ELIOT. a VOUT BY WILLIAM ELLERY CHlAN~NING. BOSTO-N: CUPPLES, UPIIAII AND COMIPANY. 1885. COPYRIGHT, 1885, BY WILLIAM ELLERY CHA-NNING ALFlRED MVDGE & SON, PRINTERS, BOSTON. C ON TE NT S. IN THE CAVE... IMORNING..... I NIGHT AGAIN. * IN THE PAST... COMO-THE SETTLEMENT LISA...... LIGHT AND SHADOW. THE TESTAMENT.. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. 5 . 17 ~. 31 *. 42 . 55 . 66 *. 76 .. 89 .1 " I A IA ELIOT. I. IN THIE CAVE. ~-HEIE once the lynx and panther made his house, Or the fat bear brought up his family, Poor nurslings of the Wild, I find my place Of shelter from the world, and man remote. Nearly two decades of this mortal coil Run off; my sands of life mostly run out; And yet the everlasting voice I hear, And never find the silence. On these rocks, Old as the pillars of the eaith, I make My couch, table, and seat; and the iron door Grates on its hinges to my touch alone, 6 Alone, alone, alone by night, by day. No friendly voice e'er sweetness to my ear; No friendly thought e'er warming to my heart; Seared by misfortune, with its life-blood scant, And soon to stop! Alone! Yes. But I hear! Was that a human step, or a dry leaf Dropped from the oak-tree? And that echo soft,Was it the splinter of the waterfall That down the glen flies from the moon light's clutch? This awful silence I And I ever hear Sounds that surprise me, - born, I feel, of fear Sounds faint and far, that drench me with affright, Here as I sit, and see the bloodstained scroll, - Those letters that I plucked from out his breast, 7 As slowly from his heart the red drop oozed, - Those, and her portrait, and his own! Lisa I I see her near me!'T is her hand I touch! Her soft brown hair, her gentle hazel eyes. Cruel, say you, was something in her smile, And sensual or vindictive? Oh! to me The very sweetness of God's deepest love Beamed from those faithful orbs; and when that mouth Was pressed to mine I never felt its scorn. Thus, thus to live, -should this, indeed, be life,Within this cavern which my hands have scooped To the convenient largeness for my wants; ilight enough, and so secured that none can come Without I know them here. And this, my rifle, Time once, that was a joy,-far off, in deed, - 8 But now one loathsomne thing, since flowed his blood. And yet to know that from this dungeon here I still must roam the tall wood's broken gloom; Far down the glen, where the sharp ripple glides Of the cold stream, like arrows in its haste, Curving and curving fast, - and kill the deer, Most graceful of their kind. For I have vowed, In this self-punishing, I will not steal my life; And naught but these fair creatures make me live. 'T is late; the night draws on; no human love To cheer me in my grief. Society! Oh, well I do remember in those days When I had Lisa, and I owned a home, How dear the firelight blaze lit up the walls Of our Kentucky house, -that ample hall, 9 There where our mother dwelt, and he, the judge, My father,-all the children round, the dogs Stretched out along the floor, and often heard The flying hoof-beats of the full-blood steed; Some social neighbor, on his round of calls, Proud of his good gray mare; the kindly hopes, The tidings from the town, the postman's.... shout; And heard afar that soothing Sabbath bell, Sweet in my childish heart!'~ Hush! Was it a step? ~ Again? Something along the leaves; the; night Crawling in the cool air amid the oaks, Or the soft panther's foot seeking the meat That's hanging, at the door. Again! the whisper Can it be? Who comes?'Tis Gordon's form. His hand across his heart, as on that day; 10 Slowly the red drop oozing from the spot. See! and he shot as well as I; closer! O God! why was it not his ball through mine, Not mine in his? And Lisa at his side I I often say it: Eliot, the blow was yours. And now you live, frozen to the heart, for life, Until on yonder heap of leaves you rest, Mourned for by none unless some wander ing wind. Yes,'t is midnight; I feel it in my soul. Yon star that strikes beyond the cavern's roof Brings me that fated hour, the time to sleep. I call it sleep, but all along my mind Hovers the contribution of the day. The curse of Cain weighs worlds upon my soul, - Whoso sheds human blood, his own shall flow. How often have I sought the fatal stroke; 11 How often bared my breast to the light ning's stab, Or begged the wild man of the woods to dart Ilis arrow through me; and the venomous snake, Whose measured warnings in the grass I hear, As oft I thread the glade, his rattle shrill. No, no; they harm me not, fated to live. The sweetest draught that ever touched my lips Will be the wine of death, a cordial draught. Would but the sisters brew it speedily, And let me drain that glass. And yet I live! As now, to meet this midnight hour and say, - One more, one more, another sun must rise; Another day, the same as all that go; Tied to myself, and these dread, pitiless thoughts, As when Prometheus lay and felt the eagle 12 Lapping( his )bloo1, chained on the Cau 'T is silence sears my brain. No pleasant words: No smile over her lips; no gentlest part ing When she ope'd the door, and lingered lolng, Waiting to hear mny lalest foot-tread fall; No glance upon her face, as oft she sat Wondering at my strange fancies and strange acts. I vainly stretch my hands. I meet the air Empty and wan and cold and pitiless. I ask for mercy! On the rocks I kneel, Long ere this hour is passed, hoping for mercy: That some voice will say, " Go forth, this penance o'er." Hoping, I say, Yes; but my hope's de sp air. Deca(les have fled) and yet my prayers re main, Like somne dull, hollow sphere, untenanted. 13 When I was young, how oft I sang, some caitch, Some merry song, when I was left alone, (aiy as the callow bird uponI the bough; My innocent heart responding to the joy That broods o'er all things. Since that aw ful hour, Doomed as the frozen streamn, its ripples sunk To icy stillness Hark I That foot againl 'T is Lisa's, at the door. I see her soft brown hair, Lighter than faintest glass spun at the flame. HIow waves it in the moonlight's deadly glow! And oh! her gentle eyes, they melt the g,loom; And her kind voice, " EliotI my love, I come I never loved hut you,- no one as much. But I was one not framed to love, save one. 14 Not of the class of women whose shrunk hearts Feel but a single friend and have no more Than one emotion; and I thought that you Should still be mine. OhI Eliot, oh! my love, WVas jealousy more worth than all my love? And those poor letters, bathed in his last blood, A proof that I less loved you than of yore? I know the date Is the same. I know I wrote That day to you and him. But my true love, Might you not spare his life? I hear the gun! I see the fearful flashI the ringing, shot Is pressing through my heartI I cannot breathe! I go with Gordon to that other land I But I will come to you. I will not leave You, dearest, in that lonely world; but come 15 Sometimes, at hollow midnight, when your ear, Attuned to finer silence, claims new sounds. 