Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, Turn ye to Plymouth rock, and where they knelt Kneel, and renew the vow they breathed to God.
I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou comest With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird, The blushing floweret, the rejoicing stream, Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry. Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys, And deathless linking of warm heart to heart, So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard. Earth, robed in white, a peaceful sabbath holds, And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet.
She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough, And from the harvest shouting. Man should rest Thus from his fevered passions, and exhale The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought, And drink in holy health. As the tossed bark Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay To trim its scattered cordage, and restore Its riven sails so should the toilworn mind Refit for Time's rough voyage. Man, perchance, Soured by the world's sharp commerce, or impaired By the wild wanderings of his summer way, Turns like a truant scholar to his home, And yields his nature to sweet influences That purify and save. The ruddy boy [sport, Comes with his shouting schoolmates from their On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth, And, throwing off his skates with boisterous glee, Hastes to his mother's side. Her tender hand Doth shake the snowflakes from his glossy curls, And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart Solicits silently the Sire of heaven
To "bless the lad." The timid infant learns Better to love its sire, and longer sits Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip Prints on his brow such language as the tongue Hath never spoken. Come thou to life's feast With dove eyed Meekness, and bland Charity, And thou shalt find even Winter's rugged blasts The minstrel teacher of thy well tuned soul, And when the last drop of its cup is drained- Arising with a song of praise-go up To the eternal banquet.
FLOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robe Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him Eternally-bidding the lip of man
Of thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrinks Back from thy brotherhood: and all his waves Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall His wearied billows from their vexing play, And full them to a cradle calm: but thou, With everlasting, undecaying tide, Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars, When first they sang o'er young Creation's birth, Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking fires, That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve This solid earth, shall find JEHOVAH's name Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, Of thine unending volume. Every leaf, That lifts itself within thy wide domain, Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birds Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing Amid thy mist and foam. "Tis meet for theri To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath, For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud, Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven, Without reproof. But as for us, it seems Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint
Keep silence and upon thy rocky altar pour Incense of awe struck praise. Ah! who can dare To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul A wondering witness of thy majesty, But as it presses with delirious joy To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step, And tame its rapture, with the humbling view Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand In the dread presence of the Invisible, As if to answer to its God through thee.
MEEK dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips, Whence are ye? Did some white winged messenger On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ To the cold cradle of eternal snows? Or, breathing on the callous icicles, Did them with tear drops nurse ye?—
-Tree nor shrub Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand, Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice, And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plungo Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, And marks ye in your placid loveliness- Fearless, yet frail-and, clasping his chill hands, Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, Inhales your spirit from the frost winged gale And freer dreams of heaven.
NAPOLEON'S EPITAPH.
"The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face of Napoleon's sepulchre, characteriese, uninscribed."
AND who shall write thine epitaph, thou man Of mystery and might! Shall orphan hands Inscribe it with their father's broken swords? Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock, As the keen torture of the water drop Doth wear the sentenced brain? Shall countless Arise from hades, and in lurid flame With shadowy finger trace thine effigy, Who sent them to their audit unannealed, And with but that brief space for shrift of prayer Given at the cannon's mouth? Thou, who didst sit Like eagle on the apex of the globe, And hear the murmur of its conquered tribes, As chirp the weak voiced nations of the grass, Why art thou sepulchred in yon far isle, Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner Descries mid ocean's foam? Thou, who didst hew A pathway for thy host above the cloud, Guiding their footsteps o'er the frostwork crown Of the throned Alps, why dost thou sleep unmarked, Even by such slight memento as the hind Carves on his own coarse tombstone?
And bid her witness to that fame which soars O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt Of Scandinavia's madman. From the shades Of lettered ease, oh, Germany! come forth With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll, Such as thou spreadst at Leipsic, gather tints Of deeper character than bold Romance Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream, Or History trusted to her sybil leaves.
Hail, lotus crowned! in thy green childhood fed By stiff necked Pharaoh and the shepherd kings, Hast thou no tale of him who drenched thy sands At Jaffa and Aboukir! when the flight Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong To the accusing Spirit?-Glorious isle! Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like, Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. -Ho! fur clad Russia! with thy spear of frost, Or with thy winter mocking Cossack's lance, Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain, And give the last line of our epitaph. -But there was silence: for no sceptred hand Received the challenge. From the misty deep, Rise, island spirits! like those sisters three Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life - Rise on your coral pedestals, and write That eulogy which haughtier climes deny. Come, for ye lulled him in your matron arms, And cheered his exile with the name of king, And spread that curtained couch which none disturb, Come, twine some trait of household tenderness, Some tender leaflet, nursed with Nature's tears, Around this urn.-But Corsica, who rocked His cradle at Ajaccio, turned away; And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave Threw her slight annal with the haste of fear; And rude Helena, sick at heart, and gray 'Neath the Atlantic's smiting, bade the moon, With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze To an unhonored tomb.-Then Earth arose, That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne, And to the echoed question, " Who shall write NAPOLEON'S epitaph?" as one who broods O'er unforgiven injuries, answered, “None!"
Who poured thee incense, as Olympian Jove, And breathed thy thunders on the battle field, Return, and rear thy monument. Those forms O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter spread,* From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone, Heed not thy clarion call. But should they rise, As in the vision that the prophet saw, And each dry bone its severed fellow find, Piling their pillared dust as erst they gave Their souls for thee, the wondering stars might deem A second time the puny pride of man Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs, To dwell with them. But here unwept thou art, Like a dead lion in his thicket lair, With neither living man nor spirit condemned To write thine epitaph. Invoke the climes, Who served as playthings in thy desperate game Of mad ambition, or their treasures strewed Till meagre Famine on their vitals preyed, To pay the reckoning. France! who gave so free Thy life stream to his cup of wine, and saw That purple vintage shed over half the earth, Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare. Thou, too, whose pride did deck dead Cæsar's tomb, And chant high requiem o'er the tyrant band Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts Of sculpture and of classic eloquence, To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown Thine ancient spirit quailed, and to the list Of mutilated kings, who gleaned their meat 'Neath Agag's table, add the name of Rome. --Turn, Austria! iron browed and stern of heart, And on his monument, to whom thou gavest In anger, battle, and in craft a bride, Grave" Austerlitz," and fiercely turn away. -As the reined war horse snuffs the trumpet blast, Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name,
DEATH OF AN INFANT. DEATH found strange beauty on that polished brow, And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound The silken fringes of those curtaining lids For ever. There had been a murmuring sound With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set The seal of silence. But there beamed a smile, So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow, Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal The signet ring of Heaven.
MONODY ON MRS. HEMANS.
NATURE doth mourn for thee. There comes a voice From her far solitudes, as though the winds Murmured low dirges, or the waves complained. Even the meek plant, that never sang before, Save one brief requiem, when its blossoms fell, Seems through its drooping leaves to sigh for thee, As for a florist dead. The ivy, wreathed Round the gray turrets of a buried race,
And the proud palm trees, that like princes rear Their diadems 'neath Asia's sultry sky, Blend with their ancient lore thy hallowed name. Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make Whate'er it touched more holy. The pure shell, Pressing its pearly lip to Ocean's floor; The cloistered chambers, where the seagods sleep; And the unfathomed, melancholy Main, Lament for thee through all the sounding deeps. Hark! from sky piercing Himmaleh, to where Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud- From the scathed pine tree, near the red man's hut, To where the everlasting Banian builds Its vast columnar temple, comes a wail For her who o'er the dim cathedral's arch, The quivering sunbeam on the cottage wall, Or the sere desert, poured the lofty chant And ritual of the muse: who found the link That joins mute Nature to ethereal mind, And make that link a melody. The vales Of glorious Albion heard thy tuneful fame, [bards And those green cliffs, where erst the Cambrian Swept their indignant lyres, exulting tell How oft thy fairy foot in childhood climbed Their rude, romantic heights. Yet was the couch Of thy last sumber in yon verdant isle
Interpreted for us. Why should we say Farewell to thee, since every unborn age Shall mix thee with its household charities? The hoary sire shall bow his deafened ear, And greet thy sweet words with his benison; The mother shrine thee as a vestal flame In the lone temple of her sanctity; And the young child who takes thee by the hand, Shall travel with a surer step to heaven.
THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.*
LONG hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole In her soft ministry around thy bed, Spreading her vernal tissue, violet gemmed, And pearled with dews.
She bade bright Summer bring Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds, And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak Sternly of man's neglect. But now we come To do thee homage-mother of our chief! Fit homage-such as honoreth him who pays. Methinks we see thee-as in olden time- Simple in garb-majestic and serene, Unmoved by pomp or circumstance-in truth Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal Repressing vice and making folly grave. Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste Life in inglorious sloth—to sport a while Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave; Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away, Building no temple in her children's hearts, Save to the vanity and pride of life Which she had worshipped.
song, and eloquence, and ardent soul- Which, loved of lavish skies, though banned by fate, Seemed as a type of thine own varied lot, The crowned of Genius, and the child of Wo. For at thy breast the ever pointed thorn Did gird itself in secret, mid the gush Of such unstained, sublime, impassioned song, That angels, poising on some silver cloud, Might listen mid the errands of the skies, And linger all unblamed. How tenderly Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest, And, like a nurse, with finger on her lip, Watch that no step disturb thee, and no hand Profane thy sacred harp. Methinks she waits Thy waking, as some cheated mother hangs O'er the pale babe, whose spirit Death hath stolen, And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven. Said we that thou art dead? We dare not. No. For every mountain, stream, or shady dell, Where thy rich echoes linger, claim thee still, Their own undying one. To thee was known Alike the language of the fragile flower And of the burning stars. God taught it thee. So, from thy living intercourse with man, Thou shalt not pass, until the weary earth Drops her last gem into the doomsday flame. Thou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir, Whose harmonies thy spirit learned so well Through this low, darkened casement, and so long
For the might that clothed The "Pater Patriæ"-for the glorious deeds That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine For all the earth-what thanks to thee are due, Who, mid his elements of being, wrought, We know not-Heaven can tell!
Rise, sculptured pile! And show a race unborn who rests below, And say to mothers what a holy charge Is theirs with what a kingly power their love Might rule the fountains of the newborn mind. Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow Good seed before the World hath sown her tares; Nor in their toil decline-that angel bands May put the sickle in, and reap for God, And gather to his garner. Ye, who stand, With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise, Who nobly reared Virginia's godlike chief- Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch, Whose first at waking, is your cradled son, What though no high ambition prompts to rear A second WASHINGTON, or leave your name Wrought out in marble with a nation's tears Of deathless gratitude-yet may you raise A monument above the stars a soul Led by your teachings and your prayers to God
* On laying the corner stone of her monument at Fred. ericksburg, Virginia.
The solitary dell, where meekly rose That consecrated church, there was no voice Save what still Nature in her worship breathes, And that unspoken lore with which the dead Do commune with the living...... And methought How sweet it were, so near the sacred house Where we had heard of Christ, and taken his yoke, And sabbath after sabbath gathered strength To do his will, thus to lie down and rest, Close 'neath the shadow of its peaceful walls; And when the hand doth moulder, to lift up Our simple tombstone witness to that faith Which can not die.
Heaven bless thee, lonely church, And daily mayst thou warn a pilgrim-band From toil, from cumbrance, and from strife to flee, And drink the waters of eternal life: Still in sweet fellowship with trees and skies, Friend both of earth and heaven, devoutly stand To guide the living and to guard the dead.
DEEP Solitude I sought. There was a dell Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, While, towering near, the rugged mountains made Dark background 'gainst the sky. Thither I went, And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount, For which it long had thirsted mid the strife And fever of the world.-I thought to be There without witness: but the violet's eye Looked up to greet me, the fresh wild rose smiled, And the young pendent vine flower kissed my cheek. There were glad voices too: the garrulous brook, Untiring, to the patient pebbles told Its history. Up came the singing breeze, And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake Responsive, every one. Even busy life Woke in that dell: the dexterous spider threw From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare. The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel. To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, While, from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird Sang to her nurslings.
Yet I strangely thought To be alone and silent in thy realm, Spirit of life and love! It might not be : There is no solitude in thy domains, Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast He locks his joy, and shuts out others' grief. Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world Without a witness: even the desert place
Speaketh thy name; the simple flowers and streams Are social and benevolent, and he Who holdeth converse in their language pure, Roaming among them at the cool of day, Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed, His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.
SUNSET ON THE ALLEGANY.
I was a pensive pilgrim at the foot Of the crowned Allegany, when he wrapped His purple mantle gloriously around, And took the homage of the princely hills, And ancient forests, as they bowed them down, Each in his order of nobility.
-And then, in glorious pomp, the sun retired Behind that solemn shadow: and his train Of crimson, and of azure, and of gold, Went floating up the zenith, tint on tint, And ray on ray, till all the concave caught His parting benediction.
Faded to twilight, and dim evening sank In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood In awful state, like dread embassador [severe "Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frowned Upon the world beneath, and lifted up The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky, To witness 'gainst its sins: and is it meet For thee, swoln out in cloud-capped pinnacle, To scorn thine own original, the dust That, feebly eddying on the angry winds, Doth sweep thy base? Say, is it meet for thee, Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root Draws depth and nutriment?
But lo! a star, 'The first meek herald of advancing night, Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe Might gaze with brow of timid innocence Over a giant's shoulder. Hail, lone star! Thou friendly watcher o'er an erring world, Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes Thee light, and man salvation.
Not to mark And treasure up his follies, or recount Their secret record in the court of Heaven, Thou com'st. Methinks thy tenderness would With trembling mantle, his infirmities. [shroud, The purest natures are most pitiful; But they who feel corruption strong within Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace Of their own image, in another's breast. -So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies His own mad visage, furiously destroys The frail reflector. But thou, stainless star! Shalt stand a watchman on Creation's walls, While race on race their little circles mark, And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all, Who through this evening scene may wander on, And from yon mountain's cold magnificence Turn to thy milder beauty-point to all, The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth, A silent teacher of its boundless love.
THE INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL.
A VOICE upon the prairies,
A cry of woman's wo,
That mingleth with the autumn blast
All fitfully and low;
It is a mother's wailing:
Hath earth another tone
Like that with which a mother mourns Her lost, her only one!
Pale faces gather round her,
They marked the storm swell high That rends and wrecks the tossing soul, But their cold, blue eyes are dry. Pale faces gaze upon her,
As the wild winds caught her moan, But she was an Indian mother, So she wept her tears alone. Long o'er that wasted idol
She watched, and toiled, and prayed, Though every dreary dawn revealed Some ravage death had made, Till the fleshless sinews started, And hope no opiate gave,
And hoarse and hollow grew her voice,
An echo from the grave.
She was a gentle creature,
Of raven eye and tress;
And dovelike were the tones that breathed
Her bosom's tenderness,
Save when some quick emotion
The warm blood strongly sent, To revel in her olive cheek, So richly eloquent.
I said Consumption smote her, And the healer's art was vain, But she was an Indian maiden, So none deplored her pain; None, save that widowed mother, Who now, by her open tomb, Is writhing, like the smitten wretch Whom judgment marks for doom.
Alas! that lowly cabin,
That bed beside the wall,
That seat beneath the mantling vine, They're lone and empty all.
What hand shall pluck the tall green corn, That ripeneth on the plain?
Since she for whom the board was spread Must ne'er return again.
Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden,
Nor let thy murmuring shade
Grieve that those pale browed ones with scorn Thy burial rite surveyed; There's many a king whose funeral
A black robed realm shall see,
For whom no tear of grief is shed Like that which falls for thee.
Yea, rest thee, forest maiden, Beneath thy native tree!
The proud may boast their little day, Then sink to dust like thee:
But there's many a one whose funeral With nodding plumes may be, Whom Nature nor affection mourn As here they mourn for thee.
Yɛ say they all have passed away, That noble race and brave; That their light canoes have vanished From off the crested wave;
That, mid the forests where they roamed, There rings no hunter's shout: But their name is on your waters- Ye may not wash it out.
"Tis where Ontario's billow
Like Ocean's surge is curled; Where strong Niagara's thunders wake The echo of the world; Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tribute from the west; And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps On green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their conelike cabins,
That clustered o'er the vale, Have disappeared, as withered leaves Before the autumn's gale:
But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears it Within her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it
Amid her young renown; Connecticut has wreathed it
Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse Through all her ancient caves. Wachusett hides its lingering voice Within its rocky heart, And Allegany graves its tone Throughout his lofty chart. Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, Doth seal the sacred trust:
Your mountains build their monument, Though ye destroy their dust.
A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD'S GRAVE.
A BUTTERFLY basked on a baby's grave, Where a lily had chanced to grow: "Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye, When she of the blue and sparkling eye Must sleep in the churchyard low?"
Then it lightly soared through the sunny air, And spoke from its shining track:
I was a worm till I won my wings,
And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph singe Wouldst thou call the blest one back?"
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