Wut is there fer 'm to grout about? - - Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion - In _my_ idees consarnin' them,-- - _I_ think they air an Institution, - A sort of--yes, jest so,--ahem: - Do _I_ own any? Of my merit - On thet pint you yourself may jedge. - All is, I never drink no sperit, - Nor I haint never signed no pledge. - - Ez to my princerples, I glory - In hevin' nothin' o' the sort; - I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, - I'm jest a candidate, in short; - Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler, - But, ef the Public cares' a fig - To hev me an'thin' in particler, - Wy, I'm a kind o' peri-wig. - - P. S. - - Ez we're a sort o' privateerin', - O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer, - An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' - I'll mention in _your_ privit ear; - Ef you git me inside the White House, - Your head with ile I'll kin' o' 'nint - By gittin' you inside the Light-house - Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint. - - An' ez the North hez took to brustlin' - At bein' scrouged frum off the roost, - I'll tell ye wut'll save all tusslin' - An' give our side a harnsome boost,-- - Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question - I'm |right|, although to speak I'm lawth; - This gives you a safe pint to rest on, - An' leaves me frontin' South by North. - - [And now of epistles candidatial, which are of two - kinds,--namely, letters of acceptance, and letters - definitive of position. Our republic, on the eve of an - election, may safely enough be called a republic of letters. - Epistolary composition becomes then an epidemic, which - seizes one candidate after another, not seldom cutting short - the thread of political life. It has come to such a pass, - that a party dreads less the attacks of its opponents than a - letter from its candidate. _Litera scripta manet_, and it - will go hard if something bad can not be made of it. General - Harrison, it is well understood, was surrounded, during his - candidacy, with the _cordon sanitaire_ of a vigilance - committee. No prisoner in Spielberg was ever more cautiously - deprived of writing materials. The soot was scraped - carefully from the chimney-places; outposts of expert - rifle-shooters rendered it sure death for any goose (who - came clad in feathers) to approach within a certain limited - distance of North Bend; and all domestic fowls about the - premises were reduced to the condition of Plato's original - man. By these precautions the General was saved. _Parva - componere magnis_, I remember, that, when party-spirit once - ran high among my people, upon occasion of the choice of a - new deacon, I, having my preferences, yet not caring too - openly to express them, made use of an innocent fraud to - bring about that result which I deemed most desirable. My - stratagem was no other than the throwing a copy of the - Complete Letter-Writer in the way of the candidate whom I - wished to defeat. He caught the infection, and addressed a - short note to his constituents, in which the opposite party - detected so many and so grave improprieties, (he had - modelled it upon the letter of a young lady accepting a - proposal of marriage,) that he not only lost his election, - but, falling under a suspicion of Sabellianism and I know - not what, (the widow Endive assured me that he was a - Paralipomenon, to her certain knowledge,) was forced to - leave the town. Thus it is that the letter killeth. - - The object which candidates propose to themselves in writing - is to convey no meaning at all. And here is a quite - unsuspected pitfall into which they successively plunge - headlong. For it is precisely in such cryptographies that - mankind are prone to seek for and find a wonderful amount - and variety of significance. _Omne ignotum pro mirifico._ - How do we admire at the antique world striving to crack - those oracular nuts from Delphi, Hammon, and elsewhere, in - only one of which can I so much as surmise that any kernel - had ever lodged; that, namely, wherein Apollo confessed that - he was mortal. One Didymus is, moreover, related to have - written six thousand books on the single subject of grammar, - a topic rendered only more tenebrific by the labors of his - successors, and which seems still to possess an attraction - for authors in proportion as they can make nothing of it. A - singular loadstone for theologians, also, is the Beast in - the Apocalypse, whereof, in the course of my studies, I have - noted two hundred and three several interpretations, each - lethiferal to all the rest. _Non nostrum est tantas - componere lites_, yet I have myself ventured upon a two - hundred and fourth, which I embodied in a discourse preached - on occasion of the demise of the late usurper, Napoleon - Bonaparte, and which quieted, in a large measure, the minds - of my people. It is true that my views on this important - point were ardently controverted by Mr. Shearjashub Holden, - the then preceptor of our academy, and in other particulars - a very deserving and sensible young man, though possessing a - somewhat limited knowledge of the Greek tongue. But his - heresy struck down no deep root, and, he having been lately - removed by the hand of Providence, I had the satisfaction of - reaffirming my cherished sentiments in a sermon preached - upon the Lord's day immediately succeeding his funeral. This - might seem like taking an unfair advantage, did I not add - that he had made provision in his last will (being celibate) - for the publication of a posthumous tractate in support of - his own dangerous opinions. - - I know of nothing in our modern times which approaches so - nearly to the ancient oracle as the letter of a Presidential - candidate. Now, among the Greeks, the eating of beans was - strictly forbidden to all such as had it in mind to consult - those expert amphibologists, and this same prohibition on - the part of Pythagoras to his disciples is understood to - imply an abstinence from politics, beans having been used as - ballots. That other explication, _quod videlicet sensus eo - cibo obtundi existimaret_, though supported _pugnis et - calcibus_ by many of the learned, and not wanting the - countenance of Cicero, is confuted by the larger experience - of New England. On the whole, I think it safer to apply here - the rule of interpretation which now generally obtains in - regard to antique cosmogonies, myths, fables, proverbial - expressions, and knotty points generally, which is, to find - a common-sense meaning, and then select whatever can be - imagined the most opposite thereto. In this way we arrive at - the conclusion, that the Greeks objected to the questioning - of candidates. And very properly, if, as I conceive, the - chief point be not to discover what a person in that - position is, or what he will do, but whether he can be - elected. _Vos exemplaria Græca nocturna versate manu, - versate diurna._ - - But, since an imitation of the Greeks in this particular - (the asking of questions being one chief privilege of - freemen) is hardly to be hoped for, and our candidates will - answer, whether they are questioned or not, I would - recommend that these ante-electionary dialogues should be - carried on by symbols, as were the diplomatic - correspondences of the Scythians and Macrobii, or confined - to the language of signs, like the famous interview of - Panurge and Goatsnose. A candidate might then convey a - suitable reply to all committees of inquiry by closing one - eye, or by presenting them with a phial of Egyptian darkness - to be speculated upon by their respective constituencies. - These answers would be susceptible of whatever retrospective - construction the exigencies of the political campaign might - seem to demand, and the candidate could take his position on - either side of the fence with entire consistency. Or, if - letters must be written, profitable use might be made of the - Dighton rock hieroglyphic or the cuneiform script, every - fresh decipherer of which is enabled to educe a different - meaning, whereby a sculptured stone or two supplies us, and - will probably continue to supply posterity, with a very vast - and various body of authentic history. For even the briefest - epistle in the ordinary chirography is dangerous. There is - scarce any style so compressed that superfluous words may - not be detected in it. A severe critic might curtail that - famous brevity of Cæsar's by two thirds, drawing his pen - through the supererogatory _veni_ and _vidi_. Perhaps, after - all, the surest footing of hope is to be found in the - rapidly increasing tendency to demand less and less of - qualification in candidates. Already have statesmanship, - experience, and the possession (nay, the profession, even) - of principles been rejected as superfluous, and may not the - patriot reasonably hope that the ability to write will - follow? At present, there may be death in pot-hooks as well - as pots, the loop of a letter may suffice for a bowstring, - and all the dreadful heresies of Anti-slavery may lurk in a - flourish.--H. W.] - - - - - No. VIII. - - A SECOND LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. - - - [In the following epistle, we behold Mr. Sawin returning, a - _miles emeritus_, to the bosom of his family. _Quantum - mutatus!_ The good Father of us all had doubtless intrusted - to the keeping of this child of his certain faculties of a - constructive kind. He had put in him a share of that vital - force, the nicest economy of every minute atom of which is - necessary to the perfect development of Humanity. He had - given him a brain and heart, and so had equipped his soul - with the two strong wings of knowledge and love, whereby it - can mount to hang its nest under the eaves of heaven. And - this child, so dowered, he had intrusted to the keeping of - his vicar, the State. How stands the account of that - stewardship? The State, or Society, (call her by what name - you will,) had taken no manner of thought of him till she - saw him swept out into the street, the pitiful leavings of - last night's debauch, with cigar-ends, lemon-parings, - tobacco-quids, slops, vile stenches, and the whole loathsome - next-morning of the bar-room,--an own child of the Almighty - God! I remember him as he was brought to be christened, a - ruddy, rugged babe; and now there he wallows, reeking, - seething,--the dead corpse, not of a man, but of a soul,--a - putrefying lump, horrible for the life that is in it. Comes - the wind of heaven, that good Samaritan, and parts the hair - upon his forehead, nor is too nice to kiss those parched, - cracked lips; the morning opens upon him her eyes full of - pitying sunshine, the sky yearns down to him,--and there he - lies fermenting. O sleep! let me not profane thy holy name - by calling that stertorous unconsciousness a slumber! By and - by comes along the State, God's vicar. Does she say,--"My - poor, forlorn foster-child! Behold here a force which I will - make dig and plant and build for me?" Not so, but,--"Here is - a recruit ready-made to my hand, a piece of destroying - energy lying unprofitably idle." So she claps an ugly gray - suit on him, puts a musket in his grasp, and sends him off, - with Gubernatorial and other godspeeds, to do duty as a - destroyer. - - I made one of the crowd at the last Mechanics' Fair, and, - with the rest, stood gazing in wonder at a perfect machine, - with its soul of fire, its boiler-heart that sent the hot - blood pulsing along the iron arteries, and its thews of - steel. And while I was admiring the adaptation of means to - end, the harmonious involutions of contrivance, and the - never-bewildered complexity, I saw a grimed and greasy - fellow, the imperious engine's lackey and drudge, whose sole - office was to let fall, at intervals, a drop or two of oil - upon a certain joint. Then my soul said within me, See there - a piece of mechanism to which that other you marvel at is - but as the rude first effort of a child,--a force which not - merely suffices to set a few wheels in motion, but which can - send an impulse all through the infinite future,--a - contrivance, not for turning out pins, or stitching - button-holes, but for making Hamlets and Lears. And yet this - thing of iron shall be housed, waited on, guarded from rust - and dust, and it shall be a crime but so much as to scratch - it with a pin; while the other with its fire of God in it, - shall be buffeted hither and thither, and finally sent - carefully a thousand miles to be the target for a Mexican - cannon-ball. Unthrifty Mother State! My heart burned within - me for pity and indignation, and I renewed this covenant - with my own soul,--_In aliis mansuetus ero, at, in - blasphemiis contra Christum, non ita._--H. W.] - - I spose you wonder ware I be; I can't tell, fer the soul o' me, - Exacly ware I be myself,--meanin' by thet the holl o' me. - Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an' they worn't bad ones neither, - (The scaliest trick they ever played wuz bringin' on me hither,) - Now one on 'm's I dunno ware;--they thought I wuz adyin', - An' sawed it off because they said 'twuz kin' o' mortifyin'; - I'm willin' to believe it wuz, an' yit I don't see, nuther, - Wy one should take to feelin' cheap a minnit sooner'n t' other, - Sence both wuz equilly to blame; but things is ez they be; - It took on so they took it off, an' thet's enough fer me: - There's one good thing, though, to be said about my wooden new one,-- - The liquor can't git into it ez't used to in the true one; - So it saves drink; an' then, besides, a feller couldn't beg - A gretter blessin' then to hev one ollers sober peg; - It's true a chap's in want o' two fer follerin' a drum, - But all the march I'm up to now is jest to Kingdom Come. - - I've lost one eye, but thet's a loss it's easy to supply - Out o' the glory that I've gut, fer thet is all my eye; - An' one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin' it, - To see all I shall ever git by way o' pay fer losin' it; - Off'cers, I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an' kickins, - Du wal by keepin' single eyes arter the fattest pickins; - So, ez the eye's put fairly out, I'll larn to go without it, - An' not allow _myself_ to be no gret put out about it. - Now, le' me see, thet isn't all; I used, 'fore leavin' Jaalam, - To count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin' seems to ail 'em: - Ware's my left hand? O, darn it, yes, I recollect wut's come on't; - I haint no left arm but my right, an' thet's gut jest a thumb on't; - It aint so hendy ez it wuz to cal'late a sum on't. - I've hed some ribs broke,--six (I b'lieve),--I haint kep' no account - on 'em; - Wen pensions git to be the talk, I'll settle the amount on 'em. - An' now I'm speakin' about ribs, it kin' o' brings to mind - One thet I couldn't never break,--the one I lef' behind; - Ef you should see her, jest clear out the spout o' your invention - An' pour the longest sweetnin' in about an annooal pension, - An' kin' o' hint (in case, you know, the critter should refuse to be - Consoled) I aint so 'xpensive now to keep ez wut I used to be; - There's one arm less, ditto one eye, an' then the leg thet's wooden - Can be took off an' sot away wenever ther's a puddin'. - - I spose you think I'm comin' back ez opperlunt ez thunder, - With shiploads o' gold images an' varus sorts o' plunder; - Wal, 'fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a sort o' - Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Land flowin' with rum an' water, - Ware propaty growed up like time, without no cultivation, - An' gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee nation, - Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin', - Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns wuz blazin', - Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you could cram 'em, - An' desput rivers run about abeggin' folks to dam 'em; - Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o' gold an' silver - Thet you could take, an' no one couldn't hand ye in no bill fer;-- - Thet's wut I thought afore I went, thet's wut them fellers told us - Thet stayed to hum an' speechified an' to the buzzards sold us; - I thought thet gold mines could be gut cheaper than Chiny asters, - An' see myself a comin' back like sixty Jacob Astors; - But sech idees soon melted down an' didn't leave a grease-spot; - I vow my holl sheer o' the spiles wouldn't come nigh a V spot; - Although, most anywares we've ben, you needn't break no locks, - Nor run no kin' o' risks, to fill your pocket full o' rocks. - - I guess I mentioned in my last some o' the nateral feeturs - O' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way o' awfle creeturs, - But I fergut to name (new things to speak on so abounded) - How one day you'll most die o' thust, an' 'fore the next git - drownded. - The clymit seems to me jest like a teapot made o' pewter - Our Prudence hed, thet wouldn't pour (all she could du) to suit her; - Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the spout, so's not a drop 'ould - dreen out, - Then Prude 'ould tip an' tip an' tip, till the holl kit bust clean out, - The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea-leaves an' tea an' kiver - 'ould all come down _kerswosh_! ez though the dam broke in a river. - Jest so 'tis here; holl months there aint a day o' rainy weather, - An' jest ez th' officers 'ould be alayin' heads together - Ez t' how they'd mix their drink at sech a milingtary deepot,-- - 'T'ould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin' teapot. - The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, wen I'm allowed to leave here, - One piece o' propaty along,--an' thet's the shakin' fever; - It's reggilar employment, though, an' thet aint thought to harm one, - Nor 'taint so tiresome ez it wuz with t'other leg an' arm on; - An' it's a consolation, tu, although it doosn't pay, - To hev it said you're some gret shakes in any kin' o' way. - 'T worn't