CHAPTER VI.
METRICAL COMPOSITIONS.
Probably Walter Aimwell never attempted much
poetical composition after his apprenticeship. At
least, but very few specimens have been preserved, except
such as are recorded in the note-book commenced in
the year 1840.
Nothing so certainly requires great inborn genius as to
obtain a name or to succeed as a poet; except working
in a tropical swamp in the sunshine, no labor so much
depends on the constitution with which a person comes
into the world, as that of uttering real poetry.
It is evident that Walter Aimwell had not a commanding
genius of this kind, although he had as much talent
as many who write books of verse very pleasant for their
friends to read, and who obtain a very respectable reputation.
His first attempt is the rendering into rhyme and
measure of the Twenty-Third Psalm. The surpassingly
beautiful original, and the rhythmic translations of it
by superior poets, leave little chance for distinction to
the apprentice-boy. Yet here it is. He entitles it
The Lord my Shepherd is,
No want I’ll ever know;
The pastures green and fair he gives,
Where silent waters flow.
My fainting soul he calms
When I have lost the way,
And kindly takes me in his arms
When from his fold I stray.
I’ll pass the shadowy vale,
For thou shalt go with me;
Thy rod and staff, they never fail,—
My comfort they shall be.
A table thou hast spread
In presence of my foes;
With oil thou hast perfumed my head,
My cup nigh overflows
Through all my life, O Lord,
Of mercy will I tell,
And in thy favored house, my God,
Forever shall I dwell.
This is a production that has been often excelled; but,
to at least one listener, its tones are sweetened and deepened
by the boyish sincerity of the singer.
The strength of his faith and the fervor of his affections,
united to the degree of talent for metrical expression
that nature gave him, very likely would have made
him a good hymn-writer if he had given his powers exercise
and culture with that object in view. Writing for the public,
however, either in prose or verse, seems never to have
been a purpose in his mind until he had actually done it.
When he commenced writing prose compositions, it seemed
to be on the general principle that boys ought to improve
their faculties, but without any definite notion in regard
to the particular manner in which, in manhood, he should
employ his, other than his intention of being a printer.
Very likely he thought that exercises in rhythmic composition
would be beneficial to his powers, and he may
also have enjoyed the exercise, whether beneficial or not.
Perhaps it served to relieve the vague yearning and
vaguer sense of sorrow, that come to all irresponsible
years, especially to those on the border-lands of boyhood
and manhood.
Oh for the bliss of those
Who’ve trod life’s dreary way,
Who’ve known its joys and felt its woes,
And gone to realms of day.
Oh for the bliss of those
Whose conflicts all are o’er;
Who’ve vanquished all their earthly foes,
To reign forevermore.
Oh for the bliss of those
Who slumber in the grave;
Who’ve reached the land where Jordan flows,
And passed its sullen wave.
Oh for the bliss of those
Who’re free from guilt and sin;
Whose evil hearts no more oppose,
Nor fears arise within.
Oh for the bliss of those
Who reign with God above;
Who in their Saviour’s arms repose,
And sing his matchless love.
Oh may this bliss be mine,
When I their way have trod;
Then in my Saviour’s light I’ll shine,
And give the praise to God.
Surely the romantic dislike of earth, to which thoughtful
youths are somewhat subject, but which decreases as their
years increase, was never more modestly hinted. Religion
keeps persons of all ages from a great deal of nonsense.
In all his serious compositions, there is some suggestion
of the purity and depth of the atmosphere in which he
saw the object he tried to paint, which, of itself, gives
pleasure to a reader more disposed to enjoy what is, than
to talk about what is not.
Mine be the friend who walks with God,
And strives to please him here below;
Whose life is governed by his Word,
Whose heart’s a spring whence love doth flow.
Mine be the friend who covets not
The wealth and honor of this earth;
Who scorns the joys so dearly bought,
And turns from noisy scenes of mirth.
Mine be the friend who feeds the poor,
The sick restores, the naked clothes;
Whose word is faithful, kind, and sure,
Whose heart no guile or falsehood knows.
Be such, and only such, my friend;
His joys and sorrows let me share,
A blest eternity to spend,
That Christ for all such will prepare.
When, like a broken reed,
We bow with sorrowing heart,
And ’neath the stroke in anguish bleed,
That tender ties must part,—
Oh, then ’tis sweet that we
Can claim a heavenly birth,
And, like the ones we no more see,
Are “strangers in the earth.”
