Page images
PDF
EPUB

NO COURSE I CARED TO KEEP.

How long I sailed, and never took a thought
To what port I was bound! Secure as sleep,
I dwelt upon the bosom of the deep

And perilous sea. And though my ship was fraught
With rare and precious fancies, jewels brought
From fairy-land, no course I cared to keep,
Nor changeful wind nor tide I heeded aught,
But joyed to feel the merry billows leap,
And watch the sunbeams dallying with the waves;
Or haply dream what realms beneath may lie
Where the clear ocean is an emerald sky,
And mermaids warble in their coral caves,
Yet vainly woo me to their secret home;-
And sweet it were forever so to roam!

NOVEMBER.

The mellow year is hasting to its close;
The little birds have almost sung their last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast-
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;-
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the Morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed,
Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,
And makes a little summer where it grows:-
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day
The dusky waters shudder as they shine;
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define,
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine.

TO WORDSWORTH.

There have been poets that in verse display
The elemental forms of human passions:
Poets have been, to whom the fickle fashions
And all the wilful humors of the day
Have furnished matter for a polished lay:
And many are the smooth, elaborate tribe
Who, emulous of thee, the shape describe,
And fain would every shifting hue portray
Of restless Nature. But thou, mighty Seer!
'Tis thine to celebrate the thoughts that make
The life of souls, the truths for whose sweet sake
We to ourselves and to our God are dear.
Of Nature's inner shrine thou art the priest,
Where most she works when we perceive her least.

WISDOM THE GRAY HAIRS TO A MAN. "I thank my God because my hairs are gray!" But have gray hairs brought wisdom? Doth the flight

Of summer birds, departed while the light
Of life is lingering on the middle way,
Predict the harvest nearer by a day?
Will the rank weeds of hopeless appetite
Droop at the glance and venom of the blight
That made the vermeil bloom, the flush so gay,
Dim and unlovely, as a dead worm's shroud?
Or is my heart, that, wanting hope, has lost
The strength and rudder of resolve, at peace?
Is it no longer wrathful, vain, and proud?
Is it a Sabbath, or untimely frost,
That makes the labor of the soul to cease?

THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH.

Youth, thou art fled,-but where are all the charms Which, though with thee they came, and passed with thee,

Should leave a perfume and sweet memory
Of what they have been?-All thy boons and harms
Have perished quite.-Thy oft renewed alarms
Forsake the fluttering echo.-Smiles and tears
Die on my cheek, or, petrified with years,
Show the dull woe which no compassion warms,
The mirth none shares. Yet could a wish, a thought,
Unravel all the complex web of age,-

Could all the characters that Time hath wrought
Be clean effaced from my memorial page

By one short word, the word I would not say :I thank my God, because my hairs are gray.

TO SHAKSPEARE.

The soul of man is larger than the sky;
Deeper than ocean, or the abysmal dark
Of the unfathomed centre. Like that Ark,
Which in its sacred hold uplifted high,
O'er the drowned hills, the human family,
And stock reserved of every living kind,
So, in the compass of the single mind,
The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie,
That make all worlds. Great Poet, 'twas thy art
To know thyself, and in thyself to be
Whate'er love, hate, ambition, destiny,
Or the firm, fatal purpose of the heart,
Can make of Man. Yet thou wert still the same,
Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame.

LIBERTY.

Say, What is Freedom? What the right of souls
Which all who know are bound to keep or die,
And who knows not, is dead? In vain we pry
In the dark archives, and tenacious scrolls
Of written law, though Time embrace the rolls
In his lank arms, and shed his yellow light
On every barbarous word. Eternal Right
Works its own way, and evermore controls
Its own free essence. Liberty is Duty,
Not License. Every pulse that beats
At the glad summons of imperious beauty
Obeys a law. The very cloud that fleets
Along the dead green surface of the hill
Is ruled and scattered by a godlike will.

TO A NEWLY-MARRIED FRIEND.
How shall a man foredoomed to lone estate,
Untimely old, irreverently gray,

Much like a patch of dusky snow in May,
Dead sleeping in a hollow-all too late-
How shall so poor a thing congratulate
The blest completion of a patient wooing,
Or how commend a younger man for doing
What ne'er to do hath been his fault or fate?
There is a fable, that I once did read,
Of a bad angel, that was someway good,
And therefore on the brink of heaven he stood,
Looking each way, and no way could proceed;
Till at the last he purged away his sin
By loving all the joy he saw within.