very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o' fortin-makin',-- - One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an' next ez good ez bakin',-- - One day abrilin' in the sand, then smoth'rin' in the mashes,-- - Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess o' hacks an' smashes. - But then, thinks I, at any rate there's glory to be hed,-- - Thet's an investment, arter all, thet mayn't turn out so bad; - But somehow, wen we'd fit an' licked, I ollers found the thanks - Gut kin' o' lodged afore they come ez low down ez the ranks; - The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the Cunnles next, an' so on,-- - _We_ never gut a blasted mite o' glory ez I know on; - An' spose we hed, I wonder how you're goin' to contrive its - Division so's to give a piece to twenty thousand privits; - Ef you should multiply by ten the portion o' the brav'st one, - You wouldn't git more 'n half enough to speak of on a grave-stun; - We git the licks,--we're jest the grist thet's put into War's hoppers; - Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the coppers. - It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in't, - An' aint contented with a hide without a bagnet hole in't; - But glory is a kin' o' thing _I_ shan't pursue no furder, - Coz thet's the off'cers parquisite,--yourn's on'y jest the murder. - - Wal, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at least there's one - Thing in the bills we aint hed yit, an' thet's the |GLORIOUS FUN|; - Ef once we git to Mexico, we fairly may persume we - All day an' night shall revel in the halls o' Montezumy. - I'll tell ye wut _my_ revels wuz, an' see how you would like 'em; - _We_ never gut inside the hall: the nighest ever _I_ come - Wuz stan'in' sentry in the sun (an', fact, it _seemed_ a cent'ry) - A ketchin' smells o' biled an' roast thet come out thru the entry, - An' hearin' ez I sweltered thru my passes an' repasses, - A rat-tat-too o' knives an' forks, a clinkty-clink o' glasses: - I can't tell off the bill o' fare the Gin'rals hed inside; - All I know is, thet out o' doors a pair o' soles wuz fried, - An' not a hunderd miles away frum ware this child wuz posted, - A Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an' biled an' roasted; - The on'y thing like revellin' thet ever come to me - Wuz bein' routed out o' sleep by thet darned revelee. - - They say the quarrel's settled now; fer my part I've some doubt on't, - 'T 'll take more fish-skin than folks think to take the rile clean out - on't; - At any rate, I'm so used up I can't do no more fightin', - The on'y chance thet's left to me is politics or writin'; - Now, ez the people's gut to hev a milingtary man, - An' I aint nothin' else jest now, I've hit upon a plan; - The can'idatin' line, you know, 'ould suit me to a T, - An' ef I lose, 't wunt hurt my ears to lodge another flea; - So I'll set up ez can'idate fer any kin' o' office, - (I mean fer any thet includes good easy-cheers an' soffies; - Fer ez to runnin' fer a place ware work's the time o' day, - You know thet's wut I never did,--except the other way;) - Ef it's the Presidential cheer fer wich I'd better run, - Wut two legs anywares about could keep up with my one? - There aint no kin' o' quality in can'idates, it's said, - So useful ez a wooden leg,--except a wooden head; - There's nothin' aint so poppylar--(wy, it's a parfect sin - To think wut Mexico hez paid fer Santy Anny's pin;)-- - Then I haint gut no princerples, an', sence I wuz knee-high, - I never _did_ hev any gret, ez you can testify; - I'm a decided peace man, tu, an' go agin the war,-- - Fer now the holl on 't 's gone an' past, wut is there to go _for_? - Ef, wile you're 'lectioneerin' round, some curus chaps should beg - To know my views o' state affairs, jest answer |WOODEN LEG|! - Ef they aint settisfied with thet, an' kin' o' pry an' doubt - An' ax fer sutthin' deffynit, jest say |ONE EYE PUT OUT|! - Thet kin' o' talk I guess you'll find'll answer to a charm, - An' wen you're druv tu nigh the wall, hol' up my missin' arm; - Ef they should nose round fer a pledge, put on a vartoous look - An' tell 'em thet's percisely wut I never gin nor--took! - - Then you can call me "Timbertoes,"--thet's wut the people likes; - Sutthin' combinin' morril truth with phrases sech ez strikes; - Some say the people's fond o' this, or thet, or wut you please,-- - I tell ye wut the people want is jest correct idees; - "Old Timbertoes," you see, 's a creed it's safe to be quite bold on, - There's nothin' in't the other side can any ways git hold on; - It's a good tangible idee, a sutthin' to embody - Thet valooable class o' men who look thru brandy-toddy; - It gives a Party Platform, tu, jest level with the mind - Of all right-thinkin', honest folks thet mean to go it blind; - Then there air other good hooraws to dror on ez you need 'em, - Sech ez the |one-eyed Slarterer|, the |bloody Birdofredum|; - Them's wut takes hold o' folks thet think, ez well ez o' the masses, - An' makes you sartin o' the aid o' good men of all classes. - - There's one thing I'm in doubt about; in order to be Presidunt, - It's absolutely ne'ssary to be a Southern residunt; - The Constitution settles thet, an' also thet a feller - Must own a nigger o' some sort, jet black, or brown, or yeller. - Now I haint no objections agin particklar climes, - Nor agin ownin' anythin' (except the truth sometimes), - But, ez I haint no capital, up there among ye, maybe, - You might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low-priced baby, - An' then, to suit the No'thern folks, who feel obleeged to say - They hate an' cuss the very thing they vote fer every day, - Say you're assured I go full butt fer Liberty's diffusion - An' made the purchis on'y jest to spite the Institootion;-- - But, golly! there's the currier's hoss upon the pavement pawin'! - I'll be more 'xplicit in my next. - - Yourn, - |Birdofredum Sawin|. - - [We have now a tolerably fair chance of estimating how the - balance-sheet stands between our returned volunteer and - glory. Supposing the entries to be set down on both sides of - the account in fractional parts of one hundred, we shall - arrive at something like the following result:-- - - |B. Sawin|, Esq., in account with (|Blank|) |Glory|. - - Cr. Dr. - By loss of one leg, 20 To one 675th three cheers in - " do. one arm, 15 Faneuil Hall, 30 - " do. four fingers, 5 " do. do. on occasion of - " do. one eye, 10 presentation of sword to - " the breaking of six ribs, 6 Colonel Wright, 25 - " having served under Colonel " one suit of gray clothes - Cushing one month, 44 (ingeniously unbecoming), 15 - " musical entertainments - (drum and fife six - months), 5 - " one dinner after return, 1 - " chance of pension, 1 - " privilege of drawing longbow - during rest of natural - life, 23 - --- - 100 100 - E. E. - - It would appear that Mr. Sawin found the actual feast - curiously the reverse of the bill of fare advertised in - Faneuil Hall and other places. His primary object seems to - have been the making of his fortune. _Quærenda pecunia - primum, virtus post nummos._ He hoisted sail for Eldorado, - and shipwrecked on Point Tribulation. _Quid non mortalia - pectora cogis, auri sacra fames?_ The speculation has - sometimes crossed my mind, in that dreary interval of - drought which intervenes between quarterly stipendiary - showers, that Providence, by the creation of a money-tree, - might have simplified wonderfully the sometimes perplexing - problem of human life. We read of bread-trees, the butter - for which lies ready-churned in Irish bogs. Milk-trees we - are assured of in South America, and stout Sir John Hawkins - testifies to water-trees in the Canaries. Boot-trees bear - abundantly in Lynn and elsewhere; and I have seen, in the - entries of the wealthy, hat-trees with a fair show of fruit. - A family-tree I once cultivated myself, and found therefrom - but a scanty yield, and that quite tasteless and - innutritious. Of trees bearing men we are not without - examples; as those in the park of Louis the Eleventh of - France. Who has forgotten, moreover, that olive-tree, - growing in the Athenian's back-garden, with its strange - uxorious crop, for the general propagation of which, as of a - new and precious variety, the philosopher Diogenes, hitherto - uninterested in arboriculture, was so zealous? In the - _sylva_ of our own Southern States, the females of my family - have called my attention to the china-tree. Not to multiply - examples, I will barely add to my list the birch-tree, in - the smaller branches of which has been implanted so - miraculous a virtue for communicating the Latin and Greek - languages, and which may well, therefore, be classed among - the trees producing necessaries of life,--_venerabile donum - fatalis virgæ_. That money-trees existed in the golden age - there want not prevalent reasons for our believing. For does - not the old proverb, when it asserts that money does not - grow on _every_ bush, imply _a fortiori_ that there were - certain bushes which did produce it? Again, there is another - ancient saw to the effect that money is the _root_ of all - evil. From which two adages it may be safe to infer that the - aforesaid species of tree first degenerated into a shrub, - then absconded underground, and finally, in our iron age, - vanished altogether. In favorable exposures it may be - conjectured that a specimen or two survived to a great age, - as in the garden of the Hesperides; and, indeed, what else - could that tree in the Sixth Æneid have been, with a branch - whereof the Trojan hero procured admission to a territory, - for the entering of which money is a surer passport than to - a certain other more profitable (too) foreign kingdom? - Whether these speculations of mine have any force in them, - or whether they will not rather, by most readers, be deemed - impertinent to the matter in hand, is a question which I - leave to the determination of an indulgent posterity. That - there were, in more primitive and happier times, shops where - money was sold,--and that, too, on credit and at a - bargain,--I take to be matter of demonstration. For what but - a dealer in this article was that Æolus who supplied Ulysses - with motive power for his fleet in bags? What that Ericus, - king of Sweden, who is said to have kept the winds in his - cap? What, in more recent times, those Lapland Nornas who - traded in favorable breezes? All which will appear the more - clearly when we consider, that, even to this day, _raising - the wind_ is proverbial for raising money, and that brokers - and banks were invented by the Venetians at a later period. - - And now for the improvement of this digression. I find a - parallel to Mr. Sawin's fortune in an adventure of my own. - For, shortly after I had first broached to myself the - before-stated natural-historical and archæological theories, - as I was passing, _hæc negotia penitus mecum revolvens_, - through one of the obscure suburbs of our New England - metropolis, my eye was attracted by these words upon a - sign-board,--|Cheap Cash-Store|. Here was at once the - confirmation of my speculations, and the substance of my - hopes. Here lingered the fragment of a happier past, or - stretched out the first tremulous organic filament of a more - fortunate future. Thus glowed the distant Mexico to the eyes - of Sawin, as he looked through the dirty pane of the - recruiting-office window, or speculated from the summit of - that mirage-Pisgah which the imps of the bottle are so - cunning in raising up. Already had my Alnaschar-fancy (even - during that first half-believing glance) expended in various - useful directions the funds to be obtained by pledging the - manuscript of a proposed volume of discourses. Already did a - clock ornament the tower of the Jaalam meeting-house, a gift - appropriately, but modestly, commemorated in the parish and - town records, both, for now many years, kept by myself. - Already had my son Seneca completed his course at the - University. Whether, for the moment, we may not be - considered as actually lording it over those Baratarias with - the viceroyalty of which Hope invests us, and whether we are - ever so warmly housed as in our Spanish castles, would - afford matter of argument. Enough that I found that - sign-board to be no other than a bait to the trap of a - decayed grocer. Nevertheless, I bought a pound of dates - (getting short weight by reason of immense flights of harpy - flies who pursued and lighted upon their prey even in the - very scales), which purchase I made, not only with an eye to - the little ones at home, but also as a figurative reproof of - that too frequent habit of my mind, which, forgetting the - due order of chronology, will often persuade me that the - happy sceptre of Saturn is stretched over this - Astræa-forsaken nineteenth century. - - Having glanced at the ledger of Glory under the title - _Sawin, B._, let us extend our investigations, and discover - if that instructive volume does not contain some charges - more personally interesting to ourselves. I think we should - be more economical of our resources, did we thoroughly - appreciate the fact, that, whenever brother Jonathan seems - to be thrusting his hand into his own pocket, he is, in - fact, picking ours. I confess that the late _muck_ which the - country has been running has materially changed my views as - to the best method of raising revenue. If, by means of - direct taxation, the bills for every extraordinary outlay - were brought under our immediate eye, so that, like thrifty - housekeepers, we could see where and how fast the money was - going, we should be less likely to commit extravagances. At - present, these things are managed in such a hugger-mugger - way, that we know not what we pay for; the poor man is - charged as much as the rich; and, while we are saving and - scrimping at the spigot, the government is drawing off at - the bung. If we could know that a part of the money we - expend for tea and coffee goes to buy powder and balls, and - that it is Mexican blood which makes the clothes on our - backs more costly, it would set some of us athinking. During - the present fall, I have often pictured to myself a - government official entering my study and handing me the - following bill:-- - - |Washington|, Sept. 30, 1848. - - |Rev. Homer Wilbur| to |Uncle Samuel|, - - Dr. - To his share of work done in Mexico on partnership account, - sundry jobs, as below. - - " killing, maiming, and wounding about 5,000 Mexicans, $2.00 - " slaughtering one woman carrying water to wounded, .10 - " extra work on two different Sabbaths (one bombardment - and one assault) whereby the Mexicans were prevented - from defiling themselves with the idolatries of high mass, 3.50 - "throwing an especially fortunate and Protestant bombshell - into the Cathedral at Vera Cruz, whereby several female - Papists were slain at the altar, .50 - "his proportion of cash paid for conquered territory, 1.75 - " do. do. for conquering do. 1.50 - "manuring do. with new superior compost called "American - Citizen," .50 - "extending the area of freedom and Protestantism, .01 - "glory, .01 - ----- - $9.87 - _Immediate payment is requested._ - - N. B. Thankful for former favors, U. S. requests a - continuance of patronage. Orders executed with neatness and - despatch. Terms as low as those of any other contractor for - the same kind and style of work. - - I can fancy the official answering my look of horror - with,--"Yes, Sir, it looks like a high charge, Sir: but in - these days slaughtering is slaughtering." Verily, I would - that every one understood that it was; for it goes about - obtaining money under the false pretence of being glory. For - me, I have an imagination which plays me uncomfortable - tricks. It happens to me sometimes to see a slaughterer on - his way home from his day's work, and forthwith my - imagination puts a cocked-hat upon his head and epaulettes - upon his shoulders, and sets him up as a candidate for the - Presidency. So, also, on a recent public occasion, as the - place assigned to the "Reverend Clergy" is just behind that - of "Officers of the Army and Navy" in processions, it was my - fortune to be seated at the dinner-table over against one of - these respectable persons. He was arrayed as (out of his own - profession) only kings, court-officers, and footmen are in - Europe, and Indians in America. Now what does my - over-officious imagination but set to work upon him, strip - him of his gay livery, and present him to me coatless, his - trowsers thrust into the tops of a pair of boots thick with - clotted blood, and a basket on his arm out of which lolled a - gore-smeared axe, thereby destroying my relish for the - temporal mercies upon the board before me!