POEMS. (continued 2)

The Lord, from his cloudy pavilion, hath spoken The soul to himself, and its dust to the clod; The cord He hath loosed, and the golden bowl broken, Who formed them so precious. Be still! it is God. A sage hath departed! the cities sit weeping; From land unto land does the gloom spread away. The seas give their wail to the winds o’er them sweeping— The spirit, that spanned them, hath passed from the clay! His form, pale and cold, the dark mansion encloses; Around it, Philanthropy, Science and Art Their tears for their friend, as in death he reposes, Shower warm o’er the hand, and the head, and the heart. But there, while affection her tribute is giving, The beauty, the grandeur, the power of his mind The grave cannot hide! in his deeds he is living; He shines in the light he diffused for mankind! That mind, as a guide that trod paths on the ocean Its marks o’er the billowy desert to place, While man has a heart, and the deep is in motion, The wide world shall honor, the mariner trace. The stars in their courses to grasp and to measure, His eye loved the blue arch of ether to climb; His soul rose beyond them to lay up a treasure More bright than the stars, more enduring than time. And here, while the sorrowing Salem[2] is shrouded In weeds, for the son of her pride and her love, ’T is his to behold, with a vision unclouded, The glories unveiled of the Salem above. With Bowditch inscribed, for the whole earth’s revering, In letters of light to each point beaming round, A monument formed of his works, now is rearing Its head, where with clusters of planets ’t is crowned.

The still and solemn, shadowy hour, When Saturday in Sabbath dies, O’er Weimar hangs; with clouds that lower And veil in black the moon and skies. Lo! from yon mansion lights appear, Pale glimmering through the midnight gloom. A coffined form is on the bier, And thence borne forward to the tomb. The funeral train, how sad and slow They follow that cold sleeping clay; While sighs and sobs of bitter wo Sound deep along the silent way. And now, the open grave beside, That dismal bier the bearers rest; And heavier waves of sorrow’s tide Roll mighty o’er each mourner’s breast. From him who slumbers in the shroud, As tremblingly they lift the pall, The moon rends off her veil of cloud, And o’er him lets her lustre fall. She beams her silvery, soft adieu. And is again in darkness hid; As if affrighted, thus to view The name on that dread coffin lid. For ’t is her lover, now no more— Her friend, whom they to dust consign! And ne’er again is she to pour Her light,—for eyes like his to shine. ’T is done,—the fearful, final rite, Too sacred for the glare of day, Has passed beneath the shadowy night— Earth, earth has closed o’er Schiller’s clay! But, hark! the heavens in thunder groan; They weep in torrents o’er his bed; And searching, fiery bolts are thrown, As if to find and wake the dead. These funeral honors, so sublime, Befit him well to whom they ’re paid; And, at the birth of holy time, ’T is meet his dust at rest be laid. His spirit, bright with heavenly fire, Has burned its way through mortal strife; And gained its high, intense desire To solve the mystery of life. It is the budding month of May: This passing storm will call the bloom A tribute nature soon will pay, To dress her deathless Poet’s tomb.

A wo-stricken people, in sorrow we gather! The dawn of our glory, our hopes full in bloom Are changed, with the face of our Chieftain, our Father, To sable and cypress to hang round his tomb. While pale in the shroud lies the Patriot sleeping, A light, that for earth is no longer to burn, Removed from its place, a sad nation is weeping; And dark, where it shone, falls the shade of an urn. When loud, through the land, hill and valley and mountain Were sounding his name, and reflecting its beams, The death-angel’s wand opened griefs bitter fountain, To quench their warm joys with its far-flowing streams. Alas! that the spoiler so early must sever A tie, which the hearts of a country had bound To him, who is gone—who is gone, and forever, To join the bright hosts who their Saviour surround! Our Father in heaven, yet grant us another, Like him, who has left us, as orphans, below! O did not the Sage on his dear younger Brother, When called to thy presence, his mantle bestow? To Thee, who, from darkness, thy children hast stricken, We cry with our wound, asking balm from the Tree, Whose leaves heal the nations: Hear, hear us, and quicken Our wandering feet to return unto Thee!

They hovered around her, an angel band: They listened her notes to hear. The voice was one of their own bright land; But stained was the harp in their sister’s hand, With marks of the falling tear. They saw she had wreathed it with deathless flowers; While many a beauteous leaf, That looked like the growth of their heavenly bowers, Was pale with the shade of her darksome hours, Or wet with the dews of grief. Then gently from under her hand they took Her harp, and laid it aside: The tremulous chords, at her parting look And the farewell sweep of her fingers, shook, And snapped as her numbers died. The angels had whispered of joys above, And wooed her with them to soar, Till spreading her wings like a peaceful dove, Her spirit arose for a world of love To wander on earth no more. Britannia, drop thy heaviest tear! O weep! it will be forgiven, That, fain we had kept in her bondage here A soul so pure, and a voice so dear Had longer withheld from heaven.

She died, as dawned her natal day! Amid the buds and flowers of May Her spirit left the beauteous clay, In death’s deep slumber here; And mounting up her starry way, Attained that holier sphere, Where falls no night o’er birth-day light— No sorrow brings a tear. The joy and glory of the skies With radiance fill her heavenly eyes, Where thornless flowers around her rise, And founts that ne’er shall fail; While here her form so lowly lies All silent, cold and pale; Where dews distil, and night-winds chill Moan through the shadowy vale.

Close to the lines that her dear hand had traced, Who took so soon an angel’s form on high— After her name is my memorial placed For thee, my friend, and it shall tell thee why. I find a sweetness where her spirit breathed: A sacred halo round her name is thrown; So, with the flowers that here her fingers wreathed To borrow life from them, I twine my own. Fresh in thy heart and mine her memory lives, Fragrant and fair, and thornless in its bloom: Here with the precious odor that it gives, I fain my simple offering would perfume. Then, whatsoe’er the change that comes to me— Though death or duty put me far away, These silent leaves may still unfold to thee The wish of one who was thy friend to-day. Peace be to thee—long life, and joy, and health The blest allotment of thy sojourn here; The portion of a child of God, thy wealth, When time must close, and earth shall disappear!

The monarch has opened his banqueting hall For his thousand lords, and his ladies all! The sparkling wine to each guest is poured, And mirth swells high at the festal board, Where none hath the heart more careless and light, Than he, whose glory must end to-night. With the cup and the revel the king grows bold— He calls for the vessels of silver and gold; The spoils his idolatrous father brought, ’Mid the impious deeds which that proud one wrought, From the temple of God, at Jerusalem, That he and his nobles may drink from them. Each sacred vessel they fill and raise To a laughing lip, as it speaks the praise Of the gods of metal, of wood and stone, But mocks at the name of the Holy One, Whose finger this hour shall come so near:— That lip will quiver and blanch with fear. Monarch! what’s there, on the lighted wall, That can fix thy gaze and thy spirit appall? Why is thy countenance changed, O king? Is it one of thy gods this awe can bring, Which makes thy knees together to smite, Thine eye so wild, and thy cheek so white? “A hand! a hand! it hath written a line! And who will the terrible words define? A chain of gold shall encircle his neck— A vesture of scarlet his form shall deck— And the third, as ruler, shall be that seer, With honor and power throughout Chaldea!” Not all the wise and the learned of thine, Poor impotent one, shall explain that line! But the captive of Judah, him thy queen Has bid thee summon—let him be seen! His eye prophetic receives its sight From the Being, who caused the hand to write. The slave is brought to the potentate! To spurn his gifts, but to read his fate; To whom ’t is inscribed on the lofty wall, “Thou art weighed, found wanting, and now must fall! Thy kingdom is numbered—the Persian and Mede Shall hence to thy throne and thy power succeed!” They come!—the foemen—nor sword nor flight, Shall win for that monarch the morning light! The haughty head where the crown was set, In dust is pillowed—with gore is wet! Ye, who are trusting in honor and gold, Look on him now, and your strength behold!

The arrow! the arrow is fast in his side! And still through the forest they follow The poor stricken deer, that has nowhere to hide, And dared not to pause where the cool waters glide, When, leaping the brook, he would almost have died, One draught from its ripple to swallow. That deep-planted arrow! O how can he bear The anguish of feeling it quiver, When shook by the branches, the wave, or the air, As forward he bounds, but without heeding where, From thicket to crag, with the force of despair, To plunge in the cold, sweeping river? They hunted him hard, till the sun in the west Had sunk, while their aim he evaded. At evening, he sought a calm refuge of rest, And dropped from pursuit, by his terrors oppressed, Beneath the close branches, in verdure full-dressed, By night and the covert o’ershaded. But ah, the poor deer! they had doomed him to die! For near the green turf where he laid him, They lighted the torch, and they brandished it high; It glared through the boughs on his tender black eye, That fatally shone for the death-shaft to fly; His beauty, his beaming betrayed him: He cannot by flying now loosen the dart, The end of his tortures to quicken, By letting the life in one blood-gush depart. He seeks a retreat, like the warm, wounded heart, When, lone, slow, and silent, the victim of art, It dies, as a deer that is stricken.