'T is I;'t is Lisa! Eliot, do not fire! " What did I hear? Was it the oak-leaf falling in the frost? Was it the torrent whispering down the glen? Methoug,ht I heard a voice, like Lisa's voice. There! There! My God! that sound again! " Eliot, my love, The nearest to my heart of those I love, Would that this hand could take and lead you up In this still land, beyond that temporal day. I cannot, cannot; no, my child! No hour, No moment can my loving heart come near To stanch your wounds; nor this frail form One touch of consolation to your days 16 Ever afford. Eliot, why was it I who died When Gordon fell, doomed by the fatal hand? Because I loved him thus, you fondly deemed, Even as I loved yourself. Why look so faint Across those bloodstained scrolls? My heart is yours,Here in the hollow grave, - all yours, the same." ( II. MORNIN G. IS almost sunrise; I had long to wait. 1 hear the early birds begin theiri songs; AWould It were the last. Yet I believe and feel That life grows weaker, and so it must end, Nor far away. How foolish in me still These shallow, hurried notes to scrawl. Here will they mold, with those,- the let ters! And the faithful books that true remain, Sil.ent though speaking, ranged upon the stones, Facing the long procession of the years,Schiller and Shakspere, Spenser, with their kin, And courtly Addison. Never they dreamed 18 That things they wrote should float thus far away, And in such places, here in these rank woods Nourish an outlaw's breast, haggard with crime, Save mine, fa, from all human eyes; For in your trade-mad town, on Como's street, Who lives who ever read them? Know I not. Would I could live and yet destroy no life; Yet neither roots nor nuts, nor berries scant, Will save me from destruction. These dim wilds In their game furnish a thin subsistence, And I have sworn to breathe till my last sigh Falls wretchedly to death. Live must I call it? Once did I live, and knew the morning break As the sweet herald of auspicious day, 19 Wherein my thoughts should bloom even as its blush. Like radiance o'er the east my hopes shot forth. The world was all before me and its friends,Those polite liars, those true, faithful friends. On no man yet I ever turned my back. I was affectionate, or so I thought; I trusted all, and trustful, tried to please. They shook me from them like the poi soned snake Whose venom drops when none affects the cause. My warm affections, my soft sympathies, They rated oddity, named them brief whim, Caprices, and the wiser called me mad, The least reprieve they gave, to glance aside, Neglect me; cold contempt, indifference, Silent aversion, indolent remark, Their sole returns. 20 Was that a figure AIoving among the trees, there, where the sun Begins to gild their moss? Like Gordon's~ fornm, - Just crossing through the glade from where I sit. MWhy,'t is a deer, and bends this way to me. I' II get my gun, shut to my dungeon's, door. And I can feel its soft and liquid eye Beam on this gloomy cell ill friendly fear. I could not shoot if this viper at my heart Consumed its blood. Shoot, poor thing! Never till now, Driven by hunger was I weeping forced To slay one living creature, nor to harm. Nor should I now;'t is part of this dread penance, And I live by murder. Could be that Gordon's soul Impressed itself upon that silly deer, To tempt a hunter's thought? Its liquid eye, 21 Perhlaps, prefigures happier days in store? Xo, no! the same, the g,nawing, at my heart, And carling care from anguish unappeased. Wvhy do I ke( p those letters yet, so near? Near, ever in my eyes, and the twin por traits, - I,isa's and his, - ever, forever there! Was there no God with pity in his heart When I lay cradled on my mothler's breast? (Or was this fiend who tears my life to shreds The One who made me, blasted and ob scure(l? I dreamed in calmer days of pleasing th,ughts, Blest recollections, which like soothing lights O'ershot my morbid glooms, and made a hope Of earth, lit up the dark, cold lakes with joy, And touched the freezing foliage till it laughed; Honeyed remembrances of good deeds done, 22 Like angel hymns soft fluting o'er the mind, Banishing sin and binding up tinmes wounds. The unappeasable sky above me shuts Its iron lids'gainst every chleerful thought; No day nor night, nor early morn nor eve, Nor shapes of things to come nor those all gone, Are neighbor to my cause. What moves yon bush? 'T is but the frost-work lightening in the sun, That gives it verge to move, to right its stems From the cold grasp of night. These things are love(d. The glade that stoops across the long drawn wood, Its unshorn grasses for the deer's supply, I sought again; a little sylvan temple, With sober front carved by the wood god's taste, For Dryad meetings comfortably adorned. Around the graceful trees move sensible 23 To the sweet whisperings of the wind; the spiing Where nightly come the wild inhabitants, To touch their lips, adorned with mossy stones, Might please some hermit's mind. Was I happy then? Was there an hour deep in the past when life Half kept some smiling dreams? My memoly fails. I fancy, as I seek that glade, mv mind Might, if't were gracious, partly call again Some thing or day that smiled across my path, Ripe with humanity, before that blow At my own race had shadowed all my soul, And rooted out all tiace of blest emotion. Why did I love? Had I no joy in that? I looked in Lisa's face; I saw her shape, Light and convenient beyond Nature's art, Made for our race; those hands that did her thought Before my clumsy brain presumed her act; 24 That step so sure and sweet; that modest eye, Ever self-humbling, ever soothing me. I loved her all. Was not there, then, a joy? Then, but how far off now! I am no more Of life; all's fled, all's lost. Again, - her form! As I was sitting in the glade herself Passed at the further end and near the spring. Watching for (leer I sat for food is scarce. My eyes were on the earth, my heart was faint, And then I heard a voice. I raised my eyes. Was it the oak-leaf falling in the frost? Was it the torrent whispering down the glen? She speaks, soft as the child who prays at night His miother's blessing: " Eliot! thou thread'st alone The shadowy vale, save that my memory Its penance bears along thy weary road. Child to my heart all dear, I loved thee ever! Nay, thou knew'st not that all my soul was thine. Frenzied with jealousy, that maddening draughlt, The aloes of the heart, and now rusted With solitude, that by its acid eats Away the truth; thought's vitriol, chasing The fine conceit to ashes, rubbing out The burnished silver of the social glass, Reducing every pleasure to a mask A filmy skeleton, through which the breath Of an unformed despair glides ghostly up, As midnight's sigh in the cathedral's vault Where overhead the falling ruins soar." Methought I knew that voice. Was that his form? This hunger at my heart and this fatigue I I surely saw a figure cross the glen, As I glanced back, its hands upon its heart. Gordon, no! no! It was not murder, no! 61 5 26 At twenty paces, lkilled - was he killed by me? Oh, mockery! I am frenzif,d with this life. Hunger and cold and weariness steal all sense, An everlasting faintness in my frame, And in my mind the fatal consequence, Brings forth its ghosts and dreams and fearful thoughts. Were I not here alone in these wild woods, Exiled from all which social life holds dear, Locked in that burial vault, a diseased mind, Malady naught can cure,- might not one heart, One human heart with a brief tender ness, E'en for me, say one half word of com fort, - Breathe just one sigh, and with afaltering mind Touch for an instant to my bleeding soul, A hope of mercy! My God! I ask for pardon. 