--H. W.] - - - - - No. IX. - - A THIRD LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. - - - [Upon the following letter slender comment will be needful. - In what river Selemnus has Mr. Sawin bathed, that he has - become so swiftly oblivious of his former loves? From an - ardent and (as befits a soldier) confident wooer of that coy - bride, the popular favor, we see him subside of a sudden - into the (I trust not jilted) Cincinnatus, returning to his - plough with a goodly-sized branch of willow in his hand; - figuratively returning, however, to a figurative plough, and - from no profound affection for that honored implement of - husbandry, (for which, indeed, Mr. Sawin never displayed any - decided predilection,) but in order to be gracefully - summoned therefrom to more congenial labors. It would seem - that the character of the ancient Dictator had become part - of the recognized stock of our modern political comedy, - though, as our term of office extends to a quadrennial - length, the parallel is not so minutely exact as could be - desired. It is sufficiently so, however, for purposes of - scenic representation. An humble cottage (if built of logs, - the better) forms the Arcadian background of the stage. This - rustic paradise is labelled Ashland, Jaalam, North Bend, - Marshfield, Kinderhook, or Bâton Rouge, as occasion demands. - Before the door stands a something with one handle (the - other painted in proper perspective), which represents, in - happy ideal vagueness, the plough. To this the defeated - candidate rushes with delirous joy, welcomed as a father by - appropriate groups of happy laborers, or from it the - successful one is torn with difficulty, sustained alone by a - noble sense of public duty. Only I have observed, that, if - the scene be laid at Bâton Rouge or Ashland, the laborers - are kept carefully in the background, and are heard to shout - from behind the scenes in a singular tone resembling - ululation, and accompanied by a sound not unlike vigorous - clapping. This, however, may be artistically in keeping with - the habits of the rustic population of those localities. The - precise connection between agricultural pursuits and - statesmanship I have not been able, after diligent inquiry, - to discover. But, that my investigations may not be barren - of all fruit, I will mention one curious statistical fact, - which I consider thoroughly established, namely, that no - real farmer ever attains practically beyond a seat in - General Court, however theoretically qualified for more - exalted station. - - It is probable that some other prospect has been opened to - Mr. Sawin, and that he has not made this great sacrifice - without some definite understanding in regard to a seat in - the cabinet or a foreign mission. It may be supposed that we - of Jaalam were not untouched by a feeling of villatic pride - in beholding our townsman occupying so large a space in the - public eye. And to me, deeply revolving the qualifications - necessary to a candidate in these frugal times, those of Mr. - S. seemed peculiarly adapted to a successful campaign. The - loss of a leg, an arm, an eye, and four fingers, reduced him - so nearly to the condition of a _vox et præterea nihil_, - that I could think of nothing but the loss of his head by - which his chance could have been bettered. But since he has - chosen to baulk our suffrages, we must content ourselves - with what we can get, remembering _lactucas non esse dandas, - dum cardui sufficiant._--H. W.] - - I spose you recollect thet I explained my gennle views - In the last billet thet I writ, 'way down frum Veery Cruze, - Jest arter I'd a kind o' ben spontanously sot up - To run unanimously fer the Presidential cup; - O' course it worn't no wish o' mine, 'twuz ferflely distressin', - But poppiler enthusiasm gut so almighty pressin' - Thet, though like sixty all along I fumed an' fussed an' sorrered, - There didn't seem no ways to stop their bringin' on me forrerd: - Fact is, they udged the matter so, I couldn't help admittin' - The Father o' his Country's shoes no feet but mine 'ould fit in, - Besides the savin' o' the soles fer ages to succeed, - Seein' thet with one wannut foot, a pair 'd be more 'n I need; - An', tell ye wut, them shoes'll want a thund'rin' sight o' patchin', - Ef this 'ere fashion is to last we've gut into o' hatchin' - A pair o' second Washintons fer every new election,-- - Though, fur ez number one's consarned, I don't make no objection. - - I wuz agoin' on to say thet wen at fust I saw - The masses would stick to 't I wuz the Country's father-'n-law, - (They would ha' hed it _Father_, but I told 'em 't wouldn't du, - Coz thet wuz sutthin' of a sort they couldn't split in tu, - An' Washinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his door, - Nor darsn't say 't worn't his'n, much ez sixty year afore,) - But 'taint no matter ez to thet; wen I wuz nomernated, - 'T worn't natur but wut I should feel consid'able elated, - An' wile the hooraw o' the thing wuz kind o' noo an' fresh, - I thought our ticket would ha' caird the country with a resh. - - Sence I've come hum, though, an' looked round, I think I seem to find - Strong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change my mind; - It's clear to any one whose brain ain't fur gone in a phthisis, - Thet hail Columby's happy land is goin' thru a crisis, - An' 't wouldn't noways du to hev the people's mind distracted - By bein' all to once by sev'ral pop'lar names attackted; - 'T would save holl haycartloads o' fuss an' three four months o' jaw, - Ef some illustrous paytriot should back out an' withdraw; - So, ez I aint a crooked stick, jest like--like ole (I swow, - I dunno ez I know his name)--I'll go back to my plough. - - Wenever an Amerikin distinguished politishin - Begins to try et wut they call definin' his posishin, - Wal, I, fer one, feel sure he aint gut nuthin' to define; - It's so nine cases out o' ten, but jest that tenth is mine; - An' 'taint no more 'n is proper 'n' right in sech a sitooation - To hint the course you think 'll be the savin' o' the nation; - To funk right out o' p'lit'cal strife aint thought to be the thing, - Without you deacon off the toon you want your folks should sing; - So I edvise the noomrous friends thet's in one boat with me - To jest up killock, jam right down their hellum hard a lee, - Haul the sheets taut, an', laying out upon the Suthun tack, - Make fer the safest port they can, wich, _I_ think, is Ole Zack. - - Next thing you'll want to know, I spose, wut argimunts I seem - To see thet makes me think this ere'll be the strongest team; - Fust place, I've ben consid'ble round in bar-rooms an' saloons - Agethrin' public sentiment, 'mongst Demmercrats and Coons, - An' 'taint ve'y offen thet I meet a chap but wut goes in - Fer Rough an' Ready, fair an' square, hufs, taller, horns, an' skin; - I don't deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could see, - I didn't like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee: - I could ha' pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a peg - Higher than him,--a soger, tu, an' with a wooden leg; - But every day with more an' more o' Taylor zeal I'm burnin', s - Seein' wich way the tide thet sets to office is aturnin'; - Wy, into Bellers's we notched the votes down on three sticks,-- - 'Twuz Birdofredum _one_, Cass _aught_, an' Taylor _twenty-six_, - An' bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the ground, - They said 'twuz no more'n right thet I should pay the drinks all round; - Ef I'd expected sech a trick, I wouldn't ha' cut my foot - By goin' an' votin' fer myself like a consumed coot; - It didn't make no diff'rence, though; I wish I may be cust, - Ef Bellers wuzn't slim enough to say he wouldn't trust! - - Another pint thet influences the minds o' sober jedges - Is thet the Gin'ral hezn't gut tied hand an' foot with pledges; - He hezn't told ye wut he is, an' so there aint no knowin' - But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin'; - This, at the on'y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly eases, - Coz every one is free to 'xpect percisely what he pleases: - I want free-trade; you don't; the Gin'ral isn't bound to neither;-- - I vote my way; you, yourn; an' both air sooted to a T there. - Ole Rough an' Ready, tu, 's a Wig, but without bein' ultry - (He's like a holsome hayinday, thet's warm, but isn't sultry); - He's jest wut I should call myself, a kin' o' _scratch_, ez 'tware, - Thet ain't exacly all a wig nor wholly your own hair; - I've ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest o' this mod'rate sort, - An' don't find them an' Demmercrats so different ez I thought; - They both act pooty much alike, an' push an' scrouge an' cus; - They're like two pickpockets in league fer Uncle Samwell's pus; - Each takes a side, an' then they squeeze the old man in between 'em, - Turn all his pockets wrong side out an' quick ez lightnin' clean 'em; - To nary one on 'em I'd trust a secon'-handed rail - No furder off 'an I could sling a bullock by the tail. - - Webster sot matters right in thet air Mashfiel' speech o' his'n;-- - "Taylor," sez he, "aint nary ways the one thet I'd a chizzen, - Nor he aint fittin' fer the place, an' like ez not he aint - No more'n a tough ole bullethead, an' no gret of a saint; - But then," sez he, "obsarve my pint, he's jest ez good to vote fer - Ez though the greasin' on him worn't a thing to hire Choate fer; - Aint it ez easy done to drop a ballot in a box - Fer one ez 'tis fer t'other, fer the bulldog ez the fox?" - - It takes a mind like Dannel's, fact, ez big ez all ou'doors, - To find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly pours; - I 'gree with him, it aint so dreffle troublesome to vote - Fer Taylor arter all,--it's jest to go an' change your coat; - Wen he's once greased, you'll swaller him an' never know on't, scurce, - Unless he scratches, goin' down, with them 'ere Gin'ral's spurs. - I've ben a votin' Demmercrat, ez reg'lar ez a clock, - But don't find goin' Taylor gives my narves no gret 'f a shock; - Truth is, the cutest leadin' Wigs, ever sence fust they found - Wich side the bread gut buttered on, hev kep' a edgin' round; - They kin' o' slipt the planks frum out th' ole platform one by one - An' made it gradooally noo, 'fore folks know'd wut wuz done, - Till, fur'z I know, there aint an inch thet I could lay my han' on, - But I, or any Demmercrat, feels comf'table to stan' on, - An' ole Wig doctrines act'lly look, their occ'pants bein' gone, - Lonesome ez staddles on a mash without no hayricks on. - I spose it's time now I should give my thoughts upon the plan, - Thet chipped the shell at Buffalo, o' settin' up ole Van. - I used to vote fer Martin, but, I swan, I'm clean disgusted,-- - He aint the man thet I can say is fittin' to be trusted; - He aint half antislav'ry 'nough, nor I aint sure, ez some be, - He'd go in fer abolishin' the Deestrick o' Columby; - An', now I come to recollect, it kin' o' makes me sick'z - A horse, to think o' wut he wuz in eighteen thirty-six. - An' then, another thing;--I guess, though mebby I am wrong, - This Buff'lo plaster aint agoin' to dror almighty strong; - Some folks, I know, hev gut th' idee thet No'thun dough'll rise, - Though, 'fore I see it riz an' baked, I wouldn't trust my eyes; - 'T will take more emptins, a long chalk, than this noo party's gut, - To give sech heavy cakes ez them a start, I tell ye wut. - But even ef they caird the day, there wouldn't be no endurin' - To stan' upon a platform with sech critters ez Van Buren;-- - An' his son John, tu, I can't think how thet 'ere chap should dare - To speak ez he doos; wy, they say he used to cuss an' swear! - I spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the stairs - A feller with long legs wuz throwed thet wouldn't say his prayers. - This brings me to another pint: the leaders o' the party - Aint jest sech men ez I can act along with free an' hearty; - They aint not quite respectable, an' wen a feller's morrils - Don't toe the straightest kin' o' mark, wy, him an' me jest quarrils. - I went to a free soil meetin' once, an' wut d' ye think I see? - A feller was aspoutin' there thet act'lly come to me, - About two year ago last spring, ez nigh ez I can jedge, - An' axed me ef I didn't want to sign the Temprunce pledge! - He's one o' them that goes about an' sez you hedn't ough'ter - Drink nothin', mornin', noon, or night, stronger 'an Taunton water. - There's one rule I've ben guided by, in settlin' how to vote, ollers,-- - I take the side thet _isn't_ took by them consarned teetotallers. - Ez fer the niggers, I've ben South, an' thet hez changed my mind; - A lazier, more ongrateful set you couldn't nowers find. - You know I mentioned in my last thet I should buy a nigger, - Ef I could make a purchase at a pooty mod'rate figger; - So, ez there's nothin' in the world I 'm fonder of 'an gunnin', - I closed a bargin finally to take a feller runnin'. - I shou'dered queen's-arm an' stumped out, an' wen I come t' th' swamp, - 'T worn't very long before I gut upon the nest o' Pomp; - I come acrost a kin' o' hut, an', play in' round the door, - Some little woolly-headed cubs, ez many 'z six or more. - At fust I thought o' firin', but _think twice_ is safest ollers; - There aint, thinks I, not one on 'em but's wuth his twenty dollars, - Or would be, ef I had 'em back into a Christian land,-- - How temptin' all on 'em would look upon an auction-stand! - (Not but wut _I_ hate Slavery in th' abstract, stem to starn,-- - I leave it ware our fathers did, a privit State consarn.) - Soon'z they see me, they yelled an' run, but Pomp wuz out ahoein' - A leetle patch o' corn he hed, or else there aint no knowin' - He wouldn't ha' took a pop at me; but I had gut the start, - An' wen he looked, I vow he groaned ez though he'd broke his heart; - He done it like a wite man, tu, ez nat'ral ez a pictur, - The imp'dunt, pis'nous hypocrite! wus'an a boy constrictur. - "You can't gum _me_, I tell ye now, an' so you needn't try, - I 'xpect my eye-teeth every mail, so jest shet up," sez I. - "Don't go to actin' ugly now, or else I'll jest let strip, - You'd best draw kindly, seein' 'z how I've gut ye on the hip; - Besides, you darned ole fool, it aint no gret of a disaster - To be benev'lently druv back to a contented master, - Ware you hed Christian priv'ledges you don't seem quite aware of, - Or you'd ha' never run away from bein' well took care of; - Ez fer kin' treatment, wy, he wuz so fond on ye, he sed - He'd give a fifty spot right out, to git ye, live or dead; - Wite folks aint sot by half ez much; 'member I run away, - Wen I wuz bound to Cap'n Jakes, to Mattysqumscot bay; - Don't know him, likely? Spose not; wal, the mean ole codger went - An' offered--wut reward, think? Wal, it worn't no _less_'n a cent." - - Wal, I jest gut 'em into line, an' druv 'em on afore me, - The pis'nous brutes, I'd no idee o' the ill-will they bore me; - We walked till som'ers about noon, an' then it grew so hot - I thought it best to camp awile, so I chose out a spot - Jest under a magnoly tree, an' there right down I sot; - Then I unstrapped my wooden leg, coz it begun to chafe, - An' laid it down 'long side o' me, supposin' all wuz safe; - I made my darkies all set down around me in a ring, - An' sot an' kin' o' ciphered up how much the lot would bring; - But, wile I drinked the peaceful cup of a pure heart an' mind, - (Mixed with some wiskey, now an' then,) Pomp he snaked up behind, - An' creepin' grad'lly close tu, ez quiet ez a mink, - Jest grabbed my leg, and then pulled foot, quicker 'an you could wink, - An', come to look, they each on 'em hed gut behin' a tree, - An' a poked out the leg a piece, jest so ez I could see, - An' yelled to me to throw away my pistils an' my gun, - Or else thet they'd cair off the leg, an' fairly cut an' run. - I vow I didn't b'lieve there wuz a decent alligatur - Thet hed a heart so destitoot o' common human natur; - However, ez there worn't no help, I finally give in - An' heft my arms away to git my leg safe back agin. - Pomp gethered all the weapins up, an' then he come an' grinned, - He showed his ivory some, I guess, an' sez, "You're fairly pinned; - Jest buckle on your leg agin, an' git right up an come, - 'Twun't du fer fammerly men like me to be so long from hum." - At fust I put my foot right down an' swore I wouldn't budge. - "Jest ez you choose," sez he, quite cool, "either be shot or trudge." - - So this black-hearted monster took an' act'lly druv me back - Along the very feetmarks o' my happy mornin' track, - An' kep' me pris'ner 'bout six-months, an' worked me, tu, like sin, - Till I hed gut his corn an' his Carliny taters in; - He made me larn him readin', tu, (although the crittur saw - How much it hut my morril sense to act agin the law,) - So'st he could read a Bible he'd gut; an' axed ef I could pint - The North Star out; but there I put his nose some out o' jint, - Fer I weeled roun' about sou'west, an', lookin' up a bit, - Picked out a middlin' shiny one an' tole him thet wuz it. - Fin'lly, he took me to the door, an', givin' me a kick, - Sez,--"Ef you know wut's best fer ye, be off, now, double-quick; - The winter-time's a comin' on, an', though I gut ye cheap, - You're so darned lazy, I don't think you're hardly wuth your keep; - Besides, the childrin's growin' up, an' you aint jest the model - I'd like to hev 'em immertate, an' so you'd better toddle!" - - Now is there any thin' on airth 'll ever prove to me - Thet renegader slaves like him air fit fer bein' free? - D'you think they'll suck me in to jine the Buff'lo chaps, an' them - Rank infidels thet go agin the Scriptur'l cus o' Shem? - Not by a jugfull! sooner 'n thet, I'd go thru fire an' water; - Wen I hev once made up my mind, a meet'nhus aint sotter; - No, not though all the crows thet flies to pick my bones wuz cawin',-- - I guess we're in a Christian land,-- - - Yourn, - |Birdofredum Sawin|. - - [Here, patient reader, we take leave of each other, I trust - with some mutual satisfaction. I say _patient_, for I love - not that kind which skims dippingly over the surface of the - page, as swallows over a pool before rain. By such no pearls - shall be gathered. But if no pearls there be (as, indeed, - the world is not without example of books wherefrom the - longest-winded diver shall bring up no more than his proper - handful of mud), yet let us hope that an oyster or two may - reward adequate perseverance. If neither pearls nor oysters, - yet is patience itself a gem worth diving deeply for. - - It may seem to some that too much space has been usurped by - my own private lucubrations, and some may be fain to bring - against me that old jest of him who preached all his hearers - out of the meetinghouse save only the sexton, who, remaining - for yet a little space, from a sense of official duty, at - last gave out also, and, presenting the keys, humbly - requested our preacher to lock the doors, when he should - have wholly relieved himself of his testimony. I confess to - a satisfaction in the self act of preaching, nor do I esteem - a discourse to be wholly thrown away even upon a sleeping or - unintelligent auditory. I cannot easily believe that the - Gospel of Saint John, which Jacques Cartier ordered to be - read in the Latin tongue to the Canadian savages, upon his - first meeting with them, fell altogether upon stony