m 
 
C.RICH DWHITTEMORE 
 Rare Books 
 
 ASHLAND, MASS. 
 

THE PANIC, 
 
 AS SEEN FROM PARNASSUS; 
 
 OTHER POEMS, 
 
 CHAMPION BISSELL. 
 
 STULTA EOT CLEMENTIA, QUUM TOT UBIQUE 
 
 VATIBUS OCCURRAS, PERITURJE PARCERE CHARTS. 
 
 Juvenal. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 T. J. CROWEN, No. 699 BROADWAY. 
 
 MDCCCLX. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 180, by T. J. CROWK.V, in 
 the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern 
 District of New York. 
 
 Wvnkoop, Hallenbecfc A Thomas, ) 
 printers, 113 Fulton St., N. Y. ) 
 
THESE POEMS 
 
 ARE INSCRIBED TO MY VALUED FRIEND, 
 
 JOHN PRIESTLEY. 
 
 C . B. 
 
 M175558 
 
C N T E N T S 
 
 THE PANIC, - 1 
 
 "LOOK OUT UPON THE SUNLIT WAVES," - 34 
 
 THE PAPER-MILL, - 35 
 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL, 
 
 ORION, - 42 
 
 II. C. IL, - 45 
 
 SIB WALTER, 4C 
 ANTI-ARCADIAN, 
 
 MARGARITA SPOLIATRIX, - 52 
 
 HARTFORD, - 57 
 
 XEW ENGLAND HOUSES, - 68 
 CHILDHOOD, 
 
 COLLEGE, cr > 
 
 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL, _- 75 
 
 THE POET S PRAYER, 78 
 
 THE MILL- WHEEL, - 80 
 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE, 
 
 ADYICE, - IOC 
 
 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL, - 107 
 
 AROOSTOOK, - - 110 
 
 AT MANILLA, HI 
 
 OYID PARIS AD HELEN AM, - - 113 
 
 HELENA AD PARIDEM, - - 133 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOS 
 
 LOVE S FINDING, - - 147 
 
 TEDIUM VHVE, 159 
 
 To A DAY IN MARCH, - - 104 
 
 LUCY, 1GO 
 
 THE STREAM AT THE NORTH, - - 109 
 
 GALLIA CAPTA, 174 
 
 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL, - 17(5 
 
 SOPHIA, 177 
 
 A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE, - 184 
 
 CROSS PURPOSES, - 190 
 
 ROSALIA, - 191 
 
 HELEN, 201 
 
 SONNET, - 204 
 
 " SWIFT RUSHING RIVER OF LIFE," 205 
 
 " WHAT LESSON GRAVES THOSE HOARY ROCKS T - 200 
 FRAGMENTS FROM HORACE : 
 
 AD LICINIUM, - - 207 
 
 AD FUSCUM, 209 
 
 HOMER, - - 211 
 
 MILTON, 212 
 
 SlIAKSPEARE, - 213 
 
 OYRILLA, , . - ? - 210 
 
! O E M S . 
 
THE PAKIC, 
 
 * $wb turn 
 
 A RHYMED LETTER TO A COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 DEAR Cousin Walter, in your pleasant world 
 Beside the Susquehanna s azure flow, 
 Where mountain upon mountain rudely hurled 
 Casts kindly shadows on the plains below, 
 What care to you, the commerce-fevered mart, 
 The schemes of trade devised by human art, 
 The ebbs and floods of wealth, the city s haste, 
 The streams of gold that poison all who taste, 
 The creditor s demand, the law s delay, 
 The rushing crowds, the quick and eager day, 
 The fitful hopes, and chances of the game, 
 Where merchants gamble for success or shame 
 What care to you are these ? Your lot is cast 
 Where these, like idle rumors, hurry past ; 
 
2 THE PANIC. 
 
 Content to share the gifts that Nature yields, 
 The ruler sole of wide and fruitful fields. 
 
 Happy your life. For all not thus await 
 The peaceful pleasures of the rural state. 
 Necessity hath arms no tyrant knows : 
 And where she urges, who shall hope repose ? 
 She drives amid the fearful ranks of men, 
 And scatters them with pitiless force apart ; 
 Nor shall they dream of quietness again, 
 While she pursues them with relentless heart. 
 Ah ! who shall say in Youth s delighted years, 
 When all the future robed in white appears : 
 Here will I fix my constant, sure abode, 
 Nor venture on the steep, laborious road 
 Where men the Pilgrimage to Fortune make, 
 And bleed and pant for her deceitful sake ! 
 Too empty boast the destined hour shall come, 
 Her haughty summons call thee swift away 
 As when to action beats the soldier-drum, 
 Let none dare linger death awaits delay ! 
 
 But let me not, too mournful, pen the theme 
 Which you shall ponder by your peaceful stream ; 
 
THE PANIC. 3 
 
 For in the city s fierce and anxious strife, 
 Some rays of pleasure still illume our life : 
 Though custom-trammeled, and the slaves of gain, 
 Our manners, morals, smirched with foreign stain ; 
 Though cursed with rulers vile beyond belief 
 The sport of gambler, mountebank, and thief 
 Justice a fugitive and Law a jest 
 He least regarded who is called the best ; 
 Though Trade precarious mock the wisest care, 
 And dissipate our bankrupt toil in air ; 
 Though noxious vapors fill our summer sky, 
 And Europe s plagues instruct us how to die 
 Still we survive some comfort still extract 
 From boding fancy and from direful fact. 
 
 Erewhile the city mad with plenty grew, 
 When the last full decade was fresh and new ; 
 When, first awakened from his long repose, 
 The giant Commerce shook himself and rose. 
 And first he called to all the fruitful land 
 To pour its harvests on th Atlantic strand. 
 For this he stretched the iron rail afar, 
 And launched for this the swift capacious car ; 
 
4 THE PANIC. 
 
 Taught distant Iowa to send her grain 
 (That else unbought had wasted on the plain) 
 To feed the famine of a foreign host, 
 And make our fruits a blessing and a boast. 
 Nor was the stirring summons disobeyed : 
 Quick to the sea the bounteous burden sped, 
 And ocean groaned beneath the countless sail 
 That bore abundance with the western gale. 
 
 Why should I speak of ships whose sudden birth 
 Surpassed the wonders of the April earth ? 
 Their growth beginning with a summer s sun 
 Launched on the waters ere his course was run ! 
 Complete in beauty rose the shapely hull, 
 Tapering the bow, the waist more round and full ; 
 While to the rear, the lines, retreating in, 
 Recalled the magic of the dolphin s fin. 
 The masts, far reaching to the upper blue, 
 Yet straight as lance, and tough as Saxon yew, 
 Bore spreading acres of adventurous sail, 
 To woo the zephyr or withstand the gale. 
 These miracles romantic names adorn 
 Pride of the Seas ; The Wave ; The Shining Morn ; 
 
THE PANIC. 
 
 The Ocean-Tamer ; Monarch of the Spray ; 
 Great Neptune s Chariot ; Purple Dawn of Day ! 
 Once the calm Greek in marble carved the line, 
 And wrought perfection in an Art Divine ; 
 Once rapt Italians drew the Master s face, 
 And vested painting with unearthly grace ; 
 But in the rush of this our wondrous time, 
 Our ardor made Utility sublime, 
 And fixed the aspirations of the soul 
 In those creations, all unknown before, 
 Which, wafted whereso er the oceans roll, 
 Conveyed our genius to the farthest shore. 
 The generous frenzy who shall dare lament 
 Haply with folly and with rashness blent ? 
 No ; if o er sordid traffic Fancy fling 
 Her kindly graces with expansive wing ; 
 If she adorn the arts that thus subserve 
 The needs of men, she ever shall deserve 
 Our grateful homage, and the praise shall find 
 Of all who truly, justly, love mankind. 
 
 While thus abroad the Land her harvest flung, 
 The scales of Commerce even-balanced hung ; 
 
6 THE PANIC. 
 
 And justly with profusion then we drew 
 The wealth of Europe, and her luxuries too. 
 Proud is the sceptre of a virgin state 
 That feeds the nations at her bounteous gate, 
 Deigns to accept the rich exchange they bring, 
 As queens receive a subject s offering; 
 Smiles on the busy arts her plenty cheers, 
 And reads bright omens in the coming years. 
 
 Exhaustless seemed the store at our command, 
 Though scattered freely with a tireless hand. 
 The wondrous staple of the Southern clime, 
 Material ruler of our race and time, 
 Whose ebb and flow of value through the w r orld 
 Are more significant and vast to men, 
 Than if Napoleon s throne be downward hurled, 
 Or Hapsburgh tumble, ne er to rise again ; 
 The golden berry of the prairied West, 
 Favorite of earth and fruit of double years, 
 The topaz-gem that shines on Ceres breast, 
 When flushed with early autumn she appears : 
 These, with a lesser host, but equal sum 
 From piny forests, aromatic gum ; 
 
THE PANIC. 7 
 
 The offspring white of Carolina s fen ; 
 
 The dark-hued weed, whose cloud-compelling power 
 
 Enslaves, and cheers, and soothes, and conquers men, 
 
 And charms the reveries of the listless hour : 
 
 These were our riches ; these the busy tide 
 
 Of commerce wafted outward far and wide ; 
 
 And that our hands might ever kindly pour, 
 
 Suppliant, the Nations thronged about our door. 
 
 to 
 
 Then woke the people to a higher need, 
 And wants began to stir, till then* unknown. 
 Why lose the birthright why the destined meed 
 Forego, nor claim the rights that were our own ? 
 To us belong the spoils of other lands, 
 And what is fairest, wrought by foreign hands 
 The silk, the purple, linen, fruit, and oil ; 
 The flowing blood of red Burgundy s soil ; 
 Robes from the Orient, spices from Kathay ; 
 The webs that cheat the burning Indian day ; 
 The sturdy fabric of the moorland mill, 
 The sum of Flemish craft and Saxon skill : 
 Nay, all that centuries of weary toil 
 Have slowly ripened on a foreign soil, 
 
THE PANIC. 
 
 Here to our dawning land shall instant throng, 
 And find the lords to whom they all belong. 
 Here burns the Star of Empire : here confessed 
 Is found the King shall rule o er all the rest. 
 
 Such was the general sense ; the private soul 
 Felt the same passion that inspired the whole ; 
 A thirst for wealth, that quickly, madly grew, 
 But not for industry and temperance too. 
 As truants, when some golden fruit they see, 
 Forget the owner s toil that raised the tree, 
 Crave the fair treasure, leap the garden- wall, 
 And brave the trap, the ditch, the watch-dog s call ; 
 So we, in haste to grasp the glittering prize 
 That danced on high before our eager eyes, 
 Leaped every bound ; although, for virtue s sake, 
 We spared whate er we had no power to take. 
 
 Through every house the quick contagion spread : 
 In air we breathed it ate it with our bread. 
 Old things were past ; the new before us lay, 
 Warm o er us beamed the sun of Fortune s day. 
 Loosed from their bounds, outburst our fierce desires, 
 And flamed in countless and in lawless fires ; 
 
THE PANIC. 
 
 And scorning toil, but luring what it brought, 
 From others sweat, our own repose we sought. 
 
 Why speak of schemes, begot with every sun, 
 Whose paths were many, but their purpose one ? 
 The BANK, whose shares, on bright crisp paper 
 
 wrote, 
 
 Were based upon the PROMISSORY NOTE 
 Sublimest fiction of the age of brass, 
 Where borrowers organized to lend each other, 
 And safely trusted that the Public Ass 
 Would prove to them a kindly nursing mother ! 
 Where men, scarce competent to w T rite their name, 
 Whose only talent was a lack of shame, 
 Filled the financial presidential chair, 
 And, each a bankrupt, played the millionaire ; 
 Where thieves well drilled and banded into hordes, 
 Styled by the public prints, DIRECTION BOARDS, 
 Met twice a week or oftener, and divided 
 The funds their duped depositors provided ; 
 The GRAND STOCK COMPANY, for each design, 
 Where schemers, swindlers, rascals, could combine : 
 
10 THE PANIC. 
 
 The growth of tea upon tlye coast of Maine, 
 In warm Vermont the tropic sorghum-cane ; 
 The manufacture, by a process rare, 
 Of ice from common atmospheric air 
 The plan is still extant tis not pretense 
 The only trouble is, it won t condense ; 
 The Company for warming every house, 
 For roasting private joints or parish gruel, 
 Humble corned-beef, aristocratic grouse, 
 Without the aid of gas, or stove, or fuel ; 
 The Building Company, a wondrous plan, 
 For fifty cents a week the poorest man 
 Might, by its certain, magical expansion, 
 Become the owner of a park and mansion ; 
 But ere this time, too short for me to say, 
 The treasurer was sure to run away ! 
 The Grand Association for returning 
 Smoke into coal Experimental Burning 
 Reduced the capital so very low, 
 At last there wasn t even smoke to show : 
 The Great Insurance Scheme a novel feature 
 Commends itself to every living creature, 
 
THE PANIC. 11 
 
 Insures your house, your income, or your life, 
 Your cashier s books, the honor of your wife, 
 Insures your debts nay, for a round commission 
 Would undertake to get your sins remission. 
 
 But chief of all, the mammoth RAILROAD DODGE 
 Absorbed the mind of Dives and of Hodge : 
 Nor was the scheme unmixed with sober sense 
 A healthy core, o ergrown with rank pretense. 
 Shall I revive the records of the day 
 That frittered credit, fortune, hopes, away ? 
 Nay, more devoured the widow s slender purse, 
 And made the orphan outcast or a worse ? 
 Fain would I hope the slow, reluctant muse 
 Should sing some feeble strains of lasting use ; 
 Some strains that, floating past the present hour, 
 Shall have in future days a warning power. 
 But who shall say ? The lessons of the time 
 Though fixed in annals crystallized in rhyme 
 Like stars whose distant, faint, and glimmering light 
 Warms not the sense, although it reach the sight ; 
 But coldly, feebly touch an after-age, 
 Whose blood is warmer than the printed page. 
 
12 THE PANIC. 
 
 Nay, if the felon s shame be branded in, 
 His children s children none the less shall sin ! 
 What age is wiser for the age that s past ? 
 The newest folly still repeats the last : 
 And though no wave of air that mortals draw 
 Has not borne freight of Gospel and of law 
 Still runs the world its sad and motley round, 
 And sins and follies none the less abound ! 
 
 Thus we explain the madness that possessed 
 One half the nation, and amazed the rest 
 That threw the ponderous chain of iron road 
 O er lonely plains where man had scarcely trod ! 
 As if the long-drawn lines of rusted bar, 
 The jangling rattle of the empty car, 
 Had magic potence to produce the birth 
 Of full-grown cities from the lonely earth; 
 As if the secret of the wealth of states, 
 Long hid from mortal eyes by envious fates, 
 Were now revealed, as if by sudden shock, 
 To wondering eyes, in form of Eailroad Stock ! 
 
THE PANIC. 13 
 
 As toward the rich, inviting spoils of Rome, 
 
 The fierce Barbarian, weary of his home 
 
 Of countless marchings on the frozen plain ; 
 
 Of chill encampment by the Baltic main ; 
 
 Of Scythian rigors, boundless glooms of pine, 
 
 And fruitless^fishing in the icy Rhine 
 
 Looked out,and longed, and clanged his brazen shield, 
 
 And called his comrades to th Italian field : 
 
 So, if the ancient story do not shame 
 
 The^base ignoble raid I blush to name, 
 
 From every village, every petty town, 
 
 A swarm of thieves and jobbers hastened down 
 
 To where the toil of twice a hundred years 
 
 In evidence of golden fruit appears. 
 
 "With care and sweat, six broods of patient men 
 
 Had made a garden on the Eastern main. 
 
 Six generations slowly fading hence, 
 
 Had left bequest of peaceful competence. 
 
 In wise contentment we possessed the store 
 
 Thus heritaged, nor rashly wished it more ; 
 
 Content to wait on Nature s certain laws, 
 
 That fasten means to end effect to cause ; 
 
14 THE PANIC. 
 
 Sure, if we labored, that her warm increase 
 Would blossom forth in kindly wealth and peace. 
 
 What lying arts, what treachery and stealth, 
 
 Were then employed to cheat us of our wealth ! 
 
 Uncounted tales of distant states anol lands, 
 
 Whose riches vied with Sacramento s sands ; 
 
 Of cities waiting for the iron track 
 
 To pour their plenty in, and take our traffic back. 
 
 Such cities ! Let the time-worn Eastern coast, 
 
 New York and Boston, and such other, boast ; 
 
 Reared on a barren and a hostile soil, 
 
 And only rich by prodigies of toil : 
 
 But there, within deep-margined plenty set, 
 
 Are Keokuk, Racine, and Joliet : 
 
 Kenosha, Madison, and Battle Creek 
 
 I think the six were built within a week ! 
 
 Dubuque and Davenport, and classic Cairo 
 
 The last was lately swallowed by the high ro- 
 
 Mantic waters of that sparkling stream, 
 
 Whose silver waves would grace a poet s dream 
 
 I mean the Mississippi ! if you strain it 
 
 For several days, some stomachs can retain it ! 
 
THE PANIC. 15 
 
 And last, a place where debtors let the law go, 
 Nor fear their Eastern creditors Chicago. 
 
 " These proud creations of our Western skill, 
 With rich rewards your pockets long to fill, 
 On these conditions : buy our railroad stock ; 
 Supply each lake-port with a marble dock ; 
 Purchase our farms and fences, right of way ; 
 The cord- wood of the State with ready pay, 
 To keep the engines going ; when, quite sick 
 Of credit, Chop declines to sell on tick, 
 Then take our bonds a very easy load 
 Not more than twice the value of the road ! 
 And then we own it seems a trifle funny 
 We want to borrow certain sums of mone y 
 Upon the income that the roads will bring, 
 When once we fix and finish up the thing. 
 For though and here we pledge our solemn word 
 We re richer than the world has ever heard. 
 Still, just at present, owing to the smash 
 In Western lands, we are quite short of cash. 
 But as the roads are built, the lands will rise, 
 And then tis plain to your sagacious eyes, 
 
16 THE PANIC. 
 
 Your funds will safe return whence they were sent, 
 With rich increase of twenty-four per cent. 
 Nor think that we nor fear nor reverence law 
 We drink in virtue with the breath we draw ! 
 When Western debtors fly, and can t be found, 
 Or Western city fails to pay its bond, 
 Or Western Railroad shirks its due coupon 
 Where is the road that ever tried it on ? 
 Then not till then what we require, deny us ; 
 For our expansive country s sake, oh! try us ! " 
 
 Says Butler not exact do I repeat 
 To cheated be, is merrier than to cheat. 
 Such our philosophy with pleased grin, 
 We sucked the bait of Western cheatery in. 
 From our strong boxes took the guardian lock, 
 And changed the contents into railroad stock. 
 It took less room was easier to hold 
 Was "more convertible," they said, "than gold! " 
 They found it so ; but this is to be said of it : 
 The faculty quite ceased when they got rid of it ; 
 And he who now " converts" a Western bond, 
 Possesses powers evangelists beyond ! 
 
THE PANIC. 17 
 
 Alas ! how few escaped the fatal snare 
 The Lawyer, Parson, Doctor, all were there ; 
 The Ploughman sold his plough and bought a share! 
 The Merchant sold his stock of goods for stock, 
 Mynheer his farm ; the Yankee sold his clock ! 
 The Schoolma am from the Bank her savings drew; 
 The shrewd and sly Cashier invested too. 
 I merely state the fact, and mean it kindly, 
 The whole male population rushed in blindly ; 
 The women followed those who had the means, 
 And bonds and stocks went off in solid reams ! 
 
 This was the climax as the years went by, 
 We slowly woke to see how vast the lie ; 
 Yet so prodigious, we could scarce believe 
 That human genius could so far deceive ; 
 And when the Money column gravely stated, 
 That " Grabtown, Iowa, repudiated," 
 The kindly holders sent a letter out, 
 And mildly " hoped the thing would come about." 
 Such lenience might have fused a rock despite it, 
 All Grabtown published that " they meant to fight 
 it; 
 
18 THE PANIC. 
 
 They had the best of counsel they would see 
 
 If Eastern capital could chain the free !" 
 
 Nor they alone, for over all the land 
 
 Repudiation raised its dirty hand ! 
 
 It sickens one of man and human nature, 
 
 To note the movements of this filthy creature ; 
 
 How, though abhorrent to the single breast, 
 
 It finds among a crowd a ready nest ; 
 
 And those who brag of honor, with each other 
 
 Loudly conspire a righteous claim to smother ! 
 
 But when we fully knew the vile deceit, 
 And men grew bold to call a cheat, a cheat, 
 Then o er the land s whole breadth arose the sense 
 Of present poverty and impotence. 
 How much we owed abroad, that larger grew 
 With every cargo to our ports that flew ! 
 Our ships were idle ; prospering sun and rain 
 Had filled all Europe with abundant grain. 
 Back to the towns, the wasted farms returned 
 Hosts of gaunt laborers Man by Nature spurned ! 
 Sublimest satire on our social state, 
 When fields their natural lord repudiate, 
 
THE PANIC. 19 
 
 With fatal justice full revenges take, 
 
 And by him paupered, him a pauper make ! 
 
 Nor this alone, for every honest trade 
 Felt the vast burden that our debts had made, 
 And tis the olden tale, and sad as brief 
 First flew to Shylock to obtain relief. 
 Scarce will you credit the usurious tale 
 Should fancy falter, figures never fail 
 From off the face of every fair exchange, 
 From ten to twenty let the discount range ; 
 Then double this, wherever pressing need 
 Or scanty time compelled the instant deed ; 
 Yet shall you safely keep within the rate 
 That bore on labor with such crushing weight ! 
 
 Nor long could this exhausting aid endure 
 
 To such relief the end is always sure ; 
 
 Through the wide country, through the pent-up 
 
 town, 
 
 Headlong the smaller traders toppled down : 
 Each shrinking wretch who thus received his fate, 
 Involved another, haply twice as great ; 
 
20 THE PANIC. 
 
 Nor by his debts alone a general fear 
 Each one of others, shook the business sphere, 
 Disturbed its elements, and scattered thence 
 The kindly grounds of hope and confidence ; 
 Filled with a false suspicion every breast, 
 And robbed the day of peace, the night of rest. 
 
 So passed the early summer of the year, 
 
 When August came, and brought the PANIC near. 
 
 In fear of some unseen impending woe, 
 
 A vague alarm of some relentless foe, 
 
 Men came and went, till on one gloomy day 
 
 The cloud that hid the Evil, broke away. 
 
 A Mammoth Company, whose business spanned 
 
 From far Ohio to th Atlantic strand, 
 
 Within whose yawning coffers had been poured 
 
 Unnumbered mites by helpless widows stored 
 
 The clerk s small savings and the merchant s gains, 
 
 The rich man s titles to his vast domains 
 
 At once, and utterly forever sank ; 
 
 Its notes six millions nothing in the Bank ! 
 
THE PANIC. 21 
 
 I well remember how, with features paled, 
 The feverish multitudes went home that day, 
 Their thought Since that Great Company has 
 
 failed, 
 
 All hopes are vain, let ruin have its way : 
 Let ruin rule, this be my only care, 
 To shun the evils that my friends must share ; 
 Be still, my warm emotions ; let me steel 
 My heart, that else the kindly throb might feel : 
 A struggling swimmer, shall I weakly think 
 To share my spar with him who else might sink ? 
 Or, scarcely floating in my frail canoe 
 A risk to one, but certain death to two 
 Extend the oar to any luckless wight 
 Who faintly battles with the storm and night ? 
 
 Nor did the grim suspicion fail to rise : 
 Since Honor oft in time of trial dies, 
 Will those whom I have known and counted true 
 In fair and prosperous days, alas ! how few ! 
 Stand by their virtue when temptations call, 
 Be firmly honest, though the heavens fall ? 
 If such I doubt, they doubt the same of me ; 
 Is doubt, then, shadow of Reality ? 
 
22 THE PANIC. 
 
 As when, by common impulse, famine-led, 
 A flock of pigeons, flying o er your head, 
 Hastes to the nearest wheat-field, there to find 
 Their neighbor flocks in rivalry combined ; 
 Then if they seek another, lo ! the air 
 Is black with hungry pigeons hurrying there ; 
 And soaring upward to the utmost height, 
 Still see no vacant spot to tempt their flight 
 So, when to sore financial famine brought, 
 The nearest Bank some swarm of merchants sought, 
 They found the parlor, hall, already crammed, 
 The tired Cashier behind his table jammed, 
 The ancient President in close blockade, 
 And warmest siege around the lobbies laid ; 
 Before, a crowd ; behind, a long procession ; 
 And scarcely room to force a retrogression. 
 Then, if they sought a Bank in distant street, 
 With panting breath and sorely blistered feet, 
 Still were they sure a frantic crowd to meet ; 
 Till wearied with the hot and useless chase, 
 Each struggler sought his own accustomed place 
 And grim Despair was there, and looked him in 
 the face ! 
 
THE PANIC. 23 
 
 But could each one have saidjiis eager say, 
 Of what avail were Banks to such as they ? 
 The Earth no causeless Panic e er did breed, 
 And debts are plants that always spring from seed ! 
 To aid the fair exchange of man with man 
 By bridging Time the true financial plan : 
 But not to bolster up a sinking cause ; 
 Not to assist in spurning prudent laws ; 
 Not to find capital for reckless men, 
 Their only stock in hand, th indorsing pen, 
 Who waste each night the winnings of the day, 
 And leave their creditors their debts to pay ; 
 Nor yet to prop the dubious enterprise 
 Though haply chance success may stamp it wise 
 Of sanguine, ardent spirits, rash and bold, 
 Who venture freely, nobly, others gold ; 
 If lucky, pay ; if broke, with heat declaim 
 Against the hapless turn of Fortune s stream, 
 Just at the very moment when Success 
 Was hastening on, their enterprise to bless ! 
 
 Nay, more to blame the Banks for our distress 
 Nor helps our cause, nor makes our folly less : 
 
24 THE PANIC. 
 
 For does the banker s loan create a claim 
 That he shall always thence renew the same T 
 Because he once extends a kind advance, 
 Must he for ever feed extravagance ? 
 And if it come to this, tis plainly shown 
 The Banks had risked their safety for our own. 
 For months, the Trader to the Banker flew : 
 For months, the loan in rapid increase grew ; 
 Nor did the merchant slacken his demand : 
 The treasures borrowed from the Banker s hand, 
 But fed his appetite for more, and still 
 His wants appeared more vast more hard to fill. 
 
 What wonder, then, that self-defense compelled 
 The golden stream should be an hour withheld ? 
 I grant some error who is always wise ? 
 The skilled physician not at once denies 
 To him who writhes in fierce delirium s pain, 
 The poisonous draught that nursed it in his brain ; 
 But slowly, surely, safely, leads him back, 
 Retracing up the scorched and lurid track. 
 Here was the path of wisdom ; well, had they, 
 The Banks, but read the lesson of the day ; 
 
THE PANIC. 25 
 
 Then milder were the punishment of all, 
 And Fortune s blessings easier to recall. 
 
 Oh ! who can e er forget the long-drawn ranks 
 That sieged the discount counters of the Banks ? 
 In single file the gloomy squadron stood, 
 Like famine-wasted men scarce hoping food ! 
 They stretched across the room, they doubled in ; 
 They turned and came, and went and came again ; 
 They ran beyond the doors ; the noonday heat 
 Beheld them standing in the glaring street ; 
 And still the sad procession longer grew, 
 Till where it ended, no one cared or knew. 
 
 Hope more forlorn has never stormed a wall, 
 Where one dread ruin lies in store for all ! 
 The books were scarcely opened : " Nothing done," 
 Why need be said to all, when said to one ? 
 But still each hopeless wretch a duty thought, 
 That his last offering should at least be brought ; 
 Then if he failed, of him should not be said, 
 
 " Without a struggle has he joined the dead !" 
 2 
 
26 THE PANIC. 
 
 Then sank the merchant princes every day 
 Some old and giant house forebore to pay. 
 The lesser stars that dropped from out the sky, 
 No one remarked them they of course must die ; 
 But every eye was fixed upon the fall 
 Of luminaries that had dazed us all : 
 Still one by one they tumbled, till the bare 
 Expanse of space but showed us where they were . 
 
 As in some direful siege, the gossip s talk, 
 
 The casual meeting, and the stealthy walk, 
 
 All insufficient prove to tell the world 
 
 How many victims into death are hurled ; 
 
 Then day by day the sad funereal list 
 
 Reveals the killed, the wounded, and the missed: 
 
 So, mid the slaughter of the Panic, we 
 
 Received the black list of necrology. 
 
 Weekly twas published, constant there we read 
 
 The once-familiar titles of the dead ; 
 
 There every Thursday, going home to dine, 
 
 We spelled the captions bristling down the line ; 
 
 And were the prophets to the earth recalled? 
 
 The dread intelligence was oft forestalled : 
 
THE PANIC. 27 
 
 Oft was the cheek of shrinking merchant paled 
 To read that he was numbered with the failed, 
 When, with his ensign flying at the peak, 
 He yet had steam to ride the waves a week ! 
 
 But news is news, no matter what the theme, 
 
 And men will drink, though turbid be the stream : 
 
 This wretched catalogue a luxury grew 
 
 And those who sought and read it not, were few. 
 
 And as, upon the Fourth of each July, 
 
 The schoolboy throws his books and satchel by, 
 
 Cheers his great grandsires whom he never saw, 
 
 And fires the cracker, and rebounds the taw ; 
 
 So we observed but in a dismal way 
 
 The coming in of " Independent s " day! 
 
 But as the deadly catalogue increased, 
 
 And confidence and credit waned and ceased ; 
 
 As stocks went down and down, and out of sight, 
 
 Engulfed in ruin and in hopeless night ; 
 
 As men who lately ruled the world s exchange, 
 
 And taught the markets of the continent 
 
 The proper measure of their daily range, 
 
 Faint-hearted grew, and feared each day s event ; 
 
28 THE PANIC. 
 
 The public wavered in the faith it kept 
 In Wall-street vaults in which their treasures slept ; 
 And as upon some lowering day in spring, 
 From out the clouds, the northern tempests fling 
 Sudden destruction o er the shivering plain, 
 And rend the blossom, crush the tender grain ; 
 So sudden, sharp, and deadly was the blast 
 Of public anger that arose at last 
 Against the Banks ; and scarce a private soul 
 But nursed some secret grudge against the whole. 
 Here one had humbly, in some hour of need 
 Compelled against his pride for aid to plead 
 Pleaded, and vainly ; and his wounded breast 
 Now hailed revenge, and taught it to the rest. 
 Here one had suffered a dishonored name ; 
 Long had he struggled to avert the shame 
 Another month, a week, perhaps a day, 
 Would bring him aid: will not the Bank delay? 
 The hope, how idle ! Fortune now the case 
 Had changed ; and now he wore another face : 
 His time had come to claim, and loudly too ; 
 And as he once had sued, now they should sue. 
 
THE PANIC. 29 
 
 Here one had felt a real or fancied slight ; 
 
 Here one had vainly tried the adventurous kite ; 
 
 Here one who used the Bank, as thieves the " fence," 
 
 Convenient cloak to screen his own pretense 
 
 At last detected in his dirty snares, 
 
 And fit chastisement hustled down the stairs, 
 
 He had his grievance too, harangued the crowd, 
 
 His virtue vehement, his language loud; 
 
 And still he talked, and still they cheered, and higher 
 
 Flashed up the folly-fed and angry fire. 
 
 But why recount the sources of the flame 
 
 That burned within the breasts of all who came 
 
 To storm the treasures which themselves had stored, 
 
 And risk the safety of the common hoard ? 
 
 Whatever wisdom lodges with a mob 
 
 Who haply meet, to burn, to sack, to rob, 
 
 Be sure was there, and there you too might find 
 
 Of what a city rabble is combined ; 
 
 Nor wholly rabble, for the fierce event 
 
 Had brought the city out by one consent ; 
 
 The swart mechanic, and the well-dressed clerk, 
 
 The unknown laborer, and the man of mark ; 
 
30 THE PANIC. 
 
 The rich retired merchant, anxious he 
 
 As aught the poorest wretch, his gold to see ; 
 
 The lawyer, broker, active man of trade. 
 