27 But thou art justl Justice was made for me, This miserable doom becomes me well. A weaker nature might have sought its life; But 1, whose fibres, like the shattered oak's, Wedged to the core with lightning, wreathe Their pale, white phantoms to the angry sky, And roots entwined in earth's unmeasured halls Claim property their own; thus I, all scarred And blasted, rained on, spat upon by hail, And winter's silent moons, and still her voice, Loud as the earthquake's trump, her still small voice: " Eliot, my child, believe me to the end." I know I saw the sun rise; I believe That somewhere in that distance was a world, 28 And once the woods lay green at summer's breath, And soft the toying winds that danced in May. There must have been a world, and human life. I think I might remember childish forms, Their soft, wan hair; their little, lovely words; Questions that break a grown man's heart with joy, To think that God lets Innocence appear, And in the weary, worn-out stage of life, Paint her sweet dreams, the bliss of igno rance. I had a sister once, cold as yon snow crowned peak; A friend, than Judas baser, who did worse, Than sin, inexpiable crime, who blun dered. Thoughts had I once, anterior to that hour; Once I had hopes, before all hopes were dead. 29 I half remember these things! I must away! HIeavens! how faint I feel. The deer range far; Slippery the frost shines gleanming down the trail. That thought was rough, that I need kill these things, So sacred in these haunts. I dare not keep a hound; I cannot meet the glances of their eyes, More than all human. When they lick my hand They shudder at the touch; there's blood upon it, Which naught can wash away. No misery and no wrongs, Nor day nor night, nor the unutterable voice That yet forever asks me to repent, Nor any strength that ever I possessed, Nor these wild forms that glance across my path, Can take the stains and clear them from my soul. 30 A deer! Hush! My rifle jarred! If it should fail (I did not fail that day), then should I die A hunter's death, - die, and the deer should live. 'Twere better so; they never kill their friends. III. -NIGHT AGAIN. WRESTLED with the hight, Then on the rocky, upland ridge found food. Perhaps another week my breath may spend. But my limbs falter; methinks they are swollen. I heard my mother say death lay not far When that began. Death! All men fear to die! To change, to be crushed out into the darkness, Or sheeted off the scaffolding that swings Across the deep, unfathomable gulf, Where all we love and all we hate are dashed, - No, no, not all! save to themselves, trot all, To such as dream. I 32 Her blood stains all my soul! I did not pause; of her I never thought. 'T was all myself, accuised self; her frail And (lelicatte life I disregarded then. Soothing, I did not heal her tender fears, Caress her yielding smile, born of delight; But rudely swept her faithful heart away. Y(,u tell me Gordon struck me; said I flung The dice foully, the cards were marked, he struck; And what was that? One mielnight of this life Woul( clean wash out centuries of insult,Baffled by secret foes, nailed to the Cross, Far happier than this slowly dropping rust Curdling about my unprotected thoughts. Oft, ere I sought these ebon shades,I went In villages as twilight took their streets, And saw the laborer halting to his home, His long day's toil misfigured in the glebe, And heard his children cry their father's nallme. 33 Miglit I not, too, have had a home, a life, MIy chlildren's love?' Yes! ere these viler fiends Than all hell's lowest pit supplies, despoiled Iiy home, murdered my wife, kidnapped my darlins, Children, - all, flung into one common grave; And I to weep and see them till I die! That sound again! WAVas it the breath of moonlit air? Eliot! it rigtaht have been," I list it still; But might is not, in some men's deca logue. Mlark how the noon of night silvers yon spray, That tears the crashling cataract in twain, Then'mid the dial ravines crushed to wild flakes, And ever writhing, hurled on heaven again! See, in the vale beneathl, the placid pool WVherein the tall trees muse tand view themselves, 34 Narcissus like, built in supremer grace E'en than their own, Nature's prevailing portraits, The which she draws to emulate her skill. Eliot! they never change. The whirlpool roars; The tender, silent rivulet pursues The even tenor of its noiseless way; Down, down forever smites the tortured fall, Its broken agony on life's last beat! But mark, the stroke of twelve. Dear love, farewell! 7 Her voice? Was it a voice? How my heart beats! I thought I heard a voice! 3Iy veins are chill. Twelve did it say? Who knows the hour of twelve Here in this solitude, where never fell The solemn music of the churchyard tower; Hlere in this fiendish cave, the wild man's lair, 35 The,oniqoc's cell? Why, I could rend my heart From out my breast, and crush it'neath my feet! But I am (loomed to live, my own revenge, And Gordon's death must feast Ul)oni my blood. That voice again! Eliza's? I did dream! Yet in these dreams of life I meet with death. I live when I am dead, when life is gone; And when I wvake, I die! MIy limbs are cold; I feel the frost,-'tis stealing near my heart. Sfore wood upon the fire; but no! WAho's here, - hiere in my seat? And on the table, W hat? " All false cards, marked, you say, and loaded dice? Well, well,'tis much for you to say to me, - Eliot, that never bent to mortal man.'' 36 " Yes, loaded all,false, cheating,,;'tis 3our trade. Take that."' A blow, a blow! Why, what is this? 'T is the cold fireli,ght mocking at the stones; They did lnot hear. My limbs are freezing nOW, I'11 build the fire. " Rifles, to-morrow, At twenty paces! Eliza will be there."' 'Tis Gordon's voice, or yet one other dream. I cannot love such nights; never I may. Their spirit is a poison to my sense, And most of thelm, I fear the moonlight's spell. IWhat does it comfort? Not my breaking heart. No shrub or flower profits its palsied glare. Silence and gliding, phantoms fill the woods, And the dim forest glimmiers with af. frigllt, 37 Less like the human life I thought to live Than,ll things else, and more like himn I hate. Myself I mean, most hated of my race! I must endure it; but when I was youngD Then nmoodish patience was to me a charim. He who is patient lacks no more; he's passed The precipice; aloft he does not hang Over the dizzy, threatening gulf, but glides In peaceful currents down the greensward vale. The night wears on. The fire has sought mily limbs; Would it could burn this heart. beyond all warmth That mortal lips can blow into a flame. I'11 seek my bed again. I loved but once He who loves twice has never loved that once; Like coldly torpid hearts that slowly drag (A long paralysis from birth to death), 38 Their small expedient selves. All else to tliem,, Save their own earnest cant, is rotten ness, Feeling some whim; sorrow a lie, so wise And temperate their cherished self-esteem; And they succeed in all, and blazon forth Most godlike, in the senate halls, in law, In camps, in literature prevailing. I was not of them; yet I sought the seats Where eloquence should rule, and might have played, Had I not fallen, myself the canting knave. WVas it not better thus to fall and fade To all things human, than to live and lie? I know not. What an endless night! Sleep, sleep Deserts me! Once I loved to muse and think, - Live o'er the happy hours of past delight; Think of that creature folded in my heart, As I in hers; a(nd mark the long night build Its Spaniard's castle on a dreamer's brain. 39 Why,'twas a kind of rarer sleep; and when The glorious morninig broke my waking dream, I did not feel the want, but flung abroad As light as any bird.'T is strangely wronged; Confusion follows swift these sleepless nights, When nothing goes to cheat me of the loss That drains my waking hours, nothing to part, No veil, no dark concealment fromn those shapes. Oh, I would die within some happy dream; I cannot wish to pass and feel the steel Stirring in my cold heart with its last beat. But I shall die, as I do live, alone; This solitude detains no human guests; No reverend father, with his beads in hand, Or prayer from trembling lips, or mother's tears, Or the soft heads of children o'er their si e, - 40 All's dark and dumb and(l chl)illed(. I-'aylight! So dark? The notes of early birds! I must have dreamed. Have then the sands of night dashed off the hours In a swift torrent, night that is my prayer? For then I part forget my outlaw's watch; Or, if remembered, there hangs o'er the veil, - That gauzy, thin oblivion men name sleep,A breathless falsehood, intermixed among That which we are, yet are not. Never yet Since I first faced these woods has the mnid night Found mne consoled by this false opiate; Never the morning light has blotted out, Fromn off this crime-worn soul, its weioht of woe. Let fate be thanked,'t is not Eliza's soul! She died, she went to peace; she sleeps the sleep That should forever soothe her contrite thoughllt. 