ground. - For the earnestness of the preacher is a sermon appreciable - by dullest intellects and most alien ears. In this wise did - Episcopius convert many to his opinions, who yet understood - not the language in which he discoursed. The chief thing is - that the messenger believe that he has an authentic message - to deliver. For counterfeit messengers that mode of - treatment which Father John de Plano Carpini relates to have - prevailed among the Tartars would seem effectual, and, - perhaps, deserved enough. For my own part, I may lay claim - to so much of the spirit of martyrdom as would have led me - to go into banishment with those clergymen whom Alphonso the - Sixth of Portugal drave out of his kingdom for refusing to - shorten their public eloquence. It is possible, that, having - been invited into my brother Biglow's desk, I may have been - too little scrupulous in using it for the venting of my own - peculiar doctrines to a congregation drawn together in the - expectation and with the desire of hearing him. - - I am not wholly unconscious of a peculiarity of mental - organization which impels me, like the railroad-engine with - its train of cars, to run backward for a short distance in - order to obtain a fairer start. I may compare myself to one - fishing from the rocks when the sea runs high, who, - misinterpreting the suction of the undertow for the biting - of some larger fish, jerks suddenly, and finds that he has - _caught bottom_, hauling in upon the end of his line a trail - of various _algæ_, among which, nevertheless, the naturalist - may haply find something to repay the disappointment of the - angler. Yet have I conscientiously endeavored to adapt - myself to the impatient temper of the age, daily - degenerating more and more from the high standard of our - pristine New England. To the catalogue of lost arts I would - mournfully add also that of listening to two-hour sermons. - Surely we have been abridged into a race of pigmies. For, - truly, in those of the old discourses yet subsisting to us - in print, the endless spinal column of divisions and - subdivisions can be likened to nothing so exactly as to the - vertebræ of the saurians, whence the theorist may conjecture - a race of Anakim proportionate to the withstanding of these - other monsters. I say Anakim rather than Nephelim, because - there seem reasons for supposing that the race of those - whose heads (though no giants) are constantly enveloped in - clouds (which that name imports) will never become extinct. - The attempt to vanquish the innumerable _heads_ of one of - those aforementioned discourses may supply us with a - plausible interpretation of the second labor of Hercules, - and his successful experiment with fire affords us a useful - precedent. - - But while I lament the degeneracy of the age in this regard, - I cannot refuse to succumb to its influence. Looking out - through my study-window, I see Mr. Biglow at a distance busy - in gathering his Baldwins, of which, to judge by the number - of barrels lying about under the trees, his crop is more - abundant than my own,--by which sight I am admonished to - turn to those orchards of the mind wherein my labors may be - more prospered, and apply myself diligently to the - preparation of my next Sabbath's discourse.--H. W.] - - - - - GLOSSARY. - - - A. - - Act'lly, _actually_. - - Air, _are_. - - Airth, _earth_. - - Airy, _area_. - - Aree, _area_. - - Arter, _after_. - - Ax, _ask_. - - - B. - - Beller, _bellow_. - - Bellowses, _lungs_. - - Ben, _been_. - - Bile, _boil_. - - Bimeby, _by and by_. - - Blurt out, _to speak bluntly_. - - Bust, _burst_. - - Buster, _a roistering blade_; used also as a general superlative. - - - - C. - - Caird, _carried_. - - Cairn, _carrying_. - - Caleb, _a turncoat_. - - Cal'late, _calculate_. - - Cass, _a person with two lives_. - - Close, _clothes_. - - Cockerel, _a young cock_. - - Cocktail, _a kind of drink_; also, _an ornament peculiar to soldiers_. - - Convention, _a place where people are imposed on_; _a juggler's show_. - - Coons, _a cant term for a now defunct party_; derived, perhaps, from - the fact of their being commonly _up a tree_. - - Cornwallis, _a sort of muster in masquerade_; supposed to have had its - origin soon after the Revolution, and to commemorate the surrender - of Lord Cornwallis. It took the place of the old Guy Fawkes - procession. - - Crooked stick, _a perverse, froward person_. - - Cunnle, _a colonel_. - - Cus, _a curse_; also, _a pitiful fellow_. - - - D. - - Darsn't, used indiscriminately, either in singular or plural number, - for _dare not_, _dares not_, and _dared not_. - - Deacon off, _to give the cue to_; derived from a custom, once - universal, but now extinct, in our New England Congregational - churches. An important part of the office of deacon was to read - aloud the hymns _given out_ by the minister, one line at a time, - the congregation singing each line as soon as read. - - Demmercrat, leadin', _one in favor of extending slavery_; _a free-trade - lecturer maintained in the custom-house_. - - Desput, _desperate_. - - Doos, _does_. - - Doughface, _a contented lickspittle_; a common variety of Northern - politician. - - Dror, _draw_. - - Du, _do_. - - Dunno, _dno_, _do not_, or _does not know_. - - Dut, _dirt_. - - - E. - - Eend, _end_. - - Ef, _if_. - - Emptins, _yeast_. - - Env'y, _envoy_. - - Everlasting, an intensive, without reference to duration. - - Ev'y, _every_. - - Ez, _as_. - - - F. - - Fence, On the, said of one who halts between two opinions; a trimmer. - - Fer, _for_. - - Ferfle, ferful, _fearful_; also an intensive. - - Fin', _find_. - - Fish-skin, used in New England to clarify coffee. - - Fix, _a difficulty_, _a nonplus_. - - Foller, folly, _to follow_. - - Forrerd, _forward_. - - Frum, _from_. - - Fur, far. - - Furder, _farther_. - - Furrer, _furrow_. Metaphorically, _to draw a straight furrow_ is to - live uprightly or decorously. - - Fust, _first_. - - - G. - - Gin, _gave_. - - Git, _get_. - - Gret, _great_. - - Grit, _spirit_, _energy_, _pluck_. - - Grout, _to sulk_. - - Grouty, _crabbed_, _surly_. - - Gum, _to impose on_. - - Gump, _a foolish fellow_, _a dullard_. - - Gut, _got_. - - - H. - - Hed, _had_. - - Heern, _heard_. - - Hellum, _helm_. - - Hendy, _handy_. - - Het, _heated_. - - Hev, _have_. - - Hez, _has_. - - Holl, _whole_. - - Holt, _hold_. - - Huf, _hoof_. - - Hull, _whole_. - - Hum, _home_. - - Humbug, _General Taylor's antislavery_. - - Hut, _hurt_. - - - I. - - Idno, _I do not know_. - - In'my, _enemy_. - - Insines, _ensigns_; used to designate both the officer who carries - the standard, and the standard itself. - - Inter, intu, _into_. - - - J. - - Jedge, _judge_. - - Jest, _just_. - - Jine, _join_. - - Jint, _joint_. - - Junk, _a fragment of any solid substance_. - - - K. - - Keer, _care_. - - Kep', _kept_. - - Killock, _a small anchor_. - - Kin', kin' o, kinder, _kind_, _kind of_. - - - L. - - Lawth, _loath_. - - Less, _let's_, _let us_. - - Let daylight into, _to shoot_. - - Let on, _to hint_, _to confess_, _to own_. - - Lick, _to beat_, _to overcome_. - - Lights, _the bowels_. - - Lily-pads, _leaves of the water-lily_. - - Long-sweetening, _molasses_. - - - M. - - Mash, _marsh_. - - Mean, _stingy_, _ill-natured_. - - Min', _mind_. - - - N. - - Nimepunce, _ninepence_, _twelve and a half cents_. - - Nowers, _nowhere_. - - - O. - - Offen, _often_. - - Ole, _old_. - - Ollers, olluz, _always_. - - On, _of_; used before _it_ or _them_, or at the end of a sentence, - as _on't_, _on 'em,_ _nut ez ever I heerd on_. - - On'y, _only_. - - Ossifer, _officer_ (seldom heard). - - - P. - - Peaked, _pointed_. - - Peek, _to peep_. - - Pickerel, _the pike_, _a fish_. - - Pint, _point_. - - Pocket full of rocks, _plenty of money_. - - Pooty, _pretty_. - - Pop'ler, _conceited_, _popular_. - - Pus, _purse_. - - Put out, _troubled_, _vexed_. - - - Q. - - Quarter, _a quarter-dollar_. - - Queen's arm, _a musket_. - - - R. - - Resh, _rush_. - - Revelee, _the réveillé_. - - Rile, _to trouble_. - - Riled, _angry_; _disturbed_, as the sediment in any liquid. - - Riz, _risen_. - - Row, a long row to hoe, _a difficult task_. - - Rugged, _robust_. - - - S. - - Sarse, _abuse_, _impertinence_. - - Sartin, _certain_. - - Saxton, _sacristan_, _sexton_. - - Scaliest, _worst_. - - Scringe, _cringe_. - - Scrouge, _to crowd_. - - Sech, _such_. - - Set by, _valued_. - - Shakes, great, _of considerable consequence_. - - Shappoes, _chapeaux_, _cocked-hats_. - - Sheer, _share_. - - Shet, _shut_. - - Shut, _shirt_. - - Skeered, _scared_. - - Skeeter, _mosquito_. - - Skootin', _running_, or _moving swiftly_. - - Slarterin', _slaughtering_. - - Slim, _contemptible_. - - Snaked, _crawled like a snake_; but _to snake any one out_ is to - track him to his hiding-place; _to snake a thing out_ is to snatch it - out. - - Soffles, _sofas_. - - Sogerin', _soldiering_; a barbarous amusement common among men in the - savage state. - - Som'ers, _somewhere_. - - So'st, _so as that_. - - Sot, _set_, _obstinate_, _resolute_. - - Spiles, _spoils_; _objects of political ambition_. - - Spry, _active_. - - Staddles, _stout stakes driven into the salt marshes_, on which the - hay-ricks are set and thus raised out of the reach of high tides. - - Streaked, _uncomfortable_, _discomfited_. - - Suckle, _circle_. - - Sutthin', _something_. - - Suttin, _certain_. - - - T. - - Take on, _to sorrow_. - - Talents, _talons_. - - Taters, _potatoes_. - - Tell, _till_. - - Tetch, _touch_. - - Tetch tu, _to be able_; used always after a negative in this sense. - - Thru, _through_. - - Thundering, a euphemism common in New England for the profane English - expression _devilish_. Perhaps derived from the belief, common - formerly, that thunder was caused by the Prince of the Air, for some - of whose accomplishments consult Cotton Mather. - - Tollable, _tolerable_. - - Toot, used derisively for _playing on any wind instrument_. - - Tu, _to_, _too_; commonly has this sound when used emphatically, or at - the end of a sentence. At other times it has the sound of _t_ in - _tough_, as, _Ware ye goin' tu? Goin' t' Boston_. - - - U. - - Ugly, _ill-tempered_, _intractable_. - - Uncle Sam, _United States_; the largest boaster of liberty and owner - of slaves. - - Unrizzest, applied to dough or bread; _heavy_, _most unrisen_, or _most - incapable of rising_. - - - V. - - V-spot, _a five-dollar bill_. - - Vally, _value_. - - - W. - - Wake snakes, _to get into trouble_. - - Wal, _well_; spoken with great deliberation, and sometimes with the - _a_ very much flattened, sometimes (but more seldom) very much - broadened. - - Wannut, _walnut_ (_hickory_). - - Ware, _where_. - - Ware, _were_. - - Whopper, _an uncommonly large lie_; as, that General Taylor is in favor - of the Wilmot Proviso. - - Wig, _Whig_; a party now dissolved. - - Wunt, _will not_. - - Wus, _worse_. - - Wut, _what_. - - Wuth, _worth_; as, _Antislavery perfessions 'fore 'lection aint wuth - a Bungtown copper_. - - Wuz, _was_, sometimes _were_. - - - Y. - - Yaller, _yellow_. - - Yeller, _yellow_. - - Yellers,_ a disease of peach-trees_. - - - Z. - - Zack, Ole, _a second Washington, an antislavery slaveholder, a humane - buyer and seller of men and women, a Christian hero generally_. - - - - - INDEX. - - - A. - - A. B., information wanted concerning, 427. - - Adam, eldest son of, respected, 393. - - Æneas goes to hell, 441. - - Æolus, a seller of money, as is supposed by some, 441. - - Æschylus, a saying of, 414, _note_. - - Alligator, a decent one conjectured to be, in some sort, humane, 451. - - Alphonso the Sixth of Portugal, tyrannical act of, 453. - - Ambrose, Saint, excellent (but rationalistic) sentiment of, 406. - - "American Citizen," new compost so called, 442. - - American Eagle, a source of inspiration, 410 - hitherto wrongly classed, 414 - long bill of, _ib._ - - Amos, cited, 405. - - Anakim, that they formerly existed, shown, 453. - - Angels, providentially speak French, 400 - conjectured to be skilled in all tongues, _ib._ - - Anglo-Saxondom, its idea, what, 398. - - Anglo-Saxon mask, 399. - - Anglo-Saxon race, 396. - - Anglo-Saxon verse, by whom carried to perfection, 393. - - Antonius, a speech of, 408 - by whom best reported, _ib._ - - Apocalypse, beast in, magnetic to theologians, 431. - - Apollo, confessed mortal by his own oracle, 431. - - Apollyon, his tragedies popular, 426. - - Appian, an Alexandrian, not equal to Shakspeare as an orator, 408. - - Ararat, ignorance of foreign tongues is an, 415. - - Arcadian background, 443. - - Aristophanes, 405. - - Arms, profession of, once esteemed especially that of gentleman, 393. - - Arnold, 409. - - Ashland, 443. - - Astor, Jacob, a rich man, 436. - - Astraea, nineteenth century forsaken by, 442. - - Athenians, ancient, an institution of, 408. - - Atherton, Senator, envies the loon, 419. - - Austin, Saint, profane wish of, 409, _note_. - - Aye-Aye, the, an African animal, America supposed to be settled by, 401. - - - B. - - Babel, probably the first Congress, 415 - a gabble-mill, _ib._ - - Baby, a low-priced one, 440. - - Bagowind, Hon. Mr., whether to be damned, 421. - - Baldwin apples, 454. - - Baratarias, real or imaginary, which most pleasant, 442. - - Barnum, a great natural curiosity recommended to, 413. - - Barrels, an inference from seeing, 454. - - Bâton Rouge, 443 - strange peculiarities of laborers at, _ib._ - - Baxter, R., a saying of, 406. - - Bay, Mattysqumscot, 450. - - Bay State, singular effect produced on military officers by leaving - it, 399. - - Beast in Apocalypse, a loadstone for whom, 431. - - Beelzebub, his rigadoon, 419. - - Behmen, his letters not letters, 427. - - Bellevs, a saloon-keeper, 446 - inhumanly refuses credit to a presidential candidate, _ib._ - - Biglow, Ezekiel, his letter to Hon. J. T. Buckingham, 388 - never heard of any one named Mundishes, _ib._ - nearly fourscore years old, _ib._ - his aunt Keziah, a notable saying of, 389. - - Biglow, Hosea, excited by composition, 388 - a poem by, 389, 422 - his opinion of war, 390 - wanted at home by Nancy, 391 - recommends a forcible enlistment of warlike editors, _ib._ - would not wonder, if generally agreed with, _ib._ - versifies letter of Mr. Sawin, 393 - a letter from, 394, 417 - his opinion of Mr. Sawin, 394 - does not deny fun at Cornwallis, 395, _note_ - his idea of militia glory, 396, _note_ - a pun of, 397, _note_ - is uncertain in regard to people of Boston, _ib._ - had never heard of Mr. John P. Robinson, 401 - _aliquid sufflaminandus_, 402 - his poems attributed to a Mr. Lowell, 405 - is unskilled in Latin, 405 - his poetry maligned by some, _ib._ - his disinterestedness, _ib._ - his deep share in commonweal, 405 - his claim to the presidency, _ib._ - his mowing, _ib._ - resents being called Whig, 406 - opposed to tariff, _ib._ - obstinate, _ib._ - infected with peculiar notions, _ib._ - reports a speech, 408 - emulates historians of antiquity, _ib._ - his character sketched from a hostile point of view, 415 - a request of his complied with, 421 - appointed at a public meeting in Jaalam, 428 - confesses ignorance, in one minute particular, of propriety, _ib._ - his opinion of cocked hats, _ib._ - letter to, _ib._ - called "Dear Sir," by a general, _ib._ - probably receives same compliment from two hundred and nine, _ib._ - picks his apples, 454 - his crop of Baldwins conjecturally large, _ib._ - - Billings, Dea. Cephas, 395. - - Birch, virtue of, in instilling certain of the dead languages, 441. - - Bird of our country sings hosanna, 396. - - Blind, to go it, 439. - - Blitz, pulls ribbons from his mouth, 396. - - Bluenose potatoes, smell of, eagerly desired, 396. - - Bobtail obtains a cardinal's hat, 401. - - Bolles, Mr. Secondary, author of prize peace essay, 396 - presents sword to Lieutenant Colonel, _ib._ - a fluent orator, _ib._ - found to be in error, 397. - - Bonaparte, N., a usurper, 431. - - Boot-trees, productive, where, 441. - - Boston, people of, supposed educated, 397, _note_. - - Brahmins, navel-contemplating, 427. - - Bread-trees, 440. - - Brigadier Generals in militia, devotion of, 407. - - Brown, Mr., engages in an unequal contest, 421. - - Browne, Sir T., a pious and wise sentiment of, cited and commended, 394. - - Buckingham, Hon. J. T., editor of the Boston Courier, letters to, 388, - 394, 402, 417 - not afraid, 394. - - Buffalo, a plan hatched there, 448 - plaster, a prophecy in regard to, _ib._ - - Buncombe, in the other world supposed, 408. - - Bung, the eternal, thought to be loose, 391. - - Bungtown Fencibles, dinner of, 401. - - Butter in Irish bogs, 440. - - - C. - - C., General, commended for parts, 402 - for ubiquity, _ib._ - for consistency, _ib._ - for fidelity, _ib._ - is in favor of war, _ib._ - his curious valuation of principle, _ib._ - - Cæsar, tribute to, 424 - his _veni, vidi, vici_, censured for undue prolixity, 432. - - Cainites, sect of, supposed still extant, 393. - - Caleb, a monopoly of his denied, 395 - curious notions of, as to meaning of "shelter," 398 - his definition of Anglo-Saxon, _ib._ charges Mexicans (not with - bayonets but) with improprieties, _ib._ - - Calhoun, Hon. J. C., his cow-bell curfew, light of the nineteenth - century to be extinguished at sound of, 416 - cannot let go apron-string of the Past, 417 - his unsuccessful tilt at Spirit of the Age, _ib._ - the Sir Kay of modern chivalry, _ib._ - his anchor made of a crooked pin, 417 - mentioned, 417-420. - - Cambridge Platform, use discovered for, 400. - - Canary Islands, 441. - - Candidate, presidential, letter from, 428 - smells a rat, _ib._ - against a bank, 429 - takes a revolving position, _ib._ - opinion of pledges, _ib._ - is a periwig, 430 - fronts south by north, _ib._ - qualifications of, lessening, 432 - wooden leg (and head) useful to, 439. - - Cape Cod clergymen, what, 400 - Sabbath-breakers, perhaps, reproved by, _ib._ - - Carpini, Father John de Plano, among the Tartars, 453. - - Cartier, Jacques, commendable zeal of, 453. - - Cass, General, 418 - clearness of his merit, 419 - limited popularity at "Bellers's," 446. - - Castles, Spanish, comfortable accommodations