Joy, serious and sublime,
Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer,
Should swell the bosom, when a maiden's hand,
Filled with life's dewy flowerets, girdeth on
That harness, which the ministry of Death
Alone unlooseth, but whose fearful power
May stamp the sentence of Eternity.
"How can the red man be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving?"
YE 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 forest where they roamed
There rings no hunter shout;
But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.
"T is 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 cone-like cabins,
That clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
Before the autumn 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 his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreathed it
Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.
Wachuset hides its lingering voice
Within his 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.
DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub 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 wistful tenderness, a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence
Alone can wear.-With ruthless haste he bound
The fringes of their curtained lids
Forever.—There had been a murmuring sound
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears.-The spoiler set
His seal of silence.-But there beamed a smile
So fixed and holy from that marble brow,-
Death gazed and left it there:-he dared not steal
The signet ring of heaven.
NATURE doth mourn for thee. There is no need
For Man to strike his plaintive lyre, and fail,-
As fail he must,-if he attempt thy praise.
The little plant that never sang before,
Save one sad requiem when its blossoms fell,
Sighs deeply, through its drooping leaves, for thee
As for a florist fallen. The ivy wreathed
Round the gray turrets of a buried race,
And the tall palm, that like a prince doth rear
Its diadem 'neath Asia's burning sky,
With their dim legends blend thy glorious name.
Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make
Whate'er it touched, most holy. The pure shell,
Laying its pearly lip on ocean's floor,
The cloistered chambers where the sea-gods sleep, And the unfathomed melancholy main,
Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps. -Hark! from snow-breasted 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 moan
For thee, whose ritual made each rocky height
An altar, and each cottage home the haunt
Of Poesy. Yea, thou didst find the link
That joins mute nature to ethereal mind,
And made that link a melody.
Of thy last sleep was in the native clime
Of song and eloquence, and ardent soul,-
Spot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isle,
So loved of favoring skies, yet banned by fate,
Might shadow forth thine own unspoken lot.
For at thy heart the ever-pointed thorn
Did gird itself, until thy life-stream oozed
In gushes of such deep and thrilling song,
That angels, poising on some silver cloud,
Might linger 'mid the errands of the skies,
And listen, all unblamed,
Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest,
And like a nurse, with finger on her lip,
Watch lest some step disturb thee,-striving still
From other hands thy sacred harp to guard.-
Waits she thy waking, as some mother waits
The babe, whose gentle spirit sleep hath stolen,
And laid it dreaming on the lap of heaven.
-We say not thou art dead. We dare not. No.
For every mountain stream and shadowy dell
Where thy rich harpings linger, would hurl back
The falsehood on our souls. Thou speak'st alike
The simple language of the freckled flower,
And of the glorious stars. God taught it thee.
And from thy living intercourse with man,
Thou shalt not pass away, until this earth
Drops her last gem into the doomsday flame.
Thou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir
Whose hymns thy tuneful spirit learned so well
From this sublunar terrace, and so long
Interpreted. Therefore, we will not say
Farewell to thee:-for every unborn age
Shall mix thee with its household charities;
The sage shall meet thee with his benison,
And woman shrine thee as a vestal flame
In all the temples of her sanctity,-
And the young child shall take thee by the hand,
And travel with a surer step to heaven.
COME, gather to this burial-place, ye gay!
Ye, of the sparkling eye, and frolic brow,
I bid ye hither. She, who makes her bed
This day, 'neath yon damp turf, with spring-flowers sown,
Was one of you. Time had not laid his hand
On tress or feature, stamping the dread lines
Of chill decay, till Death had nought to do,
Save that slight office which the passing gale
Doth to the wasted taper. No, her cheek
Shamed the young rose-bud; in her eye was light
By gladness kindled; in her footsteps grace;
Song on her lips; affections in her breast,
Like soft doves nesting. Yet, from all she turned,
All she forsook, unclasping her warm hand
From Friendship's ardent pressure, with such smile
As if she were the gainer. To lie down
In this dark pit she cometh, dust to dust,
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