41 Bless Heaven! it is not hers the frenzy eats, The solitude devours, its sweetest prey Some human heart! Why should I save those letters? A moment in that blaze, safely consumed; And the rude scribbling of this traitorous pelln, Were it not handsomer, with them to the dust, As I shall fall myself? What interest, What word of good have they for mortal ear? But these red stains, -these will not let me burn them. Between their life and mine there stands a wall, Fatality, that says: "Live! These shall live, Even as you shall live, cursed, ever cursed, Fate's brand across your deeds." IV. IN TIIHE I'AST. OT always this. g l My wordls are frenzy; none can feel them here; Tlhis corse a prey to the green miold, to dust. Here may the wild-cat crouch and suck my veins, A nd the slow snake, the Massasauga, coil About my throat, or drag his rattles o'er MNy harmless bones. I never injured him, Nor touched his race, no more than if his form Had been my clannish totem; yet me thinks, So wild is Nature, or so self-sustained, She shlows no difference to the cruelest boor 43 And him who tends her creatures like his OwVl. At times I seem to swim along the past, Yet without pleasure; grief's too near. Could I But plunge beneath that golden dream, and sleep Ilpon the pillow of forgotten days! I seemn to see the city by the shlore, Sullen and tame, where laps the Atlantic wave; Hter gloating palaces, her scornful mites itating the poor, but loving much the rich. WVas there a breath of judigment in this world, That senseless wrack of misers and buf foons Flung to the simmering billows, served far more As driftwood to the naked islander, Crushed in his wrecker's cabin, than'tis now, - A prison of the soul, where genius dies, Love withers, and all's damned. 44 I do but dream! lIetliinks I see the hill-tops round nme swell, And meadow vales that kiss their tawny brooks, And fawn the glittering sands that hug the grass; Old valleys shorn by farmers numnerous years, Some mossy orchards murmuring with per fume, And our red farmi-house, -what a wreck that was!Its rotten shingles peeling'neath the winds, When roaring March fell in the offshore breeze; Its kitchen with the salt box full of eggs, And Taylor's " Holy Living, " on the lid; And clammny cellar, redolent of rats, Had not Grimalkin bought his ticket there, Braced on lean vermnin like a banker's clerk. 45 Our parlor kept its bitet, rarely oped. AMu,'h did I wonder at y'on glassy doors, And stacks of crockery sublimely piled,Hills of blue plates, and teapots sere with age, And spoons, old silver, tiniest of that breed. It was a sacred place, and save I whisked Sometimes a raisin or a seed-cake thence, With furtive glance I scanned the curious spot. The curtains to the windows kept all dark, - Green paper was the compound. And the floor, Well scrubbed, showed its vacuities, content With modest subterfuge of miats, the work Of some brave aunt, industrious as a fly, And interwove of rags, yet things to me I hardly dared intrude on them my shoe. Such fictions of that past, to-day seem naulght; And there prefigured lay the ruthless crimnes 46 That later years have summed up in my count, AlMde me the outlaw of these thick-set woods, And bribed the solitude to craze my brain. Within, within; for things without are void. I can remuember, on my path to school, There was upon the road a ledge of rocks, And on its side red stains. I thought th(em blood, And shuddered when I passed, and some times ran, Plou,ghed in my conscience by a glittering pang. Yet then I was unhappy, my thoughts sad; My heart was soft, I was not loved enough; I felt all tender impulse; but without, I found dull answers or averted looks,The pale, the selfish, and the worldly crowd Who block the paths of life, and drop their slime Along the doorways, and bar hope away. 47 MIy heart was made to love. I loved the trees; Thle liveloing fields, slow slumbering'neath the suir; The barberry thickets, where the cat-bird builds; And the green privet's shade, the robin's house. I loved the long, low beach that kept tlhe shore; The eternal billow, turning, in its dream; The sparkling, kelp, slow-moviing thro' the spl)ray, And the smnall beach-birds, piping their failit hymn Amid the cannon of the o'erhlanging brine. I loved the tall white clouds that the blue hills A round my b)irthplace took to hieavent with them, And( sailed away upon that azure vault Till lhours made centuries. And fain I loved The victories of the mindl, that fervent pens 48 Secured in verse or rhyme; idols to some, Butts for the jest or jeer; the students' tale, Read crouching o'er the fire in still nid night, And poring o'er their books to give the lrace Dominion, not themselves. And art be came A passion to my soul; and they wiho taught In lands Italian or in Grecian fanes, Discoverers to cold Nature of herself; Whee] within wheel, fresh beauty still evolved, As from the rushing sea sprang Venus forth, And smiled, till the blue bays grew golden, And shrines melodious gave soft music forth. But how clhill my race to my emotions! For such as I encountered most each day, Low-bent and shrunk, their narrow fore heads carved 49 Deep by their avarice, scanning each word, Ringing their twopence on the grocer's weihlt, Always the leading quest, "What will you do?" And " low much can you make?" I spake of verse, I praised the master-minds, I praised their works. Were not great poets something, artists naught? Dante's dark dream, and flowing Shak spere's light, And sweet Correggio swooning in his saint, And Newton gazing( like the stars he told! Fool!" was the word;' fool, go read the almanac, Teachl you to multiply and foot your sumns, Learning is rank confusion. Science swims Upon the floating gulf-weed, and its dream Flies at the tempest which devours its stiand." b0 Tlhere lived a few who laid a claim to me, \hllo cried: " This world is vtin; here conscience fails To meanness. Set down your priest, your advocate, With carp and venison plumnp his greedy skin, On couches soft rear his luxurious sleep, Andl bring congestion from voluptuous wines, - That is what science means; to us not that. Time hath a 1liglier meaning to our hearts. You can foot a rhyme; clhanlt the righlit thing, tlhe (ood, Sin. friendshlip, praise the scholar's life, the poet's." Thus did thiey bhag, and then showed me their gumis. Accursed rot their treacherous, craven breed! Wrorshlippers of success, idols to them selves, Boani in conventions, who keep up the church, 51 An] cut each sour mlignant whl pr(fers Ihis unwaseed cant to their soaped litur g,ies. Such fancy that the law is in the state, And do not reek of Him who put it there, - Who made the law and made the state to fit. If there be one thing in these pathless woods, One gleam of sunshine o'er their flying streams, 'T is that they are not here,- the human vipers, Warmed in my breast till dawned the hour to sting, And turn the innocent blood to madness That had sustained their life, and painted soft A long and sunny day of true attachment; Like the Samaritan bid(ling, up my veins, Then stabbigll to the heart. And if I showed aught to the crowd, They laughed to scorn, or with indifference, 52 Strangled my offspring. Wvhat's the search of fame? lVhy should man care for the applause of nlan, Knowing the painted pageant that he is?Is that the moonlight gleaming on the lid That shuts the letters? There it falls across In a long, narrow line of icy light. That hand, white and sepulchral,- is't a hand, Fringed with its shroud, that lifts the dust strown lid? " Eliot! scourge not the past; your heart was locked; You thought friends loved you not. Not so;'twas you That did not love them, for your heart was chilled By its inhere)-t coldness. You were vain; Yourself you loved. You thought your verse was well, Now mark this letter;'tis this hand that wrote. 