Sapphira, Sapphira, awake! Alas! she is gone in the sleep That but the archangel can break; For life hath no slumber so deep. ’T is death! his pale ashes are cast On those withered lips, where but now An insult to Heaven was passed; His dumbness hath followed the vow. A bolt from above, swift and sure, Hath blasted the pride of the clay; The spirit, in boldness secure, In guilt hath been stricken away. O child of delusion! to stand The chosen of Jesus among, To cover the fraud of thy hand, By falsehood to him on thy tongue! How vain, the deceit of the heart To shroud in a mantle so frail! Its perfidy, thus by its art. To think from Omniscience to veil! Lost woman! but three hours before, The form of thy partner in sin Was borne, wan and cold, from the door, Where thou didst so rashly come in. And they, who had carried him out, The clods o’er his bosom to lay, Were waiting, the threshold about, To bear thee to darkness away. Sapphira, could Mercy restore, Or Pity thy spirit recall, To light up its dwelling once more, It should not thus hopelessly fall. But Mercy besought thee in vain, From death’s awful brink to recede; To shun the despair and the pain Where she is forbidden to plead. And Pity’s warm tear-drops must roll The more, that she cannot relume The clay whence the self-wounded soul Hath rushed to a suicide’s doom. How potent, how maddening the love, O gold, of a mortal must be, To challenge an arm from above— To stake earth and heaven for thee! For Justice to Judgment will call; And who shall their coming abide, When wrath the most fearful of all, “The wrath of the Lamb,” is defied?

Whilst thou art away, where the proud waves are swelling Beneath thy light bark, ever mindful of thee, The days of thine absence, at home we are telling, And counting the hours of our William at sea. And thou, whether cradled to sleep by the billow, Or watching the sport of the spray and the foam, If pensive on deck, or in dreams on thy pillow, We know hast thy soul rapt with visions of home. We know, when the sun mounts the east in his glory, Or smiles a “good night,” as the west he descends, Thy heart, pointing back, to itself tells the story Of mansion paternal, and kindred and friends. And when at the morning and evening devotion, While bending with offerings of praise and of prayer, To God we commend thee afar on the ocean, We feel thou art kneeling for us to him there. While months on the waters, long months are before thee, The two fluid worlds thou art tossing between— The cold deep below, and the skies bending o’er thee, Alone by their changes will vary the scene. Or, if a bright isle, on the flood-waste upstarting, Rude ocean’s green oasis, rest thy glad eye, ’T will fade as a cloud—as a phantom departing, ’T will sink in the circle that bounds sea and sky. Should some white-winged ship, with her light pennon streaming, Thy heart on that wide watery desert to cheer, Arise, like a star through night’s solitude beaming, With meteor swiftness she ’ll soon disappear. And when the coy sea-bird, a wild ether-sailor, Comes near on her passage, for one language more, O! how wilt thou long, ere she flies thee, to hail her, To ask whither bound, and the tidings from shore! Yet, while so unstable, so pathless and lonely, Thy way o’er that desolate deep may be found, ’T is marked with the impress of Deity only; His merciful arms will thy frailty surround. ’T is grand, ’t is ennobling, while feeling and knowing His presence is power, and his banner is love, To look from that flood, to the firmament showing Bright shadowings-forth of his glory above. And, William, though tempest and terrors assail thee— Though clouds rolled on clouds hide the stars and the sun, Thy soul’s chosen Friend never, never will fail thee! Winds and waves but obey that omnipotent One. While o’er and around thee thick darkness may gather; When wide yawns the deep, and the surges swell high, Thy spirit may hear the kind voice of her Father, Still whispering, “Be of good cheer; it is I.” And safe may he bear thee through perils and changes Besetting his course, who so widely would roam, Then speed thy return from the land of the Ganges, From pagod and painim! Dear William, come home. Come home, where the eyes beam through tears to behold thee; Where arms open wide to receive thee will be; And promise, while yet to the heart they infold thee To be, never after, our William at sea!

Well, thou art done, cold, speechless thing; Yet, in thy silence, with the power A crowd of feelings deep to bring Unknown until the present hour. But wherefore done, to life so true? Not human pride, nor vanity Could ask the artist hand to do, And show the world a deed like thee. And was it simple most, or kind To have upon the canvass cast My semblance, thus to leave behind My shadow, when myself am past? I know not if another eye Will ever weep beside thee, more Than mine does now, I know not why— It never dropped such tears before. I view thee as a piece, composed To last, when I have passed from sight— When time and earth to me are closed, To be in time and earthly light. Perhaps ’t is this, that makes me weep— The thought that I shall pass away, And those, who have thee then to keep, May glance at thee, and still be gay. But why should grief be felt by me, For fear that others will not grieve? And what to others then will be A shade of life, that I may leave? Still, from their deep, mysterious spring Gush up these hot, resistless tears; Whilst thou, cold, heartless, stoic thing, Dost wear a smile that ’s set for years. Years! Ah, but then, when years shall wipe From being every line of thee, The spirit, which thy prototype Enshrined, shall live eternally!

She wrapped her in her sable cloak, And walked beside the sea; But seldom of her sorrow spoke,— Too full of grief was she! ’T was this that made her heart so sad, To view the ocean wide: The only son, that widow had, Went out to sea and died. And then, in that great, rolling deep, With solemn, tearful eyes, His mess-mates lowered him down, to sleep Till all the dead shall rise. But where, among those waters vast, With ceaseless fall and swell, Her child to that repose had passed, The mother none could tell. She therefore questioned wave on wave, As up they heaved to shore, If they had rolled across his grave, Whom she must see no more. And often, when she marked a ship With full, returning sail, The color would forsake her lip, And speech and vision fail. For, O! she thought about the one That spread its canvass white, To waft away her only son Forever from her sight! But still, amid the bitter grief Which wrung that widow’s heart, Her spirit felt the sweet relief That faith and hope impart. She knew her son had ever kept The path to heavenly rest— That, when he sank in death, he slept Upon a Saviour’s breast. “My heavenly Father,” she would say, “I know the troubled sea But holds from me the precious clay: My child ’s at home with thee!”

Composed in its beauty, the fair infant slept; But still the young mother sat by it and wept: She rocked not the cradle, she sang not the song, The sleep of her dear, only child to prolong. The same fleecy cover, so soft and so warm, That oft wrapped it sleeping, lay light o’er its form; Its pillow was downy, and smooth was its bed, And yet, that sad mother! her fond bosom bled. She knew that no dream of her babe, in its rest, Was now of her voice, or its home on her breast; She caught not the sound nor the balm of its breath: She knew that her little one slumbered in death! A hand with the pencil was called to portray The features and form of her child as it lay; But false were the hues and the touches of art To paint the bright image enshrined in her heart. Its lustre was drawn from a glory on high: No pencil of earth could the likeness supply; Nor yet on the canvass was mortal to trace A smile the pure spirit had left on that face. The skies, as they opened, their guest to receive, Had shed, on the dust they allured it to leave, A sign of the peace, of the joy, and the love, Encircling for aye the young angel above. That mother rose calm, when the beautiful clay Must be from her sight laid forever away! The gloom left her soul, as a cloud leaves the sun; It whispered, “Thy will, O my Father, be done!”

I stood on that majestic height, The lofty Hill of Andover, Where sacred science holds the light That beams to distant lands from her. For there the school of sages stands, Where, from afar, disciples meet For lore divine, in holy bands To sit and learn at Wisdom’s feet. Within its consecrated walls Is kept and taught Jehovah’s will:— The LAW, whose voice in thunder falls— The GOSPEL, whispering, “Peace! be still!” The structures while I viewed around, I seemed to breathe Mount’s Zion’s air; I set my foot with awe profound, As if the ark of God were there. Each earthly care was calm and dumb, For holier thoughts the soul to fill; As if the Shechinah had come To rest upon that reverend hill. A mellow glory crowned its head; And from its foot, in landscape wide, Profusely nature’s charms were spread, Till in the distance vision died. It was a summer day’s decline: The drowsy flowers began to close; The breezes lulled, that stirred the vine; And all things tended to repose. The sun, adown the western skies, Was sinking fast to pass from view, Calm as the righteous when he dies To earth, in heaven to live anew. And thence, on edifice and site, His golden smile was backward cast, As if he loved that favored height To bless the longest and the last. In eastern splendor, then arrayed, The full-orbed moon arose serene, Through evening’s hush and night’s cool shade To throw her lustre o’er the scene. Her silvery vesture wrapped in sheen The stately seminary pile, And fell on tree, and flower, and green, Where pearly dews distilled the while. And through the chapel’s crystal shone Her light, within the place of prayer, Till bright-winged angels, from the throne Above, seemed met and hovering there. It was a scene—it was an hour A spirit bowed in dust to raise Ennobled, till its every power, Awaked to joy, was tuned to praise. Clear as that sun, fair as that moon, Shall thy dear Zion rise and shine Above her foes—Ah! Lord, how soon?— When shall the ends of earth be thine?

