Broad breast to breast, red hand to hand,
Against a foe for his fair land,
And how the fierce invader fell
And artless told me how he died.
To die with hand and brow unbound
He gave his gems and jewelled sword;
Thus at the last the warrior found
Some freedom for his steel's reward.
He walked out from the prison-wall
Dressed like a prince for a parade,
And made no note of man or maid,
But gazed out calmly over all;
Then looked afar, half paused, and then
Above the mottled sea of men
He kissed his thin hand to the sun;
Then smiled so proudly none had known
But he was stepping to a throne,
Yet took no note of any one.
A nude brown beggar Peon child,
Encouraged as the captive smiled,
Looked up, half scared, half pitying;
He stooped, he caught it from the sands,
Put bright coins in its two brown hands,
Then strode on like another king.
Two deep, a musket's length, they stood,
A-front, in sandals, nude, and dun
As death and darkness wove in one,
Their thick lips thirsting for his blood.
He took their black hands one by one,
And, smiling with a patient grace,
Forgave them all, and took his place.
He bared his broad brow to the sun,
Gave one long last look to the sky,
The white-winged clouds that hurried by,
The olive hills in orange hue;
A last list to the cockatoo
That hung by beak from cocoa-bough
Hard by, and hung and sung as though
He never was to sing again,
Hung all red-crowned and robed in green,
With belts of gold and blue between.—
A bow, a touch of heart, a pall
Of purple smoke, a crash, a thud,
A warrior's raiment rent, and blood,
A face in dust and-that was all.
Success had made him more than king;
Defeat made him the vilest thing,
In name, contempt or hate can bring:
So much the leaded dice of war
Do make or mar of character.
Speak ill who will of him; he died
In all disgrace; say of the dead
His heart was black, his hands were red-
Say this much, and be satisfied;
Gloat over it all undenied.
I only say that he to me,
Whatever he to others was,
Was truer far than any one
That I have known beneath the sun,
Sinner, saint, or pharisee,
As boy or man, for any cause.
I simply say he was my friend
When strong of hand and fair of fame :
Dead and disgraced, I stand the same
To him, and so shall to the end.
I lay this crude wreath on his dust,
Inwove with sad sweet memories
Recalled here by these colder seas.
I leave the wild bird with his trust,
To sing and say him nothing wrong;
I wake no rivalry of song.
He lies low in the levelled sand,
Unsheltered from the tropic sun,
And now of all he knew not one
Will speak him fair in that far land.
Perhaps 'twas this that made me seek,
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide;
A weakness for the weaker side,
A siding with the helpless weak.
A palm not far held out a hand,
Hard-by a long green bamboo swung,
And bent like some great bow unstrung,
And quivered like a willow wand;
Beneath a broad banana's leaf,
Perched on its fruits that crooked hang,
A bird in rainbow splendour sang
A low sad song of tempered grief.
No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone,
But at his side a cactus green
Upheld its lances long and keen.
It stood in hot red sands alone,
Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears;
One bloom of crimson crowned its head,
A drop of blood, so bright, so red,
Yet redolent as roses' tears.
In my left hand I held a shell,
All rosy-lipped and pearly red;
I laid it by his lowly bed,
For he did love so passing well
The grand songs of the solemn sea.
O shell sing well, wild, with a will,
When storms blow loud and birds be still,
The wildest sea-song known to thee!
I said some things, with folded hands, Soft whispered in the dim sea-sound, And eyes held humbly to the ground, And frail knees sunken in the sands. He had done more than this for me, And yet I could not well do more. I turned me down the olive shore, And set a sad face to the sea.
[Daughter of Dr. Lummis; married at an early age Dr. Ellet, then Professor of Chemistry in Columbia College, New York. Began writing for magazines in 1833; and since then has published Poems, Translated and Original, 1835; The Women of the American Revolution, 1848; and various other works].
O WEARY heart, there is a rest for thee!
O truant heart, there is a blessed home,
An isle of gladness on life's wayward sea,
Where storms that vex the waters never come.
There trees perennial yield their balmy shade;
There flower-wreathed hills in sunlit beauty sleep; There meck streams murmur through the verdant glade; There heaven bends smiling o'er the placid deep. Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle;
Vocal its air with music from above;
There meets the exile eye a welcoming smile;
There ever speaks a summoning voice of love
Unto the heavy-laden and distressed,-
"Come unto me, and I will give you rest."
1 Up to this point, our authors have been arranged in sequence, according to actual or approximate date of birth. I am unable to give the like date as regards Mrs. Ellet and the ensuing writers. The ladies, with the exception of Alice Neal, are all included in Mr Griswold's Femele Poets of America, edition of 1854.
SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.
[Daughter of a merchant, Mr. Nicholas Power. Married at an early age Mr. J. Winslow Whitman, a barrister, who died not long afterwards. In some of her poems, Mrs. Whitman has had the coöperation of her sister, Miss Anna Marsh Power. She was known as an authoress in 1840, if not before].
SUMMER'S INVITATION TO THE ORPHAN.
THE summer skies are darkly blue,
The days are still and bright,
And Evening trails her robes of gold
Through the dim halls of night.
Then, when the little orphan wakes,
A low voice whispers, "Come,
And all day wander at thy will
Beneath my azure dome.
"Beneath my vaulted azure dome,
Through all my flowery lands,
No higher than the lowly thatch
The royal palace stands.
"I'll fill thy little longing arms
With fruits and wilding flowers,
And tell thee tales of fairy land
In the long twilight hours."
The orphan hears that wooing voice:
A while he softly broods-
Then hastens down the sunny slopes
Into the twilight woods.
There all things whisper pleasure: the tree
Has fruits, the grass has flowers,
And the little birds are singing
In the dim and leafy bowers.
The brook stays him at the crossing
In its waters cool and sweet,
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