53 You do not read my letters now; let me: - 'There is an hour when justice seeks her own; There is a day when love shall find its love. Thou shalt not pace the shores of life alone, See the stars shining from that Heaven above! Eliot! the child of that relentless fate, - It must relent. There is a better land, Smile on thy wounds, and be not desolate; And find an anchor on time's lonely strand.' " Her voice! The moonlight sinks! The hand is gone I A cloud's across the sky! A flash, -the lightning breaks above the cave, And strikes the vision like the shot that kills. Her voice again, - an echo to the flash: 54 " Thou shalt not wait mne long; there is a Il)ace To which thy steps are bent, and I go there,I wait for thee: not many mornings more Thy palsied eyes life's blackened sun shall read." ;~;~j;~~~;i~ V. COMO-TIHE SETTLEMNEN'T. [tEY know me well, My long, lank, ebon locks, and still, set face. (And think me proud, alas!) Once't was not so. Como! they call their place. Strange names they take, As some might deem, for spots along the praiie. And yet the lake shows fair, and sweet the view, Broad in its graceful swells and rolling green, The deep seclusion of the inland world. On the bare outskirts of this Kansas life They prize the leaven in the sea-shore news; 56 As the neat shop-boy deals his costly silks, Christened at Paris in fantastic French, Soiled with the Hoosier's patois. I must come, Twice in the long twelve months, to pur chase lead And powder for my guns, and trade away, Poor spoil, the lovely furs I robbed in sooth From our poor cousins of the ambushed wood. And oh! how slow did twenty winters fall, And twenty summers deck the grove with green, Since constant to the Precinct, shadow dim Of man's civilities, I needs resort; See the log-cabins fading off the streets, See the old settlers sloping toward the west, Mark the new stations, view the flying train Glide o'er the dangerous slough, where erst the crane Stretched his white neckl and turned his wary head, 57 (A hundred rods,) split on my rifle's flash. WAhy, all dolh chlange, all goes, all flits but me. ITh(ir faultless curiosity ne'er cools. As when the first day I stalked o'er the plain, The children stared me, and the drowsy curs, A re(l-eyed swarm, peevish with idleness, Snarled( in my track, scenting' the gamle I lugg'ed, To-day the same. 'Vho's he? " " Why, do you know, IHe lives wilhin the forest, miles afar, Alone, - a hunter. He can spoil a deer At eighty rod." " What! alone there in the bush? He looks it. What a face, and eyes so deep Sunk in his head. I should not care to meet Ilim in the shadows of his forest lair, An, in a cave!' " Ittaklesallsoitsof men To make a world." " For the last time! 58 Strangely that thrilled me.'T was a show man s puff. At once the presage to myself I linked; And some one cried amid the gaping crowd: He'll never come this road again" (a clown, The favorite of the circus, for his wit And shining heel, potential). I once thought These callow omens mattered most little. Such as the blood-red circle at the west I saw last eve, when tardy sunset slid, That seemed to carve so)me gory creature there. Questions are native here. If so, my mind Is tasked why they ne'er ask me of myself: They never question me! Has destiny Scarred on my form, " This being's be yond life, And all that draws to life, its interest"? Ask of the desert sands why lone they bask, Dreary and bleatching, in the lidless sun; Ask of the surf that's combing o'er the beach 59 When the tall breakers lift their awful forms; Ask the tornado, as it cuts the trees, The whirling windrow of the prairie wood, Like a long swath of hay, to answer ques tions,Or of me, why I live and suffer still, Who am I, or what? I would I knew them, If they need me not. Simply a vagrant To their laws, I come, at these far inter vals, 'Iossed like the winter goldfinch on a breeze In ricochets, against their househol( gods, And they are barred from me. I am not bought, As they are, day by day, nor sold. I learn The lessons taught in Nature's school, her creeds; My code is but the stream that shuts the glen; My market is the herb-field, or the trunk Where the industrious bee lodges his sweets C6O The lights of my saloon are mournful stars, That shine and say," W Ve would, we cannot come, To warm your pale complexion by our fires." My living suits not them, nor with me theirs, Fenced off and barricaded from my race; And yet would I could please them. I could take Not merely of their kindness. If my heart Would open, it milght warm as a new sun. Their help I ne'er shall seek again. Rest there, Ye implements of hunger, fit for such As I. Death will come sweet; hunter no more. I shall not weep to slay the timorous deer; Nor clutch her turquoise and her sapphires forth, Nature's wet gems, from her cold emerald streams. " Eliot,"- I read my name upon a sign, 61 After I heard the warning,-" for the last time" I am not stooped in form, or shuffling yet; My hair unbleached, my gaze unerring flies. Is misery, then, a styptic for''Timne's wounds? Does sorrow, like Arabian gums, o'er spread, Infix these poisoned images, and mask A clear transparency that shows all lilght, Wvhen there's within a Upas sure to slay?... Perchance there's wisdom in that outward...),j life, ~. In the red circle on the sunset sky; And, as I neared my cell, the owlet's cry: Shook through the pines that weep the tor-"" rent's roar,That weird, unearthly knell. They say, in sootlh, That men have heard that sob brief ere their deaths,Yea, as they died! My life is foul and poor, And hunger-bitten, where my sorry bones 62 Peer through the tightened flesh. And yet this frame Seems strong, and I might keep another century, If't were not for the plague-spot at my breast. I could embrace the sunshine as it falls, And list the pleasant song of matin birds, As if the joys of children tugged my heart, - Children! those human birds, with trills *'.' n of love. ...'nd when the gems of eve silver the fields .., With their soft shower of starlight barely - guessed, ...And lay aside the loud and dissonant day, ***WVhich like a noisy school-boy whistled long Hlis brawling catch, the old devotion dawns In figures born of faith. That I might fly, There is no flight for him whose memory Burns like a meteor through all times and scenes, 63 And as a nerve of everlasting pain, Eats on the irusting shroud he hates -him self! How light I made of omens, called them cheap, Foolish dreams; in happier days laughed them to scorn. I once could mock at them. Sorrow doth teachl Such lessons as our gayer hours forget. I see events prefigured in each mote,It floats across my passage, shapes from dark And awful regions. I am now become A sailor on the invisible sea of fate, That the miist covers. With man my peace is sealed; Again I shlall not visit Como's shore,Not in my living form; but they will find MIy bones after some days, an(d put them there, In sad November, when the heart is slow, Under the prairie, " Eliot, a