in, 442. - - Cato, letters of, so-called, suspended _naso adunco_, 427. - - C. D., friends of, can hear of him, 427. - - Chalk egg, we are proud of incubation of, 427. - - Chappelow on Job, a copy of, lost, 421. - - Cherubusco, news of, its effects on English royalty, 414. - - Chesterfield, no letter-writer, 427. - - Chief Magistrate, dancing esteemed sinful by, 400. - - Children naturally speak Hebrew, 394. - - China-tree, 441. - - Chinese, whether they invented gunpowder before the Christian era - _not_ considered, 401. - - Choate, hired, 447. - - Christ shuffled into Apocrypha, 401 - conjectured to disapprove of slaughter and pillage, 403 - condemns a certain piece of barbarism, 421. - - Christianity, profession of, plebeian, whether, 393. - - Christian soldiers, perhaps inconsistent, whether, 407. - - Cicero, an opinion of, disputed, 432. - - Cilley, Ensign, author of nefarious sentiment, 401. - - _Cimex lectularius_, 397. - - Cincinnatus, a stock character in modern comedy, 443. - - Civilization, progress of, an _alias_, 422 - rides upon a powder-cart, 429. - - Clergymen, their ill husbandry, 421 - their place in processions, 443 - some, cruelly banished for the soundness of their lungs, 453. - - Cocked-hat, advantages of being knocked into, 428. - - College of Cardinals, a strange one, 401. - - Colman, Dr. Benjamin, anecdote of, 407. - - Colored folks, curious national diversion of kicking, 398. - - Colquitt, a remark of, 419 - acquainted with some principles of aerostation, _ib._ - - Columbia, District of, its peculiar climatic effects, 410 - not certain that Martin is for abolishing it, 448. - - Columbus, a Paul Pry of genius, 427. - - Columby, 445. - - Complete Letter-Writer, fatal gift of, 431. - - Compostella, St. James of, seen, 399. - - Congress, singular consequence of getting into, 410. - - Congressional debates, found instructive, 416. - - Constituents, useful for what, 411. - - Constitution trampled on, 417 - to stand upon, what, 429. - - Convention, what, 410. - - Convention, Springfield, 410. - - Coon, old, pleasure in skinning, 418. - - Coppers, _caste_ in picking up of, 437. - - Copres, a monk, his excellent method of arguing, 416. - - Cornwallis, a, 395 - acknowledged entertaining, _ib._, _note_. - - Cotton Mather, summoned as witness, 400. - - Country lawyers, sent providentially, 404. - - Country, our, its boundaries more exactly defined, 404 - right or wrong, nonsense about exposed, _ib._ - - Courier, The Boston, an unsafe print, 415. - - Court, General, farmers sometimes attain seats in, 444. - - Cowper, W., his letters commended, 427. - - Creed, a safe kind of, 439. - - Crusade, first American, 400. - - Cuneiform script recommended, 432. - - Curiosity distinguishes man from brutes, 426. - - - D. - - Davis, Mr., of Mississippi, a remark of his, 418. - - Day and Martin, proverbially "on hand," 388. - - Death, rings down curtain, 426. - - Delphi, oracle of, surpassed, 414, _note_ - alluded to, 431. - - Destiny, her account, 413. - - Devil, the, unskilled in certain Indian tongues, 400 - letters to and from, 428. - - Dey of Tripoli, 416. - - Didymus, a somewhat voluminous grammarian, 431. - - Dighton rock character might be usefully employed in some - emergencies, 432. - - Dimitry Bruisgins, fresh supply of, 426. - - Diogenes, his zeal for propagating certain variety of olive, 441. - - Dioscuri, imps of the pit, 400. - - District-Attorney, contemptible conduct of one, 416. - - Ditchwater on brain, a too common ailing, 416. - - Doctor, the, a proverbial saying of, 399. - - Doughface, yeast-proof, 424. - - Drayton, a martyr, 416 - north star, culpable for aiding, whether, 420. - - D. Y., letter of, 427. - - - E. - - Earth, Dame, a peep at her housekeeping, 417. - - Eating words, habit of, convenient in time of famine, 413. - - Eavesdroppers, 427. - - Echetlæus, 400. - - Editor, his position, 421 - commanding pulpit of, 422 - large congregation of, _ib._ - name derived from what, _ib._ - fondness for mutton, _ib._ - a pious one, his creed, _ib._ - a showman, 425 - in danger of sudden arrest, without bail, 426. - - Editors, certain ones who crow like cockerels, 391. - - Egyptian darkness, phial of, use for, 432. - - Eldorado, Mr. Sawin sets sail for, 440. - - Elizabeth, Queen, mistake of her ambassador, 408. - - Empedocles, 427. - - Employment, regular, a good thing, 436. - - Epaulets, perhaps no badge of saintship, 403. - - Episcopius, his marvellous oratory, 453. - - Eric, king of Sweden, his cap, 441. - - Evangelists, iron ones, 400. - - Eyelids, a divine shield against authors, 416. - - Ezekiel, text taken from, 421. - - - F. - - Factory-girls, expected rebellion of, 419. - - Family-trees, fruit of jejune, 441. - - Faneuil Hall, a place where persons tap themselves for a species of - hydrocephalus, 416 - a bill of fare mendaciously advertised in, 440. - - Father of country, his shoes, 444. - - Female Papists, cut off in midst of idolatry, 442. - - Fire, we all like to play with it, 417. - - Fish, emblematic, but disregarded, where, 416. - - Flam, President, untrustworthy, 411. - - Fly-leaves, providential increase of, 416. - - Foote, Mr., his taste for field-sports, 418. - - Fourier, a squinting toward, 415. - - Fourth of Julys, boiling, 409. - - France, a strange dance begun in, 419. - - Fuller, Dr. Thomas, a wise saying of, 402. - - Funnel, Old, hurraing in, 396. - - - G. - - Gawain, Sir, his amusements, 417. - - Gay, S. H., Esquire, editor of National Antislavery Standard, letter - to, 426. - - Getting up early, 390, 398. - - Ghosts, some, presumed fidgetty (but see Stilling's Pneumatology), 427. - - Giants formerly stupid, 417. - - Gift of tongues, distressing case of, 415. - - Globe Theatre, cheap season ticket to, 426. - - Glory, a perquisite of officers, 437 - her account with B. Sawin, Esq., 440. - - Goatsnose, the celebrated, interview with, 432. - - Gomara, has a vision, 399 - his relationship to the Scarlet Woman, _ib._ - - Gray's letters _are_ letters, 427. - - Great horn spoon, sworn by, 418. - - Greeks, ancient, whether they questioned candidates, 432. - - Green Man, sign of, 406. - - - H. - - Ham, sandwich, an orthodox (but peculiar) one, 420. - - Hamlets, machine for making, 433. - - Hammon, 414, _note_, 431. - - Hannegan, Mr., something said by, 419. - - Harrison, General, how preserved, 431. - - Hat-trees, in full bearing, 441. - - Hawkins, Sir John, stout, something he saw, 440. - - Henry the Fourth of England, a Parliament of, how named, 408. - - Hercules, his second labor probably what, 454. - - Herodotus, story from, 394. - - Hesperides, an inference from, 441. - - Holden, Mr. Shearjashub, Preceptor of Jaalam Academy, 431 - his knowledge of Greek limited, _ib._ - a heresy of his, _ib._ - leaves a fund to propagate it, 432. - - Hollis, Ezra, goes to a Cornwallis, 395. - - Hollow, why men providentially so constructed, 409. - - Homer, a phrase of, cited, 422. - - Horners, democratic ones, plums left for, 411. - - Howell, James, Esq., story told by, 408 - letters of, commended, 427. - - Human rights out of order on the floor of Congress, 418. - - Humbug, ascription of praise to, 425 - generally believed in, _ib._ - - Husbandry, instance of bad, 402. - - - I. - - Icarius, Penelope's father, 404. - - Infants, prattlings of, curious observation concerning, 393. - - Information wanted (universally, but especially at page) 427. - - - J. - - Jaalam Centre, Anglo-Saxons unjustly suspected by the young ladies - there, 399 - "Independent Blunderbuss," strange conduct of editor of, 421 - public meeting at, 428 - meeting-house ornamented with imaginary clock, 441. - - Jaalam Point, light-house on, charge of prospectively offered to - Mr. H. Biglow, 430. - - Jakes, Captain, 450 - reproved for avarice, _ib._ - - James the Fourth of Scots, experiment by, 394. - - Jarnegin, Mr., his opinion of the completeness of Northern - education, 419. - - Jerome, Saint, his list of sacred writers, 427. - - Job, Book of, 393 - Chappelow on, 421. - - Johnson, Mr., communicates some intelligence, 419. - - Jonah, the inevitable destiny of, 420 - probably studied internal economy of the cetacea, 427. - - Jortin, Dr., cited, 407, 414, _note_. - - Judea, everything not known there, 404. - - Juvenal, a saying of, 413, _note_. - - - K. - - Kay, Sir, the, of modern chivalry who, 417. - - Key, brazen one, 416. - - Keziah, Aunt, profound observation of, 389. - - Kinderhook, 443. - - Kingdom Come, march to, easy, 434. - - Königsmark, Count, 393. - - - L. - - Lacedæmonians, banish a great talker, 416. - - Lamb, Charles, his epistolary excellence, 427. - - Latimer, Bishop, episcopizes Satan, 393. - - Latin tongue, curious information concerning, 405. - - Launcelot, Sir, a trusser of giants formerly, perhaps would find less - sport therein now, 417. - - Letters classed, 427 - their shape, 428 - of candidates, 431 - often fatal, _ib._ - - Lewis, Philip, a scourger of young native Americans, 414 - commiserated (though not deserving it), _ib._, _note_. - - Liberator, a newspaper, condemned by implication, 406. - - Liberty, unwholesome for men of certain complexions, 422. - - Lignum vitæ, a gift of this valuable wood proposed, 399. - - Longinus recommends swearing, 394, _note_ (Fuseli did same thing). - - Long sweetening recommended, 435. - - Lost arts, one sorrowfully added to list of, 453. - - Louis the Eleventh of France, some odd trees of his, 441. - - Lowell, Mr. J. R., unaccountable silence of, 405. - - Luther, Martin, his first appearance as Europa, 399. - - Lyttelton, Lord, his letters an imposition, 427. - - - M. - - Macrobii, their diplomacy, 432. - - Mahomet, got nearer Sinai than some, 422. - - Mahound, his filthy gobbets, 400. - - Mangum, Mr., speaks to the point, 418. - - Manichæan, excellently confuted, 416. - - Man-trees, grew where, 441. - - Mares'-nests, finders of, benevolent, 427. - - Marshfield, 443, 447. - - Martin, Mr. Sawin used to vote for him, 448. - - Mason and Dixon's line, slaves north of, 418. - - Mass, the, its duty defined, 418. - - Massachusetts on her knees, 392 - something mentioned in connection with, worthy the attention of - tailors, 410 - citizen of, baked, boiled, and roasted (_nefandum!_), 438. - - Masses, the, used as butter by some, 411. - - M. C., an invertebrate animal, 413. - - Mechanics' Fair, reflections suggested at, 433. - - Mentor, letters of, dreary, 427. - - Mephistopheles at a nonplus, 420. - - Mexican blood, its effect in raising price of cloth, 442. - - Mexican polka, 400. - - Mexicans charged with various breaches of etiquette, 398 - kind feelings beaten into them, 425. - - Mexico, no glory in overcoming, 410. - - Military glory spoken disrespectfully of, 396, _note_ - militia treated still worse, _ib._ - - Milk-trees, growing still, 440. - - Mills for manufacturing gabble, how driven, 415. - - Milton, an unconscious plagiary, 409, _note_ - a Latin verse of, cited, 422. - - Missions, a profitable kind of, 423. - - Monarch, a pagan, probably not favored in philosophical - experiments, 394. - - Money-trees desirable, 441 - that they once existed shown to be variously probable, _ib._ - - Montaigne, a communicative old Gascon, 427. - - Monterey, battle of, its singular chromatic effect on a species of - two-headed eagle, 414. - - Moses held up vainly as an example, 422 - construed by Joe Smith, _ib._ - - Myths, how to interpret readily, 432. - - - N. - - Naboths, Popish ones, how distinguished, 401. - - Nation, rights of, proportionate to size, 398. - - National pudding, its effect on the organs of speech, a curious - physiological fact, 401. - - Nephelim, not yet extinct, 453. - - New England overpoweringly honored, 412 - wants no more speakers, _ib._ - done brown by whom, _ib._ - her experience in beans beyond Cicero's, 432. - - Newspaper, the, wonderful, 425 - a strolling theatre, _ib._ - thoughts suggested by tearing wrapper of, 426 - a vacant sheet, _ib._ - a sheet in which a vision was let down, _ib._ - wrapper to a bar of soap, _ib._ - a cheap impromptu platter, _ib._ - - New York, letters from, commended, 427. - - Next life, what, 421. - - Niggers, 390 - area of abusing, extended, 410 - Mr. Sawin's opinions of, 449. - - Ninepence a day low for murder, 395. - - No, a monosyllable, 401 - hard to utter, _ib._ - - Noah, enclosed letter in bottle, probably, 427. - - Nornas, Lapland, what, 441. - - North, has no business, 419 - bristling, crowded off roost, 430. - - North Bend, geese inhumanly treated at, 431 - mentioned, 443. - - North star, a proposition to indict, 420. - - - O. - - Off ox, 429. - - Officers, miraculous transformation in character of, 399 - Anglo-Saxon, come very near being anathematized, _ib._ - - O'Phace, Increase D., Esq., speech of, 408. - - Oracle of Fools, still respectfully consulted, 408. - - Orion, becomes commonplace, 426. - - Orrery, Lord, his letters (lord!), 427. - - Ostracism, curious species of, 408. - - - P. - - Palestine, 399. - - Palfrey, Hon. J. G., 408, 412, 413 (a worthy representative of - Massachusetts). - - Pantagruel recommends a popular oracle, 408. - - Panurge, his interview with Goatsnose, 432. - - Papists, female, slain by zealous Protestant bomb-shell, 442. - - Paralipomenon, a man suspected of being, 431. - - Paris, liberal principles safe as far away as, 422. - - _Parliamentum Indoctorum_ sitting in permanence, 408. - - Past, the, a good nurse, 417. - - Patience, sister, quoted, 396. - - Paynims, their throats propagandistically cut, 400. - - Penelope, her wise choice, 404. - - People, soft enough, 423 - want correct ideas, 439. - - Pepin, King, 428. - - Periwig, 430. - - Persius, a pithy saying of, 411, _note_. - - Pescara, Marquis, saying of, 393. - - Peter, Saint, a letter of (_post-mortem_), 428. - - Pharisees, opprobriously referred to, 422. - - Philippe, Louis, in pea-jacket, 425. - - Phlegyas, quoted, 421. - - Phrygian language, whether Adam spoke it, 394. - - Pilgrims, the, 410. - - Pillows, constitutional, 413. - - Pinto, Mr., some letters of his commended, 428. - - Pisgah, an impromptu one, 441. - - Platform, party, a convenient one, 439. - - Plato, supped with, 427 - his man, 431. - - Pleiades, the, not enough esteemed, 426. - - Pliny, his letters not admired, 427. - - Plotinus, a story of, 417. - - Plymouth Rock, Old, a Convention wrecked on, 410. - - Point Tribulation, Mr. Sawin wrecked on, 440. - - Poles, exile, whether crop of beans depends on, 397, _note_. - - Polk, President, synonymous with our country, 403 - censured, 410 - in danger of being crushed, 411. - - Polka, Mexican, 400. - - Pomp, a runaway slave, his nest, 450 - hypocritically groans like white man, _ib._ - blind to Christian privileges, _ib._ - his society valued at fifty dollars, _ib._ - his treachery, 451 - takes Mr. Sawin prisoner, 452 - cruelly makes him work, _ib._ - puts himself illegally under his tuition, _ib._ - dismisses him with contumelious epithets, _ib._ - - Pontifical bull, a tamed one, 399. - - Pope, his verse excellent, 393. - - Pork, refractory in boiling, 399. - - Portugal, Alphonso the Sixth of, a monster, 453. - - Post, Boston, 174 shaken visibly, 405 - bad guide-post, _ib._ - too swift, _ib._ - edited by a colonel, _ib._ - who is presumed officially in Mexico, _ib._ - referred to, 415. - - Pot-hooks, death in, 432. - - Preacher, an ornamental symbol, 421 - a breeder of dogmas, _ib._ - earnestness of, important, 453. - - Present, considered as an annalist, 422 - not long wonderful, 426. - - President, slaveholding natural to, 424 - must be a Southern resident, 439 - must own a nigger, _ib._ - - Principle, exposure spoils it, 409. - - Principles, bad, when less harmful, 401. - - Prophecy, a notable one, 414. - - Proviso, bitterly spoken of, 429. - - Prudence, sister, her idiosyncratic teapot, 436. - - Psammeticus, an experiment of, 394. - - Public opinion, a blind and drunken guide, 401 - nudges Mr. Wilbur's elbow, _ib._ - ticklers of, 411. - - Pythagoras a bean-hater, why, 432. - - Pythagoreans, fish reverenced by, why, 416. - - - Q. - - Quixote, Don, 417. - - - R. - - Rag, one of sacred college, 401. - - Rantoul, Mr., talks loudly, 396 - pious reason for not enlisting, _ib._ - - Recruiting sergeant, Devil supposed the first, 393. - - Representatives' Chamber, 416. - - Rhinothism, society for promoting, 427. - - Rhyme, whether natural _not_ considered, 393. - - Rib, an infrangible one, 435. - - Richard the First of England, his Christian fervor, 399. - - Riches conjectured to have legs as well as wings, 420. - - Robinson, Mr. John P., his opinions fully stated, 402-404. - - Rocks, pocket full of, 436. - - Rough and Ready, 446 a wig, 447 a kind of scratch, _ib._ - - Russian eagle turns Prussian blue, 414. - - - S. - - Sabbath, breach of, 400. - - Sabellianism, one accused of, 431. - - Saltillo, unfavorable view of, 396. - - Salt-river, in Mexican, what, 396. - - Samuel, Uncle, riotous, 414 - yet has qualities demanding reverence, 423 - a good provider for his family, _ib._ - an exorbitant bill of, 442. - - Sansculottes, draw their wine before drinking, 419. - - Santa Anna, his expensive leg, 438. - - Satan, never wants attorneys, 400 - an expert talker by signs, _ib._ - a successful fisherman with little or no bait, _ib._ - cunning fetch of, 402 - dislikes ridicule, 405 - ought not to have credit of ancient oracles, 414, _note_. - - Satirist, incident to certain dangers, 401. - - Savages, Canadian, chance of redemption offered to, 453. - - Sawin, B., Esquire, his letter not written in verse, 393 - a native of Jaalam, 394 - not regular attendant on Rev. Mr. Wilbur's preaching, _ib._ - a fool, _ib._ - his statements trustworthy, _ib._ - his ornithological tastes, _ib._ - letter from, _ib._, 433, 443 - his curious discovery in regard to bayonets, 395, 396 - displays proper family pride, 395 - modestly confesses himself less wise than the Queen of Sheba, 398 - the old Adam in, peeps out, 399 - a _miles emeritus_, 433 - is made text for a sermon, _ib._ - loses a leg, 434 - an eye, _ib._ - left hand, _ib._ - four fingers of right hand, _ib._ - has six or more ribs broken, _ib._ - a rib. of his infrangible, _ib._ - allows a certain amount of preterite greenness