We feel the parting angel’s hand Is in our midst, to loose the band So close, so sacred, and so dear, That long hath bound us, brethren, here. No more within this hallowed place, United at the throne of grace, Our prayers shall rise—our voices pour In praise, when this, our song is o’er. To each we hear the Saviour say We to his work must hence away; For great the field—the laborers few! What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do? O send thy Spirit from above To fire our hearts with heavenly love; And light our lips with truth, that we May, witnesses, go forth for thee. And may we count all else as loss To spread the glory of thy cross— From shades and death redeemed, to bring The priceless jewels of our King. On distant islands of the sea— On heathen shores our lot may be, To dying souls to bear the bread And balm of life on Calvary shed. Yet, though our lines be marked afar, And some beneath a foreign star, We may look upward to the Sun Of righteousness, and still be one. And when our works of faith are past, In joy we ’ll meet on high at last; And there, in praise, our voices swell The song, where enters no farewell.

Poor speckled one! none else will deign To waft thy name around; So, let me take it on my strain, To give it air and sound. Yes—air and sound, low child of earth! For these are oft the things That give a name its greatest worth, Its gorgeous plumes and wings. But do not shun me thus, and hop Affrighted from my way. Dismiss thy terrors—turn, and stop; And hear what I may say. Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man? This truly should not be. Then calmly pause, and let me scan My Maker’s work in thee. For both of us to him belong; We ’re fellow-creatures here; And power should not be armed with wrong, Nor weakness filled with fear. I know it is thy humble lot To burrow in a hole— To have a form I envy not, And that without a soul. In motion, attitude and limb I see thee void of grace; And that a look supremely grim, Reigns o’er thy solemn face. But thou for this art not to blame; Nor should it make us load With obloquy, and scorn, and shame The honest name of Toad. For, though so low on nature’s scale— In presence so uncouth, Thou ne’er hast told an evil tale Of falsehood, or of truth. Thy thoughts are ne’er on malice bent— Nor hands to mischief prone; Nor yet thy heart to discontent; Though spurned, and poor and lone. No coveting nor envy burns In thy bright golden eye, That calm and innocently turns On all below the sky. Thy cautious tongue and sober lip No words of folly pass, Nor, are they found to taste and sip The madness of the glass. Thy frugal meal is often drawn From earth, and wood, and stone; And when thy means by these are gone, Thou seem’st to live on none. I hear that in an earthen jar Sealed close, shut up alive, From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star, Thou ’lt live and even thrive: And that no moan, or murmuring sound Will issue from the lid Of thy dark dwelling under ground, When it is deeply hid. Thou hast, as ’t were, a secret shelf Whereon is a supply, Of nourishment within thyself, Concealed from mortal eye. Methinks this self-sustaining art ’T were well for us to know, To keep us up in flesh and heart, When outer means grow low. Could we contain our riches thus, On such mysterious shelves, Why, none could rob or beggar us; Unless we lost ourselves! But ah! my Toadie, there ’s the rub, With every human breast— To live as in the cynic’s tub, And yet be self-possessed! For, how to let no boast get round Beyond our tub, to show That we in head and heart are sound, Is one great thing to know. And yet, the prison-staves and hoop To let no murmur through, However hard we find the coop, Is greater still to do. Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm; Amid thy low estate, And to thy burrow bear the palm For victory over fate. We conquer, when we meekly bear The lot we cannot shape, And hug to death the ills and care From which there ’s no escape.

Moon, thou art wading through the gathered snow, That o’er us, on the fields of ether spread, Threatens, ere morning to be here below, To lie where our poor mortal feet must tread. Thy face is muffled in a gelid haze, That shrouds its lustre like a frozen veil; And kills the twinkling of the starry rays, Till all on high looks cheerless, dim, and pale. It gives almost the ague, to behold The skies so rayless, yet so far from dark; As when our hearth’s white ashes, tired and cold, We stir in vain to find one pleasant spark. Yet, by to-morrow’s eve our parts may shift, And thou be shining there, serene and clear, While we are hedged by many a frigid drift; Or sleigh-bells shrill may pierce the tingling ear. How dreary then the scene for thy mild beams To light, and for the burning stars to view! The hard ice coating all the lakes and streams, And one dead white where late gay flowerets grew. The naked trees, that stand with buried feet, Like skeletons, will slender shadows throw On what seems spread as nature’s winding-sheet, While her slain beauties lie concealed below. Then, but to look abroad on vale and hill, Where one pale uniform invests the whole, Though it should make one’s vital current chill, It must not let in winter to the soul! It must not bring a frost upon the heart, To kill affection’s tendrils—friendship’s root, Where vernal shoots and buds should ever start, And grow with summer flowers and autumn fruit: Nor cause the streams of thought to be congealed, Or, pressed beneath incumbent ice, grow low; But, like the fount that irrigates the field, Make bloom and verdure spring, where’er they flow. It must not make our shrinking fancies flee, Like birds of summer from the cold withdrawn; But wise, the mind should, like the prudent bee, On honey banquet, though the flowers are gone. Nor must it strike the hopeful spirit dumb, Or quench the beaming of her upturned eye, Or close her ear, or make her members numb, Ere her thank-offerings on the altar lie. And yet, fair Moon, methinks I like the best To see thy silvery lustre sprinkled here, When these bare branches all appear full-dressed, In some more gentle season of the year. I love to see it, mingled with the dew, Falling to bathe the sleeping buds and flowers; And soft, and silent, coolly streaming through The whispering leaves, that clothe the summer bowers. I love to see thy beaming mantle trail Along the flower-sprent borders of the rill, With rich, deep shadows stamped, o’erspread the vale, Or bind the forehead of the silent hill. I love to see thee through the foliage peep, Where, one soft hour before, the robin sung Her vesper song; the while, in downy sleep, With peaceful breast she guards her callow young. I love to see thee, when the whip-poor-will Moans in the hedge behind the cottage-eaves; And when the plaintive crickets, hidden, trill Their harvest-hymn among the golden sheaves. But these are tender memories—ay, and more— Fresh budding hope from memory’s root that grows, To see earth clothed in beauty as before, When thou and we have struggled through the snows. Then come, sweet Moon, and fondly smile on me, From thy pure azure home, with face serene, While I will look abroad, and up to thee, And bless the great Creator of the scene. Others may call thee fickle—faithless—strange, When veiled in part, or wholly from their view; Yet, though twelve times a year thou seems’t to change, Again twelve times I ever find thee true. ’T is our gross planet, heaving misty shrouds, Or rolled before thee, that our darkness brings, Just as earth’s bulk or vapor hides or clouds Our glorious view of higher, holier things.

I ’ll tell you now about Tom Tar, The sailor stout and bold, Who o’er the ocean roamed so far, To countries new and old. Tom was a man of thousands; he Would ne’er complain nor frown, Though high and low the wind and sea Might toss him up and down. Amid the waters dark and deep, He had the happy art, When all around was storm, to keep Fair weather in his heart. Though winds were wild, and waves were rough, He ’d always cast about, And find within he ’d calm enough To stand the storms without. “For naught,” said Tom, “is ever gained By sighs for what we lack; Nor can it mend a vessel strained, To let our temper crack. “And sure I am, the worst of storms, That any man should dread, Is that, which in the bosom forms, And musters to the head.” Serene, and ever self-possessed, His mess-mates he would cheer, And often put their fears to rest, When dangers gathered near. If on the rocks the ship was cast, And surges swept the deck, Tom Tar was ever found the last, Who would forsake the wreck. And when his only hat and shoes The waters plucked from him, Why, these, he felt, were small to lose, Could he keep up and swim! Then through the billows, foam, and spray, That rose on every hand, He ’d, somehow, always find a way Of getting safe to land. The secret was, the fear and love Of Heaven had filled his soul: His trust was firm in One above, Howe’er the seas might roll. And Tom had sailed to many a shore, And many a wonder seen: The stories he could tell would more Than fill a magazine. He ’d seen mankind in every state, Almost, that man can know; But envied not the rich and great, Nor scorned the poor and low. The monarch in his sight had stood, Superb, in glittering vest; The savage, too, that roams the wood, In skins and feathers dressed. The tribes of many an isle he knew; And beasts, and birds, and flowers, And fruits, of many a shape and hue, In lands remote from ours. He ’d seen the wide-winged albatross Her breast in ocean lave; And bold sea-lions, playing, toss Their heads above the wave. He ’d seen the dolphin, while his back Went flashing to the sun, A swarm of flying fish attack, And swallow every one! The porpoise and the spouting whale Had sported in his view; And hungry sharks pursued his sail, As if they ’d eat the crew. And ever, when Tom Tar got home, The children, at their play, Were glad to have the sailor come, And greet them by the way. Then, oft, some curious stone, or shell, The laughing girls and boys Would find, that on their aprons fell, To put among their toys. “These pearly shells,” said he, “I found Where gloomy waters roar: These polished stones, so smooth and round, Rough surges washed ashore. “Though small to us a pebble seems, ’T is made and marked by One, Who gave the warmth, and lit the beams Of yon great shining sun. “And when these pretty shells I find, Along the ocean strand, Their beauteous finish brings to mind Their Maker’s perfect hand. “When on the wildest shore I’m thrown, And far from human eye, I think of him who made the stone, And shell, and sea, and sky. “For he ’s my friend, and I am his, Though cold and rough the blast: My safest guide I know he is, Where’er my lot is cast.” When Tom passed on, the children said, “These treasures from afar He brought us! Blessings on his head! For he ’s a good Tom Tar!”

