Poems

You bid the minstrel strike the lute,

And wake once more a soothing tone—

Alas! its strings, untuned, are mute,

Or only echo moan for moan.

The flowers around it twined are dead,

And those who wreathed them there, are flown;

The spring that gave them bloom is fled,

And winter's frost is o'er them thrown.

Poor lute! forgot 'mid strife and care,

I fain would try thy strings once more,—

Perchance some lingering tone is there—

Some cherished melody of yore.

If flowers that bloom no more are here,

Their odors still around us cling—

And though the loved are lost-still dear,

Their memories may wake the string.

I strike—but lo, the wonted thrill,

Of joy in sorrowing cadence dies:

Alas! the minstrel's hand is chill,

And the sad lute, responsive, sighs.

'Tis ever thus—our life begins,

In Eden, and all fruit seems sweet—

"We taste and knowledge, with our sins,

Creeps to the heart and spoils the cheat.

In youth, the sun brings light alone—

No shade then rests upon the sight—

But when the beaming morn is flown,

We see the shadows—not the light

I once found music every where—

The whistle from the willow wrung—

The string, set in the window, there,

Sweet measures to my fancy flung.

But now, this dainty lute is dead—

Or answers but to sigh and wail,

Echoing the voices of the fled,

Passing before me dim and pale!

Yet angel forms are in that train,

And One upon the still air flings,

Of woven melody, a strain,

Down trembling from Her heaven-bent wings.

'Tis past—that Speaking Form is flown—

But memory's pleased and listening ear,

Shall oft recall that choral tone,

To love and poetry so dear.

And far away in after time,

Shall blended Piety and Love

Find fond expression in the rhyme,

Bequeathed to earth by One above.

Poor lute!--thy bounding pulse is still,—

Yet all thy silence I forgive,

That thus thy last—thy dying thrill,

Would make Her gentle virtues live!

Friend of my early days, we meet once more!

Once more I stand thine aged boughs beneath,

And hear again the rustling music pour,

Along thy leaves, as whispering spirits breathe.

Full many a day of sunshine and of storm,

Since last we parted, both have surely known;

Thy leaves are thinned, decrepit is thy form,—

And all my cherished visions, they are flown!

How beautiful, how brief, those sunny hours

Departed now, when life was in its spring—

When Fancy knew no scene undecked with flowers,

And Expectation flew on Fancy's wing!

Here, on the bank, beside this whispering stream,

Which still runs by as gayly as of yore,

Marking its eddies, I was wont to dream

Of things away, on some far fairy shore.

Then every whirling leaf and bubbling ball,

That floated by, was full of radiant thought;

Each linked with love, had music at its call,

And thrilling echoes o'er my bosom brought.

The bird that sang within this gnarled oak,

The waves that dallied with its leafy shade,

The mellow murmurs from its boughs that broke,

Their joyous tribute to my spirit paid.

No phantom rose to tell of future ill,

No grisly warning marr'd my prophet dreams—

My heart translucent as the leaping rill,

My thoughts all free and flashing at its beams.

Here is the grassy knoll I used to seek

At summer noon, beneath the spreading shade,

And watch the flowers that stooped with glowing cheek,

To meet the romping ripples as they played.

Here is the spot which memory's magic glass

Hath often brought, arrayed in fadeless green,

Making this oak, this brook, this waving grass—

A simple group—fond Nature's fairest scene.

And as I roamed beside the Rhone or Rhine,

Or other favored stream, in after days,

With jealous love, this rivulet would shine,

Full on my heart, and claim accustomed praise.

And oh! how oft by sorrow overborne,

By care oppressed, or bitter malice wrung,

By friends betrayed, or disappointment torn,

My weary heart, all sickened and unstrung—

Hath yearned to leave the bootless strife afar,

And find beneath this oak a quiet grave,

Where the rough echo of the world's loud jar,

Yields to the music of the mellow wave!

And now again I stand this stream beside;

Again I hear the silver ripples flow—

I mark the whispers murmuring o'er the tide,

And the light bubbles trembling as they go.

But oh! the magic-spell that lingered here,

In boyhood's golden age, my heart to bless,

With the bright waves that rippled then so clear,

Is lost in ocean's dull forgetfulness.

