Kitabı oku: «Mother's Dream and Other Poems», sayfa 3

THE WAR-SPIRIT ON BUNKER’S HEIGHT

 
The sun walked the skies in the splendor of June,
O’er earth full of promise, and air full of tune;
The broad azure streams calmly rolled to the deep,
Whose waves on its breast stirred like babes in their sleep.
 
 
The turf heaved its green to the white vestured flock,
That fed, or reposed in the shade of the rock;
The birds sang their songs by their nests in the bowers;
And the bee hummed with sweets from the fresh opened flowers.
 
 
The humming-bird glittered, and whirred o’er the cell,
Where her nectar was stored, from the hill to the dell;
’Mid the bloom and the perfume, that passed on the breeze,
From the rose, and the vine, and the fruit-bearing trees.
 
 
It seemed like a gala, when Nature, arrayed
In festival robes, with her treasures displayed,
Reflected the smile of her Maker above,
And offered up hymns of her thanksgiving love.
 
 
And yet, in the bosom of man there were fires
Fierce, quenchless and fearful – consuming desires
For right unpossessed, and for lawless domain,
That burned to the soul, and that flamed to the brain.
 
 
In the streets there was clanging and gleaming of arms;
In the dwellings, resolve, preparation, alarms;
In the eye of the wife, mother, sister, a tear;
In the face of their soldier, no semblance of fear.
 
 
The patriot chieftain had marked out his ground,
To hold, or to fall, if his foe passed the bound:
And now was the hero to close in the strife,
For death as a bondman, or freedom with life.
 
 
The war-spirit hovered, and frowned on the height,
His eye flashing lightning – his wings shedding night!
From his wide fiery nostrils rolled volumes of smoke,
And the rocks roared afar, as in thunder he spoke.
 
 
At his dread shock of nature, the lamb from its play,
The bee and the bird, in affright fled away;
The branch, flower, and grass, felt the crush and the scath,
And the winds passing by, snuffed the heat of his wrath.
 
 
With blood, that, in torrents, he poured down like rain,
He drenched the green turf, that he strewed with the slain,
Till the eminence groaned with the carnage it bore,
And its heart heaved and shuddered at drinking the gore.
 
 
While the breath of the war-spirit scented the air,
The rivers looked wild in reflecting his glare;
And ocean’s cold bosom was torn, as he gave
The flap of his pinion to trouble its wave.
 
 
The village besieged, wrapped in flames from his breath,
Looked up to the hill, where he revelled with death,
And swelled with the essence of life he had shed,
To sweeten their cup, and the banquet to spread.
 
 
O War-spirit! War-spirit, when didst thou bring
Such trophies of beauty before the pale king,
Since walking on Gilboa’s height, in thy power,
Of Israel’s valiant to mow down the flower?
 
 
Mourn, wail, O ye people! and spread wide the pall,
Whose deep sable fringe down the hill-sides shall fall!
Your brethren’s warm blood cries aloud from the ground,
That hosts, like Philistia’s, in triumph surround.
 
 
The lovely, the pleasant have perished! Alas!
Where they fell may there hence be no dew on the grass!
Let a monument there, towards the heavens rear its head,
From a base, that shall cover the spot where they bled!
 
 
Ah, War-spirit! War-spirit, deep was the gloom,
Though heaven was unclouded, and earth all in bloom,
When thou, at the onset, that young summer’s day,
Didst strike so much valor to darkness away!
 
 
And yet, by that thunder, the land is awake:
’T was the crack of her yoke when beginning to break!
And out of that gloom is her glory to spread;
Her living be franchised, immortal her dead.
 
 
For up from that summit an eagle shall rise,
To breast the thick clouds, till he sails the blue skies;
And drop, while he bathes at the fountain of light,
A plume from his pinion their story to write.
 
 
It shall fall where they fell, on the still purple sward,
Full and warm with the sunbeams their deeds to record;
And move o’er the scroll in the hand of the free,
While the wing where it grew spans the earth and the sea.
 

THE INNER SELF

 
While others lie composed in sleep,
Close wrapped in shade and silence deep,
And starry hosts and angels keep
Their vigils o’er the night,
I have a curious work to do,
A secret door to venture through,
A wondrous being then to view;
If I can stand the sight.
 
 
I now take up the sacred key,
Unlock my breast, and pass to see
The inmost, true, essential ME:
And lo! I here have found,
Enclosed within its shrine, the heart,
Myself, my thinking, reasoning part:
But say, my spirit, what thou art,
And whence, and whither bound!
 