Landmen, on your downy pillows, While your eyes are sealed in sleep, Seamen, tossed ’mid foam and billows, Roam, for you, a boisterous deep. When the glorious light of day Is on your homes so peaceful dawning, Along our pathless, troubled way The surge swells high, the flood is yawning. When earth’s flowers to you are blooming, Or your hearths are bright and warm; We behold the wild waves booming, Mount the shrouds, and brave the storm. Singing birds your hearing greet— Your hearts the kindred tone rejoices; While winds, that on our canvass beat, And roaring ocean join their voices. Then, to meet the High and Holy, When ye to his throne repair, O before him, meek and lowly, Bow for us, as suppliants there! When his blessed day appears, The dearest, best of all the seven, Your souls the gospel herald cheers; But none tells us of rest and heaven. Zion, bid thy sons and daughters Often, on the bended knee, Cry to Him, who rules the waters, For the wanderers o’er sea! Now, to Thee, the seaman’s Friend, Our guide—our light—our ark abiding, Our Saviour, we our all commend, While time’s rude waves in frailty riding.

While o’er the bright bay, With her streamers at play, Our bark in her beauty is gliding, As brothers, are we, The glad sons of the sea, Our own darling element riding. Good pilot, adieu; For the skies are all blue; And yonder, blue billows are bounding. We speed from the port, To be off by the fort, While her gun to the sunrise is sounding. We leave all behind, That a warm heart can bind, In home, love, and friendship endearing; While hope flies before, For a far, foreign shore, As the hand at the rudder is steering. And well do we know The proud waters below, That hence are by us to be ridden; ’Mid the corals and caves There are mariners’ graves, Dark wrecks, and lost treasures deep hidden. Yet, before our frail bark, Be the way light or dark, Our Sun, and the Star that we follow, Is He, who unbinds Or enchains the strong winds; Whose hand holds the seas in its hollow. If o’er the bright skies The wild storm-spirit rise, And spread his black wings full of thunder, Our canvass we ’ll reef, Or heave-to for relief, And safely his pinions pass under. And so, ’mid the strife On the flood-waves of life, To Heaven in our ark lowly bending For help would we cry, Till the dove, from on high, Appears with the peace-branch descending. Thus, we’ve friend, love, and home, Wheresoe’er we may roam The wide seas, from pole to equator— We ’ve a light, and high-tower, In the name and the power Of him, who is ocean’s Creator.

An Eagle, on his towering wing, Hung o’er the summer sea; And ne’er did airy, feathered king Look prouder there than he. He spied the finny tribes below, Amid the limpid brine; And felt it now was time to know Whereon he was to dine. He saw a noble, shining fish So near the surface swim, He felt at once a hungry wish To make a feast of him. Then straight he took his downward course; A sudden plunge he gave; And pouncing, seized, with murderous force, His tempter in the wave. He struck his talons firm and deep, Within the slippery prize, In hope his ruffian grasp to keep; And high and dry to rise. But ah! it was a fatal stoop, As ever monarch made; And, for that rash—that cruel swoop, He soon most dearly paid! The fish had too much gravity To yield to this attack. His feet the eagle could not free From off the scaly back. He ’d seized on one too strong and great; His mastery now was gone! And on, by that prepondering weight, And downward, he was drawn. Nor found he here the element Where he could move with grace; And flap, and dash, his pinions went, In ocean’s wrinkled face. They could not bring his talons out, His forfeit life to save; And planted thus, he writhed about Upon his gaping grave. He raised his head, and gave a shriek, To bid adieu to light: The water bubbled in his beak— He sank from human sight! The children of the sea came round, The foreigner to view. To see an airy monarch drowned, To them was something new! Some gave a quick, astonished look, And darted swift away; While some his parting plumage shook, And nibbled him for prey. O! who that saw that bird at noon So high and proudly soar, Could think how awkwardly—how soon, He ’d fall to rise no more? Though glory, majesty, and pride Were his an hour ago, Deprived of all, that eagle died, For stooping once too low! Now, have you ever known or heard Of biped, from his sphere Descending, like that silly bird, To buy a fish so dear?

Lion, like a captive king, Sad behind thy prison grate, Monarch, how I long to bring Back to thee thy lost estate! Where thy royal kindred live— Where thy native sky is warm, Sufferer, how I long to give Freedom to that noble form! Gladly would I know thee there, Bounding over Afric’s plain, Wildly, with the desert air Wafting wide thy flowing mane. Are there words that can describe What thou wast, at liberty, When “The Lion of the tribe Of Judah” names his type in thee? Here, beneath thy keeper’s hand, Where the blasts of winter freeze, Think’st thou of that palmy land, Thy mild country o’er the seas? Seen but through thy prison bars, Round thee set so strong and thick, Do not sun, and moon, and stars Make thy cowering spirit sick? Grace, and majesty, and power Were thy gifts by nature made; Yet, in one unhappy hour, All to lose, wast thou betrayed. When thou first was snared and caught, Never after to be free, How thy mighty spirit wrought In thee, like a troubled sea! But thou didst not, couldst not think Of the deep indignity, To which thou then wast doomed to sink— Of the exile thou must be. Oh! that quenched and languid eye Tells me of a pining heart: Homesick prisoner, sooner die Than remain the thing thou art. Liberty to me and mine— Liberty is life and breath! So no less to thee and thine— Bonds to both but lingering death.

At last have I found thee, thou dark, rolling sea! I gaze on thy face, and I listen to thee, With spirit o’erawed by the sight and the sound, While mountain and desert frown gloomy around. And thee, mighty deep, from afar I behold, Which God swept apart for his people of old— That Egypt’s proud army, unstained by their blood, Received on thy bed, to entomb in thy flood. I cast my eye out, where the cohorts went down: A throng of pale spectres, no waters can drown, With banner and blades, seem to rise on the waves, As Pharaoh’s bold hosts rushed in arms to their graves. But quick from the light of the skies they withdraw, At silent Omnipotence shrinking with awe; And each sinks away in his billowy shroud, From him who walked here, clothed in fire and a cloud. I stand by the pass, the freed Hebrews then trod, Sustained by the hand of Jehovah, dry-shod; And think how the song of salvation, they sang, With praise to his name, through the wilderness rang. Our Father, who then didst thine Israel guide, Console, and rebuke in their wanderings wide, From these gloomy waters, through this desert drear, O still in life’s maze, to thy pilgrim be near! Let sins, that would hold in their service, or slay The soul, that would break from their bondage away, Forever be drowned in the blood of thy Son, Who o’er sin and death hath the victory won. Whilst thou, day by day, wilt thy manna bestow, And give, for my thirst, the Rock-fountain to flow, Refreshed by the way, will I speed to the clime Of rest for the weary, beyond earth and time.

Our altars they razed, and our temples profaned! The blood of our prophets and kindred they drained! And us, from our desolate homes did they bear Afar, the cold chains of the Painim to wear. And they, who had carried us captive, drew nigh; They looked on our woes with an insolent eye; Our burdens were heavy, our fetters were strong; And then, they required of us mirth and a song! We hung up our harps on the willows to sleep; By Babylon’s rivers we sat down to weep; The song of the Lord, as too holy to sound, We shut in our souls, on that dark heathen ground. We thought of our Zion, and sent her a sigh By each gentle breeze, that went silently by; But poured not the strains in the proud Painim’s ear, That God and his angels will hearken to hear!

The monarch of Persia has wrapped o’er his breast The vesture, whose jewels emblazoned the throne: His lovely young queen, who in sackcloth is dressed, Is far from his presence, and weeping alone. * * * * And who in behalf of her people shall sue For mercy? To whom will the sovereign give ear? ’T is death now to be, in his kingdom, a Jew— ’T is death in his presence uncalled to appear. The wife of his bosom that peril will take! The helpless young Jewess, so gentle and fair, To live with her people, or die for their sake, Will go to her lord, and her nation declare. For little he deems that his idolized bride, The joy of his heart—the delight of his eyes, Is born of that race whom the Persians deride— A people, his nation oppress and despise. There ’s wine at the palace, and feasting, and mirth; In Esther’s still chamber there ’s fasting, and prayer; While he with the crown, has the homage of earth, She calls on her God her doomed people to spare. She thinks of her fathers in Egypt’s dark land— She thinks of the bush, as in Horeb it burned; She knows who the hearts of the kings hath in hand, To turn them, as rivers of water are turned. To him, for support, and for light to her mind, She sends up the cries of her soul from the dust; Then, rising to go to the king, is resigned To do this and perish, if perish she must. * * * * With fasting and tears she is languid and pale; But o’er her young face beams the sunrise of soul; And flesh, though but feeble, and ready to fail, Is urged to its point by the spirit’s control. The woman within her is timid and faint; The holy believer, unawed and serene; She goes to the presence, adorned as a saint, With power that has never invested the queen. * * * * And now are her people to safety restored— To peace, and their rights, when resistance had failed: A woman in weakness, who drew on the Lord For strength, o’er the mighty of earth hath prevailed. Fair Jewess, the tears thou hast dropped in the dust, As pearls, to Jehovah are precious and bright. The hand, that in sorrow has here been thy trust, Will crown thee with joy in the kingdom of light.