Gone are the visions of that glorious time—

Gone are the glancing birds I loved so well,

Nor will they wake again their silver chime,

From the deep tomb of night in which they dwell!

And if perchance some fleeting memories steal,

Like far-off echoes to my dreaming ear,

Away, ungrasped, the cheating visions wheel,

As spectres start upon the wing of fear.

Alas! the glorious sun, which then was high,

Touching each common thing with rosy light,

Is darkly banished from the lowering sky—

And life's dull onward pathway lies, in night.

Yes—I am changed—and this gray gnarled form,

Its leaves all scattered by the rending blast,

Is but an image of my heart;—the storm—

The storm of life, doth make us such at last!

Farewell, old oak! I leave thee to the wind,

And go to struggle with the chafing tide—

Soon to the dust thy form shall be resigned,

And I would sleep thy crumbling limbs beside.

Thy memory will pass; thy sheltering shade,

Will weave no more its tissue o'er the sod;

And all thy leaves, ungathered in the glade,

Shall, by the reckless hoof of time, be trod.

My cherished hopes, like shadows and like leaves,

Name, fame, and fortune—each shall pass away;

And all that castle-building fancy weaves,

Shall sleep, unthinking, as the drowsy clay.

But from thy root another tree shall bloom—

With living leaves its tossing boughs shall rise;

And the winged spirit—bursting from the tomb,—

Oh, shall it spring to light beyond these skies?

The sportive sylphs that course the air,

Unseen on wings that twilight weaves,

Around the opening rose repair,

And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves.

With sparkling cups of bubbles made,

They catch the ruddy beams of day,

And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade,

Their blushing favorite to array.

They gather gems with sunbeams bright,

From floating clouds and falling showers—

They rob Aurora's locks of light

To grace their own fair queen of flowers.

Thus, thus adorned, the speaking Rose,

Becomes a token fit to tell,

Of things that words can ne'er disclose,

And nought but this reveal so well.

Then take my flower, and let its leaves

Beside thy heart be cherished near,

While that confiding heart receives

The thought it whispers to thine ear!

On a tall cliff that overhung the deep,

A maniac stood. He heeded not the sweep

Of the swift gale that lashed the troubled main,

And spread with showery foam the watery plain.

His reckless foot was on the dizzy line

That edged the rock, impending o'er the brine;

His form was bent, and leaning from the height,

Like the light gull whose wing is stretched for flight.

Far down beneath his feet, the surges broke;

Above his head the pealing thunders spoke;

Around him flashed the lightning's ruddy glare,

And rushing torrents swept along the air.

But nought he heeded, save a gallant sail

That on the sea was wrestling with the gale.

Far on the ocean's billowy verge she hung,

And strove to shun the storm that landward swung.

With many a tack she turned her bending side

To the rude blast, and bravely stemmed the tide.

In vain! the bootless strife with fate is o'er—

And the doomed vessel nears the iron shore.

A mighty bird, she seems, whose wing is rent

By the red shaft from heaven's fierce quiver sent.

Her mast is shivered and her helm is lashed,

Around her prow the kindled waves are dashed—

And as an eagle swooping in its might,

Toward the dark cliff she speeds her headlong flight.

She comes, she strikes! the trembling wave withdraws,

And the hushed elements a moment pause;

Then swelling high above their helpless prey,

The billows burst, and bear the wreck away!

One look to heaven the raptured Maniac cast,

One low breathed murmur from his bosom passed:

'God of the soul and sea! I read thy choice—

Told by the shipwreck and the whirlwind's voice.

In this dread omen I can trace my doom,

And hear thee bid me seek an ocean-tomb.

Like the lost ship my weary mind hath striven

With the wild tempest o'er my spirit driven;

That strife is done—and the dim caverned sea

Of this wrecked bosom must the mansion be.

Thou who canst bid the billows cease to roll,

Oh! smooth a pillow for my weary soul—

Watch o'er the pilgrim in his shadowy sleep,

And send sweet dreams to light the sullen deep!'

Thus spoke the maniac, while above he gazed,

And his pale hands beseechingly upraised;

Then on the viewless wind he swiftly sprung,

And far below his senseless form was flung;

A thin white spray told where he met the wave,

And battling surges thunder o'er his grave!