stranger,7" marked 64 Upon the place.'T is right that men out lay Their compliments on things, to them which are No more than the thin purple grass that flaunts, Across the graveyard's swale; for It is so human It floats upon the current of my thought, MWhen in such places, one of Eliza's rhymes: " Fear not the end, the quickenling hour draws near; Rise upward, hope, dispel this earthly fear; The shepherd waits his flock to gather in; A truce to worldliness, good-bye to sin." Little of me could find the villagers, As mutely on their narrow gaze I dawned, DI)enizen of the forest; lean my scrip, Nothing my business to the eager race. I trafficked with them, followed up the trail Across the rolling prairie, struck the ridge, 65 Took the Oak-barrens, and beneath the woods Sank, with the deer I hunted.'T is near night; The journey's long; the day hangs heavy on me; 5ly toil is mostly o'er. Far to the north, Vibrate the waving lights, that o'er their ice Alarmi the Eskimo, and furnish forth Their ireezing calendars. To me they look Repugnant; there's no warmth, no heart to them,Brilliant and bending as the polished friends, Who most me wounded. Hark! the owl's low sobs Quiver from out the grove! What world lies yon, To whose depthls I pass? Do spirits look therefrom On such as I, andl touch their fading hours WAVith the brief, borrowed mioonlilght of the grave? VI. LISA. Il ILD of some hlallpier fate, for love's iost hours! Treasure of household good, of golden da.ys s The sunshine of all hearts! Torn on tlhe thorns Wherewith my path was strewn, she sank to death! Lisa,' upon thy grave some violet's breath Shall softly sigh; and there be set a crown, As a perpetual token of thy grace, Rustling upon the bannlers of our life, Fi om the gross weilght of custom shaken forth. You see her portrait and her letters there. I never dare to take thlem in my hand, Till now my time's most spent; and I should look 67 Throullgh the blank, palsi(d vacuum of tlle past, And theen be crushed to silence, by the will Of ruthless fate. And t is the same sweet face? With half a touch of sadness at the mouth Gathered, as if the angel smiiiling, there AMigh,t say: " Children of tinme, bard is our lot; Yet ani I yours. I will not leave you lonely. ]ut I w-ill come to you, and smile on you. For I'm a soul, the cause of pleasure still!. With mlly devotions, smiles and tears are blent. Both joys and sorrows keen kindle rmy lovers. With me shall sing the unmelodious air, Sparkle with foam the cold and boundless sea, And swiftly-fleeting clouds arrest their mllarchll Till the soft ralianace of my pulses thrill Their' mutely-fol(led sunshine. I must cull TIhe odor of the rose, bloom of the peach, An(l wavne across thle foiehlead(l ill a tiress. I will claim beauty! Take, oh, take, the rest, You clumsy mn - the war, the weariness. If you but look at me, in that one look, - A glance, a touch, one pressure of my hand, - Shall all your mlanhood fall within myself, Yet not to dissonance. Ard wonder on! For to myself I am a mystery still. That I attract is true,- the secret's kept. You conme to kneel, - you worship. Love hlas lent Ale to the office. I could not refuse; Though, sometimes, I have thouht,' If I had scope For a few selfish hours, with Love's con sent! WVhy is a womani's dawn thus toned in spells Of imusic that dissolve, in age, to noise? Catuty is youtth! l'oi yothi joiycts& her seCif.!7 68 69 She looks as if she spoke. I ne'er forget hien her pale portrait left the artist's hand. And oft I saw that joyous look of life Upon her face at the faint glow of twilight. WVhen the dim wood fire lit her pure feat ures, As in a fairy vision, she would smile. The past and future were one happy dream; The present like the laughter of a child. Eliz i!'t is the hour! And I must ope the casket ere I sleep! I may unloose the thread. This lock of hair, Dabbled in gore, Gordon's, -I know the stain, - I saw you cut it fromn his head, the miorn, In the cold sunshine of December's scorn. Hie did not move, nor lift those loving eves! WIhy do I prate of this? AWVhat's here? A flower! A withered rose, - a soft, pale rose, your hands 70 Had placed upon his breast! B]e merciful! That was a sad( revenge I took onl you! I loved but thee! Ever within my heart 'The murIImur ran: Lisa, my darling child! The idol of my hleart! my heart of hearts! No drop of bloodl steals ever through my veins 'lhat does not throb with thine! No nerve obe3 s A sweet emotion, save of thee it comes. I saw Time's gorg,eous pageant drape tlhe west, Vheni the low summer sunshine beut the lakes To fiery gold, and thought, " Were Lisa here! Ni,ght crystalled on her zenith! Stars blazed hi,gh! \Myriad(s of orbs rolling their myriad rounds! I said:'I Does Lisa see them? " Was it solng, Picture or statue, grove or shrine, - one hope 7 1 Beat its soft love-march in my faithful breast. Did withi m( Lisa look, that day was bliss. I dare no more! What words are these? What sounds?' 'T is igih the mnidni,ht hour! This with ered scroll, My hiand and spots upon it, Gordon's name, - Yes yes the chllenge! I recall it now! And hlere is hers to himi and hers to me, T1hat morniin, both one (late. And then, Itow sweet And thoughtful of hler kind, considerate heart: 'Gordon, our life is hrief! WVe are to prove A blessing, or atn evil to our friends. God, in hlis imercy, gently lays upon Out' pathi, the opportunity to goo(o. O Gordloi, take it up! 01, clasp thle right! Tlhink of my heart, and pardon. Be my friend. 72 I know the lawless blood, the frontier feud,But there's a better way.'Tis Love's pure law, Never can bloodshed right a human wrol g. " And but a lineThe least faint line, the smallest hair divides A life of anguish from a life of joy. And there's no power to keep a human soul Fromn passing it. - The wolves across the slou,gh! I fear their thrilling yell. It chills my veins, And forces out a gasp. Why do they howl? An echo to my heart, poor hungry knaves! I humor the least sound.'T is in myself The answvers must be given. If heard not there, No gold can taste, no justice purchase them. 73 There is a star, by which we pledged our faith; I see it shining through you glittering sky. That lamp of promise guides my tearful heart To calmer regions of unvanquished bliss. It falls; the cloud is rife.'his further page' "Never despair! for laboring, storm-clouds fly, Softly the west is bathed in Heaven's pure light, There is a place, beyond Time's sullen sky, Withl stars of mercy filled, and ever bright. Thou gentle heart! Surely thy love was born To meet return, and find its equal sphere. The ship glides into port, the streamers torn And yet her voyage made good, her rec ord clear, e 74 So thinie! The miist is fadifng off the hills; Sunshine and verdure light the wintry tlce, Love! in miy hleart confide thy store of ills; My faitli shlall firmly lift thy destiny!" I read(l no more! I mnust abroad, and soothle me with the air! The miist is dallying o'er the cataract's toIbll); This hour tastes chill. There is a world withini That oLutw-ard show the vulgar mtiscall life Whly should we then, year after year, submit To Tinme's ilngratitude? One touch, and all WVas done and ended. \NVe iiiust,o one day. WVhat miad(ldening thoulghts! Lisa! I see thly star! Fonidly it cli tubs that sky's lone zenith far? The watery cloiids tend its i)iale, sootlhig lig ht! Lisa! nmy heart! Thou idol of my love! 4 7,5 If iln the planet's soul thine own is set, If't is tl)y ltiure I see floating there, Uponl a wretchled outlaw in these woods, Look down in mercy from thy sphleral throne. Oh, to be leagued with me, a vagrant's bri(le! Cast out, spurned off, detested by his kin; Ilis children icolse than dead, his heart a deii VWherein