in himself, 435, 436 - his share of spoil limited, 436 - his opinion of Mexican climate, _ib._ - acquires property of a certain sort, _ib._ - his experience of glory, 437 - stands sentry, and puns thereupon, 438 - undergoes martyrdom in some of its most painful forms, _ib._ - enters the candidating business, _ib._ - modestly states the (avail) abilities which qualify him for high - political station, 438-440 - has no principles, 438 - a peace man, _ib._ - unpledged, _ib._ - has no objections to owning _peculiar_ property, but would not like - to monopolize the truth, 439 - his account with glory, 440 - a selfish motive hinted in, _ib._ - sails for Eldorado, _ib._ - shipwrecked on a metaphorical promontory, _ib._ - parallel between, and Rev. Mr. Wilbur (not Plutarchian), 442 - conjectured to have bathed in river Selemnus, 443 - loves plough wisely, but not too well, _ib._ - a foreign mission probably expected by, 444 - unanimously nominated for presidency, _ib._ - his country's father-in-law, _ib._ - nobly emulates Cincinnatus, 445 - is not a crooked stick, _ib._ - advises his adherents, _ib._ - views of, on present state of politics, 445-449 - popular enthusiasm for, at Bellers's, and its disagreeable - consequences, 446 - inhuman treatment of, by Bellers, _ib._ - his opinion of the two parties, 447 - agrees with Mr. Webster, 448 - his antislavery zeal, _ib._ - his proper self-respect, _ib._ - his unaffected piety, _ib._ - his not intemperate temperance, 449 - a thrilling adventure of, 449-452 - his prudence and economy, 450 - bound to Captain Jakes, but regains his freedom, _ib._ - is taken prisoner, 451, 452 - ignominiously treated, 452 - his consequent resolution, _ib._ - - Sayres, a martyr, 416. - - Scaliger, saying of, 402. - - _Scarabæus pilularius_, 397. - - Scott, General, his claims to the presidency, 405, 407. - - Scythians, their diplomacy commended, 432. - - Seamen, colored, sold, 392. - - Selemnus, a sort of Lethean river, 443. - - Senate, debate in, made readable, 416. - - Seneca, saying of, 401 - another, 414, _note_ - overrated by a saint (but see Lord Bolingbroke's opinion of, in a - letter to Dean Swift), 427 - his letters not commended, _ib._ - a son of Rev. Mr. Wilbur, 442. - - Serbonian bog of literature, 416. - - Sextons, demand for, 396 heroic official devotion of one, 453. - - Shaking fever, considered as an employer, 436. - - Shakspeare, a good reporter, 408. - - Sham, President, honest, 411. - - Sheba, Queen of, 398. - - Sheep, none of Rev. Mr. Wilbur's turned wolves, 394. - - Shem, Scriptural curse of, 452. - - Show, natural to love it, 396, _note_. - - Silver spoon born in Democracy's mouth, what, 411. - - Sinai, suffers outrages, 422. - - Sin, wilderness of, modern, what, 422. - - Skin, hole in, strange taste of some for, 437. - - Slaughter, whether God strengthen us for, 400. - - Slaughterers and soldiers compared, 443. - - Slaughtering nowadays is slaughtering, 443. - - Slavery, of no color, 391 - cornerstone of liberty, 415 - also keystone, 418 - last crumb of Eden, 420 - a Jonah, _ib._ an institution, 431 - a private State concern, 450. - - Smith, Joe, used as a translation, 422. - - Smith, John, an interesting character, 426. - - Smith, Mr., fears entertained for, 421 - dined with, 427. - - Smith, N. B., his magnanimity, 425. - - Soandso, Mr., the great, defines his position, 425. - - Sol the fisherman, 397 - soundness of respiratory organs hypothetically attributed to, _ib._ - - Solon, a saying of, 401. - - South Carolina, futile attempt to anchor, 417. - - Spanish, to walk, what, 398. - - Speech-making, an abuse of gift of speech, 415. - - Star, north, subject to indictment, whether, 420. - - Store, cheap cash, a wicked fraud, 441. - - Strong, Governor Caleb, a patriot, 404. - - Swearing commended as a figure of speech, 394, _note_. - - Swift, Dean, threadbare saying of, 405. - - - T. - - Tag, elevated to the Cardinalate, 401. - - Taxes, direct, advantages of, 442. - - Taylor zeal, its origin, 446 - General, greased by Mr. Choate, 448. - - Tesephone, banished for long-windedness, 416. - - Thanks, get lodged, 437. - - Thaumaturgus, St. Gregory, letter of, to the Devil, 428. - - Thirty-nine articles might be made serviceable, 400. - - Thor, a foolish attempt of, 417. - - Thumb, General Thomas, a valuable member of society, 413. - - Thunder, supposed in easy circumstances, 435. - - Thynne, Mr., murdered, 393. - - Time, an innocent personage to swear by, 394 - a scene-shifter 426. - - Toms, Peeping, 426. - - Trees, various kinds of extraordinary ones, 440, 441. - - Trowbridge, William, mariner, adventure of, 400. - - Truth and falsehood start from same point, 402 - truth invulnerable to satire, _ib._ - compared to a river, 408 - of fiction sometimes truer than fact, _ib._ - told plainly, _passim_. - - Tuileries, exciting scene at, 414. - - Tully, a saying of, 409, _note_. - - Tweedledee, gospel according to, 422. - - Tweedledum, great principles of, 422. - - - U. - - Ulysses, husband of Penelope, 404 borrows money, 441. - (For full particulars of, see Homer and Dante.) - - University, triennial catalogue of, 406. - - - V. - - Van Buren fails of gaining Mr. Sawin's confidence, 448 - his son John reproved, _ib._ - - Van, Old, plan to set up, 449. - - Venetians, invented something once, 441. - - Vices, cardinal, sacred conclave of, 401. - - Victoria, Queen, her natural terror, 414. - - Virgin, the, letter of, to Magistrates of Messina, 428. - - Vratz, Captain, a Pomeranian, singular views of, 393. - - - W. - - Walpole, Horace, classed, 427 - his letters praised, _ib._ - - Waltham Plain, Cornwallis at, 395. - - Walton, punctilious in his intercourse with fishes, 400. - - War, abstract, horrid, 429 - its hoppers, grist of, what, 437. - - Warton, Thomas, a story of, 407. - - Washington, charge brought against, 445. - - Washington, city of, climatic influence of, on coats, 410 - mentioned, 416 - grand jury of, 420. - - Washingtons, two hatched at a time by improved machine, 444. - - Water, Taunton, proverbially weak, 449. - - Water-trees, 440. - - Webster, some sentiments of, commended by Mr. Sawin, 447, 448. - - Westcott, Mr., his horror, 420. - - Whig party, has a large throat, 406 - but query as to swallowing spurs, 448. - - White-house, 430. - - Wife-trees, 441. - - Wilbur, Rev. Homer, A. M., consulted, 388 - his instructions to his flock, 394 - a proposition of his for Protestant bomb-shells, 400 - his elbow nudged, 401 - his notions of satire, _ib._ - some opinions of his quoted with apparent approval by Mr. Biglow, 403 - geographical speculations of, 404 - a justice of the peace, _ib._ - a letter of, _ib._ - a Latin pun of, 405 - runs against a post without injury, _ib._ - does not seek notoriety (whatever some malignants may affirm), 406 - fits youths for college, _ib._ - a chaplain during late war with England, 407 - a shrewd observation of, 408 - some curious speculations of, 415-416 - his martillo-tower, 415 - forgets he is not in pulpit, 420, 433 - extracts from sermon of, 421, 425 - interested in John Smith, 426 - his iews concerning present state of letters, 426-428 - a stratagem of, 431 - ventures two hundred and fourth interpretation of Beast in - Apocalypse, 431 - christens Hon. B. Sawin, then an infant, 433 - an addition to our _sylva_ proposed by, 441 - curious and instructive adventure of, 441-442 - his account with an unnatural uncle, 442 - his uncomfortable imagination, 443 - speculations concerning Cincinnatus, _ib._ - confesses digressive tendency of mind, 453 - goes to work on sermon (not without fear that his readers will dub - him with a reproachful epithet like that with which Isaac Allerton, - a Mayflower man, revenges himself on a delinquent debtor of his, - calling him in his will, and thus holding him up to posterity, as - "John Peterson, |The Bore|"), 454. - - Wilbur, Mrs., an invariable rule of, 406 - her profile, 407. - - Wildbore, a vernacular one, how to escape, 415. - - Wind, the, a good Samaritan, 433. - - Wooden leg, remarkable for sobriety, 434 - never eats pudding, 435. - - Wright, Colonel, providentially rescued, 397. - - Wrong, abstract, safe to oppose, 411. - - - Z. - - Zack, Old, 446. - - - - - THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. - - 1850. - - - - - THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. - - - PART I. - - SHOWING HOW HE BUILT HIS HOUSE AND HIS WIFE - MOVED INTO IT. - - - My worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott, - From business snug withdrawn, - Was much contented with a lot - That would contain a Tudor cot - 'Twixt twelve feet square of garden-plot, - And twelve feet more of lawn. - - He had laid business on the shelf - To give his taste expansion, - And, since no man, retired with pelf. - The building mania can shun, - Knott, being middle-aged himself, - Resolved to build (unhappy elf!) - A mediæval mansion. - - He called an architect in counsel; - "I want," said he, "a--you know what - (You are a builder, I am Knott,) - A thing complete from chimney-pot - Down to the very grounsel; - Here's a half-acre of good land; - Just have it nicely mapped and planned - And make your workmen drive on; - Meadow there is, and upland too, - And I should like a water-view, - D' you think you could contrive one? - (Perhaps the pump and trough would do. - If painted a judicious blue?) - The woodland I've attended to;" - (He meant three pines stuck up askew, - Two dead ones and a live one.) - - "A pocket-full of rocks 't would take - To build a house of free-stone, - But then it is not hard to make - What now-a-days is _the_ stone; - The cunning painter in a trice - Your house's outside petrifies, - And people think it very gneiss - Without inquiring deeper; - _My_ money never shall be thrown - Away on such a deal of stone, - When stone of deal is cheaper." - - And so the greenest of antiques - Was reared for Knott to dwell in; - The architect worked hard for weeks - In venting all his private peaks - Upon the roof, whose crop of leaks - Had satisfied Fluellen; - Whatever any body had - Out of the common, good or bad, - Knott had it all worked well in, - A donjon-keep, where clothes might dry, - A porter's lodge that was a sty, - A campanile slim and high, - Too small to hang a bell in; - All up and down and here and there, - With Lord-knows-whats of round and square - Stuck on at random every where,-- - It was a house to make one stare, - All corners and all gables; - Like dogs let loose upon a bear, - Ten emulous styles _staboyed_ with care, - The whole among them seemed to tear, - And all the oddities to spare - Were set upon the stables. - - Knott was delighted with a pile - Approved by fashion's leaders; - (Only he made the builder smile, - By asking, every little while, - Why that was called the Twodoor style, - Which certainly had _three_ doors?) - Yet better for this luckless man - If he had put a downright ban - Upon the thing _in limine_; - For, though to quit affairs his plan, - Ere many days, poor Knott began - Perforce, accepting draughts that ran - All ways--except up chimney; - The house, though painted stone to mock, - With nice white lines round every block, - Some trepidation stood in, - When tempests (with petrific shock, - So to speak,) made it really rock, - Though not a whit less wooden; - And painted stone, howe'er well done, - Will not take in the prodigal sun - Whose beams are never quite at one - With our terrestrial lumber; - So the wood shrank around the knots, - And gaped in disconcerting spots, - And there were lots of dots and rots - And crannies without number, - Wherethrough, as you may well presume, - The wind, like water through a flume, - Came rushing in ecstatic, - Leaving, in all three floors, no room - That was not a rheumatic; - And, what with points and squares and rounds - Grown shaky on their poises, - The house at night was full of pounds, - Thumps, bumps, creaks, scratchings, raps--till--"Zounds!" - Cried Knott, "this goes beyond all bounds, - I do not deal in tongues and sounds, - Nor have I let my house and grounds - To a family of Noyeses!" - - But, though Knott's house was full of airs, - _He_ had but one--a daughter; - And, as he owned much stocks and shares, - Many who wished to render theirs - Such vain, unsatisfying cares, - And needed wives to sew their tears, - In matrimony sought her; - They vowed her gold they wanted not, - Their faith would never falter, - They longed to tie this single Knott - In the Hymenæal halter; - So daily at the door they rang, - Cards for the belle delivering, - Or in the choir at her they sang, - Achieving such a rapturous twang - As set her nerves a-shivering. - - Now Knott had quite made up his mind - That Colonel Jones should have her; - No beauty he, but oft we find - Sweet kernels 'neath a roughish rind, - So hoped his Jenny'd be resigned - And make no more palaver; - Glanced at the fact that love was blind, - That girls were ratherish inclined - To pet their little crosses, - Then nosologically defined - The rate at which the system pined - In those unfortunates who dined - Upon that metaphoric kind - Of dish--their own proboscis. - - But she, with many tears and moans, - Besought him not to mock her, - Said 'twas too much for flesh and bones - To marry mortgages and loans, - That fathers' hearts were stocks and stones - And that she'd go, when Mrs. Jones, - To Davy Jones's locker; - Then gave her head a little toss - That said as plain as ever was, - If men are always at a loss - Mere womankind to bridle-- - To try the thing on woman cross, - Were fifty times as idle; - For she a strict resolve had made - And registered in private, - That either she would die a maid, - Or else be Mrs. Doctor Slade, - If woman could contrive it; - And, though the wedding-day was set, - Jenny was more so, rather, - Declaring, in a pretty pet, - That, howsoe'er they spread their net, - She would out-Jennyral them yet, - The colonel and her father. - - Just at this time the Public's eyes - Were keenly on the watch, a stir - Beginning slowly to arise - About those questions and replies, - Those raps that unwrapped mysteries - So rapidly at Rochester, - And Knott, already nervous grown - By lying much awake alone, - And listening, sometimes to a moan, - And sometimes to a clatter, - Whene'er the wind at night would rouse - The gingerbread-work on his house, - Or when some hasty-tempered mouse, - Behind the plastering, made a towse - About a family matter, - Began to wonder if his wife, - A paralytic half her life, - Which made it more surprising, - Might not to rule him from her urn, - Have taken a peripatetic turn - For want of exorcising. - - This thought, once nestled in his head, - Ere long contagious grew, and spread - Infecting all his mind with dread, - Until at last he lay in bed - And heard his wife, with well-known tread, - Entering the kitchen through the shed, - (Or was't his fancy, mocking?) - Opening the pantry, cutting bread, - And then (she'd been some ten years dead) - Closets and drawers unlocking; - Or, in his room (his breath grew thick) - He heard the long-familiar click - Of slender needles flying quick, - As if she knit a stocking; - For whom?--he prayed that years might flit - With pains rheumatic shooting, - Before those ghostly things she knit - Upon his unfleshed sole might fit, - He did not fancy it a bit, - To stand upon that footing; - At other times, his frightened hairs - Above the bedclothes trusting, - He heard her, full of household cares, - (No dream entrapped in supper's snares, - The foal of horrible nightmares, - But broad awake, as he declares,) - Go bustling up and down the stairs, - Or setting back last evening's chairs, - Or with the poker thrusting - The raked-up sea-coal's hardened crust-- - And--what! impossible! it must! - He knew she had returned to dust, - And yet could scarce his senses trust, - Hearing her as she poked and fussed - About the parlor, dusting! - - Night after night he strove to sleep - And take his ease in spite of it; - But still his flesh would chill and creep, - And, though two night-lamps he might keep, - He could not so make light of it. - At last, quite desperate, he goes - And tells his neighbors all his woes, - Which did but their amount enhance; - They made such mockery of his fears - That soon his days were of all jeers, - His nights of the rueful countenance; - "I thought most folks," one neighbor said, - "Gave up the ghost when they were dead," - Another gravely shook his head, - Adding, "from all we hear, it's - Quite plain poor Knott is going mad-- - For how can he at once be sad - And think he's full of spirits?" - A third declared he knew a knife - Would cut this Knott much quicker, - "The surest way to end all strife, - And lay the spirit of a wife, - Is just to take and lick her!" - A temperance man caught up the word, - "Ah, yes," he groaned, "I've always heard - Our poor friend somewhat slanted - Tow'rd taking liquor over-much; - I fear these spirits may be Dutch, - (A sort of gins, or something such,) - With which his house is haunted; - I see the thing as clear as light-- - If Knott would give up getting tight, - Naught farther would be wanted:" - So all his neighbors stood aloof - And, that the spirits 'neath his roof - Were not entirely up to proof, - Unanimously granted. - - Knott knew that cocks and sprites were foes, - And so bought up, Heaven only knows - How many, though he wanted crows - To give ghosts caws, as I suppose, - To think that day was breaking; - Moreover what he called his park, - He turned into a kind of ark - For dogs, because a little bark - Is a good tonic in the dark, - If one is given to waking; - But things went on from bad to worse, - His curs were nothing but a curse, - And, what was still more shocking, - Foul ghosts of living fowl made scoff - And would not think of going off - In spite of all his cocking. - - Shanghais, Bucks-counties, Dominiques, - Malays (that didn't lay for weeks). - Polanders, Bantams, Dorkings, - (Waiving the cost, no trifling ill, - Since each brought in his little bill,) - By day or night were never still, - But every thought of rest would