yC-NRLF '.J" wmimBimmim. mfh- BOWDOni POETS: EDITED BY EDWARD P. WESTON " rioriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant, Omnia nos itidem depuscimur aurea dicta." BRUNSWICK: PUBLISHED BY JOSEPH GRIFFIN FEOM HIS PRESS. 1857. Digitized by tine Internet Arcinive in 2007 witii funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/bowdoinpoetsOOwestricli PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION, The collection of this little volume was under- taken by the compiler, to occupy the leisure of a few weeks not otherwise appropriated. The design, though we believe entirely novel, needs but a word of explanation. It is a Bowdoin Book — the united of- fering of her Poets at the shrine of the Bowdoin Muse ; and presented to her Alumni as a memento of their cherished Alma Mater. A thing of local interest, and principally intended to meet the partial eye of its friends, it was not fashioned exclusively in reference to the taste, or the criticism, of the literary Public. Yet in allowing it to pass beyond the circle for which it was especially intended, we must plead guiUy to the charge of believing that its appearance abroad will be respectable ; — a vanity, pardonable per^ haps, in one so little removed from college life, as not to have lost in the levelling of the great world, the student's peculiar regard for his own institution^ 6 PREFACE. We mean, however, to claim for it no excellence su- perior to that which any similar book might possess, had one the idle curiosity to compile it. The selection of the materials composing the vol- ume, has been attended with many difficulties. Not the least of these, was that of deciding how far a rigid criticism should yield to a regard for the interest, which a larger number of contributors would give to the book, as intended for Bowdoin readers. Again, the little time allowed us after the project was con- ceived, before it was necessary to publish the book — if published at all — obliged us to commence the print- ing before all the materials were collected. For this reason, the arrangement of the poems will be found wholly miscellaneous, — no regard having been paid to subject or style, or priority of age in the writers, far- ther than, where it was convenient, to mingle " the green leaves with the dry." Owing to the late date of many of the communications, a very dispro- portionate selection has been made from the different contributors. — It will be noticed that we have drawn largely upon the published articles of some of our writers. If the peculiar excellence of any pieces has made them familiar to the public eye, it is not perhaps to our discredit, that we can claim them as our off- spring. PREFACE. 7 Should individuals look in vain for names they expected to find in the volume, we have only to assure them of our intention to do impartial justice. "We have spared no pains to ascertain the address of all who are entitled to a representation upon its pages, but fear that some have been overlooked. From a large number also to whom our Circular was sent, no answer has been received ; leaving us to suppose that the communication, upon one side or the other, mis- carried. Some articles furnished, have been necessa- rily excluded ; and in others, their authors will no- tice a few slight alterations. Several graduates, remembered by their college contemporaries as " Bowdoin Poets," have very mod- estly declined occupying the pages offered them. Among these, are Charles S. Daveis and Nathaniel Hawthorne, Esquires; the Hon. Messrs. Bellamy Storer, Robert P. Dunlap, George Evans and S. S. Prentiss ; and the Rev. Messrs. Thomas T. Stone, Calvin E. Stowe, George B. Cheever and Horatio Southgate ; whose failure to be represented here is matter of especial regret. It will be perceived from the names starred in the following pages, that several of the writers have already passed to their immortality. ' Quos dei amant, immature moriuntur.' 8 PREFACE. They have erected their own monuments ; not all of them perhaps in the public avenue, where the unfeel- ing wonder and pass on ; but each in his own green retreat, frequented by the loved and the left, and hal- lowed by their tears. We had intended to present a Proem, wherein the Spirits of Bowdoin, " Black spirits and white, blue spirits and gray," — assembled from all her borders — From old Bungo-niingo-nock, And where merry Quobomock Floweth free, — From the plains and from the highlands^ And the wave-embosomed islands Of the sea — should have whispered to her Poets as of old, and borne them tidings of their once familiar haunts, "Where the giant night- wind marches Through the pines' cathedral arches Solemnly — and where in time past, As beneath the stars they wended, Burning thoughts in troops descended From on high. PREFACE. 9 But, reminded by our Publisher that we have al- ready transgressed the stipulated limits, we are obliged to abandon the design ; leaving the hallowed memories of Bowdoin and Pejepscot to be suggested by the pages that follow. From this little labor of alternate pleasure and perplexity, we turn to severer duties ; and have now only to ask that our brethren will accept, at our hands, this humble eifort to afford them an hour's en- tertainment. Should they call for a periodical offer- ing of like nature, may the labor of its preparation fall into abler hands. E. P. W. Brunswick, August, 1840. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION This edition of the Bowdoin Poets, unexpected- ly called for, is little more than a reprint of the first. Some changes have been made in the selections from former contributors, and a few pieces have been ad- ded from new sources. We regret our inability, in the circumstances, to secure more contributions from later graduates. The new view of the Colleges, how- ever, got up by Mr. Griffin for this edition, is espe- cially theirs. Earlier graduates will look in vain for certain prominent objects of interest, intimately asso- ciated with their recollections of Bowdoin. The old church, the wooden chapel, and the President's man- sion, — are not there. And yet we rejoice the more, in the elegant structures that have replaced them, and in the general evidence of improvement so happily shown in the new picture. E. P. W. GoRHAM; March, 1849, CONTENTS. Footsteps of Angels ... H. W. Longfellow ... 13 Night in the Woods .... Ephraim Peabody .... 16 Autumn Isaac IM'Lellan, Jf . . . . 18 Life William Cutter .... 21 The Slave in the Dismal Swamp H. W. Longfellow ... 25 The Tell-Tale Face . . , William Cutter .... 29 To a Sister B. B. Thatcher .... 32 The Skater's Song . . . Ephraim Peabody ... 35 To the Last Leaf .... Wm. G. Crosby .... 37 Hope, Faith; Charity ... B. A. G. Fuller .... 39 Song of the Wintry Wind . Frederic Mellen .... 42 Stanzas Claude L. Hemans . . 46 To an Infant Wm. B. Walter .... 47 An Air-Chateau Nehemiah Cleaveland . 52 Mental Beauty .... Richard H. Vose . ... 55 The Withered Flowers . . Edmund Flagg .... 57 The Notes of the Birds . . Isaac M'Lellan, Jr. . . . 59 The Haunted Wood . . . Isaac M'Lellan, Jr. . . 63 Andre C. W. Upham .... 66 Gathering of the Covenanters G. F. Magoun 69 Music and Memory . . . . N. L. Sawyer .... 72 The Troubadour .... Frederic Mellen .... 76 Weep not for the Dead . . . B. B. Thatcher .... 78 The Mother perishing . . Seba Smith 81 The Poet's Mission .... The Editor 83 The Rainbow C. H. Upton 85 Excelsior H. W. Longfellow ... 86 12 CONTENTS. To the Author's Wife . . Seba Smith . 89 The Wabash . J. B. L. Soule . . . . 92 Lyric Poetry William Cutter . . . . 95 The Infant Samuel . . . . Ephraim Peabody . . . 98 Apostrophe to the Ocean C. H. Brown . . . . 100 An Extract . Isaac M'Lellan, Jr. . . . 102 Kev. Robert Wyman . . The Editor .- . . . . , 104 Jacob's Funeral .... . C. W. Upham .... 107 The Village Blacksmith . . H. W. Longfellow . . . 109 The Dead , Geo. F. Talbot . . . 112 Oh ! think not that the Dream J. JB. L. Soule . . . , > 116 Sonnet , H. J. Gardner . . . . 118 "What would ye ask ? . . . Geo. W. Lamb . . . . 119 Sea-weed . H.W.Longfellow , . . 122 ' I would not live alway' . . William Cutter . . . . 125 The Last Request . . . , . B. B. Thatcher ... . 128 He doeth all things well . . E.M. Field . 130 The Little Graves .... Seba Smith .... . 133 Fairy Land . Wm. B. Walter . . . 137 Ogilvie . Wm. B. Walter . . , , 139 A Dirge . Robert Wyman . . . 142 S^. John in Exile . . . . Andrew Dunning . . . 144 The First-born .... . The Editor 150 Vespers . Francis Barbour . . . 154 The Demon of the Sea . . . Elijah Kellogg, Jr. . . 156 Spirit Voices Geo. W. Lamb . . . 161 To my Mother .... . The Editor . . . . 163 "Love's Blind" . . . . C. H. Porter 167 Venetian Moonlight . . . . Frederic Mellen . . . , 168 Death of Thatcher . . . . Isaac M'Lellan, Jr. . 171 Notes . 175 CONTENTS 13 " Isle of the Past" . . . Edwin P. Parker .... 175 The Rain James 0. Brown .* . . . 177 Ode J. B. Southgate .... 179 Ode . . ..... Edwin P. Parker .... 181 NOTE. Since issuing- the second edition of this work in 1849, the publisher, by solicitation, has procured the above named pieces from their respective authors, and they are here published, with one exception, for the first time. We regret to say, that promises of contributions &om several other grada> ates have not yet been fulfilled. Jan. 1, 1857. 14 BOWDOIN POETS. He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife. By the road-side fell and perished, Weary with the march of life ! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, I'oldpd iheir pale hands so meekly, Spake w;ith us on earth no more ! And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me. And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep. Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me. Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me. With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like. Looking downward from the skies. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 15 Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside. If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died ! NIGHT IN THE WOODS BY EPHKAIM PEABODY. " Through the openings in the leafy vaults looked down the stars from far above this world." Mary's Journey. The unfathomable cope of heaven ! The deep and silent sky ! Through the narrow forest opening, Looks down its peaceful eye. The tranquil stars pass o'er me one by one — The silver clouds rise up — float o'er — are gone. The forest pines which circle round Like dark towers at my side, But show the depths of the dim vault, Where the holy stars abide. Unsounded void ! yet deepening whilst 1 gaze, Till the eye swims, that through thy clear deep strays. NIGHT IN THE WOODS. 17 The night is hushed like sleep ; — the roar Of the great wilderness is still ; The breeze is sleeping midst its leaves, The brook beneath its hill ; On branch and leaf and in their gloomy shade, The silence of eternity is laid. The moving heavens ! — the Spirit's power In glory bids them roll ; The music of the many spheres — *Tis sounding through the soul ! The Vast ! the Beautiful ! — in mystery. Deep in the soul's abyss unseen they lie. Sea — heavens — ye settled hills that lift Your brows into the blue, Like altars reared to God — the soul Is mightier than you, — Yea, gives you all your glory — gives the light. Which lifts you up from nothingness and night. Oh God ! who breathed into the soul A "power from thine own power, Teach me to know the uncounted worth Of this celestial dower : Oh may I ne'er defile with earth and sense This image of thine own Omnipotence, 2* AUTUMN. Y ISAAC m'lELLAN, JR. ' Round Autumn's mouldering urn, Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale, When nightfall shades the quiet vale, And stars in beauty burn.' — Longfellow. Now in the fading woods, the Autumn blast Chants its old hymn, — a melancholy sound ! And look ! the yellow leaves are dropping fast, And earth looks bleak and desolate around. The flowers have lost their glorious scent and bloom, And shiver now as flies the tempest by ; To some far clime hath flown the wild bird's plume, To greener woods, and some serener sky. AUTUMN. 19 The reaper's sheaf hath now grown white and thin ; The bearded wheat, and golden ear of corn, The jocund husbandmen have gathered in ; And from the fields the seedy hay is borne. The orchards all have showered their treasures down, In many a pile of crimson and of gold ; There will be wealth of sparkling juice to crown The foamy glass when the Year's death is knolled. Still are these barren-hills ! save when the tree Falls 'neath the far-off woodman's measured stroke; Or w^hen the squirrel chatters noisily. Or carrion crow screams frmn the leafless oak. Methinks there's something sad in thy decay, Oh ! merry -hearted Autumn ! like a man Whose head is in his prime of years turned gray, The red cheek in a little hour made wan ! Poet ! doth no regret o'ercast thy dream. To see the good old Autumn thus depart ? And gloom fast darkening Summer's golden gleam, E'en as afflictions change the cheerful heart. 20 BOWDOIN POETS. E'en as I follow to his lowly bed, The ashes of some kind, and well-beloved friend, So with a saddened eye and mournful tread, I see thee. Autumn ! to oblivion tend. Yet beautiful are thy last fleeting days, When glows the hectic on thy dying cheek ; When leaves are red, clouds bright, and hangs the haze In many a colored fold, of gaudy streak. I hear the voice of Autumn ! the deep dirge Hymned plaintively within his ruined hall, Its solemn sound comes like the beating surge, Or thunder of the distant water-fall ! LIFE, A BRIEF HISTORY IN THREE PARTS, WITH A SEQUEL. T WILLIAM CUTTER PART I. LOVE. A GLANCE — a thought — a blow — It stings him to the core ! A question — will it lay him low ? Or will time heal it o'er ? He kindles at the name, He sits and thinks apart — > Time blows, and blows it to a flame^ It burns within his heart. He loves it, though it burns, And nurses it with care, Feeding the blissful pain, by turns. With hope, ^nd with despair. 22 BOWDOIN POETS PART II. WOOING. Sonnets and serenades — Sighs, glances, toars, and vows — Gifts, tokens, souvenirs, parades, And courtesies, and bows. A purpose and a prayer — The stars in the sky ! He wonders how even hope should dare To let him aim so high. Still hope allures and flatters, And doubt just makes him bold — And so, with passion all in tatters, The trembling tale is told. Confessions, vows, and blushes-— Soft looks, averled eyes- Each heart into the other rushes- Each yields, each wins — a prize ! LIFE. 23 PART III. M A R R T A a E . A gathering of fond friends — Brief, solemn words and prayer — A trembling to the fingers' ends, As, hand in hand, they swear ! Sweet cake, sweet wine, sweet kisses- And so the deed is done ; Now, for life's woes and blisses, The wedded two are one I And down the shining stream, They launch their buoyant skiff— Blest — if they may but trust hope's dream- But ah ! — truth echoes — if ! SEQUEL. "IF." If health be firm — if friends be true- If self be well controlled — If tastes be pure — if wants be few, And not too often told, — 24 BOWDOINPOETS. If reason always rule the heart, And passions own its sway — If love, for aye, to life impart The zest it gives to-day, — If Providence, with parent care, Mete out the varying lot, While meek contentment bows to share The palace, or the cot, — And oh ! if Faith sublime and clear, The spirit upward guide — Then blest indeed, and blest fore'er. The Bridegroom and the Bride ! THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay ; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And heard at times a horse's tramp, And a bloodhound's distant bay. Where will-o' -the-wisps and glowworms shine, In bulrush and in brake ; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake ; — 3 26 BOWDOINrOETS. Where hardly a human foot could pass, Or a human heart would dare, — On the quaking turf of the green morass He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, Like a wild beast in his lair. A poor old slave, infirm and lame ; — Great scars deformed his face ; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, Were the livery of disgrace. All things above were bright and fair ; All things were glad and free ; Lithe squirrels darted here and there, And wild birds filled the echoing air With songs of Liberty ! On him alone was the doom of pain, From the morning of his birth ; On him alone the curse of Cain Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, And struck him to the earth ! He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand ; THE SLAVE IN THE D 1 S JI A L SWAMP. 