Poems

SONNET

Written at four o’clock in the morning, after a ball.Oh, modest maiden morn! why dost thou blush,   Who thus betimes art walking in the sky?’Tis I, whose cheek bears pleasure’s sleepless flush,   Who shame to meet thy gray, cloud-lidded eye,Shadowy, yet clear: from the bright eastern door,   Where the sun’s shafts lie bound with thongs of fire,Along the heaven’s amber-pavëd floor,   The glad hours move, hymning their early choir.O, fair and fragrant morn! upon my brow   Press thy fresh lips, shake from thy dropping hair   Cold showers of balmy dew on me, and ereDay’s chariot-wheels upon th’ horizon glow,Wrap me within thy sober cloak of gray,And bear me to thy twilight bowers away.

LINES,

In answer to a question

I’ll tell thee why this weary world meseemethBut as the visions light of one who dreameth,Which pass like clouds, leaving no trace behind;Why this strange life, so full of sin and folly,In me awakeneth no melancholy,Nor leaveth shade, or sadness, on my mind.’Tis not that with an undiscerning eyeI see the pageant wild go dancing by,Mistaking that which falsest is, for true;’Tis not that pleasure hath entwined me,’Tis not that sorrow hath enshrined me;I bear no badge of roses or of rue,But in the inmost chambers of my soulThere is another world, a blessed home,O’er which no living power holdeth control,Anigh to which ill things do never come.There shineth the glad sunlight of clear thought,With hope, and faith, holding communion high,Over a fragrant land with flowers wrought,Where gush the living springs of poesy;There speak the voices that I love to hear,There smile the glances that I love to see,There live the forms of those my soul holds dear,For ever, in that secret world, with me.They who have walked with me along life’s way,And sever’d been by Fortune’s adverse tide,Who ne’er again, through Time’s uncertain day,In weal or woe, may wander by my side;These all dwell here: nor these, whom life aloneDivideth from me, but the dead, the dead;Those weary ones who to their rest are gone,Whose footprints from the earth have vanishëd;Here dwell they all: and here, within this world,Like light within a summer sun cloud furled,My spirit dwells.  Therefore, this evil life,With all its gilded snares, and fair deceivings,Its wealth, its want, its pleasures, and its grievings,Nor frights, nor frets me, by its idle strife.O thou! who readest, of thy courtesy,Whoe’er thou art, I wish the same to thee!

A FAREWELL

I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall,   The fairies’ palace beside the stream;Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fall   Through their tresses dark, with a mellow gleam.I shall tread no more the thick dewy lawn,   When the young moon hangs on the brow of night,Nor see the morning, at early dawn,   Shake the fading stars from her robes of light.I shall fly no more on my fiery steed,   O’er the springing sward,—through the twilight wood;Nor reign my courser, and check my speed,   By the lonely grange, and the haunted flood.At fragrant noon, I shall lie no more   ’Neath the oak’s broad shade, in the leafy dell:The sun is set,—the day is o’er,—   The summer is past;—farewell!—farewell!

TO A PICTURE

Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light,The burning rays that mine pour into ye,Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark, as night—Oh, lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me?Oh, lips! whereon mine own so often dwell,Hath love’s warm, fearful, thrilling touch, no spellTo waken sense in ye?—oh, misery!—Oh, breathless lips! can ye not speak to me?Thou soulless mimicry of life! my tearsFall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain;I press thee to my heart, whose hopes, and fears,Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain.Oh, thou dull image! wilt thou not replyTo my fond prayers and wild idolatry?

SONNET

There’s not a fibre in my trembling frameThat does not vibrate when thy step draws near,There’s not a pulse that throbs not when I hearThy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name.When thou art with me, every sense seems dull,And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee;My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame,And my bewildered spirit seems to swimIn eddying whirls of passion, dizzily.When thou art gone, there creeps into my heartA cold and bitter consciousness of pain:The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart,And I sit dreaming o’er and o’er againThy greeting clasp, thy parting look, and tone;And suddenly I wake—and am alone.

AN INVITATION

Come where the white waves dance along the shoreOf some lone isle, lost in the unknown seas;Whose golden sands by mortal foot beforeWere never printed,—where the fragrant breeze,That never swept o’er land or flood that manCould call his own, th’ unearthly breeze shall fanOur mingled tresses with its odorous sighs;Where the eternal heaven’s blue, sunny eyesDid ne’er look down on human shapes of earth,Or aught of mortal mould and death-doomed birth:Come there with me; and when we are aloneIn that enchanted desert, where the toneOf earthly voice, or language, yet did ne’erWith its strange music startle the still air,When clasped in thy upholding arms I stand,Upon that bright world’s coral-cradled strand,When I can hide my face upon thy breast,While thy heart answers mine together pressed,Then fold me closer, bend thy head above me,Listen—and I will tell thee how I love thee.

LINES FOR MUSIC

         Oh, sunny Love!Crowned with fresh flowering May,   Breath like the Indian clove,Eyes like the dawn of day;         Oh, sunny Love!         Oh, fatal Love!Thy robe wreath is nightshade all,   With gloomy cypress wove,Thy kiss is bitter gall,         Oh, fatal Love!

SONG

Never, oh never more! shall I behold   Thy form so fair,Or loosen from its braids the rippling gold   Of thy long hair.Never, oh never more! shall I be blest   By thy voice low,Or kiss, while thou art sleeping on my breast,   Thy marble brow.Never, oh never more! shall I inhale   Thy fragrant sighs,Or gaze, with fainting soul, upon the veil   Of thy bright eyes.

LINES ON A SLEEPING CHILD

Oh child! who to this evil world art come,   Led by the unseen hand of Him who guards thee,Welcome unto this dungeon-house, thy home!   Welcome to all the woe this life awards thee!Upon thy forehead yet the badge of sin   Hath worn no trace; thou look’st as though from heaven,But pain, and guilt, and misery lie within;   Poor exile! from thy happy birth-land driven.Thine eyes are sealed by the soft hand of sleep,   And like unruffled waves thy slumber seems;The time’s at hand when thou must wake to weep,   Or sleeping, walk a restless world of dreams.How oft, as day by day life’s burthen lies   Heavier and darker on thy fainting soul,Wilt thou towards heaven turn thy weary eyes,   And long in bitterness to reach the goal!How oft wilt thou, upon Time’s flinty road,   Gaze at thy far off early days, in vain;Weeping, how oft wilt thou cast down thy load,   And curse and pray, then take it up again!How many times shall the fiend Hope, extend   Her poisonous chalice to thy thirsty lips!How oft shall Love its withering sunshine lend,   To leave thee only a more dark eclipse!How oft shall Sorrow strain thee in her grasp,—   How oft shall Sin laugh at thine overthrow—How oft shall Doubt, Despair, and Anguish clasp   Their knotted arms around thine aching brow!Oh, living soul, hail to thy narrow cage!   Spirit of light, hail to thy gloomy cave!Welcome to longing youth, to loathing age,   Welcome, immortal! welcome to the grave!

A RETROSPECT

Life wanes, and the bright sunlight of our youth   Sets o’er the mountain-tops, where once Hope stood.Oh, Innocence! oh, Trustfulness! oh, Truth!   Where are ye all, white-handed sisterhood,Who with me on my way did walk along,Singing sweet scraps of that immortal songThat’s hymn’d in Heaven, but hath no echo here?Are ye departing, fellows bright and clear,   Of the young spirit, when it first alightsUpon this earth of darkness and dismay?Farewell! fair children of th’ eternal day,   Blossoms of that far land where fall no blights,Sweet kindred of my exiled soul, farewell!Here I must wander, here ye may not dwell;Back to your home beyond the founts of lightI see ye fly, and I am wrapt in night!

AN INVOCATION

Spirit, bright spirit! from thy narrow cell   Answer me! answer me! oh, let me hear   Thy voice, and know that thou indeed art near!That from the bonds in which thou’rt forced to dwell   Thou hast not broken free, thou art not fled,   Thou hast not pined away, thou art not dead.Speak to me through thy prison bars; my lifeWith all things round, is one eternal strife,’Mid whose wild din I pause to hear thy voice;   Speak to me, look on me, thou born of light!That I may know thou’rt with me, and rejoice.Shall not this weary warfare pass away?Shall there not come a better, brighter day?   Shall not thy chain and mine be broken quite,      And thou to heaven spring,      With thine immortal wing,      And I, still following,      With steps that do not tire,      Reach my desire,      And to thy worship bring      Some worthy offering?Oh! let but these dark days be once gone by,   And thou, unwilling captive, that dost strain,With tiptoe longing, vainly, towards the sky,   O’er the whole kingdom of my life shalt reign.But, while I’m doomed beneath the yoke to bow,   Of sordid toiling in these caverns drear,Oh, look upon me sometimes with thy brow   Of shining brightness; sometimes let me hearThy blessed voice, singing the songs of Heaven,Whence thou and I, together have been driven;Give me assurance that thou still art nigh,Lest I sink down beneath my load, and die!

A LAMENT FOR THE WISSAHICCON

The waterfall is calling me   With its merry gleesome flow,And the green boughs are beckoning me,   To where the wild flowers grow:I may not go, I may not go,To where the sunny waters flow,To where the wild wood flowers blow;      I must stay here      In prison drear,Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on,Would God that thou wert done!The busy mill-wheel round and roundGoes turning, with its reckless sound,And o’er the dam the wafers flowInto the foaming stream below,And deep and dark away they glide,To meet the broad, bright river’s tide;And all the wayThey murmuring say:“Oh, child! why art thou far away?Come back into the sun, and strayUpon our mossy side!”I may not go, I may not go,   To where the gold-green waters run,   All shining in the summer sun,And leap from off the dam belowInto a whirl of boiling snow,Laughing and shouting as they go;      I must stay here      In prison drear,Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on,Would God that thou wert done!The soft spring wind goes passing by,   Into the forests wide and cool;The clouds go trooping through the sky,   To look down on some glassy pool;The sunshine makes the world rejoice,And all of them, with gentle voice,      Call me away,      With them to stay,The blessed, livelong summer’s day.I may not go, I may not go,Where the sweet breathing spring winds blow,Nor where the silver clouds go by,Across the holy, deep blue sky,Nor where the sunshine, warm and bright,Comes down like a still shower of light;      I must stay here      In prison drear,Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on,Would God that thou wert done!Oh, that I were a thing with wings!A bird, that in a May-hedge sings!A lonely heather bell that swings   Upon some wild hill-side;Or even a silly, senseless stone,With dark, green, starry moss o’ergrown,   Round which the waters glide.

TO THE WISSAHICCON

My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side,   When once they turn away, thou Pleasant Water,Nor ever more, reflected in thy tide,   Will shine the eyes of the White Island’s daughter.But often in my dreams, when I am gone   Beyond the sea that parts thy home and mine,   Upon thy banks the evening sun will shine,And I shall hear thy low, still flowing on.And when the burden of existence lies   Upon my soul, darkly and heavily,I’ll clasp my hands over my weary eyes,   Thou Pleasant Water, and thy clear waves see.Bright be thy course for ever and for ever,   Child of pure mountain springs, and mountain snow;And as thou wanderest on to meet the river   Oh, still in light and music mayst thou flow!I never shall come back to thee again,When once my sail is shadowed on the main,Nor ever shall I hear thy laughing voiceAs on their rippling way thy waves rejoice,Nor ever see the dark green cedar throwIts gloomy shade o’er the clear depths below,Never, from stony rifts of granite graySparkling like diamond rocks in the sun’s ray,Shall I look down on thee, thou pleasant stream,Beneath whose crystal folds the gold sands gleam;Wherefore, farewell! but whensoe’er again   The wintry spell melts from the earth and air;And the young Spring comes dancing through thy glen,   With fragrant, flowery breath, and sunny hair;When through the snow the scarlet berries gleam,Like jewels strewn upon thy banks, fair stream,My spirit shall through many a summer’s dayReturn, among thy peaceful woods to stray.

AN EVENING SONG

   Good night, love!May Heaven’s brightest stars watch over thee!Good angels spread their wings, and cover thee,      And through the night,         So dark and still,      Spirits of light         Charm thee from ill!My heart is hovering round thy dwelling-place,Good night, dear love!  God bless thee with his grace!   Good night, love!Soft lullabies the night-wind sing to thee!And on its wings sweet odours bring to thee!      And in thy dreaming         May all things dear,      With gentle seeming,         Come smiling near!My knees are bowed, my hands are clasped in prayer—Good night, dear love!  God keep thee in his care!

THE DEATH-SONG

Mother, mother! my heart is wild,   Hold me upon your bosom dear,Do not frown on your own poor child,   Death is darkly drawing near.Mother, mother! the bitter shame   Eats into my very soul;And longing love, like a wrapping flame,   Burns me away without control.Mother, mother! upon my brow   The clammy death-sweats coldly rise;How dim and strange your features grow   Through the hot mist that veils my eyes!Mother, mother! sing me the song   They sing on sunny August eves,The rustling barley-fields along,   Binding up the ripe, red sheaves.Mother, mother!  I do not hear   Your voice—but his,—oh, guard me well!His breathing makes me faint with fear,   His clasping arms are round me still.Mother, mother! unbind my vest,   Upon my heart lies his first token:Now lay me in my narrow nest,   Your withered blossom, crushed and broken.

IMPROMPTU

You say you’re glad I write—oh, say not so!   My fount of song, dear friend, ’s a bitter well;And when the numbers freely from it flow,   ’Tis that my heart, and eyes, o’erflow as well.Castalia, fam’d of yore,—the spring divine,   Apollo’s smile upon its current wears:Moore and Anacreon, found its waves were wine,   To me, it flows a sullen stream of tears.

WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING WEST POINT

   The hours are past, love,   Oh, fled they not too fast, love!Those happy hours, when down the mountain side,We saw the rosy mists of morning glide,And, hand in hand, went forth upon our way,Full of young life and hope, to meet the day.   The hours are past, love,   Oh, fled they not too fast, love!Those sunny hours, when from the mid-day heat,We sought the waterfall with loitering feet,And o’er the rocks that lock the gleaming pool,Crept down into its depths, so dark and cool.   The hours are past, love,   Oh, fled they not too fast, love!Those solemn hours, when through the violet sky,Alike without a cloud, without a ray,The round red autumn moon came glowingly,While o’er the leaden waves our boat made way.   The hours are past, love,   Oh, fled they not too fast, love!Those blessed hours, when the bright day was past,   And in the world we seemed to wake alone,When heart to heart beat throbbingly, and fast,   And love was melting our two souls in one.

FAITH

Better trust all, and be deceived,   And weep that trust, and that deceiving;Than doubt one heart, that if believed,   Had blessed one’s life with true believing.Oh, in this mocking world, too fast   The doubting fiend o’ertakes our youth!Better be cheated to the last,   Than loose the blessed hope of truth.

“’TIS AN OLD TALE AND OFTEN TOLD.”

Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed,Those we let fall over the silent dead?Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom,Than that which wraps us in the peaceful tomb?Whom have ye laid beneath that mossy grave,Round which the slender, sunny, grass-blades wave?Who are ye calling back to tread againThis weary walk of life? towards whom, in vain,Are your fond eyes and yearning hearts upraised;The young, the loved, the honoured, and the praised?Come hither;—look upon the faded cheekOf that still woman, who with eyelids meekVeils her most mournful eyes;—upon her browSometimes the sensitive blood will faintly glow,When reckless hands her heart-wounds roughly tear,But patience oftener sits palely there.Beauty has left her—hope and joy have longFled from her heart, yet she is young, is young;Has many years, as human tongues would tell,Upon the face of this blank earth to dwell.Looks she not sad? ’tis but a tale of old,Told o’er and o’er, and ever to be told,The hourly story of our every day,Which when men hear, they sigh and turn away;A tale too trite almost to find an ear,A woe too common to deserve a tear.She is the daughter of a distant land;—Her kindred are far off;—her maiden hand,Sought for by many, was obtained by oneWho owned a different birthland from her own.But what reck’d she of that? as low she kneltBreathing her marriage vows, her fond heart felt,“For thee, I give up country, home, and friends;Thy love for each, for all, shall make amends;”And was she loved?—perishing by her sideThe children of her bosom drooped and died;The bitter life they drew from her cold breastFlicker’d and failed; she laid them down to rest,Two pale young blossoms in their early sleep,And weeping said, “They have not lived to weep.”And weeps she yet? no, to her weary eyesThe bliss of tears, her frozen heart denies;Complaint, or sigh, breathes not upon her lips,Her life is one dark, fatal, deep eclipse.Lead her to the green grave where ye have laidThe creature that ye mourn;—let it be said,“Here love, and youth, and beauty, are at rest!”She only sadly murmurs, “Blest!—most blest!”And turns from gazing, lest her miseryShould make her sin, and pray to Heaven to die.

FRAGMENT.

From an epistle written when the thermometer stood at 98° in the shade.

* * * * *

Oh! for the temperate airs that blow   Upon that darling of the sea,Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow,   For three days hold supremacy;But ever-varying skies contendThe blessings of all climes to lend,To make that tiny, wave-rocked isle,In never-fading beauty smile.England, oh England! for the breezeThat slowly stirs thy forest-trees!Thy ferny brooks, thy mossy fountains,Thy beechen woods, thy heathery mountains,Thy lawny uplands, where the shadow   Of many a giant oak is sleeping;The tangled copse, the sunny meadow,   Through which the summer rills run weeping.Oh, land of flowers! while sinking here   Beneath the dog-star of the West,The music of the waves I hearThat cradle thee upon their breast.Fresh o’er thy rippling corn-fields fly   The wild-winged breezes of the sea,While from thy smiling, summer sky,   The ripening sun looks tenderly.And thou—to whom through all this heat   My parboiled thoughts will fondly turn,Oh! in what “shady blest retreat”   Art thou ensconced, while here I burn?Across the lawn, in the deep glade,Where hand in hand we oft have strayed,Or communed sweetly, side by side,Hear’st thou the chiming ocean tide,As gently on the pebbly beach   It lays its head, then ebbs away,Or round the rocks, with nearer reach,   Throws up a cloud of silvery spray?Or to the firry woods, that shed   Their spicy odours to the sun,Goest thou with meditative tread,   Thinking of all things that are doneBeneath the sky?—a great, big thought,   Of which I know you’re very fond.For me, my mind is solely wrought   To this one wish:—O! in a pondWould I were over head and ears!   (Of a cold ducking I’ve no fears)Or any where, where I am not;   For, bless the heat! it is too hot!

AN APOLOGY

Blame not my tears, love: to you has been given   The brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows;The sunlight of hope on your heart shines from Heaven,   And shines from your heart, on this life and its woes.Blame not my tears, love: on you her best treasure   Kind nature has lavish’d, oh, long be it yours!For how barren soe’er be the path you now measure,   The future still woos you with hands full of flowers.Oh, ne’er be that gift, love, withdrawn from thy keeping!   The jewel of life, its strong spirit, its wings;If thou ever must weep, may it shine through thy weeping,   As the sun his warm rays through a spring shower flings.But blame not my tears, love: to me ’twas denied;   And when fate to my lips gave this life’s mingled cup,She had filled to the brim, from the dark bitter tide,   And forgotten to pour in the only sweet drop.

WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY AT WEST POINT

Were they but dreams?  Upon the darkening worldEvening comes down, the wings of fire are furled,On which the day soared to the sunny west:The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest,Looking upon the never-resting earth;All things in heaven wait on the solemn birthOf night, but where has fled the happy dreamThat at this hour, last night, our life did seem?Where are the mountains with their tangled hair,The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair?Where are the shadows of the solemn hills,And the fresh music of the summer rills?Where are the wood-paths, winding, long and steep,And the great, glorious river, broad and deep,And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet,And the wild torrent’s snowy, leaping feet,The rustling, rocking boughs, the running streams,—Where are they all? gone, gone! were they but dreams?And where, oh where are the light footsteps gone,That from the mountain-side came dancing down?The voices full of mirth, the loving eyes,The happy hearts, the human paradise,The youth, the love, the life that revelled here,—Are they too gone?—Upon Time’s shadowy bier,The pale, cold hours of joys now past, are laid,Perhaps, not soon from memory’s gaze to fade,But never to be reckoned o’er again,In all life’s future store of bliss and pain.From the bright eyes the sunshine may depart,Youth flies—love dies—and from the joyous heartHope’s gushing fountain ebbs too soon away,Nor spares one drop for that disastrous day,When from the barren waste of after life,The weariness, the worldliness, the strife,The soul looks o’er the desert of its wayTo the green gardens of its early day:The paradise, for which we vainly mourn,The heaven, to which our ling’ring eyes still turn,To which our footsteps never shall return.

SONG

   Pass thy hand through my hair, lore;      One little year ago,   In a curtain bright and rare, love,      It fell golden o’er my brow.   But the gold has passed away, love,      And the drooping curls are thin,   And cold threads of wintry gray, love,      Glitter their folds within:How should this be, in one short year?It is not age—can it be care?   Fasten thine eyes on mine, love;      One little year ago,   Midsummer’s sunny shine, love,      Had not a warmer glow.   But the light is there no more, love,      Save in melancholy gleams,   Like wan moonlight wand’ring o’er, love,      Dim lands in troubled dreams:How should this be, in one short year?It is not age—can it be care?   Lay thy cheek to my cheek, love,      One little year ago   It was ripe, and round, and sleek, love,      As the autumn peaches grow.   But the rosy hue has fled, love,      Save a flush that goes and comes,   Like a flow’r born from the dead, love,      And blooming over tombs:How should this be, in one short year?It is not age—can it be care?

TO MRS.  DULANEY

      What was thine errand here?Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught      That from this marred earth      Takes its imperfect birth;It was a radiant, heavenly beauty, caught      From some far higher sphere,And though an angel now, thou still must bearThe lovely semblance that thou here didst wear.      What was thine errand here?Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind,      With earthly creatures coarse,      Held not discourse,But with fine spirits, of some purer kind,      Dwelt in communion dear;And sure they speak to thee that language now,Which thou wert wont to speak to us below.      What was thine errand here?To adorn anguish, and ennoble death,      And make infirmity      A patient victory,And crown life’s baseness with a glorious wreath,      That fades not on thy bier,But fits, immortal soul! thy triumph still,In that bright world where thou art gone to dwell.