kill - With cacklings and with quorkings; - Henry the Eighth of wives got free - By a way he had of axing; - But poor Knott's Tudor henery - Was not so fortunate, and he - Still found his trouble waxing; - As for the dogs, the rows they made, - And how they howled, snarled, barked and bayed, - Beyond all human knowledge is; - All night, as wide awake as gnats, - The terriers rumpused after rats, - Or, just for practice, taught their brats - To worry cast-off shoes and hats, - The bull-dogs settled private spats, - All chased imaginary cats, - Or raved behind the fence's slats - At real ones, or, from their mats, - With friends, miles off, held pleasant chats, - Or, like some folks in white cravats, - Contemptuous of sharps and flats, - Sat up and sang dogsologies. - Meanwhile the cats set up a squall, - And, safe upon the garden-wall, - All night kept cat-a-walling; - As if the feline race were all, - In one wild cataleptic sprawl, - Into love's tortures falling. - - - PART II. - - SHOWING WHAT IS MEANT BY A FLOW OF SPIRITS. - - At first the ghosts were somewhat shy, - Coming when none but Knott was nigh, - And people said 'twas all their eye, - (Or rather his) a flam, the sly - Digestion's machination; - Some recommended a wet sheet, - Some a nice broth of pounded peat, - Some a cold flat-iron to the feet, - Some a decoction of lamb's-bleat, - Some a southwesterly grain of wheat; - Meat was by some pronounced unmeet, - Others thought fish most indiscreet, - And that 'twas worse than all to eat - Of vegetables, sour or sweet, - (Except, perhaps, the skin of beat,) - In such a concatenation: - One quack his button gently plucks - And murmurs "biliary ducks!" - Says Knott, "I never ate one;" - But all, though brimming full of wrath, - Homoeo, Allo, Hydropath, - Concurred in this--that t' other's path - To death's door was the straight one - Still, spite of medical advice, - The ghosts came thicker, and a spice - Of mischief grew apparent; - Nor did they only come at night, - But seemed to fancy broad daylight, - Till Knott, in horror and affright, - His unoffending hair rent; - Whene'er with handkerchief on lap, - He made his elbow-chair a trap, - To catch an after-dinner nap, - The spirits, always on the tap, - Would, make a sudden _rap, rap, rap_, - The half-spun cord of sleep to snap, - (And what is life without its nap - But threadbareness and mere mishap?) - As 't were with a percussion cap - The trouble's climax capping; - It seemed a party dried and grim - Of mummies had come to visit him, - Each getting off from every limb - Its multitudinous wrapping; - Scratchings sometimes the walls ran round, - The merest penny-weights of sound; - Sometimes 'twas only by the pound - They carried on their dealing, - A thumping 'neath the parlor floor, - Thump-bump-thump-bumping o'er and o'er, - As if the vegetables in store, - (Quiet and orderly before,) - Were all together pealing; - You would have thought the thing was done - By the spirit of some son of a gun, - And that a forty-two pounder, - Or that the ghost which made such sounds - Could be none other than John Pounds, - Of Ragged Schools the founder. - - Through three gradations of affright, - The awful noises reached their height; - At first they knocked nocturnally, - Then, for some reason, changing quite, - (As mourners, after six months' flight, - Turn suddenly from dark to light,) - Began to knock diurnally, - And last, combining all their stocks, - (Scotland was ne'er so full of Knox,) - Into one Chaos (father of Nox,) - _Nocte pluit_--they showered knocks, - And knocked, knocked, knocked eternally - Ever upon the go, like buoys, - (Wooden sea-urchins,) all Knott's joys, - They turned to troubles and a noise - That preyed on him internally. - - Soon they grew wider in their scope; - Whenever Knott a door would ope, - It would ope not, or else elope - And fly back (curbless as a trope - Once started down a stanza's slope - By a bard that gave it too much rope--) - Like a clap of thunder slamming; - And, when kind Jenny brought his hat, - (She always, when he walked, did that,) - Just as upon his head it sat, - Submitting to his settling pat-- - Some unseen hand would jam it flat, - Or give it such a furious bat - That eyes and nose went cramming - Up out of sight, and consequently, - As when in life it paddled free, - His beaver caused much damning; - If these things seemed o'erstrained to be, - Read the account of Docter Dee, - 'Tis in our college library; - Read Wesley's circumstantial plea, - And Mrs. Crowe, more like a bee, - Sucking the nightshade's honeyed fee, - And Stilling's Pneumatology; - Consult Scot, Glanvil, and grave Wierus, - and both Mathers; further, see - Webster, Gasaubon, James First's treatise, - a right royal Q. E. D. - Writ with the moon in perigee, - Bodin de Demonomanie-- - (Accent that last line gingerly) - All full of learning as the sea - Of fishes, and all disagree, - Save in _Sathanas apage_! - Or, what will surely put a flea - In unbelieving ears--with glee, - Out of a paper (sent to me - By some friend who forgot to P... - A... Y...,--I use cryptography - Lest I his vengeful pen should dree-- - His P... O... S... T... A... G... E...) - Things to the same effect I cut, - About the tantrums of a ghost, - Not more than three weeks since, at most, - Near Stratford, in Connecticut. - - Knott's Upas daily spread its roots, - Sent up on all sides livelier shoots, - And bore more pestilential fruits; - The ghosts behaved like downright brutes, - They snipped holes in his Sunday suits, - Practised all night on octave flutes, - Put peas (not peace) into his boots, - Whereof grew corns in season, - They scotched his sheets, and, what was worse, - Stuck his silk night-cap full of burs, - Till he, in language plain and terse, - (But much unlike a Bible verse,) - Swore he should lose his reason. - - The tables took to spinning, too, - Perpetual yarns, and arm-chairs grew - To prophets and apostles; - One footstool vowed that only he - Of law and gospel held the key, - That teachers of whate'er degree - To whom opinion bows the knee - Weren't fit to teach Truth's a. b. c. - And were (the whole lot) to a T. - Mere fogies all and fossils; - A teapoy, late the property - Of Knox's Aunt Keziah, - (Whom Jenny most irreverently - Had nicknamed her aunt-tipathy) - With tips emphatic claimed to be - The prophet Jeremiah; - The tins upon the kitchen-wall, - Turned tintinnabulators all, - And things that used to come at call - For simple household services, - Began to hop and whirl and prance, - Fit to put out of countenance - The _Commis_ and _Grisettes_ of France - Or Turkey's dancing Dervises. - - Of course such doings, far and wide, - With rumors filled the country-side, - And (as it is our nation's pride - To think a Truth not verified - Till with majorities allied,) - Parties sprang up, affirmed, denied, - And candidates with questions plied - Who, like the circus-riders, tried - At once both hobbies to bestride, - And each with his opponent vied - In being inexplicit. - Earnest inquirers multiplied; - Folks, whose tenth cousins lately died, - Wrote letters long, and Knott replied. - All who could either walk or ride, - Gathered to wonder or deride, - And paid the house a visit; - Horses were at his pine-trees tied, - Mourners in every corner sighed, - Widows brought children there that cried, - Swarms of lean Seekers, eager-eyed, - (People Knott never could abide,) - Into each hole and cranny pried - With strings of questions cut and dried - From the Devout Inquirer's Guide, - For the wise spirits to decide-- - As, for example, is it - True that the damned are fried or boiled? - Was the Earth's axis greased or oiled? - Who cleaned the moon when it was soiled? - How baldness might be cured or foiled? - How heal diseased potatoes? - Did spirits have the sense of smell? - Where would departed spinsters dwell? - If the late Zenas Smith were well? - If Earth were solid or a shell? - Were spirits fond of Doctor Fell? - _Did_ the bull toll Cock-Robin's knell? - What remedy would bugs expel? - If Paine's invention were a sell? - Did spirits by Webster's system spell? - Was it a sin to be a belle? - Did dancing sentence folks to hell? - If so, then where most torture fell-- - On little toes or great toes? - If life's true seat were in the brain? - Did Ensign mean to marry Jane? - By whom, in fact, was Morgan slain? - Could matter ever suffer pain? - What would take out a cherry-stain? - Who picked the pocket of Seth Crane, - Of Waldo precinct, State of Maine? - Was Sir John Franklin sought in vain? - Did primitive Christians ever train? - What was the family-name of Cain? - Them spoons, were they by Betty ta'en? - Would earth-worm poultice cure a sprain? - Was Socrates so dreadful plain? - What teamster guided Charles's wain? - Was Uncle Ethan mad or sane, - And could his will in force remain? - If not, what counsel to retain? - Did Le Sage steal Gil Bias from Spain? - Was Junius writ by Thomas Paine? - Were ducks discomforted by rain? - _How_ did Britannia rule the main? - Was Jonas coming back again? - - Was vital truth upon the wane? - Did ghosts, to scare folks, drag a chain? - Who was our Huldah's chosen swain? - Did none have teeth pulled without payin' - Ere ether was invented? - Whether mankind would not agree, - If the universe were tuned in C.? - What was it ailed Lucindy's knee? - Whether folks eat folks in Feejee? - Whether _his_ name would end with T.? - If Saturn's rings were two or three, - And what bump in Phrenology - They truly represented? - These problems dark, wherein they groped, - Wherewith man's reason vainly coped, - Now that the spirit-world was oped, - In all humility they hoped - Would be resolved _instanter_; - Each of the miscellaneous rout - Brought his, or her, own little doubt, - And wished to pump the spirits out, - Through his, or her, own private spout, - Into his, or her decanter. - - - PART III. - - WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN THAT THE MOST ARDENT SPIRITS - ARE MORE ORNAMENTAL THAN USEFUL. - - Many a speculating wight - Came by express-trains, day and night, - To see if Knott would "sell his right," - Meaning to make the ghosts a sight-- - What they call a "meenaygerie;" - One threatened, if he would not "trade," - His run of custom to invade, - (He could not these sharp folks persuade - That he was not, in some way, paid,) - And stamp him as a plagiary, - By coming down at one fell swoop, - With |THE| ORIGINAL |KNOCKING TROUPE|, - Come recently from Hades, - Who (for a quarter-dollar heard) - Would ne'er rap out a hasty word - Whence any blame might be incurred - From the most fastidious ladies; - The late lamented Jesse Soule - To stir the ghosts up with a pole - And be director of the whole, - Who was engaged the rather - For the rare merits he'd combine, - Having been in the spirit line, - Which trade he only did resign, - With general applause, to shine, - Awful in mail of cotton fine, - As ghost of Hamlet's father! - Another a fair plan reveals - Never yet hit on, which, he feels, - To Knott's religious sense appeals-- - "We'll have your house set up on wheels, - A speculation pious; - For music, we can shortly find - A barrel-organ that will grind - Psalm-tunes--an instrument designed - For the New England tour--refined - From secular drosses, and inclined - To an unworldly turn, (combined - With no sectarian bias;) - Then, travelling by stages slow, - Under the style of Knott & Co., - I would accompany the show - As moral lecturer, the foe - Of nationalism; you could throw - The rappings in, and make them go - Strict Puritan principles, you know, - (How _do_ you make 'em? with your toe?) - And the receipts which thence might flow, - We could divide between us; - Still more attractions to combine, - Beside these services of mine, - I will throw in a very fine - (It would do nicely for a sign) - Original Titian's Venus." - Another offered handsome fees - If Knott would get Demosthenes, - (Nay, his mere knuckles, for more ease,) - To rap a few short sentences; - Or if, for want of proper keys, - His Greek might make confusion, - Then just to get a rap from Burke, - To recommend a little work - On Public Elocution. - Meanwhile, the spirits made replies - To all the reverent _whats_ and _whys_ - Resolving doubts of every size, - And giving seekers grave and wise, - Who came to know their destinies, - A rap-turous reception; - When unbelievers void of grace - Came to investigate the place, - (Creatures of Sadducistic race, - With grovelling intellects and base), - They could not find the slightest trace - To indicate deception; - Indeed, it is declared by some - That spirits (of this sort) are glum, - Almost, or wholly, deaf and dumb, - And (out of self-respect) quite mum - To sceptic natures cold and numb, - Who of _this_ kind of Kingdom Come - Have not a just conception; - True, there were people who demurred - That, though the raps no doubt were heard - Both under them and o'er them, - Yet, somehow, when a search they made, - They found Miss Jenny sore afraid, - Or Jenny's lover, Doctor Slade, - Equally awe-struck and dismayed, - Or Deborah, the chamber-maid, - Whose terrors, not to be gainsaid, - In laughs hysteric were displayed, - Was always there before them; - This had its due effect with some - Who straight departed, muttering, Hum! - Transparent hoax! and Gammon! - But these were few: believing souls - Came, day by day, in larger shoals, - As the ancients to the windy holes - 'Neath Delphi's tripod brought their doles, - Or to the shrine of Ammon. - - The spirits seemed exceeding tame, - Call whom you fancied, and he came; - The shades august of eldest fame - You summoned with an awful ease; - As grosser spirits gurgled out - From chair and table with a spout, - In Auerbach's cellar once, to flout - The senses of the rabble rout, - Where'er the gimlet twirled about - Of cunning Mephistophiles-- - So did these spirits seem in store, - Behind the wainscot or the door, - Ready to thrill the being's core - Of every enterprising bore - With their astounding glamour; - Whatever ghost one wished to hear, - By strange coincidence, was near - To make the past or future clear, - (Sometimes in shocking grammar,) - By raps and taps, now there, now here-- - It seemed as if the spirit queer - Of some departed auctioneer - Were doomed to practise by the year - With the spirit of his hammer; - Whate'er you asked was answered, yet - One could not very deeply get - Into the obliging spirits' debt, - Because they used the alphabet - In all communications, - And new revealings (though sublime) - Rapped out, one letter at a time, - With boggles, hesitations, - Stoppings, beginnings o'er again, - And getting matters into train, - Could hardly overload the brain - With too excessive rations, - Since just to ask _if two and two_ - _Really make four?_ or, _How d' ye do?_ - And get the fit replies thereto - In the tramundane rat-tat-too, - Might ask a whole day's patience. - - 'Twas strange ('mongst other things) to find - In what odd sets the ghosts combined, - Happy forthwith to thump any - Piece of intelligence inspired, - The truth whereof had been inquired - By some one of the company; - For instance, Fielding, Mirabeau, - Orator Henley, Cicero, - Paley, John Zisca, Marivaux, - Melancthon, Robertson, Junot, - Scaliger, Chesterfield, Rousseau, - Hakluyt, Boccaccio, South, De Foe, - Diaz, Josephus, Richard Roe, - Odin, Arminius, Charles _le gros_, - Tiresias, the late James Crow, - Casabianca, Grose, Prideaux, - Old Grimes, Young Norval, Swift, Brissot, - Maimonides, the Chevalier D'O, - Socrates, Fénelon, Job, Stow, - The inventor of _Elixir pro_, - Euripides, Spinoza, Poe, - Confucius, Hiram Smith, and Fo, - Came (as it seemed, somewhat _de trop_) - With a disembodied Esquimaux, - To say that it was so and so, - With Franklin's expedition; - One testified to ice and snow, - One that the mercury was low, - One that his progress was quite slow, - One that he much desired to go, - One that the cook had frozen his toe, - (Dissented from by Dandolo, - Wordsworth, Cynaegirus, Boileau, - La Hontan, and Sir Thomas Roe,) - One saw twelve white bears in a row, - One saw eleven and a crow, - With other things we could not know - (Of great statistic value, though) - By our mere mortal vision. - - Sometimes the spirits made mistakes, - And seemed to play at ducks and drakes - With bold inquiry's heaviest stakes - In science or in mystery; - They knew so little (and that wrong) - Yet rapped it out so bold and strong, - One would have said the entire throng - Had been Professors of History; - What made it odder was, that those - Who, you would naturally suppose, - Could solve a question, if they chose, - As easily as count their toes, - Were just the ones that blundered; - One day, Ulysses, happening down, - A reader of Sir Thomas Browne - And who (with him) had wondered - What song it was the Sirens sang, - Asked the shrewd Ithacan--_bang! bang!_ - With this response the chamber rang, - "I guess it was Old Hundred." - And Franklin, being asked to name - The reason why the lightning came, - Replied, "Because it thundered." - - On one sole point the ghosts agreed, - One fearful point, than which, indeed, - Nothing could seem absurder; - Poor Colonel Jones they all abused, - And finally downright accused - The poor old man of murder; - 'Twas thus; by dreadful raps was shown. - Some spirit's longing to make known - A bloody fact, which he alone - Was privy to, (such ghosts more prone - In Earth's affairs to meddle are;) - _Who are you?