Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848

Various

Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848

ORNITHOLOGOI.1

BY J. M. LEGARE[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare,Dost see the far hills disappearIn Autumn smoke, and all the airFilled with bright leaves. Below thee spreadAre yellow harvests, rich in breadFor winter use; while over-headThe jays to one another call,And through the stilly woods there fall,Ripe nuts at intervals, where'erThe squirrel, perched in upper air,From tree-top barks at thee his fear;His cunning eyes, mistrustingly,Do spy at thee around the tree;Then, prompted by a sudden whim,Down leaping on the quivering limb,Gains the smooth hickory, from whenceHe nimbly scours along the fenceTo secret haunts.But oftener,When Mother Earth begins to stir,And like a Hadji who hath beenTo Mecca, wears a caftan green;When jasmines and azalias fillThe air with sweets, and down the hillTurbid no more descends the rill;The wonder of thy hazel eyes,Soft opening on the misty skies —Dost smile within thyself to seeThings uncontained in, seemingly,The open book upon thy knee,And through the quiet woodlands hearSounds full of mystery to earOf grosser mould – the myriad criesThat from the teeming world arise;Which we, self-confidently wise,Pass by unheeding. Thou didst yearnFrom thy weak babyhood to learnArcana of creation; turnThy eyes on things intangibleTo mortals; when the earth was still.Hear dreamy voices on the hill,In wavy woods, that sent a thrillOf joyousness through thy young veins.Ah, happy thou! whose seeking gainsAll that thou lovest, man disdainsA sympathy in joys and painsWith dwellers in the long, green lanes,With wings that shady groves explore,With watchers at the torrent's roar,And waders by the reedy shore;For thou, through purity of mind,Dost hear, and art no longer blind.Croak! croak! – who croaketh over-headSo hoarsely, with his pinion spread,Dabbled in blood, and dripping red?Croak! croak! – a raven's curse on him,The giver of this shattered limb!Albeit young, (a hundred years,When next the forest leaved appears,)Will Duskywing behold this breastShot-riddled, or divide my nestWith wearer of so tattered vest?I see myself, with wing awry,Approaching. Duskywing will spyMy altered mien, and shun my eye.With laughter bursting, through the woodThe birds will scream – she's quite too goodFor thee. And yonder meddling jay,I hear him chatter all the day,"He's crippled – send the thief away!"At every hop – "don't let him stay."I'll catch thee yet, despite my wing;For all thy fine blue plumes, thou'lt singAnother song!Is't not enoughThe carrion festering we snuff,And gathering down upon the breeze,Release the valley from disease;If longing for more fresh a meal,Around the tender flock we wheel,A marksman doth some bush conceal.This very morn, I heard an eweBleat in the thicket; there I flew,With lazy wing slow circling round,Until I spied unto the groundA lamb by tangled briars bound.The ewe, meanwhile, on hillock-side,Bleat to her young – so loudly cried,She heard it not when it replied.Ho, ho! – a feast! I 'gan to croak,Alighting straightway on an oak;Whence gloatingly I eyed aslantThe little trembler lie and pant.Leapt nimbly thence upon its head;Down its white nostril bubbled redA gush of blood; ere life had fled,My beak was buried in its eyes,Turned tearfully upon the skies —Strong grew my croak, as weak its cries.No longer couldst thou sit and hearThis demon prate in upper air —Deeds horrible to maiden ear.Begone, thou spokest. Over-headThe startled fiend his pinion spread,And croaking maledictions, fled.But, hark! who at some secret doorKnocks loud, and knocketh evermore?Thou seest how around the tree,With scarlet head for hammer, heProbes where the haunts of insects be.The worm in labyrinthian holeBegins his sluggard length to roll;But crafty Rufus spies the prey,And with his mallet beats awayThe loose bark, crumbling to decay;Then chirping loud, with wing elate,He bears the morsel to his mate.His mate, she sitteth on her nest,In sober feather plumage dressed;A matron underneath whose breastThree little tender heads appear.With bills distent from ear to ear,Each clamors for the bigger share;And whilst they clamor, climb – and, lo!Upon the margin, to and fro,Unsteady poised, one wavers slow.Stay, stay! the parents anguished shriek,Too late; for venturesome, yet weak,His frail legs falter under him;He falls – but from a lower limbA moment dangles, thence againLaunched out upon the air, in vainHe spread his little plumeless wing,A