the furies writhle! hllere am I strayed? So nlear the edge of the black precipice, 'I'he slippery rock, the dread, uncertain lheight. And there, sleeping iii peace, the silvery gulf Whereto the whirlpool reels, maddenred at the rush. Away! aN-ay! It tempts me to its plung,e! Away! ;~ p ~: VI[. LIGIT AND SIIADOW. LOAD of weariness [ tAnd shTall I drag it hence? I loathe the thloulght. Musl I destlro a life in order to save mine? I'm almost at the cave (not home) at last. There breathes no home to me o'er life's lone wave. The door half open; so there's some within. And she comes forth,- a female, verily. Now I can scan her, - wondrously antique, Stoopingr and scant of weilght, and with a stiff Attuningcr her frail postures. I'11 touch her quietly, And then conduct her in the den ag,ain. Iler voice 77 " I am your debtor.'T is your home; I tried your deerskin couch. SuLrely, I found Sweet visiolns there of sleep. Early the morn I loitered out, plucking strong roots and herbs Spiced for decoction and for sovereign cures, - Things that amuse these woods, and white oak bark,Thret, is a powerful remedy. I tottered on, Till overhead the vagrant, laulghing sun Had spilled his aureate license o'er the vault, (In age the sun-god smites my wrinkled brow,) And far I lingered still. I dlearly love The woods, and sometimes tell them at the Farm That I could nothing b)etter ask of life, Than, as a wanderer, dovwn the woods to roam. The spicy odors would appease my sense, I 78 And by their keen promotion fill my thoug'hts AVith a more sinewy aspect. Li-h~t my feet Then dlanced along the bed of timie-strewn leaves, Thle forest loom twines in perennial carpet. I might seem young those days. The cralty air WYould hazard with my bones, and risk his suit On thle persuasion of nmy newv-laid youth. Friend, I surmise that here you dwell too blest, Glad'miid the soft seclusion of the trees. And you maintain traditional respect, Coined for highl places and for whirling, streams,The d(leathl-shroud of the rainbow, where he paints Devices o'er his tombstone manifold. At early sunirise vou muT,st love to kneel iAnd lift the prayer: I Oh, God of love! of life!' But what a fount of loveliness is this, 79 Each morn surrendered to uncounted bliss; Record of perfect tones that thlrill the air With their warm, flashiing cyibal-dance of hope. Chasten this heart. I kneel. Take, take my life, And bathe it ill thy peace, the silent sun So softly pours across yon mountain's breast, And, like a lawn of pLure diaphanous good, Embalm it with thy mercy! '; A hermit here, Or fasting penitent, migiht fitly dwell, And greet the heavenly carols in the sigh Of the soft-falling echo from the brook, That murmurs moisture to the grateful trees. Our thoughts are sweet in solitude, And most at eve. There is a twilight faith Woull steal the foulest wrong, and( bear it cleansed Into the Invisible Presence; stanch the curse, 80 And with the floating glow that stills the west Iln its etphonrious cradle of the sphleres, Touclhel in the love ot' all things, puirge the soul Of every dark emotion. I,ife brings care. We love, we are deceived, -most in our selves. Our plans deceive us, - they were too ill laid. The dread omniscient wand that opes the tomb, Touches her forehead, and the loved one falls. (Heaven was not heaven before.) I think that pain Bears, like a vase of beauty carved with skill In hig,h-born figures of Palladian art, A homely storax that embalms our stars. Come wieal or woe, come fame or ignominy, Weaving our colors, dark or bright the thread, There is a base within us, somiething given, 81 More than all things without, may sear or stain. If this be not called Heaven, I deem it called 13y its inferior title, as it rates The low inhabitant of sin and shame, WVith true Olympian wealth, banishes care, Makes desolation friendly, knits the skein Of our all-ravelled hlngin(,s, smooth and soft,I must away! I scent the evening air! " WhaIt, gone? Such words of life fled off her liquid tongue, - I could n,or speak nor think. I'11 note her trace. 'T was there she meant to go. I see her not. No one! I heard a voice! What's here? this veil, She left a veil upon the stones, of gauze, And now it floats, iand on thle hemt letters: ' Fly, youth, fly!" Now the firelight touchles it, 82 It briglltenis fast. A speechless form arises, - \Iy mohlherl Then It was shle vwho raised my dreaim. Aiother, loi,g lost, forgive thy erring son! If in thlat avful realm the sl)irit hol(I Coimm-union wvilh thle past, or mortal thotught, Feel for thly son, thy wretched, homeless son, Doomed to unsate(d penane for his sins. Feel willth the miercy wllich thou hadst on eartli For all his flings! Ilaise him to thyself! Shle fades. the spirit's risen, the veil is aiir, Fly, youthl, fly! ", The same as Meis ter's warning. It is too late for flight; the wind is loud, I hlear the forest creaking in its shlroud. The slhadowv of tile torrent drownvs the glent! And, tlhen, thllat fishlerman?a Could lie have been a spy shlot from the town 83 To watch my miovements? For he askedl me thri(e As to imy privilege in the idle woo(ds, And lhowv I dragged the leaden hours along. He spake of Xature, - said there was to him, Bating hlumanity, a hollow there. I felt his thlought, I marvel at his words,The same ol( thlings I said this many a year. I judge hlie was the shadow of myself, Fretted to space on weary monologue. I kept his words: "'IIere, in this sylvan shlade, Alone, always alone, dim as nmy thouhits, WAVondering at that which chiefly went before, Wonldering, at that which mostly is to collie, - I linld mysl attemptting, at the l)ud The inier life of Nature, - lwhat mien call By that insidious title. Without man, Or human life to cheer me in the dark, 84 That thing called Nature (if it be a thing) Shrinks into Faint. All is so shallow there, These bankrupt days of time, loose as a fly; Rather than beg my dole from Nature's dish, Procrastinated on her solitudes, Pray let me (lie a thousand deaths of pain. How credulous was my youth, when feel ing danced Elastic in nmy veins, and I prepared To hymn the deep oblivion of the groves, Of Nature, -whate'er its name, -the somewhat there, The promise and design I cannot steal. Struck in confusion from the light of sense, I call myself a man, and am the puppet Of a cheating show." My brain is turning! I:M reason lowers! That spectre of the stre Iam, And those poor clhildren's voices that I hear, 85 And that pale girl, with her soft, flossy hair, A soft, 1.ink llushi across her waxen checks, Who spoke for them: " Father! We love you still! Oh! do not curse us, your poor children still, Thougih in the forest, in an outlaw's cave, You dimly dwell, and nevermore our eyes Shall see your mournful form, drenched in y'our tears, And nevermore our tender hands shall part Your griefs awvay, and bring your joys to view. 