 
’T is but with wonder, reverence, fear
And shrinking, that I thus draw near
The majesty, that meets me here,
My soul, unveiled, in thee!
I cannot give thy form, or hue,
Or measure, or proportions true;
But feel myself myself subdue,
Thou deepening mystery.
 
 
Not all the earth, nor air, nor sea
Could furnish food to nourish thee;
Nor welling founts, nor rivers free,
The spirit’s thirst allay:
Nor silver web, nor cloth of gold,
Nor stuffs, that time can e’er unfold,
Nor pearls, nor gems this world may hold,
Compose thee an array.
 
 
Yet all the fibres of my frame
Own that from thee their feeling came;
And, at the slightest touch, will claim
Thy closest sympathy.
Thou art their life, their light, their spring,
Informing them in every thing,
But how they are allied, and cling,
My nobler self, to thee.
 
 
And do I thus the power survey,
Whom all my meaner powers obey?
Hand, foot and tongue and eye – are they
The servants of thy will?
And when they pause, repose to take,
Dost thou, untiring and awake,
Thy pinions spread, and swiftly make
Thy wide excursions still?
 
 
What art thou, never slumbering soul,
To stretch thy wings from pole to pole —
To span the globe – to mark its roll —
Its elements to see,
Conspiring thus, to prophesy
Its end to come before thine eye,
Whilst thou canst fire and flood defy,
Nor ever cease to be?
 
 
And, swifter than an eagle flies,
Or arrows dart, dost thou arise
Through air and space, and scale the skies,
’Mid shining spheres to roam:
And with thy conscious rank elate,
Dost stand and watch at heaven’s bright gate,
For glimpses of that rich estate
Where thou may’st claim thy home.
 
 
Thence, near the pit dost thou go down,
To spy the difference ’twixt the crown
Of life, and that dread withering frown,
Which blights a spirit there.
Then, on eternity’s dark brink,
Between them dost thou pause, and think,
And ask, if thou shalt soar or sink —
To joy or wo the heir.
 
 
Too blind to trace thy being’s plan,
Too small my nobler part to span,
I end my quest where it began,
And from myself retire.
I hence must own within my breast
A power of unknown powers possessed —
A flame, not long to be repressed,
Of clear immortal fire.
 

TIME

 
Time, with thy kind and never-wearying powers,
Giving whate’er we fondly count as ours;
Life, love, hope, faith, the sun, the stars and flowers;
All that to man is dear to thee we owe!
Yet does he call thee, slayer, robber, thief,
And stern, as of his foes thou wert the chief,
Filling his path with ruins, pain and grief,
Without one tender blessing to bestow!
 
 
Nature we laud, when thou, paternal Time,
Hast given maturity, as well as prime,
To all her works, in every age and clime,
Since the first floweret on her bosom grew.
Light from the darkness doth thy hand unfold:
Beauty from dust we in thy deeds behold:
The frail, the dimmed, the withered, worn and old
Thy breath dissolves, that they may shine anew.
 
 
The city flames, and melts the tottering wall;
Again she rises fairer for the fall.
Thou beckonest back the flood! and at thy call,
From crust-capped mounts, volcanic splendors pour.
The absent sun his way to morning bends;
The waning star to thy command attends,
Fills out and burns; and man to dust descends,
In hope to live, when thou shalt be no more.
 
 
The leaves are scattered, yet the waiting tree
Shall have them brought, in verdure, back by thee;
The flower has vanished, but the trusting bee
Will find her cell again with sweetness stored.
The seed may perish, yet the germ will rise;
The grain is ripened while its sheathing dies.
The fruits of earth, the glories of the skies
Forth by thy bounteous hand to man are poured.
 
 
We owe thee still for gifts far more divine —
The key to joys it never can be thine
To give or take; and heavenly light to shine
When we must enter that dark, shadowy vale,
Where nought of earth the pathway can illume,
Or lend one ray to shoot across the gloom,
That gathers round the threshold of the tomb,
When thou must there, first and forever, fail.
 
 
Then, why does man so oft forget that he
Owes all he is, and all he hopes to be,
When thou and he are severed, but to thee?
Why does he slay thee piecemeal, day by day?
Shut out in exile from thine empire, there,
In that unknown, dread, boundless country, where
Is no retreat, no inn, how will he bear
To have thy spectre haunt the endless way?
 