poor, blind, dizzy, helpless thing.But thou, who all didst see and hear,Young, active, wast already there,And caught the flutterer in air.Then up the tree to topmost limb,A vine for ladder, borest him.Against thy cheek his little heartBeat soft. Ah, trembler that thou art,Thou spokest smiling; comfort thee!With joyous cries the parents fleeThy presence none – confidinglyPour out their very hearts to thee.The mockbird sees thy tendernessOf deed; doth with melodiousness,In many tongues, thy praise express.And all the while, his dappled wingsHe claps his sides with, as he sings,From perch to perch his body flings:A poet he, to ecstasyWrought by the sweets his tongue doth say.Stay, stay! – I hear a flutter nowBeneath yon flowering alder bough.I hear a little plaintive voiceThat did at early morn rejoice,Make a most sad yet sweet complaint,Saying, "my heart is very faintWith its unutterable wo.What shall I do, where can I go,My cruel anguish to abate.Oh! my poor desolated mate,Dear Cherry, will our haw-bush seek,Joyful, and bearing in her beakFresh seeds, and such like dainties, wonBy careful search. But they are goneWhom she did brood and dote upon.Oh! if there be a mortal earMy sorrowful complaint to hear;If manly breast is ever stirredBy wrong done to a helpless bird,To them for quick redress I cry."Moved by the tale, and drawing nigh,On alder branch thou didst espyHow, sitting lonely and forlorn,His breast was pressed upon a thorn,Unknowing that he leant thereon;Then bidding him take heart again,Thou rannest down into the laneTo seek the doer of this wrong,Nor under hedgerow hunted long,When, sturdy, rude, and sun-embrowned,A child thy earnest seeking found.To him in sweet and modest toneThou madest straight thy errand known.With gentle eloquence didst show(Things erst he surely did not know)How great an evil he had done;How, when next year the mild May sunRenewed its warmth, this shady laneNo timid birds would haunt again;And how around his mother's doorThe robins, yearly guests before —He knew their names – would come no more;But if his prisoners he released,Before their little bosoms ceasedTo palpitate, each coming yearWould find them gladly reappearTo sing his praises everywhere —The sweetest, dearest songs to hear.And afterward, when came the termOf ripened corn, the robber wormWould hunt through every blade and turn,Impatient thus his smile to earn.At first, flushed, angrily, and proud,He answered thee with laughter loudAnd brief retort. But thou didst speakSo mild, so earnestly did seekTo change his mood, in wonder firstHe eyed thee; then no longer durstRaise his bold glances to thy face,But, looking down, began to trace,With little, naked foot and hand,Thoughtful devices in the sand;And when at last thou didst relateThe sad affliction of the mate,When to the well-known spot she came,He hung his head for very shame;His penitential tears to hide,His face averted while he cried;"Here, take them all, I've no more prideIn climbing up to rob a nest —I've better feelings in my breast."Then thanking him with heart and eyes,Thou tookest from his grasp the prize,And bid the little freedmen rise.But when thou sawest how too weakTheir pinions were, the nest didst seek,And called thy client. Down he flewInstant, and with him Cherry too;And fluttering after, not a fewOf the minuter feathered raceFilled with their warbling all the place.From hedge and pendent branch and vine,Recounted still that deed of thine;Still sang thy praises o'er and o'er,Gladly – more heartily, be sure,Were praises never sung before.Beholding thee, they understand(These Minne-singers of the land)How thou apart from all dost stand,Full of great love and tendernessFor all God's creatures – these expressThy hazel eyes. With life instinctAll things that are, to thee are linkedBy subtle ties; and none so meanOr loathsome hast thou ever seen,But wonderous in make hath been.Compassionate, thou seest noneOf insect tribes beneath the sunThat thou canst set thy heel upon.A sympathy thou hast with wingsIn groves, and with all living things.Unmindful if they walk or crawl,The same arm shelters each and all;The shadow of the Curse and FallAlike impends. Ah! truly great,Who strivest earnestly and late,A single atom to abate,Of helpless wo and misery.For very often thou dost seeHow sadly and how helplesslyA pleading face looks up to thee.Therefore it is, thou canst not choose,With petty tyranny to abuseThy higher gifts; and justly fearThe feeblest worm of earth or air,In thy heart's judgment to condemn,Since God made thee, and God made them.