27 They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand ! — A tear burst from the sleeper's lids, And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger's bank ; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank. At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew ; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caflre huts, And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar. And the hyaena scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream ; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream. 28 BOWDOINPOETS. The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty ; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free. That he startled in his sleep, and smiled At their tempestuous glee. He did not fear the driver's whip. Nor the burning heat of day ; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away ! ^W^(iM' THE TELL-TALE PACE ;Y WILLIAM cutt: I HATE the frigid notions, Which seem to count it sin, To show the kind emotions True kindness works within ; Those manners cold and guarded With words dealt out hy rule, Pronounced just as mamma did, Or Madame F , at school. I wonder how the ladies, Dear angels that they are ! Can live where so much shade is Their loveliness to mar ! Were they fairer than the graces, And wiser than the light. Such cold, such moonlight faces, Would put young love to flight. 3* 30 BO WDOIN POETS. I love the playful fancies Of an unsuspecting heart, That speak in songs and glances, Unchecked by rules of art ; I love the face, that speaketh Of all that's in the mind ; The brow, the eye, that taketh Its hue from what's behind. These are the voice of nature, The language of the soul ; Words change, but o'er the feature, Guile may not have control : The tongue may tell of feelings, Which may be — or may not ; But the eye hath sure revealings Of the deeply hidden thought. I love that quick expression, Which flashes the full eye, When truth would make confession, While modesty would lie ; Those warm, those heavenly blushes, That crimson brow and cheek, When feeling's fountain gushes With thoughts it dares not speak. THE TELL-TAl'e FACE. 31 Those shades that come unbidden From every passing cloud, With tales of care deep hidden 'Neath merry looks and proud ; The sudden gleam of pleasure From brow and eye and lip, That tells the heart hath treasures It scarce knows how to keep. These, these are voices given, For soul to speak with soul, — As true to truth and heaven, As the needle to the pole. I bow to wit and beauty, I almost worship grace, — But I owe especial duty To an honest tell-tale face. TO A SISTER ABOUT TO EMBARK ON A MISSIONARY ENTERPRISE. Y B. B. THATCHER. O SISTER ! sister ! hath the memory Of other years no power upon thy soul, That thus, with tearless eye, thou leavest me — And an unfaltering voice — to come no more ? Hast thou forgot, friend of my better days, Hast thou forgot the early, innocent joys Of our remotest childhood ; when our lives Were linked in one, and our young hearts bloomed out Like violet bells upon the self-same stem, Pouring the dewy odors of lifers spring Into each other's bosom — all the bright And sorrowless thoughts of a confiding love, And intermingled vows, and blossoming hopes Of future good, and infant dreams of bliss, TOASISTER. 33 Budding and breathing sunnily about them, As crimson-spotted cups, in spring time, hang On all the delicate fibres of the vine ? And where, O, where are the unnumbered vows We made, my sister, at the twilight fall, A thousand times, and the still starry hours Of the dew-glistening eve — in many a walk By the green borders of our native stream, And in the chequered shade of these old oaks — The moonlight silvering o'er each mossy trunk, And every bough, as an Eolian harp. Full of the solemn chant of the low breeze ? Thou hast forgotten this — and standest here, Thy hand in mine, and hearest, even now, The rustling wood, the stir of falling leaves. And — hark ! — the far off murmur of the brook ! Nay, do not weep, my sister ! — do not speak — Now know I, by the tone, and by the eye Of tenderness, with many tears bedimmed, Thou hast remembered all. Thou measurest well The work that is before thee, and the joys That are behind. Now, be the past forgot — The youthful love, the hearth-light and the home, Song, dance, and story, and the vows — the vows That we change not, and part not unto death — 34 BOWDOIN POETS. Yea, all the spirits of departed bliss, That even now, like spirits of the dead, Seen dimly in the living mourner's dreams, And trilling, ever and anon, the notes Long loved of old — 0, hear them, heed them not. Press on ! for, like the fairies of the tale. That mocked, unseen, the tempted traveler, With power alone o'er those who gave them ear, They would but turn thee from thy high resolve. Then look not back ! O, triumph in the strength Of an exalted purpose ! Eagle-like, Press sunward on. Thou shalt not be alone. Have but an eye on God, as surely God Will have an eye on thee — ^press on ! press on I THE SKATER'S SONG BY EPHRAIM PEABODY. Away ! away ! — our fires stream bright Along the frozen river, And their arrowy sparkles of brilliant light On the forest branches quiver. Away, away, for the stars are forth, And on the pure snows of the valley. In a giddy trance the moonbeams dance — Come let us our comrades rally. Away, away, o'er the sheeted ice. Away, away, we go ; On our steel bound feet we move as fleet As deer o'er the Lapland snow. What though the sharp north winds are out The skater heeds them not ; Midst the laugh and the shout of the joyous rout Gray winter is forgot. 36 BOWDOINPOETS. 'T is a pleasant sight, the joyous throng In the light of the reddening flame, While with many a wheel on the ringing steel They wage the"r riotous game ; And though the night-air cutteth keen, And ihe white moon shineth coldly, Their homes I ween, on the hills have been, They should breast the strong blast boldly. Let others choose more gentle sports, By the side of the winter's hearth, Or at the ball or the festival. Seek for their share of mirth ; But as for me, away, away. Where the merry skaters be. Where the fresh wind blows and the smooth ice glows, — There is the place for me. TO THE LAST LEAP BY WILLIAM (J. CROSBY. Lone trembling one ! Last of a summer race, withered and sear, And shivering — wherefore art thou lingering here ? Thy work is done. Thou hast seen all The summer flowers reposing in their tomb, And the green leaves that knew thee in their bloom, Wither and fall ! The voice of Spring, Which called thee into being, ne'er again Will greet thee — nor the gentle Summer rain New verdure bring. 38 BOWDOI N POETS. The Zephyr's breath No more will wake for thee its melody — But the lone sighing of the blast shall be Thy hymn of death. Yet a few days, A few faint struggles with the autumn storm, And the strained eye to catch thy quivering form, In vain may gaze. Pale autumn leaf! Thou art an emblem of mortality. The broken heart, once young and fresh like thee, Withered by grief, — Whose hopes are fled. Whose loved ones all have drooped and died away, Still clings to life — and lingering, loves to stay Above the dead ! But list — even now, 1 hear the gathering of the wintry blast ; It comes — thy frail form trembles — it is past ! And so art thou ! HOPE, FAITH, CHARITY BY BENJAMIN A. O. fULLE! And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three ; but the greatest of these is charity. " 1 Cor. 13 : 13. Have Hope ! — it is the brightest star That lights life's pathway down. A richer, purer gem than decks An Eastern monarch's crown. The Midas that may turn to joy The grief-fount of the soul ; That points the prize, and bids thee press With fervor to the goal. 40 BOWDOINPOETS. Have Hope ! — as the tossed mariner, Upon the wild waste driven, With rapture hails the Polar star, His guiding light in heaven, — So Hope shall gladden thee, and guide Along life's stormy road, And as a sacred beacon stand. To point thee to thy God. Have Faith ! — the substance of things hoped, Of things not seen the sign ; That nerves the arm with God-like might. The soul with strength divine. Have Faith ! — her rapid foot shall bring Thee conquering to the goal, Her glowing hand with honors wreathe A chaplet for thy soul. Have Faith ! — and though around thy bark The tempest surges roar ; At her stern voice the storm shall rest, The billows rage no more. Hope bids the soul to soar on high, But yet no wing supplies; She marks the w^ay, — but Faith shall bear _ The spirit to the skies. HOPE, FAITH, CHARITY. 41 Have Charity ! — for though thou'st faith To make the hills remove. Thou nothing art, if wanting this, — The Charity of love. And though an angel's tongue were thine, Whose voice none might surpass, If Charity inspire thee not, Thou art ' as sounding brass.' Have Charity ! that suffers long, Is kind, and thinks no ill ; That grieve th for a brother's fault, Yet loves that brother still. Faith, Hope, and Charity ! — of these The last is greatest, best. 'Tis Heaven itself come down to dwell Within the human breast. i* SONG OF THE WINTRY WIND. BY FREDERIC M ELLEN. ■Away ! We have outstaid the hour — mount we our clouds ! Manfred. "^ Adieu ! adieu ! ' thus the storm spirit sang, ' Adieu to the southern sky ; ' And the wintry wind that round him rang, Caught up the unearthly minstrelsy. ' Adieu ! adieu ! to its flood's bright gleams, Its waving woodlands, its thousand streams. ' ^Oflf! off! ' said the spirit ; like the whirlwind's rush His snow-wreathed car was gone ; And their cold white breath came down the night. As his startled steeds sped on. Yet the night wind's dirge o'er the changing year, Fell slowly and sadly upon the ear. SONG OF THE WINTRY WIND. 43 'Twas the song of woe, — of that wintry wind, As the laughing streams ran by, And lingered around the budding trees, Once clothed in its own chaste livery. Its tones were sad, as it sunk its wing, And this was its simple offering : Farewell ! to the sun-bright South ; For the Summer is hastening on ; And the Spring flowers bright in their fragrant youth, Mourn not for the Winter gone. * But when days have passed, and I come again, Their forms shall have died away ; And mine must it be their cold shroud to twine, From the snow curls that o'er them lay. * Farewell ! to the sun-bright South : To its midnight dance and its song ; For each heart is out for the Summer breeze, As it sports in its mirth along. * And the student hath lifted his pallid brow, To list to its soothing strain ; But oft shall they sigh in the parching heat, For the wintry ivind again. 44 BOWDOINPOETS. * Farewell ! to the sun-bright South ; To the chime of its deep, deep sea ; To its leaping streams, its solemn woods, For they all have a voice for me. • Farewell ! to its cheerful, its ancient halls, Where oft in the days of old, When the waning embers burnt low and dim, And dark strange stories were told ; i My hollow moans at the casement bars, Stole in like a sound of dread ; i^nd the startled ear in its lonely sigh, Heard the voice of the sheeted dead. 'But the days are passed — the hearth is dim, And the evening tale is done ; 'Mid the green-wood now is the choral hymn, As it smiles in the setting sun. Farewell to the land of the South ; My pathway is far o'er the deep, 'Where the boom of the rolling surge is heard, And the bones of the shipwrecked sleep. SONG OF THE WINTRY WIND. 45 ' I go to the land of mist and storm, Where the iceberg looms o'er the swell, Afar from the sunlit mountains and streams ; Sweet land of the South ! farewell ! ' The song had ceased ; and the Summer breeze, Came whispering up the glen ; And the green leaves danced on the forest-trees. As they welcomed its breath again. And the cold rocks slept in the moonlight wan, But the wintry wind and its song were gone. STANZAS ON RECOVERY FROM ILLNESS. BY CLAUDE L. HEMANS, How sweet the rest kind nature brings. As now she bids my sorrow cease, And comes with healing on her wings To ofive this achinfr brow release. •«3 This kindly air so sweet and mild, That greets me like affection's voice, She sends to soothe her suffering child, And make my drooping heart rejoice. Hope with unruffled plumes once more Broods buoyant on my tranquil breast, As when the raging storm is o'er Some light bird floats on waves at rest. Thanks, gentle friends, whose tender care Has poured these blessings on my head, And o'er the gloom of dark despair The rays of warm affection shed. TO AN INFANT ON THE DAY OF ITS BIRTH, T WILLIAM B. WALTER.^ " Blest who in the cradle die ! Nought they knew — oh ! — envied bliss- Save a mother's soothing smile^ Save a mother's tender kiss." And thou art here, sweet Boy, among The crowds that come this world to throng ! The loveliest dream of waking life ! Hope of the bosom's secret strife ! Emblem of all the heart can love ! Vision of all that's bright above ! Pledge, promise of remember'd years ! Seal of pure souls, yet bought with tears ! 48 BOWD OIN POETS. Hail ! Child of Love ! — I linger yet Around thy couch, where slumber sweet Hangs on thine eyelids' living shroud ; And thoughts and dreamings, thickly crowd Upon the mind, like gleams of light Which sweep along the darksome night, Lurid and strange, all fearful sent In flashings o'er the firmament ! Oh ! wake not from that tranquil sleep ! Too soon 'twill break, and thou shalt weep, Such is thy destiny and doom, O'er this long past and long to come ; Earth's mockery, guilt, and nameless wo ; The pangs which thou canst only know ; All crowded in a little span, The being of the creature Man ! Ah ! little deemest thou my child. The way of life is dark and wild ; Its sunshine, but a light, whose play Serves but to dazzle and betray ; Weary and long — its end, the tomb, Where darkness spreads her wings of gloom That resting place of things which live, The goal, of all that earth can give ! TOANINFANT. 49 It may be, that the dreams of fame, Proud Glory's plume, the warrior's name, Shall lure thee to the field of blood ; There like a god, war's fiery flood May bear thee on ! while far above, Thy crimson banners proudly move. Like the red clouds which skirt the sun, When the fierce tempest-day is done ! Or lead thee to a cloistered cell. Where Learning's votaries lonely dwell ; The midnight lamp and brow of care ; The frozen heart that mocks despair ; Consumption's fires to burn thy cheek ; The brain that throbs, but will not break ; The travail of the soul, to gain A name, and die — alas ! in vain ! Thou reckest not sweet slumberer, there, Of this world's crimes ; of many a snare To catch the soul ; of pleasures wild, Friends false — foes dark — and hearts beguiled ; Of Passion's ministers who sway With iron sceptre, all who stray ; Of broken hearts — still loving on, When all is lost, and changed, and gone ! 5 50 BOWDOIN POETS. What is it, that thou wilt not prove ? Power, Wealth, Dominion, Grandeur, Love- All the soul's idols in their turn ! And find each false, yet wildly burn To grasp at all — and love the cheat ; Smile, when the ravening vultures eat Into thy very bosom's core, And drink up that — which is not gore ! Thy tears shall flow, and thou shalt weep As he has wept who eyes thy sleep, But weeps no more — his heart is cold, Warped, sickened, seared, with woes untold. And be it so ! the clouds which roll Dark, heavy o'er my troubled soul, Bring with them lightnings which illume, To shroud the mind in deeper gloom ! But no ! dear boy, my earnest prayer Shall call on heaven to bless thee here ! Long may'st thou live to love thy kind — Brave, generous, of a lofty mind ! Thy Father live again in thee, Thy Mother long her virtues see Brightly reflected forth in thine — Her solace in life's sad decline. TOANINFANT. 