SAY, when afar from mine thy home shall be,
Still will thy soul unchanging turn to me?
When other scenes in beauty round thee lie,
Will these be present to thy mental eye?
Thy form, thy mind, when others fondly praise,
Wilt thou forget thy poet's humbler lays?
Ah me! what is there, in earth's various range,
That time and absence may not sadly change!
And can the heart, that still demands new ties,
New thoughts, for all its thousand sympathies—
The waxen heart, where every seal may set,
In turn, its stamp-remain unalter'd yet,
While nature changes with each fleeting day,
And seasons dance their varying course away?
Ah! shouldst thou swerve from truth, all else must
part,
That yet can feed with life this wither'd heart!
Whate'er its doubts, its hopes, its fears may be,
"T were, even in madness, faithful still to thee;
And shouldst thou snap that silver chord in twain,
The golden bowl no other links sustain;
Crush'd in the dust, its fragments then must sink,
And the cold earth its latest life-drops drink.
Blame not, if oft, in melancholy mood,
This theme, too far, sick fancy hath pursued;
And if the soul, which high with hope should beat,
Turns to the gloomy grave's unbless'd retreat.
Majestic nature! since thy course began,
Thy features wear no sympathy for man;
The sun smiles loveliest on our darkest hours;
O'er the cold grave fresh spring the sweetest flowers,
And man himself, in selfish sorrows bound,
Heeds not the melancholy ruin round.
The crowd's vain roar still fills the passing breeze
That bends above the tomb the cypress-trees.
One only heart, still true in joy or wo,
Is all the kindest fates can e'er bestow.
If frowning Heaven that heart refuse to give,
0, who would ask the ungracious boon--to live?
Then better 't were, if longer doom'd to prove
The listless load of life, unbless'd with love,
To seek midst ocean's waste some island fair,-
And dwell, the anchorite of nature, there;-
Some lonely isle, upon whose rocky shore
No sound, save curlew's scream, or billow's roar,
Hath echoed ever; in whose central woods,
With the quick spirit of its solitudes,
In converse deep, strange sympathies untried,
The soul might find, which this vain world denied.
But I will trust that heart, where truth alone,
In loveliest guise, sits radiant on her throne;
And thus believing, fear not all the power
Of absence drear, or time's most tedious hour.
If e'er I sigh to win the wreaths of fame,
And write on memory's scroll a deathless name,
'Tis but thy loved, approving smile to meet,
And lay the budding laurels at thy feet.
If e'er for worldly wealth I heave a sigh,
And glittering visions float on fancy's eye,
"Tis but with rosy wreaths thy path to spread,
And place the diadem on beauty's head.
Queen of my thoughts, each subject to thy sway,
Thy ruling presence lives but to obey;
And shouldst thou e'er their bless'd allegiance slight, The mind must wander, lost in endless night.
Farewell! forget me not, when others gaze Enamour'd on thee, with the looks of praise; When weary leagues before my view are cast, And each dull hour seems heavier than the last, Forget me not. May joy thy steps attend, And mayst thou find in every form a friend; With care unsullied be thy every thought; And in thy dreams of home, forget me not!
SAD was the theme, which yet to try we chose, In pleasant moments of communion sweet; When least we thought of earth's unvarnish'd
And least we dream'd, in fancy's fond deceit, That either the cold grasp of death should meet, Till after many years, in ripe old age; Three little summers flew on pinions fleet, And thou art living but in memory's page, And earth seems all to me a worthless pilgrimage. Sad was our theme; but well the wise man sung, "Better than festal halls, the house of wo;" "Tis good to stand destruction's spoils among, And muse on that sad bourne to which we go. The heart grows better when tears freely flow; And, in the many-colour'd dream of earth, One stolen hour, wherein ourselves we know, Our weakness and our vanity,--is worth Years of unmeaning smiles, and lewd, obstreperous mirth.
"Tis good to muse on nations pass'd away, Forever, from the land we call our own; Nations, as proud and mighty in their day, Who deem'd that everlasting was their throne. An age went by, and they no more were known Sublimer sadness will the mind control, Listening time's deep and melancholy moan; And meaner griefs will less disturb the soul; And human pride falls low, at human grandeur's goal.
PHILIP! farewell! thee King, in idle jest, Thy persecutors named; and if indeed, The jewell'd diadem thy front had press'd, It had become thee better, than the breed Of palaces, to sceptres that succeed, To be of courtier or of priest the tool, Satiate dull sense, or count the frequent bead, Or pamper gormand hunger; thou wouldst rule Better than the worn rake, the glutton, or the fool!