DEATH: – AN INVOCATION

BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISHThou art no king of terrors – sweet Death!But a maiden young and fair;Thine eyes are bright as the spring starlight,And golden is thy hair;While the smile that flickers thy lips uponHas a light beyond compare.Come then, Death, from the dark-brown shadesWhere thou hast lingered long;Come to the haunts where sins aboundAnd troubles thickly throng,And lay thy bridal kiss on the lipsOf a child of sorrow and song.For I can gaze with a rapture deepUpon thy lovely face;Many a smile I find therein,Where another a frown would trace —As a lover would clasp his new-made brideI will take thee to my embrace.Come, oh, come! I long for thy look;I weary to win thy kiss —Bear me away from a world of woTo a world of quiet bliss —For in that I may kneel to God alone,Which I may not do in this.For woman and wealth they woo pursuit,And a winning voice has fame;Men labor for love and work for wealthAnd struggle to gain a name;Yet find but fickleness, need and scorn,If not the brand of shame.Then carry me hence, sweet Death —my Death!Must I woo thee still in vain?Come at the morn or come at the eve,Or come in the sun or rain;But come – oh, come! for the loss of lifeTo me is the chiefest gain.

GOLD

BY R. H. STODDARDAlas! my heart is sick when I beholdThe deep engrossing interest of wealth,How eagerly men sacrifice their health,Love, honor, fame and truth for sordid gold;Dealing in sin, and wrong, and tears, and strife,Their only aim and business in lifeTo gain and heap together shining store; —Alchemists, mad as e'er were those of yore.Transmuting every thing to glittering dross,Wasting their energies o'er magic scrolls,Day-books and ledgers leaden, gain and loss —Casting the holiest feelings of their soulsHigh hopes, and aspirations, and desires,Beneath their crucibles to feed th' accursed fires!

FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZEBY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR," "MARMADUKE WYVIL," "CROMWELL," ETC

There was a mighty stir in the streets of Paris, as Paris' streets were in the olden time. A dense and eager mob had taken possession, at an early hour of the day, of all the environs of the Bastile, and lined the way which led thence to the Place de Greve in solid and almost impenetrable masses.

People of all conditions were there, except the very highest; but the great majority of the concourse was composed of the low populace, and the smaller bourgeoisie. Multitudes of women were there, too, from the girl of sixteen to the beldam of sixty, nor had mothers been ashamed to bring their infants in their arms into that loud and tumultuous assemblage.

Loud it was and tumultuous, as all great multitudes are, unless they are convened by purposes too resolutely dark and solemn to find any vent in noise. When that is the case, let rulers beware, for peril is at hand – perhaps the beginning of the end.

But this Parisian mob, although long before this period it had learned the use of barricades, though noisy, turbulent, and sometimes even violent in the demonstrations of its impatience, was any thing but angry or excited.

On the contrary, it seemed to be on the very tip-toe of pleasurable expectation, and from the somewhat frequent allusions to notre bon roi, which circulated among the better order of spectators, it would appear that the government of the Fifteenth Louis was for the moment in unusually good odor with the good folks of the metropolis.

What was the spectacle to which they were looking forward with so much glee – which had brought forth young delicate girls, and tender mothers, into the streets at so early an hour – which, as the day advanced toward ten o'clock of the morning, was tempting forth laced cloaks, and rapiers, and plumed hats, and here and there, in the cumbrous carriages of the day, the proud and luxurious ladies of the gay metropolis?

One glance toward the centre of the Place de Greve was sufficient to inform the dullest, for there uprose, black, grisly, horrible, a tall stout pile of some thirty feet in height, with a huge wheel affixed horizontally to the summit.

Around this hideous instrument of torture was raised a scaffold hung with black cloth, and strewed with saw-dust, for the convenience of the executioners, about three feet lower than the wheel which surmounted it.

Around this frightful apparatus were drawn up two companies of the French guard, forming a large hollow-square facing outwards, with muskets loaded, and bayonets fixed, as if they apprehended an attempt at rescue, although from the demeanor of the people nothing appeared at that time to be further from their thoughts than any thing of the kind.

Above was the executioner-in-chief, with two grim, truculent-looking assistants, making preparations for the fearful operation they were about to perform, or leaning indolently on the instruments of slaughter.