Along that gloomy river's brim,

Where Charon plies the ceaseless oar,

Two mighty Shadows, dusk and dim,

Stood lingering on the dismal shore.

Hoarse came the rugged Boatman's call,

While echoing caves enforced the cry—

And as they severed life's last thrall,

Each Spirit spoke one parting sigh.

"Farewell to earth! I leave a name,

Written in fire, on field and flood—

Wide as the wind, the voice of fame,

Hath borne my fearful tale of blood.

And though across this leaden wave,

Returnless now my spirit haste,

Napoleon's name shall know no grave,

His mighty deeds be ne'er erased.

The rocky Alp, where once was set

My courser's hoof, shall keep the seal,

And ne'er the echo there forget

The clangor of my glorious steel.

Marengo's hill-sides flow with wine—

And summer there the olive weaves,

But busy memory e'er will twine

The blood-stained laurel with its leaves.

The Danube's rushing billows haste

With the black ocean-wave to hide—

Yet is my startling story traced,

In every murmur of its tide.

The pyramid on Giseh's plain,

Its founder's fame hath long forgot—

But from its memory, time, in vain

Shall strive Napoleon's name to blot.

The bannered storm that floats the sky,

With God's red quiver in its fold,

O'er startled realms shall lowering fly,

A type of me, till time is told.

The storm—a thing of weal and woe,

Of life and death, of peace and power—

That lays the giant forest low,

Yet cheers the bent grass with its shower—

That, in its trampled pathway leaves,

The uptorn roots to bud anew,

And where the past o'er ruin grieves,

Bids fresher beauty spring to view:—

The storm—an emblem of my name,—

Shall keep my memory in the skies—

Its flash-wreathed wing, a flag of flame,

Shall spread my glory as it flies."

The Spirit passed, and now alone,

The darker Shadow trod the shore—

Deep from his breast the parting tone

Swept with the wind, the landscape o'er.

"Farewell! I will not speak of deeds,—

For these are written but in sand—

And, as the furrow choked with weeds,

Fade from the memory of the land.

The war-plumed chieftain cannot stay,

To guard the gore his blade hath shed—

Time sweeps the purple stain away,

And throws a veil o'er glory's bed.

But though my form must fade from view.

And Byron bow to fate resigned,—

Undying as the fabled Jew,

Harold's dark spirit stays behind!

And he who yet in after years,

Shall tread the vine-clad shores of Rhine,

In Chillon's gloom shall pour his tears,

Or raptured, see blue Leman shine—

He shall not—cannot, go alone—

Harold unseen shall seek his side:

Shall whisper in his ear a tone,

So seeming sweet, he cannot chide.

He cannot chide; although he feel,

While listening to the magic verse,

A serpent round his bosom steal,

He still shall hug the coiling curse.

Or if beneath Italian skies,

The wanderer's feet delighted glide,

Harold, in merry Juan's guise,

Shall be his tutor and his guide.

One living essence God hath poured

In every heart—the love of sway—

And though he may not wield the sword,

Each is a despot in his way.

The infant rules by cries and tears—

The maiden, with her sunny eyes—

The miser, with the hoard of years—

The monarch, with his clanking ties.

To me the will—the power—were given.

O'er plaything man to weave my spell,

And if I bore him up to heaven,

'Twas but to hurl him down to hell.

And if I chose upon the rack

Of doubt to stretch the tortured mind,

To turn Faith's heavenward footstep back,

Her hope despoiled—her vision, blind—

Or if on Virtue's holy brow,

A wreath of scorn I sought to twine—

And bade her minions mocking bow,

With sweeter vows at pleasure's shrine—

Or if I mirrored to the thought,

With glorious truth the charms of earth,

While yet the trusting fool I taught,

To scoff at Him who gave it birth—

Or if I filled the soul with light,

And bore its buoyant wing in air—

To plunge it down in deeper night,

And mock its maniac wanderings there—

I did but wield the wand of power,

That God intrusted to my clasp,

And not, the tyrant of an hour—

Will I resign it to Death's grasp!

The despot with his iron chain,

In idle bonds the limbs may bind—

He who would hold a sterner reign,

Must twine the links around the mind.