51 Sleep on ! sleep on ! but oh, my soul, This is not slumber's soft control ! Boy !t— boy ! awake ! — that struggling cry So faint and low — that agony ! The long, sunk, h§avy gasp and groan ! And oh ! that desolate, last moan ! — My God ! the infant spirit's gone ! Are there no tears ? — dark — dark — alone ! 'Tis past ! farewell ! I little thought The mockeries which my fancy wrought, From fate's dark book were rudely torn ! — That clouds would darken o'er thy morn ! That death's stern hand would sweep away The flower just springing to the day ! But wounded hearts must still bleed on ! Enough, enough — God's will be done ! AN AIR-CHATEATT. BY KEHEMIAH CLEAVELAND, How beauteous in the glowing west, Those thousand-tinted isles that float ; On the broad sea of light they rest, Or pass to lovelier realms remote. Methinks it were a bliss to roam Where those far fields in beauty lie ; Methinks there were a welcome home, In the soft clime of yonder sky. On some bright, sunny cloud, I'd build My palace, in the verge of heaven ; On marble fix it firm, and gild It's cornices with gold of even,.. ANAIR-CHATEAU. 53 From amethystine beds I'd draw My blocks to shape its swelling dome ;] Here should you trace the old Doric law, There the Corinthian grace of Kome. In avenues of enchanting sweep, Broad oaks and towering elms should stand ; Blue lakes in placid stillness sleep, And currents roll o'er silver sand. Perchance, to animate the scene. Beyond the reach of art and gold, Some spirit, whose seraphic mien Should wear no trace of earthly mould—. Crowning each hope, might cheer my eyes With beauty, and with love my heart, And to my sky-hung Paradise, Its last and loveliest charm impart. The day, with her, more calm, more bright, Would flit on silken wing away, With her, the dark and drowsy night Seem soft and cheerful as the day, 5* 54 BOWDOINPOETS. Pensive we'd rove where scarce a ray Pierces the dun, o'er-hanging shade, Or, arm in arm, delighted stray- Through flowery lawn and emerald glade. The joys of high, soul-kindling thought ; Sweet converse at the twilight hour ; The pleasures of a life, untaught To pant for wealth or sigh for power ; — The calm delights of lettered ease ; Of virtuous toil the peaceful rest : — Who finds his bliss in such as these, How truly wise, how deeply blest ! Of joy, — on earth, or in the skies, — But one perennial spring is found ; Deep in the soul that fountain lies, And flowers of Eden fringe it round* MENTAL BEAUTY. Y RICHARD H. VOSE. I love the hour when day is spent, And stars are in the firmament : — Sweet hour of night, thy shadows roll, A heavenly calmness o'er the soul. I love to gaze upon the deep, When furious storms are lulled to rest ; How calmly sweet those billows sleep. And mildly smile on ocean's breast. Oh! who can gaze upon the ocean, And see the moonbeams sparkle there, Nor feel the flame of pure devotion. Nor offer up one fervent prayer. 66 BOWDOINPOETS. And who has marked the rainbow's smile, That emblem of our Maker's love, And did not burn with love the while To join the adoring train above ? But there's a beauty far more bright. Than Ocean's gems of fairest hue — Than starry hosts of heavenly light, When beaming from that sky of blue. The glorious sky shall pass away, The mighty deep must cease to flow, Created things shall all decay, — This is our sentence, this our woe. Yet earth, with Heaven can boast alone, A brighter beauty, more refined. Its centre is the Eternal's throne — It is the beauty of the mind. THE WITHERED FLOWERS BY EDMTTND FL AGG I KNEW they would perish ! Those beautiful flowers — As the hopes that we cherish In youth's sunny bowers : — I knew they'd be faded ! Though with fond, gentle care Their bright leaves were shaded, Decay still was there. So all that is brightest Ever first fades away, And the joys that leap lightest The earliest decay. The heart that was nearest. The widest will rove, And the friend that was dearest The first cease to love. 58 BOWDOI N POETS. And the purest, the noblest, The loveliest — we know Are ever the surest. The soonest to go. The birds that sing sweetest, The flowers most pure, In their beauty are fleetest. In their fate the most sure. Yet still though thy flowers Are withered and gone, They will live like some hours In memory alone. In that hallowed shrine only Sleep things we would cherish, Pure, priceless, loved, lonely, They never can perish. Then I'll mourn ye no more. Ye pale leaves that are shed, Though your brightness is o'er. Your perfume is not fled ; And like thine aroma — The spirit of flowers — Remembrance will hover O'er the grave of past hours. THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS Well do I love those various harmonies That ring so gaily in Spring's budding woods, And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts, And lonely copses of the Summer-time, And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes. If thou art pained with the World's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down With any of the ills of human life ; If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss Of brethren gone to that far-distant land To which we all do pass, gentle and poor, The gayest and the gravest, all alike — Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear The thrilling music of the forest birds. 60 BOWDOINPOETS. How rich the varied choir. The unquiet Finch Calls from the distant hollows, and the Wren Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times, And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half hid Amid the lowly dog-wood's snowy flowers, And the Blue-jay flits by, from tree to tree ; And spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear "With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry. With the sweet airs of Spring the Robin comes, And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow, when she visiteth Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender twig That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime. In the last days of Autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field. And the gay company of reapers bind The bearded wheat in sheaves, then peals abroad The Blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree Close at the corn-field edge. NOTES OF THE BIRDS. 61 Lone Whippoorwill ! There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Oft-times when all the village lights are out And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods, And lifts his anthem when the world is still : And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye save thine a watcher in her halls. I hear thee oft at midnight, when the Thrush And the green, roving Linnet are at rest, And the blithe, twittering Swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings. Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot. The lonely Heron sits, and harshly breaks The Sabbath silence of the wilderness : And you may find her by some reedy pool. Or brooding gloomily on some time-stained rock, Beside some misty and far-reaching lake. 62 BOWDOINPOETS. Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom, Grey watcher of the waters ! thou art king Of the blue lake ; and all the winged kind Do fear the echo of thine angry cry. How bright thy savage eye ! Thou lookest down And seest the shining fishes as they glide ; And poising thy grey wing, thy glossy beak Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey. Oft-times I see thee through the curling mist Dart, like a Spectre of the night, and hear Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream Of one whose life is perishing in the sea. And now would'st thou, O man ! delight the ear With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye With beautiful creations ? Then pass forth And find them midst those many-colored birds That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues Lie in their spler^did plumage, and their tones Are sweeter than the music of the lute, Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush So thrillingly from beauty's ruby lip. THE HAUNTED WOOD BY ISAAC m'LELLAN, JR I OFTEN come to this lonely place, And forget the stir of my restless race ; Forget the woes of human life, The bitter pang and the constant strife, The angry word and the cruel taunt, The sight and the sound of guilt and want, And the frequent tear by the widow shed, When her infant asks in vain for bread. All these I put from my mind aside, And forget the offence of worldly pride. It is said that the Spirits of buried men Oft come to this wicked world again ; That the churchyard turf is often trod By the unlaid tenants of tomb and sod ; That the midnight sea itself is swept. By those who have long beneath it slept. 64 BOWDOIN POETS. And they say of this old, mossy wood, Whose hoary trunks have for ages stood, That every knoll and dim-lit glade Is haunted at night by its restless Shade. It is told that an Indian King, whose- name Hath perished long from the scroll of fame, And whose thousand warriors slumber low, In equal rest with the spear and bow, Was wont to pursue the fallow deer. And hold his feasts, and make merry here, And seek his repose in the noontide heat, By this noisy brook at my very feet — And here, at the close of his sternest strife, He finished his rude, and unquiet life. It is said that on moonlight nights, the gleam Of his battle Spear flits o'er this stream : And they say there's a shiver along the grass Where the restless feet of the Spectre pass. And a rustle of leaves in the thicket's gloom When he nods his dusky eagle plume. And, methinks, I have heard his war-horn bray, Like the call of waters far away ; And the arrow whistle along the glade Where the chieftain's giant bones are^^laid. THE HAUNTED WOOD. 65 And yonder, where the grey willows lave Their silvery tassels beneath the wave, By the hollow valley's lonely tide, You may find the grave of a Suicide. And 'tis said, at the noon of a dewy night, When the hills are touched with the silver light, That a Spirit leans o'er that lonely turf, Like a snowy wreath of the o'cean surf. And a sound like a passionate mourner's cry, Will often startle the passer by. 6* ANDRE Y CHARLES W. UPHAM Beside his path the beauteous Hudson rolled In silent majesty. The silvery mist, Like the soft incense of an eastern fane, Went sparkling upward, gloriously wreathing In the sun-light. And the keen-eyed eagle. From his high aerie mid the crags, looked down In majesty, where stood the lonely one, In silence, musingly — 'Would it were thus With me. My spirit shares not now, as wont. In the wild majesty of nature here. Melhinks there is some weight within, sinking JVIy better thoughts. Would now that I might lead Some gallant battle charge — where the wild trump Enkindles valor, and the free winds swell My country's banner.' ^t- -^ -^ Atr •U' '^ -ilf 'W' ■TV* •TV' "Vr- 'Ts* •75' - 'Tir ANDRE. 67 It was a lowly room ; And the stern heavy tread, that by the door Went to and fro, told it the captive's cell. And he was there ; the same, with his high brow, And soul-disclosing eye; — and he was doomed: — But on his face a smile seemed gathering, And the fixed gaze marked that a wakeful dream Had borne him far away. And now he saw His father's home, in its old stateliness, Amid the bending trees ; and the bright band Of his young sisters, with their voices gay, Echoing there, like some glad melody. And then another form, bewildering Each thought, came rising up in peerless grace. But dimly seen, like forms which sleep creates. His breath grew quicker, and his only thought Dwelt upon her, as seen in that last hour, — Her full dark eye on his, and the closed lip Just quivering with a tender smile, with which The proud young thing would veil her parting grief, And check her trembling voice, that did outsteal. Like witching tones upborne upon the wind Of summer night — telling of her high trust. But suddenly a change was on his face, And then he paced the room in agony At on'c^iark thought, 'Twas not that he must die ; 68 BOWDOIN POETS, But that he should not die a soldier's death : Alas, apd shall she hear i%, that bright one That ever saw him in her dreams, rise up Like the young eagle to the sun ? 4^, JA. *it. ,ii. .Ai, s^ J£. ^ •Tr -Tr TV* •Tv^ "T^ ^ The morning came, And he stood up to die ; — the beautiful And brave — the loved one of a sunny home — To die as felons die ; — yet proudly calm, With his high brow unmoved. And the full soul Beamed in his eye unconquered, and his lip Was motionless, as is the forest leaf In the calm prelude to the storm. He died ; And the stern warriors, to his country foes. Wept for his fate. And who, that e'er had hopes, Weeps not for him, meeting such misery In glory's path ? GATHERING OF THE COYEMNTERS, Y GEOR&E F. MAGOUN. No proud cathedral bell the prayer-call bearing, Swung solemnly within its lofty tower, All sights and sounds, and their true hearts unerring Proclaimed the hour. The sunset-wane of day's resplendent glory, Wrote on the clouds in roseate letters there. Like some fine limner famed in ancient story, " To prayer ! To prayer !" The breeze that waved the meek, dew-dripping flowers, And breathed inspiring fragrance on the air, A murmur sent through all their blossomy bowers, " To prayer ! To prayer !" 70 BOWDOINPOETS. Not mid the pomp of serried arch and column They led their meek and reverent array ; Where all was wild, yet Sabbath-] ike and solemn, They turned to pray. Wild, and yet Sabbath-like ! Huge rocky masses Were piled that yawning cavern-temple round, Where the fierce earthquake in its rifting passes A home had found ! The Patriarch came, his long white locks revealing Time's sway of joy and sorrow, hope and fear. And the wee infant tottered from his dwelling Of scarce a year. The mother came. Her woman's heart will falter As priestly hands her baptized infant lift, And still the white-robed maidens at the altar Blush at the gift ! # # ^ Stay! — A swift banner-plaid went flashing High o'er the rocky verge with sudden gleam, And sullenly a heavy stone fell plashing. Upon the stream ! GATHERING OF THE COVENANTERS. 71 Up ! worshippers ! unto your Eyrie dwelling If ye would never death or torture know ! Like a wild torrent from the mountains swelling Burst the red foe ! And lo ! while fiery curse and imprecation Pour in hot volleys on the praise-stirred air ; The mountain-flood, — swift herald of salvation, — Itself is there ! Their foam-flecked crests o'er hill and valley flinging, On ! on ! the raving, thundering waters pour ! On that wild sea no wave-washed corse is swinging, One yell ! — 'twas o'er ! While high above, unheard amid the thunder, The Covenanters praise that vengeful God, Who flung the mighty from his prey asunder On that dark flood ! That spirit reigneth still ! So, Christian, waging A terrible war along life's corse-strown road, Fear not ! One power can calm thy foe's fierce raging— Oh ! trust in God ! MUSIC AND MEMORY Y NATHANIEL L. SAWYER. How oft some low and gentle strain, From out the mellow horn or flute, Rolling along the moon-lit plain, Will waken buried years again — Which else to memory had been mute. Oh ! music hath a magic power, That serves to soothe a weary hour. When perished hopes and fortunes lower ; From present care and toil it weans, And wafts us back to halcyon scenes Of boyhood, when the pulse ran wild. And every vision undefiled Beamed on the waking slumberer bright, Instinct with ever fresh delio^ht. MUSIC AND MEMORY. 