By and bye, as the day wore onward, and the concourse kept still increasing both in numbers and in the respectability of those who composed it, something of irritation began to show itself, mingled with the eagerness and expectation of the populace, and from some murmurs, which ran from time to time through their ranks, it would seem that they apprehended the escape of their victim.

By this time the windows of all the houses which overlooked the precincts of that fatal square on which so much of noble blood has been shed through so many ages, were occupied by persons of both sexes, all of the middle, and some even of the upper classes, as eager to behold the frightful and disgusting scene, which was about to ensue, as the mere rabble in the open streets below.

The same thing was manifest along the whole line of the thoroughfare by which the fatal procession would advance, with this difference alone, that many of the houses in that quarter belonging to the high nobility, and all with few exceptions being the dwellings of opulent persons, the windows, instead of being let like seats at the opera, to any who would pay the price, were occupied by the inhabitants, coming and going from their ordinary avocations to look out upon the noisy throng, when any louder outbreak of voices called their attention to the busy scene.

Among the latter, in a large and splendid mansion, not far from the Porte St. Antoine, and commanding a direct view of the Place de la Bastille, with its esplanade, drawbridge, and principal entrance, a group was collected at one of the windows, nearly overlooking the gate itself, which seemed to take the liveliest interest in the proceedings of the day, although that interest was entirely unmixed with any thing like the brutal expectation, and morbid love of horrible excitement which characterized the temper of the multitude.

The most prominent person of this group was a singularly noble-looking man, fast verging to his fiftieth year, if he had not yet attained it. His countenance, though resolute and firm, with a clear, piercing eye, lighted up at times, for a moment, by a quick, fiery flash, was calm, benevolent, and pensive in its ordinary mood, rather than energetical or active. Yet it was easy to perceive that the mind, which informed it, was of the highest capacity both of intellect and imagination.

The figure and carriage of this gentleman would have sufficiently indicated that, at some period of his life, he had borne arms and led the life of a camp – which, indeed, at that day was only to say that he was a nobleman of France – but a long scar on his right brow, a little way above the eye, losing itself among the thick locks of his fine waving hair, and a small round cicatrix in the centre of his cheek, showing where a pistol ball had found entrance, proved that he had been where blows were falling thickest, and that he had not spared his own person in the melée.

His dress was very rich, according to the fashion of the day, though perhaps a fastidious eye might have objected that it partook somewhat of the past mode of the Regency, which had just been brought to a conclusion as my tale commences, by the resignation of the witty and licentious Philip of Orleans.

If, however, this fine-looking gentleman was the most prominent, he certainly was not the most interesting person of the company, which consisted, beside himself, of an ecclesiastic of high rank in the French church, a lady, now somewhat advanced in years, but showing the remains of beauty which, in its prime, must have been extraordinary, and of a boy in his fifteenth or sixteenth year.

For notwithstanding the eminent distinction, and high intellect of the elder nobleman, the dignity of the abbé, not unsupported by all which men look for as the outward and visible signs of that dignity, and the grace and beauty of the lady, it was upon the boy alone that the eye of every spectator would have dwelt, from the instant of its first discovering him.

He was tall of his age, and very finely made, of proportions which gave promise of exceeding strength when he should arrive at maturity, but strength uncoupled to any thing of weight or clumsiness. He was unusually free, even at this early period, from that heavy and ungraceful redundance of flesh which not unfrequently is the forerunner of athletic power in boys just bursting into manhood; for he was already as conspicuous for the thinness of his flanks, and the shapely hollow of his back, as for the depth and roundness of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, and the symmetry of his limbs.

His head was well set on, and his whole bearing was that of one who had learned ease, and grace, and freedom, combined with dignity of carriage, in no school of practice and mannerism, but from the example of those with whom he had been brought up, and by familiar intercourse from his cradle upward with the high-born and gently nurtured of the land.

His long rich chestnut hair fell down in natural masses, undisfigured as yet by the hideous art of the court hair-dresser, on either side his fine broad forehead, and curled, untortured by the crisping-irons, over the collar of his velvet jerkin. His eyes were large and very clear, of the deepest shade of blue, with dark lashes, yet full of strong, tranquil light. All his features were regular and shapely, but it was not so much in the beauty of their form, or in the harmony of their coloring that the attractiveness of his aspect consisted, as in the peculiarity and power of his expression.