I would not wrong thy warrior shade, could I Aught in my verse or make or mar thy fame; As the light carol of a bird flown by [name: Will pass the youthful strain that breathed thy But in that land whence thy destroyers came, A sacred bard thy champion shall be found; He of the laureate wreath for thee shall claim The hero's honours, to earth's farthest bound, Where Albion's tongue is heard, or Albion's songs resound.
On quick for me the goblet fill,
From bright Castalia's sparkling rill;
Pluck the young laurel's flexile bough,
And let its foliage wreathe my brow;
And bring the lyre with sounding shell,
The four-string'd lyre I loved so well!
Lo! as I gaze, the picture flies
Of weary life's realities;
Behold the shade, the wild wood shade,
The mountain steeps, the checker'd glade;
And hoary rocks and bubbling rills,
And painted waves and distant hills.
Oh! for an hour, let me forget
How much of life is left me yet;
Recall the visions of the past,
Fair as these tints that cannot last,
That all the heavens and waters o'er
Their gorgeous, transient glories pour.
Ye pastoral scenes, by fancy wrought!
Ye pageants of the loftier thought!
Creations proud! majestic things!
Heroes, and demigods, and kings!
Return, with all of shepherds' lore,
Or old romance that pleased before!
Ye forms that are not of the earth,
Of grace, of valour, and of worth!
Ye bright abstractions, by the thought
Like the great master's pictures, wrought
To the ideal's shadowy mien,
From beauties fancied, dreamt or seen!
Ye speaking sounds, that poet's ear
Alone in nature's voice can hear!
Thou full conception, vast and wide,
Hour of the lonely minstrel's pride,
As when projection gave of old
Alchymy's visionary gold!
Return! return! oblivion bring
Of cares that vex, and thoughts that sting!
The hour of gloom is o'er my soul;
Disperse the shades, the fiends control,
As David's harp had power to do,
If sacred chronicles be true.
Oh come! by every classic spell,
By old Pieria's haunted well;
By revels on the Olmeian height
Held in the moon's religious light;
By virgin forms that wont to lave,
Permessus! in thy lucid wave!
In vain! in vain! the strain has pass'd;
The laurel leaves upon the blast
Float, wither'd, ne'er again to bloom,
The cup is drain'd-the song is dumb-
And spell and rhyme alike in vain
Would woo the genial muse again.
Good night to all the world! there's none,
Beneath the "over-going" sun,
To whom I feel or hate or spite,
And so to all a fair good-night.
Would I could say good night to pain,
Good night to conscience and her train,
To cheerless poverty, and shame
That I am yet unknown to fame!
Would I could say good night to dreams
That haunt me with delusive gleams,
That through the sable future's veil
Like meteors glimmer, but to fail.
Would I could say a long good-night
To halting between wrong and right,
And, like a giant with new force,
Awake prepared to run my course!
But time o'er good and ill sweeps on,
And when few years have come and gone,
The past will be to me as naught,
Whether remember'd or forgot.
Yet let me hope one faithful friend,
O'er my last couch shall tearful bend;
And, though no day for me was bright,
Shall bid me then a long good-night.
FROM A MONODY ON J. W. EASTBURN.
BUT now, that cherish'd voice was near;
And all around yet breathes of him ;-
We look, and we can only hear
The parting wings of cherubim!
Mourn ye, whom haply nature taught
To share the bard's communion high;
To scan the ideal world of thought,
That floats before the poet's eye;-
Ye, who with ears o'ersated long,
From native bards disgusted fly,
Expecting only, in their song,
The ribald strains of calumny;-
Mourn ye a minstrel chaste as sweet,
Who caught from heaven no doubtful fire,
But chose immortal themes as meet
Alone for an immortal lyre.
O silent shell! thy chords are riven !
That heart lies cold before its prime!
Mute are those lips, that might have given
One deathless descant to our clime!
No laurel chaplet twines he now;
He sweeps a harp of heavenly tone,
And plucks the amaranth for his brow
That springs beside the eternal throne.
Mourn ye, whom friendship's silver chain
Link'd with his soul in bonds refined;
That earth had striven to burst in vain,-
The sacred sympathy of mind.
Still long that sympathy shall last:
Still shall each object, like a spell,
Recall from fate the buried past,
Present the mind beloved so well.
That pure intelligence-Oh where
Now is its onward progress won?
Through what new regions does it dare
Push the bold quest on earth begun?