'Father! thouolgh we are parted for this life, And only in the grave can ever meet, We love you still! Our hearts are quite the same, Still yours, and all that makes our hearts is yours. And she, our mother, resolute and pure, Ne'er ceased to cherish you, nor ceased to love. 86 And we shall come to you once more in life, Once eec you go from helnce. Once more to hear Our clhildish voices, as you used before These days of parting fell upon our love." \W'as that a song'? Or the lilght, infant lispiIng of the year, llocked in the leafy garniture of spiring? There seems a searching inquest at the lheart Of this sad panorama. At the door Ile lingers still, that fisheriman I mean. Ile speaks again: " Come! Come and fly Althli me! This miausoleum of the mind is death. Comllle! let us fly and touch the dreams of Franice, W'here gay Garonnle pours forth her lively dance, And dare the meadows that destroy old iomne, Admire the Stone-pines ieaning o'er her hills; 87 And bright Cycladean suns, all wine and figs, Shall steep our noontide fancies for their hour. Such closeness in this cave I cannot breathe,All spectres haunting here, and this most dull, And gray predicament of thoug,ht." Then ceased. I voyaged once, - lie must have tracked my road. I read or dreamqed that sometimes ere men die, There comes a figure like themselves, and blabs Of things they did, or suffered, in their lives, - To that intent the shadow speaks. That sigh, The owl again is humming from his tower, Ancient and dark upon the tall pine's dome, 88 His gossip since some months; and this last sprite; And that cold Hecuba who twitched the herb; There are strange things in life. I never guessed I should become the property of ghosts, Chimne with the scanty brethren of the tomb, And take moralities from their weak eyes. How loud the rapid roars; the wind has veered, Ilaised off the generous sea; the salt-fed breeze Loans its luxuriance to our bankrupt main. I see the bay softly with islands rimmed, The dark old fort, the wave with vessels white; That wind is but the shadow of my thou,lghts! VIII. THE TESTAMENT. c;'ER hill, o'er dale; the careless morning's sun Binds up the wounds of night and makes all sweet. New flowers flow forth and wander o'er the grouncd, Like paradise encumbered by its wealth, As the ancestral twain delighted roamed." A boy's fond verses, when my days were rich In happiness. Careless I threw away A long life's joy, in one emotion blest, Not reckoning on the future creeping' in, Stooped and forlorn, a beggar with his scrip. And later thus: " In youth, we feel so rich, 90 We drawt uncounted sums, we fling about The revenues of a king, we live and spend As if unfathomable mines of ore Gleamed on our bidding. Fame steps smiling in, Her bonnet on her head, her silken scarfs, Her laces point device! Sweet fame, good fame! WVe do not feel the goblin in the shade, The pale indifference that leers at hope. Youth is the glass of fortune, blithle in form. I follow where you lea(l, the bridge I cross That leads to 1lela's depths, where Bal dred went; And still hope cheats. Alas! our feet too slow Go trailing helpless as the future flies. Success so hovers past the shores of life, Half seems to lilght, half touches the cold wave; We view his bright reflections in the ooze, W'here the slow stream crawls sadly through her weeds, 91 With newts and sodden tortoises of eld, Or stagnant mosses. The small light that shot Across our painted youth, and showed her curls, Was a faint, flickering moonbeam, was the end. And then comes moldering ag,e, prudent and lame, A skeptic manifold." And was it I Wv'ho shaped this hollow revery'? Could this be mine? The page is with her letters, in my hand. Such days were joy, when I had thoughts like those, When I had thoughts at all; for now I shrink, And strive to dam the flow of sentiment, And leave the tLur)id pool to clear itself. There is a grave that opens while we live, There is a life that ends ere we are deal. I'm passing hence; I shall not live the week. But on this tattered scroll I would express, 92 Like the brave surgeon who at life's last beat Held at his pulse his hand, and dying said: It fails, it ceases," then indeed hie died. - Another verse: " Spirit of the wood, Who build your bowers amid the forests tall, And paint the banks of water-courses green With delicate ferns, or feathery grass, that sways Like cobwebs at the siglhing of the stream, And the high clouds that gaze below, at peace, Far by ethereal culture raised from care!" In those my early days, amid the trees, I thought to raise an altar to the Muse, And with these lines to consecrate its front,The Muse that haunts these bowers and bends their lives. 93 Time rubs away the outward, leaves within, Merely the cerements that once owned life. And, when my numbers failed me, I essayed To dwell as might some anchorite austere; O'er the cold stones to drag the nights with prayer, And mortifying arts the convent knew. Questions I may not answer, may not ask In this vain world, track my slow flight to death. I can but make my will,- what things to leave, And to whom, to be left. Who are my heirs? Beating upon the sphere no human heart Claims the least hope in mine; all stone alike, Corroded by their unbelief in me. I see them joyous o'er their cottage fire, Encased in peace, fretted in comifort's robes; 94 l3ight shines the ruby blaze upon the group, Domnestic, cheerful, see the children go, Playing their evening games, the dance, the jest,\\Who spoke for me, their father, east away, A fettered outlaw, to the forest drear. To themn shall aught be left? To them my couch, Yon pile of deerskins that have warnled my limibs, In the extremnity that winter dares; And my poor books, sallow with damp and years. lVhatl could they read the poets, with such hearts, (Pimping with hollow lies for selfish greed,) Shaksl)ere and Spenser. And my gun, whose sight, Baffled by nau,ght, would be a hunter's pride. Give these,- to hearts like theirs? I wake once more. f,ince those last words a dizziness came up 95 An(d took pos,ession of my soul. I went ]'FromI out this region of old wood(s, afar; I fled this dreary day, this drearier nig,ht; Thought for to-morrow's food, thle huntter's wat ch, The lurking foe, the chill mistrust of time, - All these were buried in that swooning fear, T'hat came upon me as a sudden night Falls on the face of Nature, when the sun By interruption dies. I wake so long I dreamede I ne'er should sleep. Farewell! thou world! UTnpaid I owe thee naught, no grateful ness, No debts of love, no balance of delight. 'Thou didst not smile on me, nor crook thy brows To the contempl)tuous mnockery which poor fools Adore, and great men name Sitccess! not mine 'he II,alls of Fame, nor sons nor maids, who l)rize 96 Their father's life. Only within the grave One faithful tiling, Elizza's sunny heart. Wealth never fawned on mne, and men for bore To press their knees to flatness before him, Whlo could not coin such suppliance. Not a frienld, I ever had upon the fields of time, Who was not false to me, but him I killed. And oh! was not that fearful act from God? Could I, this crouching shadow, in the dust, With the chill avalanche of fate to bear, Of my own purpose, shatter Gordon's form? I It might have been. I should have bent Had I been different; but in this life Men take upon the wild and boundless pulse That floats our frontier world, there is a calim, And it will bear through all things, till it bends, r-( 97 And then the blow; the shot, fierce as re ntorse, Flashed in ai second to infinity. I shall not see this night. The dying eve Will take me to itself and be my shroud; And there upon my skins I will compose My form as if for slumber, to be found By whom I know not, - hunters in a storm, Or some foot-weary traveller in the bush, Who not infrequent tempt the iron door. All is in order, all that Lisa had, All that she ever gave me. Be it so; I could not die should I destroy her gifts. What is repentance? Can it outwear sin? Vengeance is Thine, and on the worms of earth It blighting falls, and blinding all things else. WVe are made by Thee, predestined from the womb; Nor shrine of peaceful monk, nor convent bell Tolled up the Alpine passes of the soul, 98 To lead the blinded traveller through the snows, Can keep one sob of anguish from his heart Who's doomed to suffering! Days shall go and come, And seasons fad(le and fall, and life renew More intermittently its palsied beats; Still woe survives to wring the dying thought, And on the Cross of Doom the sufferer nail! TIIE END.