73 I've Stood upon a sea-girt isle, The heavens and earth were still, the while. Lit by the mellow moonbeam's smile — While strains of melody- Awoke my dreaming spirit there, Dispelling each intrusive care. As rung upon the slumbering air The bugle o'er the sea. The bugle hath a thrilling note, That coming from a summer boat, Makes many a vision round us float Of witching 'Auld Lang Syne ;' — It gives the heart an answering chime, Makes youth triumphant over time, And helps the clay-clogged soul to climb Where Romance dwells divine. There's music in the lone cascade, That having swept the upland glade, Now dashes down where years have made A deep and wild ravine ; It minds us of life's opening spring, Joys early ripe thick-clustering — And mimic hopes on golden wing. Glancing the while between ! 74 BOWDOIN POETS. The steeple bell that fills the air, The organ in the house of prayer, With voices chanting, all declare In Sabbath morning hour, ^Mid shadows of a greener year — The friends, whose lessening forms appear With undiminished power. The Switzer dreams of Father-land, While captive Judah's mourning band By Babel's willowy stream Hang up their harps. — From palace dome, To cottage thatched, where-e'er we roam. Soft music turns the exile home Where passed his young life's dream. The stars of heaven that o'er us beam, The murmur of some gentle stream, Will open memory's cell — And lead the wanderer back through years Of woes and pains and wasting fears, And joys that flash through streaming tears, And leave him there to dwell With youthful haunts and school-boy plays, And hills and streams and sunny days — Where memory ever fondly strays. MUSIC AND MEMORY. 75 Ay ! thus I thought, as one lone eve The balmy air came whispering by, And nature's spirit seemed to grieve, And still above, the azure sky Seemed weeping silent tears of dew — While far adown night's sombre hue, Pale Luna's beam came wandering through The star-paved firmament of blue. Ay ! thus I thought that moony night When musing in yon classic hall, And dim the unreplenished light Shone flickering on the shadowy wall, While future life lay spread before — A slope we yearn to travel o'er, — Till far along the moon-lit plain, Through Bowdoin's halls was heard again Peal out the Pandean's thrilling strain. 'Twas then my thoughts were hurried back, Along life's deviating track, — 'Twas then I felt that music's power Could soothe to peace the troubled hour, — *Twas then I struck my harp anew, Music and Memory, unto you. THE TROUBADOUR BY FREDERIC MELLEN He leaned beneath the casement, and his gaze Went forth upon the night, as if his thoughts Held dark communion with its secret shadows ; And as the light stole in among the leaves, There might be traced upon his marble brow The lines that grief, not time, had written there. He rested on his harp, and as his hand Swept lightly o'er the strings, its sadden'd tone Seem'd like the echo of some spirit's moan. Lady ! the dark long night Of grief and sorrow, That knows no cheerful light, No sun-bright morrow, TROUBADOUR. 77 Is gathering round my heart, In gloom and tears, That will not, can not part, For long, long years. Oh ! would that thought could die ; And memory Pass, like the night-wind's sigh, Away from me. There is a resting place. Cold, dark, and deep ; Where grief shall leave no trace, And misery sleep. Would I were slumbering there, From life's sad dream ; The tempest's cold, bleak air, My requiem. Lady ! my harp's sad song Hath wing'd its flight ; But still, its chords along, Murmurs my last ' good night !' — The melody had ceased, — the harper gone ; And, silent all, the waning night pass'd on. 7* ¥EEP NOT FOR THE DEAD. BY B. B. THATCHER.* Oh, lightly, lightly tread Upon these early ashes, ye that weep For her that slumbers in the dreamless sleep, Of this eternal bed ! Hallow her humble tomb With your kind sorrow, ye that knew her well, And climbed with her youth's brief but brilliant deli, 'Mid sunlight and fair bloom. Glad voices whispered round As from the stars, — bewildering harmonies, — And visions of sweet beauty filled the skies, And the wide vernal ground With hopes like blossoms shone : Oh, vainly these shall glow, and vainly wreathe Verdure for the veiled bosom, that may breathe ^ No joy — no answering tone. WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD. 79 Yet weep not for the dead That in the glory of green youth do fall, Ere phrenzied passion or foul sin one thrall Upon their souls hath spread. Weep not ! They are at rest From misery, and madness, and all strife, That makes but night of day, and death of life, In the grave's peaceful breast. Nor ever more shall come To them the breath of envy, nor the rankling eye Shall follow them, where side by side they lie — Defenceless, noiseless, dumb. Aye — though their memory's green, In the fond heart, where love for them was born,' With sorrow's silent dews, each eve, each morn. Be freshly kept, unseen — Yet weep not ! They shall soar As the freed eagle of the skies, that pined, But pines no more, for his own mountain wind. And the old ocean-shore. Rejoice ! rejoice ! How long Should the faint spirit wrestle with its clay, 80 BOWDOINPOETS. Fluttering in vain for the far cloudless day, And for the angel's song ? It mounts ! It mounts ! Oh, spread The banner of gay victory — and sing For the enfranchised — and bright garlands bring- But weep not for the dead ! THE MOTHER PERISHING IN A SNOW-STORM."^ BY SEBA SMITH The cold wind swept the mountain's height, And pathless was the dreary wild, And 'mid the cheerless hours of night A mother wandered with her child. As through the drifting snow she pressed, The babe was sleeping on her breast. *" In the year 1821, a Mrs. Blake perished in a snow-storm in the night time, while travelling oyer a spur of the Green Mountains in Vermont. She had an infant with her, which was found alive and well in the morning, being carefully wrap- ped in the mother's clothing." 82 BOWDOIN POETS And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifting snow ; Her limbs were chilled her strength was gone. * Oh, God !' she cried, in accents wild, • If I must perish, save my child !* She stripped her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm, And round the child she wrapped the vest, And smiled to think her babe was warm. With one cold kiss one tear she shed. And sunk upon her snowy bed. At dawn a traveller passed by. And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; The frost of death was in her eye, Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ; — He moved the robe from off the child, The babe looked up and sweetly smiled ! THE POET'S MISSION Y THE EDITOR Oh ye, who sweep with an unfettered hand The myriad harp-strings of the human soul, Waking a myriad melody thereon, Strike us the notes of joy ! Ye who have poured, From harps that might have hreathed the tones of heaven, A minstrelsy of madness, mocking us With gall-cups in our agonies of woe, — Weaving the night-pall of a black despair, When the faint world, with suffering oppressed. Hath clamored for a hope ; ye who have lured With an o'er-mastering charm, beguiled hearts, Caught with the witchery of your honeyed tones, — Dash from a brother's lip the Circean bowl. And gird you to uplift the suffering heart Of the great world aweary. Where the clouds Darken above our heritage of pain. 84 BOWDOINPOETS. Part them a little for the light of heaven, And let a sunbeam to its shrouded eye. Priesthood of holy song, go in, go in To the heart's altars, with a vow of peace. Learn the high mission God hath given you, And in the quiet of your still retreats, Conning your pleasant thoughts, or fashioning Each rapt impulsion of the glowing soul To the rich cadences of breathing song, — Touched with the feeling of all human woe, Lift up the anthem of your solemn choir In kindly sympathy with a suftering world. THE RAINBOW- BY CHAKLES H. UPTON. Ethereal diadem ! whose blended rays From no meridian splendor won — Yet burst, full-formed, upon the wondrous gaze, A frontlet braided by the sun. Celestial smile ! beneath whose beams the dove Afar the olive-branch descried. And bore the emblem of returning love Across the water's ebbing tide. Resplendent arc ! whose prism-blended hues First dwelt above with One alone, — Till He the holy effluence did diffuse Around the footstool of His throne. Sign -manual of God ! inscribed on high, In characters of glowing light — Where, on the tablet of the vaulted sky, ' None but Divinity could write ! 8 EXCELSIOR T HENEY W. LONGFELI.OW, The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device Excelsior ! His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath. And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue. Excelsior ! In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior ! EXCELSIOR. 87 " Try not the Pass ! " the old man said ; " Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " And loud that clarion voice replied Excelsior ! " O stay," the maiden said, " and rest Thy weary head upon this breast ! " A tear stood in his bright blue eye. But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior ! " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch. Beware the awful avalanche ! " This was the peasant's last Good-night, A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior ! At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air Excelsior ! A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found. 88 BOWDOIN POETS. Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device Excelsior ! There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless but beautiful, he lay. And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior ! TO THE AUTHOR'S WIFE, ABSENT ON A VISIT. Y SEBA SMITH. Come home my dear Elizabeth ; I'm sure could you but know The sadness of my lonely hours, You would not leave me so. If love could not restrain you, Sure the kindness of your heart Would not allow that mine so long Should feel this aching smart. Like the dove that found no resting On the weary waters wide, I wander, but I find no rest Apart from thee, my bride, 8* 90 BOWDOIN POETS- Yes, hride I still must call thee, Though sixteen years have fled, Fraught with the ills and joys of life, Since the day that saw us wed. Yes, hride I still must call thee, For still I feel thou art The morning light unto mine eyes, And the life-blood to my heart. Kind friends may be around me. With gentle words and tone, And all the light, gay world may smile, But still I am alone. The bright bird that you left me. Chirps often through the day, And his music but reminds me That you are far away. For your sake I will feed him With fresh seeds and with flowers. And his morning and his evening song Shall count my weary hours* TO THE author's WIFE. 91 And oft our little Edward Comes clinging to my knee, And says with loud and hearty laugh^ * Dear Father, play with me.' And when I kiss his little cheek, His bright blue eyes look glad ; And I talk with him and play with him. But still my heart is sad. My sun of life, Elizabeth, Hath passed its fervent noon ; I feel the ' sear and yellow leaf ' Will be upon me soon : — But though misfortunes press me, And the world be false and cold. Let thy love and presence bless me And I'll mind not growing old. And I'll mind not fortune's frowning, Nor the heartlessness of men. When I see thee home returning,. Our abode to cheer again ^ THE WABASH BY JOHN B. L. soul: Soft, silent Wabash ! on thy sloping verge As fixed in thought, I stay my wandering feet, And list the gentle rippling of thy surge. What moving spirits do my fancy greet ; — What flitting phantoms from thy breast emerge, Forms for the shrouded sepulchre more meet ! In thy dark flowing waters, I would see More than is wont to fix the transient gaze Of vulgar admiration, though there be Enough to wake the poet's sweetest lays In all thy silent beauty ; — For to me Thou hast a voice — a voice of other days. THEWABASH, 93 Nor can I look upon thee with a heart Unmoved by the intrusive thoughts of sadness, While fancy pictures thee not as thou art, But what thou hast been, when the tones of gladness, Were heard upon thy borders, ere the smart Of stern Oppression turned that joy to madness ! How oft upon thy undulating breast The light pirogue hath skimmed its silent way, When nature all around had sunk to rest. And long had faded the last beam of day : And still it onward leaped the moonlit crest And dashed delighted through the silver spray. Urged by the spirit of revenge and hate, The savage tenant knit his fiery brow — And fanned the flame he knew not to abate Save by the unwearied chase and deadly blow, Toiling with ceaseless energy to sate His vengeance on some far devoted foe ! Perchance secluded in yon green retreat, Some lordly chieftain, in his pride of power, Hath lingered oft in rapturous thought to meet His dark-eyed goddess at the sunset hour. Where wanton zephyrs dance with flitting feet, And kiss in gambols rude each blushing flower. 94 BOWDOINPOETS. Here with the green wood for his temple dome. This fragrant bank his consecrated shrine — Mayhap the pious votary oft hath come, On nature's breast his sorrows to resign ; From day's dull avocations far to roam With gazing on such loveliness as thine ! Soft, silent Wabash ! thy still waters glide All heedless of my meditative lay ! But from the tranquil beauty of thy pride, I'll glean such moral teachings as I may :— Howe'er may vary Fortune's fickle tide, Like thee in sweet content I'll wend my peaceful way« ITRIC POETRY, Y WILLIAM CUTTER, Music, one day, was straymg" In Poesy's sweet bowers, Like a pleased infant playing Among the fragrant flowers — Now with the fairies tripping In dances light as air, And now from rose-hearts sipping The nectar treasured there. At length with feasting sated. And wearied out with play, She found herself belated. And thought it best to stay. Her harp of tuneful numbers Upon a rose she flung, And sought reviving slumbers The dewy leaves among. 96 BOWDOINPOETS. While there divinely dreaming Of fairies, fays, and flowers, And still in fancy seeming To revel in those bowers — Fair Poesy espied her, And, taking up her Lyre, Seated herself beside her, And touched the trembling wire. Startled, but not affrighted. She swept the Lyre again. Till every cord delighted Breathed out its sweetest strain : And while those strains were dying In echo's faintest tone, ' I would,' she said, deep sighing, 'This Lyre were all my own.' Music just then awaking, Replied with gentle mien, * There can be no mistaking, ' Your right to it, fair queen ! * For she who can so sweetly ♦Inform each breathing wire, * Is named and crowned most meetly ' The Mistress of the Lyre.' LYRICPOETRY. QQf Fair Poesy, deep blushing, Gave music back the toy, While through her heart was rushing A pure unwonted joy — *'Nay, lovely sister ! hear me, 'With me do thou abide, •■Forever one and near me, *My throne thou shalt divide. *^When from their breathing slumbers *Thou pour'st sweet strains along, *^I'll catch the airy numbers, 'And weave them into song. *I'll cull fair flov/ers, and warm them 'With spirit from above, •And thou shalt all inform them 'With melody and love.' Thus formed, this fond alliance Was never after broke ; Since then, in sweet compliance^ The two as one have spoke ; And thence the lyric measures- In graceful numbers flow. Giving new zest to pleasure,. And gently soothing wo.. THE INFANT SAMUEL BY EPHRAIM PEABODY. " Then Samuel answered, speak Lord j for thy servant heareth." In childhood's spring, — ah ! blessed spring ! As flowers closed up at even Unfold in morning's earliest beam, The heart unfolds to heaven. Ah! blessed child, that trustingly Adores and love and fears. And to a Father^s voice replies, 'Speak Lord, thy servant hears.' When youth shall come, — ah ! blessed youth ! If still the pure heart glows. And in the world and word of God, Its Maker's language knows ;— THE INFANT SAMUEL. 