NO LIFE VAIN.

Let me not deem that I was made in vain,
Or that my Being was an accident,
Which Fate, in working its sublime intent,
Not wished to be, to hinder would not deign.
Each drop uncounted in a storm of rain
Hath its own mission, and is duly sent
To its own leaf or blade, not idly spent
'Mid myriad dimples on the shipless main.
The very shadow of an insect's wing,

For which the violet cared not while it stayed,
Yet felt the lighter for its vanishing,
Proved that the sun was shining by its shade:
Then can a drop of the eternal spring,
Shadow of living lights, in vain be made?

THE SAME, AND NOT ANOTHER.

Think upon Death, 'tis good to think of Death,
But better far to think upon the Dead.
Death is a spectre with a bony head,
Or the mere mortal body without breath,
The state foredoomed of every son of Seth,
Decomposition-dust, or dreamless sleep.
But the dear Dead are they for whom we weep,
For whom I credit all the Bible saith.
Dead is my father, dead is my good mother,
And what on earth have I to do but die?
But if by grace I reach the blessed sky,

I fain would see the same, and not another;
The very father that I used to see,
The mother that has nursed me on her knee.

THE WAIF OF NATURE.

A lonely wanderer upon earth am I,
The waif of nature-like uprooted weed
Borne by the stream, or like a shaken reed,
A frail dependent of the fickle sky;
Far, far away, are all my natural kin:

The mother that erewhile hath hushed my cry,
Almost hath grown a mere fond memory.
Where is my sister's smile? my brother's boister-
ous din?

Ah! nowhere now. A matron grave and sage,
A holy mother is that sister sweet.
And that bold brother is a pastor, meet
To guide, instruct, reprove a sinful age,
Almost I fear, and yet I fain would greet;
So far astray hath been my pilgrimage.

ON RECEIVING ALMS.

What can a poor man do but love and pray?
But if his love be selfish, then his prayer,
Like noisome vapor, melts in vacant air.
I am a debtor, and I cannot pay.
The alms which drop upon the public way,-
The casual tribute of the good and fair,
With the keen, thriftless avarice of despair
I seize, and live thereon from day to day,
Ingrate and purposeless.—And yet not so:
The mere mendicity of self-contempt
Has not so far debased me, but I know
The faith, the hope, the piety, exempt
From worldly doubt, to which my all I owe.
Since I have nothing, yet I bless the thought :-
Best are they paid whose earthly wage is naught.

Thomas Dale.

Dale (1797-1870) was a native of London.

He was Canon of St. Paul's, and ultimately Dean of Rochester, and was the author of two volumes of sermons (18321836). A collection of his poems appeared in 1842. They are noteworthy for beauty and delicacy of diction, and for smoothness of versification. He was for some time Professor of English Literature at the London University, and subsequently at King's College. He was the author of "The Widow of Nain," a poem; also of two volumes of sermons, published in 1830 and 1836.

Triumphant in thy closing eye

The hope of glory shone, Joy breathed in thine expiring sigh, To think the fight was won. Gently the passing spirit fled,

Sustained by grace divine:

Oh! may such grace on me be shed, And make my end like thine!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

Again the flowers we loved to twine Wreathe wild round every tree; Again the summer sunbeams shine, That cannot shine on thee. Verdure returns with fresher bloom To vale and mountain brow;

All nature breaks as from the tomb; But "Where art thou ?"

At eve, to sail upon the tide,
To roam along the shore,

So sweet while thou wert at my side,
Can now delight no more:-

There is in heaven, and o'er the flood,
The same deep azure now;
The same notes warble through the wood;
But "Where art thou?"

Men say there is a voice of mirth

In every grove and glen;

But sounds of gladness on the earth
I cannot know again.

The rippling of the summer sea,
The bird upon the bough,

All speak with one sad voice to me; "Tis-"Where art thou?"

DIRGE.

FROM "THE WIDOW OF NAIN."

Dear as thou wert, and justly dear,
We will not weep for thee;

One thought shall check the starting tear,
It is that thou art free.