O! she is gone! the wintry blasts, that sweep Wild round her mansion, trouble not her sleep: Gone in her beauty! Fast the drifting snows Fall cold, but harmless, o’er her deep repose! Here, in her circle of its gem bereft, Love hath but tears to fill the place she left. Sigh calls to sigh, from aching bosoms drawn. Void gives to void the mournful echo, “gone!” Spring will return, and bring around her door Sweet opening flowers, their odors there to pour, Striving to win her forth, who planted them, Once more to smile that they adorn the stem. Yet, must they wait her, till they die away: She was a fairer, lovelier flower than they, Snapped off in blooming! ere a leaf could fade, Cast into darkness! wrapped in silent shade! O! she is gone; and where shall burdened grief Pour forth her fountains for the soul’s relief? Not to the dust to nourish earthly weeds: They yield no balsam while the spirit bleeds! Not unto death let sorrow’s waters flow, But to death’s victor may the weeper go! His risen glory, chasing mortal gloom, Shows grief a rainbow, bending o’er the tomb.

Fair penitent, with rosary, And cross and veil, in gloomy cell, What guilty deed was done by thee, To cause thee here immured to dwell? Come forward, and present thy cause; That we may clearly judge, and know If violated human laws Imprison and afflict thee so: Or if it be some secret sin, That haunts thy contrite soul with fears; And here sequesters thee within The place of fasting, gloom, and tears? Art thou the guiltiest of thy race? Why, thou art human, it is true; Which is alone enough for grace To have renewing work to do. But, can devotion, warm and deep, Thy duty’s bounds so closely set, That faith may plough, and sow, and reap By trials shunned, instead of met? What ray of truth, revealed, would thus Make of a tender opening soul A close, dark blue convolvulus, And give its bloom this inward roll? Dost thou the never-fading crown Of life and joy intend to win, By here supinely sitting down, Where others but the race begin? And dost thou think to gain the palm By hiding from thy Saviour’s foes; Or hope in Gilead’s sacred balm A cure for self-inflicted woes? I never saw a Nun before; And therefore claim indulgence now, If I presume to question more Than courtesy might, else, allow: As one, then, who in darkness pleads, For light, I ask to be informed How, by a string of pegs and beads, A soul is raised, or fed, or warmed. Tell me, thou sober cabalist, What is the potent, hidden charm Hung on that string, or in its twist Contorted, for repelling harm? And is thy spirit kept so faint, It cannot mount to God above; But here must substitute a saint, In image, for a heavenly love? Has He, who lived and died for us— Whose gifts are light and liberty, Left in his Word the mitimus That here confines and fetters thee? Does He assign a living tomb For souls, endowed with vital grace; Or need surrounding convent gloom, To show the radiance of his face? And, pensive Nun, now what ’s the chart That he has drawn, and left below, That by it every pious heart May follow on the Lord to know? Far from temptation, in retreat, Did he consume his earthly days? With houseless head, and weary feet, What were his works? and where his ways? O! get thy spirit’s wings unfurled! Hide not thy candle, if ’t is lit: Be in, but be not of the world, If thou wouldst shine to lighten it. Come out, and show that face demure; And see, if, smit on either cheek, Thy righteous soul would then endure To turn the other, and be meek. For, let me tell thee, coy recluse, If we are gold, we must be tried; If stones, we must be hewn for use, Or by the builder cast aside. The axe and chisel, we must bear, To give us smoothness, shape, and size, Are in the world—the furnace there; For Heaven the gold and silver tries. If we are salt to salt the earth, Ah, then, our savor, to be known, Must be diffused; for what ’s the worth Of salt en masse, boxed up alone? The touchstone, where we must inquire If we have safely hid our life, Is found in pitfall, flood, and fire, Allurements sweet, and bitter strife. Come out! behold the billowy seas, The flowery earth, and shining skies: Say wherefore God created these; And then, fair Nun, thy beauteous eyes. Was it for thee to turn and slight The glorious things he spread to view— To give earth, ocean, air, and light, And freedom, for a dismal mew? O! if beneath some lawless vow To man, in self-delusion made, An heir of heaven is brought to bow, That vow were better broke than paid. What binds thee here? or who shall set His name endorsed a pledge for thee, When Christ has died to pay thy debt, And burst the tomb to make thee free? The world’s the great arena, where The fight of faith must well be fought, And each good warrior seen to wear The armor for the victory wrought. How dost thou know but it may be Thy foe, thy tempter, who has found This cunning way to corner thee, To keep thee from the battle-ground? Come forth, thou timid, hampered one, And doff that outward, odd disguise, That cumbers thee, if thou wouldst run, Or fight the fight, to win the prize. Come! from the bushel take thy light, And give its radiance room to play; Bind on thy shoes and armor tight, And up, and to the field away!

Tribulation, if by loss, Or by thorny gain, the cross, Thou art not a barren tree; Seeds of Patience drop from thee. Patience, bitter from thy root Upward, till we reach the fruit, Thou hast golden grains to sow, Whence Experience full shall grow. Broad Experience, rank and dark; Thick in leaves, and rough in bark; Through thy dubious shade we grope, Till we grasp the bough of Hope. Hope, we ’re not ashamed, with thee Showered by drops from Calvary, When thy branches shoot and bloom Through a Saviour’s broken tomb. Trees, whereof the pilgrim weaves For his crown the mingled leaves, Wreaths of you are rich and bright; Earth ’s the shade, and heaven ’s the light.

O what, and whence am I, ’mid damps and dust, And darkness, into sudden being thrust? What was I yesterday? and what will be, Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me? Poor, lone, unfriended, ignorant, forlorn, To bear the new, full glory of the morn, Beneath the garden wall I stand aside, With all before me, beauty, show, and pride. Ah! why did nature shoot me up to light, A thing unfit for use—unfit for sight; Less like her work, than like a piece of art, Whirled out and trimmed exact in every part? Unlike the graceful shrub and flexile vine, No fruit, nor branch, nor leaf, nor bud is mine. No humming-bird, nor butterfly, nor bee Will come to cheer, caress or flatter me. No beauteous flower adorns my humble head, No spicy odors on the air I shed; But here I ’m stationed in my sober suit, With only top and stem—I ’ve scarce a root. Untaught of my beginning and my end, I know not whence I sprang, or where I tend; Yet, I will wait and trust, and ne’er presume To question Justice—I, a frail Mushroom!

Mountain, with thy firm old foot Fast beside the sea, What was in thy keeping put, Prisoned under thee? “Hark, and hear the shuddering ground! Feel it rock and quake! Struggling fires, beneath me bound, Strive their chains to break.” Mountain, with a cloudy vest Girded o’er thy heart, Does it pierce thine aged breast, When its lightnings dart? “No:—beneath me far, the crash Of the bolt is felt: Here, the fiery chain and flash But adorn my belt.” Mountain, with a snowy crown Stainless on thy brow, Wilt thou never cast it down— Never, never bow? “When the mandate I shall hear From my Maker’s throne, I will bow and disappear, Hence to be unknown.” Mountain, holding proud and high Thine old hoary head, What is written on the sky, Thou so long hast read? “Brighter than the stars and sun Shining over me, I behold the name of One Thou must die to see!” Mountain, bold thine eloquence— Glowing is thy speech; Mighty import flashes thence; What is it to teach? “Thoughts of Him, before whose breath I shall melt away; While of thee, soul—spirit, death Ne’er shall quench a ray!”