_ with awe-stricken looks, - All ask: his airy knuckles he crooks, - And raps, "I _was_ Eliab Snooks, - That used to be a peddler; - Some on ye still are on my books!" - Whereat, to inconspicuous nooks, - (More fearing this than common spooks,) - Shrank each indebted meddler; - Further the vengeful ghost declared - That while his earthly life was spared, - About the country he had fared, - A duly licensed follower - Of that much-wandering trade that wins - Slow profit from the sale of tins - And various kinds of hollow-ware; - That Colonel Jones enticed him in, - Pretending that he wanted tin, - There slew him with a rolling-pin, - Hid him in a potatoe-bin, - And (the same night) him ferried - Across Great Pond to t' other shore, - And there, on land of Widow Moore, - Just where you turn to Larkin's store, - Under a rock him buried; - Some friends (who happened, to be by) - He called upon to testify - That what he said was not a lie, - And that he did not stir this - Foul matter, out of any spite - But from a simple love of right;-- - Which statements the Nine Worthies, - Rabbi Akiba, Charlemagne, - Seth, Colley Cibber, General Wayne, - Cambyses, Tasso, Tubal-Cain, - The owner of a castle in Spain, - Jehanghire, and the Widow of Nain, - (The friends aforesaid) made more plain - And by loud raps attested; - To the same purport testified - Plato, John Wilkes, and Colonel Pride - Who knew said Snooks before he died, - Had in his wares invested, - Thought him entitled to belief - And freely could concur, in brief, - In everything the rest did. - - Eliab this occasion seized, - (Distinctly here the spirit sneezed,) - To say that he should ne'er be eased - Till Jenny married whom she pleased, - Free from all checks and urgin's, - (This spirit dropt his final g's) - And that, unless Knott quickly sees - This done, the spirits to appease, - They would come back his life to tease, - As thick as mites in ancient cheese, - And let his house on an endless lease - To the ghosts (terrific rappers these - And veritable Eumenides) - Of the Eleven Thousand Virgins! - - Knott was perplexed and shook his head. - He did not wish his child to wed - With a suspected murderer, - (For, true or false, the rumor spread) - But as for this roiled life he led, - "It would not answer," so he said, - "To have it go no furderer." - - At last, scarce knowing what it meant, - Reluctantly he gave consent - That Jenny, since 'twas evident - That she _would_ follow her own bent, - Should make her own election. - For that appeared the only way - These frightful noises to allay - Which had already turned him gray - And plunged him in dejection. - - Accordingly, this artless maid - Her father's ordinance obeyed, - And, all in whitest crape arrayed, - (Miss Pulsifer the dresses made - And wishes here the fact displayed - That she still carries on the trade, - The third door south from Bagg's Arcade,) - A very faint "I do" essayed - And gave her hand to Hiram Slade, - From which time forth, the ghosts were laid, - And ne'er gave trouble after; - But the Selectmen, be it known, - Dug underneath the aforesaid stone, - Where the poor peddler's corpse was thrown, - And found thereunder a jaw-bone, - Though, when the crowner sat thereon, - He nothing hatched, except alone - Successive broods of laughter; - It was a frail and dingy thing, - In which a grinder or two did cling, - In color like molasses, - Which surgeons, called from far and wide, - Upon the horror to decide, - Having put on their glasses, - Reported thus--"To judge by looks, - These bones, by some queer hooks or crooks, - _May_ have belonged to Mr. Snooks, - But, as men deepest-read in books - Are perfectly aware, bones, - If buried, fifty years or so, - Lose their identity and grow - From human bones to bare bones." - - Still, if to Jaalam you go down, - You'll find two parties in the town, - One headed by Benaiah Brown, - And one by Perez Tinkham; - The first believe the ghosts all through - And vow that they shall never rue - The happy chance by which they knew - That people in Jupiter are blue, - And very fond of Irish stew, - Two curious facts which Prince Lee Boo - Rapped clearly to a chosen few-- - Whereas the others think 'em - A trick got up by Doctor Slade - With Deborah the chamber-maid - And that sly cretur Jinny, - That all the revelations wise, - At which the Brownites made big eyes, - Might have been given by Jared Keyes, - A natural fool and ninny, - And, last week, didn't Eliab Snooks - Come back with never better looks, - As sharp as new-bought mackerel hooks, - And bright as a new pin, eh? - Good Parson Wilbur, too, avers - (Though to be mixed in parish stirs - Is worse than handling chestnut-burs) - That no case to his mind occurs - Where spirits ever did converse - Save in a kind of guttural Erse. - (So say the best authorities;) - And that a charge by raps conveyed, - Should be most scrupulously weighed - And searched into, before it is - Made public, since it may give pain - That cannot soon be cured again, - And one word may infix a stain - Which ten cannot gloss over, - Though speaking for his private part, - He is rejoiced with all his heart - Miss Knott missed not her lover. - - - - - AN ORIENTAL APOLOGUE. - - - I. - - Somewhere in India, upon a time, - (Read it not Injah, or you spoil the verse) - There dwelt two saints whose privilege sublime - It was to sit and watch the world grow worse, - Their only care (in that delicious clime) - At proper intervals to pray and curse; - Pracrit the dialect each prudent brother - Used for himself, Damnonian for the other. - - - II. - - One half the time of each was spent in praying - For blessings on his own unworthy head, - The other half in fearfully portraying - Where certain folks would go when they were dead; - This system of exchanges--there's no saying - To what more solid barter 'twould have led, - But that a river, vext with boils and swellings - At rainy times, kept peace between their dwellings, - - - III. - - So they two played at wordy battledore - And kept a curse forever in the air, - Flying this way or that from shore to shore; - No other labor did this holy pair, - Clothed and supported from the lavish store - Which crowds lanigerous brought with daily care; - They toiled not neither did they spin; their bias - Was tow'rd the harder task of being pious. - - - IV. - - Each from his hut rushed six score times a day, - Like a great canon of the Church full-rammed - With cartridge theologic, (so to say,) - Touched himself off, and then, recoiling, slammed - His hovel's door behind him in a way - That to his foe said plainly--_you'll_ be damned; - And so like Potts and Wainwright, shrill and strong - The two D--D'd each other all day long. - - - V. - - One was a dancing Dervise, a Mohammedan, - The other was a Hindoo, a gymnosophist; - One kept his whatd'yecallit and his Ramadan, - Laughing to scorn the sacred rites and laws of his - Transfluvial rival, who, in turn, called Ahmed an - Old top, and, as a clincher, shook across a fist - With nails six inches long, yet lifted not - His eyes from off his navel's mystic knot. - - - VI. - - "Who whirls not round six thousand times an hour - Will go," screamed Ahmed, "to the evil place; - May he eat dirt, and may the dog and Giaour - Defile the graves of him and all his race; - Allah loves faithful souls and gives them power - To spin till they are purple in the face; - Some folks get you know what, but he that pure is - Earns Paradise and ninety thousand houries." - - - VII. - - "Upon the silver mountain, South by East, - Sits Brahma fed upon the sacred bean; - He loves those men whose nails are still increased, - Who all their lives keep ugly, foul and lean; - 'Tis of his grace that not a bird or beast - Adorned with claws like mine was ever seen; - The suns and stars are Brahma's thoughts divine - Even as these trees I seem to see are mine." - - - VIII. - - "Thou seem'st to see, indeed!" roared Ahmed back. - "Were I but once across this plaguy stream, - With a stout sapling in my hand, one whack - On those lank ribs would rid thee of that Dream! - Thy Brahma-blasphemy is ipecac - To my soul's stomach; could'st thou grasp the scheme - Of true redemption, thou would'st know that Deity - Whirls by a kind of blessed spontaneity. - - - IX. - - "And this it is which keeps our earth here going - With all the stars."--"O, vile! but there's a place - Prepared for such; to think of Brahma throwing - Worlds like a juggler's balls up into Space! - Why, not so much as a smooth lotos blowing - Is e'er allowed that silence to efface - Which broods around Brahma, and our earth, 'tis known, - Rests on a tortoise, moveless as this stone." - - X. - - So they kept up their banning amebean, - When suddenly came floating down the stream - A youth whose face like an incarnate pæan - Glowed, 'twas so full of grandeur and of gleam; - "If there _be_ gods, then, doubtless, this must be one." - Thought both at once, and then began to scream, - "Surely, whate'er immortals know, thou knowest, - Decide between us twain before thou goest!" - - XI. - - The youth was drifting in a slim canoe - Most like a huge white waterlily's petal, - But neither of our theologians knew - Whereof 'twas made; whether of heavenly metal - Unknown, or of a vast pearl split in two - And hollowed, was a point they could not settle; - 'Twas good debate-seed, though, and bore large fruit - In after years of many a tart dispute. - - XII. - - There were no wings upon the stranger's shoulders - And yet he seemed so capable of rising - That, had he soared like thistledown, beholders - Had thought the circumstance noways surprising; - Enough that he remained, and, when the scolders - Hailed him as umpire in their vocal prize-ring, - The painter of his boat he lightly threw - Around a lotos-stem, and brought her to. - - - XIII. - - The strange youth had a look as if he might - Have trod far planets where the atmosphere, - (Of nobler temper) steeps the face with light, - Just as our skins are tanned and freckled here; - His air was that of a cosmopolite - In the wide universe from sphere to sphere; - Perhaps he was (his face had such grave beauty) - An officer of Saturn's guards off duty. - - - XIV. - - Both saints began to unfold their tales at once, - Both wished their tales, like simial ones, prehensile, - That they might seize his ear; _fool!_ _knave!_ and _dunce!_ - Flew zigzag back and forth, like strokes of pencil - In a child's fingers; voluble as duns, - They jabbered like the stones on that immense hill - In the Arabian Nights; until the stranger - Began to think his ear-drum in some danger. - - - XV. - - In general those who nothing have to say - Contrive to spend the longest time in doing it; - They turn and vary it in every way, - Hashing it, stewing it, mincing it, _ragouting_ it; - Sometimes they keep it purposely at bay, - Then let it slip to be again pursuing it; - They drone it, groan it, whisper it and shout it, - Refute it, flout it, swear to't, prove it, doubt it. - - - XVI. - - Our saints had practised for some thirty years; - Their talk, beginning with a single stem, - Spread like a banyan, sending down live piers, - Colonies of digression, and, in them, - Germs of yet new migrations; once by the ears, - They could convey damnation in a hem, - And blow the pitch of premise-priming off - Long syllogistic batteries, with a cough. - - - XVII. - - Each had a theory that the human ear - A providential tunnel was, which led - To a huge vacuum, (and surely here - They showed some knowledge of the general head,) - For cant to be decanted through, a mere - Auricular canal or raceway to be fed - All day and night, in sunshine and in shower, - From their vast heads of milk-and-water-power. - - - XVIII. - - The present being a peculiar case, - Each with unwonted zeal the other scouted, - Put his spurred hobby through its very pace, - Pished, pshawed, poohed, horribled, bahed, jeered, sneered, flouted, - Sniffed, nonsensed, infideled, fudged, with his face - Looked scorn too nicely shaded, to be shouted, - And, with each inch of person and of vesture, - Contrived to hint some most disdainful gesture. - - - XIX. - - At length, when their breath's end was come about, - And both could, now and then, just gasp "impostor!" - Holding their heads thrust menacingly out, - As staggering cocks keep up their fighting posture, - The stranger smiled and said, "Beyond a doubt - 'Tis fortunate, my friends, that you have lost your - United parts of speech, or it had been - Impossible for me to get between. - - - XX. - - "Produce! says Nature,--what have you produced? - A new straitwaistcoat for the human mind; - Are you not limbed, nerved, jointed, arteried, juiced - As other men? yet, faithless to your kind, - Rather like noxious insects you are used - To puncture life's fair fruit, beneath the rind - Laying your creed-eggs whence in time there spring - Consumers new to eat and buzz and sting. - - - XXI. - - "Work! you have no conception how 'twill sweeten - Your views of Life and Nature, God and Man; - Had you been forced to earn what you have eaten, - Your heaven had shown a less dyspeptic plan; - At present your whole function is to eat ten - And talk ten times as rapidly as you can; - Were your shape true to cosmogonic laws, - You would be nothing but a pair of jaws. - - - XXII. - - "Of all the useless beings in creation - The earth could spare most easily you bakers - Of little clay gods, formed in shape and fashion - Precisely in the image of their makers; - Why, it would almost move a saint to passion, - To see these blind and deaf, the hourly breakers - Of God's own image in their brother men, - Set themselves up to tell the how, where, when, - - - XXIII. - - "Of God's existence; one's digestion's worse-- - So makes a god of vengeance and of blood; - Another--but no matter, they reverse - Creation's plan, out of their own vile mud - Pat up a god, and burn, drown, hang, or curse - Whoever worships not; each keeps his stud - Of texts which wait with saddle on and bridle - To hunt down atheists to their ugly idol. - - - XXIV. - - "This, I perceive, has been your occupation; - You should have been more usefully employed; - All men are bound to earn their daily ration, - Where States make not that primal contract void - By cramps and limits; simple devastation - Is the worm's task, and what he has destroyed - His monument; creating is man's work - And that, too, something more than mist and murk." - - - XXV. - - So having said, the youth was seen no more, - And straightway our sage Brahmin, the philosopher, - Cried, "That was aimed at thee, thou endless bore, - Idle and useless as the growth of moss over - A rotting tree-trunk!" "I would square that score - Full soon," replied the Dervise, "could I cross over - And catch thee by the beard! Thy nails I'd trim - And make thee work, as was advised by him." - - - XXVI. - - "Work? Am I not at work from morn till night - Sounding the deeps of oracles umbilical - Which for man's guidance never come to light, - With all their various aptitudes, until I call?" - "And I, do I not twirl from left to right - For conscience' sake? Is that no work? Thou silly gull, - He had thee in his eye; 'twas Gabriel - Sent to reward my faith, I know him well." - - - XXVII. - - "'Twas Vishnu, thou vile whirligig!" and so - The good old quarrel was begun anew; - One would have sworn the sky was black as sloe, - Had but the other darned to call it blue; - Nor were the followers who fed them slow - To treat each other with their curses, too, - Each hating t'other (moves it tears or laughter?) - Because he thought him sure of hell hereafter. - - - XXVIII. - - At last some genius built a bridge of boats - Over the stream, and Ahmed's zealots filed - Across, upon a mission to (cut throats - And) spread religion pure and undefiled; - They sowed the propagandist's wildest oats, - Cutting off all, down to the smallest child, - And came back, giving thanks for such fat mercies, - To find their harvest gone past prayers or curses. - - - XXIX. - - All gone except their saint's religious hops, - Which he kept up with more than common flourish; - But these, however satisfying crops - For the inner man, were not enough to nourish - The body politic, which quickly drops - Reserve in such sad juncture, and turns currish; - So Ahmed soon got cursed for all the famine - Where'er the popular voice could edge a damn in. - - - XXX. - - At first he pledged a miracle quite boldly, - And, for a day or two, they growled and waited: - But, finding that this kind of manna coldly - Sat on their stomachs, they ere long berated - The saint for still persisting in that old lie, - Till soon the whole machine of saintship grated, - Ran slow, creaked, stopped, and, wishing him in Tophet, - They gathered strength enough to stone the prophet. - - - XXXI. - - Some stronger ones contrived, (by eating leather, - Their weaker friends, and one thing or another,) - The winter months of scarcity to weather; - Among these was the late saint's younger brother, - Who, in the spring, collecting them together, - Persuaded them that Ahmed's holy pother - Had wrought in their behalf, and that the place - Of Saint should be continued to his race. - - - XXXII. - - Accordingly 'twas settled on the spot - That Allah favored that peculiar breed; - Beside, as all were satisfied, 'twould not - Be quite respectable to have the need - Of public spiritual food forgot; - And so the tribe, with proper forms decreed - That he, and, failing him, his next of kin, - Forever for the people's good should spin. - - - - -Transcriber's Notes: - -Italic formatting is indicated by text enclosed in _underscores_ and -small caps and blackletter font by text enclosed in |pipes|. - -Greek words and phrases are transliterated. Stand-alone Greek letters -are spelled out, e.g. alpha, beta, gamma. Where Greek was combined with -English in a single word, the two parts are separated by a hyphen, e.g. -ôtatos-ed. - -Asterisms are rendered as *.* or .*. - -Footnotes are moved to the end of the paragraph or stanza in which they -occur. - -Additional alterations: - - added semicolon at end of line ... hands not theirs;... - added comma after poor ...The poor, the outcast,... - added period at end of stanza ... with the central glow.... - added space between words 'mud puddle' ...on that little mud puddle... - added end quote mark ... for itself a home above." - added end quote mark ... And we'll be equally partakers." - removed apostrophe before 'the ...thet's wut the people likes;... - removed comma after Hapas, ... 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