In realms with boundless glory fraught,
Where fancy can no trophies raise-
In blissful vision, where the thought
Is whelm'd in wonder and in praise!
Till life's last pulse, O triply dear, A loftier strain is due to thee; But constant memory's votive tear Thy sacred epitaph must be.
TO THE MANITTO OF DREAMS.
SPIRIT! THOU SPIRIT of subtlest air,
Whose power is upon the brain,
When wondrous shapes, and dread and fair,
As the film from the eyes
At thy bidding flies,
To sight and sense are plain!
Thy whisper creeps where leaves are stirr'd;
Thou sighest in woodland gale;
Where waters are gushing thy voice is heard;
And when stars are bright,
At still midnight,
Thy symphonies prevail!
Where the forest ocean, in quick commotion,
Is waving to and fro,
Thy form is seen, in the masses green,
Dimly to come and go.
From thy covert peeping, where thou layest sleeping
Beside the brawling brook,
Thou art seen to wake, and thy flight to take
Fleet from thy lonely nook.
Where the moonbeam has kiss'd
The sparkling tide,
In thy mantle of mist
Thou art seen to glide.
Far o'er the blue waters
Melting away,
On the distant billow,
As on a pillow,
Thy form to lay.
Where the small clouds of even
Are wreathing in heaven
Their garland of roses,
O'er the purple and gold,
Whose hangings enfold
The hall that encloses
The couch of the sun,
Whose empire is done,—
There thou art smiling,
For thy sway is begun;
Thy shadowy sway,
The senses beguiling,
When the light fades away,
And thy vapour of mystery o'er nature ascending,
The heaven and the earth,
The things that have birth,
And the embryos that float in the future are blending.
From the land, on whose shores the billows break
The sounding waves of the mighty lake;
From the land where boundless meadows be,
Where the buffalo ranges wild and free;
With silvery coat in his little isle,
Where the beaver plies his ceaseless toil;
The land where pigmy forms abide,
Thou leadest thy train at the eventide;
And the wings of the wind are left behind,
So swift through the pathless air they glide.
Then to the chief who has fasted long,
When the chains of his slumber are heavy and strong
SPIRIT! thou comest; he lies as dead,
His weary lids are with heaviness weigh'd;
But his soul is abroad on the hurricane's pinion,
Where foes are met in the rush of fight,
In the shadowy world of thy dominion
Conquering and slaying, till morning light!
Then shall the hunter who waits for thee,
The land of the game rejoicing see;
Through the leafless wood,
O'er the frozen flood,
And the trackless snows his spirit goes,
Along the sheeted plain,
Where the hermit bear, in his sullen lair,
Keeps his long fast, till the winter hath pass'd
And the boughs have budded again.
SPIRIT OF DREAMS! all thy visions are true, Who the shadow hath seen, he the substance shall view!
Thine the riddle, strange and dark,
Woven in the dreamy brain :—
Thine to yield the power to mark
Wandering by, the dusky train;
Warrior ghosts for vengeance crying,
Scalped on the lost battle's plain,
Or who died their foes defying,
Slow by lingering tortures slain.
Thou, the war-chief hovering near,
Breathest language on his ear;
When his winged words depart,
Swift as arrows to the heart;
When his eye the lightning leaves;
When each valiant bosom heaves;
Through the veins when hot and glowing
Rage like liquid fire is flowing;
Round and round the war pole whirling,
Furious when the dancers grow;
When the maces swift are hurling
Promised vengeance on the foe⚫
Thine assurance, SPIRIT true!
Glorious victory gives to view!
When of thought and strength despoil'd,
Lies the brave man like a child;
When discolour'd visions fly,
Painful o'er his glazing eye,
And wishes wild through his darkness rove,
Like flitting wings through the tangled grove,―
Thine is the wish; the vision thine,
And thy visits, SPIRIT! are all divine!
When the dizzy senses spin,
And the brain is madly reeling,
Like the Pów-wah, when first within
The present spirit feeling;
When rays are flashing athwart the gloom,
Like the dancing lights of the northern heaven,
When voices strange of tumult come
On the ear, like the roar of battle driven,—
The Initiate then shall thy wonders see,
And thy priest, O SPIRIT! is full of thee'
WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY was born at Exeter, New Hampshire, on the ninth of July, 1799; was graduated at Cambridge in 1816; and in 1820 became pastor of a Unitarian Society in Springfield,
Gon of the earth's extended plains!
The dark, green fields contented lie;
The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might commune with the sky;
The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.
Gon of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm Hath summon'd up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dash'd like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.
Gon of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm.
Gon of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry, Breathe forth the language of thy power.
Gon of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings! Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee.
Gon of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
Massachusetts, where he resided until his death, on the twenty-eighth of May, 1847. He was a voluminous and elegant writer in theology, natural history, literary and historical criticism, and poetry
For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
GoD of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay;
Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.
TO WILLIAM. WRITTEN BY A BEREAVED FATHER.
It seems but yesterday, my love,
Thy little heart beat high;
And I had almost scorn'd the voice
That told me thou must die.
I saw thee move with active bound,
With spirits wild and free;
And infant grace and beauty gave
Their glorious charm to thee.
Far on the sunny plains, I saw
Thy sparkling footsteps fly, Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird
That cleaves the morning sky; And often, as the playful breeze
Waved back thy shining hair, Thy cheek display'd the red rose-tint That health had painted there.
And then, in all my thoughtfulness,
I could not but rejoice
To hear, upon the morning wind,
The music of thy voice,-
Now, echoing in the rapturous laugh,
Now sad, almost to tears,
'Twas like the sounds I used to hear,
In old and happier years.
Thanks for that memory to thee,
My little, lovely boy,-
That memory of my youthful bliss,
Which time would fain destroy.
I listen'd, as the mariner
Suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes From off his native shore.
So gentle in thy loveliness!—
Alas! how could it be,
That death would not forbear to lay
His icy hand on thee;
Nor spare thee yet a little while,
In childhood's opening bloom,
While many a sad and weary soul
Was longing for the tomb!
Was mine a happiness too pure
For erring man to know?
Or why did Heaven so soon destroy
My paradise below?
Enchanting as the vision was,
It sunk away as soon
As when, in quick and cold eclipse,
The sun grows dark at noon.
I loved thee, and my heart was bless'd;
But, ere the day was spent,
I saw thy light and graceful form
In drooping illness bent,
And shudder'd as I cast a look
Upon thy fainting head;
The mournful cloud was gathering there,
And life was almost fled.
Days pass'd; and soon the seal of death
Made known that hope was vain;
I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp
Would never burn again;
The cheek was pale; the snowy lips
Were gently thrown apart;
And life, in every passing breath,
Seem'd gushing from the heart.
I knew those marble lips to mine
Should never more be press'd,
And floods of feeling, undefined,
Roll'd wildly o'er my breast;
Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms
Seem'd moving in the gloom,
As if death's dark array were come,
To bear thee to the tomb.
And when I could not keep the tear
From gathering in my eye,
Thy little hand press'd gently mine,
In token of reply;
To ask one more exchange of love,
Thy look was upward cast,
And in that long and burning kiss
Thy happy spirit pass'd.
I never trusted to have lived
To bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony,
It ought not so to be;
I hoped that thou within the grave
My weary head shouldst lay,
And live, beloved, when I was gone,
For many a happy day.
With trembling hand, I vainly tried
Thy dying eyes to close;
And almost envied, in that hour,
Thy calm and deep repose;
For I was left in loneliness,
With pain and grief oppress'd,
And thou wast with the sainted,
Where the weary are at rest.
Yes, I am sad and weary now;
But let me not repine, Because a spirit, loved so well,
Is earlier bless'd than mine; My faith may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore, Since thou art where the ills of life Can never reach thee more.
UPON the far-off mountain's brow
The angry storm has ceased to beat; And broken clouds are gathering now In sullen reverence round his feet;
I saw their dark and crowded bands
In thunder on his breast descending; But there once more redeem'd he stands,
And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending. I've seen him when the morning sun
Burn'd like a bale-fire on the height; I've seen him when the day was done,
Bathed in the evening's crimson light. I've seen him at the midnight hour, When all the world were calmly sleeping, Like some stern sentry in his tower,
His weary watch in silence keeping.
And there, forever firm and clear,
His lofty turret upward springs; He owns no rival summit near,
No sovereign but the King of kings.
Thousands of nations have pass'd by,
Thousands of years unknown to story,
And still his aged walls on high
He rears, in melancholy glory.
The proudest works of human hands
Live but an age before they fall;
While that severe and hoary tower
Outlasts the mightiest of them all.
And man himself, more frail, by far,
Than even the works his hand is raising, Sinks downward, like the falling star
That flashes, and expires in blazing.
And all the treasures of the heart,
Its loves and sorrows, joys and fears, Its hopes and memories, must depart To sleep with unremember'd years. But still that ancient rampart stands Unchanged, though years are passing o'er him And time withdraws his powerless hands, While ages melt away before him.
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