 But chief the vast and seething crowd was made 
 
 Of that great restless mass of human souls 
 
 Vulgus ignobile a swarm of moles 
 
 Each known by some one sister, wife, or mother ; 
 
 But met in crowds and no man knows another ! 
 
 The first day s work was tasteful, neat, and light 
 Three banks they smashed then parted for the 
 
 night. 
 
 This put them well in training was the wine 
 That boxers take, an hour before they dine. 
 But when arose the red October s sun 
 Of the next morning, work was fresh begun. 
 Each panting, eager warrior broke his fast, 
 As if that day s first meal might prove the last, 
 And donned his warlike beaver, and went down 
 To w T here the sacred spires o er Wall street frown, 
 Prepared with check and note for conflict dire 
 Thus flamed within each breast a common fire ! 
 
THE PANIC. 31 
 
 Within, uneasy tellers counted o er 
 
 The wasted remnants of their golden store, 
 
 And tried but vainly tried to make them more. 
 
 The food of war is ammunition, here, 
 
 As where Bellona shakes her gory spear. 
 
 But though they wadding had, enough for all, 
 
 Their stock of metal was but wondrous small ; 
 
 Their specious promises were far from being 
 
 The specie that the crowd was bent on seeing ; 
 
 And though their charges often had been large, 
 
 How did they falter when they met the charge ! 
 
 Fast pressed the multitude, the Teller s hands 
 Pay out and pay, but still the crowd demands : 
 I mean the Paying Teller, for the other 
 Experienced not the least degree of bother ; 
 Calm at his bench he sat the gay deceiver, 
 Who naught received, yet styled himself Keceiver, 
 And read the morning s news and chaffed the 
 
 rabble, 
 
 And laughed at all their senseless, noisy babble, 
 Alone, of all unmoved. The pale Cashier 
 Moved up and down the Bank in ceaseless fear ; 
 
32 THE PANIC. 
 
 The President, within his private room, 
 Refused access, and gave himself to gloom ; 
 And one raised blood, and one was carried home ! 
 But still the surging crowd went in and out, 
 While from the streets arose an endless shout. 
 
 Unequal contest where the mob combine 
 To break the image or destroy the shrine ! 
 The title of the god be what it may, 
 The public will is sure to have its way. 
 So was it now : each slowly waning hour, 
 Bank after Bank succumbed to lawless power, 
 Confessed itself a bankrupt, closed the gate ; 
 And quite relieved of all its heavy weight 
 Of care and coin, consigned itself to Fate. 
 The crowd subsided then ; the stroke of four 
 Found Wall street empty as the lone sea-shore, 
 And still ; as after storm subsides the watery roar. 
 
 As often tempests clear the summer air 
 Of plagues and death, that else had sheltered there, 
 So this fierce outbreak of the mob dispersed 
 The brooding evils that the time had nursed. 
 For this, no praise if madness foster good, 
 Still be the true connection understood ; 
 
THE PANIC. 33 
 
 For reason, patient, following down the path 
 Where public folly closed in public wrath, 
 The folly senseless but the anger more 
 Deduced the lessons that the history bore ; 
 The lessons old as man s exchanging art, 
 Learned through all time by every prudent heart, 
 Garnered in Writ by Solomon the wise, 
 Traced through the ages as they upward rise, 
 Nursed by the liberal mind, they blossom thence 
 In Franklin s maxims Bacon s lucid sense. 
 
 Two years have gone ; the PANIC long has passed, 
 And we forget the ills that cease to blast ; 
 A prospering sun returns, and we at length 
 Feel the kind symptoms of reviving strength ; 
 But if our sinews, not as yet restored 
 To that full power whose loss we late deplored, 
 Too early tempt the lavish, boundless strain, 
 Then were our former suffering all in vain ; 
 And sharper sorrows shall the truth recall, 
 That pride o erweening ever hastes to fall ; 
 That states are strongest when but slowly made, 
 
 And Justice strikes when Nature s disobeyed. 
 2* 
 
34 LOOK OUT UPON THE SUNLIT WAVES. 
 
 LOOK out upon the sunlit waves, and say 
 That they will smile to-morrow, as to-day. 
 Oh ! no, you cannot. Clouds will haply rise, 
 Or rains descend from out the changeful skies ; 
 Or, driving shoreward from th Atlantic deep, 
 Chill, sullen mists shall o er the waters creep. 
 
 Perhaps to-day, the bloom of many a flower 
 Is at its gorgeous full its final hour ; 
 Perhaps to-day, the sweetest, fullest song, 
 That e er charmed echo loved to bear along, 
 Is for the last time sung : the eager dawn 
 Wakes but to find the song and minstrel gone. 
 
THE PAPER-MILL. 35 
 
 THE PAPER-MILL. 
 
 THIS is the paper-mill you heard 
 The humming as we turned the ridge, 
 
 Where, lightly lounging, it occurred 
 To you to draw the pretty bridge 
 
 We after crossed ; and crossing, saw 
 The gay kingfisher bend his flight 
 
 Beneath the arch but could you draw 
 The flashing of his azure light ? 
 
 Then up the winding race we stept ; 
 
 The mill-dam s roaring nearer grew, 
 And shook the lily cups that kept 
 
 Beneath the shade the last night s dew. 
 
 Shall we go in ? The sun is high, 
 And noonday glows on every wave ; 
 
 The trout refuse the offered fly, 
 
 Whose hues seem more than nature gave. 
 
36 THE PAPEE-MILL. 
 
 We enter twenty windows here 
 
 Light up a room, where nimble hands 
 
 Of busy girls, throughout the year, 
 Cut dusty rags to cleaner strands. 
 
 Perpetual task. But theirs the power 
 To draw the moral of the day, 
 
 If haply in an idle hour 
 
 Their fancies ever look that way. 
 
 For here and every day is seen 
 
 How Nelson s sails, Napoleon s flags, 
 
 The monarch s cloak, the robe of queens, 
 All come at last to dusty rags. 
 
 And as we look, the opening bale 
 Keveals the treasures of the bride, 
 
 Who haply sailed a pleasure sail, 
 Upon the Adriatic tide 
 
 Ten years ago. The tattered gown 
 Of some rude peasant now reposes 
 
 Beside the nuptial veil, and one 
 
 Rough sack the union strange incloses ! 
 
THE PAPER-MILL. 37 
 
 But now we breathe a purer air, 
 
 Where round the humming engines go, 
 
 And in their seething bosoms bear 
 The whitening pulp, revolving slow. 
 
 Pure is the mass we lately thought 
 Was past beyond all human aid ; 
 
 The city s outcast, hither brought, 
 
 How clean, and white, and fair tis made ! 
 
 And now the endless sheet begins 
 
 Above the cylinders to roll, 
 And now beneath ; while, busy, spins 
 
 The spiral knife that cuts the whole. 
 
 And so it is in human life : 
 
 We seem to have an endless flow 
 
 Of ups and downs a hidden knife 
 Is always turning round below ! 
 
 And if our race be short or long, 
 The end is sure to be the same ; 
 
 And none was ever known so strong, 
 
 Could turn the edge when round it came. 
 
38 THE PAPEK-MILL. 
 
 And now the wagon bears away 
 A load of spotless paper sheets, 
 
 To where the Press, by night and day, 
 Fills the town air with measured beats. 
 
 What varied destiny is theirs 
 
 The Poet s song ; the Lawyer s plea ; 
 
 The Last Komance ; the World s affairs 
 That yesternight came o er the sea. 
 
 But look ! The shadow of the cone 
 Glooms eastward from Monadnoc high, 
 
 And soon the captive trout shall own 
 That we have deftly wove the fly. 
 
EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL. 39 
 
 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL, 
 
 EPITAPHIUM PAEIDIS. 
 
 TRAVELER, pause. This Funeral-stone, 
 
 From the road you gaze upon, 
 
 Pass not in haste. The joys of Rome, 
 
 Egypt s Wit and Song and Pleasure, 
 
 Grace and Art, beneath this Dome 
 
 Lie a lost and buried treasure. 
 
 No more the theatre s acclaim 
 
 Shall stir his heart, locked fast in Death s chill 
 
 keeping. 
 
 The Loves and Cupids in the same 
 Dark tomb with Paris are forever sleeping. 
 
 AD SEXTUM. 
 
 You say you re not in debt and faith that s true : 
 They only owe, whom tis worth while to sue. 
 
40 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL, 
 
 AD SABIDIUM. 
 
 SABIDIUS, I do not love thee 
 Why I don t, I cannot tell ; 
 Only this I know quite well, 
 That I do not, cannot, love thee ! 
 
 AD PUELLAM. 
 
 Now coy, now bold, now full of fun, 
 Buz, buz, you fly about me ; 
 I can t live with you but I ve begun, 
 And now I can t live without thee. 
 
 AD ^EMILIANUM. 
 
 if you now are poor, 
 You always will be so ; 
 For only to the rich, from Fortune s door, 
 Do riches flow. 
 
EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL. 41 
 
 IN VAEUM. 
 
 VARUS asked me once to dine 
 Splendid glass but scanty wine ; 
 Tables wrought of solid gold ; 
 One small joint, and that was cold 
 Every thing to please the eye, 
 And to keep one s palate dry. 
 Next time, Varus, that we meet, 
 Give me something fit to eat, 
 Or I ll excuse you from the treat. 
 
 IN PESSIMOS CONJUGES. 
 
 THIS husband and wife are a quarrelsome pair, 
 And here is the wonder that makes one stare : 
 Both alike as any twin pea 
 Both as bad as bad can be 
 Isn t it strange they can t better agree ? 
 
42 ORION. 
 
 ORION. 
 
 TO-NIGHT supreme Orion rules the sphere, 
 
 Lord of the burning Heavens that round him roll; 
 A giant, resolute and void of fear, 
 
 Spurning the Austral pole, 
 
 
 
 He strides the firm equator ; mid the march 
 Of errant, fickle suns, he shows no change, 
 
 But in the summit of th eternal arch 
 He runs his constant range. 
 
 Around the Boreal pole, the laggard Wain 
 Turns its slow wheels for ever to the sight, 
 
 And southern stars but rise to hide again 
 Their transitory light. 
 
 But he, the king of suns, divides the year, 
 And half he beams upon the northern world, 
 
 And half upon the south ; when leaves are sere, 
 In Autumn tempests whirled, 
 
ORION. 43 
 
 He rises still and stately in the frost, 
 That follows hard upon the sinking sun, 
 
 And hushes all the gales that lately tossed 
 The seas, and forests brown. 
 
 In the moist fragrance of the August morn, 
 When all the senses fail with summer heat, 
 
 Ere yet the fever of the day is born, 
 He strides with jeweled feet 
 
 Over the mountains of the East, and cries : 
 Have courage, O ye fainting sons of men ! 
 
 Soon will I come, and then the summer dies : 
 Soon will I come again, 
 
 And bring the sparkle of the Northern snow, 
 The airs that stir with pleasure every vein ; 
 
 When late October winds begin to blow, 
 Then will I come again, 
 
 And fire the dark of swiftly lengthening nights, 
 When once the Hyades have spent their storm, 
 
 With belted brilliancy of ruddy lights " 
 Enwreathed around my form. 
 
44 ORION. 
 
 Me close shall follow the untiring Hound, 
 His head the brightest jewel of the sky ; 
 
 And me, his lesser mate, with tardy bound, 
 Shall chase unceasingly, 
 
 Unseen by me. My steadfast eyes are fixed 
 On the great Taurus. I a deadly blow 
 
 With glittering club eternally present 
 
 Against his shagged brow. 
 
 The Lion s tawny skin is on my arm, 
 
 My sword hangs glistening at my greaved knee ; 
 I joy in war, and battle s dread alarm 
 
 No power can vanquish me. 
 
H. C. H. 45 
 
 H. C. H. 
 
 FKIEND, guileless, tender-hearted, gone before 
 Through Death s drear gates : I mourn, and mourn 
 
 thee not. 
 
 Life s pains and sorrows vex thy soul no niore- 
 And fair thy record shows, and free from spot. 
 Who dies as thou, is happy : but to live 
 So purely, merited such length of days 
 As the kind Heavens oft to mortals give, 
 Who ripen in their children s children s praise. 
 
46 SIR WALTEE. 
 
 SIR WALTER, 
 
 THE portrait hangs within the hall, 
 
 Beyond the oaken door, 
 Upon the black and mouldy wall, 
 
 A yard above the floor. 
 
 The hall is damp, and chill, and drear, 
 
 And opens to the ground ; 
 And as you walk therein, you hear 
 
 A dead sepulchral sound. 
 
 In former times, its length throughout 
 
 Was choked with dying men, 
 When savage Walter led the rout, 
 
 And thundered down the glen. 
 
 Long since. For now the moat s slow wave 
 
 Smiles to the noonday sun, 
 Nor shows the corpses of the brave 
 
 Who in its depths were thrown. 
 
SIR WALTER. 47 
 
 * 
 
 By night, the heavy door is drawn, 
 
 The castle stands alone ; 
 But in the chambers till the dawn 
 
 Unquiet spirits moan. 
 
 By day, the slanting sunbeams chase 
 
 Each other through the hall ; 
 But ever on Sir Walter s face 
 
 The gloomy shadows fall. 
 
48 ANTI-ARCADIAN. 
 
 ANTI-ARCADIAN, 
 
 WHEN Poet s rhymes begin to flag, 
 
 And Pegasus grows crusty ; 
 When appetite is fiercely keen, 
 
 And thought is strangely rusty 
 Kind Providence an opening leaves 
 
 To save each hungry sinner, 
 The poet sings a Country-Life, 
 
 And, singing, earns his dinner. 
 
 For ever, since old Horace lived, 
 
 And framed] the vinous ditty, 
 Poets of every age and stamp 
 
 Have joined to curse the city : 
 To curse its noise, its dust, its streets, 
 
 Its artificial gases, 
 To sigh for pure Arcadian joys, 
 
 And blooming simple lasses. 
 
ANTI-ARCADIAN. 49 
 
 Such are the rhymes and such the strains 
 
 That take the place of reason 
 But as the oyster of July 
 
 Is slightly out of season, 
 So to my humble sense seems all 
 
 The brood of boundless praises 
 Of shepherdesses, swains, and maids, 
 
 Of grasses, trees, and daisies. 
 
 I don t deny that grass is green, 
 
 That brooks are clear as amber, 
 That ancient ivies, rich as old, 
 
 O er mossy oak-trees clamber ; 
 That Beauty meets us everywhere, 
 
 In Nature lights and shading 
 In gardens flushed with wanton Spring 
 
 In Autumn s foliage fading. 
 
 But grass and brooks, and ivies rich, 
 
 Though not a poet s fiction 
 What is their value but to aid 
 
 The poet s swelling diction ? 
 3 
 
50 ANTI-ARCADIAN. 
 
 The veil of beauty hanging round 
 Yon distant tranquil cottage 
 
 The inmates find it little worth 
 To make or season pottage. 
 
 Your friend who loves the country much, 
 
 Has bought a Far Niente, 
 And asks you out, in August heats, 
 
 To pass ten days or twenty. 
 You think it vastly fine to see 
 
 The country in its glory, 
 And so you pack your rod and gun, 
 
 And throw aside your " Story." 
 
 Your friend is very kind, his spouse 
 
 More careful than a mother ; 
 They put you in a feather-bed, 
 
 And leave you there to smother. 
 The window-sash is battened down, 
 
 The chinks are stuffed with cotton ; 
 Their care has left no single mode 
 
 Of torture unforgotten. 
 
 You dream all night of ^Etna s fires, 
 Of fiendish noises ringing ; 
 
ANTI-ARCADIAN. 51 
 
 You wake around your hapless face 
 
 You hear mosquitoes singing. 
 You stagger to the looking-glass 
 
 Your swollen optics show you, 
 That even in your father s halls, 
 
 Your sisters wouldn t know you, 
 
 You shoot no game the grounds were cleared 
 
 Last spring by poaching sinners ; 
 The trout refuse your English flies, 
 
 The pickerel scorn your minnows ; 
 The fair, of whom so much was said, 
 
 Have shocking bad complexions ; 
 You shudder at their dentists bills 
 
 One has such strange reflections ! 
 
 No ! give to tillers of the field 
 
 Your sympathizing pity ; 
 And praise the country, if you will, 
 
 But keep within the city. 
 Or if your doctor should advise 
 
 A change of situation, 
 Select your rural residence 
 
 Hard by a railway station. 
 
52 MAEGAKITA SPOLIATEIX. 
 
 MARGARITA SPOLIATRIX. 
 
 THESE FLED IN 1852, AND WERE LOST AT SEA. 
 
 WHY cannot I forget 
 
 That I have known you ? Loss of years 
 
 Were cheap to purchase Lethe. Now with tears 
 
 To-night my eyes are wet, 
 
 And all a vain and fruitless grief: 
 
 I hope not dare not hope relief. 
 
 To-night, what parts us ? House and street ; 
 
 Naught else. The rapid feet 
 
 Of the chance passer-by, that now I hear, 
 
 Will bear him by your door, 
 
 Before the foot-fall dies from off my ear : 
 
 Yet have the Heavens declared the distance more 
 
 Than seas whereof no sailor knows the shore. 
 
 What keeps me from your side, you know ; 
 My passion, since it first began to flow, 
 
MARGARITA SPOLIATRIX. 53 
 
 You largely have divined. No glance, no sigh, 
 
 Has once escaped you. And you knew that I 
 
 Was from the first 
 
 Another s : yet you nursed 
 
 The flame your presence kindled ; seemed to say, 
 
 I am the one you should obey, 
 
 And false is every other. Life s mistake 
 
 You have committed ; but you yet shall break 
 
 The chains that now your passion bind, 
 
 And happiness with me shall find. 
 
 But you have nothing spoken 
 
 Your mystic silence never has been broken ; 
 
 And pure as yet before the world we stand, 
 
 As if we had not neared the fiery strand 
 
 Of that vexed ocean, where, when launched our 
 
 bark, 
 We sail from God s clear light to unknown wastes 
 
 of Dark. 
 
 Your pitying eyes for ever on me bend, 
 O less than spoken lover, more than fiiend ! 
 And if I read them right, 
 As now my fancy calls me up their light, 
 
54 MARGARITA SPOLIATRIX. 
 
 They say, When comes the bolder hour, 
 
 And Love asserts, at last, its power, 
 
 Oh ! haste at once to me ; for you I wait, 
 
 For you I watch, O monarch of my fate ! 
 
 As I of yours. noble soul ! 
 
 Well have you shown that you can love control. 
 
 But why for ever waste the will and nerve 
 
 On that dear foe ? Rather does he deserve 
 
 That now you yield to him, and prove 
 
 The mercy and the sweet rewards of Love. 
 
 Ah ! silent, pitying eyes they, burn 
 
 Through all my sense. They turn 
 
 Always on me ; and through them all your being 
 
 Mingles with mine, as if, foreseeing 
 
 The end of all, you would anticipate 
 
 Our destined and inseparable fate. 
 
 Often I try 
 
 Your charmed sphere to fly : 
 
 I penetrate, I share, the most of all 
 
 That can the senses or the mind enthrall 
 
 Places where Pleasure fills its fullest cup, 
 
 And royally persuades to drink it up. 
 
MARGARITA SPOLIATRIX. 55 
 
 But on the waves of music you are borne ; 
 
 And when the throbbing waltzes mourn, 
 
 And bear me circling with the revel s queen, 
 
 Your dearer image glides between, 
 
 And takes her place. The flashing wine 
 
 That lights my soul, is but your smile divine : 
 
 The song of morning bird 
 
 Becomes your song as soon as heard : 
 
 You speak to me 
 
 From the warm lispings of the summer sea : 
 
 Ah ! true 
 
 That I must lose myself, ere I lose you ! 
 
 I come : whatever waits 
 
 Of Punishment behind the hidden gates 
 
 Where lurks Hereafter all 
 
 I risk, and follow those sweet sounds that call 
 
 To where you are. Oh ! separated far, 
 
 From me if creeds and law s grim duties bar, 
 
 For you I all despise and you are near 
 
 And lo, at once beside you I appear, 
 
 Nor more to leave you. With the morn 
 
 Shall come astonishment and scorn, 
 
56 MARGARITA SPOLIATRIX. 
 
 Reproach, and drawing off of friends, 
 
 The murmurs of the town, 
 
 That every one so quickly lends 
 
 To drag his neighbor down. 
 
 And shall we care for these can shame 
 
 Attack us, wrapped in Love s bright flame ? 
 
 Can clamor reach us, sailing far away 
 
 Where Nature wantons in a sunnier day, 
 
 And brighter stars illume a softer night ? 
 
 Not thus shall us affright 
 
 Our silly fears. Your hand 
 
 I take in mine : at Love s command 
 
 We leave the world behind us. Never more 
 
 Its law r s shall bear on us as once they bore ; 
 
 For liberty we barter bonds. The change 
 
 Hath left us free to love and range. 
 
 Who shall resist when Fate and Love combine 
 
 To press the fragrant wine, 
 
 Which now we drink together sinking there 
 
 Of all but Love the consequence and care ? 
 
HARTFORD. 57 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 No fairer city in your dreams 
 
 Than ancient Hartford ; well you know 
 The confluence of the silver streams, 
 
 The greater and the lesser flow. 
 Southward the meadowed Kivers bend, 
 
 Till meads and streams are lost to view ; 
 To east and west the hills extend 
 
 Their forest glens and caps of blue. 
 Up the long street, the frequent spire 
 
 Fills all the air with tapering lines ; 
 And red by night, the factory fire 
 
 Broad o er the sleeping country shines. 
 
58 NEW ENGLAND HOUSES. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND HOUSES. 
 
 WHERE winds the river slow away, 
 
 And lingers long at every bend, 
 And urban gardens, flushed with May, 
 
 Begin with copse and farm to blend, 
 A House appeared of goodly size, 
 
 And modeled on an ancient plan, 
 That ARCHITECTUS would despise, 
 
 Whose creed is, Not the house for man, 
 But man for house ; whence crudely grow 
 
 Those miracles of brick and stone, 
 Wliich you and I have cause to know, 
 
 Though richer if we had not known. 
 Before the House the meadows swept, 
 
 In rich unbroken green arrayed, 
 Till up the distant hills they crept, 
 
 And vanished in the forest shade ; 
 And sitting in the Oriel light 
 
 When first the morning splendor broke, 
 Clear drawn and large upon the sight, 
 
 Loomed the majestic CHARTER OAK. 
 
NEW ENGLAND HOUSES. 69 
 
 II. 
 
 Protected by a sloping ridge 
 
 That overlooks the ancient town, 
 And where, to cross the five-arched bridge, 
 
 The mail-coach daily thundered down, 
 You saw my Father s House. A lawn, 
 
 Close shaven, lay before the door ; 
 And when the lattices were drawn, 
 
 The turfy carpet met the floor. 
 Elm trees arose on either side, 
 
 The nurslings of an elder day, 
 Whose leafy arches, high and wide, 
 
 All summer kept the green of May. 
 The House five-window T ed, of the style 
 
 Of true New England Houses, w r hite, 
 And mounted with a gable pile 
 
 That earliest caught the morning light, 
 When o er the hills it streamed, and I, 
 
 Awakened from a summer sleep, 
 Snuffed the late roses of July, 
 
 And heard the brooding sparrow cheep. 
 
60 NEW ENGLAND HOUSES. 
 
 And rising in the earliest gray 
 
 Of morning, when the house was still, 
 Through shaded paths I took my way, 
 
 To darkling pools beneath the mill, 
 Where in the smoothly flowing tide, 
 
 Unbroken by the sleeping wheel, 
 I watched my floats and angles glide, 
 
 And filled with trout my wicker creel. 
 
CHILDHOOD. 61 
 
 CHILDHOOD, 
 
 No mother, but can truly say 
 
 And mothers truth surpasses ours 
 That Childhood is an April day, 
 
 A sunshine dimmed with frequent showers. 
 But as we say, in just degree 
 
 As are the fortunes of the Spring, 
 So will the flowers of Summer be, 
 
 And so its fruits will Autumn bring. 
 Thus in our youth is hid the seed 
 
 Of all the fruit that we shall bear ; 
 But who so wise that he can read 
 
 The secret of the Human Year 
 
 For dim and buried are the laws 
 That bind what is, and is to come ; 
 
 Though nothing comes without a cause, 
 Results oft wander far from home. 
 
62 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Though Boy be father to the Man, 
 
 The Man may differ from the Boy, 
 As widely as the deepest pain 
 
 May differ from the highest joy, 
 And yet be still the same. The cause 
 
 Far-dated, who shall hope to find ? 
 And we, unconscious of its laws, 
 
 Can only wonder, mute and blind. 
 
 Do you remember all the crowd 
 
 Of schoolboys, who at early four 
 Rushed with tumultuous outcry, loud 
 
 And eager, through the open door, 
 That seemed the portal of a joy 
 
 More joyous than we since have known ? 
 What rapture greater to a boy, 
 
 Than freedom when his task is done ? 
 Well surely, to remember all, 
 
 Would far exceed the ancient task ; 
 And why should I the list recall 
 
 Which neither you nor readers ask ? 
 
CHILDHOOD. 63 
 
 The most of these have gone, where go 
 
 The shades of those in later days, 
 Whom once we thought it well to know, 
 
 But having known, we ceased to praise. 
 
 We were a rude and hearty band, 
 
 Of recklessness beyond a name ; 
 Yet some there were, would distant stand, 
 
 And our confederacy disclaim : 
 The polished gentlemen of ten, 
 
 Who scorned a marble or a ball, 
 Whose characters contracted stain, 
 
 If e er they stooped to play at all. 
 These were the beaux. In old romance 
 
 No cavaliers so grand as these ; 
 No Romeo in tights, that haunts 
 
 The Window at the East, could please 
 Or flatter with that skilled address 
 
 Which these unbearded knights displayed, 
 Who never failed of full success, 
 
 No matter where the siege was laid. 
 
64 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Why praise the rough and careless youth, 
 
 The Boy, uncurbed and unpolite ? 
 Because in him th eternal truth 
 
 Of Nature stands revealed to light. 
 From out the rough and clodded earth, 
 
 All life and fruits and flowers grow, 
 A contrast, from their very birth, 
 
 To the dark source from which they flow. 
 A perfect manhood is a flower, 
 
 That oft from gnarled branches shoots ; 
 Nor does the splendor lose its power, 
 
 Because twas drawn from earthy roots. 
 I reverence with faith sincere 
 
 The plan of Him who made us all ; 
 Who makes the Boy devoid of fear, 
 
 And shapes him rough, and fierce and tall ; 
 Implants within his growing frame 
 
 A heart that scorns a smooth pretense, 
 And stirs in him a quenchless flame, 
 
 That shines through all his active sense. 
 
 Unconscious of a future day, 
 Of all the cares of after-years, 
 
CHILDHOOD. 65 
 
 He revels wide and large in play, 
 
 And careless of all good appears. 
 Unconscious of his high desert, 
 
 He frets at every curbing rein ; 
 No order he would not subvert, 
 
 No penalty he d not disdain. 
 But such make manly men. The flower 
 
 That blooms too soon, or falsely blooms, 
 Blooms but to wither in an hour, 
 
 While hardier stocks their full perfumes 
 Keep back at first, until, the sun 
 
 Of Summer kindling into glow 
 Their opening petals, one by one 
 
 The roses in perfection blow. 
 
COLLEGE. 
 
 COLLEGE. 
 
 I TROD the worn Collegiate Halls 
 
 With much of reverence : not in vain 
 Does Wisdom write upon her walls, 
 
 Far off, ye thoughtless and profane ! 
 For here as in the armory 
 
 Of Palace Beautiful, the sword 
 And shield and spear are welcome free 
 
 To those alone who love the word 
 That Wisdom teaches. Arms like these, 
 
 Immortal and of proof thrice tried, 
 Let him not rashly hope to seize 
 
 Who wears the flimsy clothes of pride. 
 Here dwells the air of studious thought ; 
 
 In these sequestered shades we see 
 How from the Past is ever brought 
 
 The hope of Immortality. 
 Here, in the present moment, we, 
 
 Rejoicing in the influence cast 
 About our living destiny 
 
 By memories of souls long past, 
 
COLLEGE. 67 
 
 In the same breath look forward to 
 
 The times to which our souls shall come, 
 
 Borne on soft gales that ever blow 
 
 From where the dead have made their home. 
 
 Examinations passed, the grave 
 
 Professors reckoned up the score, 
 How many in the port were safe, 
 
 How many wTecked along the shore. 
 " From dangers of the wind and tide, 
 
 Deliver us," the mariner prays ; 
 Let kindly Fate for those provide 
 
 Who venture forth for college bays. 
 Ah ! village mother, racked with fear 
 
 When to the trial her Hopeful goes, 
 But only trembles lest her dear 
 
 May not unbosom all he knows, 
 Non cuivis homini but stay, 
 
 You don t know Latin nor did he : 
 Such was the sentence of the day, 
 
 In which we, sorrowful, must agree. 
 
68 COLLEGE. 
 
 I love the student love the years 
 
 That shape the boy into the man ; 
 To me it more and more appears, 
 
 They should be happy as they can. 
 And when I rule and sway the State 
 
 Have you no idle dreams like this ? 
 Each youth, and maiden too, shall wait 
 
 Full age, before their spring-like bliss 
 Is broken by the weight of care, 
 
 We all must carry : if delayed, 
 Our manhood s back is strong to bear 
 
 The burden: earlier, overweighed. 
 And therefore I the more condole 
 
 With those whom Labor early finds, 
 And trampling on the tender soul, 
 
 In harsh compulsory fetters binds. 
 Respect them, you who are the more, 
 
 And higher, favored : and if they 
 To your pre-eminence after soar, 
 
 Cast academic pride away, 
 And welcome them. The honest guild 
 
 Is always friendly ; and the claims 
 That on a badge or ribbon build, 
 
 Are at the best but glittering shames. 
 
COLLEGE. 69 
 
 Friend ! who, eddying here and there, 
 
 Still love o er olden days to dream, 
 And now far off are listening, where 
 
 Rolls Sacramento s golden stream ; 
 What days were ours, when, classic-full 
 
 With mathematics saturate 
 For the nonce we voted Plato dull, 
 
 And Parallelopipedons vowed to hate ! 
 Sad disrespect ! But who shall blame 
 
 Those hours passed in rosy mirth ? 
 Unless the Gods avert the same 
 
 Those musty Greeks return to earth. 
 
 Where now is dear old Tutor Blank, 
 
 Who, stunned by our Round-Table glees, 
 Would creep to the door, and softly, " Thank 
 
 You Gentlemen all, and milder, please." 
 Then down the stairs again, good soul, 
 
 Obliged to vindicate the laws, 
 Yet knowing that his mild control 
 
 Was hailed through College with applause ; 
 
70 COLLEGE. 
 
 While those who envied us our mirth, 
 And harried all our nights, were coaled, 
 
 Q-unpowdered to the very hearth, 
 And waked by bells untimely tolled. 
 
 As for the suppers not to swerve 
 
 From truth in any just degree, 
 I cannot say that they deserve 
 
 That they should much be praised by me 
 At raw sixteen, or ere of age, 
 
 The gust, insatiable and crude, 
 Incites the palate to engage 
 
 With things unknown to Monsieur Ude. 
 At best, the Science scarcely known 
 
 On this our hemisphere as yet, 
 Was but to scant proportions grown 
 
 Among the folk of Quodlibet. 
 And if with these so slender, worse 
 
 With the Publicans who ever are 
 With sinners coupled, as of course 
 
 Including these, and much to spare. 
 