99 If in the night and in the day, Midst youthful joys or fears, The trusting heart can answer still * Speak Lord, thy servant hears.' When age shall come, — ah ! blessed age ! If in its lengthening shade. When life grows faint and earthly lights Recede and sink and fade, — Ah, blessed age ! if then heaven's light Dawn on the closing eye, And Faith unto the call of God Can answer, — ' Here am L' APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. y CHARLES H. BROWN- Hale, dark old ocean ! wild and loud Thy plangent billows roar, Tossed by the tempest's raging might Far on the surf-bound shore. Hail ! thou, whose ceaseless rage began When earth from chaos sprung, And through the heavens' re-echoing vaults Celestial music rung. Thou art the same mysterious sea, As when, long ages past, The silent moon first on thy tide Its golden radiance cast. The eternal hills, the rocks and caves Proclaim thy deeds of old, When o'er this sin-devoted world Thy mighty deluge rolled. APOSTROPHE TO T HE OX! I^ ^1^ i/ V'^^t Beneath thy dark and vengeful flood, The proudest fleets of yore, With all their hale and gallant crews Sunk, to return no more. And there the beautiful and brave Rest in thine awful deep, While o'er their bleached and scattered bones, Thy sullen surges sweep. Roll on, old ocean, dark and deep ! For thee there is no rest: — Those giant waves shall never sleep, That o'er thy billowy breast, Tramp like the march of conquerors, — Nor cease their choral hymn, Till earth with fervent heat shall melt, And lamps of heaven grow dim. &^. AN EXTRACT, IN MEMORY OF LEONARD F. APTHORP, A FRIEND AND CLASSMATE OF THE AUTHOR. BY ISAAC m'lELLAN, J Soon the pale Scholar learneth that the star That lured him on, but leadeth to the grave ; And that the images of sombre stain Are ever with life's tissue bright, inwrought. And such a one, but yesternight I saw Placed where Ambition's dream shall vex no more. He saw the sparkles in life's golden cup, And fain would deeply of its sweets have quaffed, JBut never lived to learn the poison of the draught. Departed friend ! thy brethren all have passed Trom that still spot which sepulchres thy dust, To mingle in earth's noisier scenes, to walk iln life's tumultuous, and thronging path. AN EXTRACT. 103 Yet as the traveller at the close of day Will pause to view the darkening landscape round O'er which the Day's long pilgrimage had been, So we, in later years will love to view In memory's dream, those scenes we walked with you. I oft have sat at that still hour, when slow From her dim hall, the purple Twilight stole, And shut the shadowy landscape from the view, To mark the picture thy warm fancy drew Of coming life, — its triumph and its joys. Alas, fond dreamer, all thy colored hopes Are buried now beneath the Church-yard Stone, The crumbling mould is now thy narrow bed. And the rank church-yard weed waves mournful o'er thy head. REV. ROBERT WYMAN, GRADUATE OF THE CLASS OF 1838, Joined the Ceylon Mission in 1842. Died on his homeward passage in 1845. Br THE EDITOR. Far — far from this bright land He hasted away, To tell in the night-land The breaking of day ; To herald the story Of Calvary's woe, The triumph of glory, The grave's overthrow. Where soft gales are winging The aroma's breath, But sin is yet flinging The "shadow of death"; REV. ROBERT W Y M A N . 105 Where cool waters bursting From ' neath the green earth, Still leave the soul thirsting, To pine in its dearth ; There toiled he to lighten The midnight of sin, Until the morn brighten, And let the day in ; O'er lands dark and dreary, Christ's banner unfurled, — The hope of the weary. The joy of the world. But mourn ye dark dwellers On Ceylon's green shore, 'From toil with his fellows He rests evermore. Down fathoms unnumbered Beneath the deep sea, Where thousands have slumbered. There slumbereth he. Above the cold billow No marble may rise. Nor cypress nor willow May tell where he lies ; 106 BOWDOIN POETS. Yet hearts have enshrined him, And love fondly keeps An eye that shall find him, Where-ever he sleeps. Beneath the commotion Of storm-lifted waves. In India's deep ocean. Mid still coral caves, His rest he is taking, Till glory's bright morn Shall bring his awaking, — Immortally born. The wild waves are tramping, The rude tempest blows. Yet angels encamping Guard all his repose. Then weep not to leave him, Since Mercy hath said ' Your faith shall receive him Again from the dead.' JACOB'S FUNERAL BY CHARLES W. UPHAM.* A TRAIN came forth from Egypt's land, Mournful and slow their tread ; And sad the leader of that band — The bearers of the dead. His father's bones they bore away, To lay them in the grave Where Abraham and Isaac lay, Macpelah's sacred cave. A stately train, dark Egypt's pride, Chariot and horse are there ; And silently, in sorrow ride Old men of hoary hair. For many days they passed along To Atad's threshing floor. And sang their last and saddest song Upon the Jordan's shore* 108 BOWDOIN POETS. And Atad saw the strangers mourn, That silent, wo-clad band, — And wondered much whose bones were bornei Thus far from Pharaoh's land. They saw the chieftain's grief was sore, He wept with manly grace ; — They called that spot forevermore Misraim's mourning place. They passed the wave that Jocob passed, His good stafFin his hands,* — They passed the wave that Jocob passed With his returning bands. 'Twas when he met upon his path His brother's wild array, And fled, for fear his ancient wrath Might fall on him that day.. * (Jen, xxxii. 10. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat. He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. 10 110 BOWDOIN POETS. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. Arid children coming home from school Look in at the open door ; They love to see the flaming forge. And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys ; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir. And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise ! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Ill Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing. Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some ta«k begiii, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done. Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning iieed and thought } THE DEAD E F . TALBOT The mighty dead, earth's teeming brood, Say, whither are they gone ? I move amidst life's busy crowd, And feel almost alone. Thou greedy earth, whose fertile rind With human gore is drunk, What is thy solid mould but men. That 'neath thy soil have sunk ? Oh ! cruel mother, yield us back Each much loved form and face, To the mute yearnings of our love Give back our ravished race. THE DEAD. 113 Where o'er thine orb from pole to pole, Did man ne'er yield his breath ? What space hast thou of sea or shore Unhallowed by a death ? Thy fields yield verdure fair as erst Creation's new spring bore ; Thine unchanged mountains sport a dress As rich, as e'er they wore. Thy zephyrs yet blow coolly by. Thy woodland streams run free ; As pure an azure tints thy sky, As deep a blue thy sea. And yet not all thy aspects, Earth, Of changeless joy appear ; Not all unknejled the dead have goa^, Not all unwept their bier. There's moaning for them in the rush Of the forest-shaking gale ; The waves, that roll o'er mouldering men, For them hoarse requiem wail. There's sobbing in the thunder-cloud And tear drops fall in showers, 10* 114 BOWDOIN POETS. And widowed nature yearly mourns, And lays aside her flowers. From him, who felt the unknown pang Of death, the doomed of God ; To those, whose unchanged forms now lie Scarce cold beneath the sod ; How oft disease, and sword, and flood, Have reaped earth's harvest o'er, And all her myriad, myriad race, To their dark garner bore. Hushed is the Medes' invading tramp. Their spears consumed with rust. The hosts that swelled through Babel's gates, Have mingled with their dust. On Afric's stormy strand are thrown The Tyrians and their gain, Nor now can boast the fearful ones. Who templed ne'er the main. Mourn not the Greek on Marathon, Or 'neath the Attic waves, The nation, rescued by their death. Sunk in less glorious graves. THE DEAD. 115 Time, Carthage, has avenged thy wrongs, — The haughty throng, that led Thy captive sons through Rome's proud streets, Are numbered virith thy dead. Jerusalem weeps not her slain, Nor hates her conquering foes. The mountains saved not them who fled. Nor yet their victory those. Ranks fell on ranks on Waterloo, And Borodino's plain. And Russia's snows have crimson grown With blood of thousands slain. The peasant by his cottage fire, The noble in his hall, The savage in his wilderness, Before the slayer fall. Oh ! all the race of men are dead, And earth is sad and drear ! Like flitting shadows of the past, A few still linger here. OH THINK NOT THAT THE DREAM IS PAST! BY JOHN B. L. SOULE. Oh think not that the dream is past Of scenes when fondest hopes were cherished ; Though but the shadow now may last Of each bright hope forever perished. I know that fortune hath decreed These hearts shall never be united ; I know that mine alone must bleed, That mine alone was truly plighted. Although the straiu which now I pour In plaintive sadness, ne'er may reach thee ; Although this tongue shall never more Of deathless love essay to teach thee, — OH THINK NOT THAT THE DREAM IS PAST. 117 Yet it is well — I would not mar The new-born pleasures that surround thee, Nor on my lonely harp shall jar One note of memory to wound thee ! But deem not that this heart is cold, Though this should be its latest token, Of love which words have never told, Of vows which never can be broken. Where'er my feet are doomed to stray By hopes allured, or sorrows driven, I'll turn from other scenes away To love thee, faithless, but forgiven ! SONNET. TO A. BURGUNDY ROSE, PRESENTED THE AUTHOR BY A LADY. BY HENRY J.ttARDKER. Fairest of flowers, by fairest lady given ! Thine only fault that thou wilt quickly fade, — Though early plucked, yet blessed to be riven From thine own stem, and on her bosom laid, Like as a pearl in gold, a star in heaven ! Oh ! I would dream were I not half afraid, — That she in some thought-wildered happy hour, Erst-while ere thou wert given me, fair flower, A kiss perchance may have impressed on thee. And I would dream that some mysterious power Had kept the blessing in those leaves, for me ! So would I ply thee with a venturous lip, The nectar of that hidden thing to sip, — And dream the while of rose-lipped loveliness and thee! WHAT WOULD YE ASK? BY GEOROE W. LAMB. What would ye ask — a restless strife of soul For wealth, or fame, or aught beneath the sun ? Alas I man's life is short to have such goal, And what is human glory when 'tis won I The grave receiveth all. The hero's crown And poet's laurels crumble into dust ; Soon are their names forgot, though long renowil And deathless honor was their fondest trust. The eye grows dim and youthful fire burns low, The strong limbs bend, the once warm heart grow^ cold ; Yet onward still this toiling world doth go. As if man ne'er should lay beneath the mould* 120 BOWDOIN POETS. Bend to your task, ye who amid the clash And clang of life's hard strugglings win your way, Strive on unceasing though the bitter lash Of hopes all blighted smite your hearts each day. Press on untiring 'mid the jostling crowd, Heed not the weak ones crushed beneath your tread. Think not upon the coming pall and shroud And narrow grave — your home when life has fled. And this ye say is happiness, and tell Of ends attained and high ambition crowned ! Ye cannot hear how oft is rung a knell Where doth one shout of victory resound. Ye reak not of the withering, wasting heart. The life-long toil unblessed by fortune's smile, The sickening grief that bids the life depart, And the dark woe no soothing can beguile. Triumphant notes are ringing in your ears. Ye list not when is struck a mournful strain. Though round ye blight, decay, and hurrying years, And mouldering dust, tell how 'tis all in vain. WHAT WOULD YE ASK? 121 Live out your little span, on honor's scroll Your names and glorious deeds emblazon high ; All aims accomplish, reach the utmost goal For which ye strove — then lay ye down and die ! 'Tis the sure end. When in the funeral urn Thy head, once proudly lifted, lieth low ; Long generations, thronging in their turn, Will trample on thine ashes as they go. The grave receiveth all. Within its breast The peasant lies — the prince is at his side — Long are their slumbers, silent is their rest, And equal now is poverty and pride. It matters not what they may leave behind ; One lays aside his staff and one his crown ; To his last resting place of clay consigned. Each in his nothingness has laid him down. So go we on, still struggling to the tomb ; Each bubble breaking, yet we grasp again ; Each hoped for pleasure bringing deeper gloom. And every joy with sorrow in its train. 11 SEA-¥EED BY HENRY VT . LOKQFELLOW When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with sea-weed from the rocks From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges Of sunken ledges. In some far-off, bright Azore ; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San- Salvador ; S E A-W E E D . 123 From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas ; — Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main ; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches. All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song : From the far-off isles enchanted, Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth ; 124 BOWDOIN POETS. From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; From the wreck of Hopes far- scattered, Tempest shattered, Floating waste and desolate ;— Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart. "I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY." BY WILLIAM CUTTER ' It is true there are shadows as well as lights, clouds as well as sunshine, thorns as well as roses; but it is a happy world after all.' * I WOULD not live alway!' — yet 'tis not that here There's nothing to live for, and nothing to love ; The cup of life's blessings, though mingled with tears, Is crowned with rich tokens of good from above : And dark though the storms of adversity rise, Though changes dishearten, and dangers appall, Each hath its high purpose, both gracious and wise, And a father's kind providence rules over all. » I would not live alway !' and yet oh, to die ! With a shuddering thrill how it palsies the heart ! We may love, we may pant for, the glory on high. Yet tremble and grieve from earth's kindred to part. 11* 126 BOWDOIN POETS. There are ties of deep tenderness drawing us down, Which warm round the heart-strings their tendrils will weave ; And Faith, reaching forth for her heavenly crown, Still lingers, embracing the friends she must leave. ' I would not live alway !' because I am sure There's a better, a holier rest in the sky ; And the hope that looks forth to that heavenly shore, Overcomes timid nature's reluctance to die. O visions of glory, of bliss, and of love, Where sin cannot enter, nor passion enslave, Ye have power o'er the heart, to subdue or remove The sharpness of death, and the gloom of the grave ! ' I would not live alway !' yet 'tis not that time, Its loves, hopes and friendships, cares, duties, and joys, Yield nothing exalted, nor pure, nor sublime. The heart to delight, or the soul to employ ; No ! an angel might oftentimes sinlessly dwell 'Mid the innocent scenes to life's pilgrimage given ; And though passion and folly can make earth a hell, To the pure 'tis the emblem and gate-way of heaven. *I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.