 
Man’s wisest study is to know thy worth
And his relations to thee from his birth;
To bring his course o’er this uneven earth,
In a clear sunset, to a quiet close.
Then, as a weary traveller is undressed,
While gently thou the spirit may’st divest
Of her worn garment, there remains a rest,
And she goes franchised to that blest repose.
 
 
And now, O Time, as one more hasty year
Of thine is gone, thou hast another here!
Grateful we hail it, though the bitter tear
May have put out the light of joy that shone
On many a face; though tender, sundered ties
Have changed to chords that vibrate but with sighs,
In many a stricken breast where sorrow lies,
Draining the life-stream, while that year has flown.
 
 
Countless the blessings showered in its flight;
And seeming evils, turned and viewed aright,
May prove but passing clouds, and lined with light.
Our trust, deceived in earthly things, may teach
The restless, eager spirit to forego
Her crushing grasp on hollow hopes, that grow
Like fragile reeds, to mock her hold below;
And after higher, holier joys to reach.
 
 
Time, then our nobler aspirations raise!
Since few, and short, and fleeting are our days;
And since, so peaceful are her pleasant ways,
Teach us to wisdom to apply the heart:
So that, when thou hast safely led us through
Thy kingdom, with a brighter land in view,
Calm at thy bourn, and with a kind adieu,
We may, as friends, shake hands with thee and part.
 

MY HEAD

 
“The day is come I never thought to see!
Strange revolutions of my farm and me.”
 

Dryden’s Virgil.

 
My head! my head! the day is come
I never, never thought to see;
When all, with fingers and a thumb,
May to thy chambers have a key!
 
 
That is, if thou wouldst but submit
To come beneath the learned touch,
And let the judge in judgment sit
Upon thy bumps, that prove so much.
 
 
I used to think our heads might let
Their own contents, at will, be shown;
I never thought mankind could get
An outward way to make them known.
 
 
But now the sapient hand has cut
The matter short, and all may tell
Thy value, as they ’d prize a nut,
And know the kernel by the shell.
 
 
If half the light, that has been thrown
On heads, were only poured within,
Thou wouldst not thus be left to own
The darkness that is now thy sin.
 
 
But, while the world is in a blaze
Of purely phrenologic light,
Thou, wildered thing, art in a maze,
And destitute of faith and sight.
 
 
They use a thousand meaning words
Thou couldst not utter or define,
Of which, to tell the truth, three thirds
Were gravel, in a mouth like thine.
 
 
They hold me out an empty skull,
To show the powers of living brains:
’T is just like feeling of the hull,
To tell what goods the ship contains.
 
 
And, whether nature or mishap
Have raised the bump, ’t is all the same;
The sage’s crown, or dunce’s cap
Must be awarded as its claim.
 
 
This hobby, that so many sit,
And manage with such ease and grace,
I dare not try with rein or bit,
It seems so of the donkey race.
 
 
And yet, my head, no doubt, ’t is all
A fault of thine, a want of sight,
That so much said by Combe and Gall
And Spurzheim cannot turn thee right.
 
 
I know not what thy case may be, —
If thou art hollow, or opaque;
I only know thou canst not see,
And faith declines one step to take.
 
 
This burst of light has turned thee numb,
Depriving thee of every sense;
So now, if tried, thou must be dumb,
Nor say one word in self-defence!
 

THE WHEAT FIELD

 
Field of wheat, so full and fair,
Shining, with thy sunny hair
Lightly waving either way,
Graceful as the breezes play —
Looking like a summer sea;
How I love to gaze at thee!
Pleasant art thou to the sight;
And to thought a rich delight.
Then, thy voice is music sweet,
Softly sighing field of wheat.
 
 
Pointing upward to the sky,
Rising straight, and aiming high,
Every stalk is seen to shoot
As an arrow, from the root.
Like a well-trained company,
All in uniform agree,
From the footing to the ear;
All in order strict appear.
Marshalled by a skilful hand,
All together bow, or stand
 
 
Still, within the proper bound:
None o’ersteps the given ground,
With its tribute held to pay,
At his nod whom they obey,
Each the gems, that stud its crown,
Will ere long, for man, lay down.
Thou with promise art replete
Of the precious sheaves of wheat.
How thy strength in weakness lies!
Not a robber bird, that flies,
 
 
Finds support whereby to put
On a stalk her lawless foot.
Not a predatory beak
Plunges down, thy stores to seek,
Where the guard of silver spears
Keeps the fruit, and decks the ears.
No vain insect, that could do
Harm to thee, dares venture through
Such an armory, or eat
Off the sheath to take the wheat.
 
 
What a study do we find
Opened here for eye and mind!
In it who can offer less,
Than to wonder, and confess,
That on this high-favored ground,
Faith is blest, and hope is crowned.
Charity her arms may spread
Wide from it, with gifts of bread.
Wisdom, power, and goodness meet
In the bounteous field of wheat.
 

THE LITTLE TRAVELLER

 
I am the tiniest child of earth,
But still, I would like to be known to fame,
Though next to nothing I had my birth,
And lowest of all is my lowly name.
 
 
Yet, if so humble my native place,
I this can say, in family pride,
That I ’m of the world’s most numerous race,
And made by the Maker of all beside.
 
 
Although I ’m so poor, I have nought to lose;
Still I ’m so little I can’t be lost:
I journey about wherever I choose,
And those, who carry me, bear the cost.
 
 
The most forgiving of earthly things,
I often cling to my deadly foe;
And, spite of the cruelest flirts and flings,
Arise by the force that has cast me low.
 
 
When beauty has trodden me under foot,
I ’ve quietly risen her face to seek,
Embraced her forehead, or calmly put
Myself to rest in her dimpled cheek.
 
 
I ’ve ridden to war on the soldier’s plume;
But startled, and sprung at the wild affray,
The sights of horror, of fire and fume,
And fled on the wing of the winds away.
 
 
I ’ve visited courts, and been ushered in
By the proudest guest of the stately scene;
I ’ve touched his majesty’s bosom-pin,
And the nuptial ring of his lofty queen.
 
 
At the royal board, in the grand parade,
I ’ve oft been one familiar and free:
The fairest lady has smiled, and laid
Her delicate, gloveless hand on me.
 
 
Philosopher, poet, the learned, the sage,
Never declines a call from me;
And all, of every rank and age,
Admit me into their coterie.
 
 
I visit the lions of every where,
If human, or brute, and can testify
To what they do, to what they wear,
To wonders none ever beheld but I!
 
 
And now, reviewing the things I ’ve done,
Forgetting my name, my rank and birth,
I begin to think I am number one
Of the great and manifold things of earth.
 
 
I ’ve still much more, that I yet might tell,
Which modesty bids me here withhold;
For fear with my travels I seem to swell,
grow, for an ATOM OF DUST, too bold!
 

THE ENTANGLED FLY

 
Ah, thou unfortunate!
Poor, silly fly,
Caught in the spider’s web,
Hung there to die!
What could have tempted thee?
What led thee there,
For thy foe, thus to throw
Around thee the snare?
 
 
Struggling and crying so
Ne’er can unweave
From thee the silken threads,
Laid to deceive.
Sorrow for wandering
Comes now in vain;
And, with one thus undone,
Grief adds to pain.
 
 
Yet, I will rescue thee,
Unwary thing!
Thou may’st again be off,
High on the wing,
If thou wilt promise me,
Hence to be found
Never more, as before,
On evil ground.
 
 
Trust not the flatterer
Skilled to ensnare:
He is a wily one;
Think, and beware.
Down to his dusky ways
No more descend!
Little fly, thou and I
Both want a friend.
 
 
Man hath an enemy,
Whose snare is laid
Softly and silently,
Deep in the shade.
Light, by the tempter shunned,
Only can show
Where, secure, free, and pure,
Our feet may go.
 

THE PEACH BLOSSOMS

 
Come here! come here! cousin Mary, and see
What fair, ripe peaches there are on the tree —
On the very same bough that was given to me
By father, one day last spring.
When it looked so beautiful, all in the blow,
And I wanted to pluck it, he told me, you know,
I might, but that waiting a few months would show
The fruit, that patience might bring.
 
 
And as I perceived, by the sound of his voice,
And the look of his eye, it was clearly his choice
That it should not be touched, I have now to rejoice
That I told him we ’d let it remain;
For, had it been gathered when full in the flower,
Its blossoms had withered, perhaps, in an hour,
And nothing on earth could have given the power
That would make them flourish again.
 
 
But now, of a fruit so delicious and sweet
I ’ve enough for myself and my playmates a treat;
And they tell me, besides, that the kernels secrete
What, if planted, will make other trees:
For the shell will come open to let down the root;
A sprout will spring up, whence the branches will shoot;
There ’ll be buds, leaves, and blossoms; and then comes the fruit —
Such beautiful peaches as these!
 