COLLEGE. 71 
 
 The wise arch enemy of youth, 
 
 Attacking them in every part, 
 Assaults there s no profounder truth 
 
 The stomach, equally with the heart. 
 For with a diabolic sleight, 
 
 Persuading them that youthful sense 
 And flush of youthful appetite 
 
 Are of enduring permanence, 
 They rush to strange repasts, combine 
 
 All elements of peptic woe, 
 Dilute with fearful brands of wine, 
 
 The child of vitriol and sloe. 
 Hence comes with sure and swiftest pace, 
 
 A fiend, the progeny of Hell, 
 And he, who once has seen his face, 
 
 Needs not that I his name should tell. 
 Dyspepsia call him, that the few 
 
 Who live remote from earthly cooks, 
 May share that faint innoxious view 
 
 One gets of vicious things in books. 
 Once seized by those remorseless hands, 
 
 All struggles are but fruitless pain ; 
 He grasps securely, and the bands 
 
 He twists are proof to mental strain. 
 
72 COLLEGE. 
 
 "What hope remains to stir the soul, 
 Mocked by this devil foul and mean, 
 
 Who o er the mansion holds control, 
 And lets no peace or sunshine in ? 
 
 O Friend ! who in a sunnier land, 
 
 But not on sunnier duties bent, 
 By sealed Executive command, 
 
 Doth judge a Georgia settlement, 
 And skilled in Blackstone and the Law, 
 
 As highest taught, doth yet descend 
 To parley with the lamest saw 
 
 Of rustic justices, and blend 
 Thy loftier wisdom with the wit 
 
 Of shallow lawyers from the town, 
 Who, since they cannot fathom it, 
 
 Miscalculate its true renown : 
 Do yet your thoughts return with mine 
 
 To college times, when in the shade 
 Of summer nights and whispering pine, 
 
 We sonneteered th unconscious maid ? 
 
COLLEGE. 73 
 
 When, underneath the mighty arch 
 
 Where hung the moon s resplendent horn, 
 And gazing on the ceaseless march 
 
 Of Scorpio and Capricorn, 
 Great thoughts possessed our souls, and we 
 
 Though dimly we suspected then, 
 That they with stars and night would flee, 
 
 And leave us desolate again 
 Loved none the less the pleasing spell 
 
 That held us in its drowsy arms : 
 Night and soft airs uniting well 
 
 Their fragrant, rare, Nepenthean charms ? 
 
 But chief among the trooping joys 
 
 That gleamed in Fancy s marshalled host, 
 And marched with steadiest equipoise, 
 
 And claimed our hearts dear reverence most, 
 Was Love not clearly drawn his shape, 
 
 Nor all revealed, as when the form 
 Of some high, memorable Cape, 
 
 Faint glistens through a sunlit storm, 
 
 4 
 
74 COLLEGE. 
 
 Well known, but only from the chart, 
 
 And hailed as guide to tranquil seas ; 
 So Love seemed ancient to the heart, 
 
 But only from its histories. 
 We worshiped each, an unknown maid, 
 
 Some congeries of beauties rare, 
 Whose worth of fame a bankrupt made, 
 
 And kind, we hoped, as she was fair. 
 Around this image, Love decreed 
 
 That all should worsjiip, chiefly we. 
 How easy were it to succeed, 
 
 If worship were the guarantee ! 
 No worship of our later days, 
 
 In actual lady s actual bower, 
 Did more the heart s emotions raise, 
 
 Or flatter Love with greater power, 
 Than ours in college days, unknown 
 
 To aught but us unknown the shrine 
 If shrine there were a strange, vague tone 
 
 Of music from a source divine ! 
 
EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL. 75 
 
 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL. 
 
 AD FLACCUM. 
 
 FLACCUS, you ask me why I love at all ; 
 
 Or why, if loving, I retain a part 
 Of my soul s wealth ? What, shall a girl enthrall 
 
 Supremely and forever Martial s heart ? 
 No. I would not surrender my estate 
 
 In my own self nor yet too niggard be : 
 On female pity let me never wait, 
 
 Nor treat the maid with harsh severity. 
 Safe is the middle course. My joyous breast 
 
 Shall love and live, and live in willing love ; 
 No jealous sorrows shall disturb its rest, 
 
 Nor shall it sigh for maids who cruel prove. 
 
76 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL 
 
 AD FABULLAM. 
 
 FABULLA, when you swear 
 
 That this is your own hair 
 
 Which you, so jaunty, wear, 
 
 Some say you perjured are ; 
 
 But I deny it : 
 
 As for the slander, I defy it ; 
 
 It i* your hair I saw you buy it ! 
 
 AD LESBIAM. 
 
 GIVE me kisses, sweetest maid : 
 What ! " How many ?" have you said ? 
 Bid me count the ocean waves, 
 Or shells that the jEgean sea 
 Casts on the shores it kindly laves 
 From Argos round to Thessaly ; 
 Bid me count the bees that fly 
 
 Round the Cecropian mountains high 
 He deserves but kisses few, 
 
 Who calculates their number, too. 
 
EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL. 77 
 
 DE DIAULO MEDICO. 
 
 DIAULUS lately was a Quack, 
 
 Now he is an Undertaker ; 
 J Tis but going one step back : 
 Those whom once he killed, as Quack, 
 
 Now he hides with Mother Nature. 
 
 4D PUELLAM. 
 
 JANE wants to marry Thomas that s not bad : 
 If she could only get him, twould be stunning ; 
 
 But he refuses he s a knowing lad, 
 And cleverer than she takes him for at running. 
 
78 THE POET S PRAYER 
 
 THE POET S PRAYER. 
 
 HORACE, ODE XXXI. BOOK I. 
 
 WHAT asks the Poet at Apollo s shrine, 
 When first he dedicates his votive hymn ; 
 
 When with proud heart he pours the sacred wine 
 From the wide goblet s brim ? 
 
 No^the fat harvests of Calabrian grain, 
 
 Nor flocks that crop the green Sicilian wold ; 
 
 Not gleaming ivory from the Indian plain, 
 Nor world-alluring gold. 
 
 Let the gay vintager, neath sunny skies, 
 Trim the rich clusters of Burgundian vine: 
 
 From golden beakers, bought with Tyrian dyes, 
 Let merchants quaff their wine 
 
THE POET S PBAYER. 79 
 
 Dear to the Gods : for thrice within the year 
 Their ships have passed th Herculean columns 
 
 high, 
 Which, girt with waves, and storms that stun the 
 
 ear, 
 Frown on the Atlantic sky. 
 
 All these I ask not : let me only see 
 
 My board with grapes and olives h umbly spread 
 And for a rarer dessert, let there be 
 
 The mallow s tender head. 
 
 Thus, Great Apollo, speed my happy days : 
 Let healthy mind in healthy body dwell ; 
 
 Nor to my waning years be wanting praise, 
 Nor music s soothing spell. 
 
80 THE MILL-WHEEL. 
 
 THE MILL-WHEEL. 
 
 WITHIN the mill-wheel s dripping cave, 
 
 How flies the white and gleaming spray, 
 In music falling on the wave 
 
 That dances to the open day ! 
 How cool the eddies of the stream, 
 
 In lazy beats returning slow 
 About the black and roughened beam, 
 
 Whose mossy feet are far below ! 
 
 The mill above is racked with noise, 
 
 And gray with clouds that ever fly ; 
 And now I hear the miller s voice, 
 
 As here and there the workmen ply. 
 I hear the wagons at the door, 
 
 The din of bargain in the hall ; 
 The wheel beneath the raftered floor 
 
 Groans on, the willing slave of all : 
 
THE MILL-WHEEL. 81 
 
 Unheedful of the summer wind 
 
 That o er the rippling water skims ; 
 Unheedful of the frosts that bind 
 
 With icy blades its dripping rims ; 
 Nor ever slacks its measured sound, 
 
 To think of all it has to do, 
 But patient turns its endless round, 
 
 As if its will were endless too. 
 
 By night the water-gate is drawn, 
 
 Beneath the wave the wheel is still ; 
 And waiting for the ling ring dawn, 
 
 In silence stands the lonely mill. 
 Sleep, busy wheel a respite ask 
 
 When all thy daily work is done ; 
 And would the morn s recurring task 
 
 Were less the image of my own. 
 
82 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE 
 
 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE 
 
 When now the Dog-Star lit the morning sky, 
 And grapes were red, and autumn hours were nigh, 
 And long vacation, hastening to a close, 
 Endeared each August sun that loitering rose ; 
 We mused away a shady afternoon, 
 Dreaming the Future that would meet us soon ; 
 From this to that we wandered, passing o er 
 Wide tracts of hope, and fame, and love, and lore, 
 With easy, careless flight. Ah ! bliss of youth, 
 Ere care and sorrow bring unwelcome truth. 
 And I, scholastic biased, praised a life 
 Lone, celibate, and far from worldly strife. 
 But then Horatio laughed : " A foolish dream ! 
 Let but a maiden s eyes upon you beam, 
 And where s your frost-work?" " Let the sage de 
 clare," 
 
 I said, " if we must, slavish, serve the fair 
 Not so have I perused the lives of men 
 Of whom we say, They have not lived in vain. 
 
HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 83 
 
 Nay, from all records, easy tis to prove 
 That Genius has no heavier clog than Love." 
 
 " 0, rebel to your father s faith and deeds ! 
 If such crude heresies your learning breeds, 
 I cast away the ancient musty saws, 
 And Love and Nature shall enforce their laws." 
 
 " Made virtutc, my friend !" I said, 
 " Let me read you what I myself have read ; 
 Nor dare despise the wisdom of the bard, 
 Though you may hold my verse in slight regard. 
 To your condition I adapt the strain, 
 And hymn Horatio in the Ercles vein." 
 "If I may yawn or sleep," he said, " agreed." 
 " Agreed," said I. " Then, worst of poets, read !" 
 
 Once, I believe, on this degenerate earth, 
 Virtue, and laws, and morals, had their birth ; 
 When the cold grotto and the mountain cave 
 A resting-place to flock and shepherd gave ; 
 When, on the skins of bears and lions spread, 
 The rustic mother made her children s bed. 
 
84 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 A simple soul, unlike that Roman fair, 
 
 Who mourned dead sparrows to a plaintive air; 
 
 Uncouth and rough, her progeny attest 
 
 The strength they drew from her abundant breast. 
 
 For when the earth and when the heavens were 
 
 new, 
 
 A giant race of men from giants grew. 
 Peaceful and strong, they tilled the joyous earth, 
 And Nature blessed the homes that gave them 
 
 birth. 
 
 Such was the golden age : the silver came, 
 And brought the god of fond Danae s flame : 
 No cot too lowly to be safe from Jove, 
 No maid unnoticed by his lawless love. 
 Then fled Astrsea ! then no longer lay 
 Fair mansions open to the public way : 
 Trembling, the rustic feared licentious art, 
 And safe no longer was the virgin s heart. 
 
 Old is the custom, nor improved by age, 
 With lying fraud the female heart to gauge, 
 Try all "its weaker points, and shrewdly mine 
 Just where self-love and love for you combine. 
 
HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 85 
 
 But woman in the brazen age began 
 To wreak revenge upon inconstant man. 
 Whatever ills our present time may bring, 
 A faithless woman is no modern thing : 
 Fruit of our craft, perverted by our art, 
 She triumphs newly in each broken heart. 
 
 Yet, my Horatio, by the world tis said, 
 
 You have, though young, made up your mind to 
 
 wed. 
 
 The presents and the contracts are prepared, 
 Nor are your tailor or your barber spared. 
 It is your ring that sparkles to the day, 
 When the fair Julia promenades Broadway. 
 
 Oh ! woman s wiles, that could a Samson bind 
 Is this Horatio, once so strong of mind ? 
 What, when the hempen cord the neck invites, 
 When sly garroters fill our streets o nights ; 
 When from your window high, an easy cast 
 Will make your flight your longest and your last; 
 Nay, when the Staten Island ferry shows 
 So sure an ending of all human woes 
 
86 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 Why choose a fate, a fate unending, too, 
 
 That wise men shun ? but these, alas ! are few. 
 
 The college says, no bachelor s retreat 
 Vies with Horatio s so exact and neat. 
 No woman s wars its owner s rest surprise 
 Procul profana, meets all female eyes ; 
 A well-clad Jenkins spreads the quiet roast 
 Jenkins, your marriage will amaze the most : 
 Nor count it strange that wonder seize us all, 
 If in a female net, Horatio fall. 
 
 wondrous being, that can thus enchain 
 The haughty spurner of the female rein ! 
 
 Let votive thanks proclaim your new-found joy, 
 
 And garlands offer to the Archer Boy. 
 
 Oh ! who is Julia ? Are her conquests few, 
 
 That she, so young in years, has fixed on you ? 
 
 Or, do a hundred rapt companions share 
 
 In those love-tokens you so gayly wear ? 
 
 Can you aver yourself the only one 
 
 On whom your Julia s eyes have fondly shone ? 
 
 1 know a girl, who lives at home, afar, 
 Where the blue Catskill cleaves the upper air ; 
 
HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 87 
 
 Distant her father s house, and lone the spot, 
 The tax-collector scarcely knows the route 5 
 Yet twenty lovers ken the devious road 
 That often guides them to her sire s abode. 
 If " each is able who believes he can," 
 Then, on my faith, is each the happy man. 
 
 wise Horatio ! can the town e er show 
 A wife devoted to your fate and you ? 
 
 1 grant, in wit and manly sense you shine 
 But can you troll the sentimental line ? 
 
 Or do you catch each last-imported air, 
 Where ballet-girls display, and foot-lights glare ? 
 Say, can you match your rivals in the dance 
 Like them can you direct the tender glance, 
 When the soft motions of the reeling waltz 
 Bring cheek to cheek, and fire the bounding pulse ? 
 Like Roscius, simulate a Hamlet s frown, 
 Or, a young Romeo, drink the midnight down ? 
 Dullest of mortals can you hope to please, 
 Who cannot act, or sing, or dance like these ? 
 If, a grave judge, you try the censor s art, 
 You ll find the ladies do not like the part ; 
 
88 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE 
 
 When in May Fair the gay Bathyllus dines, 
 The sage Quinctilian in his garret pines. 
 
 But grant the ring, and grant the contract too, 
 Will the fair Julia to yourself be true ? 
 Straight to the altar will she take her way, 
 When patient waiting brings the expected day? 
 Oh ! who can count the fancies, passion-bred, 
 That now, as ever, turn the female head ! 
 Does rank, or wit, or fashion ever pall ? 
 Yes : Fancy reigns supreme, and laughs at all. 
 
 To sultry Egypt, says the ancient rhyme, 
 
 Came the fair Hippia fairest of her time : 
 
 On Rome s broad avenues, her father s gate 
 
 Stood open only to the rich and great. 
 
 There did she wed a senator and lord, 
 
 Who loved, as Romans loved, who kept their word. 
 
 But, fatal day ! a gladiator came, 
 
 And changed the current of her life and fame : 
 
 Terrific Giant ! with a single hand 
 
 He threw the panting leopard on the sand ; 
 
HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 89 
 
 The fierce Numidian lion, human-fed, 
 First from that awful frown abjectly fled, 
 Confessed his conqueror while he coursed the ring, 
 And died, forgetful of his deadly spring. 
 But bloodier deeds the populace admired ; 
 And who like Sergius, when of beasts they tired ? 
 When thumbs went up around the ^Edile s stand, 
 And hundreds dropped before his murderous brand, 
 Survivor sole, the dauntless man of blood, 
 Panting with slaughter, in the circus stood ; 
 Perceived those lustrous eyes that on him turn 
 Ah ! matchless eyes that could so deeply burn ! 
 Noble Fabricius, at the Forum stay, 
 Strength and the sword have lured thy bride away. 
 Where Pharos glows, and warm Egyptian air 
 Stirs the slow Nile, have fled the raptured pair ; 
 Daring the treacherous winds and angry sea, 
 Fled from the games, the baths, and least from 
 thee ! 
 
 Long dead is Hippia but every day 
 Repeats, and will repeat, the ancient lay : 
 Oh ! why did Helen win a deathless fame, 
 A fame whose lustre gilds the brow of shame ? 
 
90 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 Why gleams so long the sad enduring light 
 Of this fair sinner, robed in legend bright ? 
 Yet hearts are tender : passion s throbs are strong, 
 And jealous husbands always in the wrong. 
 Avoid, rash man, to use a husband s power, 
 When the gay tempter first invades thy bower ; 
 Nor fear that from your side your wife will stray, 
 Unless your negligence prepare the way. 
 To every wily, every flattering art, 
 Oppose the kindness of a loving heart : 
 Revive the soft attentions you displayed, 
 When first you wooed the coy and bashful maid. 
 Think not a woman can forget the charm 
 Of the soft whisper and the willing arm ; 
 If you withhold these tributes of your love, 
 And hope with rugged threats her heart to move, 
 Blame not your fate, nor woman s faith despise, 
 If to another, Heaven transfer the prize. 
 
 But justly blame the foolish wretch w r ho made 
 His wife the venture of a sordid trade ; 
 Who bought consent with money counted down, 
 And bribed a rustic with a house in town. 
 
HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 91 
 
 On legal parchment were the contracts drawn, 
 The vows were registered by priests in lawn ; 
 A cringing father gave the bride away, 
 A scheming mother blessed the golden day ; 
 The spreading news provokes the jealous smart, 
 And baleful envy fires each rival s heart. 
 But when did age and money e er control 
 The quick emotions of the female soul? 
 Too soon the dastard lost his feeble hold 
 Upon the woman purchased by his gold ; 
 While his weak limbs compel unwilling rest, 
 She lights the torches and prepares the feast ; 
 She fills the cups, and twines the garlands gay, 
 Bids through the halls the nimble dancers play, 
 And prompts the revels till the dawn of day. 
 Nor does she force the miser s heart alone 
 O er costly feasts and wasted wine to groan : 
 With jealous pangs she poisons all his life, 
 Till death release him from his pains, and wife ! 
 
 Such pensive tales of matrimonial woe 
 Shall surely meet you whereso er you go ; 
 And if the mention should your taste offend, 
 Blame not the humble bard, but them, my friend. 
 
92 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 But grant your Julia good, and fair, and true, 
 Say that she venerates her sire and you ; 
 Let her be fonder than the Sabine band 
 Who brought fair peace to all the Roman land ; 
 In fine, a rara avis such a bird 
 As sweetly singing, you nor I have heard : 
 Yet with all this, and with much more beside, 
 The deadly bane of all her charms is Pride. 
 
 Oh! woman s pride ! I d rather wed a slave 
 
 Than thee, Cornelia, mother of the brave, 
 
 If with your virtues and your wealth you bring 
 
 Those cursed airs that from such dower spring ! 
 
 Oh ! take away those legends of your race : 
 
 How your great grandsire held the Premier s place ; 
 
 How, with applauding voice, the state conspires 
 
 To sound the praises of your line of sires. 
 
 Let this suffice if e er the marriage state 
 
 I rashly enter, spare me such a mate ! 
 
 Who is not wiser than th egregious fool 
 Who takes a wife from out a modern school, 
 Where female souls o er Greek and Latin dream, 
 And Ologies are bolted by the ream ? 
 
HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 93 
 
 Will Greek compound a dessert or a pie, 
 Or half-learned Latin aid in housewifery ? 
 And yet these noble tongues, if understood, 
 Commend themselves to all the wise and good. 
 But the pert Miss disdains the studious line, 
 Contented she in smatterings to shine ; 
 But shines so ill, your only thought is this 
 If such be knowledge, ignorance is bliss ! 
 
 Short is the maxim, but tis full of weight 
 Than wives, the good deserve a better fate. 
 Submit your head, and let your neck prepare 
 The yoke of your ambitious spouse to wear, 
 And while you yield, your wife will never spare : 
 Quick, at her word, you send the poor away; 
 You pass a bargain, if she thunder nay ; 
 Your trusty college chum your dearest friend 
 She to the right-about will boldly send. 
 She now will guide your taste your bosom s lord, 
 She tunes your voice, and modulates each word ; 
 This shall you like not that; this friend shall 
 
 shun, 
 And with a shilling cut your favorite son. 
 
94 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 These are hard burdens harder you endure, 
 If your dear spouse affect the foreign tour ; 
 No Eastern queen was ever half so grand, 
 Or had so fond a slave at her command. 
 But still obey and still you ll find it true, 
 That if you marry, you ll have work to do. 
 
 Start not, Horatio ! but be firm and bold, 
 
 While I the source of greater woes unfold : 
 
 Mothers-in-Law I sing a baleful race, 
 
 Who leave no concord where they find a place ; 
 
 Who know no pity no forbearance know, 
 
 But o er the ruins of a household grow ; 
 
 But let it partly for their acts atone, 
 
 That, at the worst, your wife can bring but one ! 
 
 Despair of slippered quiet while she lives, 
 Or goods secure : for on your spoil she thrives. 
 Deep in your tradesmen s books she finds a place, 
 And swells your Christmas bills with easy grace : 
 " These comforts, while my daugher lasts, she 
 
 needs, 
 Poor wretch, o er whom a mother s bosom bleeds ! 
 
HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 95 
 
 Once she was young and happy, gay and fair ; 
 Now, mark her altered face and languid air : 
 Slave to your whims, she wastes her life away, 
 And Death too soon will seize his easy prey : 
 While thus her youthful charms and graces fade, 
 Dare not to slight the ruin you have made ; 
 Do not remorseless see your victim die : 
 Yield to her fancy please her longing eye. 
 What baseness to begrudge a trifling cost, 
 When soon you ll mourn the treasure you have 
 lost !" 
 
 Surrender, friend, nor tempt th unequal game 
 
 To fight and not to fight, are both the same. 
 
 Perhaps you ll say and say with justice too 
 
 A dying woman has a deal to do, 
 
 And runs up bills as if she died for two. 
 
 Thus free your mind, thus vent your wrath in air. 
 
 To marry not a woman, but a pair, 
 
 Is but the common lot the common rule, 
 
 That binds alike philosopher and fool. 
 
96 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 In the good times when George the Fourth was 
 
 king, 
 
 The Ladies loved the race-course and the ring ; 
 Lisped dainty oaths, drank healths a finger deep, 
 And reckoned lightly of a five-barred leap. 
 And still the ardor of the British dame, 
 Invades our modern fair with equal flame : 
 But changed the mode, nor is its course the same ; 
 For now they tempt the sacred preacher s part, 
 And with learn d airs essay the healing art ; 
 Burst through the shackles of our narrow code, 
 And prove that Home is not their true abode. 
 For thus, when folly-mad, the female soul 
 Nor loves a home, nor brooks its mild control. 
 What, shall your spouse a loud haranguer be? 
 Can she adore at once the crowd and thee ? 
 Then let her habit ape the cut of ours, 
 Rub from her cheeks those rosy blushing flowers ; 
 Toughen those tender limbs, enforce the gait, 
 The graces banish that aAund her wait ; 
 And view the monster calmly, if you can, 
 The proper scorn of woman and of man. 
 
HINTS FROM THE SIXTH 8ATIBB. 97 
 
 But why does vain ambition thus invade 
 Those tender souls, for Love and Duty made ? 
 Why should the fair transgress the silken bond 
 That would detain them in their graceful round ? 
 Why do they, thoughtless, ally with our foes, 
 When leagues of follies shake the state s repose ? 
 
 Once, humble fortune made our women chaste, 
 
 Keepers at home, and envious of waste ; 
 
 Content to be the handmaid of her lord, 
 
 Each matron, duteous, spread his humble board ; 
 
 Cared for his comfort, made his fame her pride, 
 
 Nor dreamed beyond her home of aught beside. 
 
 While on his lips the state and forum hung, 
 
 She for sweet household words reserved her tongue ; 
 
 Or if with industry and busy care, 
 
 He courted Fortune, and she heard his prayer, 
 
 She did not waste the rich increasing store, 
 
 Nor while he gathered, dissipate the more. 
 
 But now we suffer all the thousand woes 
 That scourge a people sunk in long repose ; 
 For Luxury, more fierce than hostile arms, 
 Deludes the social realm with baleful charms. 
 6 
 
98 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 No crime is absent where she rules the state, 
 And round her throne all deadly vices wait. 
 She steeps our youth in swift precocious crime, 
 Before they touch the years of manly prime ; 
 Taints every office that our rulers hold, 
 And buys up justice with a purse of gold. 
 If such the truth, if such our manhood grown, 
 Can you expect the sex to stand alone ? 
 Will woman soar above her spouse or sire ? 
 Or than the fountain, can the stream rise higher ? 
 
 Bad men are bad ; but woman bad is worse : 
 
 Such is the law of Nature such its curse. 
 
 What oaths, what shameless passion, when you 
 
 meet 
 
 The reckless harlot in the public street ! 
 This is the dire extreme but grant it so ; 
 And does it less the course of Nature show ? 
 So true in all, that when the angels fell, 
 The highest seraph led the van of Hell ! 
 So true in all, that in the subtlest phase 
 In which the front of life its heart betrays, 
 The sinning woman sins the worst of all 
 If in the least she stumble, she must fall. 
 
HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIBE. 99 
 
 Nor dream that soon as wealth and ease begin, 
 And boundless pleasures teach us how to sin, 
 That Nature s laws will from their track depart, 
 Or drive temptation from the female heart ; 
 That then a foreign vice will cease to charm, 
 Or French philosophy protect from harm. 
 As o er the crowned and wealthy Roman state, 
 When long luxurious Peace had loosed the gate, 
 Flowed lawless Sybaris, and drunken Rhodes, 
 And all the license of the Capuan codes ; 
 So now our manners show the foreign stain 
 That blots the march of commerce and of gain, 
 And darkest, deepest, worst of all, displays 
 Where female art the social sceptre sways. 
 
 Dismiss your graver cares, and venture out 
 When some fair sinner gives a midnight rout, 
 What time the honest world is safe abed, 
 And peaceful slumber stills each virtuous head. 
 Then when the horns with brassy tremors sound, 
 And close-locked pairs in dizzying whirls go round ; 
 When the vexed air a deafening chaos fills, 
 Until your hearing seems the worst of ills ; 
 
100 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 When lavish goblets, all too often poured, 
 In foaming beauty glisten round the board; 
 When now the reeling house tumultuous swims, 
 And candles double as the eye-sight dims ; 
 When the kind favors of the hour permit 
 The farthest license of the dubious wit ; 
 When virgins, bolder than their lovers grown, 
 Demand an ardor equal to their own 
 Then, as the morning pales the waxen glare, 
 And rising sun-beams pierce the heavy air, 
 Pick through the noisy crowd your careful way ; 
 And while you taste the freshness of the day, 
 Lament the milder orgies of the state 
 That nursed a Louis and his precious mate, 
 And blame your destiny you live so late. 
 
 I know how sagely ancient friends advise 
 The help of guardians, and of watchful eyes ; 
 Restrain their social follies keep them in, 
 Nor let the wandering footstep tempt to sin. 
 SED QUIS CUSTODIET you know the rest ; 
 A task ungrateful, difficult at best. 
 
HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 101 
 
 For when the morning stage your bulk conveys 
 To the dim office where you pass your days, 
 To whom will you the manly part confide, 
 Of confidential jailor to your bride? 
 Or when three courses and your pint of wine 
 Your nodding brain to slumbers soft incline, 
 [ow vain to strive against the drowsy hour, 
 evening papers lend their leaden power !) 
 Who shall escort your daughter or your spouse, 
 
 play Asmodeus in your neighbor s house ? 
 fay, should you pension Argus by the year, 
 jid bribe the wistful winds to lend an ear, 
 r our wife is cunning, doubles their rewards, 
 md finds her safety in your chosen guards ! 
 
 vain would melting words and airs combine, 
 Tenors did not sing, or Bassos shine ; 
 or since the Opera has hither flown, 
 And we can call the lyric stage our own, 
 Which please the fair the most, tis hard to tell 
 Italian strains, or those who sing them well. 
 
 Ah ! mournful truth how oft the morning sheet 
 And table-talk their dire results repeat ! 
 
102 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 Teach your fair daughters, with the strictest rules, 
 
 To fly from fortune-hunters and from fools ; 
 
 To flirt with prudence, and with just degree 
 
 To draw the line between the kind and free : 
 
 Let learned graces lend their costly aids 
 
 To gild the charms of these accomplished maids ; 
 
 Still, naught, and worse than naught, is all this art, 
 
 When Loves of Tenors storm the female heart. 
 
 A thousand virgins at Edgardo s shrine 
 
 Pour their fond sighs, and floral offerings twine ; 
 
 Nor can the hero s generous feelings bear, 
 
 That they should waste their vows on empty air. 
 
 Now from the painted lawn, the ochred grove, 
 
 His songs responsive whisper love for love ; 
 
 The melting magic of his tuneful voice 
 
 Invites surrender where he rests his choice, 
 
 Compels all foes and obstacles to yield, 
 
 And leaves Eclgardo master of the field ; 
 
 Then "strange elopement by the midnight train" 
 
 The world s loud laughter, and the mother s pain. 
 
 The stage-deluded fair our pity claim, 
 But fly with hasty fear the wrathful dame, 
 With brows of iron and with eyes of flame ; 
 
HINTS PROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 103 
 
 >Who holds the luckless family in awe, 
 And boasts where er she goes, her word is law. 
 Terrific theme ! with careful art control 
 Your cautious words, nor vex her angry soul ; 
 For, of all woes that scourge our wretched race, 
 A brawling woman holds the foremost place. 
 
 Nor much inferior in the scale of ill 
 
 Is she who practises the critic s skill ; 
 
 Compares the ancient and the modern song, 
 
 And tells what faults to this and that belong. 
 
 She praises Virgil, but she must aver 
 
 That in his figures he was wont to err : 
 
 How could jEneas wed the Tyrian queen, 
 
 And those long centuries of time between ? 
 
 Homer she doubts. " In that barbaric night, 
 
 It were a question whether bards could write ; 
 
 The pleasing poems that adorn his name, 
 
 And which not wholly undeserve their fame, 
 
 Are fruit and product of a later day, 
 
 Styled Homer in a sort of jesting way, 
 
 As now * Anonymous we often say." 
 
 Nor less does Shakspeare meet her learned doubt : 
 
 Historic fiction of an age gone out ; 
 
104 HINTS FROM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 
 
 A tavern-jester, with a forehead high, 
 
 Behind whose smooth expanse no brains were 
 
 known to lie. 
 
 Tis a keen joke : the wits of Shakspeare s time 
 Made him the post whereon to hang their rhyme : 
 Then if the verse were praised, they took the praise ; 
 If damned, they asked, " Who writes such shock 
 ing plays ?" 
 
 This game, for Verulam and Raleigh fit, 
 A pastime exquisite of courtly wit, 
 Has made us heir to that immortal page 
 That glows the brighter as it gathers age. 
 But as in Homer, so in Shakspeare too, 
 The age it is, and not the man, we view. 
 The age of heroes and the age of song, 
 Inscribed by all the minds that through it throng, 
 Condensed at last within a single name, 
 That smoothly walks th eternal road of fame. 
 Such is the theme at Ladies lectures read, 
 The wondrous offspring of a female head ; 
 And backed by logic of such trenchant stuff, 
 That e en logicians own tis quite enough. 
 
HINTS FBOM THE SIXTH SATIRE. 105 
 
 Now let the bard 
 
 " Desist," Horatio cried, 
 " Nor write your author dead, and me beside. 
 Well for your bones, that centuries ago 
 Your injured poet went where all must go. 
 What monstrous jumble have you here composed, 
 Old times and new in one rough shell inclosed ? 
 I pass your dullness, pass your halting rhyme, 
 The slanderous verse that ill befits the time ; 
 I only ask, desist to ape the sage 
 Who mourns the follies of his buried age. 
 In vain the long-drawn martial verse you try, 
 Your mother s counsels give your muse the lie ; 
 And if love s passion e er your bosom stirs, 
 Another s whispers will but strengthen hers." 
 
 " The argument ad hominem," I cried, 
 
 " Your guide, philosopher, and friend your bride. 
 
 But let the public judge between us two, 
 
 If I can find a publisher or you." 
 
106 ADVICE. 
 
 ADVICE. 
 