There stood in New York, when, the times growing warm, All o’er our fair country had gathered the storm, Which wore in its coming, so fearful a form, But left us the rainbow of peace, An image of royalty, stately and proud— A leaden old king, where his votaries bowed; While true friends of Liberty marked it, and vowed That its honors should speedily cease. And when our brave statesmen the article signed, Declaring us free, with pure freedom of mind, Columbia’s true sons, feeling strongly inclined To learn how the statue was based, Assembled forthwith; and, besieging it, found That the king in head, body and limb was quite sound, And had of good lead in him many a pound, Which might be more usefully placed. Then, “Down with the ponderous George the Third!” From a mingling of voices together, was heard, With shoutings aloud, as they gave out the word, “Down with it! let it come down! We ’ll soon transform his grave highness of lead, And turn him to balls from the feet to the head; And then shall the mouths of our muskets be fed With him of the throne and the crown. “So now for the fall! for our Sages have met, And their names to a broad Declaration have set, That they are resolved, from this moment, to get Of the king independent and free; And to give by their valor a nation her birth, Or to empty their veins, a free gift to the earth, In Liberty’s name, to betoken her worth To us and the millions to be. “Columbia’s wrongs have gone to the skies; ’T is time that her blood and her spirit should rise Above her oppressors, till tyranny flies, And leaves her unfettered, to bear The flag of a nation instead of a chain— The palm of her triumph, ’mid weakness and pain, O’er them that were mighty, but struggled in vain To force her their shackles to wear. “And, no leaden monarch will we have to stand Proclaiming our vassalage here, in the land Of lovely Manhattan! We ’ll each lend a hand To give him a jerk or a pull, And flat to the ground, in a trice, as we bring His dignified form, it shall merrily ding, To sound all around how we honor the king, And pay our respects to John Bull. “This, this is the season for trying men’s souls, The nerves of their arms, and the worth of their polls! So, we ’ll have his Majesty over the coals, And make him the first that shall run: When, heated to melting, he hides in the mould, We ’ll hold him there still, till new-shapen and cold; Then, off he shall go, like a tale that is told, In the voice of the thundering gun! “The discomposed Sovereign with us shall unite, And fly at his friends for our cause in the fight, To scatter his subjects—to purchase our right— The land of oppression to clear. And he, to whom, whizzing, his monarch shall come, In the form of a ball, ’mid the noise of the drum, The flashes and smoke, will have finished the sum Of his deeds as a royalist here!” Then, flat to the earth was his Eminence cast! The dust rose above him, and mounted the blast, While a bevy of Rome’s feathered sentinels passed, Raised their wings, and huzzaed as he fell! But, how the proud royalist felt, when the lead Of his late British Majesty came at his head, While some dropped before it, and some turned and fled, Is more than a Yankee can tell.

A shadowy tree, that grew beside Its city owner’s door, Its branches threw so high and wide, That many a bird could sing, and hide Among the leaves it bore. A robin came, and built her nest In that green rustling tree. At evening, there she sank to rest And furled her weary wings, as blest As little bird could be. Upon her side her drowsy head, Beneath her folded wing, She pillowed, while the night-hours fled; When morning flushed the east with red, She ’d wake, and mount, and sing. Five pretty eggs of azure hue, In that soft nest she laid. So clear and vivid was their blue, Like polished balls they shone to view, Of purest sapphire made. And many a day she brooded o’er Those treasures, till they grew, In what the shells contained before, To something different—something more— Young birds came peeping through! Five little baby birds were there, In that fond robin’s nest, All callow; and their mother’s care Was now to find their daily fare, And shield them with her breast. Her tiny game, or berries ripe From some far distant stem She ’d bring them; then her beak she ’d wipe, And sit upon a twig, and pipe A mother’s tune to them. At length, the owner of the tree One dismal, stormy day, His window from the shade to free, The better in his room to see, Some branches lopped away. He dropped the very bough that hung A curtain o’er the nest. The sun burnt through the clouds, and flung His fire the helpless brood among, Till they were sore oppressed. Their tender mother then was seen To stand on weary feet, Where now they missed the leafy green, With one wing raised her babes to screen From sultry noontide heat. And, patient there, she day by day, Upon her nest’s round edge, Stood up to keep the sun away, While, shaded thus, her nestlings lay Till time their forms could fledge. Then, when the master of the tree Beheld what love and care Within a mother bird could be, He wished in vain that he could see The bough still living there. Thus, thoughtless we may often pain Or grieve a feeling heart, Wherein the anguish must remain, While we may wish, but wish in vain, To lay or lull the smart. A good destroyed ’s a fearful thing, And so ’s a good undone! We, serving self, on self may bring A heavier ill—a keener sting Than what we sought to shun. ’T is little acts of good or ill, That make our vast account. No one, though great, does all God’s will Small drops the caves of ocean fill; And sands compose the mount.

Little bird, little bird, with thy beautiful eye. Looking as if ’t were cut out of a star, How do I know but it once was on high, Beaming through evening, sublime from afar? I cannot say what thy Maker divine, When he composed thee an optic so bright, Making the skill of his finger to shine, Drew from those high upper regions of light. Little bird, little bird, with thy spirit-like wings, Fleet as the air,—as the rainbow in hues, How can I tell but the Ruler of kings Formed them by those his blest ministers use? Were not the fancy-like tints of thy plume, Was not the delicate down of thy breast, Caught from the flowers that in Paradise bloom,— Plucked from the couch where the weary ones rest? Little bird, little bird, with thy musical voice Tuned like a seraph’s, deep, flowing, and clear, Was not thy melody, touching and choice, Taught by some angel, who visited here? What, what, pretty fairy! so soon must thou go, Fleet as a vision, without a reply, Just like all other bright treasures below, Charming a moment, to change or to fly?

Beware, pretty Moth, so unsullied and white, Beware of the lamp’s dazzling rays! It is not a drop of the sun! but a light That shines to allure little rovers by night; Away! there is death in the blaze. O why didst thou come from thy covert of green, The vine, round my window so bright; And pop in to know what was here to be seen, Forsaking thy shield, and escaping thy screen, And hazarding life by the flight? The down on thy limbs and thy bosom so pure That flame would most fatally singe: And nothing thy beautiful wings can insure From harm and from pain beyond mending or cure, If caught by their delicate fringe. Return, giddy wanderer, safe to the vine; And breathe in the fresh evening air; Go, look at the stars, as they twinkle and shine; And cling to a leaf, or the tendrils that twine, My soft little eavesdropper, there! And then, by a song I will sing, thou shalt know, Why thus I have lifted my arm To scare thee away from thy luminous foe. That threw out its beams, as a snare, and a show To tempt the unwary to harm. For, I through the day, have been guarded by One, Who, greater and wiser than I, Has pitied my frailty; and forced me to shun Illusive temptations, where I might have run The peril of sporting to die. ’T was kindness from Him, to whose care I commend Myself through the darkness of night, That taught me so quick to come in, as a friend, Between thee and evil, thy life to defend; Pretty Moth, so unsullied and white.

The brothers went out with their father to ride, Where they looked for the flowers, that, along the way-side, So lately were blooming and fair; But their delicate heads by the frost had been nipped; Their stalks by the blast were all twisted and stripped; And nothing but ruin was there. “Oh! how the rude autumn has spoiled the green hills!” Exclaimed little Charles, “and has choked the bright rills With leaves that are faded and dead! The few on the trees are fast losing their hold, And leaving the branches so naked and cold, That the beautiful birds have all fled.” “I know,” replied Edward, “the country has lost A great many charms by the touch of the frost, Which used to appear to the eye; But then, it has opened the chestnut-burr too, The walnut released from the case where it grew; And now is our Thanksgiving nigh! “Oh! what do you think we shall do on that day?” “I guess,” answered Charles, “we shall all go away To Grandpa’s; and there find enough Of turkeys, plum-puddings, and pies by the dozens, For Grandpa’ and Grandma’, aunts, uncles and cousins; And at night we ’ll all play blind-man’s-buff. “Perhaps we ’ll get Grandpa’ to tell us some stories About the old times, with their Wigs and their Tories; And what sort of men they could be; When some spread their tables without any cloth, With basins and spoons, and the fuming bean-broth Which they took for their coffee and tea. “They ’d queer kind of sights, I have heard Grandma’ say, About in their streets; for, if not every day, At least it was nothing uncommon, To see them pile on the poor back of one horse A saddle and pillion; and what was still worse, Up mounted a man and a woman! “The lady held on by the driver; and so, Away about town at full trot would they go; Or perhaps to a great country marriage— To Thanksgiving-supper—to husking, or ball; Or quilting; for thus did they take nearly all Their rides, on an animal carriage. “I know not what huskings and quiltings may be; But Grandma’ will tell; and perhaps let us see Some things, she has, long laid away:— That stiff damask gown, with its sharp-pointed waist, The hoop, the craped-cushion, and buckles of paste, Which they wore in her grandparents’ day. “She says they had buttons as large as our dollars, To wear on their coats with their square, standing collars: And then, there ’s a droll sort, of hat, Which Mary once fixed me one like, out of paper, And said she believed ’t was called, three-cornered scraper; Perhaps, too, she ’ll let us see that. “Oh! a glorious time we shall have! If they knew At the South, what it is, I guess they ’d have one too; But I have heard somebody say, That, there, they call all the New England folks Bumpkins, Because we eat puddings, and pies made of pumpkins And have our good Thanksgiving-day.” “I think, brother Charles,” returned Edward, “at least, That they might go to church, if they do n’t like the feast; For to me it is much the best part, To hear the sweet anthems of praise, that we give To Him, on whose bounty we constantly live:— It is feasting the ear and the heart. “From Him, who has brought us another year round, Who gives every blessing, wherewith we are crowned, Their gratitude who can withhold? And now how I wish I could know all the poor Their Thanksgiving-stores had already secure, Their fuel, and clothes for the cold!” “I ’m glad,” said their father, “to hear such a wish; But wishes alone, can fill nobody’s dish, Or clothe them, or build them a fire. And now I will give you the money, my sons. Which I promised, you know, for your drum and your guns, To spend in the way you desire.” The brothers went home, thinking o’er by the way, For how many comforts this money might pay, In something for clothing or food: At length they resolved, if their mother would spend it For what she thought best, they would get her to send it Where she thought it would do the most good.