 
And Nature, they say, like a mighty machine,
Has a wheel in a wheel, which, if aught comes between,
It ruins her work, as it might have been seen,
Had it not given patience this trial.
From this, I ’ll be careful to keep it in mind,
When the blossoms I love, that there lingers behind
A better reward, that the trusting shall find
For a trifling self-denial.
 

THE BROKEN PIPE

 
Come here, little Willie:
Why, what is the trouble?
“I ’ve broke my new pipe, ma’ —
I can’t make a bubble!”
 
 
Well, do n’t weep for that, child,
But brighten your face,
And tell how the grievous
Disaster took place.
 
 
“Why, Puss came along;
And, said I, ‘Now she ’ll think
That white, frothy water
Is milk she may drink.’
 
 
“So I set it before her,
And plunged her mouth in,
When up came both paws,
And clung fast to my chin.
 
 
“Then I gave her a blow
With my pipe; and it flew
At once into pieces!
O what shall I do?
 
 
“I can’t make a bubble!
I wish naughty Kit
Had been a mile off:
See! there ’s blood on me yet!”
 
 
I ’m sorry, my boy; yet
Your loss is but just;
You first deceived Pussy,
And trifled with trust.
 
 
In this, when you failed,
You compelled her; and thence
The wound on your face,
From poor Kit’s self-defence.
 
 
Then, when you grew cruel
And beat her, you know
Your pipe and yourself
Fared the worst for the blow.
 
 
Let this lesson teach you,
Hence never to stoop
To make man, or brute,
That may trust you, a dupe.
 
 
And when you have power,
It should not be abused,
Oppressing the weaker,
Nor strength be misused.
 
 
For, often, unkindness
Returns whence it came;
And ever deceit must
Be followed by shame.
 
 
Remember this, William,
And here end your sorrow;
I ’ll buy you a pipe,
To blow bubbles, to-morrow.
 

VIVY VAIN

 
Miss Vain was all given to dress —
Too fond of gay clothing; and so,
She ’d gad about town
Just to show a new gown,
As a train-band their color to show.
 
 
Her head being empty and light,
Whene’er she obtained a new hat,
With pride in her air,
She ’d go round, here and there,
For all whom she knew to see that.
 
 
Her folly was chiefly in this:
More highly she valued fine looks,
Than virtue, or truth,
Or devoting her youth
To usefulness, friendship, or books.
 
 
Her passion for show was unchecked;
And therefore, it happened one day,
Arrayed in bright hues,
And with new hat and shoes,
Miss Vain walked abroad for display.
 
 
She took the most populous streets,
To cause but aversion in those,
Who saw how she ’d prinked,
And to bystanders winked,
While the boys cried, “Halloo! there she goes!”
 
 
It chanced, that, in passing one way,
She came near a pool, and a green
With fence close and high;
And, as Vivy drew nigh,
A donkey stood near it unseen.
 
 
He put his mouth over its top,
The moment she came by his place;
And gave a loud bray
In her ear, when, away
She sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face.
 
 
She thought she was swallowed alive,
Awhile upon earth lying flat;
And the terrible sound
Seemed to furrow the ground,
She embraced in her fine gown and hat.
 
 
She gathered herself up, and ran,
Yet heeded not whither or whence,
To flee from the roar,
That continued to pour
Behind her, from over the fence.
 
 
In passing a slope near the pool,
She slipped and rolled down to its brim;
The geese gave a shout,
And at length hissed her out
Of the bounds, where they ’d gathered to swim.
 
 
In turning a corner, she met
Abruptly, the horns of a cow
That mooed, while the cur,
At her heels, turned from her,
And aimed at Miss Vain his “bow-wow.”
 
 
Then Vivy’s bright ribbons and skirt,
As she flew, flirted high on the wind;
The children at play,
Paused to see one so gay,
And all in a flutter behind.
 
 
A group of glad schoolboys came by:
Said they, “So it seems, that to-day,
Miss Vain carries marks
At which the dog barks,
And that make sober Long-Ears to bray.”
 
 
And when, all bedraggled and pale,
Poor Vivy approached her own door,
She went, swift and straight
As a dart, through the gate,
Abhorring the gay gear she wore.
 
 
She sat down, and thought of the scene
With humiliation and tears:
The words, and the noise
Of the brutes and the boys
Were echoing still in her ears.
 
 
She reasoned, and came at the cause,
Resolving that cause to remove;
And thence, her desire
Was for modest attire,
And her heart and her mind to improve.
 
 
And soon, all who knew her before
Remarked on the change and the gain
In mind, and in mien,
And in dress, that were seen
In the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.