 A CERTAIN preacher asked a friend s advice 
 About his sermons, for his drowsy flock 
 Strayed off, or slept, and recked not of the Word. 
 The critic came, and kept an open ear, 
 Till in the vestry met, the preacher asked : 
 "Well, well?" And he: "With candor I have 
 
 heard, 
 
 And your discourse a certain something lacks. 
 And I suggest, that to recall your fold, 
 You find some one to write your sermons for you ; 
 And pardon me, if also I advise, 
 That then, you get somebody else to read them !" 
 
EPIGRAMS FEOM MARTIAL. 107 
 
 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL. 
 
 DE GEMELLO ET MARONILLA. 
 
 G-EMELLUS wants to marry Maronilla ; 
 Day and night he hangs about her villa ; 
 Seeks and urges hastens on the day ; 
 From her side is scarce an hour away ; 
 Lavish gifts on her is ever pressing : 
 Such devotion faith, tis quite distressing ! 
 Is she handsome ? Handsome as a hedge- 
 Hog ; her face would set your teeth on edge ; 
 Stupid, old, and ugly : but her money 
 Turns the gall of all this dose to honey ; 
 And the sweetest drop is this : her cough 
 Is sure in twenty weeks to take her off. 
 
 IN CALENUM. 
 
 ONCE your fortune was but small, 
 Then your home was free to all ; 
 Joyous, gay, and prodigal. 
 Such a generous host, Calenus, 
 We, your thousand friends, between us 
 Wished that Fortune s happy chance 
 
108 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL. 
 
 To you her bounties might impart, 
 And recompense with rich advance 
 The largess of your liberal heart. 
 The kindly goddess heard our prayer, 
 Made you unexpected heir 
 Of two rich widows, in a day 
 Snatched from their estates away. 
 
 What then? At once your doors you close, 
 Compel yourself a pauper s woes. 
 On crusts and wilted lettuce dine, 
 Washed down with cheap and musty wine. 
 No longer do you wish a friend, 
 For fear that you ll be asked to lend. 
 No longer you enjoy the hour 
 When wit and mirtb assert their power. 
 Your life is gain ; your only joy 
 Is baseband sordid usury. 
 But still our prayer to Fortune rises, 
 That she will grant you fresh surprises ; 
 If she ll but double, treble, your possessings, 
 You ll starve to death twould be the best 
 of blessings. 
 
EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL. 109 
 
 AD PRISCUM. 
 
 You ask me why so late in life 
 I am a bachelor. My wife 
 I have not found, as yet ; but you, inhuman, 
 Desire me to wed that wealthy woman 
 Who has a fancy for me not to boast ; 
 And sends me billet-doux by every post. 
 I like her not : she is too proud for me : 
 A matron, to my mind, should ever be 
 Less than her husband ; only thus we find 
 The sexes in equality combined. 
 
 AD CATONEM IN THEATRO. 
 
 RIGID Judge ! already well you know 
 The secrets of the circus and the show ; 
 The games of mountebanks ; the midnight ball ; 
 The maskers revels yes, you know them all ; 
 When lo, I meet you in the crowded pit ! 
 But why stand up ? Tis easier to sit : 
 Or did you only come through mud and rain, 
 In order that you might go out again ? 
 
110 ABOOSTOOK. 
 
 AROOSTOOK. 
 
 THE sun is coming from the South, 
 I hear the bluebird s cheerful lay ; 
 
 The river from its loosened mouth 
 Pours leagues of crashing ice away. 
 
 And this is April. Once I dreamed 
 
 Away a southern happy year, 
 Where sunbeams through the roses gleamed 
 
 In April. Are there roses here ? 
 
 What binds the race to Labrador, 
 The squalid wastes of Hecla s side, 
 
 The Orkneys, and the Norway shore, 
 And rocks that front the Polar tide ; 
 
 To which these piny realms of Maine 
 Are gardens ? Though the sun invite, 
 
 And call me to the South again, 
 To tropic air and balmy night, 
 
 Yet here I linger here is Home : 
 Its tender spell is round me cast, 
 
 Endearing skies of sullen gloom, 
 
 Short summer marred by bitter blast. 
 
AT MANILLA. Ill 
 
 AT MANILLA 
 
 THE ship that bore me here at twenty-two, 
 
 Lies underneath the sea ; 
 Nor she, nor other ship that sails the blue, 
 
 To homeward shores shall ever carry me. 
 
 If life give little, yet it gives one choice, 
 
 Before we fix our fate : 
 Be mine, Content. Who seeks for greater joys, 
 
 On him shall sorrows fall with greater weight. 
 
 I will not nurture friends to see them die, 
 
 Or watch their love decay ; 
 Nor taste God s dearest gift a child s sweet cry 
 
 To be soul-wrecked when that is snatched away. 
 
 Within my heart, in soft, perpetual bloom, 
 
 There lives a maiden face, 
 And all my life her constant smiles illume, 
 
 Nor leave for sadness any resting-place. 
 
112 AT MANILLA. 
 
 The kiss she gave is on my lips to-day, 
 
 Wanned with a balmy sigh ; 
 To-morrow there nor will it pass away 
 
 So long as I am true to memory. 
 
 Though I grow old* yet she will never change 
 
 Her smile will be as fair. 
 Shall I return to gaze on features strange, 
 
 And reft by time of charms that once were there ? 
 
 If Fate hath made us so, that every hour 
 
 She steals away a joy, 
 Yet this is left, that I escape her power, 
 
 Nor rest my soul on what she may destroy. 
 
OVID. 113 
 
 OVID. 
 
 PAEIS AD HELENAM. 
 
 DAUGHTER of Leda, 
 
 I a greeting send, 
 
 The blameless courtesy of friend to friend. 
 And shall I further speak? What need to tell 
 Of Love that Helen sees and feels too well ? 
 Alas ! too well. Let me the flame repress, 
 While unsuspected hours our meetings bless. 
 But lamely I dissemble : how conceal 
 Fires which their own bright tongues to all reveal ? 
 But if you wait if you expect the word, 
 I LOVE, tis past recall, and you have heard. 
 Spare me, love-wearied : let a kindly face 
 Bend o er the line that leaves me to your grace. 
 This boon is great, that you receive the prayer, 
 Which gathers freshening hope, because you spare. 
 Because you spare, I bless the Goddess kind, 
 Who led me here, and taught what I should find. 
 
114 OVID. 
 
 For hither have I come by her command, 
 Who, all-victorious, draws with tender hand. 
 I seek for great rewards : but they are due, 
 And she, who promised all, has given me You, 
 And thus fulfilled the compact. 
 
 For the prize 
 
 O er boundless seas I came, to where arise 
 The Isles .ZEgean. She, complaisant airs 
 Breathed from the skies in answer to my prayers. 
 The sea-sprung Goddess, who commands the sea, 
 Smoothed all its waves, that I might come to thee. 
 
 Love s flames I brought I did not find them here ; 
 These fixed my journey not the stormy year ; 
 Nor chance, nor skillful pilot, is the cause 
 Why Trojan guest obeys the Spartan laws. 
 Nor merchant filled my ships with silken bales : 
 My wealth is Love with this the Trojan sails. 
 Nor yet spectator I of Grecian power : 
 Lord of unbounded wealth, and Love the Dower. 
 But You I seek by Venus led, I came, 
 Worshiped by me before I heard your name ; 
 
OVID. 115 
 
 Clear-lighted to my heart your features shone, 
 And, first of women, you were loved ere known ! 
 
 And do you wonder ? Has it never been, 
 That Cupid s bow has wounded, twanged unseen t 
 So will the Fates and, not to cross their power, 
 Hear what befell me at my natal hour. 
 
 Unborn I lingered. Long my mother bore 
 The ripened burden that oppressed her sore ; 
 Till, fever-pulsed, she dreamed that in her lay 
 A blazing brand, that burned her life away ; 
 Shuddering she rose, and groping mid the night 
 Through the dim palace, stood in Priam s sight ; 
 And told the vision. He, whom Gods inspire, 
 Foretold in me the red and baleful fire 
 Cassandra singa for Troy. But far apart 
 From truth. This firebrand is Paris Heart ; 
 Incensed with love, its generous embers glow, 
 The wealth and hope of Troy, and not her foe. 
 
 There is a nook within the woody vales 
 Of Middle Ida, hid from blustering gales 
 By bosky laurels ; oaks and elms on high 
 Shade the hot noon, but not obscure the sky. 
 
116 OVID. 
 
 Here, not the timid sheep disturbs the vine, 
 Nor venturous kid, nor pasture-loving kine, 
 So devious, dim, the path ; and here I came 
 One summer s day, when all the sky was flame, 
 And myrtle-shaded sat, and watched the wave, 
 Whose languid ripples scarce a murmur gave ; 
 And saw far off the white and shining walls 
 Of rich imperial Troy. 
 
 Then faintly falls 
 
 The tread of musically-moving feet, 
 Whose heavenly rhythms all the glades repeat, 
 For not of mortal step ; and while I feared, 
 First to my eyes swift Mercury appeared, 
 Herald of Goddesses, the God ; for him 
 Close followed, threading through the foliage dim, 
 Minerva, Juno, Venus, stepping light, 
 On beds of Asphodel and Crocus bright. 
 
 Trembling I looked, as one who in amaze, 
 At midnight wakes, when red Auroras blaze. 
 But he : "Be not afraid, these leave the sky 
 Their golden thrones a mortal s skill to try, 
 In Parliament of Beauty : you are he, 
 O favored one ! with whom the choice shall be." 
 
OVID. 117 
 
 mid I refuse ? He spoke the will of Jove, 
 id, heavenly omen, straightway soared above, 
 jfl to myself, my fainting sense grew strong, 
 id Jove-inspired, I conned the beauteous throng, 
 jh worthy seemed to conquer ; in the eyea 
 Of their fond judge, each merited the prize ; 
 But still the fairest, she who most compelled, 
 Was Love s great mother. 
 
 Nor were gifts withheld 
 By any richer than all dreams, and these 
 But trifling earnests of the boundless fees 
 From her who was to conquer. Jove a great 
 
 spouse, 
 
 Wide kingdoms, and a crown about my brows, 
 Securely promised ; but Minerva s prize, 
 Statecraft, and all that in clear wisdom lies. 
 Between the two I paused ; till Venus laughed : 
 " Philosopher nor king the stream has quaffed 
 That now I offer thee. Those gifts refuse, 
 That for an instant you delay to choose. 
 Receive from me the worthiest her whose charmi 
 Haste to their home in thy adoring arms, 
 Helen of Argos." 
 
118 OVID. 
 
 Then she paused : the word 
 
 Ran echoing through my heart, and sweetly stirred, 
 And loudly, all its pulses ; which she knew, 
 For to herself a cloud the Goddess drew, 
 And vanished, all victorious. Happy day, 
 When Paris judged of Goddesses, for they 
 By that make Troy proud ; by that a queen 
 I claim from golden Venus. 
 
 You have been 
 
 From that hour worshiped : and, as I love thee, 
 So, many Trojan maidens sigh for me ; 
 Hun whom they long for, you alone retain : 
 Nor do kings daughters only sigh in vain, 
 But all the Nymphs. 
 
 I care not for them all, 
 Once filled with hope of thee on thee I call, 
 Through sleepless nights, and when my wearied 
 
 eyes 
 
 Close in soft slumbers, in my dreams you rise. 
 Oh ! if unseen you charm me, how would you 
 Charm me, if by your side ? Though far the view, 
 
OVID. 119 
 
 I burn with flames of worship. Why delay 
 To follow hope that led the joyful way 
 To where you are ? The voice that called to me, 
 Hushed all the winds, and calmed the stormy sea. 
 
 My sturdy axemen felled the Phrygian pine, 
 And every tree that loves the tumbling brine, 
 From rugged Gargarus, crowned with woods, to 
 
 where 
 
 Long Ida lifts her leafy head in air. 
 Then rose the stately ships ; through all their length, 
 The mighty keel, rib-fastened, laughed in strength, 
 But shapeless seemed and sluggish, till at last, 
 Flew the white canvas from the springing mast. 
 Bright legends deck each pictured stern, the tales 
 Of Gods grown loving she, who fanned the sails 
 That bore me here, not absent, nor was he 
 Forgot, who shoots Love s darts. 
 
 Then to the sea 
 
 r e turned the prows, Greece-pointed ; but my sire 
 r ith mournful words bewailed my rash desire, 
 id prayed, but vainly prayed, delay. Then came 
 indra, weird, loose-haired, who cried : "A flame 
 
120 OVID. 
 
 You bear with you oh ! whither do you go, 
 Thus ruin-charged ? Ah ! reckless ; and you know 
 Naught of the baleful fires this journey brings !" 
 I find the fires tis truth Cassandra sings 
 But they are Love s own flames. The favoring wind 
 Has fanned the blaze, but Fear has dropt behind. 
 Thy shores receive me, fairest Nymph ; thy lord 
 Has bid me sit, and nobly, at his board. 
 This flows from Fate ; I know the heavenly sign, 
 And Jove decrees that Helen s heart is mine. 
 
 Here have I seen the heaped-up wealth of Greece, 
 The spoils of war, the rich results of peace, 
 But idly passed them by. My eager view 
 At first, and now, desires, and only, You. 
 Wondering, I gazed at first my wonder grows, 
 My soul s rapt ardor pause, nor languor knows. 
 Such thrills, such joyful shocks, my senses atirred, 
 When Venus smiled on my approving word 
 At the great trial but had you been there, 
 Not Love s great mother had been owned no fair. 
 For everywhere of thee the rumor blows : 
 Thee far-off Atlas, thee the Tigris, knows : 
 
 

 OVID. 121 
 
 No Trojan dame thy rival nor can fame 
 E er speak of beauty but through Helen s name. 
 But though she fill the earth with praise, tis less 
 Than Helen s self. Let him despair success, 
 Who hopes to sing thy just renown the song 
 Faints with the burden that it bears along. 
 
 What wonder, then, the Grecian king admired 
 From myriad beauties, only thee desired ; 
 Sought thee in rapine rude, while in the game 
 Your veilless beauty glowed, nor dreamed of shame ? 
 I praise the theft but how, oh ! how restore 
 The matchless charms which in his arms he bore ! 
 I should for ever hold such dear delight, 
 Nor yield thee up to Gods, nor Death s dread 
 
 might ; 
 
 My arms should ever clasp ; and fed with bliss, 
 Immortal were the look, the sigh, the kiss. 
 Should Fate demand, my heaven-defying pride 
 
 ould cling to thee, though yielding all beside. 
 
 scorned the World s command, to gain your love, 
 The royal bounty of the spouse of Jove ; 
 
 r 
 
122 OVID. 
 
 I scorned the wisdom that Minerva gave 
 Enough of wisdom this, to be your slave. 
 Nor does the choice repent me oft as you 
 Rise to my fancy, I the choice renew ; 
 Renew each rapturous dream, and vow to gain 
 Her for whose sake twere light to bear all pain. 
 
 Nor fear, nobly born ! your queenly state 
 Will aught diminish, if you share my fate. 
 Whoever questions of the Trojan line, 
 Shall find the stars of heaven, and Jove divine. 
 The sceptred Priam, o er the boundless plains 
 Of fertile Asia, proudly, safely, reigns ; 
 Lord of innumerous cities, marches fair, 
 And temples worthy of the name they bear ; 
 But mightiest, Troy, whose turrets, pointing high, 
 Rose, mid immortal music, to the sky ; 
 Whose pouring crowds surpass the sum of men, 
 Till scarce can earth the mighty host sustain. 
 Thee with warm welcomes, and with flying feet, 
 Shall all the Trojan maids and mothers meet ; 
 Oft, when you think of Greece, will you compare 
 With Trojan wealth Achaia s petty share. 
 
OVID. 123 
 
 But cease, my boastful heart, nor dare despise 
 The land that gave a Helen to my eyes ; 
 But still unworthy, for a richer earth 
 Than ours would scarce deserve to give her birth. 
 Oh ! give this beauty every sweet delight, 
 And taste the sacred joys it claims, of right ; 
 Fill pleasure s goblet up, nor scorn to share 
 With me, because a Phrygian name I bear ; 
 For he, the foremost of the Phrygian kings, 
 To Jove in heaven, immortal nectar brings ; 
 Another was Aurora s spouse ; and he 
 Was Phrygian too, whom Venus came to see, 
 And staid to love, in Ida. 
 
 And I dare, 
 
 Myself with Sparta s king, thy spouse, compare, 
 In courage, age, desert. The peaceful night 
 Shall not be robbed from thee by dread affright 
 Of thine own husband s sire, before whose eyes, 
 In glooms of dusk, his horrent victims rise. 
 Pure is our lineage from the bloody stain 
 That dyed the waves of all the Grecian main. 
 
124 OVID. 
 
 But shall these dreadful themes disturb your 
 
 breast ? 
 
 All these are nothing only make me blest. 
 I hope but ah ! how hopeless : in your arms 
 Another tastes the sweets of Helen s charms ; 
 And sharing joys for which the Gods might sigh, 
 Leaves me, in envious pain to faint and die. 
 
 Let me recall my griefs : each evening s feast 
 Finds me an eager but an anxious guest ; 
 And such my jealous pangs, no greater woe 
 Could I desire for my severest foe ; 
 Such I endure, when, rude as Scythian bear, 
 Thy husband trifles with thy golden hair, 
 Toys with thy fingers, and, distasteful theme, 
 Scarce, in my presence, leaves me aught to dream. 
 Surely, thy duty, not love s rapture true, 
 Compels endurance, and an answer too. 
 But let me shun the all-abhorrent view, 
 And when thy drunken lord imprints a kiss, 
 Hide from my eyes the sight of wasted bliss, 
 Though from my heart my choking feelings rise, 
 And all my aching soul dissolves in sighs ; 
 
OVID. 125 
 
 Yet, wanton ! with my griefs your laughter grows, 
 And in my torture, still you find repose. 
 
 Nor wine allays the rage of my desire, 
 The generous draught but adds a flame to fire ; 
 Lest I should see or hear, I turn away, 
 But when you look or speak, I must obey. 
 Oh ! say what I shall do : to see, is pain ; 
 A greater sorrow tis to gaze in vain. 
 Ah ! if I could my love conceal or kill, 
 Then blest contentment all my heart should fill. 
 But vain to hope such ending ; still appears 
 My yearning love, and still I toss with fears. 
 Shall I keep silence, still you know my grief, 
 And know that you alone can bring relief. 
 How oft, to hide my tears, a feigned excuse 
 Brings a short absence from thy lord s abuse ; 
 How oft I feign of ancient love a tale, 
 To hide my own, and yet my own reveal ; 
 Praise some fond, unknown lover and so well, 
 That only you discern what I would tell. 
 
 Once, I remember, when the feast was high, 
 Your beauty doubly glowed on every eye. 
 
126 OVID. 
 
 
 
 Though jeweled robes your perfect form obscured, 
 Still, through the cloud not less the star allured. 
 Through wavy seas of dress appeared thy form, 
 And took my beating, raptured heart by storm. 
 So was I tranced, the golden cup I bore 
 Fell from my hand, and rolled along the floor. 
 You kissed your daughter then those kisses I 
 Snatched from her lips before their soul could fly ; 
 Then sang again such songs as you might ask, 
 And o er my features drew a cautious mask ; 
 For such you bid me wear, that none may know 
 The cause of Helen s pride and Paris woe. 
 
 Despairing all, and chafing at my fate, 
 I bribed the smiling nymphs who round you wait, 
 Who gave me naught of hope, but greater fears, 
 And cheeked my prayers, and wondered at my tears. 
 They know not Jove s decrees, nor dream the fate 
 That waits thee, flying to a mightier state. 
 Thee shall the victor win by toilsome days, 
 For thee shall armies fight and cities blaze ; 
 Thy lot shall shame those legends all have read, 
 Of how for love the great Alcides bled. 
 
OVID. 127 
 
 Greater than these shall be your deathless name, 
 Prize of my labors, mistress of my fame. 
 Than me the prize is more my humbler share 
 Is but to woo thee with a lover s prayer. 
 O Honor, Glory, Brightest Star of Love, 
 Divinest daughter of immortal Jove ! 
 Hence will I bear thee to the Trojan shore, 
 Or, here an exile, see my home no more. 
 
 No common wound deprives my soul of rest, 
 And keen the arrow that has pierced my breast. 
 True was her dream, who saw from out the sky 
 The Archer launch his shaft, and saw me die. 
 But you can save me you and only you ; 
 Love s mother promised this, and she is true. 
 To you she lends a ready ear to-day 
 Ah ! fear to drive her kindly aid away. 
 
 Too long I linger words have lost their power ; 
 Now, now the fates attend, tis Love s own hour. 
 Oh! fear not him whom fate has made your spouse, 
 A careless lord, nor mindful of his vows. 
 Ah ! simple Helen, charming, rustic maid, 
 Think you that beauty loves such lawful shade ? 
 
128 OVID. 
 
 Oh ! be not beautiful or let your charms 
 Receive their tribute in a lover s arms. 
 No other choice is thine. In maid or wife, 
 Reserve and Beauty wage an endless strife. 
 How oft the softer conquers, let the sky 
 Home of the gods and happy souls reply. 
 Nor does your lineage bid me hope in vain, 
 If Leda s fire but live in you again. 
 Let others vainly hope if o er the sea 
 You fly with Paris, leave their fate to me. 
 
 My prayers thy husband seconds, grants his aid ; 
 Time, place, and absence, all things smooth have 
 
 made. 
 
 The Cretan realm demands his instant care, 
 And his safe wisdom has no fears to spare 
 Oh ! wondrous wisdom ! " Helen, I commend, 
 While absent, to thy dearest care, my friend : 
 Spare naught to make him happy." Is it so, 
 Ungrateful one, from whom my torments flow ? 
 Me you defraud, whose quick responsive soul 
 Draws life from thine, and yields to thy control. 
 But should you give that heartless man a heart, 
 To wake Love s fires there, would pass thy art. 
 
OVID. 129 
 
 No, if he prized thy heart thy arms thy 
 
 smiles 
 
 He would not leave thee thus to others wiles. 
 "Pis he who tempts not I : and weak my voice, 
 When his ingratitude suggests the choice. 
 When he compels, can you advise delay, 
 Or suffer time, unblest, to slip away ? 
 Tis he who brings the lover, pleads his cause ; 
 Tis he who bids you love obey his laws, 
 Nor scorn the wisdom of thy spouse discreet, 
 Who flies and leaves a lover at your feet ! 
 
 Alone at night I watch the wheeling Bear ; 
 
 To Jove your chamber sends a lonely prayer. 
 
 Oh ! join the prayer, the vigil : let the joy 
 
 Of hearts united, day and night employ. 
 
 Then I will swear by what you wish ; the shrine 
 
 Of ourMear vows shall be your heart and mine : 
 
 Then I, a present lover, all shall dare, 
 
 And you shall hear and sigh, and grant my prayer, 
 
 Consent to flight, nor once of danger dream, 
 
 While yet my lips keep up the ardent theme. 
 
130 OVID. 
 
 But if you fear, let not examples fail, 
 And such as might o er Dian s self prevail. 
 .ZEgides, first, and next thy brothers twain, 
 Wooed thus their brides, nor was the wooing vain. 
 Than these, no instance nearer to thine eyes, 
 For me reserved the fourth, most beauteous prize. 
 Now wait my men, now swell the Trojan sails, 
 Short be our path before the prospering gales ; 
 Through the rich cities of the Asian plain, 
 Thyself, a queen, full honors shall obtain. 
 Thee shall the wondering crowd a Goddess call, 
 Before thy steps shall fairest matrons fall ; 
 Flames, incense-bearing, shall illume thy road, 
 And kings shall kiss the spot thy feet have trod. 
 
 Alas ! for me, who only tell a part 
 
 Of what shall happen ; thy all-conquering heart 
 
 Shall hasten more events than Trojan love, 
 
 And fast the Fates upon thy path shall move. 
 
 But fear thou not, lest cruel wars pursue 
 
 Lest Greece should swear revenge, and prove too 
 
 true. 
 What dame of all the dames that e er have fled, 
 
 Has war pursued, or who for such has bled ? 
 
OVID. 131 
 
 Review the names, the histories of the fair, 
 And doubt if you can doubt their lot to share ! 
 Tis true, they feared at first ; but fear was all 
 No danger followed, nor did death appall. 
 And she who dreaded once lest earth should rise, 
 Now fears no storm outside her lover s eyes. 
 
 But grant the worst if war assail our path, 
 Let them beware who rouse the archers wrath. 
 My men are bold, my weapons true ; the land 
 That bore me, scorns to fear a foe s command. 
 Strong may thy husband be, but not to one 
 Is strength confined. No combat will I shun, 
 Or now, or ever, with his arms ; for I, 
 Scarce from my cradle stept, feared not to die. 
 In every contest of the youth I vied, 
 And countless triumphs fed my martial pride, 
 Nor think that I, whom all the youth attend, 
 Could not alone thy sacred cause defend. 
 Point but the man, the mark ; my lusty bow 
 Shall bring the boast of Grecian armies low. 
 Is such thy husband s arm is such his glance 
 Is he such warrior, wields he thus his lance ? 
 
132 OVID. 
 
 But grant him this, and then I dare deride : 
 I fight with mighty Hector at my side. 
 He worth innumerous soldiers : pride of war : 
 Amid the bloody ranks a blazing star. 
 
 And you are worth the contest ; let the blare 
 Of angry trumpets fill the reddening air ; 
 Let battle s tempests rise ; if risen for thee, 
 What pains shall gauge the price of victory ? 
 Should all the earth contend for thee, thy name 
 Shall live illustrious in eternal fame. 
 Faint not with timid fear ; the Gods obey, 
 Who prosperous smiling, call thee hence away. 
 Pledge me thy faith, and fill the measure up 
 With thy dear hand, of joy, and life, and hope. 
 
OVID. 
 
 133 
 
 HELENA AD PARIDEM 
 
 SINCE I thy vows profane have rashly read, 
 
 Pride prompts to answer, virtue not denies. 
 You, whom we nobly have received, have said 
 
 The words that ne er should reach a matron s eyes. 
 Was it for this the favoring winds arose, 
 
 And sped your vessel to the Grecian shore, 
 That though from land of strangers and of foes, 
 
 We wrote a welcome on our palace door ? 
 
 Was it for this, you words of insult bore ? 
 
 How have you come as enemy or friend ? 
 
 Perhaps when this, my just complaint, you read, 
 Ah ! rustic, you will say, who needs defend 
 
 Her life, so chastely pure in thought and deed ! 
 But if I do not sigh with love-sad grace, 
 
 And if I do not gloom with knitted brow, 
 Still is my fame as scarless as my face ; 
 
 And no such man as thou has cause to show, 
 
 How I am less unsoiled than mountain snow. 
 
134 OVID. 
 
 So more I wonder that in me you find, 
 Or think you find, a plea for such desire. 
 
 Snatched once from home, you fancy that my mind 
 Dwells fondly on the theme of lawless fire : 
 
 It makes the crime, if one but yield the will, 
 But crimeless I, who all unwilling proved ; 
 
 Nor further fruit had he of all his skill, 
 
 Whose arts heroic showed how well he loved, 
 Than to convey me back, unhurt, unmoved. 
 
 For though his wanton ardor reft the kiss 
 I never gave, it gained him naught beside. 
 
 But shameless Trojan, not content with -this, 
 How worse than his your all-demanding pride ! 
 
 For Theseus spared to urge, when once the flame 
 Of maiden honor flashed across his sight ; 
 
 But glows your heart with no ingenuous shame, 
 Nor will you cease to call me from the height 
 To that wild sea whose shores are tears and night. 
 
 Call me not angry, for our sex is kind 
 
 To lovers madness but we need be wise, 
 
 And she that s lured by Love s pretense, is blind ; 
 I doubt your love, but not your praise ; my eyes 
 
OVID. 135 
 
 Tell me that I am fair : I need not you 
 
 To tell me this. But women oft have erred 
 
 By flattery such as yours, and not more true ; 
 I might have wronged, to judge ere I had heard 
 Now I convict you, by your every word. 
 
 But others sin, and matron fame is rare : 
 
 Is this a cause that Helen s fame should die ? 
 
 And from my mother s error, do you dare 
 To urge my feet from paths of chastity ? 
 
 Ah ! hapless mother ; Nature then withdrew 
 Her kindly aid when royal lover came, 
 
 Her powers assist the god who stoops to sue ; 
 And if in form of swan he hides his flame, 
 The maid, deceived and captured, who shall blame ? 
 
 But should I wander, tis in clearest light, 
 
 Nor aught of ignorance should shade the deed ; 
 
 My mother sank before Jove s wily might : 
 But could my fault a godlike*tempter plead ? 
 
136 OVID. 
 
 Though well you boast of noble name and race, 
 The race from which I came is more sublime : 
 
 The blood of kings in long-forgotten days, 
 Pelops and Tyndarus, in later time, 
 And then great Jove and Leda s hallowed crime. 
 
 For you, twere better that convenient shade 
 Should drape the foundings of your boasted state ; 
 
 If ere Laomedon the record fade, 
 
 Naught will be missed of all you would relate ; 
 
 And though thy Troy be strong and rich and wide, 
 Not less a crown does rugged Sparta wear; 
 
 While you in wealth barbaric rest your pride, 
 We boast of men who well the state can bear, 
 Can suffer patiently, and nobly dare. 
 
 But crowning arguments, the gifts you bring, 
 And which you think a goddess well might snare ; 
 
 And ah ! how sweetly you their praises sing : 
 But should I e er your guilty hazards share, 
 
 Twere you should conquer ; gifts are naught beside 
 The faint and dull expression of the man ; 
 
 And I would either in clear fame abide, 
 Or follow thee, as only woman can, 
 Shorn of thy riches ; sport of fortune s ban. 
 
OVID. 137 
 
 Yet gifts are grateful, which the givers make 
 
 Most precious by their giving : we adore 
 The love they show, not them. The gift may take 
 
 Love s fragrance, and it cannot well be more. 
 That me you love is all : that loving me, 
 
 You scorned the perils of Cassandra s dream, 
 And dared the boundless and the angry sea ; 
 
 Compared to this, what gifts could I esteem ? 
 
 Or how, preferring those, should I a woman 
 seem? 
 
 But rashly why recall the festal hour, 
 
 Whose blushing memories I would fain conceal ? 
 Ah ! ardent eyes, whose practised, fatal power 
 
 Implants those wounds their lord alone can heal. 
 Then would you sometimes sigh, and when the 
 health 
 
 Went round, you drank in cups my lips had 
 
 kissed ; 
 And oft your fingers spoke in silent stealth ; 
 
 And oft your eye-lids, eloquent in mist 
 
 Of sacred tears, your love might well assist. 
 
138 OVID. 
 
 And then, for fear my lord should all perceive, 
 I paled the blush, that redly strove to rise, 
 
 But softly spoke unheard, " To grant him leave 
 The least, would bring such storm as never dies, 
 
 For he would stop at nothing." I was right, 
 But yet with playful finger wrote in wine, 
 
 That on the table lay within your sight, 
 A sparkling AMO ; yet the fault was thine, 
 If you in earnest read such trifling sign. 
 
 But, ah ! alas ! for me, that I should teach, 
 My all too cunning tempter what to say ; 
 
 He who would lead my steps to err, would reach 
 My foolish heart in some such flattering way : 
 
 Thine is the charm of manhood s beauty too, 
 No maiden s heart toward thee could coldly beat : 
 
 Choose then the fairest innocently woo : 
 I will resign thee, and with chaste deceit 
 Your praises calmly to your bride repeat. 
 
 Learn then from me, who curbs desire is wise, 
 And learn how great the virtue to abstain ; 
 
 And do you think that you alone have eyes? 
 Have others not desired what you would gain? 
 
 
OVID. 
 
 139 
 
 You see no clearer, but you bolder dare ; 
 
 Nor have you more of heart, but less of shame. 
 Why came you not on wings of eastern air 
 
 When all the kings for me, a maiden, came ? 
 
 I would have chosen thee, then, nor dreamed of 
 blame. 
 