I cannot to the city go, Where all in sound and sight, Declares that nature does not know, Or do a thing aright. To granite wall, and tower, and dome My heart could never cling; Its simple strings are tied to home— To where the crickets sing. I ’m certain I was never made To run a city race, Along a human palisade, That ’s ever shifting place. The bustle, fashion, art and show Were each a weary thing; Amid them, I should sigh to go And hear the crickets sing. If there, I might no longer be Myself, as now I seem, But lose my own identity, And walk, as in a dream; Or else, with din and crowd oppressed, I ’d wish for sparrow’s wing. To fly away, and be at rest, Where free the crickets sing. The fire-fly, rising from the grass A winged and living light, I would not give for all the gas, That spoils their city sight. Not all the pomp and etiquette Of citizen or king, Shall make my rustic heart forget The song, the crickets sing. I find in hall and gallery, Their figures tame and faint, To my wild bird, and brook, and tree, Without a touch of paint. And from the sweetest instrument Of pipe, or key, or string, I ’d turn away, and feel content To hear the crickets sing. O! who could paint the placid moon, That ’s beaming through the bough Of yon high elm, or play the tune, That sounds beneath it now? Not all the silver of the mine, Nor human power could bring Another moon like her to shine, Or make a cricket sing. I know that, when the crickets trill Their plaintive strains by night, They tell us that, from vale and hill, The summer takes her flight. And were there no renewing Power, ’T would be a mournful thing, To think of fading leaf and flower; And hear the crickets sing. But, why should change with sadness dim Our eye, when thought can range Through time and space, and fly to him, Who is without a change? For he, who meted out the year, Will give another spring: He rolls at once the shining sphere, And makes the cricket sing. And when another autumn strips The summer leaves away, If cold and silent be the lips That breathed and moved to-day, The time I ’ve passed with nature’s God Will cause no spirit sting, Though I ’ve adored him from the sod Whereon the crickets sing.

Give me back, give me back but my one infant dream, As it passed on the turf by my dear native stream, Where I slept from my play, while the wind tossed my hair, Till its ringlets, unbound, clasped the violets there. O return, fleeting time, the soft moments that flew By the calm sinking sun, and the fall of the dew, When, refreshing as light, and as dew to the flower O’er my young spirit came the blest dream of that hour! I remember the song of the bird, and the breeze With the perfumes it swept from the bloom of the trees, As my eyes gently closed; but the visions that stole Through my fancy’s green bowers, come no more to my soul! They were sweet but to pass, as the odors that fled From the young flowers I crushed, while they pillowed my head; And like them, when they flew on the wings of the air, They are gone, and have left not a trace to tell where! They were clear as the sun in his mild, setting rays; They were pure as the stars, soon to kindle and blaze; But they ’re gone! I have lost the dear dream of that sleep, As a bright planet drowned in the vast ether deep. Yet the face of my mother, through tears as she smiled, When she found, gently raised, and led home her lost child— I shall see that loved face by time’s stream evermore, Till I follow her home, where life’s dreamings are o’er.

My flower, thou art as sweet to me. Thy form as full and fair— As rich a fruit shall follow thee, As if thou hadst denied the bee The pure and precious gift, that he Wafts joyous through the air. The spices from thy bosom flow As freely round thee now, As if withheld an hour ago. Bestowing, thou canst still bestow; Though, whence thy gifts thou may’st not know, Or giving, tell me how. And future good, we yet shall find, Was hidden in thy heart; Its witness shall be left behind, When thou like all thy tender kind, Thy minutes summed, shalt be resigned Forever to depart. Thy ruin I would not forestall; Yet soon, I know, to thee Must come, what happens once to all:— Thy life will fail, and thou must fall— Must fade and perish, past recall, To vanish from the tree. Then, on the bough where thou wast sent To pass thy fleeting days, At work for which thine hours were lent, In silent, balmy, mild content, A rich and shining monument To thee will nature raise. Now, not in pride—in purpose high, Awhile in beauty shine; And speak, through man’s admiring eye, Forbidding every passer by To wish to live, or dare to die With object less than thine.

I wanted the apple, when offered to me By its generous owner, but thought it not right To take it, because it had grown on a tree, That sprang from a seed sown by Peregrine White. And he, who thus proffered it, had none beside it; While diffidence checked the words,—“Let us divide it.” Now Peregrine White was the first white, you know, Who drew his first breath in New England—the child, Whose parents were making to bud and to blow, With its earliest blossoms, America’s wild: But he with the fruit never questioned me, whether We might partake of the apple together. Though a fabled divinity once had let fall An apple of gold, where his favorites thronged, Inscribed, “Of the fair, to the fairest of all!” It was not to me this whole apple belonged: My friend was no god—and then I, but a woman; I thought that to halve it were just about human. The whole I declined; still I did not deny A wish that, unuttered, was strong in my heart; And from it entire, while averting my eye, I own I was secretly coveting part; And had he divided the offering presented, Preserving one half, I had come off contented. Had Solomon been there to put in a word, His wisdom had brought the debate to an end, Deciding at once, by the edge of his sword, This contest of kindness between friend and friend: Yet he with the apple was quite too short-sighted To see how I might in a half have delighted. I hope that next autumn he ’ll go where it grew, And, if not forbidden the fruit, that he ’ll reach And pluck a fair apple, then cut it in two, And tell me at once that a half is for each. Of friendship’s best gift how the worth may be lightened By having it whole, when, if shared, how ’t were heightened!

The half of an apple, well-flavored and fair, Which shows by division such soundness of heart, I gratefully hold; and acknowledge the care And kindness of him, who retains t ’other part. The fruit, that would perish, I taste with delight, The seed taking out to lay cautiously by, Because it encloses, concealed from my sight, An emblem of that, which in us cannot die. Its elements, when ’t is laid low in the earth, If good, will arise in fresh verdure and bloom; As man’s deathless soul seeks the world of its birth, When what it once dwelt in lies dark in the tomb. The little memento I ’ll hide in the ground, For Nature, its mother, to tenderly rear; And bright be its blossoms—its fruit fair and sound, When I and the giver no more shall be here! For, when I depart, and some good, living deed Would fain leave behind, in remembrance of me, At least, be it said that I planted a seed, That others might gather the fruit from the tree!

From him, who was lord of the fruits and the flowers, That in Paradise grew, ere he lost its possession— Who breathed in the balm, and reposed in the bowers Of our garden ancestral, we claim our profession. And fruits rich and bright Bless our taste and our sight As e’er gave our father in Eden delight: Our fount clear as that, which he drank from, here flows; Where green grows the myrtle, and blushing the rose. While some sit in clouds but to murmur, or grieve That earth has her wormwood, her pitfalls, and brambles; We smile, and go forth her rich gifts to receive, Where the boughs drop their purple and gold on our rambles. Untiring and free, As we work, like the bee, We bear off a sweet from each plant, shrub, and tree: Where some gather thorns but to torture the flesh, Ripe clusters we pluck, and our spirits refresh. Yet, not to self only, we draw from the soil The treasures that Heaven in its vitals hath hidden; For thus to lock up the fair fruits of our toil Were bliss half possessed, and a sin all forbidden. Like morning’s first ray, When it spreads into day, Our hearts must flow out, until self melts away! Our joys, in the bosoms around us when sown, Spring up and bloom out, throwing sweets to our own. And this makes the world all a garden to us, Where He, who has walled it, his glory is shedding: His smile is its sun; and beholding it thus, We gratefully feast, while his bounty is spreading. Our spirits grow bright As they bathe in his light, That beams on the board where in joy we unite: And the sparks, which we take to enkindle our mirth, Are blessings from heaven showering down on the earth. And now that we meet, and the chain is of flowers, Which binds us together, may sadness ne’er blight them, Till those, who must break from a compact like ours, Ascend where the ties of the blest reunite them! May each, who is here, At the banquet appear, Where Life fills the wine-cup, and Love makes it clear; And Gilead’s balm in its freshness shall flow On the wounds, which the pruning-knife gave us below!

Thou mournful bird, when shadows fell At yester-eve on hill and dell, I heard thee of thy sorrows tell; And, as the dews distil, Again, amid this twilight gray, I hear thee pour thy solemn lay, With only one sad thing to say, Still crying, “Whip-poor-will.” O who has grieved thee, gentle bird, That now thy vesper note is heard And with thy melting, triple word Thus dropping from thy bill? How could they rudely whip at thee, To scare thee from thy native tree, And send thee moaning back to me Repeating, “Whip-poor-will?” And wherefore did they whip thee so, To give thy voice this sound of wo, Which comes so plaintively to show That they have used thee ill? Didst thou go through the woods alone, Where brambly snares had thickly grown When thou wast taught thy piteous tone And story, “Whip-poor-will?” There have they made thee all the day In silence hide thyself away, To lose the light, the flash, the play Of sun, and fount, and rill? And didst thou now steal out, afraid Of midnight in the coppice shade, That here thy tender plaint is made Again, sad Whip-poor-will? The trembling stars and lunar gleam, That fitful in the thicket beam, Perhaps would make poor Willie dream His foes were round him still. And in the copse-wood, dark and deep, A waving flower, or leaflet’s sweep Might startle thee, in troubled sleep To murmur, “Whip-poor-will!” My bird, there ’s mystery in thy strain— A power I might resist in vain, With mournful joy—with pleasing pain My inmost soul to thrill. ’T is memory stirs to wet my eye By waking shades of days gone by, When first, a child, I heard the cry So solemn, “Whip-poor-will.” I call thee bird, yet thou may’st be A spirit! for I cannot see— I ne’er could catch a glimpse of thee; And undiscovered still The vision form, that might appear, Wert thou to sight revealed as clear, As is thy presence to mine ear, Mysterious Whip-poor-will.