And thus shall Faith's consoling power
The tears of love restrain;
Oh! who that saw thy parting hour,
Could wish thee here again!

William Motherwell.

Motherwell (1797-1835) was a native of Glasgow. After studying Latin and Greek at the University, he was educated for the law. In 1828 he became editor of the Paisley Advertiser, and began to devote himself to literary pursuits. In 1830 he took charge of the Glasgow Courier, editing it with courage and ability. In politics he was a Tory, but a very sincere one. He early showed a taste for poetry; and in his fourteenth year had produced the first draft of his "Jeanie Morrison;" of which Miss Mitford says: "Let young writers observe that this finish was the result, not of a curious felicity, but of the nicest elaboration. By touching and retouching, during many years, did Jeanie Morrison' attain her perfection, and yet how completely has art concealed art! How entirely does that charming song appear like an irrepressible gush of feeling !"

A volume of Motherwell's poems appeared in 1832, and at once gave him rank as a vigorous and genuine writer. It was republished in Boston in 1846. In his "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern," he earned celebrity as a literary antiquarian. At one period of his life he overstepped some social conventions, and incurred much unhappiness thereby, to which reference is occasionally made in the more personal of his poems. His taste, enthusiasm, and social qualities rendered him very popular among his townsmen and friends. He was suddenly struck down by apoplexy in the thirty-eighth year of his age.

THE CAVALIER'S SONG.

A steed, a steed of matchless speed!

A sword of metal keene!

All else to noble heartes is drosse,

All else on earthe is meane.

The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum,

The clangor of the trumpet lowde,

Be soundes from heaven that come;
And oh the thundering presse of knightes
Whenas their war-cryes swell,

May tole from heaven an angel bright
And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte! brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine :

[blocks in formation]

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,

I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart,
Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young,

I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' by-gane days and me!

It may be so,-but this is selfish sorrow
To ask such meed,-

A weakness and a wickedness to borrow
From hearts that bleed,

The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow Shall never need.

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, Thou gentle heart;

And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, Let no tear start;

It were in vain,-for Time hath long been knelling,— "Sad one, depart!"

LINES GIVEN TO A FRIEND

A DAY OR TWO BEFORE THE DECEASE OF THE WRITER.
When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,
Life's fever o'er,

Will there for me be any bright eye weeping
That I'm no more?

Will there be any heart still memory keeping
Of heretofore?

When the great winds through leafless forests rushing,

Sad music make,

When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gush

ing,

Like full hearts break,-

Will there then one, whose heart despair is crushing, Mourn for my sake?

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining, With purest ray,

And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining,

Burst through that clay,

Will there be one still on that spot repining
Lost hopes all day?

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory,
On that low mound,

And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary,
Its loneness crowned,-

Will there be then one, versed in misery's story, Pacing it round?

Thomas Haynes Bayly.

Bayly (1797-1839), a popular song-writer, was a native of Bath, England. He wrote thirty-six dramas and farces, among which "Perfection" and "Tom Noddy's Secret" still keep possession of the American stage. "Perfection" was refused by the managers, but Madame Vestris saw its merits, and brought it out with great applause. Bayly married young and happily, but his latter days were saddened by pecuniary reverses. He bore all, however, in the spirit and with the hope of a sincere Christian. In the epitaph, written by Theodore Hook, it is said of him: "He was a kind parent, an affectionate husband, a popular author, and an accomplished gentleman." His poetical works, in two volumes, with a memoir by his widow, appeared in 1848. Archdeacon Wrangham rendered some of Bayly's songs into Latin. Here are four lines of his "I'd be a Butterfly:"

"Ah! Sim Papilio natus in flosculo,
Rosa ubi liliaque et viole halent;

Floribus advolans, avolaus, osculo,
Genimulas tangens, quæ suavé olent!"

THE SOLDIER'S TEAR.

Upon the hill he turned,

To take a last fond look

Of the valley and the village church, And the cottage by the brook.

He listened to the sounds

So familiar to his ear,

And the soldier leaned upon his sword, And wiped away a tear.

Beside that cottage porch

A girl was on her knees; She held aloft a snowy scarf

Which fluttered in the breeze. She breathed a prayer for him— A prayer he could not hear;

« PreviousContinue »