 This will my husband pardon, when I say, 
 Had I seen thee, I ne er had chosen him ; 
 
 But now you tardy come to take away 
 
 His joys, long dowered, and your hope is dim; 
 
 And what you seek, another holds ; but I, 
 Who here am chained to Menelaus side, 
 
 Let me conceal from thee how oft I sigh 
 That I am not in Troy, thy blameless bride, 
 Where in deep peace I might with thee abide. 
 
 Cease then, I pray, to rend this tender breast, 
 Nor harm me, helpless,. w T hom you say you love ; 
 
 Oh ! let my state, as fixed by Fortune, rest, 
 Nor thou a harsh and shameless victor prove. 
 
140 OVID. 
 
 But Venus promised me ; in Ida s vales 
 
 Three sliming stars of heaven before thee glowed, 
 
 But Juno s power, or Pallas wisdom, pales 
 Before her glittering wiles, who Helen showed 
 And taught of conquering love the easy road. 
 
 Shall I believe that thus celestials deign 
 
 Confess a mortal than themselves more wise- ? 
 
 But grant it true : the rest you surely feign, 
 That I was promised as the fairest prize. 
 
 My charms are less than this, that in the mind 
 Of goddess I should be of gifts- the best ; 
 
 Content be she who well hath pleased her kind ; 
 I leave to Venus self to please the rest, 
 Nor let her, false as fair, my peace molest. 
 
 But, no ; I claim a woman s right to change : 
 I trust your story, I accept the praise, 
 
 Nor wonder thou, my former doubt so strange : 
 Faith slowly grows a plant of many days 
 
 In all events of moment : but when grown, 
 It lives securely. I delight to please 
 
 The laughter-loving Venus, and I own 
 That I commend whome er in Helen sees 
 Rewards that mock the gifts of goddesses. 
 
OVID. 141 
 
 And am I wisdom more than Pallas bore, 
 A royal kingdom more than Juno held 
 
 With outstretched arm, when tempting ? I were 
 
 more 
 Than mortal, obdurate, if then I steeled 
 
 My breast against your love. Not iron I 
 No stubborn gale am I, from winter land ; 
 
 But can I love, with whom I cannot fly ? 
 
 Of what avail, to plough the salt sea s strand, 
 Or nurse a hope against the Fates* command ? 
 
 *k 
 
 Nor versed am I in Love s sweet wiles : the art 
 Be Gods my witnesses to thus betray 
 
 My lord, I ne er have learned : a novel part 
 Is this, which now, with silent pen, I play. 
 
 Oh ! happy they more skilled ; for innocence 
 Will ever find in guilt a thorny road ; 
 
 Hedged in with spectres that confound the sense. 
 In every eye some evil I forbode, 
 And rumor follows fast with growing load. 
 
 The whispers of the curious crowd I hear ; 
 
 My very servants babble to the air ; 
 But you dissemble he can jest at fear 
 
 To whom my fall immortal fame would bear. 
 
142 _ OVID. 
 
 Oh ! spare my name for left behind my lord, 
 Whom fateful causes call so far away, 
 
 I mourn so slight was my dissuading word, 
 When at the vessel s side I cried : " Oh ! stay, 
 Or let return be balked by no delay." 
 
 He joyful kissed me. " Dearest, I commend 
 
 To you the state, the home, the Trojan guest." 
 I hid a smile, but quick replied : "I lend 
 
 A ready ear, my lord, to your request." 
 Now on the Cretan sea he spreads his sails, 
 
 But therefore not too rashly shall you dare ; 
 Though he be absent, still his watch prevails ; 
 
 To him his trusty spies our actions bear, 
 
 THE ARMS ARE LONG THAT KINGS ARE WONT TO WEAK. 
 
 He hath been warned betimes he justly fears. 
 
 Such praise as thine would warn a duller soul ; 
 And should my beauty lead to shame and tears, 
 
 He would aver that he had known the whole. 
 But still he trusts. In danger, left behind, 
 
 Not blindness not neglect has left me here : 
 My fame, my life, convince that he shall find 
 
 His Helen s honor, as her beauty, clear 
 
 And shall I trifle with this heart sincere ? 
 
OVID. 143 
 
 But, ah ! my love is stronger than my will, 
 And holds the gates of my divided breast. 
 
 Why is my lord away why night so still ? 
 And why beneath this roof does Paris rest ? 
 
 Why does thy pleading form possess my mind, 
 As bright and fair as ever woman won ? 
 
 All things invite, compel me to be kind. 
 What fear delays that I should be undone, 
 Or why so tardy you and I alone ? 
 
 Tis yours to drive away my rustic fear, 
 With loving violence to storm my heart ; 
 
 Thus making happy whom you hold most dear, 
 And gaining all, by conquering but a part. 
 
 Else must you quench and kill the new-born fire : 
 A little water quenches recent flame 
 
 Nor couple thanks of guest with such desire, 
 As, fraught with tragic woe, with Jason came 
 To fair Hypsipyle, of mournful fame. 
 
 Where is JEnone whom you loved so long, 
 And left to languish in th Idean vale? 
 
 Ah ! faithless lover : I should do you wrong, 
 Could I not tell of all your life the tale. 
 
144 OVID. 
 
 It says that constant you can never be, 
 
 Though much you vow. But now the winds arise, 
 
 And now your comrades call you to the sea : 
 Leave, then, the joys that mock your eager eyes, 
 Nor think to capture me with worn-out sighs. 
 
 I wish it not, that through the listening land 
 Swift-flying Fame should tell of my disgrace : 
 
 Before the mocking world shall Helen stand, 
 Proclaimed as false in heart as fair in face ? 
 
 What would thy father, what thy mother, say 
 And all the Trojans ? Could you hope me true ? 
 
 You who persuade my faltering feet to stray 
 Shall I be ever faithful liege but you 
 Retain the open path the lawless view ! 
 
 Whatever stranger walks the streets of Troy, 
 Would be to thee a source of anxious dread, 
 
 And oft would you the captious threat employ, 
 Lest I but follow where you oft have led ; 
 
 At once the author and the judge of crime. 
 Let me escape the sentence and the snare, 
 
 The boasted riches of your Trojan clime, 
 The golden presents that your matrons bear, 
 To deck the shame that they would fear to share ! 
 
OVID. 145 
 
 Oh ! spare me, wealth-fatigued. Of small esteem 
 Are power, riches me they cannot move ; 
 
 But home-sick, weary, by Scamander s stream, 
 Oh ! who would bring to me a heart-sprung love ? 
 
 Full old full oft-repeated are the tales 
 Of woman lured to lay her virtue by ; 
 
 Behold yon barks that drive with shattered sails ; 
 By zephyrs fanned, beneath a peaceful sky, 
 They left the port for shipwreck ! And shall I ? 
 
 All nature warns me. In the burning brand 
 
 Thy mother dreamed she bore, in bearing thee, 
 I read the fateful, ominous command, 
 
 That I a Trojan s lawless fire should flee. 
 I fear Cassandra s dream. And more I fear, 
 
 Because the goddess whom you judged the prize, 
 Has brought the dreadful hate of Juno here. 
 
 Now blood-stained spears are crossed before my 
 eyes, 
 
 And hostile swords against our love arise. 
 
146 OVID. 
 
 Oh ! can you dream my lord will tamely bear, 
 Or that his brother will consent to shame ? 
 
 Though well you boast, and martial aspect wear, 
 From Mars grim spoils has never sprung thy 
 fame. 
 
 Let heroes war : do you but only love. 
 
 Let Hector fight for us ; whom most we praise. 
 
 In other combats, you will worthier prove 
 Dear strife of love, in which victorious bays 
 Are won without the loss of peaceful days. 
 
 Now should I tell you of the place and hour 
 Where they might meet who burn with love s 
 own fire, 
 
 Then should I trust too much to lawless power : 
 Far off are you from what you most desire ! 
 
 Yet not, too hasty, chide a safe delay : 
 This letter, conscious of my roving mind, 
 
 Assists to flight. To-night my maids will say 
 To you, "To-morrow, Helen will be kind," 
 And trust me I ll not say that they are blind ! 
 
LOVE S FINDING. 147 
 
 LOVE S FINDING- 
 
 THERE came a voice to me, 
 
 One Summer s day, that said : Go forth, and see 
 
 The Daughters of the Earth, for they are fair, 
 
 And she who, yet unknown, thy lot shall share, 
 
 Unknowing, looks for thee. 
 
 The Earth is full of beauty everywhere 
 
 The hills, the clouds, the streams, 
 
 All blend within thy happy dreams ; 
 
 Till now, they satisfy thy soul, 
 
 Till now, they seem of life the whole, 
 
 And thou hast said, What more do I require ? 
 
 Lo, from this hour, I wake a new desire ! 
 
 Yet, had I played 
 
 Among the flowers with many a little maid, 
 
 Our merriment and fun 
 
 Commencing with the sun, 
 
 Ceased not, till evening brought unwilling sleep. 
 
 Had I the boyish record failed to keep 
 
148 LOVE S FINDING. 
 
 Of stolen kisses stolen, when I might 
 
 As well have snatched them in the noonday light, 
 
 Or published them to all so meaningless, 
 
 So harmless, jocund, void of all excess, 
 
 Free of all consequence, 
 
 The very heart of youthful innocence. 
 
 But why 
 
 The altered look, demeanor wistful, shy, 
 
 Of those who lately romped upon the lawn, 
 
 And tossed the ball, and chased the birds at dawn, 
 
 With me : what veil was thrown, 
 
 So strangely sudden, o er what I had known, 
 
 Obscuring, changing every feature? 
 
 And I, too, had become another creature, 
 
 And nursed a pride that came, I knew not whence, 
 
 And seemed a new, another sense. 
 
 I seemed to fear 
 
 Lest any one should come too near, 
 
 And spy defect in what was not yet grown ; 
 
 Safer to be alone, 
 
 Safer to nurse unseen the kindling spark 
 
 Of what, I knew not ; hidden yet in dark, 
 
LOVE S FINDING. 149 
 
 Concealed as well from me, but still possessed 
 
 I knew, because it gave no rest, 
 
 But ever burned, uneasy, in my breast. 
 
 As in a cloud I moved, 
 
 Beyond whose folding mists the voice beloved 
 
 Was heard, that called me on 
 
 To shining realms of sun, 
 
 Unseen, but heralded by shafts of light, 
 
 Making all the heavens bright. 
 
 Ah ! sweet uncertainty the trembling air, 
 
 Whose waves the harp s vibrations bear, 
 
 Moves not more blissfully, 
 
 Nor more unconsciously, 
 
 Of its sweet burden, than my soul s desire, 
 
 Which swayed me hither, thither, ever nigher 
 
 The unknown place where I would be, 
 
 The glimmering shore of mystic sea, 
 
 On which the waves of love sighed tranquilly. 
 
 And then she came, 
 
 Who gave my thought a name ; 
 
 No matter how, or when, or where, 
 
 Her presence answered my soul s prayer ; 
 
150 LOVE S FINDING. 
 
 Whether in moonlight beams arrayed, 
 First dawned upon my sight the maid, 
 On hill, by fountain, or in grove, 
 Or on some careless summer rove, 
 Up the green valleys where the gleam, 
 
 fair Connecticut ! of thy abundant stream, 
 Makes all the landscape glad ; or haply met 
 On giant mountain, firmly set 
 
 Deep in the humble earth, whose lordly peak 
 
 Climbs skyward but can aught more sadly speak 
 
 The barrenness of solitude ? 
 
 Such of New Hampshire s Kings, the mood. 
 
 Or whether met in scene of mirth, 
 
 Keeping time with joyous bound, 
 
 While the happy earth 
 
 Underneath the midnight stars went round ; 
 
 Or in a garden, where the lily and rose, 
 
 All summer swaying to each breeze that blows, 
 
 Show her sweet skill, who thus prolongs 
 
 The time of flowers, birds, and songs. 
 
 But where she lingered, there 
 
 1 hastened my allegiance to declare ; 
 
LOVERS FINDING. 151 
 
 >ut sudden, paused : with quick and sharp distress, 
 There rose in me the sense of deep unworthiness, 
 
 be to her what I would be ; 
 Tor could I to myself confess 
 
 lat I was what she wished to see. 
 Such hold hath undeserving pride ! 
 It seemed that by some happy tide, 
 The better part of life had floated to my side ; 
 r et what I had been, shrank from laying claim 
 "o that bright form, whose stainless fame 
 it all myself, and all my life, to shame. 
 
 Then, while dismay 
 
 Held o er my conscious soul such troubled sway, 
 
 More fair she seemed, and still more fair, 
 
 As more despairing grew Despair. 
 
 The world had hailed her beautiful : to me 
 
 Appeared what others did not see : 
 
 Within her face all my life s hope, 
 
 Of all my powers and thoughts the scope ; 
 
 The measure of my dreams ; the goal 
 
 "Whither, heavenward, ran my soul. 
 
 In her eyes kindliness, 
 
 Other saw friendliness ; 
 
152 
 
 But I, ineffable society, 
 
 Promise of joy without satiety, 
 
 Sympathy without abound, 
 
 And tenderness with passion crowned ; 
 
 Though not yet mine, 
 
 No other monarch should she ever own : 
 
 Should not our lives combine, 
 
 Each were eternally alone. 
 
 Then to myself my mocking heart did say, 
 
 Fly swiftly, and forever, far away 
 
 From her who humbles thus thy worth. 
 
 What, is she not of human birth, 
 
 And fed and reared as thou ? 
 
 To man should woman bow, 
 
 As he will see who will but look 
 
 Abroad on Nature s ample book : 
 
 Upward, downward, everywhere 
 
 Man is no exception there. 
 
 Use brief empire as she will, 
 
 Woman is the lesser, still ; 
 
 And if thy dream lead thee astray, 
 
 Humbly woman to obey, 
 
LOVE S FINDING. 163 
 
 Better to wake : though for a season, 
 Waking to thy manhood s reason 
 Fill thee with sorrows and with pain, 
 Soon will strength return again. 
 Happy he who thus is freed 
 From humbling and tormenting need. 
 
 There came a better moment, when 
 
 I answered to this voice again. 
 
 Nature s true promptings these, that stir 
 
 All my soul to worship her. 
 
 Her volume, everywhere outspread, 
 
 Says now what it hath always said 
 
 Worship goodness, truth, and beauty, 
 
 Pride should follow after duty. 
 
 Though lesser sinewed, Woman is my mate 
 
 Or more, in all that makes humanity s estate. 
 
 Sweet prompter of noble deeds, she ever has brought 
 
 The better complement of human thought. 
 
 That one sweet soul most humbly I adore, 
 
 Makes me not less than man, but more. 
 
 So will I love and worship, nor shall shame 
 
 Falsely speak to me of blame. 
 
154 LOVE S FINDING. 
 
 Then clear my pathway seemed, and I 
 
 Hastened to her side to fly, 
 
 And tell her all, with word sincere, 
 
 Such as she could not choose but hear, 
 
 Even if hearing barred consent. 
 
 Thus my passion outward went 
 
 To her; boundless waves of feeling, 
 
 All myself concealing 
 
 In their mighty flow 
 
 Such as, if maiden do but know, 
 
 Or understand in thousandth part, 
 
 Force the gateway of her heart ; 
 
 If, of a thousand passionate words thus spoken, 
 
 One but welcome enter 
 
 To the guarded centre 
 
 Of her heart, then every guard is broken ! 
 
 Was this a dream, that she did condescend 
 
 Her being with my own to blend, 
 
 And make me master of her soul, 
 
 Till now by maidenly control 
 
 Safe tutored, hid from every eye, 
 
 And most of all, when I was by ? 
 
LOVE S FINDING. 
 
 155 
 
 Oh ! sweetest joy that lover meets, 
 
 The vanishing of love s deceits ; 
 
 Of veils the maiden subtly wears, 
 
 When, ere accepted, he appears 
 
 Half foe, half friend : they say, Beware, 
 
 Much must thou overcome to enter here ; 
 
 The task is great, but great beyond compare 
 
 The prize, if Beauty take thee to her sphere ! 
 
 Doubly, trebly, is he thwarted 
 
 She smiles on others, strangely looks on him : 
 
 Often has he started, 
 
 Fearing lest he be the sport of mocking whim, 
 
 Till some sign assures him ; then again, 
 
 Cared for least he seems of all the world, 
 
 A moment raised by fancy vain, 
 
 Then back to darkness hurled. 
 
 Such moods hath love accepted, banished. 
 
 Veil and subtlety have vanished : 
 
 Kindly, under love s clear sun, 
 
 Maiden owns that she is won. 
 
 vision sweet ! 
 
 How often do my thoughts repeat 
 
156 LOVE S FINDING. 
 
 What thought can never reach, or word express, 
 
 That untold loveliness 
 
 Reflected on the heart that sees 
 
 In other heart its happy destinies ! 
 
 Does she, who thus is mirrored, know 
 
 How her reflected graces glow 
 
 Upon the soul of him who sees in her 
 
 The mystic charms that all his being stir ? 
 
 Then would she ever soar above 
 
 The frailties, weaknesses, that others move, 
 
 And live in that celestial air, 
 
 Whither ascends of passionate love the prayer ; 
 
 Alas ! mistaking or despising Love, 
 
 How oft are possible seraphs kept from rising there ! 
 
 Thus much written, when I came 
 To where she sat, for praise or blame, 
 Whatever might my lines deserve ; but she 
 Heard them through, then said to me, 
 All is nothing that you write. 
 Pen, though fed by morning light, 
 May glorify a maid or man, 
 But picture love it never can. 
 
LOVE S FINDING. 157 
 
 Needs it no apology, 
 
 No praise we need to love it by ; 
 
 And those who know it, know it well, without 
 
 Those passionate tints that make the careless doubt, 
 
 Whom you will never teach. Hope thou before, 
 
 That moles will to the upper heaven soar ! 
 
158 TEDIUM VIT.E. 
 
 TEDIUM VIT.E. 
 
 I. 
 
 TO-NIGHT I hear the sad familiar strain 
 That all the sorrowing ages join to sing ; 
 
 Though wine and mirth may banish it, again 
 It creeps upon us, forced to listening. 
 
 n. 
 
 Such strains our happy childhood never heard, 
 Attuned to chords whose only breath was joy ; 
 
 Or if by ruder, harsher impulse stirred, 
 The sorrow was but wonder to the boy. 
 
 m. 
 
 The hour delayed, must come. Reluctant doubt, 
 If Pleasure s form be not her ghost instead, 
 
 Must yield to certainty ; henceforth, without 
 The dear illusion, sadly must proceed 
 
TEDIUM VIT^E. 
 
 159 
 
 IV. 
 
 >ur shortening days ; and never more returns 
 The bloom, the fragrance, or the flush of life ; 
 id if Ambition s fire still ardent burns, 
 Ah ! what avails the fierce and dusty strife 
 
 v. 
 
 Through which it lights our pathway? What is fame, 
 
 Or honor, flattery, wealth, estate, or praise, 
 o blissful hours, when, innocent of blame, 
 Kind o er us smiled the wondrous, long-drawn 
 days? 
 
 VI. 
 
 ;h day a blessed mystery. The sun, 
 Fresh sprung, made consecrate the golden East, 
 And long before his westering course was run, 
 The lingering day had been an endless feast. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Deep hid in meadow-grass we conned the sky ; 
 
 The boblink warbled o er us as we lay ; 
 And, murmuring pleasant bass, the brook ran by, 
 
 And o er the pebbles sang its life away. 
 
160 TEDIUM VIT&. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 How overflowed with happiness the hours, 
 
 When free of thought, as waves that lap the shore, 
 
 We sought in woodland glens the dewy flowers, 
 Or home a wealth of ripened blueberries bore. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Or wrapped in pleasant fancies, which we knew 
 
 In naught, except without them, lonesome we ; 
 We crowned the little maids with fealty due, 
 
 And hailed them queens, beneath the chestnut 
 tree. 
 
 x. 
 
 All friends were kind, all love was true, and most 
 The love that stirred and woke one happy day, 
 
 And bore us to a warm and fragrant coast, 
 
 On strong, swift wings, that knew not of delay. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And there we found the crowning joy ; to this 
 Was all life shaped, and this the perfect end ; 
 
 And Life and Love united in the kiss, 
 
 Where all long-past, forerunning joys did blend 
 
TEDIUM VIT-<E. 161 
 
 XII. 
 
 And there should life have ended. What, the rest, 
 But once exhausted joy increasing pain? 
 
 If from the banquet-board we take the best, 
 Why try the waning, narrowing choice again ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 From every height, the path must downward go ; 
 
 Nor firm abiding there, will Fate permit. 
 Oh ! bravely linger, if descent be slow, 
 
 We less perceive, we readier yield to it. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Yet linger vainly. Years with swift increase, 
 
 Inexorably bear us down, to where 
 The highest joy that man can ask, is peace, 
 
 And pains are light that end not in despair. 
 
 xv. 
 
 We lose the sun s bright rays as we descend 
 If still he shine, he shines to other eyes ; 
 
 And more our melancholy glances tend, 
 Where ominously hang the western skies. 
 
162 TEDIUM 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The warm, electric thrill of twenty-one, 
 
 That made the friend the sharer of the heart, 
 
 Has long departed ; we have colder grown, 
 And rest our faith in wisdom s shrewder art. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And saddest change of all, the gentle maid, 
 Whose impulse once was sweetest charity, 
 
 Whose whispers underneath the summer shade, 
 Sincerely breathed of Love and Peace, to me 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Ah ! why should haggard memory recall 
 
 The dream? Unworthy husband, blasting years, 
 
 Too surely conquer. If a seraph fall, 
 
 The mournful ruin who shall gauge with tears ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The senses fail. Where now the vision keen, 
 That tracked the eagle through the sun-lit sky, 
 
 And left no beauties of the world unseen ? 
 Uncertain shadows now, they pass us by. 
 
TEDIUM VIT2E. 163 
 
 XX. 
 
 Or when the goblets flash around the board, 
 And wit and song prolong the festal night, 
 
 Can rarest wine, from crystal beakers poured, 
 Awake the flush of youthful appetite ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And verses weary, music dully falls ; 
 
 The ear, grown critical, too early tires ; 
 No rhythmic harmony, but soon it palls 
 
 On him who feebly, languidly admires. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And selfish grown, we widely sit apart, 
 
 And nurse our silent and our separate schemes. 
 
 Our lips no more convey from heart to heart 
 The frank recital of ingenuous dreams. 
 
164 TO A DAY IN MARCH 
 
 TO A DAY IN MARCH, 
 
 i. 
 
 DAY not more fair than many days, 
 
 Nor ruled by sure or sunny skies, 
 
 And less deserving Poets praise, 
 
 When vernal songs arise, 
 
 Than those that after come, 
 
 Breathing May blossoms out upon the air, 
 
 Or scattering June s red roses round our home, 
 
 Yet I to sing thy praise will always dare. 
 
 ii. 
 
 To me a welcome thou shalt bring, 
 Since envious years must surely roll, 
 When first the young and timid spring, 
 Creeps slowly to the pole. 
 Though birds delay to fly, 
 Delay their passionate song, delay the nest ; 
 Yet love keeps pace with thee along the sky, 
 And brings familiar gladness to my breast. 
 
TO A DAY IN MARCH. 165 
 
 III. 
 
 Speak ever to the faithful hearts 
 
 Of two who watch thy coming well, 
 
 To whom the day a joy imparts 
 
 Beyond this verse to tell ; 
 
 The self-same words of hope 
 
 That once descended softly from the blue, 
 
 And from thy mild and fleecy clouded cope, 
 
 Fell on our reverent heads like gentlest dew. 
 
166 LUCY 
 
 LUCY 
 
 I SAW, when late he left the ball, 
 
 Through eyes grown somewhat dim and tired, 
 That you twere best concealed from all 
 
 That you admired. 
 
 Yet, gentle maiden, you confess 
 Not even to yourself the thought ; 
 
 And who am I, that I should press 
 Advice not sought ? 
 
 For though the glances of your eye, 
 
 Treacherous, your feelings quick betrayed, 
 
 What right has stranger thus to spy, 
 And thus invade 
 
 The secrets of your virgin heart ? 
 
 But plain to him, who not excels 
 In love-craft, you can have no part 
 
 Where other dwells 
 
LDCT. 167 
 
 Already. Spare the fruitless sigh, 
 
 Half-heaved and sudden-checked. Ah ! vain, 
 If Love uncalled, too early fly, 
 
 He falls again. 
 
 Hope not. For you no resting-place 
 
 Exists, or can, within his breast ; 
 Through all his visions glides a face, 
 
 Obscures the rest : 
 
 Than yours no faker. You are fair ; 
 
 But fairer you than Paphian doves, 
 Or Vashti, you could not compare 
 
 With her he loves. 
 
 Forget forget in time : for now 
 The thought is friendly to your soul, 
 
 And fits for future love : but how, 
 If past control ? 
 
 Not weakness, checked. The common fate 
 
 It is, to suffer. He who jests 
 At you, with vultures well might mate 
 
 And they the best ! 
 
168 LUCY. 
 
 Forget but only him. Let Love 
 
 Still rule your breast with welcome power, 
 
 The heavens will surely bounteous prove, 
 Some happier hour. 
 
THE STREAM AT THE NORTH. 169 
 
 THE STREAM AT THE NORTH. 
 
 WHERE gray Tahawus lifts his head 
 
 High in the northern air, 
 And nodding plumes of hemlock boughs, 
 
 Obscure the noonday glare, 
 A noisy river courses o er 
 
 A bed of opals rare. 
 
 In hidden clefts of mountain caves, 
 
 Its living springs arise, 
 Known only to the deer who shuns 
 
 The watchful hunter s eyes, 
 And having quenched his eager thirst, 
 
 Back to his covert flies. 
 
 fair that brook to him who wooes 
 
 The goddess of the wood, 
 Who seeks to win her loving smiles 
 
 In her own solitude, 
 And offers grateful sacrifice 
 
 Upon her altars rude. 
 
170 THE STREAM AT THE NORTH. 
 
 But fairer is that bright wood-stream 
 
 To him who, loving well 
 Nature in all her myriad forms 
 
 Of which the poets tell, 
 Has ever found his feet incline 
 
 To where the Naiads dwell : 
 
 And in the swiftly-rushing floods, 
 Where spotted troutlets shine, 
 
 Eclipsing in their ruddy glow 
 The splendors of the mine, 
 
 With beating heart and skillful arm 
 Has cast the quivering line : 
 
 For in these crystal waves he finds 
 The sum of all his dreams ; 
 
 What time, in visions of the night, 
 He tried those wondrous streams, 
 
 Which, in the angler s Paradise, 
 Are white with scaly gleams. 
 
THE STREAM AT THE NORTH. 171 
 
 With joyful heart and bounding foot, 
 
 He takes his eager way 
 To the cool banks, when faintly breaks 
 
 The dawn of morning gray ; 
 And when across the whirlpool slants 
 
 The sun s declining ray. 
 
 Treading by pools whose darkling depths 
 
 Elude the fearful eye, 
 He scales the wet and oozy crags 
 
 From which the foam-wreaths fly ; 
 And finds the broad and rapid shoals 
 
 Where trout at evening lie. 
 
 Then with his trusty hatchet frames 
 
 A cabin rude of bark ; 
 And soon his camp-fire s spiral darts 
 
 Shoot up into the dark ; 
 And o er the dusky forest boughs 
 
 Whirls many an eddying spark. 
 
172 THE STEEAM AT THE NORTH. 
 
 And thus by day his pulse is high, 
 By night his dreams are sweet ; 
 
 And when unto the world of men 
 Again he turns his feet, 
 
 He feels his soul and frame prepared 
 Its heavy cares to meet. 
 
 Bright stream, unto thy mossy banks 
 Long may the red deer go ; 
 
 Amid the Adirondack wilds, 
 Thy opal waters flow ; 
 
 And to the angler s loving eyes, 
 Their fruitful beauties show. 
 
GALLIA CAPTA. 173 
 
 GALLIA CAPTA 
 
 WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE COUP D ETAT. 
 
 L 
 
 THE nation, vexed by more than ancient pains, 
 In dull submission wastes the fruitless year ; 
 
 Her city walls are red with shameful stains, 
 And men are dumb with fear. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Her long-descended standards, late so proud, 
 And flaunted gaily out before the world, 
 
 Are drooped beneath a black, impervious shroud- 
 In dust and darkness furled. 
 
 in. 
 The name whose mention sent a sudden shock 
 
 Of leaping terror to the farthest lande, 
 Sublimely potent on the Baltic rock 
 
 Amid the Libyan sands ; 
 
174 GALLIA CAPTA. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Obscures its glories. He who bears it now, 
 At once the shame and strength of all his race, 
 
 Has girt a purchased crown about his brow, 
 And wears a twofold face : 
 
 v. 
 A new-born Janus, armed with horrid frown, 
 
 With threats whose consummation follows fast, 
 With cunning words that keep the people down, 
 
 And cheat them to the last. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Submissive turning to the Northern god 
 
 At whose command he plays his coward part, 
 
 With smiling face attentive to the nod 
 That nerves his fearful heart. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The world is waiting. Justice hides her beam, 
 And plarrts her sword within the sluggish ground ; 
 
 And human fancies, in divided stream, 
 Emit a dubious sound. 
 
GALLIA CAPTA. 175 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Perhaps a passing mist obscures the light 
 
 Of that clear star that on the nations burned ; 
 
 Perhaps the thick-hung clouds that brought the 
 
 night, 
 Will soon be backward turned. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Or gloomier terror may enshroud the land, 
 
 From mightier hands the wrathful vials flow ; 
 
 Till in the silent dark the people stand, 
 Engulfed in hopeless woe. 
 
176 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL. 
 
 EPIGRAMS FROM MARTIAL 
 
 AD CECILIANUM. 
 
 MY friend, before you won your wife, 
 
 No suitor e er disturbed her life ; 
 
 But since you guard her with such care, 
 
 That people think there s something there, 
 
 And now she s all the rage. A word with you : 
 
 While she is neither seen nor heard she ll do ! 
 
 IN PHILONEM. 
 
 PHILO, up and down through Rome, 
 Swears he never dines at home. 
 " Prodigious fellow !" People say : 
 "What, asked to dinner every day ?" 
 Not so fast he s often slighted 
 Four times a week, at least, he s not invited, 
 And then, the sycophantic sinner 
 Has no chance at all of dinner ! 
 
SOPHIA. 177 
 
 SOPHIA 
 
 You smiled on me, when first the smile 
 Of woman filled my soul with pleasure ; 
 
 And, all my fancy free of guile, 
 
 I, boyish, eager, grasped the treasure 
 
 Thus offered. Then you thronged my dreams 
 In every shape of grace and love ; 
 
 A thousand glances thousand gleams 
 Of new-born sunlight from above. 
 
 How stirred my senses then ! A new, 
 
 Fresh life had dawned. Then passed away 
 
 All former joys, and, following you, 
 I lived in Love s perpetual day. 
 
 I hymned you in a thousand songs ; 
 
 For you I beggared land and sky ; 
 I said : Whate er to Earth belongs 
 
 Of Beauty, pales when she is nigh. 
 
 8 * 
 
178 SOPHIA. 
 
 And still you smiled, and still you praised, 
 And fed me with rewards so sweet 
 
 Ah ! why forget that I have raised 
 
 The grave-mound o er their dear deceit, 
 
 Deep buried ? Yet their mocking shades 
 Glide through the chambers of my heart ; 
 
 One enters as another fades, 
 
 I would would not they might depart. 
 
 Twas but a fancy thus you said 
 A sister you might be ; no more. 
 
 "What gave that moment strength, that dead 
 I was not carried from your door ? 
 
 Oh ! but that this unfeeling frame 
 O er the chained mind usurps control, 
 
 I had consumed in passionate flame ; 
 But Nature spares us pitying soul ! 
 
SOPHIA. 179 
 
 What use to argue ? You had taken 
 
 Of life the glory and the bloom : 
 At once, of these and you, forsaken, 
 
 Could aught dispel or gild the gloom ? 
 
 Remember now, that I reproved you 
 In not a word. With gesture sad, 
 
 I said : Sophia, I have loved you, 
 And I have given you all I had. 
 