* 127 * I would not live alway !' and yet, while I stay In this Eden of time, 'mid these gardens of earth, I'd enjoy the sweet flowers and fruits as I may. And gain with their treasures whate'er they are worth : I would live as if life were a part of my heaven, I would love, as if love were a part of its hliss, And I'd take the sweet comforts, so lavishly given, As foretastes of that world, in portions, in this. * I v/ould not live alway !' yet willingly wait. Be it longer or shorter, life's journey to roam. Ever ready and girded, with spirits elate, To obey the first call that shall summon me home. O yes ! it is better, far better, to go Where pain, sin, and sorrow can never intrude ; And yet I would cheerfully tarry below. And expecting the better, rejoice in the good. THE LAST REQUEST Y BENJAMIN B. THATCHER Bury me by the ocean's side — Oh ! give me a grave on the verge of the deep, Where the nohle tide When the sea-gales blow, my marble may sweep — And the glistering surf Shall burst o'er the turf, And bathe my cold bosom in death as I sleep ! Bury me by the sea — That the vesper at eve-fall may ring o'er my grave, Like the hymn of the bee. Or the hum of the shell, in the silent wave ! Or an anthem roar Shall be rolled on the shore By the storm, like a mighty march of the brave ! THE LAST -REQUEST. 129 Bury me by the deep — Where a living footstep never may tread ; And come not to weep — Oh ! wake not with sorrow the dream of the dead, But leave me the dirge Of the breaking surge, And the silent tears of the sea on my head ! And grave no Parian praise ; Gather no bloom for the heartless tomb, — And burn no holy blaze To flatter the awe of its solemn gloom ! For the holier light Of the star-eyed night, And the violet morning, my rest will illume : — And honors more dear Than of sorrow and love, shall be strown on my clay By the young green year. With its fragrant dews and crimson array. — Oh ! leave me to sleep On the verge of the deep, Till the skies and the seas shall have passed away ! HE DOETHALL THINGS WELL 0& MY SISTER. T EDWARD M. FIELD I remember how I loved her, When a little guiltless child, I saw her in the cradle As she looked on me and smiled. My cup of happiness was full — My joy words cannot tell ; And I blessed the glorious giver, " Who doeth all things well. " HE DOETH ALL THINGS WELL. 131 Months passed — that bud of promise Was unfolding every hour ; I thought that earth had never smiled Upon a fairer flower. So beautiful it well might grace The bowers where angels dwell, And waft its fragrance to His throne " Who doeth all things well. " Years fled — that little sister then Was dear as life to me, And woke, in my unconscious heart, A wild idolatry : I worshipped at an earthly shrine, Lured by some magic spell, Forgetful of the praise of Him " Who doeth all things well." She was the lovely star, whose light Around my pathway shone, Amid this darksome vale of tears. Through which I journey on. Its radiance had obscured the light. Which round His throne doth dwell, And I wandered far away from Him " Who doeth all thinofs well." 132 BOWDOIN POETS. That star went down in beauty — Yet it shineth sweetly now, In the bright and dazzling coronet, That decks the Savior's brow. She bowed to the Destroyer, Whose shafts none may repel. But we know, for God hath told us, " He doeth all things well." I remember well my sorrow, As I stood beside her bed, And my deep and heartfelt anguish, When they told me she was dead ; And oh ! that cup of bitterness — Let not my heart rebel, God gave — He took — He will restore- " He doeth all things well." THE LITTLE GRAVES Y SEBA SMITH 'TwAs autumn, and the leaves were dry, And rustled on the ground, And chilly winds went whistling by With low and pensive sound. As through the grave yard's lone retreat, By meditation led, I walked with slow and cautious feet Above the sleeping dead. Three little graves, ranged side by side, My close attention drew ; O'er two the tall grass bending sighed, And one seemed fresh and new. 12 134 BOWDOIN POETS. As lingering there I mused awhile On death's long, dreamless sleep, And morning life's deceitful smile, A mourner came to weep. Her form was bowed, but not with years, Her words were faint and few, And on those little graves her tears Distilled like evening dew. A prattling boy, some four years old, Her trembling hand embraced. And from my heart the tale he told Will never be effaced. ' Mamma, now you must love me more, ' For little sister's dead ; • And t'other sister died before, ' And brother too, you said. ' Mamma, what made sweet sister die ? ' She loved me when we played : ' You told me, if I would not cry, ' You'd show me where she's laid.* THE LITTLE GRAVES. 135 < 'Tis here, my child, that sister lies, * Deep buried in the ground ; * No light comes to her little eyes, * And she can hear no sound.' * Mamma, why can't we take her up, * And put her in my bed ? * I'll feed her from my little cup, * And then she wont be dead. * For sister '11 be afraid to lie * In this dark grave to-night, * And she'll be very cold, and cry, * Because there is no lis:ht.' * No, sister is not cold, my child, * For God, who saw her die, * As He looked down from Heaven and smiled, * Called her above the sky. * And then her spirit quickly fled * To God by whom 'twas given ; * Her body in the ground is dead, * But sister lives in Heaven.' 136 BOWDOIN POETS. * Mamma, wont she be hungry there, * And want some bread to eat ? * And who will give her clothes to wear, ' And keep them clean and neat ? « * Papa must go and carry some, * I'll send her all I've got ; * And he must bring sweet sister home, ' Mamma, now must he not ? ' ' No, my dear child, that cannot be ; * But if you're good and true, » You'll one day go to her, but she ' Can never come to you. ' Let little children come to we, * Once the good Savior said ; ' And in his arms she'll always be, ' And God will give her bread.' FAIRY LAND Y WILLIAM B. WALTER.* Sometimes we wander to the Fairy Land, Where the soul dances and her wings expand : — Fair Land ! — its turf all brightened o'er with flowers, And dewy shrubbery, and moonlight bowers, Retreat of glittering Fancy's vagrant powers. Fair Heaven ! — where many colored clouds enfold, Bright islets floating in the sea of gold ! Proud domes and palaces are shining there, With ivory columns, gemmed with fire-stained spar ! There wanton Zephyrs dance on budding flowers. And waft the fragrant leaves in snowy showers ; — By sunny banks, the silver waters whirl A wildering music o'er their sands of pearl ; And birds are singing from their star-lit bowers, To lull the sleeping of the blue eyed Hours ! — Light things are flitting in this world of air ; Gay creatures born of thought, are dwelling there ; The Elfin race, who bathe in dews of morn ; 12* 138 BOWDOIN POETS. And climb the rainbow of the summer storm, — Floating about, in thinnest robes of light. From meteors caught, that shoot along the night. Crowns, studded o'er with gems, their brows adorn, Stole from the eyelids of the waking morn ! They wave bright sceptres wrought of moonlight beams. And spears of crystal, tinged with lightning gleams ! Young naked loves are sporting on the main. Or glide on clouds along the etherial plain ! Their snowy breasts floating the waves among, Are kissed by shapes of light, and swim along In liquid sapphire — with their humid locks Dropping thick diamonds o'er the mossy rocks ! — The sea green realm, is all with emeralds shining, With rainbow arches o'er the depths reclining I — And other skies are deeply rolling under. With clouds of trembling flame and slumbering thunder ! And minstrels blow their horns of tulip flowers ! In echoes softly, from their air-borne towers, Floats back the music, with a dreamy sound, — A dove-winged presence, hovering around ! Visions of Joy, in sun-robed garments sporting — Dear Loves, with gay looks in green pathways courtins: ! OGILVIE Y WILLIAM B. WALTER " Thou lookest from thy towers to-day ; yet a few seasons and the blast of the desert comes ; it howls in thy empty court and whistles round thy half- worn shield." There is a wail of sorrow spread Far o'er the waters deep ! — Scotland ! we know thy son is dead, And we with thee would weep. Oh ! there are dreams we look upon — ' A presence loved, is past ! It speaks of memories that are gone, All lovely to the last ! And art thou gone, bright spirit, To thine eternal place ? Shalt thou no more inherit The splendors of thy race ? Dost thou no longer smile at fate. Wandering on earth alone ? — And is the temple desolate, The shrine and spirit gone ? — 140 BOWDOIN POETS. Thine was a name to cherish, Thou gifted one and proud ! Not doomed from earth to perish With the poor common crowd ! Bright Honor and fair Courtesy, Last, of a noble line ! The glow of ancient Chivalry, Great heart ! were ever thine. Thy life, a splendid vision. That now has passed away ! — Majestic, bright, elysian, The glory of a day ! — Oh ! brighter than the coronet. Thy virtues' living rays ! — They beam upon our memories yet. Son of the winged days ! To realms of silence banished, Hurled from his burning throne, The imperial bird is vanished, And rent his radiant zone !■— Still are the lips, ail eloquent. That charmed our raptured ears — The thunder of the firmament ! The music of the spheres ! O GIL VIE. 141 The wild birds now are nesting, On his lone turrets high ! — And there the stork is resting From her long flight, in the sky ! Faded the ravished bowers, Where he was wont to roam ; In ruins heaped the towers, That once he called his home. All sadly lone and desolate ! No banner's pomp is seen ! Where monarchs sat enthroned in state, Dark Ruin's scythe has been ! But Friendship and Affection, Shall long their vigils keep, With wakening recollection To mourn his dreamless sleep ! 'Tis past ! we gather flowers, Sweet flowers of earliest bloom- Bright emblems of departed hours, To hang around his tomb ! A DIRGE, SUNG IN MEMORY OF LANE, o'bRIEN, AND SMITH, OF THE CLASS OF 1838. . BY ROBERT WYMAN.* Comrades, we meet to mourn the dead \ We meet — ^but ah ! not all ; Our tears of grief may not be shed Upon the funeral pall. Far, far away from this dear haunt, Our friends and classmates sleep ; Yet here may we their requiem chaunt, And o'er their memory weep. Well hath the classic poet sung, t That Death with equal stride Knocks at the gate of old and young — Of poverty and pride. t Horace Lib. 1. Car. 4. Palida Mors, etc. A DIRGE. 143 Though dust to dust may be consigned — Friend after friend depart ; Their cherished names shall be enshrined In many a living heart. But while our hearts with anguish bleed, We bow beneath the rod ; Oh ! may we all this v/arning heed, * Prepare to meet thy God ! ' And we — when down death's dreary coast Our shattered barks are driven ; By sea and storm no longer tossed — May we repose in heaven. ST. JOHN IN EXILE BY ANDREW DUNNING. Death was decreed, or banishment, to all of christian faith. And he stood before the Roman power, for exile, or for death. The weakness of declining years was all forgotten now; He stood erect with fearless eye, and an unquailing brow. Though storms might break in darkness round, there was an arm to save. Through faith he trode the lifting seas, for Christ was on the wave. Amid the war of elements, he saw the rainbow dyes Arching in bows of promise sure, across the frowning skies. ST. JOHN IN EXILE. 145 The clouds hung heavy o'er his head, but sunlight in his soul Darted athwart the fearful gloom, and richly tinged the whole. He gazed upon the soldier guard, with spear and waving crest ; And the thronging mass of bloody men that round him thickly prest ; Calm and undaunted was his gaze, and through the troubled air, Went up from his confiding heart, the spirit-whis- pered prayer. His heart was fixed, — his faith was firm, for he leaned upon the breast Of his beloved Savior still, and felt the promised rest. The stern decree of banishment to Patmos' lonely shore. Was circled with celestial light, and tints of glory bore. 'Twas joy to leave a treacherous world, 'twas happi- ness to meet Far from the faithlessness of man, a solitude so sweet ; 'Twas joy to share the angry scorn by persecutors poured, 13 146 BOWDOIN POETS. Upon that consecrated band, the followers of the Lord. He would not shield his aged frame from vengeance or from death, By coward act of perfidy — denial of the faith. Deny the faith ! nay ! it was bound unto the spirit'iS life ; The gnarled oak is not more firm, amid the whirl- wind strife. Death was the portal to the skies, but treachery would be Parting the anchorage of hope for all eternity ! 0, tyrant of a trembling world ! how weak thy puny arm; The body^s life is in thy power, the souVs thou canst not harm ! -Thy manacles may cramp these limbs, thou may'st destroy this clay ; There thy authority must end, — the spirit spurns thy sway ! When thou canst curb the lightning's track, or hush the winds to peace ; Fetter the free-winged elements, bid ocean's roar to cease ; ST. JOHN IN EXILE. 147 Arrest the sun in mid-day course, the wheels of nature bind ; Then may'st thou fling thy chains around the ua- conquerable mind. Oh, false the thought that gloomy fears on the chris- tian's rest intrude, When shut from a corrupting world, in quiet solitude. Congenial spirits from above, stoop downward to his prayer. And come on wings of holy love, to sojourn with him And he who left the city's throng, to seek his island home, Left but a wilderness behind, through paradise to roam. He stepped upon the rocky strand, and bade the world farewell ; Angels, and heaven, and God, came down with him on earth to dwell. Nature in all her varied charms to him was given yet, The marvels and the pomps of heaven, with earth's in concord met- 148 BOWDOIN POETS. Far in the bosom of the deep, * Greece, living Greece' appeared, And there the * clustering Cyclades' round, their forms of beauty reared : — Vibrations of a thousand strings, in music met his ear; The glorious canopy of stars, the sky serenely clear : The winds and waters whispered peace upon the lonely shore, And white-winged spirits of repose brooded its still- ness o'er. But views of loftier, holier things, to him were granted there. The New- Jerusalem appeared, in dazzling splendor crowned ; Bright jasper walls, with gates of pearl, encircled it around. The future glories of the Church in vision were revealed ; And mingling songs of earth and heaven, in swelling peans pealed. The reign of error, long usurped, was prostrate o'er the world ; ST. JOHN IN EXILE. 149 And the banners of redeeming love, triumphantly unfurled. This was the exile's solitude — celestial visions given ; Communion w^ith the world denied, communion held with heaven ! 13* THE FIRST-BORN TO MR. AND MRS. G Y THE EDITOR Sweet blossom opening to the light of life, How beautifully fair, and yet how frail ! How rich the promise of this blessed hour. And yet how tremblingly faith waits on hope ! — I would not dash the tear of brimming joy From that young mother's eye, bent eagerly On the new treasure folded to her heart. Nor check thy pride, fond father. Given you Pledge of indissoluble ties, first-born, — O cherish it with undissembled joy Fast by affection's shrine, and rest your hopes, Yet not too strongly, on it ; — for the plant THE FIRST-BORN. 151 May blight untimely, ye would nourish up To fair proportions and a queenly grace ; Or, grown to the full majesty of years, May feel too harshly the rude play of storms, That sweep the earth, with the wild whirlwind's wrath ! That smile, glad mother, borrowed from thine own, Just taught to play around its tiny lip, Waking that joy- thrill to thy 'bosom's depths,'— Oh ! it may grow, with the quick lapse of years, To a most perfect witchery, and lure Some dark, destroying angel to his wiles ! That eye, whose light is caught from the pure heavens It scarce has looked upon, too soon may gleam With an unearthly wildness, and that heart, Pressed to thine own with ever answering pulse, And beating lightly in its innocence, May feel the rush of passions scathing it ; Or, pressed too long to this chill world's hard heart, That beats not to its beating, giving back But cold responses to its yearning hopes, — Grow passionless and still, as for the grave. Those lips, that drink a mother's fondest kiss, But know not yet to fashion the return, — Those lips a parent's pride would teach to say 152 BOWDOIN POETS. * My father i^ and the household words we love, — May learn the world's poor, hollow mockeries, Or breathe the poison of a treacherous heart. That ear, unwonted yet to listen aught Save the pleased mother's gentlest lullaby, Or father's proud ' my daughter'' — may soon feel The grating discords of the world's harsh voice, Calling to sorrow and to early tears. — The unquiet foot so often thou dost press, With a rapt mother's fondness, to thy lips. That have just known the joy, — oh ! shall it tread The scorner^s path ? Shall that fair, first-born babe Grow wayward in its early years ; — forget The eye that watched it ever tenderly — That smiled upon it with the morning light And at the evening dews, and waked for it In the still watches of the slumbering night, — The hand that rocked it to its cradle rest. Stayed its first tottering on the nursery floor, Parted the curls upon its childhood brow, And smoothed the ruffles of its infant care, — The voice that hushed its broken slumberings, That taught it in its lisping infancy, ' Our father,' and the pleasant evening hymn, — That calmed the tumujt of its troubled breast, THE FIRST-BORN. 153 With the kind soothings of a tone, like that Which stilled the waves on wild Gennesaret, — And ever was around its joyous hours In gentle melodies of breathing love ? Forget such tenderness ? Oh ! mother, pray. And thou dost pray. The bosom that has heaved To the slight pressure of thy first-born's cheek, Has felt the yearnings of a mother's love That would not be forbidden, and thy prayer, Borne by the spirits ministering around Thy waking and the infant's rest, has gone To the recording angel. And the God Who keepeth covenant, remembereth That gentle falling of baptismal dews, And stoopeth now with broad o'er-shadowing Of the celestial wings, to shelter it. Mother, have faith. So the fair flower that springs To its unfolding beauty, 'neath thine eye. Shall grow, with the soft sunlight of thy smiles, To scatter perfume round thee — and shall pass, After life's Autumn, to the ' living green' Of the ' Sweet Fields,' and the unfading Spring. VESPERS. BY FRANCIS BARBOU The hour of prayer! Within the crowded chancel, while the shroud Of night comes down upon the poor and proud, Low bended there. Perchance there be Some lowly worshippers at eventide, Breathing their humble prayer, on some hill-side By the deep sea : Or in the drear And rayless coverts of the pathless woods, With scarce a stream to glad their solitudes, Or light to cheer. VESPERS. 155 And suppliant now, At altars beaten by tempest's shock, At some rude cross upon the rifted rock, They humbly bow. A chastening power Falls like the coming of an angel's spell. O'er the calmed spirit, when the shadows tell The evening hour. Thus at the close Of life's short day, may its receding light Which led us on, be peaceful, calm and bright. As when it rose. And may no fear Upon our hearts a trembling record trace, And may we go to our long resting place Without a tear. THE DEMON OF THE SEA, BY ELIJAH KELLOaa, JR. Ah ! tell me not of your shady dells Where the lilies gleam and the fountain wells, Where the reaper rests when his task is o'er, And the lake-wave sohs on the verdant shore, And the rustic maid with a heart all free. Hies to the well-known trysting-tr6e ; For I'm the God of the rolling sea. And the charms of earth are nought to me. O'er the thundering chime of the breaking surge On the lightning's wing my course I urge, On thrones of foam right joyous ride 'Mid the sullen dash of the angry tide. I hear ye tell of music's power, The rapture of a sigh. When beauty in her wizard power Unveils her languid eye. — Ye never knew the infernal fire, THE DEMON OF THE SEA. 157 The withering curse, the scorching ire, That rages, maddens in the breast Of him who rules the billow's crest. Heard ye that last despairing yell That wailed Creation's funeral knell, When young and old, the vile, the brave, Were circled in one common grave ? While on my car of driving foam By moaning whirlwinds sped. O'er what ivas joyous earth I roam And trample on the dead. This is the music that my ear Thrills with stern exstacy to hear ! I love to view some lonely bark. The sport of storms, the lightning's mark, Scarce struggling through the freshening wave That foams and yawns to be her grave ! I saw a son and father fight For a drifting spar their lives to save ; The son he throttled his father gray. And tore the spar from his clutch away Till he sank beneath the wave ; And deemed it were a noble sight. I saw upon a shattered wreck All swinging at the tempest's beck, A mother lone, whose frienzied eye Wandered in hopeless agony, 14 158 BOWDOIN FOETS, O'er that vast plain where nought was seen The ocean and the sky between, And there all buried to the breast In the hungry surf that round her prest — With feeble arms, in anguish wild, High o'er her head she raised her child, Endured of winds and waves the strife, To add a unit to its life. Poor wretch, she deemed it might not be That the cruel shark his meal should make Of the babe she'd nursed so tenderly, By her own sweet native lake. I whelmed that infant in the sea To add a pang to her misery, And the wretched mother's frantic yell Came o'er me like a soothing spell ! Are ye so haughty in your pride. To deem of all the earth beside, That yours are fields and fragrant bowers, And gold and gems of priceless worth, And all the glory of the earth ? Ah, mean is all your pageantry To that proud, fadeless blazonry. That waves in scathless beauty free, Beneath the blue, old rolling sea ! For there are flowers that wither not, And leaves that never fall, — THE DEMON OF THE SEA. 159 Immortal forms in each wild grot, Still bright and changeless all Decay is not on beauty's bloom, Nor canker in the rose. No prescience of a future doom To mar the sweet repose. There Proteus' changeful form is seen, And Triton winds his shell, While through old Ocean's valleys green, The tuneful echoes swelL But though a Demon rightly named, For terror more than mercy famed, — Yet Demons e'en respect the power That nerves the heart in danger's hour. And when the veteran of a hundred storms, Whom, many a wild midnight, I've girded with a thousand startling forms Of terror and affright, — When tempests roar, and hell-fiends scream, The thunders crash, the lightnings gleam, 'Mid biting cold and driving hail Still grasps the helm, still trims the sail^ Nor deigns to utter coward cries, But as he lived, so fearless dies, — Mingles his last faint, bubbling sigh With the pealing tempest's banner-cry ; — 160 BOWDOIN POETS. Then winds are hushed, the billow falls, Where storms are wont to be. As I bear him to the untrodden halls Of the deep unfathomed sea ! Now Triton sends a mournful strain Through all that vast profound, — At once a bright immortal train Come thronging at the sound. And on a shining, pearly car They place the honored dust, And ocean's chargers gently bear Along the sacred trust. While far o'er all the glassy plain By mighty Neptune led. In sadness move that funeral train, — Thus Ocean wails her dead ! And now the watch of Life is past. The shattered hulk is moored at last, Nor e'en the tempest's thrilling breath Can wake the ' dull, cold ear of Death.' No bitter thoughts of home and loved ones dart Their untold anguish through the seaman's heart. Peaceful be thy slumbers, brother, There's no prouder grave for thee. Well may pine for thee a mother. Flower of ocean's chivalry ! SPIRIT VOICES BY GEORGE W. LAM In the silent greenwood glade, In the dim old forest's shade, By the rushing river, — There are sweet low voices singing, Music on the soft breeze flinging, And they haunt me ever. In the star-crowned, quiet night, Ringing from the moonlit height. Whispering from the vale, From the swinging, leafy bough, And the dewy flowers below, Murmuring still their tale. 14* 162 BOWDOIN POETS. 'Tis of days long passed away, 'Tis of forms now cold in clay These sweet voices tell. At the memories they bring, Tears and smiles, together, spring From the heart's deep swell. Old friends again about me stand, And once more the clasping hand And the kindling eye, Better far than words can do — , Tell that hearts are warm and true As in days gone by. And, as these sweet visions throng, Joyous laughs with many a song On the charmed air swell, And strike upon the dreaming brain Till the old time seems back again — The old time loved so well. Ever thus in greenwood glade And in the deep forest shade And by the rushing river. There are sweet, low voices singing, Music to the soft breeze flinging, And they haunt me ever. TO MY MOTHER, ON A BIRTH-I)AY. BY THE EDITOR. They tell me I am free, As though the thought were glad ; But oh ! it burdens me, And mother, I am sad. I feel that I am wearing Too early, manhood's years — That time is onward bearing To conflict and to tears. I sighed in childhood's hours, To rank among the free ; But where, oh ! where, ye powers, The freedom promised me ? For oh ! the tie bound lightly In youthful days I v/ore. And sunshine beamed, how brightly ! As it will beam no more. 164 BOWDOIN POETS. Free — from my guileless plays Beneath that hoar old tree ; Light of my early days, Dear mother, and from thee. Free from thy guardian care ; On childhood's bended knee To lisp no more thy prayer ; — And THIS is to be free ! Nay ! 'tis a chain I wear, That binds me from my home- Whose links are toil and care, X That chafe me as I roam. The stern decree is past, They say I am * my own ;' My lot is earth-ward cast — I tread the world alone. No ! not alone — a crowd Of mad ones past me sweep, — Ambition trumpeth loud To Fame's unhallowed steep : They bid me onward press, Till thought itself grows wild. My brain a wilderness — My heart with earth defiled ! TO MY MOTHER. 165 I hear the thunderous boom, I scent the battle's air ; My leaping blood cries ' room — i'm ivith the thickest there l\ ' Stay' — saith a voice within, * Be not thy heart too strong ; * Court not life's battle din, * 'Twill summon thee ere long. ' Seek higher mastery ' Than winning thee a name — * The tinsel mockery * Of an unlasting fame ! * Look where the foe would crush * Thy nobler purposings, ' The passions' maddening rush — * The strife of earthly things.' Oh ! gird us for that fight. With earth-embattled powers. Thou of Eternal Might— In the fast-coming hours ! When inward foes o'erwhelm, Be Kighteousness our mail, Salvation's liope our helm. When fiery darts assail ; 166 BOWDOIN POETS, Be Faith our battle-shield, — Be ours the Spirit's sword, And God-giv'n strength to wield That weapon of his Word. Thus panoplied, we yield Not in the tumult strife, Triumphant on the field Of this stern, mortal life. Star, that in heaven burns, The changeless and the true,- The trembling needle turns, And points at length to you. Star in my heaven set, Earth's ' lesser lights ' above. My wandering heart is yet Firm to thy ray of love ! Jan. 19, 1840. LOVE'S BLIND Y CHARLES H. PORTER " Love's Blind," they say, — an olden rule — But he who made it was a fool, And they who trust him are not wise ; Love rather hath a thousand eyes. " Love's blind," they say : — who think they find Truth here, but prove themselves are blind : If so, how could his arrows fly With such unerring certainty ? I thought so, till from Stella's eye The villain let an arrow fly ; It came so straight I could not flee — And proved full well that love can see. Then all beware : — ihat love's a rogue ; He'll either come to you incog.. Or else he'll say to you, " I'm blind," And thus an easy entrance find. VENETIAN MOONLIGHT BY FREDERIC MELLEN. The midnight chime had tolled from Marco's towers, O'er Adria's wave the trembling echo swept, The gondolieri paused upon their oars, Muttering their prayers as through the still night crept. Far o'er the wave the knell of time was borne, Till the sound died upon its tranquil breast ; The sea-boy started as the peal rolled on. Gazed at his star and turned himself to rest. The throbbing heart that late had said farewell, Still lingering on the wave that bore it home, At that bright hour sighed o'er the dying swell, And thought on years of absence yet to come. VENETIAN MOONLIGHT. 169 'T was moonlight on Venetia's sea, And every fragrant bower and tree Smiled in the glorious light : The thousand isles that clustered there Ne'er in their life looked half so fair As on that happy night. A thousand sparkling lights were set On every dome and minaret ; While through the marble halls The gush of cooling fountains came, And crystal lamps sent far their flame Upon the high-arched walls. But sweeter far on Adria's sea. The gondolier's wild minstrelsy In accents low began ; While sounding harp and martial zell, Their music joined, till the rich swell Seemed heaven's wide arch to span. Then faintly ceasing — one by one, That plaintive voice breathed on alone, Its wild, heart-soothing lay : And then again that moon-light band, Started, as if by magic wand. In one bold burst away. 15 170 BOWDOIN POETS, The joyous laugh came on the breeze,. And, *mid the bright, o'er-hanging trees,- The mazy dance went round ; And, as in joyous ring they fleWy The smiling nymphs the wild flowers threw, That clustered on the ground. Soft as a summer evening's sigh, From each o'er-hanging balcony. Low, fervent whisperings fell : And many a heart upon that night On fancy's pinion sped its flight, Where holier beings dwell. Each lovely form the eye might see. The dark-browed maid of Italy, With love's own sparkling eyes: The fairy Swiss--all — all that night Smiled in the moon-beam's silvery light, Fair as their native skies. The moon went down, and o'er that glowing sea, With darkness, Silence spread abroad her wing. Nor dash of oars, nor harp's wild minstrelsy, Came o'er the waters in that mighty ring. All nature slept — and, save the far-off" moan Of ocean suro-es, Silence reig-ned alone. LINES ON THE DEATH OF B. B. THATCHER Y ISAAC M'LELLAN, JK. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. Longfellow. Hark ! the funeral bell is tolling — Calling to the grave's retreat ; And the funeral car is rolling Through the city''s crowded street- Soon the marble cell will hold thee In its dumb and solemn rest — Soon the grassy turf will fold thee Closely to its heaving breast ! On thy pallid brow a shadow From the wing of Death is cast ; 172 BOWDOIN POETS. From ihy sparkling eye, the brightness That illumined it hath past. May the green grass, o'er thee sighing, Whisper forth its tenderest air ; May the sweet birds, o'er thee flying, Pour their mellowest sorrows there. Let Nature view with tearful lashes The spot that holds her poet's ashes. Quenched is now thy studious taper, , And thy chair holds thee no more. For the scholar's vigil's ended — His task is done, his toil is o'er. The spider on thy shelf is weaving His untouched net from book to book, And low the poet's harp is resting — Neglected in his favorite nook. The thoughtless world may soon forget thee, But, in many a heart thy name Shall keep its sweet and precious perfume. In bloom and freshness still the same. O'er Time's wide sands the rolling billow May dim the print of thy career, Yet love and memory still will cherish For thee the sacred sigh and tear. LINES. 173 Classmate, gentle Classmate ! fast The dizzy wheel of time flies round I Scarce a moment doth it seem Since thy hlushing hrow was bound With the cloistered college crown, Meekly worn, but nobly won. As our little band departed. Pilgrims from our classic home, Joyous each, and happy-hearted, Through life's untried scenes to roam, Little recked v/e of its sorrow, Joy to-day and grief to-morrow ! But alas, the thorny way Hath entangled many feet, And how many are reposing Where the churchyard tenants meet ! But no purer name than thine Fills the tablet's mournful line. Ashes to ashes — dust to dust ! 'Tis written that the glowing cheek In its youthful bloom must fade As fades the rainbow's painted streak. The silver head, the locks of gold. The reverend sage, the humble child, Must vanish, with the crumbling mould In rolling hillocks o'er thera piled I 15* 174 BOWDOIN POETS. . Gentle Pilgrim — fare thee well ! In thy dewy morn of day, Yielding scrip and staff and shell, Thou hast fainted by the way ! All who fill this vast procession, Travelling down the vale of tears, Will be shortly sleeping with thee. Vexed no more with toils and fears. ISLE OF THE PAST." POND PAHKER. Joy-laden Land ! what verdant memories twine Their tender tendrils round the soul's warm shrine Back to our hearts what long-lost pleasures come Like weary wanderers to their childhood's home, As o'er the distance of Life's hazy sea Our swift-winged thoughts fly fondly unto thee ! How warmly flows the unprevented tear — When some sweet melody we loved to hear In happier days, forgotten long, again Sighs through the silent chambers of the brain ! Deceitful Land ! the beauty of thy smile Charms but to cheat, and tempts but to beguile. The angel forms that gather on thy shore — Those white-robed harpers harping evermore— Are soulless shadows of a deathless band, Whose songs are echoes from the " spirit-land.** The light that robes thee in such rich array, Is but the morning twilight of the day 15## 176 BO WDOIN POETS. Of endless rest, which sends its rays, unseen By us, while Death's dark shadows stretch between, Far o'er the Present, thickly overcast With sorrow-clouds, to gild the silent Past. How should we view the Past ? Must we impress On it the seal of blank forgetful ness ; And close the doors of that great arch of years Through which, unfolded. Retrospection peers, Haply among our ruined plans to find Some corner-stone, on which the timid mind May rest neiu hopes that proudly shall withstand The stalwart blows of Time's destructive hand ? As at the close of some sweet Sabbath day Peacefully sad we often steal away. Perchance to weep among the grassy mounds Of " treasures sunken" in the churchyard's bounds, How does the sunshine of fond Hope dispel Our clouds of grief — our plaints of sorrow quell. And nerve our souls with active zeal and power, If in the silence of that sacred hour We see those loved ones in their spirit home, And hear their voices calling us to come ! Thus, in the graveyard of the Past, the soul May sometimes take its Sabbath evening stroll. And sorrowing o'er its prospects shivered there, Seek nobler treasures with more earnest care. THE RAIN. Y JAMES OLCOTT BROWN I. Dusty lies the village turnpike, and the upland fields are dry, While the river, inly sighing, creeps in stealthy marches by ; And the clouds, like spectral Druids, in their garments old and gray, Sweeping through the saddened silence, fold their sainted palms and pray. As their tears of tender pity, soft and chrismal, trance the plain, All the birds, like sweet-mouthed minstrels, blend their tuneful notes again. With the tinkling and the sprinkling Of the gentle summer rain. II. Tangled in the dreamy meshes of tte soft and slumberous How the rain-drops thrill the spirit in the mild September days; 178 B O W D I N POETS Pouring on the golden-tinted autumn splendor of the leaves, Kustling through the yellow grain-fields and the reapers' standing sheaves — How they swell the silver streamlets, how tliey brim the land with glee ! So our lives shall brim with pleasure, pulsing like a living sea, At the clattering and the pattering Of the joyous autumn rain. iir. Sadly as when harp-strings (.{uiver, wildly as a wail of doom, Unappeased the night wind surges through the elemental gloom. All the inner light is winsome, though the outer dark be chill. And my passing thoughts are fancies of a balm-entranced will— I will charm the fleet-winged hours, they shall fold their pinions fair, While I sit and dreamful listen, reading legends old and rare, To the roaring and the pouring Of the noisy winter rain. ODE, SUNG AT THE PARTING MEETING OF TUE CLASS OF '53. Y J . B . S O U T II G A T Useless, while they sleep in union, Are the germs the seed-cells hold ; Not till each is lone and scattered, Do its charms and worth unfold. Small avail the gathered water, Kesting stagnant on its sand ; It must break in streams, projecting Veins of life throughout the land. See how all the worlds are scattered. Sparsely dotting boundless space ; How in constant, strange division. They their ordered courses trace ! ISO BOWDOIN POETS. So, my brothers, in our union, Balked designs and lives we see ; Works, however one, are severed ; Severed must the workers be. Yet in manhood conquer sorrow, Self postpone to noble deeds ; Part we must, our ends to answer. Going where the Planner leads. ODE, SUNG AT THE PARTING MEETING OF THE CLASS OF '56. y EDWIN POND PARKER As the gentle summer evening Marshalling her sable train, Leads the shadows from the valleys Clouding high-peaked hill and plain ; So the night now o'er us closing Breaks the barriers of our fears ; Shrouding in the Past our pleasures, Ushering in long, toilful years. Like a golden gleam of sunshine Smiling on an angry sea. Fades this hour's soft twilight gladness On the future mystery. 1 82 B W D I N r E T s . Soon the morning, coldly dawning, Of a stern and serious life Will our dreaming, fancy-teeming Souls awake to earnest strife. We have passed through fields of richness, Gathering balm-buds by the way, Homeward still we all are pressing. And yet whither — who can say ? Gladly sad and sadly joyful On Life's hither shore we stand, Waiting for some wind to waft us Onward to an unknown land. Waking on our trembling heart-strings Echoes to their mournful song, Thought-troops sighing — " fled and flying," Memory's haunted chambers throng. Brothers ! may a glad fruition Of choice hopes, repay us well For our labor here, hereafter Where no parting is — Farewell ! NOTES. Page 8. From old Bun go-nun go-nock, To where merry Quobomock, (f-c. One of these names, now generally syncopated into Bun- gonock was applied by the Indians to an indentation of the Casco, about three miles from the College buildmgs. Quo- bomock was a name given the Androscoggin where it unites with the Kennebec, and forms the Merry-Meeting Bay — four miles from the Colleges in another direction. They are both upon borders of the ancient Pejepscot, also the Indian name of a territory including Brunswick. Page 8, And the wave-emhosomed islands Of the sea. Casco Bay, whose North Eastern shore is formed by Brunswick and Harpswell, is remarkable for the iineness of its coast and island scenery. As seen in travelling upon the lower route from Portland to Brunswick, it affords prospects of surpassing beauty. A traveller of no small reputation, has remarked, that the scenery of this Bay resembles that of the Mediterranean more nearly than any thing of the kind he had seen in this country. There are scattered through it more than three hundred and sixty islands of great diversity in extent and scenery — offering a variety of beautiful resorts for sailing parties and pic-nics. 176 NOTES. Page 8. Through the pines' cathedral arches. In the rear of the College buildings is a native growth of stately pines, ever green — and to the imaginative, ever whis- pering Come " mingle with the roar Of the pine-forest, dark and hoar !" Page 47. William B, Walter. We find several poems of Mr. Walter, published soon after his graduation. — The pieces contained in this book are from a volume published in 1821 and dedicated to the Rev. John Pierpont. — Particulars of his history we have not learned. Page 66. Charles W. Upuam. Charles Wood Upham, son of Timothy Upham, Esq. of Portsmouth, N. H., — was born Sept. 9, 1814, and received his name, in part, in memory of a gallant friend of his father — Lieut. Col. Wood of the Engineers — who was killed near General Upham, at the Sortie from West Erie, Sept. 17. — He died in December, 1834 — having just entered on his twenty- first year. We make the following extract from an obituary notice, published soon after his decease. — " There was much in his childhood to cherish the highest hopes with regard to him in the minds of his parents and friends. He showed an ardent love for knowledge, and while he mastered with sin- gular facility the elementary studies of the school, he made him.self conversant with many standard works in English lit- erature. He at this period manifested a great fondness for the fine arts, particularly for painting ; and for several years the pencil and the brush were the almost uniform compan- ions of his leisure hours. His juvenile success gives ample proof that time and diligence only were wanting to have made him an eminent artist j but when he felt himself cal- led to a higher and holier prolessioia, from a sense of duty, yet not without a severe struggle, he denied himself the chos- en occupation of his boyhood. In 1829, he entered the Freshman Class in Bowdoin College, and shortly after select- NOTES. 177 ed the Christian ministry as his profession. While in Col- lege, he maintained a high rank in his class, distinguished himself particularly as a writer, and gained the lasting esteem and affection both of his instructors and his fellow-pupils. At the close of his Sophomore year, he left College to become an assistant in an extensive female Seminary in Canandai- gua, N. Y. He had, in the intervals of his duty in school, pursued the studies of his class, and was expecting to rejoin them at Brunswick early in their Senior year. But in the autumn of 1832, by the upsetting of a stage, he sustained an injury of the spine, which, though not perceived at the time, shortly after occasioned a severe illness, and rendered the whole residue of his life a period of weakness and intense suffering. " He had few friends, for he sought few ; but these he bound to himself by unreserved confidence and by a self- forgetting sympathy. All the talents and virtues of this lamented young man were rendered doubly interesting, as sanctified by Christian piety. And as one by one the lies that bound him to life were sundered, he seemed to cling with a still firmer faith and a still more joyous hope to the promise of the life to come." It is due to the subject of this notice, to remark in regard to his poetical effusions, that they were never intended for the public eye. Several articles written for his own recreation or the gratification of friends — found their way into the pub- lic prints after his decease. From these we have made our selection — and when it is recollected they were written at the early age of about eighteen years — we only the more regret that he has passed the ' returnless bourne.' Page 75. Peal out the Pandeaii's thrilling strain. Pandean is the name of the College Band. Page 76. Frederic Mellen. Frederic Mellen, son of Hon. Prentiss Mellen, was gradu- ated in 1525, — The following extracts are from an obituary, 178 NOTES. written at the time of his death. — " With a native character of great suavity, simphcity, and instinctive correctness of moral sentiment, an intuitive perception of poetic beauty, and peculiar quickness of apprehension and susceptibility to the influences under which he was reared from infancy, and imbibing at home the purest principles of virtue, he seasona- bly received the advantages of an education at Bowdoin Col- lege, which nourished a love of classic and polished litera- ture, and enabled him to cultivate those powers, with which he was gifted, with an upward aim to excel in whatever be- longed to mental or professional accomplishment. A pervad- ing taste for one favorite art, early discovered, and displaying a peculiar aptitude for the finest combinations of forms and colors — the art of painting — obtained the mastery of his pur- suits and purposes ; and he bade fair, by the proofs of origi- nal effort, to arrive at distinction in the most elegant branch- es of this polite department. He also possessed a very de- lightful and delicate poetic talent. A number of gems have been presented, among the choicest and sweetest which grace the Annuals, which would form a pleasing circlet on the now pale brow, upon which the blooming wreath of youth- ful hope has untimely perished. He had a short time previ- ous to his death, removed to a sphere more propitious to the cultivation of his favorite pursuits, and the interest of his friends was awakended to his merited success. But his mon- ument is, alas ! to be marked by the broken column ; and the blighted flower of his manly promise is watered, but cannot be revived by the tears of friendship and affection." Page 140. Still are the lips all eloquent, That charmed our raptured ears, ^c. Ogilvie, the subject of this poem was a Scotch nobleman, who travelled in the United States, some twenty or thirty years since, distinguished for his oratorical powers. NOTES. 179 Page 154. Francis Barbour. Francis Barbour, son of Joseph Barbour, Esq., of Gorham, was graduated in 1830, and afterwards pursued the study of Law, and still later that of Medicine. Not satisfied howev- er with these pursuits, he determined to devote himself to the art of Painting, for which he had an early taste. He visited Boston and New York, to receive instruction in his favorite pursuit ; but unwilling to endure the drudgery imposed on the beginner, he returned to Gorham to pursue his chosen art by himself. And although he lived but a few years to prosecute his labors, he has left in his portraits and other paintings, evidences of no common genius. It is a remark- able fact that three of the deceased "Poets," discovered a more than ordinary taste for Painting. Mr. Barbour is remembered by his college friends and other acquaintances, as " gentlemanly in his deportment and graceful in his manners ; — generous, high-minded, and honorable in his intercourse with his fellow men ; indepen- dent in thought, word, and action," and at the same time governed by " that kindness and good sense that never al- lowed his independence to degenerate into obstinacy." He passed slowly and silently into the grave. His disor- der, consumption, did not wholly interrupt his studies until the day of his death. On the preceding day he was engaged upon a portrait which he left unfinished. Mr. Barbour died at his father's residence, March 1, 1S39 — ^t. 28. Benjamin B. Thatcher. Benjamin Bussey Thatcher, youngest son of Hon. Samuel Thatcher, was born in Warren, Maine, Oct. 8, 1809. He was graduated in 1826 — before he was seventeen years of age.— And after a short career of distinguished success in the paths of Literature, his chosen profession, — he died in Bos- ton, July M, 1840, in the faith of the Gospel. ISO NOTES. Unable, from the state of his health, to prepare anything particularly for this book, he directed us to several articles from which to make a selection. " Weep not for the Dead," and " The Last Request," will be read with peculiar inter- est, now that their author is no more. Of equal beauty, and disclosing in a similar manner his yearnings for the " upper life," are his " I would not live alway," and " Twilight Mu- sings," — the latter prepared for the press only the day before his death. While the surviving mourn that he so early perished from among living men, we trust the departed is realizing the consolatory truth of his own lines : " Nor fell decay, nor cankering sin, (the blight upon our rose,) May mar, 'mid all its loveliness, that land's divine repose ; But God will wipe these weeping eyes, these mysteries dispel, And Love forget forevermore, the sorrowing Farewell !" UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY BERKELEY Return to desk from which borrowed. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 13Jan'50R^ LD 21-100m-9,'48(B399sl6)476 ij^^ffejtes-^^^ 1/^755 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY m mmm ^■^mmm