For a boy of his age, the pensiveness and composure of that expression were indeed almost unnatural, and they combined with a calm firmness and immobility of feature, which promised, I know not what of resolution and tenacity of purpose. It was not gravity, much less sternness, or sadness, that lent so powerful an expression to that young face; nor was there a single line which indicated coldness or hardness of heart, or which would have led to a suspicion that he had been schooled by those hard monitors, suffering and sorrow. No, it was pure thoughtfulness, and that of the highest and most intellectual order, which characterized the boy's expression.

Yet, though it was so thoughtful, there was nothing in the aspect whence to forebode a want of the more masculine qualifications. It was the thoughtfulness of a worker, not of a dreamer – the thoughtfulness which prepares, not unfits a man for action.

If the powers portrayed in that boy's countenance were not deceptive to the last degree, high qualities were within, and a high destiny before him.

But who, from the foreshowing and the bloom of sixteen years, may augur of the finish and the fruit of the three-score and ten, which are the sum of human toil and sorrow?

It was now nearly noon, when the outer drawbridge of the Bastile was lowered and its gate opened, and forth rode, two a-breast, a troop of the mousquetaires, or life-guard, in the bright steel casques and cuirasses, with the musquetoons, from which they derived their name, unslung and ready for action. As they issued into the wider space beyond the bridge, the troopers formed themselves rapidly into a sort of hollow column, the front of which, some eight file deep, occupied the whole width of the street, two files in close order composing each flank, and leaving an open space in the centre completely surrounded by the horsemen.

Into this space, without a moment's delay, there was driven a low black cart, or hurdle as it was technically called, of the rudest construction, drawn by four powerful black horses, a savage-faced official guiding them by the ropes which supplied the place of reins. On this ill-omened vehicle there stood three persons, the prisoner, and two of the armed wardens of the Bastile, the former ironed very heavily, and the latter bristling with offensive weapons.

Immediately in the rear of this car followed another troop of the life-guard, which closed up in the densest and most serried order around and behind the victim of the law, so as to render any attempt at rescue useless.

The person, to secure whose punishment so strong a military force had been produced, and to witness whose execution so vast a multitude was collected, was a tall, noble-looking man of forty or forty-five years, dressed in a rich mourning-habit of the day, but wearing neither hat nor mantle. His dark hair, mixed at intervals with thin lines of silver, was cut short behind, contrary to the usage of the times, and his neck was bare, the collar of his superbly laced shirt being folded broadly back over the cape of his pourpoint.

His face was very pale, and his complexion being naturally of the darkest, the hue of his flesh, from which all the healthful blood had receded, was strangely livid and unnatural in its appearance. Still it did not seem that it was fear which had blanched his cheeks, and stolen all the color from his compressed lip, for his eye was full of a fierce, scornful light, and all his features were set and steady with an expression of the calmest and most iron resolution.

As the fatal vehicle which bore him made its appearance on the esplanade without the gates of the prison, a deep hum of satisfaction ran through the assembled concourse, rising and deepening gradually into a savage howl like that of a hungry tiger.

Then, then blazed out the haughty spirit, the indomitable pride of the French noble! Then shame, and fear, and death itself, which he was looking even now full in the face, were all forgotten, all absorbed in his overwhelming scorn of the people!

The blood rushed in a torrent to his brow, his eye seemed to lighten forth actual fire, as he raised his right hand aloft, loaded although it was with such a mass of iron, as a Greek Athlete might have shunned to lift, and shook it at the clamorous mob, with a glare of scorn and fury that showed how, had he been at liberty, he would have dealt with the revilers of his fallen state.

"Sacré canaille!" he hissed through his hard-set teeth, "back to your gutters and your garbage, or follow, if you can, in silence, and learn, if ye lack not courage to look on, how a man should die."

The reproof told; for, though at the contemptuous tone and fell insult of the first words the clamor of the rabble route waxed wilder, there was so much true dignity in the last sentiment he uttered, and the fate to which he was going was so hideous, that a key was struck in the popular heart, and thenceforth the tone of the spectators was changed altogether.

It was the exultation of the people over the downfall and disgrace of a noble that had found tongue in that savage conclamation – it was the apprehension that his dignity, and the interest of his great name, would win him pardon from the partial justice of the king, that had rendered them pitiless and savage – and now that their own cruel will was about to be gratified, as they beheld how dauntlessly the proud lord went to a death of torture, they were stricken with a sort of secret shame, and followed the dread train in sullen silence.