 Whatever be the cause that led you, 
 Thus, reckless, with my heart to play, 
 
 I will not ask it. Then I fled you, 
 Nor know I where I went that day. 
 
 Oblivion hides it. Let the cloud 
 Still linger : let such cloud obscure 
 
 All deadly sorrows, that the proud, 
 When hidden, only can endure. 
 
180 SOPHIA. 
 
 Remember, now, that I reproved you 
 In not a word. From manhood s power 
 
 Is woman safe : else had I loved you 
 Tenfold, your life that very hour 
 
 Were forfeit. What, shall you receive 
 The garnered tribute of my heart, 
 
 And waste it ? But your sex has leave 
 To safely play a treacherous part ! 
 
 I thought you kindly as your name, 
 That, softly flowing, charms the air : 
 
 Let him love you who loves the flame 
 
 That leaves the meadow scorched and bare ! 
 
 I did not die. An idle tale 
 
 Is this that blasted love is death. 
 
 Why should my ruddy currents fail, 
 Because my heart lies numb beneath ? 
 
 Who dies ? Some sickly soul lies here, 
 Who, while he lived, was scarce alive ; 
 
 At Love s rebuff he died of fear ; 
 But they who merit life survive. 
 
SOPHIA. 181 
 
 And not within your hands is placed 
 The bolt of death. Creator wise, 
 
 Oft is thy creature, man, disgraced, 
 But not from wounded love he dies. 
 
 Whatever birthright we have shared, 
 
 Or yielded wholly to the Sex, 
 Still, from this crowning folly spared, 
 
 Our life survives of life the wrecks. 
 
 Go, Woman, you have had your day ; 
 
 I, whom you injured I forgive: 
 The worst for you that I can say, 
 
 Is this : Sophia, go, and live. 
 
 The hopes of manhood call me on 
 Friends, reputation, wealth, and fame ; 
 
 And rises bright o er all, the dawn 
 Of Love that now deserves the name. 
 
182 SOPHIA. 
 
 Nor less I love, because you taught 
 Me how to feel a woman s art : 
 
 Not yours is every woman s thought, 
 Nor false is every woman s heart. 
 
 What have you gained ? A victory here 
 A victory there. The fruit is light : 
 
 Of what avail to you the tear 
 I haply shed one bitter night ? 
 
 Will others love you yet ? Behold, 
 Aslant your temples fatal sign 
 The crowfoot ! You are growing old ; 
 And here the Sex is not like wine. 
 
 Oh ! let the ripening matron dwell 
 In reverence. You are not as she. 
 
 The years that blast the thorn, how well 
 They deck the bounteous apple-tree ! 
 
 Live on, the wonder of the maid 
 Who presses manly arm at eve ; 
 
 Ah ! gentle sunbeam of my shade, 
 
 Some souls there be that can t deceive. 
 
SOPHIA. 183 
 
 Live on : from me no further word ; 
 
 Live on, and vainly hope repose ; 
 Ever with her who thus has erred, 
 
 There troops a sullen host of woes, 
 
184 A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 IN the city of Hartford the people of which 
 Are, with scarce an exception, enormously rich ; 
 Possessed of whole counties and States at the 
 
 West, 
 
 And still having cash that they wish to invest ; 
 And they know how to do it, if any can know, 
 As their notes, stocks, and bonds will abundantly 
 
 show 
 
 There lives a warm fellow who makes it his trade 
 To discount good paper as fast as tis made. 
 
 In fact, he invites it, and hangs out a sign, 
 Enticing and eloquent only one line ; 
 I think it good English quite free from impurities : 
 " Money always to lend, on the best of securities." 
 It gives one great trust in this kindest of men, 
 To note how precaution presides o er his gain ; 
 I d leave him my funds as I pass through the town, 
 Were they not drawn so closely, alarmingly, down. 
 
A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE. 185 
 
 This kindest of creatures, with other good qualities, 
 Possessed, as is natural, certain partialities. 
 In dates not particular shorter or longer 
 Where paper is lengthy, the profit is stronger. 
 But this his chief preference I own to the same : 
 He always desired a "favorite name ;" 
 He meant it financially the name that I hank- 
 Er for lodges with Cupid, and not at the Bank ! 
 
 My friend, if you covet wealth, comfort, or fame, 
 Oh ! haste to acquire a favorite name ; 
 For what would become of our snug little dinners, 
 The pleasures and dainties that cheer us poor 
 
 sinners, 
 
 The luxuries of life that pertain to our station, 
 Should our banker refuse us all accommodation ? 
 A good name is better than riches, you ll find, 
 While it lasts, Master Plutus, if paid well, is kind. 
 
 One name in especial, he vastly admired, 
 
 A dresser of leather but long since retired ; 
 
 Punctilious and honest, a trifle too free 
 
 With his friendly indorsement ; and here, as you see, 
 
186 A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 Was the source of his profit not being legitimate 
 Paper of business, the bank was quite shy of it. 
 So knowing his safety and wealth of estates, 
 Our friend always took it, and made his own rates. 
 
 But T. Wray, the leather man, being a wag, 
 And not quite half-liking his paper should drag, 
 And his neighbors be forced to submit to a shave, 
 Most fiendishly, wickedly, thus did behave : 
 He went to a neighbor and thus did he say : 
 " Make the following note to my order T. Wray. 
 And start not in horror, though fearful the style 
 Of the paper in question twill yet make you 
 smile." 
 
 Ne lude cum seriis, says Wisdom ; despite her, 
 The fault is T. Wray s, not the fault of the writer: 
 This, then, was the document brief, but how dis 
 mal ! 
 
 Revealing a perfidy truly abysmal : 
 Sixty days after death I promise to pay 
 To the order of Mr. Theophilus Wray, 
 For value received of him, Jive hundred dollars, 
 At my office on Blank street Simeon Colters. 
 
A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE. 187 
 
 An ominous promise for mortal to make, 
 
 Who knows not what course his hereafter will take : 
 
 But this is but prosing. The note was completed, 
 
 And straight to our friend, Mr. S. Collers fleeted : 
 
 Began with some talk in a general way 
 
 The state of the w r eather, the news of the day ; 
 
 Diverged to finance by an easy transition, 
 
 And lugged out the note in a crumpled condition. 
 
 Who ever would think to look Death in the face 
 On the face of a note ? Tis a singular place ! 
 No wonder the banker, not dreaming the state 
 Of the matter, imagined the "death" to be "date." 
 The "d," "a," and "t" were so large in the joints, 
 The "e" and the "h" shrunk to minimum points : 
 Percentage was settled I have heard of a lower, 
 And the customer bowed in due form to the door. 
 
 The note in collection then quietly rested, 
 
 And in due course of time was most promptly 
 
 protested ; 
 
 The Notary adding his honest conviction, 
 The matter was quite beyond law s jurisdiction. 
 
188 A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 " The note is not due," thus he said in the margin, 
 " The evidence ample, and needs no enlarging ; 
 I protest for mere form, and yourself, sir, to please, 
 And I fear that your case is quite weak in the 
 
 knees, 
 And I ll thank you to send by the bearer, the fees." 
 
 The lawyers were puzzled, till one who had 
 
 dream t o er 
 
 The case rather longer, said : "Caveat emptor 
 It is clear that no fraud has been done or intended ; 
 If sued, Mr. Wray can with ease be defended. 
 In fine," quoth the sapient man of the law, 
 " The do is as perfect as ever I saw ; 
 Search out, first the drawer, and then the drawee, 
 Make the best terms you can and, beg pardon, the 
 
 fee." 
 
 But scarce had our friend reached his office next 
 
 day, 
 
 Quite sick of expenses, when entered T. Wray ; 
 The note, less the discount and charges, to pay, 
 Provided the Banker thereafter would claim, 
 Only legalized rates on his favorite name. 
 
A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE. * 189 
 
 And thus the indorser, Theophilus, spoke : 
 We teach you a lesson by means of a joke ; 
 To take, whether greater or lesser distress it is, 
 No unfair advantage of people s necessities. 
 
 What followed ? A dinner of course and the rest, 
 Champagne and Good Fellowship both of the 
 
 best: 
 
 But here is the circumstance worthy of note 
 The Banker, though never before had he wrote 
 Any verses for albums, or papers, or fairs, 
 And rather avoided such pitfalls and snares, 
 After some little hemming and mild hesitation, 
 Propounded this moral with great acceptation : 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE tINFOKTUNATE BANKING CLASSES. 
 
 Avoid all bills, both small and great, 
 That run beyond the present state, 
 
 For fear a mortuary date 
 May give you much too long to wait. 
 
190 < A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 For if you gain the upper air, 
 You may not find your debtor there ; 
 Or if you haply chance to go 
 Where fancy rates are charged for snow, 
 You ll find collections hard and slow ! 
 
 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 ON the Hudson steamer, to the coke- 
 Feeder, thus a thirsty traveler spoke : 
 " Where s the bar? " To which in answer, he 
 " Just nine miles this side of Albany!" 
 
ROSALIA. 191 
 
 ROSALIA. 
 
 ROSALIA, often you complain, 
 
 Your husband s love begins to wane. 
 
 In naught does he neglectful prove, 
 
 Affection lives in every act ; 
 
 But where is now the throbbing love 
 
 Of which his being once was all compact ? 
 
 When dawned the nuptial hour, 
 
 Trembling, you feared his love. Imperial power 
 
 It seemed ; a gorgeous monarch, waited on by 
 
 bands 
 
 Of flying, eager, quick desires, 
 Innumerous as ocean s sands, 
 And ardent as the roaring woodland fires. 
 Has love informed your own, thrilled through 
 
 your veins, 
 
 Shook your awed soul with joys as fierce as pains, 
 Made life too sweet to bear, 
 And filled with dazzling light the sphere 
 Where you reigned royally when he was near. 
 
192 ROSALIA. 
 
 When dawned the nuptial hour, 
 
 Indeed, Rosalia, love s imperial power 
 
 Shone from his eyes. But, tell me where was 
 
 then 
 
 The love that fitly answered his again ? 
 Unborn as yet ; for you were satisfied 
 Simply to be his bride. 
 This, to your gentle timid soul, 
 Seemed to be of love the whole. 
 You were content to be his treasure, 
 His source of joy, his fount of pleasure ; 
 Him you sought not, but if desired, 
 How blest were you to be admired ; 
 How blest were you to be to him a joy, 
 Which you dreamed not before you could impart ; 
 And happy you, thus always to employ 
 The passive kindness of your virgin heart. 
 
 You married. Then your love awoke, 
 Unheard, unknown, till then, your being spoke 
 To you in accents thrilling, strange, and new, 
 And love s bright arrows pierced you through. 
 
ROSALIA. 193 
 
 No sacrifice too great for you to make 
 
 For his dear sake, 
 
 Whose name you bore ; with him most willingly 
 
 You would have crossed the land and sea. 
 
 Why had your eyes so long been closed 
 
 To those perfections where you now reposed 
 
 Your trust, your life, yourself"? What fortune 
 
 rare 
 Had made you mistress there ? 
 
 Among all maidens, why were you his choice, 
 Whose smiles had made a Queen rejoice ? 
 Each day, each month, saw love s increase ; 
 You dressed, you sang, you danced, your lord to 
 
 please, 
 
 And only him ; the world beside 
 Unheeded passed. Your only pride 
 Was He : and if He praised, your soul was satisfied. 
 
 ut did he love you more 
 an he had loved before ? 
 
 h ! no. The goldfinch in the air 
 
 ore sweetly sings 
 Than when, of human tenderness the care, 
 Within the cage it folds its wings. 
 
194 ROSALIA. 
 
 When the forest warbler 
 
 In your bosom lies, 
 
 Dulled are the bright colors 
 
 That once so charmed your eyes. 
 
 He loved you none the more, 
 
 Because a greater love for him you bore, 
 
 But rather loved you less, 
 
 Because his own unworthiness, 
 
 Known so well to him, 
 
 Escaped your penetration dim. 
 
 Unsagacious, undiscerning, fondly blind, 
 
 Love that loses least respect shall bitter ending 
 
 find. 
 
 Man that reasons, loses reason, 
 Only in his own desire ; 
 She who would keep his love in season, 
 Must fear to love with equal fire. 
 
 Unwelcome truth as old as human life : 
 
 The maid the bride is dearer than the wife. 
 
 I know that poets say, 
 
 Not so : but what says every day ? 
 
 Poets ! gild the truth, but don t deny 
 
 The iron facts that neath the gilding lie. 
 
, 
 
 ROSALIA. 195 
 
 Let life assert itself, within your song, 
 
 Wholly and truly, else the world you wrong, 
 
 Rosalia, never more 
 
 Shall you behold the love that once he bore. 
 
 But blame him not : did he blame you, 
 
 Or doubt if you were true, 
 
 Because your love for him seemed cold, 
 
 When one light word from you were worth a world 
 
 of gold? 
 
 When he tossed throughout the weary night ; 
 Lost his courage, trembled with affright, 
 If you but careless seemed ; then did you share 
 Such wild love and wild despair ? 
 No ; you calmly slept and woke, 
 Smiled upon him when he spoke, 
 Walked with him beneath the moon, 
 Playful, said, " What, home so soon !" 
 Breathed a kind prayer, and peaceful, slept, 
 While he on restless couch a weary vigil kept 
 
 n love, as life, if wants are few 
 ow easy tis to fill them ; 
 ain and idle wants subdue, 
 , what is better, kill them. 
 
196 ROSALIA. 
 
 Follow Nature, if you would 
 
 Be happy, wise, and free : 
 
 Nature would not, if she could, 
 
 Except her laws for thee. 
 
 Would you win your husband s love ? 
 
 Ever keep thyself above 
 
 Love s level ; let him not possess 
 
 Wholly thyself; a little less 
 
 Will make him long for all. 
 
 Call him upward where you are : 
 
 When he reach that station fair, 
 
 Higher, farther, call. 
 
 Oft be to him a maiden strange, 
 
 After whom his thoughts shall range ; 
 
 Lead him through the flowery path, 
 
 Where Imagination nath 
 
 Her choicest rove, and let his fancy find 
 
 In you the sum of every good combined. 
 
 Beware satiety ; the sweetest, thence, 
 
 Too much, too often tasted, blunt the sense. 
 
 Often change your mood ; but pride 
 
 Keep thee ever dignified, 
 
 And maiden-modest. Petulance, 
 
 Anger, jealousy, pretense, 
 
ROSALIA. 197 
 
 Keep these distant from your thought : 
 Much contempt these evil birds have wrought, 
 But never love ; and such defect 
 Must surely drive away respect. 
 
 Let me not transgress the bound 
 
 Where home and husband fence thee round ; 
 
 But trust me me who would restore 
 
 The love whose loss you now deplore. 
 
 Win it keep it, while you may ; 
 
 All too soon twill fade away : 
 
 Who shall Nature disobey ? 
 
 Soon your winsome beauty fades, 
 
 Lo, a troop of laughing children now your 
 
 hearth invades ! 
 
 Fresh and joyous, think you, as they play, 
 Each has helped to steal my youth away ? 
 Man, grown older, in his children lives ; 
 They are of his blood : 
 For them, his toil he cheerful gives, 
 And makes them heirs of all his good. 
 In them he sees perpetuate 
 His name, his fame, his rising state 
 
198 ROSALIA. 
 
 Of greatness, wealth whatever he 
 
 Most desires confirmed should be. 
 
 They, and they only, without pain, 
 
 Recall his days of youth again ; 
 
 In them he sees his early bloom, 
 
 When life had never heard of gloom ; 
 
 In his friends around, he spies 
 
 Crow s-feet springing from the eyes, 
 
 Failing senses, waning power, 
 
 No promise in the coming hour ; 
 
 The rose has faded from the cheek 
 
 That once so redly blushed, if he but chanced 
 
 to speak ; 
 
 The ardent gust of life has fled, 
 Its joyous hopes are crushed are dead ; 
 But lo ! he sees around him stand 
 A rising, happy, mirthful band, 
 Who make him young again. For thee 
 Best, if thou join their company ; 
 Rosalia, tis the stratagem 
 Will give thee power over him. 
 Let not the thought of age intrude, 
 As you look round upon your brood. 
 
ROSALIA. 199 
 
 Be young with them by happy art, 
 And gain the vantage of his heart ; 
 Though the daughters please him well, 
 What ! shall you lose, without a sigh, 
 The old, accustomed spell, 
 That once you won and kept him by ? 
 Fear not the unequal race, 
 Let not care invade your face, 
 Let your smiles be morns of May ; 
 Then, as of old, will he obey : 
 Or, at the worst, you can but share 
 The empire with your daughters fair. 
 
 But dream not ever to displace, 
 
 Rosalia, maiden, bride, or wife, 
 
 The sad sub-bass 
 
 That underrunneth every woman s life ; 
 
 See the honors that await 
 
 Man s advancing state. 
 
 But, long since, flattery 
 
 Ceased to fall upon your ear, 
 
 Nor, as in days gone by, 
 
 Do you but need to speak for all to hear ; 
 
200 KOSALIA. 
 
 No matter how disguised, 
 
 At last, on you surprised, 
 
 Will fall the world s command ; with grace 
 
 Content thyself to fill the second place ; 
 
 In thy husband s name 
 
 Be content to find thy fame, 
 
 And let thy sons and daughters be 
 
 Crowns of honor unto thee. 
 
 The day has passed, of her who once was fair, 
 
 Her husband s, children s, triumphs now to 
 
 share, 
 
 Becomes her state : nor more ambition gives 
 To her who after Youth and Beauty lives. 
 
 
HELEN. 201 
 
 HELEN 
 
 THE brimming tides of Delaware 
 
 Beyond the meadows gleam ; 
 I see the ships they proudly bear : 
 
 I hear the flowing stream. 
 The panting ox before the plough 
 
 Enjoys the shade, nor dreams of me; 
 His master s sturdy shoulders bow 
 
 Beneath the apple tree, 
 In which I sit, in swaying nest, 
 
 And taste the airs of balmy June, 
 And wait the hour that makes me blest 
 
 My heart with summer hours in tune. 
 
202 HELEN. 
 
 II. 
 
 Last night, while blew the Southern wind, 
 
 I lay beneath the trees, 
 And gazing at her window-blind, 
 
 I sang such songs as these : 
 Awake, my Queen, for now the night 
 
 Has hushed a world that doubts of Love, 
 And Love the Conqueror sheds his light 
 
 The conquered world above. 
 Yet sleep, my Queen, for happy dreams 
 
 Descend to thee from every star, 
 And dearer now your lover seems, 
 
 Than any waking thought could dare." 
 
 in. 
 
 Spur on thy coursers, flaming Sun, 
 And haste the trysting hour, 
 
 For though my life has just begun, 
 The bud is quick to flower. 
 
HELEN. 
 
 203 
 
 Though sweet the cool of early morn, 
 
 The shining river s seaward flow, 
 The songs of birds from heaven borne, 
 
 The hum of earth below ; 
 Yet runs my heart beyond them all, 
 
 To fairer nook of garden shade, 
 Through which I soon shall walk, and call 
 
 The flying, yet expectant maid. 
 
204 SONNET, 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 You talk of Sentiment : but I renounce it ; 
 The lips are echoes of the mocking heart, 
 And that false subtlety that takes its start 
 From out the soul s dark chambers they pro 
 nounce it. 
 
 Oh ! our two natures they are rank deceivers ; 
 The inward Counsellor, the outward Act 
 The gilded Sentiment, the iron Fact 
 Befooling all but practised unbelievers. 
 True wisdom this : Doubt the fair words of men ; 
 Hear promises, advice, with cautious ears ; 
 Being deceived, be not deceived again ; 
 And watch the deep monitions of your fears. 
 So shall Success, that well-fed imp, abide 
 Through an obsequious world, attendant at your 
 side. 
 
SWIFT RUSHING RIVER OF LIFE. 205 
 
 SWIFT rushing River of Life, delay, delay 
 Thy endless course one happy moment stay ; 
 Here, on this fragrant bank of summer flowers, 
 Fain would we linger out the day s sweet hours 
 Ah ! day too sweet too brief so swift the sun, 
 Half-ended seem our joys, when scarce begun ! 
 
 Still flows the tide still drifts our helpless bark 
 Still round the world for ever creeps the dark ; 
 Still sinks the sun before it : Life and Light 
 Yield, and must ever yield, to Death and Night. 
 Each hour but robs us longer as we live, 
 Each robs us more, because we ve less to give. 
 
 Unequal contest, where th event is sure, 
 
 And courage profits, only to endure 
 
 Our fitful strife with Destiny and Time, 
 
 Hopeless indeed, but none the less sublime 
 
 Where every step is backward, and a wall 
 
 Of darkness glooms upon the rear of all. 
 
206 WHAT LESSON GRAVES THOSE HOARY ROCKS. 
 
 WHAT lesson graves those hoary rocks, 
 Set deeply on the shores of Time, 
 Whose fangs far-reaching to the prime, 
 
 Sway not by elemental shocks 
 
 Strong songs of deep and lustrous mind ; 
 Clear annals of the world s long life, 
 Sharp truths of argumental strife, 
 
 True pictures of our human kind ? 
 
 Not that in sudden gust of force 
 Lives the high secret of the spell, 
 By which we too may build as well 
 
 Eternal records of our course : 
 
 But that the might that rears a Tower 
 To be by distant ages spied, 
 Grows in the arm by labor tried, 
 
 And owns no circumstance or hour. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM HORACE. 207 
 
 FRAGMENTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 AD LICINIUM. 
 I. 
 
 BEWARE, Licinius, the open sea ; 
 
 But while you, cautious, shun its stormy roar, 
 Avoid with equal care the treacherous lee 
 
 Of rocky shore. 
 
 n. 
 Whoever cultivates the golden mean, 
 
 The smirch of poverty shall safely shun, 
 And mocking riches from his gaze serene, 
 
 Shall ever run. 
 
 in. 
 The loftiest pine feels most the northern blast, 
 
 The highest towers endure the greatest fall ; 
 Yon thunderbolt the lesser house has past, 
 
 To strike the tall. 
 
208 FRAGMENTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! let your soul, prepared for either fate, 
 Hope in ill-fortune fear the prosperous hour ; 
 
 The self-same gods now kindle, now abate, 
 The tempest s power. 
 
 v. 
 
 Be sure, if all is dark with you to-day, 
 
 Twill change to-morrow : songs not always 
 waft 
 
 From great Apollo ; nor shall always slay 
 His vengeful shaft. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oppose a resolute and cheerful breast 
 
 To blasts unprosperous, but be careful too ; 
 
 Reef sail, when too propitious from the west 
 The breezes blow. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM HORACE. 209 
 
 AD FUSCUM. 
 I. 
 
 THE man of pure and upright life, 
 Needs not the Moorish bow or knife, 
 Or arrows poison-charged ; for he, 
 
 Fuscus, dear to me ! 
 
 Is safe within his own integrity : 
 
 ii. 
 
 Whether o er desert sands he goes, 
 Or toils through wild Caucasian snows, 
 Or under burning Persian suns, 
 The heat of noonday shuns 
 
 In groves, through which the bright Hydaspes 
 runs. 
 
 m. 
 
 For while in Sabine woods I strayed, 
 And sang my Laura, sweetest maid, 
 Unarmed, except with fragile lyre, 
 
 1 met the gray wolfs ire 
 
 With fearless gaze, and awed his savage fire. 
 
210 FRAGMENTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Such omen, never savage clime 
 
 Hath known, in this or other time : 
 
 Not Daunia s woodlands, nor the land 
 
 Of Fez, sirocco-fanned, 
 
 Dry nurse of lions ; realm of thirsty sand, 
 
 v. 
 
 Should I be sent where deadly air, 
 Malarious, blasts the grape and pear ; 
 Where chilling, endless rain and storm 
 The drooping skies deform, 
 And ever shut from sight the sunbeams 
 warm ; 
 
 VI. 
 
 Or where, beneath a torrid sky, 
 To linger is to faint and die 
 Land to all other men denied ; 
 Were Laura by my side, 
 I with the laughing maid could joyously 
 abide. 
 
HOMER. 211 
 
 HOMER. 
 
 A BALMY gale from far Ionian shore, 
 
 That blows throughout the world for evermore. 
 
 BLAXD Majesty that tells th,e mingled tale 
 Of War and Peace, of Marriage and of Death ; 
 
 Of ruddy Conflagration, Famine pale, 
 
 With sweet, unvaried, and unfaltering breath. 
 
 A fragment, unalloyed, of the Divine, 
 
 Who sends the rain to good and bad alike ; 
 
 Who on the murderer makes his sun to shine, 
 Whose fated lightnings oft the righteous strike. 
 
 Immortal Singer : thou didst rise above 
 
 Smiles for man s joy, and tears for human pain ; 
 
 No frailty mars the calm and boundless love 
 Which thou for all mankind didst entertain. 
 
212 MILTON. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 AN organ -peal from far-off Minster walls, 
 That on the awe-struck ear at evening falls. 
 
 BECAUSE you dared to draw aside the veil 
 That hides the other world from mortal eye, 
 
 And tell, till then untold, the awful tale 
 Of man s first sin, that doomed us all to die, 
 
 We hail thee Poet : thou art Preacher too ; 
 
 With mighty hand you draw the soul away, 
 Through Death s dark valley, hid with boding yew, 
 
 Far from sweet airs and cheerful light of day. 
 
 And yours the Preacher s recompense. We bow 
 To thee with reverence ; but how few can claim 
 
 A friend s acquaintance with thy solemn brow, 
 Or in their careless moments speak thy name ! 
 
8HAKSPEARE. 213 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 SYMPHOXIOUS music ; orchestral and rare 
 A thousand lutes, and each a separate air. 
 
 MY Teacher : Teacher thou of all the race 
 And mine as well as theirs : I clasp thy hand, 
 
 And look without a fear upon thy face, 
 Contented ever in such light to stand. 
 
 What men find not upon thy ample page, 
 Is worth but little. Would they wiser be ? 
 
 You speak, and lo, the sum of all things sage. 
 Would they be witty, cynic, grave, or free ? 
 
 In you is found exhaustless store for all ; 
 
 Eternal Record of the Maker s power : 
 Great Hint of what had been but for the Fall, 
 
 Of what we may be at a Future Hour. 
 
CYRILLA. 
 
216 CTRILLA. 
 
 CYRILLA 
 
 I TELL a simple tale. The wild romance 
 Of other age and clime, let him declare, 
 Whoever sweeps with better, bolder hand 
 The sacred lyre of song. 
 
 The young Seborne 
 
 Had grown to manly age, a farmer s son, 
 Upon the banks of blue Connecticut. 
 Fed with the fare the simple country gives 
 To mind and body ; strong, and lithe, and tall. 
 His face outshining healthy, innocent thought ; 
 Yet with a latent gleam that might repel 
 Whomever would approach with threat or wile. 
 Fresh-hued and ruddy he with morning air, 
 And shoulders broad from mowing countless 
 
 meads, 
 And guiding the slow plough through fallow 
 
 fields. 
 
CYRILLA. 217 
 
 And patient he till now with rustic toil ; 
 His soul slow waking, yet was satisfied 
 With labor well fulfilled and rest enjoyed 
 With iterative talk of country folk 
 With kindly simpleness of village maid, 
 Rough sport of untaught comrade, and such all 
 As make the sum of still New England life. 
 
 When at the meadow s foot he lay at eve, 
 And watched the fair blue river flowing by, 
 He scarcely wished to venture on its breast 
 And try with it the fortunes of the world. 
 Than these no meads are sweeter : here are trees, 
 And hills, and plains, as fair as such can be. 
 Here, all I know are kind, and labor shared 
 By all is honor, and joins hand with peace. 
 Nor here appear the shocks and storms of life ; 
 Nor here does want distress, or pride deform. 
 And why should I, as others, seek a strange 
 And unknown world beyond, and turn too late 
 To seek again the once sure joys of home, 
 Which, if despised and left, are found no more ? 
 10 
 
218 CYRILLA. 
 
 This would he say, unknowing. Not as yet 
 Had come to him that stern, relentless voice 
 That comes at last to all, and drives them forth 
 To conquer all the earth. Some fall at first, 
 Fear-trodden by the shadow of danger slain ; 
 And those who bravest strive, and longest live, 
 Attain such portion of their youth s wild dream, 
 As were a sunbeam s mote to Caucasus ! 
 
 But though ambition not as yet had crushed 
 His still contentment, it was not the sleep 
 Of ignorance in which his wishes lay. 
 Long had he passed from out the village school, 
 Whose tall lean belfry, seen the country round, 
 Fills the young rustic with an uncouth awe, 
 His sire with pride, when on a winter s night 
 Its clanging, dissonant bell wakes up the hills, 
 And to the lecture calls the township in. 
 Then while the orator perchance Divine 
 From* some too liberal, half-suspected desk ; 
 Or metaphysic sage, whose thoughts, grown thin, 
 Lacking the stimulus the public gives 
 Of praise and pudding, sudden wax robust 
 
CYRILLA. 219 
 
 When aired upon the platform ; poets too, 
 Who scoring down in grim heroic verse 
 The follies of the times, their audience spare, 
 And leave each set of listeners with the thought 
 Most comforting, that all of mankind else 
 Wear asses ears, and quite as loudly bray ; 
 Then while the orator wears out his hour, 
 The social cauldron of the busy room 
 Boils fast, but yet repressed, till at the close 
 Its pent-up treasures flow o er all the crowd. 
 Then gossips mix, then secrets owners change, 
 Then multitudinous news of nurseries fly ; 
 And in sly corners, hid from dire mammas, 
 Sweet hours are fixed, when Reuben from the Hill 
 Shall meet Clarinda, with the skittish bay 
 Thrice charged with furtive oats, and o er the lake 
 Shall ring the steel-shod sledge. 
 
 From village school 
 
 He long had passed, but yet the master s skill 
 Might guide his thoughts, when by the winter s 
 
 hearth 
 
 He traced the plots of Euclid, and the path 
 Of ships upon the unknown ocean drew. 
 
220 CYRILLA. 
 
 Stoop-shouldered and pedantic was the sage, 
 And shy, and starting at a sudden voice, 
 Or sudden step the more if female too 
 And full of musings : of the wrinkled earth, 
 How many countless ages growing cold, 
 And fit for use of man ; of new-born lands, 
 Marsupial -tenanted, and full of strange 
 And unfit couplings of the mammal race, 
 As not yet ripe for view ; and of the stars 
 That once illumed the spaces where the dark 
 Of void abyss now mocks the straining sight ; 
 And of the era when the constant Bear 
 Shall wheel a larger circle, and shall dip 
 Beneath the icy sea, and the clear Lyre 
 Shall burn throughout the year, the polar star ; 
 And in the summer midnight all the north 
 Shall see the wonders of the Southern Cross. 
 Nor had he small pretense of ancient tongue, 
 But mourning much the village so remote 
 From Library, where folios kept the key 
 Of long-passed customs, in default of which 
 The verse of Persius seems but farrago, 
 And Plato a sublime, profound, obscure. 
 
CYRILLA. 221 
 
 So guided, with much wheat his mind was fed, 
 Somewhat perchance with chaff; but this the 
 
 clear 
 
 And patient thought out-winnowed for itself. 
 And Nature in him kindly wrought, that he 
 Might not uncouth become, or turn to dreams, 
 Or waste away in mists of reverie. 
 But Knowledge nobly fed his daily thoughts, 
 Kept all his soul at work, that while the plough 
 Traced up the furrow, he should trace a truth ; 
 And in the heats of harvest, other sheaves 
 Than those of barley he should gather in. 
 
 The fairest field of all the fair estate 
 
 His father owned, lay in the river s bend. 
 
 Above, a mile of rapids, and below 
 
 A clear, slow flow of water : all the bank 
 
 Was alder set, and here and there an oak, 
 
 From which all day the shrill kingfisher 
 
 swooped, 
 
 And thrush at dawn and twilight sang ; across 
 Were sloping flats, and parks of meadow land, 
 In which, knee-deep in richness, countless kine 
 
222 CYRILLA. 
 
 Strayed at tlieir will ; and cottages all white 
 Peeped from green clumps of trees, and far behind 
 Low lines of hills arose, enfolding all. 
 