Come out, pretty Rose-Bud, my lone, timid one! Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun; For little he does, in these dull autumn hours, At height’ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers. His beams, on thy tender young cheek as he plays, Will give it a blush that no other can raise; Thy fine silken petals they ’ll softly unfold, And fill their pure centre with spices and gold. I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth; But beauty, we know, is the offspring of health; And health, the fair daughter of freedom, is bright With feasting on breezes, and drinking the light. Then come, pretty bud; from thy covert look out, And see what the glad, golden sun is about: His shafts, should they strike thee, will only impart A grace to thy form, and a sweet to thy heart.

That I will “be near” on thy “bridal day”— Be with thee before we are ten hours older, This hasty messenger comes to say, And bringing its witness,—a pearly folder. And this, perhaps, as a pointed sign, By the light upon Hymen’s altar burning, May signify, to a heart like thine, “What a leaf to-day in thy life is turning!” May the lines for thy future reading there, With no sad characters dark or frowning, In every letter be bright and fair, To thee and to him thou to-day art crowning. Accept the token, and let it prove, As long as thou hence shalt remain its owner, When thou must be at a far remove From her, memorial of the donor. Thou ’lt see engraved on its handle-part, The form of a pen, with its top of feather— A type of the wings that heart and heart May find, when absent, to fly together. I send thee an opening, thornless rose, Harmless and soft as the peaceful turtle; With an emerald sprig from a branch that grows On the single stalk of my true green myrtle. I bound them about with a silver thread; But, ere thy hand is the cord untwining, The rose will have drooped, or its leaves be shed, While the myrtle still is freshly shining. But I will “be near” in thy bridal hour, This, “Wednesday, evening, at half past seven,” And give at the nuptials my holier dower,— A prayer for a smile on them from Heaven.

To think of thee, my Hannah— To sit and think of thee, Is to my heart like manna, Or balsam from the tree. For, first, its tendrils feeding, It gives them strength to cling; And then, if pained or bleeding, It soothes the wound or sting. To thine, a fount of feeling The warmest and the best, ’T is sweet to seem revealing The secrets of my breast. Of half its care and trouble, My bosom, thus beguiled, Feels every joy is double, When on it thou hast smiled. ’T is dark and stormy weather— Our first October day; But we are here together, Though thou art far away. For still I feel thee near me— I see thy soft black eye— I fancy thou canst hear me, And I thy sweet reply. And yet, my friend, my dearest, This moment, where art thou? What envied eye is nearest, To look upon thee now? Is thine own Hannah present, In spirit, still with thee? And dost thou find it pleasant To feel alone with me? Then we are never parted! Nor distance, place, nor scene, The whole and faithful-hearted Shall ever come between. And when earth’s changeful weather, Its joys and sorrows cease, O may we dwell together In deathless love and peace!

Music? A blessed angel! She was born Within the palace of the King of kings— A favorite near his throne. In that glad child Of Love and Joy, he made their spirits one; And her, the heir to everlasting life! When his bright hosts would give him highest praise, They send her forward with her dulcet voice, To pour their holy rapture in his ear. When the young earth to being started forth, Music lay sleeping in a bower of heaven. A crystal fountain, close beside her, gushed With living waters; and the sparkling cup For her pure draught, stood on its emerald brink. While o’er her brow a tender halo shone, Kissed by the nodding buds, her head reclined Upon a flowery pillow. At her ear, The soft leaves whispered. On her half-closed lips The gentle air strewed spices, wooing them. Dropped o’er its radiant orb, the long-fringed lid Veiled the deep inspiration of her eye; But on her cheek the rose-tint came and went, At the quick pulse that fluttered in her breast, And spoke a wakeful spirit. In her sleep, With one fair hand thrown o’er its silent strings, Close to her heart she clasped her golden lyre, To slumber with her, while she fondly dreamed Of the sweet uses she might make of it To numbers yet untried. When, suddenly, A shout of joy from all the sons of God, Rang through his courts: and then the thrilling call, “Wake! sister Music, wake, and hail with us, A new-created sphere!” She woke! She rose— She moved among the morning stars, and gave The birth-song of a world. Our infant globe, With life’s first pulse, rolled in its ether bed, Robed with the sunlight, mantled by the moon, Or tenderly embraced by stellar rays: Death, with his pale, cold finger, had not touched Its beauty then. No stain of guilt was here, And so, no cloud of sorrow cast a shade, Or rained its bitter drops on fruit or flower. As earth, on every side, shone fair to heaven, Not knowing yet whereto she was ordained, Music, from her celestial walks looked down, And thought, how sweetly she could wake the hills, Sing through the silent forests—in the vales— Beside the silver waters pour her sounds; And multiply her numbers by the rocks! She longed to give it voice to speak to God; And, being told of her blest ministry, Bathed in a flood of glory, till her wings Dripped with effulgence, as they spread, and poised, And passed the pearly gates in earthward flight. Made viewless by the circumambient air, And scattering voices to its feathered tribes, As down she hastened to the shining sphere, The happy angel reached the beauteous earth. At her electric touch, young nature smiled, And kindled into rapture; then broke forth With thousand, thousand songs. The green turf woke; The sea-shells hummed along the vocal shore, The busy bee, upon his honeyed flower. Osier and reed became Eolian lyres. Trees bore sweet minstrels; while rock, hill, and dell Sang to each other in a joyous round. Man, that mysterious instrument of God, When the warm soul of new-descended power Breathed on his heart-strings, lifted up his voice, Chanting, “Jehovah!” Since that blessed hour, While still her home is heaven, Music has ne’er This darkened world forsaken. She delights, Though man may lose, or keep the paths of peace, To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm his heart; And lends her wings to waft it to the skies. She throws a lustre o’er Devotion’s face— Drinks off the tear from Sorrow’s languid eye— Tames wild Despair—brings Hope a brighter bloom— Lulls Hate to rest—Love’s ruffled bosom smooths; Pours honey into many a bitter cup; And often gives the black and heavy hour A downy breast and pinions tipped with light. She steals all balmy through the prisoner’s grates, Making that sad one half forget their use. With holy spell she binds the exile’s heart, And pours her oil upon its hidden wounds. Kings are her lovers—cottagers her loves: The hero and the pilgrim walk with her. Her voice is sweet by cradled infancy, And from the pillow of the dying saint, When a glad spirit borrows her light wings To practise for the skies, ere it unfolds Its own, and breaks its tenure to the clay. True, by man’s wanderings for his tempter’s lure, Music is often drawn to scenes unmeet For purity like hers; and made to bear Unhallowed burdens; or, to join in rites To turpitude in fellest places held. Yet, like the sun, whose beaming vesture, trailed O’er all things staining, still defies a stain; And is at night withdrawn, and girded up, Warm and untarnished for the morning skies— She comes unsullied from her baser walks, Sighs at the darkness, guilt and wo of earth; Breathes Zion’s air, and, warmed with heavenly fire, Mounts to her glorious home! ’T was she, who bore The first grand offering of the free, on high, When to the shore, through Egypt’s solemn sea, The franchised Hebrews passed with feet dry-shod, And pæans gave to their Deliverer there. She cheered the wanderers on; and when they crossed Over old Jordan, to the strong-armed foe, Still she was with them; and her single breath Laid the proud Painim’s city-walls in dust! In native light, she walked Judea’s hills, And sipped the dew of Hermon from its flower Before the Sun of righteousness arose. The Prophet chose her to unseal his lips, Ere God spake through them; and the Prophetess, To lift the heart’s pure gift from her’s to Heaven. When Israel’s king was troubled, her soft hand Put close, but gently, to his gloomy breast, Reached the dark spirit there, and laid it still, Bound by the chords a shepherd minstrel swept. And since, her countless thousands she has brought To heaven’s mild kingdom, happy captives led, By those sweet glowing strings of David’s lyre. But oh! her richest, dearest notes to man, In strains aerial over Bethlehem poured, When He, whose brightness is the light of heaven, To earth descending for a mortal’s form, Laid by his glory, save one radiant mark, That moved through space, and o’er the infant hung, He summoned Music to attend him here, Announcing peace below! He called her, too, To sweeten that sad supper, and to twine Her mantle round him, and his few, grieved friends To join their mournful spirits with the hymn, Ere to the Mount of Olives he went out So sorrowful. And now, his blessed word, A sacred pledge, is left to dying man, Then at his second coming in his power, Music shall still be with him; and her voice Sound through the tombs and wake the dead to life!