Thus I have thrown upon my race,

A chain that ages cannot rend—

And mocking Harold stays to trace,

The slaves that to my sceptre bend."

Far, far away, where sunsets weave

Their golden tissues o'er the scene,

And distant glaciers, dimly heave,

Like trailing ghosts, their peaks between—

Where, at the Rocky Mountain's base,

Arkansas, yet an infant, lingers,

A while the drifting leaves to chase,

Like laughing youth, with playful fingers—

There Nature, in her childhood, wrought

'Mid rock and rill, with leaf and flower,

A vale more beautiful than thought

E'er gave to favored fairy's bower:

And in that hidden hermitage,

Of forest, river, lake, and dell,—

While Time himself grew gray and sage,

The lone Enchantress loved to dwell.

Ages have flown,—the vagrant gales

Have swept that lonely land; the flowers

Have nodded to the breeze; the vales,

Long, long, have sheltered in their bowers,

The forest minstrels; and the race

Of mastodons hath come and gone;

And with the stream of time, the chase

Of bubbling life hath swept the lawn,

Unmarked, save that the bedded clay,

Tells where some giant sleeper lies;

And wrinkled cliffs, tottering and gray,

Whisper of crumbled centuries.

Yet there the valley smiles; the tomb

Of ages is a garden gay,

And wild flowers freshen in their bloom,

As from the sod they drink decay.

And creeping things of every hue,

Dwell in this savage Eden-land,

And all around it blushes new,

As when it rose at God's command.

Untouched by man, the forests wave,

The floods pour by, the torrents fall,

And shelving cliff and shadowy cave,

Hang as bold nature hung them all!

The hunter's wandering foot hath wound,

To this far scene, perchance like mine,

And there a Forest Dreamer found,

Who walks the dell with spectral mien.

Youthful his brow, his bearing high—

Yet writhed his lip, and all subdued,

The fire that once hath lit his eye.

Wayward and sullen oft his mood;

But he perchance may deign to tell,

As he hath told to me, his tale,

In words like these,—while o'er the dell,

The autumn twilight wove its veil.

"Stranger! these woods are wild and drear;

These tangled paths are rough and lone;

These dells are full of things of fear,

And should be rather shunned than known.

Then turn thy truant foot away,

And seek afar the cultured glade,

Nor dare with reckless step to stray,

'Mid these lone realms of fear and shade!

You go not, and you seek to hear,

Why one like me should idly roam,

'Mid scenes like these, so dark, so drear—

These rocks my bed, these woods my home?

"One crime hath twined with serpent coil

Around my heart its fatal fold;

And though my struggling bosom toil,

To heave the monster from its hold—

It will not from its victim part.

By day or night, in down or dell,

Where'er I roam, still, still my heart

Is pressed by that sad serpent spell.

Aye, as the strangling boa clings

Around his prey with fatal grasp,

And as he feels each struggle, wrings

His victim with a closer clasp;

Nor yet till every pulse is dumb,

And every fluttering spasm o'er,

Releases, what, in death o'ercome,

Can strive or struggle now no more;

So is my wrestling spirit wrung,

By that one deep and deadly sin,

That will not, while I live, be flung,

From its sad work of woe within.

"My native hills are far away,

Beneath a soft and sunny sky;

Green as the sea, the forests play,

'Mid the fresh winds that sweep them by.

I loved those hills, I loved the flowers,

That dashed with gems their sunny swells,

And oft I fondly dreamed for hours,

By streams within those mountain dells.

I loved the wood—each tree and leaf,

In breeze or blast, to me was fair,

And if my heart was touched with grief,

I always found a solace there.

My parents slumbered in the tomb;

But thrilling thoughts of them came back,

And seemed within my breast to bloom.

As lone I ranged the forest track.

The wild flowers rose beneath my feet

Like memories dear of those who slept,

And all around to me was sweet,

Although, perchance, I sometimes wept.

I wept, but not, oh not in sadness,

And those bright tears I would not smother,

For less they flowed in grief than gladness,

So blest the memory of my mother.

And she was linked, I know not why,

With leaves and flowers, and landscapes fair

And all beneath the bending sky,

As if she still were with me there.

The echo bursting from the dell,

Recalled her song beside my bed;

The hill-side with its sunny swell,

Her bosom-pillow for my head.