 One evening here, when the last furrow turned, 
 His oxen s heads stretched homeward, the quick 
 
 stroke 
 
 Of rower smote his ear, and down the rifts 
 Of the swift river shot his cousin s boat, 
 From Edge, five miles above. " You surely 
 
 stop," 
 
 He cried, to which, " You re right, no other end 
 Had I in coming ; so my freight commands, 
 These ladies two, who think it rarest sport 
 That I should pull an hour s easy oar, 
 To bring them here, when scarce a summer s day, 
 And four such men as I, could take them back, 
 On the same highway." 
 
 Then, with dexterous hand, 
 He shot the skiff within a little cove, 
 Where the smooth marge an easy landing gave. 
 And quick, Seborne : " To me will fall the freight, 
 While you insure the safety of the craft 
 
CYRILLA. 
 
 223 
 
 Within the harbor : such the river s rules, 
 Which here I claim to follow." 
 
 " This is he," 
 
 Said George of Edge, " whom, ladies, I described 
 To you a mile above a bashful youth ! 
 But now I think he knows the water-nymphs, 
 Who teach him, in these shy, sequestered spots, 
 Such arts of rhetoric as my three campaigns 
 On city carpets may have failed to give. 
 fairest freight that e er the river bore ! 
 Be pleased to know your guardian !" 
 
 Bowing low, 
 
 He, thus acquainted, led them up the bank, 
 Whom soon the oarsman followed. Then the 
 
 yoked 
 
 And patient oxen, stretching forth their heads, 
 Lowed softly toward them, threading through 
 
 the lane ; 
 
 Such avenue as who upon thy banks, 
 Sweet flowing river, has not learned to love ? 
 O erarched with elms that checked the noonday 
 
 glare ; 
 
224: CYRILLA. 
 
 A winding maze of blackberry and rose, 
 And purpling elder ; worn with feet of kine, 
 And giving frequent glimpse of miles of meads. 
 Soon looms the sturdy barn upon the view, 
 Four-square ; a mass of red the steep-sloped 
 
 roof 
 
 Mossed o er with many summers ; in the peaks 
 The diamonds whence the haunting swallows fly ; 
 Beyond, the orchard ; last, the glistening house, 
 A miracle of whiteness : such bequest 
 Of rustic taste, from heir to heir has come, 
 Since first the dusky Indian fled the wood, 
 And left his wigwam as a warning mark, 
 Which all might shun to copy. Reason else 
 Is none for this eternal glare of white ; 
 Though yet my memory ever holds it dear, 
 As first and farthest landmark, when I look 
 Back o er the fading slopes of infancy. 
 
 Then round the well-spread table, in the dusk, 
 They told the day s events : how George pro 
 posed 
 The voyage down the rapids ; Lucy, then, 
 
CYRILLA. 225 
 
 Held up her hands in fright, but soon was won 
 To grasp the project by some dainty lines 
 From out the "Lady of the Lake," and grown 
 From timid, venturesome, Cyrilla, too, 
 Sat on the thwarts unmoved : the only fear 
 Of both, as now they laughingly confessed, 
 Their baggage. " Charming care to me," said 
 
 George ; 
 
 " If dashed by river spray, my pardon I 
 Had vainly asked. But mostly I obtained 
 Applause by steering through the foaming rifts 
 So smoothly, that the songs the Naiads sang 
 Missed not a quaver, nor were rudely shaken." 
 And then Sebome : " Such songs, I dare to say, 
 As ne er the wistful stream had heard till then ; 
 And now I know the reason that, before 
 Your boat appeared, or e er the oars were heard, 
 Sweet murmurs came upon the northern breeze, 
 As telling of unwonted melodies : 
 And vague expectancies filled all my soul." 
 To which Cyrilla : " Surely, I believe 
 As George has said : with river-nymphs you talk, 
 10* 
 
226 CYRILLA. 
 
 Who teach you flattering arts." " But if you 
 
 knew," 
 
 He said, " the many tongues of solitude, 
 And how the sense is sharpened by the still 
 And lonesome airs that o er the meadows 
 
 breathe, 
 
 You would not doubt my story. But if you 
 Will sing again the songs that down the stream 
 Crept softly, as if loth in their own sound 
 To lose what followed from the self-same source, 
 I then will tell you if I heard them right, 
 Or if the north wind mocked me." 
 
 "To the same 
 
 Guitar I then will sing," Cyrilla said, 
 " That you may have, so far, the benefit 
 Of a resemblance that may haply stir 
 Your arts inventive ; but if I shall say, 
 I heard an air that up the rushing stream 
 Ran boldly, as if glad to run beyond 
 The dash of water over noisy rocks, 
 And then shall ask you to repeat the lay, 
 * That I may tell you if I heard it right, 
 
CYRILLA. 
 
 227 
 
 Or if the south wind mocked me, you must 
 
 sing!" 
 
 And George replied: " He blushes as if caught; 
 And thus may ever false deceiver fall !" 
 But then Cyrilla laughed and said, "And if 
 He say he heard this song below the rifts, 
 For witness I shall look to you ;" and sang : 
 
 Before the morning woke, the lark 
 
 His warblings scattered through the sky ; 
 
 Till night s enfolding deepest dark, 
 He sang, nor knew the reason why 
 Such joy disdains a reason why. 
 
 Sweet winds of Spring, that hither blow 
 From lands of Palm-tree, warm and dry, 
 
 Beat back the hosts of northern snow, 
 And we ll not ask the reason why 
 Such kindness knows no reason why. 
 
 " The same, the very same," Seborne replied, 
 " And yet tis not ; for there were other lines, 
 Whose words I caught not, yet their soul and 
 sense 
 
228 CYRILLA. 
 
 Came down to me ; a moral to your lay, 
 As fit for poets." 
 
 " Not at all," said she ; 
 
 " The words are not the words above I sang, 
 Nor do I add a moral to the lay 
 Which haply in an idle hour I sing." 
 " And right !" said George, " for this is not the 
 
 mode 
 
 By which the poet strikes the hearts of men, 
 And lives to other times. Let each one frame 
 A moral as it suits him, but the bard 
 Sing but of life as actually it lives 
 Of nature, simply. If the passions range 
 Themselves along his verse, he but reviews 
 Their ranks as Captain not as meddlesome 
 And curious gazer, who exclaims, * Oh ! see, 
 And * Wonderful to look upon ! Let each 
 Admire as it may please him best, and I 
 Will swear by Homer, who not once complains, 
 Or sheds a tear, or drops a moral saw, 
 Though heroes fall by dozens ; though the brave 
 And dear Patroclus lie amid the dust ; 
 
CYRILLA. 229 
 
 Though bright Sarpedon, born of Jove, beneath 
 A murderous lance expire, and Priam s sons, 
 Up to great Hector, die the cruel death ! 
 Enough of glory, if the reader mourn. 
 But if you heard a moral in the winds 
 To southward sweeping, let it feel the air 
 Once more, though much I fancy that the breeze 
 That brought it to you, bore it thence again." 
 
 Seborne replied : " Your lecture, learned, wise, 
 Had given me time to frame a brace of songs, 
 Had I known none, or breezes been less kind ; 
 And this was not the song Miss Vernon sang, 
 Nor worthy her but much the self-same air, 
 May, if she will, accompany ; and sang : 
 
 The friend I left but yesternight, 
 
 To-day seems distant, cold, and strange ; 
 
 The little space from light to light 
 
 Hath wrought a sad and endless change 
 For change comes not to such a change. 
 
230 CYRILLA. 
 
 Dear Heart, in whom my heart I see, 
 Shall any Tempter tempt to range ? 
 
 Content am I to love but thee ; 
 
 Nor more could flow from any change 
 Ah ! what return from such a change ! 
 
 " Unkind were you," Cyrilla then replied, 
 " To say that this was not the song you heard, 
 By northern breezes blown, else had I used 
 The arts you practise, and assumed them mine." 
 " This is the Naiad who inspires him," 
 Said George. " No mortal maiden tunes his lay, 
 And many vouch for this. For to the fair, 
 Abroad, at home, at church, at eveiy feast, 
 Full cold is Robert ; not the veriest flirt 
 Has ever claimed him hers a summer hour. 
 What would I give for such immunity ? 
 Or failing this, the other dear extreme, 
 The faithful heart, in whom my heart to see 
 Were blest contentment, and to her the same ?" 
 "Nay, George, you jest," said Lucy; "are you fit 
 For such contentment yon, who love to play 
 With female hearts, and idly reckon up 
 
CYRILLA. 231 
 
 How many here, how many there, have given 
 The proofs that you were tenderly beheld ? 
 But as for me, I think the proofs are forged ; 
 The scented letters are but party-notes ; 
 And well I know who plucks the rose to-day, 
 To show its leaves to-morrow with a sigh : 
 Ah ! were she here, who gave this flower to 
 me! " 
 
 Thus answered Lucy, shaking back her curls, 
 
 A sweet defiance darting from her eyes, 
 
 As if to say : " You make no sport of me ; 
 
 Or if you do, no farther shall you stray." 
 
 For such the rumor ran, that if the pair 
 
 Were not on lovers footing, plain expressed, 
 
 Why, then, as gossips talk, they should be so. 
 
 The which Cyrilla told to her that night, 
 
 In the great chamber, in the final words 
 
 Of that young-lady talk, which, when begun 
 
 On such affairs by heads on pillows laid, 
 
 Oft in the midnight hour awakes papa, 
 
 Who, dimly conscious, robbers fears ; perchance 
 
 Calls through the house, " Who s there ?" So these 
 
232 CYRILLA. 
 
 In the great chamber talked ; the hangings waved, 
 And trembled to the zephyrs playing through ; 
 The moonbeams slid between the rustling vines 
 That o er the windows hung, and paved the floor 
 With silver arabesque, and the faint stir 
 Of folded kine crept softly in ; and one 
 Denied, as who has not denied, when urged? 
 The other with a battery of facts 
 Resistless charged. The fort is doomed to fall 
 Where traitor lurks ; for Lucy longed to tell 
 Cyrilla of her heart, the more that she 
 Were then most safe in George s love, for else 
 Cyrilla might have smiled ; but honor now 
 Would bind her fast to Lucy s side, and check 
 Advance of the bold warrior George, who now 
 Unconscious slumbered, nor had lost his sleep 
 For such slight cause. The tears that Lucy shed ; 
 Bright nectar of her overflowing heart ; 
 Soon fled away ; and then a passing bird 
 What else might spy amid such sanctity ? 
 Had well observed the wondrous wise advice 
 Of maid to maid, on such momentous theme. 
 Less must she love, but more must she command 
 
CYRILLA. 233 
 
 His worship : from her far-off maiden throne, 
 With unseen forces, draw him up ; but she 
 Must not in aught descend, or let him read 
 The index of her soul. If he were cold, 
 She must not sadden : not as meadows show 
 Black shades of clouds that fly beneath the sun, 
 Must she be gloomed when hid from sight of him. 
 If haply he might see his name were prized 
 This were the far extent, for love is apt 
 To cool, if meeting first too much response. 
 And much more sapience, growing still in weight, 
 Till from the distant belfry sounded " Two," 
 And the spring cocks began to hoarsely crow. 
 But then as Lucy, burdened with advice, 
 Slipt into sleep, a last and little word 
 Rose to the air " I love him, as he knows." 
 
 But when the morning from the distant hills 
 Stept redly forth, unclouded, all the house 
 Rose to the matin service, well performed 
 With reverent reading of the Word, and prayer. 
 And then the father and the mother sat 
 At the long table, looking o er its length, 
 
234 CYRILLA. 
 
 Each at the other ; at the side of each, 
 
 The happy children of the bounteous farm, 
 
 And the three guests, to whom Seborne proposed 
 
 Whatever pleasure that might fit the day 
 
 The journey to the mountains, or the ride 
 
 To where the brook in shivering cascades 
 
 Falls down the piny side of Cloudycrown ; 
 
 A sail upon the river, and to add 
 
 To this, to land three miles below, and view 
 
 The ruins of a fort, whose shady nooks 
 
 Once swarmed with musketeers, who kept at bay 
 
 A sloop surcharged with red-coats, till the rouse 
 
 Of all the country-side compelled to strike 
 
 Saint George s flag. 
 
 This pleased the party best ; 
 " And haply," said Cyrilla, " we shall see 
 The Naiad, if she hear the wonted roll 
 Of the broad wheels, along the tremulous bank, 
 Of the ox-wagon. Do not say me no, 
 Or think it trivial wish that in such wain 
 I much have wished to travel ; not for long, 
 Tis true, for much I fear the rugged path 
 
CYRILLA. 235 
 
 And unaccustomed jolt yet who has not 
 Fair picture seen of wagon laden down 
 With group of vintagers or harvest-girls, 
 By patient oxen slowly drawn, whose necks 
 Milk white, obedient bear the yoke, but firm 
 They plant their hoofs within the faithful ground, 
 As sure of sturdy succor there." 
 
 Seborne 
 
 Replied : " The chestnuts at the door deny 
 That you should favor the slow foot of ox. 
 Nor may we lightly lose the morning breeze." 
 But she : " Thus ever fade romantic dreams, 
 And us the country soon will hence return 
 To dusty life amid the city s walls, 
 Arcadia not yet fully felt ; for I 
 Had dreamed to touch the plough, to ride in cart, 
 To bind a sheaf, to reap the standing corn, 
 And scatter seed upon the fresh-turned earth ; 
 But all am I forbid, and rustic ways 
 Fly from my path but I shall catch them yet." 
 
 But these complaints were lost in air, when now 
 The chestnuts sprang along the shady lane, 
 
236 CYRILLA. 
 
 And dashed the morning diamonds from the grass. 
 From off the meadows newly mown, the lark 
 Rose, and with poised wings across their path, 
 Clear singing, flew. The summer birds above 
 Called to each other ; and across the stream, 
 Now silver shining through a belt of trees, 
 The quarrier s rude refrain from out the hills, 
 Far distant, floated, softened down to song. 
 
 Then on the margin of the stream the boat 
 Received them, white, and glistening in the sun, 
 And spotless as its sails, which first Seborne 
 Shook out, and hauled and fastened without reef 
 A shapely flat from gaff to boom ; and then, 
 To all their seats apportioned, he sat down, 
 And steered the willing boat, that o er the waves 
 Flew lightly. 
 
 But the maidens docile sat, 
 As on an element of unknown fear, 
 Which they are wise who well conciliate, 
 Nor tempt its unroused powers. Diverse were 
 they, 
 
CYRILLA. 237 
 
 Yet both alike in fairness oft Seborne 
 Had Lucy seen, the pride of ancient Edge, 
 Favored by young and old, and worthy she 
 The love of all, who all sincerely loved. 
 The sick her praises sang, who with her bore 
 A welcome air of health ; she seemed to shine 
 A healing star amid the darkest nights 
 Of weary folk in mortal anguish. Light 
 Her step to such, and bringing hope of rest. 
 Much cause had he to thank her, for if strange 
 And shy the village called him, she took up 
 The welfare of his name, praised what he knew, 
 And wished that she but knew as much, and they 
 Might wish the same, were they but wise to wish ; 
 And other such, as women love to talk, 
 Defending those assailed ; though much she blamed 
 Him to himself in friendly argument, 
 But with a comic, half-relenting smile, 
 As all to purpose none ; "for who could turn 
 A stubborn tree, that in the shade persists 
 To grow, nor yields except to axe and fire ?" 
 And much he loved her ; not with vague alarm, 
 Not with strange leapings of the heart and pulse ; 
 
 
238 CYRILLA. 
 
 Nor throbs of soul in early morning, when, 
 From Night and Nothing waked, the eager thought 
 Quick reaches out for something to recall 
 Itself to joyous life then if the maid 
 Were pictured to the soul at eventide, 
 She first appears to welcome it to life, 
 New rising, robed in charms, and breathing warm 
 Of love, and sighs, and scarcely hoped consent. 
 Not thus he loved her ; clear and well defined 
 His love, he could have taken it apart, 
 And pictured forth in strict detail the whole. 
 And such can rarely grow, and rarely wane, 
 When once the fair guest-chamber of the soul 
 Is filled with it. And happy they who find 
 Such tenant for their heart, for thus they shun 
 The storms of life, its ecstacy and pain ; 
 There jealousy attacks them not the fire 
 That warms them burns with steady equal flame, 
 Nor soars to heaven to sink in ashes cold ; 
 And haunted not by ghosts of former joys, 
 They ever breathe the pleasant airs of peace. 
 While thus she sat, her simple beauty flowed 
 Over his sense like crystal stream of health, 
 
CYRILLA. 239 
 
 Making him glad, and only glad, as she 
 Would wish, if choosing. 
 
 But Cyrilla, strange 
 
 And new, as if from other, distant sphere, 
 Disturbed his soul : for not as other maids 
 She seemed to him, for something in her face 
 Appealed to eyes that ne er before had looked 
 From out his heart ; and voices came from her, 
 And spoke to ears that never he before 
 Knew he possessed. As if in former time, 
 Before this present life, she at his side 
 Had gone through some great peril, or had spoke 
 Some passionate words of nearness, dear she 
 
 seemed, 
 
 And yet more distant now, than all the maids 
 Of earth. It were a boldness but to speak 
 To her : to take her hand in needful courtesy, 
 Were daring rashness. 
 
 Not the wondrous charm 
 Was lacking there, of fairness most complete, 
 As who shall say me nay, who thinks of her, 
 
240 CYRILLA. 
 
 Who is or has been or shall yet be, his ? 
 And such her fairness seemed to him, who yet 
 Up to that hour had never thought of maid, 
 Save as a tender, pleasant, kindly friend, 
 To meet upon the sunlight side of life s 
 Long street, when weary of the walk in shade, 
 And dull procession of the toilsome crowd. 
 And as the boat while blew the western wind 
 Shooting by dexterous tack from bank to bank, 
 Left long diagonal of babbling wake, 
 Her eyes, exploring either meadowed shore, 
 Would oft encounter his, which then the course 
 Viewed more intently : not as if abashed 
 And forced to turn away ; but sudden sense 
 Of joy, that might too joyful prove, and turn 
 To pain, compelled him ; but her graceful form 
 He scanned, less fearful ; and if she but drooped 
 Her eyelids, he was ware of it before 
 They fell, and quick his eager eyes regained 
 Possession of her face ; and so they passed 
 Three miles of meadow, until Lucy said, 
 " The Fort ! " and rounding to, he dropped the 
 sail. 
 
CYKILLA. 241 
 
 And scarcely had they climbed the ruined steps, 
 And reached the stone-bestrewed and earthern floor, 
 "Where once the butt of musket rang, and feet 
 Of sturdy musterers from the market-town 
 Tramped to and fro in martial exercise, 
 When other voices reached them ; then Seborne 
 Said : " Tis the merchant and his wild Malay, 
 WTio have a pic-nic here, as if a type 
 Of that bright day when Asia and the West 
 Shall greet each other. Let us call them out, 
 And they shall bring the yellow Hoang-Ho, 
 To mix its waves with blue Connecticut. 
 
 For this is he, a summer traveler, who 
 This season took the Cleveland place, that lies 
 A mile above I think, the fairest house 
 The river sees in all its long descent. 
 Its owner lives in town, too proud to sell, 
 Too poor to keep in order as he likes 
 To see it ; therefore, as each April comes, 
 He flits, and draws a rental from the rich, 
 Whoever comes to taste its summer bloom. 
 And Beckford is the last, a kindly soul, 
 11 
 
242 CTRILLA. 
 
 Much burned with Indian suns, a bachelor, 
 
 And followed by an olive, tall Malay, 
 
 Than whom none else can cook his rice or mix 
 
 His curry ; as for tea, I think that he 
 
 Would parch with thirst before that he would 
 
 drink 
 
 At his own table, any other cup 
 Than that which skillful Apposam had mixed ! " 
 
 But the Malay s quick ear behind the wall 
 Anticipated their approach, and forth 
 He came, and called his master. He, a man 
 Of portly front, appeared : a picture rich, 
 Of scarf, and coat, and button ; solid all, 
 As fits substantial men ; but tropic airs 
 Breathed from him, and he looked the gorgeous 
 East. 
 
 Then, salutations made, he bade them walk 
 Within the wall, where piles of rubbish lay, 
 Profusely scattered ; these the nimble hand 
 Of the swart servant soon disposed in shape, 
 Each stone and shard in place, and o er them all 
 He spread soft shawls, and all the party sat 
 
CYRILLA. 243 
 
 At lunch ; and many stories of the fort 
 
 Passed round, perhaps enlarged by lapse of time 
 
 Though scarce the walls were bloodless, and a 
 
 mound, 
 
 Turf-grown, upon the western side, disclosed 
 And honored the repose of six brave men. 
 
 And now and then a tale of the far East 
 
 Was told by Beckford ; moderation just 
 
 He showed, nor ever tired with traveler s talk ; 
 
 But tropic air, and dress of wild Malay, 
 
 Sped all his words, and while he talked, they saw 
 
 The minaret ; the Indian City ; sand 
 
 Of tawny desert fringed with spicy shore ; 
 
 Long swells, and surging waves of yellow sea ; 
 
 The wild fantastic piles that China builds 
 
 Of palace, house ; the wondrous Tartar wall. 
 
 Then the long voyage to the northern line 
 
 Of Eastern commerce, where the summer sun 
 
 At midnight on the horizon rolled, and rose 
 
 Through orange tints of morning ; on the shore 
 
 Far off they saw the huts of Samoieds, 
 
 And to the north the blink of endless ice. 
 
244 CYRILLA. 
 
 But while they listened, started up Seborne, 
 And said : "I fear the march of yonder cloud 
 Low at the west it grows apace, and see, 
 How frequent reft by lightning !" Up they rose, 
 And filled the homeward boats, and Beckford said, 
 " Come, let us try a race perhaps our zeal 
 Will leave the storm behind." " But let the sheets 
 Lie in your hand," Seborne replied; " the flaws 
 Strike sudden on the river, and if fast, 
 The stubborn sail may bring you on your beam, 
 Or haply worse." But Beckford said : " Not I, 
 For I have sailed long wastes of stormy sea, 
 Beyond the sight of land, in lesser craft, 
 Nor ever found my hand too slow to loose 
 The fastened ropes, when down the hissing gale 
 Swept from the darkened cloud." Then up the 
 
 stream 
 
 They flew, the wind athwart ; from side to side 
 The sharp bows cut through ridgy rows of foam , 
 And still the boat of Beckford led, till now, 
 When half across a tack, an angry flaw 
 Struck down from out the east, right in the brow 
 Of the black cloud that all the western sky 
 
CYRILLA. 245 
 
 Deformed, and swept long leagues of dust and rain 
 
 Before its face. Scarce in the blinding spray 
 
 Was half the ruin seen, for all Sebome 
 
 Could spy amid the darkness on the lee 
 
 By which he swiftly drove, was a white waste 
 
 Of floating sail ; and in the \vindy roar, 
 
 He heard the mingled tongues of west and east, 
 
 Diverse, but like in tone the cry for help, 
 
 That makes all voices kin. " Quick to the helm," 
 
 He shouted, " George, and drive, nor try to turn, 
 
 But run the boat to shore ; a house is near." 
 
 Then leaped astern, while George the rudder took, 
 
 And shaped the flying madness of the boat, 
 
 Mid spray and rain, till on the clayey shore 
 
 It sharply struck, and safe, with dripping haste, 
 
 They gained a farm-house. 
 
 But Seborne alone, 
 
 Amid the waters seemed, for looking round, 
 Far as he might, o er swelling mounds of foam, 
 He nothing saw, but still swam boldly on, 
 Where last he saw the sails of Beckford s boat 
 Flat on the wave ; at last, through choking rain, 
 
246 CYRILLA. 
 
 He dimly caught it ; then again more near, 
 And nearer still, till, clinging to the mast, 
 He spied the swart Malay, who loudly shrieked, 
 And pointed out astern. There Beckford fought, 
 But feebly, with the waves that bore him down, 
 And once had all engulfed him ; but he rose 
 With final rouse of will, and now again 
 Was slowly sinking, and had risen no more ; 
 But ere he passed away, the sinewy arm 
 Stretched by Seborne, had clutched him, and the 
 
 slow 
 
 And dragging lift of painful strength had raised 
 His head to life and air. Nor was there need 
 Of caution not to struggle ; helpless, he, 
 As infant, and his limbs relaxed and numb ; 
 Then with the current combating, Seborne 
 Watched for the drifting boat that slowly came, 
 But came at last, and on its welcome side 
 He fastened Beckford, faintly brought to life. 
 But he unshipped a thwart, and used as oar, 
 And slowly urged the wreck before the storm, 
 Until, at last, the shore appeared, and safe 
 They stepped on land ; and o er the flooded fields 
 
CYRILLA. 247 
 
 And miry ways, they reached the farm-house, where 
 The others had their welcome gained ; and now __ 
 The sturdy hinds were setting forth with George, 
 To try the watery search. 
 
 But all night long, 
 
 In dreams Cyrilla shone upon Seborne, 
 A water-nymph on peaceful current : when 
 It dawned, she sank in storm ; and faces white 
 Of drowning men in inky depths of wave, 
 Flashed ghastly on his sight. A restless fear 
 Shook all his soul ; and, unrefreshed he rose, 
 And thoughts of peril chased across his mind ; 
 But at the early table, bright and fair 
 The maids appeared, and talked his praise, but he 
 Disowned the merit ; then the hearty form 
 Of Beckford, gorgeous as a June parterre, 
 Saluted him and thanked him ; but he bowed 
 The thanks away, and made a lighter thing 
 Of all the watery toil, than if with breeze 
 Of summer he had floated in his boat, 
 And rescued lady s scarf, blown on the wave. 
 But when said George, " Good by, to-day we go," 
 
248 CYRILLA. 
 
 And Lucy and Cyrilla said, " Good by," 
 
 He knew whence came the sadness that oppressed 
 
 His heart before its time : though but an hour 
 
 Cyrilla s face had lighted up his path ; 
 
 Though scarcely had he passed beyond the hedge 
 
 Of mere acquaintance, nor had earned the right 
 
 To think of her as friend ; nor might expect 
 
 To live within her memory a day ; 
 
 Yet she his life had changed ; and though he now 
 
 Might never see her more, yet he was not 
 
 As once he was, before the maid appeared ; 
 
 Nor when they parted, did his soul go back 
 
 To where it once reposed. 
 
 The peaceful farm, 
 
 And all the bright, green affluence of the meads, 
 And the fair river flowing to the sea, 
 Seemed to his eyes to-day a waste expanse 
 Of earth and water ; but to-morrow they 
 Might glow as if the heavens had fallen down, 
 And taken their place. For now Seborne was two 
 Distinct and separate souls : joyless the one, 
 With blank, dull eyes, and seeing in no place 
 
CTRILLA. 249 
 
 The signs of life and hope ; its throbs were pain, 
 Itself a weight upon itself, and lone. 
 The other saw a radiance everywhere, 
 That lit up all the world : through cloudy skies 
 It saw the sun clear shining ; in the murk 
 Of night, the stars beyond : no earthly sound 
 But seemed a heavenly note ; the very air 
 Played, tremulous with delight, and but to live 
 Were pleasure, if the same bright sense might last. 
 
 But still his outward Jife moved on, as life 
 
 Must move, unless it utterly sink away, 
 
 Though nature shock with changes ; though the 
 
 night 
 
 Bring death of loved ones in the house ; or hearts, 
 Once faithful, slip away, and empty leave, 
 And broken, the fair shrines where once they dwelt. 
 To-day the haying ; then the harvest moon 
 Rose o er the stubble-field his arm had reaped ; 
 And then in goodly rows the shocks of corn 
 Told his industrious husbandry ; till came 
 The autumn nights, and sowed the ground with 
 
 frost. 
 
 11* 
 
250 CYRILLA. 
 
 Then in his labors pausing, more there hung 
 
 The cloud upon his soul ; and on the bank 
 
 Of the blue river, seaward flowing, he 
 
 Sat often, musing much ; and Beckford came 
 
 One day to give a parting greeting ; he 
 
 Had full outstaid the season ; and his chair 
 
 In dingy city office waited him. 
 
 He who had never dreamed of sentiment, 
 
 But lived a life like gorgeous tropic flower, 
 
 That drinks in all of light and air it can, 
 
 Had watched Seborne with curious eye, and seen 
 
 The warpings of his soul, and from the heights 
 
 Or depths he occupied, had pitied him ; 
 
 And finding him, to-day, upon the bank, 
 
 Said, as with random shot : " You miss the girls, 
 
 Who made the river fairer than itself, 
 
 When in your boat they sailed ?" 
 
 Then said Seborne : 
 
 " I know not what I miss ; or if I miss 
 The faces that I saw but for a day 
 I think I only miss the fair content 
 Smiled by this stream upon me, formerly." 
 
CYRILLA. 251 
 
 And Beckford said : " My logic teaches this 
 
 There falls no loss without a cause : Content 
 
 May fly in thousand ways ; but if it fly, 
 
 You must pursue ; itself it turns not back. 
 
 But can a river always please a man ? 
 
 Or fields, or farms, however fair they be ? 
 
 And will you waste the unreturning years 
 
 Of Youth among the meadows and the hills ? 
 
 These give not knowledge : if they lend a sense 
 
 To see with clearer eye whence beauty springs, 
 
 This is their final use ; but you should rove, 
 
 And mix with busy life. The city street 
 
 Will more inform with life and hope, than this 
 
 Dull picture of the meads an office chair 
 
 Will teach you more of Man. But better still 
 
 Is travel ; and no matter where you rove, 
 
 The eye instructs the mind ; and though you talk 
 
 With Turk or Tartar, more the busy sense 
 
 Will learn, than if twere cooped among the shelves 
 
 Of library, or slept amid the vales 
 
 Of some such farm as this." 
 
 " A cure, indeed, 
 For listless or for wounded soul," Seborne 
 
252 CTRILLA. 
 
 Eeplied. " Ulysses, in his wanderings, learned 
 
 The ways of many men, and ever since 
 
 The school has prospered ; but am I a king, 
 
 Who only needs to speak, to line the shore 
 
 With ships, and choose the stateliest ? If he go 
 
 With drift of fortune, all will follow fast ; 
 
 And if he sail around the weary globe 
 
 For very sport, his escort still will hold. 
 
 For travel is a liberal study. I 
 
 Lack most the wherewithal to join the school, 
 
 And with the stranger, there is only one 
 
 That can interpret well : the pocket god, 
 
 Who blesses only in his going. He 
 
 Is not, as yet, among the deities 
 
 Who rule my life." 
 
 But Beckford smiled, and said : 
 " No king am I, and yet I have a ship, 
 And more than one. The more unfortunate 
 Am I, amid such times as these, when ships 
 Lie still by dozens, rotting at the docks, 
 And in the summer sun the tarry seams 
 Start open, and the blistered cordage cracks. 
 
C TRILL A. 253 
 
 But some are busy one for China sails 
 Within a month. To-morrow I must go, 
 And be her slave : to invoice, manifest, 
 Devote my soul : and you shall sail in her, 
 And though you saved my life, I will not force 
 A favor on you, but as man with man, 
 Will pay for service. You can count a gain 
 Or loss, as well as any, and can sell 
 A cargo. This is all the art you need, 
 To get the highest, safely. I will teach 
 Details in time. For you shall merchant turn, 
 Nor shall it less an honor prove, than if 
 You led New England with a dreamy pen. 
 For once I read that wise Pythagoras, 
 When taunted by the Greeks, philosopher 
 And dreamer, said in answer, He could rise 
 To be a merchant ; straightway sallied out, 
 And bought of figs a cargo I suppose 
 On credit ; sailed to Egypt : there he sold 
 The venture at a profit, and returned 
 Rich and respected. Riches always make 
 Philosophy respectable, and I 
 Believe that naught else does : such sorry stuff 
 
254 C TRILL A. 
 
 We get from paupers in the State but now 
 
 I own myself beyond my depth, for I 
 
 Am only skilled in teas, and dyes, and wine. 
 