When sorrows crowd our path,
And life looks dark and drear,
When hushed the ringing, joyous laugh,
And no bright dream doth cheer,—
Oh, then a kindling beam
Doth chase away each tear;
And hope in that sweet thought doth gleam,
We are but strangers here.
A stranger in the earth!
Then let us rest no more,
Till sleeping ’neath the waving turf,
Our wanderings here are o’er.
A pilgrim to the skies!
Then let us know no fear,
But joy beam brightly in our eyes
That we are strangers here.
Is not the following a pithy phrasing of the old sweet
lesson of charity?
Oh, when the wintry storm beats high,
And howling blasts sweep through the sky;
When ice and snow the earth enshroud,
And ye around your hearthstone crowd;
Then think of that poor neighbor near,
Whose hearth is cold, whose home is drear.
And when the gentle south wind blows,
Wafting sweet odors from the rose;
When birds their gilded plumage wear,
And music floats upon the air;
Oh, then, go see if birds and flowers
Sweeten lone poverty’s dark hours.
When, gathered round your evening meal,
No want is nigh, no need ye feel;
Oh, once forsake the happy spot,
To share the poor man’s bitter lot;
Behold his table scanty spread,
And hear his children cry for bread.
And when your children’s happy voice
Loud bids your own soul to rejoice;
When youthful pleasures thrill each heart,
Or kind instruction you impart;
Go, once, the sorrowing orphan cheer,
And wipe the widow’s freezing tear.
THE SHIPWRECK OF LIFE;
OR, THE LESSON OF ADVERSITY.
As in some fairy bark that glides
So gayly o’er the rippling stream
I floated on life’s sunniest tides,
Beguiled by many a thoughtless dream.
No clouds but those of gilded hue
Enrobed the smiling azure sky;
No frantic blasts around me blew,
But gentlest zephyrs bade me hie.
Thus many a thoughtless hour I whiled
Upon a tranquil summer sea;
Entranced with joy, at fear I smiled,
Nor dreamed that aught could injure me.
But soon appeared a darksome cloud,
Its sable folds unfurling fast,
Till with a gloomy, frightful shroud
The deep-blue heavens were overcast.
Then rose a moan upon the air,
The dismal winds were roused from sleep,
The lightnings flashed their fiery glare,
And echoing thunders shook the deep.
Now on some angry billow tost,
Now buried in an ocean tomb,
I saw that every hope was lost,
And sank, despairing, to my doom.
Erelong, upon a lonely rock,
My fragile, shipwrecked bark was cast,
Enfeebled by the billows’ shock,
And racked by every howling blast.
But One there is who guides the storm,—
To him I raised a murmuring cry:
“Why hast thou left me thus forlorn?
Why cast me here, alone to die?”
He spoke,—ah! ’twas a tender word,
That soothed each passion of my heart,
And deeper, livelier feeling stirred
Than thunder’s roar or lightning’s dart.
“My child, it was a treacherous sea
That so entranced thy wondering eyes;
And by thy loss I rescued thee,
For he who ventures on it dies!”
Here is a beautiful pleading hymn. He called it
Father! turn thy pitying eye;
Lo, a wanderer comes to thee;
Hear, O Father, from on high,
Hear his penitential sigh,
While he bows in agony.
Father! see the glistening tear,—
Speaks it not contrition deep?
And that grief which none may hear,
Breaks it not upon thine ear
In the silent hours of sleep?
Father! hear the humble prayer;
’Tis thy erring child who pleads;
See what sorrows gather there,
And o’ercloud him with despair,
While his soul in secret bleeds.
Father! turn a pitying eye;
See, a wanderer seeks thy face;
Listen to his mournful cry,
Bid his fears and sorrows fly,
And proclaim thy pardoning grace.
Perhaps the last verses he ever wrote are some lines
for the Fourth of July, 1843, which he presented to his
friend and room-mate, L. P. H. They were written in
better days than the present, although perhaps the “better
days” of nations, like those of individuals, are more
in seeming than in fact. However, we can all sincerely
join in the last stanza:—
’Tis not before a blood-stained throne
We bend the knee to-day;
No monarch’s power we trembling own,
Nor feel a sceptre’s sway.
We bring no chaplet’s fragrant leaves,
To grace the conqueror’s brow;
No heart its flattering homage breathes
Upon the warrior now.
O Freedom! of our earthly joys
Thou art the glorious crown;
Then, while a song our lip employs,
We’ll sing to thy renown.
On this thy sacred natal day,
What raptured hosts draw nigh
To catch thy spirit-moving lay,
And roll it through the sky.
Thus, God of Freedom, may it be,
Till earth’s last song ascend!
Thus may Columbia’s sons be free,
Till time itself shall end!
Many more verses of equal or superior merit might be
transcribed; but these sufficiently indicate his degree of
ability, and the general nature of his feelings at this
time. Perhaps, though, this chapter ought not to be
concluded without one specimen of the playful composition
with which he sometimes relaxed the usual tension
of his earnest mind.
The following lines were written during the exciting
presidential contest of 1840:—
Oh, these exciting, crazy times!
On you I’ll write some bitter lines.
And ye who politics can talk,
While still ye eat or sleep or walk,
Since I alone can’t stop your race,
I’ll fling my venom in your face.
From Monday morn till Sabbath night,
At evening’s shades and morning’s light,
The politician’s voice I hear
Paining mine oft disgusted ear.
“Hurrah for Tip!” cries one with glee;
“From Martin’s rule deliver me!”
“Down with the banks!” a Demo cries;
And “Crush the wretch!” a third replies.
“Kent’s elected—no mistake!”
Cries one as soon as he’s awake;
“Crow! Chapman, crow!” some loafers shout;
“Our cause is just,” replies a lout.
“Tremendous frauds!” a Loco cries;
Another swears the rascal lies.
The sons of Freedom lift their voice,
And in their great “huge paws” rejoice.
“The weak, old man” they execrate,
And British whigs and gold they hate.
Still, as I spin these verses out,
I hear the politicians shout,
And martial music greets mine ear,
Whilst the loud cannon’s voice I hear.
Processions long, of all sorts made,
Full oft our frightened streets parade;
Stump speeches, too, are cheap and stale,
And up Salt River many sail.
Ah! whither shall I turn to find
Serenity and peace of mind?
Go north or south, or east or west,
And still I search in vain for rest;
My path is still beset by those
Who will be friends to me or foes.
Alas! how long must I endure?
Is there no help, no hope, no cure?
Some young reader may find pleasure in guessing this
I live in your midst and belong to mankind,
Though some will contend that I’m found in the moon.
To year and to place I am never confined,
Yet I sport in the morning and flee from the noon.
In Europe or Asia I’ve never been found,
Nor can Africa boast me among all her wealth,
But I with the Pilgrims my toilsome way wound,
To find in America home for myself.
With martyrs I’ve braved the fierce torment and gloom,
With missionaries traversed the desert of sin;
The “M.D.’s” to me owe at least half their fame,
For I help them their honors and patients to win.
I lead in all mischief, and am ever in blame;
Though I live in the mounts far from city and town,
I’m the first to make merry,—but guess my true name,
And among the morose you will all set me down.
Without me, e’en music would soon make you sick,
And your home would lose most of its value and worth;
The friends of good morals would all miss me quick,
And the meek and the humble would cease from the earth
But though I oft meet with the mighty and mean,
And the farmer, mechanic, and merchant I own,
Yet oft I am greatest when by myself seen,
And increase by the hundred when left quite alone.
I assist in all pomp, and in games have no mate,
Though too often I sink into mourning and gloom;
And you mortals I help to make matchless and great,
Though I’m claimed by the worm and consigned to the tomb.
And now if you cannot yet tell me what’s hid,
If you look up the chimney the riddle is broke;
But be quick, my good readers, and do as I bid,
Ere I vanish in steam, or get lost in the smoke.
Finally, considered as poetry, it is to be presumed
that Walter Aimwell’s efforts did not approximate his
own conceptions; and it is also probable that he never
saw sufficient reason for his endeavoring to make them
do so. It would have struck a mind like his, that the
world stood in less need of songs of soft sorrow and
pretty sighs of aspiration for a better condition of affairs,
than it did of good, earnest living in the world as it is,
and of those tangible achievements that he could better
compass by other means. His humility was too genuine
and his judgment too sound for him to believe himself
capacitated for being called to any such duty as singing
in that grand style which really moves hearts and moulds
minds to deeds of greatness and glory. We shall see
that, without leaving the round of his daily occupations,
he found opportunities for congenial labor and constantly
increasing usefulness. And thus his soul went through
the world, a living prayer,—an incarnate psalm.