The breathing lake at even-tide,

When o'er it fell the down of night,

Seemed the sweet heaven, which by her side,

I found in childhood's dreams of light:

And morning, as it brightly broke,

And blessed the hills with joyous dyes,

Was like her look, when first I woke,

And found her gazing in my eyes.

"Nature became my idol; wood,

Wave, wilderness,—I loved them all;

I loved the forest and the solitude,

That brooded o'er the waterfall,—

I loved the autumn winds that flew

Between the swaying boughs at night,

And from their whispers fondly drew

Wild woven dreams of lone delight.

I loved the stars, and musing sought

To read them in their depths of blue—

My fancy spread her sail of thought,

And o'er that sea of azure flew.

Hovering in those blest paths afar,

The wheeling planets seem to trace,

My spirit found some islet-star,

And chose it for its dwelling-place.

I loved the morn, and ere the lay

Of plaintive meadow-lark began,

'Mid dewy shrubs I tore my way,

Up the wild crag where waters ran.

I listened to the babbling tide,

And thought of childhood's merry morn,—

I listened to the bird that tried

Prelusive airs, amid the thorn.

And then I went upon my way;

Yet ere the sunrise kissed my cheek,

I stood upon the forehead gray

Of some lone mountain's dizzy peak.

A ruddy light was on the hill,

But shadows in the valley slept;

A white mist rested o'er the rill,

And shivering leaves with tear-drops wept.

The sun came up, and nature woke,

As from a deep and sweet repose;

From every bush soft music broke,

And blue wreaths from each chimney rose.

From the green vale that lay below.

Full many a carol met my ear;

The boy that drove the teeming cow.

And sung or whistled in his cheer;

The dog that by his master's side,

Made the lone copse with echoes ring:

The mill that whirling in the tide,

Seemed with a droning voice to sing;

The lowing herd, the bleating flock,

And many a far-off murmuring wheel:

Each sent its music up the rock,

And woke my bosom's echoing peal.

"And thus my early hours went o'er:

Each scene and sound but gave delight;

Or if I grieved, 'twas like the shower,

That comes in sunshine, brief and bright.

My heart was like the summer lake,

A mirror in some valley found,

Whose depths a mimic world can make

More beautiful than that around.

The wood, the slope, the rocky dell,

To others dear, were dearer yet

To me; for they would fondly dwell

Mirrored in memory; and set

In the deep azure of my dreams

At night, how sweet they rose to view!

How soft the echo, and the streams,

How swift their laughing murmurs flew!

And when the vision broke at morn,

The music in my charmed ear,

As of some fairy's lingering horn,—

My native hills, how soft, how dear!

"So passed my boyhood; 'twas a stream

Of frolic flow, 'mid Nature's bowers;

A ray of light—a golden dream—

A morning fair—a path of flowers!

But now another charm came o'er me:

The ocean I had never seen;

Yet suddenly it rolled before me,

With all its crested waves of green!

Soft sunny islands, far and lone,

Where the shy petrel builds her nest;

Deep coral caves to mermaids known—

These were my visions bright and blest.

Oh! how I yearned to meet the tide,

And hear the bristling surges sweep;

To stand the watery world beside,

And ponder o'er the glorious deep!

I bade my home adieu, and bent

My eager footsteps toward the shore,

And soon my native hills were blent,

With the pale sky that arched them o'er.

Four days were passed, and now I stood

Upon a rock that walled the deep:

Before me rolled the boundless flood,

A glorious dreamer in its sleep.

'Twas summer morn, and bright as heaven;

And though I wept, I was not sad,

For tears, thou knowest, are often given

When the overflowing heart is glad.

Long, long I watched the waves, whose whirls

Leaped up the rocks, their brows to kiss,

And dallied with the sea-weed curls,

That stooped and met, as if in bliss.

Long, long I listened to the peal,

That whispered from the pebbly shore,

And like a spirit seemed to steal

In music to my bosom's core.

And now I looked afar, and thought

The sea a glad and glorious thing;

And fancy to my bosom brought

Wild dreams upon her wizard wing—

Her wing that stretched o'er spreading waves,

And chased the far-off flashing ray,

Or hovering deep in twilight caves,

Caught the lone mermaid at her play.