 But quit the stream, and if the maids remain 
 
 Within your fancy who can drive them out ? 
 
 Let fancy bear them forth upon the seas, 
 
 And they shall make you hopeful : you shall look 
 
 Through darkest storm with courage, if they smile. 
 
 And may your chance be happier far than mine ; 
 
 For she who lit my life when on the sea*, 
 
 Though I had never spoke of love, and she 
 
 Knew never of the peace her image brought 
 
 When rising to my soul in stormiest hours, 
 
 In one long absence died ; a story old 
 
 It is, and yet I never loved again 
 
 Till now grown careless, every maid appears 
 
 Far different from the maids who shared my youth ; 
 
 Nor aught afraid, or shy, but free to say 
 
 Whate er they wish, from which, though late, I 
 
 find 
 
 That I am past the hour that charms a maid. 
 But now good-by, and you shall surely come." 
 
C TRILL A. 255 
 
 Then in the hasty twilight Beckford went ; 
 And slowly homeward walked Seborne, and mused 
 Upon the future, and it seemed to him 
 That all his soul enlarged, as to the East 
 His fancy called him ; then a vision came 
 Of power and wealth from distant Indies snatched, 
 And dear rewards at home, the complement 
 Of all his hopes ; but this as quickly fled 
 Before the trenchant sword of reason ; this 
 Held sway all night, and morning brought again 
 Fair hopes ; and thus his mind divided rule 
 Oppressed, until at last, he said : " Tis best 
 That I should go, and let what will be, be." 
 
 From home tis easy for the young to fly, 
 
 When Fortune calls them forth. Who does not 
 
 know 
 
 The pride of youth, that thinks the voice that calls 
 Has never called before, as now, to them ? 
 * Did yonder graybeard ever hear the cry, 
 Yet come to what he is ? The form I see, 
 
 
 
 That brightly leads me on, he coldly views, 
 Or sees it not at all : and why but that 
 
256 CYRILLA. 
 
 To me is given a higher privilege 
 To know the joys of Fortune ? A decade 
 Shall pass, and dull his gaze another race 
 Succeeds with equal hopes. Immortal she 
 Who fools them all ! 
 
 Seborne the city street 
 
 With unaccustomed footstep walked ; the crowd 
 Of eager faces filled him with amaze, 
 And most, because unending, as a stream 
 By countless fountains fed ; their look was strange, 
 As if each soul were self-concentrated ; 
 And quick their walk, and skillful trained to turn, 
 Nor jostle mid the sinuous rush. The roar 
 Undying through the night disturbed his dreams, 
 And roused to early waking ; and the airs 
 That through the window came, were not the airs 
 That o er the meadows swept at morning : these 
 Were laden down with human histories, 
 And all their freshness had been snatched away. 
 
 Yet one fair thought made all the city peace, 
 That here Cyrilla dwelt ; but not in peace 
 
CYKILLA. 257 
 
 The thought endured, for pains of sad despair 
 Made haste to follow ; and with troubled heart 
 He stood within her presence ; he surprised 
 To find her not surprised ; for conscious he, 
 And conscious overmuch, to that extent 
 That he might think her conscious too, who saw 
 His face with kindly eyes, but only kind ; 
 But still, that they were kind so soon, was much. 
 
 Cyrilla talked of blue Connecticut, 
 
 Asked of the household by the flowing stream, 
 
 And how was Beckford, and "She wished papa 
 
 But knew him ; but New York was large, and kept 
 
 So many always strangers ; much she liked 
 
 His large free talk, and gorgeous tropic air, 
 
 In him so natural, and wholly free 
 
 Of affectation. She had heard from George 
 
 But lately, and from Lucy ; Lucy, most 
 
 Of all the maidens, lovable by maids 
 
 And this her rarest praise a sweeter flower 
 
 Had never grown upon New England soil." 
 
 Through this they grew acquaint, and wandered off 
 
 To other talk, and thus the half-hour passed. 
 
 . 
 
258 CYRILLA. 
 
 But leaving where she dwelt, through doubt and 
 
 fear, . 
 
 He could not call himself unwelcome ; this 
 Took half the darkness from his soul the rest 
 Remained, to yield a hiding-place to all 
 The uncouth shapes that vex a young man s heart, 
 When in the springing time of love he lives, 
 Not knowing how he loves, or by whom loved. 
 Then found he Beckford, hid in rosy heaps 
 Of glowing scarfs, while at the vessel s side 
 He chode the captain for his long delay. 
 "And I am idler too," broke in Seborne ; 
 And Beckford greeted him, and said: "The ship 
 Must lie a fortnight yet, the captain says, 
 And after that, how long ! for never yet 
 Did captain keep a promised sailing day." 
 Thus Beckford growled ; but then the sailor said : 
 "The wind that s best is not yet hatched, and I 
 Will beat the ship that sails to-day, or else 
 Will forfeit all my share." Then said Seborne : 
 "The time is given to me that you should teach 
 The mysteries of the manifest, that I 
 May rightly learn the rare device of trade." 
 
CTRILLA. 259 
 
 So all that day he bent with studious eye 
 O er formulas of trade, until his brain 
 Grew cloudy with excess of learning ; then 
 To dine with Beckford, and an evening s stroll 
 Down the gay avenue, where the rushing crowd, 
 And roaring whirl of wheels, and miles of lamps, 
 Aroused him with delight. " To-night the lark 
 Of Italy sings," said Beckford; "let us go." 
 They entered as the curtain rose ; the band 
 Of Druids thronged upon the stage, and sang 
 Of vengeance to the Roman, and they passed; 
 But with the Priestess soon returned, and she 
 Sang Casta Diva. Like a bright parterre 
 In the dead calm of summer noon, before 
 The thunder breaks, the circled audience held 
 Itself in silence, till at last applause 
 In whirlwinds burst. With the sweet song entranced, 
 Seborne bent down his head, and mused awhile, 
 
 until 
 
 The noisy babble of the gay entr acte 
 Aroused him to the world, and looking up 
 He saw Cyrilla ; with her, Lucy. Then 
 Came George, fresh smiling, with them both shook 
 
 hands, 
 
260 CTRILLA. 
 
 And said : "You ll join us in the box ?" Seborne 
 Chanced to Cyrilla s side. Between the scenes 
 They talked ; and when the martial trumpets blew, 
 And when the two fair women, like in love, 
 Alike in noble anger, and alike 
 In the sweet yearn toward innocent infancy, 
 Fell to each other with sad, passionate song, 
 Her kindling eye and glowing cheek aroused 
 His dawning soul ; another step his heart 
 Advanced toward courage ; For she feels as I, 
 He whispered to himself, and fearfully 
 He nursed the thought, and breathed the balmy 
 
 airs 
 That floated from her, with a blameless mind. 
 
 But parting in the lobby, Lucy said : 
 "We came but hastily, but we stay awhile; 
 Come you and see us, and Cyrilla, too, 
 Our hostess, seconds our request. Full soon 
 You go to sea, and then who knows how long 
 Before we see you ? But before you go, 
 Charm not the ears of George with idle talk ; 
 Too well he loves to wander. Should he go, 
 
CYRILLA. 261 
 
 The dreadful uncle of the story-book 
 
 Would clip his portion." Then a finger shook 
 
 At George, who laughed, and drew a closer arm. 
 
 But one day Beckford said : " The vessel sails 
 
 To-morrow, if I live ; the long delay 
 
 Hath but one compensation, that it keeps 
 
 You here, whom I shall miss ; but now the times 
 
 Brook not a longer stay ; the wind blows south 
 
 With steady purpose ; what the cargo lacks 
 
 Of fullness, let it lack ; to-night, good by 
 
 To your fair friends be said : if younger I, 
 
 And forced to leave such pleasant smiles, to sail 
 
 To the underworld, why then, since must is must, 
 
 I should create of it a comedy, 
 
 And with a smiling air take leave, as if ^ 
 
 I were but going to the market-town. 
 
 And faith, the world is small, and every port 
 
 Is home, while you are there : needs not that you 
 
 Must ever go where other folk are not ; 
 
 Meat, drink, and shelter meet one everywhere ; 
 
 And I have never heard of any place 
 
 Where there was likelihood of tumbling off." 
 
262 CYRILLA. 
 
 Perhaps a volume of philosophy 
 He might have uttered ; but upon the face 
 Of him who scarcely listened, he perceived 
 A blank regard, at which he said, " Well, well, 
 Come down to-morrow early," then wheeled round, 
 And plunged into a letter. 
 
 But Seborne 
 
 Went sadly in the evening to the house 
 Where late a brighter light had shone than all 
 The world beside could furnish. If the month 
 Had quickly flown, yet every night had been 
 Itself, and many of the evenings he 
 Had thickly planted with the memories 
 Of fair Cyrilla. She had fallen to him 
 Oftener than he had dared to hope, for George 
 Thought more than he should dare to think, and 
 
 gave 
 
 Himself to Lucy most ; and she, in play 
 And earnest both, exacted countless dues. 
 Now they must part ; but more than parting pained 
 His heart this thought, that parting should be pain. 
 It seemed a wrong to her, who knew it not, 
 
CYRILLA. 
 
 263 
 
 That even in his most unuttered soul, 
 
 He should in such a way associate 
 
 Herself with him, as make it pain to part. 
 
 Then all the weary changes of true love 
 
 In heart ingenuous, rang within his breast 
 
 Unworthy he of this bright soul s regard ; 
 
 Yet worthy, if she counted love of worth. 
 
 But did he truly love ? And if he loved 
 
 Most truly, had he right to love ? Or if 
 
 To love were right, were there from thence the 
 
 right 
 
 To give expression, even to that degree 
 Whence its expression might be faintly seen, 
 If Love s clear watchman looked from out her eyes, 
 But else quite unperceived? Such endless chimes 
 Pealed from the belfry where his passion rocked, 
 And thrilled his fearful heart. 
 
 If happiness 
 
 Be found in love requited, yet the road 
 Is often thornier than the dim by-paths 
 That lead through crooked Folly. He who walks 
 In cynic armor clad, may laugh at thorns, 
 
264 CYRILLA. 
 
 And brush aside the pains that strike the heart 
 Of him who, guileless, only looks to love 
 For his defense. 
 
 The happy hours Seborne 
 Had known of late, had each an underweight 
 Of sadness carried ; and now, flying off, 
 They left the burden, harder to be borne, 
 From the dark contrast. 
 
 Solace there was none 
 In love, that gave instead a deeper pang. 
 Had not he loved, he had been happy now, 
 Or not, at least, unhappy. Fair content 
 He could have been contented with ; but now 
 Her form had fled, and love, of hope bereft, 
 Remained, and only to affright and wound. 
 
 But all this passed, when now once more he stood 
 Within her presence, and her frank, sweet voice 
 Composed his soul. She at her music sat, 
 And sang a song of winter : how the lake 
 Lay, a long sheet of ice ; the snowy hills 
 Leaned back on either side, and echoed down 
 
CYRILLA. 
 
 265 
 
 The ring of skaters ; till the northern stars 
 In bright auroras faded. Then she ceased, 
 And said: "But you are going to the land 
 Where winter never comes, and you will miss 
 The frosty skies, and miss the ringing ice 
 Of cold Connecticut." 
 
 " Too soon I go," 
 
 Seborne replied. " To-night I bid good-by ; 
 The vessel sails to-morrow." Then her cheek 
 Paled, as if something struck her at the heart, 
 But quick regained its color ; and she said : 
 " But you must wait for George and Lucy ; they 
 Will not forgive me if you go, good-by 
 Not said to them ; and they will soon be here." 
 
 And then she sang a song of Eastern life, 
 
 As far toward China as romance has flowed, 
 
 A lay of Cashmere ; sweet the words, though 
 
 wrought 
 
 Into a language not their own ; and sweet 
 The melody, which once a scholar heard, 
 And brought it home ; a simple pastoral tune, 
 12 
 
266 CYRILLA. 
 
 Breathing of mountain air. A rustic maid 
 Mourned for her lover, to the Ganges gone, 
 And lost in myriad masses round the king ; 
 But either he will die, she said, or else 
 Return a prince ; for he will ne er content 
 Himself to be a soldier in the throng. 
 
 This turned the talk awhile. Cyrilla most 
 
 The conversation held ; nor was Seborne 
 
 Unapt to silence, for he looked at all 
 
 That he must leave, and sorrow filled his heart ; 
 
 Nor ever had she looked so beautiful, 
 
 Nor ever seemed so near and far away. 
 
 And while he vaguely talked, he wondered if 
 She felt in least degree the love that now 
 Consumed his soul, and yet so cheerful she. 
 And yet he answered, Not a word of love 
 Have I declared, or lived in any act, 
 Though full of love. But if she love the least, 
 How might she question if I loved at all ; 
 Who not disclose the passion of my heart, 
 As most becomes a man : but this I fear 
 
CTRILLA. 267 
 
 More than all other ending, to disturb 
 
 The sphere wherein she sits. If I invade 
 
 Its crystal sanctity, what jarring wreck 
 
 Might I not make? And this must make me dumb, 
 
 Till strength no longer can restrain. But this 
 
 Can never be, for soon I go, and leave 
 
 The hour and place of possible dismay 
 
 Forever far behind. Then with a start, 
 
 That brought a wondering blush to the fair cheek 
 
 Of her who looked, he woke from out his dream, 
 
 And gayly talked, till George and Lucy came, 
 
 And brought the hour of parting : then farewell 
 
 Came : dreary, commonplace, and profitless end 
 
 To friendship bright, that merited other close. 
 
 But in the night, the thought of what " farewell " 
 Might in its long uncertainty contain, 
 Oppressed him wakeful ; and in dreams it stalked 
 The front of every vision. With the sun 
 He rose, and sought the ship. The laggard crew 
 Unwilling thronged ; but as the morning warmed, 
 Came Beckford, with the many short last words 
 Of business and of friendship. Then the ship 
 
268 CYRILLA. 
 
 Heaved up her mighty anchor from the stream, 
 And sailed to sea. The winter sun went down, 
 Behind the heights of cloudy Neversink, 
 And when it rose, no more the Western world 
 He saw. 
 
 Cyrilla, as the days went by, 
 The more when George and Lucy took away 
 Themselves, and that warm air of confidence 
 In which they lived, a strange and unknown want 
 Perceived, which not diminished with the days, 
 But rather grew. Oft at the window she 
 Would stand, while spring s slow twilight faded out, 
 As if expectant of a step, a form, 
 That never came. Nor did she dare to ask 
 Herself what form or step. Her eyes lacked not 
 Their usual brightness ; rosy was her cheek 
 As when she sailed on blue Connecticut ; 
 And in her lived and spoke the rich warm blood 
 Strongly and beautifully : but her heart 
 Had something gained and lost. No more in rest 
 Of bountiful self-content it lived. From out 
 Herself, in mode unwonted, she had gone, 
 
CYRILLA. 
 
 269 
 
 Nor knew how much, though hoped it was but 
 
 slight, 
 
 As easier to return ; but as she tried, 
 She found the effort vain ; nor could regain 
 Herself, as once she was. Nor was it pain 
 To wander, but the verge of joy, that yet 
 Might hint of anguish, if she roved too far. 
 
 O er the round world the vessel sped, and sank 
 The northern skies behind : then first Seborne 
 The diamond-dusted Austral pole beheld, 
 And fair Canopus and the blazing Cross, 
 Which more than tropic breezes, or the swell 
 Of boundless seas, recalled his long exile, 
 And actual breadth of journey. But through all 
 Despondency of distance, lonesomeness, 
 Heart-sinkings, fear, and dread of stranger land, 
 There cheered him one bright thought, that he 
 
 should win 
 
 A manly name and fortune, then with these 
 The brightest might be grasped ; nor dreamed how 
 
 much 
 Of pride lay hid within his love. 
 
270 CYEILLA, 
 
 , 
 
 Through calm 
 
 And storm of the Atlantic, summer swell 
 Of Indian sea, and treacherous western wind 
 From Asia, fretting o er the Chinese main, 
 He came to far Canton, his journey s end. 
 There, letters found from Beckford, proving all 
 The grasp of merchant s mind. Each slight detail 
 Was noted there, and caution, terse and sharp, 
 Against a thousand dangers. "If you weigh 
 These hints aright," said Beckford, " you will save 
 Five years of life for merchant life is judged 
 By its results in wealth and power ; and I, 
 From fifteen years abroad, drop five as lost. 
 Had I possessed adviser, who had said, 
 Thus far, no farther, when the judgment reeled, 
 By young ambition tempted, I had saved 
 Those years, and much of suffering, when the soul, 
 Stung through with sense of injury from trust 
 Abused, from generous impulse turned to feed 
 Dishonest cravings, back upon itself 
 In dark misanthropy recoils. What charms 
 Another s money has, not yet you know ; 
 But they about you know, upon whose brows 
 
CYRILLA. 271 
 
 I 
 
 The lines of Care or Covetousness are writ : 
 
 Beware of haggard faces, and of eyes 
 
 In which cold Speculation sits ; of tongues 
 
 Too sudden friendly : he is best your friend 
 
 Whom time draws slowly : and beware of plans 
 
 Too prosperous-promising. Nature s laws are fixed 
 
 Of seed-time, labor, harvest : he who thinks 
 
 To break her laws, may break the laws of trade, 
 
 And if you take his pledges for the one, 
 
 Why take them for the other." Then went back 
 
 To crisp details of trade, and made a close. 
 
 But other letters came, from time to time ; 
 
 Warm throbs from parents hearts, and kindly 
 
 words 
 
 From George and Lucy. When the year was old, 
 They wrote as one : from time to time a line 
 Dropped, of Cyrilla ; often as his eye 
 Eoved down the newly-opened sheet, and caught 
 Her name, he felt a numbing shock of fear 
 Of news which still delayed. Cyrilla fair, 
 Cyrilla rich, and by the Graces loved 
 It fevered him that year was linked to year, 
 
272 CYRILLA. 
 
 And still a hope for him. His fancy leaped 
 The barriers of the huge round world ; he saw 
 Each day the maid. To-day, she seemed to smile, 
 Alone and musing ; but to-morrow, she 
 Was sad amid the gay ; another day, 
 And she led all in mirthfulness, in all 
 A maiden heart, and void of all regards, 
 But such as fit the maid who smiles on all 
 Alike, and passion-free. 
 
 The fifth long year 
 
 Had nearly passed, and guided by the clear 
 And watchful mind of Beckford, who with care 
 And diligence close surveyed his path, and taught 
 Just when to profit by the seeming risk, 
 And when to shut his eyes to seeming gain, 
 He found one day that he could say, " Enough, 
 At least for now." The limit he had placed 
 Was overpast now, not to lose, was all 
 He might desire and though the natural goal 
 Of five years journey, roused a glad surprise 
 Within his heart. He gave a month to ease, 
 Borne by swift sails to where the last Japan 
 
CYRILLA. 273 
 
 Shrinks from the frozen sea. When now again 
 The shores of China drew together at 
 The river s yellow mouth, and in the night 
 The low broad light of far Canton appeared, 
 He mused, " Tis for the last, if this be true." 
 And by the cabin-lamp the last time proved 
 The undeceiving balance, where his wealth 
 Was curtly written. 
 
 In a lesser bark 
 
 Than that which bore him out, he sailed for home ; 
 Small, sharp, a clipper, and for swiftness famed ; 
 As he had written : " Scarcely will the news, 
 By steamer, reach you of my voyage hence, 
 Before the Glance shall anchor in the bay." 
 And now he passed Good Hope, and now the 
 
 Trades, 
 
 And now Azores ; and now thy stormy crests, 
 Atlantic, cold and dreary, lay between 
 The homeward ship and shore. With careful 
 
 watch, 
 
 The master steered the bark, already passed 
 Within Newfoundland mists. The luminous 
 12* 
 
274 CYRILLA. 
 
 Gray icebergs, southward floating, neighbored 
 
 them, 
 
 As in the fogs they swung. Three days and nights, 
 In which the sky seemed melting in the wave, 
 They drifted idly ; at the last, a breeze 
 Sprang up, and bare them on. 
 
 But in the night 
 
 They felt a sudden shock, and instantly 
 A riving crash, that thrilled through all the bark ; 
 And in the dark up-rushing, they discerned 
 A mighty bulk amidships : then a cry 
 Came from above, mingled and dissonant voice 
 Of sailors : " Are you sinking? here are ropes 
 Save while we may ! how came your vessel 
 
 there 
 
 And who are you that cross a steamer s track, 
 Thus tempting Death, as if the deadly sea 
 Had not enough of peril?" Then cried out 
 The master: " Do not leave us, for the sea 
 Pours in apace all shall be roused at once 
 Have all in readiness, hang out all your lights !" 
 Then sped below, to search that none remained, 
 
CYRILLA. 275 
 
 While at the ropes the willing sailors drew, 
 And all were saved. But when they all were safe, 
 The Glance fell off, and slowly sinking, drove 
 Night-deep in fog, and straight was lost to view. 
 
 But when the chill late morning lit the mist 
 With wan and yellow glare, there came up one 
 From out the hold, who cried : " A leak a leak 
 Hard by the bows ! I heard the water plunge 
 Like cataract !" At the word they all grew pale, 
 Quick crowding to the hold to know the worst ; 
 But stopped as struck, when trembling, with white 
 
 face, 
 
 A fireman struggled up, and gasped : "A leak, 
 That soon w r ill drown the fires !" Then arose 
 The cry of shipwreck, than the battle-cry 
 More fearful worse than cry of sack and siege, 
 When through the breach the drunken victors 
 
 urge, 
 And women die of fear ! 
 
 With lips compressed, 
 The master strove to keep the swarming crew 
 
276 CYRILLA, 
 
 From off the boats ; but mutiny apace 
 Put on the cloak of irrepressible fear ; 
 Two boats they cut away, and down the side 
 Clambering pell-mell, thronged in, and one bore off 
 Into the misty morning. One was swamped 
 In sight, and no compassion drew r , but fierce 
 And savage curses from the crowd that swayed 
 Upon the steamer s deck. Some headlong leaped 
 To gain it, but the icy water chilled ; 
 And sullen ripples marked the place of death. 
 Three boats remained ; at each, with vigilant guard, 
 Stood two brave men with arms, from whom the 
 
 crowd 
 
 Recoiled, dismayed. To these the women came, 
 Escorted by strong shoulders, mid the crowd, 
 That selfish urged. When now the last was full, 
 The others lowered, a quick and passionate rush 
 Surged toward it; but Seborne beat back the crowd 
 With pistol-butt, and threat of death, until, 
 When they perceived the boat had struck the wave, 
 A madness seized them, and a cutlass gleamed, 
 And clove his cap, and stunned him, and they seized 
 And threw him, and he fell before the boat 
 
CYRILLA. 277 
 
 That swiftly rowed for life. Scarce did it stop 
 To take him in ; but one exclaimed : " Tis he, 
 Who saved us all, and it were deepest shame 
 That he should perish !" Then they drew him in, 
 And laid his head upon a woman s lap, 
 To bring him back to life ; and as he oped 
 His eyes, he knew Cyrilla ! 
 
 Other chance 
 
 Of meeting had amazed them, but the wreck 
 Made all chance possible ; amid the dread 
 Unknown of waters, blank dismayed surprise 
 Could be surprised no more. A moment s gaze 
 To prove her eyes, and then she said : " And you 
 Who kept the sailors from the boat ! The wound 
 Oh ! is it deadly ? Tell me, did you see 
 In either boat, my father ? In the wild 
 And final struggle for our lives, I swooned, 
 And nothing knew until I found me here, 
 Already loosened from the ship. Not he 
 It was who struggling in the waves, an oar 
 Clutched, ghostly pale, and frantically tried 
 To draw himself within ; oh ! no, for him 
 
278 CYRILLA. 
 
 Another seized, just drowning, and they both - 
 
 Forever sank with such a cry, that I 
 
 Had gladly died, had I not heard it. Sure, 
 
 My father must be somewhere safe. The ship 
 
 Will float oh ! will it not ? or, there are spars 
 
 How many have been saved on spars from wrecks, 
 
 As I have read, or floated long on keels 
 
 Of vessels overturned, and drifted down 
 
 To warmer seas, till found." And while she spoke, 
 
 On the still water came to them a wave 
 
 Of mighty curve, and followed by a host 
 
 Of lesser waves ; and these went on, and all 
 
 Was still ; and then the pallid steersman said : 
 
 " May God have mercy the good ship has sunk!" 
 
 Then said Cyrilla : " Is it so ?" Seborne 
 
 Replied: "An iceberg may have toppled, else 
 
 The word is true ; but I have hope in this, 
 
 That if your father be not in a boat, 
 
 He may have caught a fragment of the wreck 
 
 And many vessels sail upon this track." 
 
 But then Cyrilla turned away, and hid 
 
 Her face within her veil, and silent mourned ; 
 
 And all that day, and all the night, she mourned. 
 
CYRILLA. 279 
 
 But when the dreary dark had passed, the mist 
 Kose up, and showed the sea. The kindly sun 
 Beamed warm upon them, and their stiffened limbs 
 Relaxed. The chiefest man among them said : 
 "Friends, let us hope, for we have bread for days, 
 And water ; and the sea and sky seem kind ; 
 And if they be, to run through six full days, 
 Will land us : therefore let us all take heart." 
 
 Then each a measure of bread and water took, 
 Just sixteen souls in all ; and those at oars 
 Changed hourly. Respite scant to those who urge 
 Their strength against Atlantic ! Ere the noon, 
 All hearts were knit together, eye to eye 
 Beamed friendly, and the cheerful word went round 
 Of how much sea was passed, and wise was he 
 Who well had stored the boat ; and how the bergs 
 Were fully passed ; and would the fogs arise 
 Again before they landed ? It was good 
 The compass had not broken, in the crowd ; 
 And, here are sea-weeds, let each take a leaf 
 Hereafter they shall mind us of our cruise. 
 
 And when Seborne had told Cyrilla all 
 
280 CYEILLA. 
 
 His years abroad, and how his life had sped, 
 He said : " And you upon the sea !" And she : 
 " A month s short flight we took, but meant again 
 To visit more at large the Eastern world. 
 My father just had laid his cares aside 
 In rounding up this trip. He often said 
 That this would end his cares, and death s sad voice 
 Confirmed it. Has the air grown warm ? I feel 
 Oppressed, and yet my neighbor says tis cold." 
 
 And then Seborne perceived that fever burned 
 Upon her cheek, and said to her : " The day 
 Is weary feverish, after mortal pain, 
 Unless one sleep." But she replied : "I keep 
 Such peace for night oh ! to anticipate 
 The blessing now, and pass the dreadful dark 
 Awake, amid the blackness of the sky, 
 And hearing nothing but the rush of waves, 
 And painful oars, slow moving then I fear 
 The memory of the drowning cry would add 
 To all, till past endurance." 
 
 But Seborne 
 
 Saw how the fever mounted ; as the night 
 Drew down, he said to one who near her sat : 
 
CYRILLA. 281 
 
 " Be watchful of Miss Vernon, for there grows 
 A fever on her shield her from the damps : 
 And here is water that I saved for her." 
 And she replied : " And I have seen the same, 
 And I will hold her in my arms to-night." 
 
 And when the second morning came, she lay 
 In fever, knowing nothing of her life, 
 Nor where she was. Seborne grew sick at heart, 
 And all felt fear ; for here in other shape 
 Had Death attacked them ; remedy was none, 
 Beyond the sorely wounded powers of life. 
 And all day long they pulled a weary oar 
 From out the blank horizon, toward the blank 
 Of endless space beyond, that showed no hope. 
 
 But when the third day came, the darkened sky 
 Made threat of storm ; and soon the troubled swell 
 Broke into waves before the eastern gale. 
 Heavily the boat was laden, and the seams 
 Gaped, while she fell from wave to wave ; and one 
 Incessant baled, and kept the water down, 
 That else had swamped them. Chill and blinding 
 rain 
 
282 CYRILLA. 
 
 Beat fiercely on them, and they feared the night. 
 But God was merciful, and though the night 
 Lacked nothing of the dangers of the day, 
 And blackness added, yet the morning found 
 The boat still driving shoreward through the storm. 
 
 But one among the women, to Seborne 
 Crept in the dusk of dawn, and said to him : 
 " The fever rages wildly ; if I know 
 Of fever aught, who mourn two sisters fair, 
 In one short week by this dread enemy slain, 
 The maid must die, unless the fever change 
 To-day. And are you not of nearer kin, 
 Than thus to leave the charge so much to us ? 
 For much she talks of certain places, times, 
 Where you appear. Oh ! take her hand in yours, 
 And soothe her with her fancies chime : perhaps 
 You may with happy circumstance of words 
 Charm her to quiet." And Seborne came near, 
 And sat him down amid the hurtling storm, 
 Beside her, took her hand in his, and gazed 
 Beneath the roof of cloaks upon her face, 
 Which thus was scantly sheltered. Fever there 
 Had traced its deathly mark ; and though his soul 
 
CYRILLA. 283 
 
 Shook with unknown dismay, he calmed his voice, 
 
 And favored every fancy she recalled 
 
 Of former time in her delirium. She 
 
 Came to his name, and bending low, as if 
 
 To guard her maiden soul with manly shield, 
 
 He heard the history of her heart ; amazed 
 
 To find himself therein, and written there 
 
 In cipher of which Love alone the key 
 
 Possessed. And most he wondered that she knew 
 
 Himself as others knew him not. For he 
 
 To them lived only by his acts : she knew 
 
 His thoughts, his close-concealed resolves, and all 
 
 That made his guarded inner self, by which 
 
 He lived his separate, individual life, 
 
 As differing from another. All the day 
 
 And all the night her fevered fancy roved ; 
 
 But with the fifth sad morning she awoke, 
 
 And knew herself, and knew full well that she 
 
 Was called by Death. 
 
 Then to Seborne she said : 
 
 " A long and weary dream I just have dreamed, 
 But brighter at the close. You have been near 
 While I have slept ; and tell me now, dear friend, 
 
284: CYEILLA. 
 
 In all sincereness, have I aught complained, 
 Or said a word to wound these kindly folk, 
 Who, mid the storm and peril of the sea, 
 Have given me more than is my rightful share 
 Of shelter and of room ?" 
 
 And he replied : 
 
 " Not so, but rather thanks : but most your life 
 In former times you traversed ; and since I 
 Through one bright month walked by your path 
 
 of life, 
 
 I met such mention, which for me to hear 
 Was most profound of melancholy joy, 
 Which I am sure that no one else has heard. 
 And now forgive, that I have said thus much ; 
 Had I said less, I had not truly spoke, 
 As you required, in all sincerity." 
 
 "Dear friend," she said, "I thank you that in this, 
 You speak as honoring me ; a lesser soul 
 Had covered this. I feel that I must die, 
 But life is long for you. Grieve not too much 
 That we have lost what might have been. Per 
 haps, 
 
CtRILLA. 285 
 
 Though faintly dare I hope, my father lives, 
 And you will meet : such friendship will be yours, 
 As flows from sad events together borne, 
 The life-long moments of the reeling wreck, 
 And sinking crowds and death ! Such sights, as, 
 
 shared, 
 
 Make kin of all. Your hand I faint," she said, 
 And sinking, as he caught her, seemed to sleep ; 
 But in his heart he knew that it was death. 
 
 And when the evening sun was low, they saw, 
 Through mist and rain, the gloomy land ahead, 
 Waste, scarred by storm. Nor longer had the 
 
 boat 
 
 Withstood the shock of sea. Within a cove 
 They beached, and drew the keel high up on 
 
 shore, 
 
 And slept a weary sleep, till morning came, 
 While one sad watcher by Cyrilla sat. 
 
 Then, ere they set their faces to the south, 
 Through leagues of wilderness, they laid her form 
 
286 CYEILLA. 
 
 To rest beneath the gray and lichened rocks, 
 Where with unceasing sound Atlantic pours 
 Its mighty tides. 
 
 Such funeral she had. 
 
M175553 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY