Reeking from the pest-house, breathing death
On all who feel its pestilential breath,
Claim sweet communion with those spices rare,
That, dewy wing'd, float on the ev'ning air
From many a Persian bower, where hand in hand,
The cinnamon and jessamine sighing, stand
Like lovers, side by side, while at their feet,
On beds of silken moss, sleep violets sweet.
Nor was I at a loss to guess the source
From whence arose a laugh, so crack'd and coarse,
A scream so strange and wild that night drew back,
And made the long deep shadow still more black.
The hills once more reëchoed with the sound,
The giant oak, with awe no less profound,
Stood motionless: the lofty cedars bow'd,
And e'en my lyre in concert breathed aloud,
In unison with echo's fickle voice,
That may alike with asses and poets rejoice.
With sick disgust I turned, and soon retraced
The path that led to so unhallowed a place:
But breathing at every step a malediction
On my long-eared competitor-sore affliction!
To see my star of hope so soon eclipsed,
To find the cup of joy dashed from my lips,
Ere from its sparkling brim I scarce had quaffed
One drop of its intoxicating draught.
To hear the voice of praise so soon retire,
To feel my bosom heave with mad'ning ire,
To snuff the breeze of favor but to find
It ever changing, fickle as the wind.
Nay more: the fates had never haply crowned
My efforts with success, but ever frowned,-
And frowning, turned away contemptuously;
Aye, sometimes cursed the half fledg'd progeny,
That patience with assiduous care had brought,
And nurtured from the overa of thought.
Mysterious fate! in what portentous cloud
That rose at life's first dawn didst thou enshroud
Forever in silent gloom my destiny,
And shall this cloud forever obscure life's day!
Shall evening gather o'er me when I'm old,
With all its dusky shadows drear and cold,
And not one star to light my lonely way
Upon the unknown deep of Eternity?
Shall age come tott'ring on with feeble tread,
With furrowed brow, with bow'd and hoary head,
And the dim eye turn once more to view the past,
And the heart grow sick and faint, as the chilling blast
Of disappointment sweeps o'er the sadden'd soul,
When memory fain would die, shall I be old?
Shall youth go forth uncheck'd 'mid the frowns of Heaven,
Unblessed by those who should have counsel given,
Unloved, unwept, by those who should have known
How the young soul lives in affection's tone?
And can the world, with all its pomp and pride,
Its cold and hollow hearts, fill up this void?
My boyhood dreams are past! their visions fled!
And the brightest flowers of hope are crushed and dead.
The thunder's voice, and the wild bleak wind that moans
Through the forests deep, are to me affection's tones.
Ah, yes; e'en now yon ocean's beating surge
Hath hollowed my grave, and sung my funeral dirge;
And on my ear hath died the passing knell,—
Rocks, mountains, streams, and home, farewell! farewell! Farewell! the echo cried, as the dark sea spread
Its troubled waters o'er my aching head:
And the wild waves moaned, as their sparkling crest I clave,
A requiem o'er the heart-sick poet's grave.
Strange sights: strange sounds; the world seemed all on
A comet's torch had lit the parched air,
Nor would the bold intruder e'er retire,
Till he had scorched each false philosopher.
The stars like meteors fell from the flaming sky,
And hissing, seemed to lick the ocean dry.
Old night, affrighted, spread her sable wings,
Unable to behold such dreadful things.
Centuries passed; the seasons went and came,
Nor did the earth e'er vegetate again.
The conflagration o'er, grim night returned,
Save where volcanic fires dimly burn'd;
And hovering, brooded darkly over earth,
The same chaotic mass that gave her birth.
Silence once more returned, with all her brood
Of timid nymphs, to earth's vast solitude.
And now the question rose, is this a dream?
Or are these things now what they really seem?
And as I thought, returning reason spoke,
And I once more to consciousness awoke.
When, lo! to my surprise, my tortured brain
Had pictured for a dark, deep sea, a field of grain.
And from a wall of stone about four feet high,
I had headlong plunged in a field of waving rye.
The screech-owl laughed outright, as the braying ass
Proclaimed the poet's drowned. Alas! alas!
False echo caught the lie ere it had died,
And with a thousand tongues the rocks replied.
Till e'en my lyre, deserted on the grass,
Murmured with regret, alas! alas!
Strange fate, thought I, the circle did not meet,
The boiling process is not yet complete.
The numbered sands of life had not run out;
The die was not yet cast; the fates, no doubt,
Have yet reserved for me a loftier theme,
Than ever circled in a Dante's dream.
A nobler end is mine: the smallest rock,
Dropped in the sea, communicates a shock
To every inert atom, from side to side
Extends its bounds and elevates the tide.
The ugliest toad that nature e'er gave birth,
Need only hop to move this pondrous earth.
And may not I some magic lever find,
Of modern workmanship, to move mankind?
The smallest mountain stream that winds along
Through deepest solitude, mingling its song
Of wildest joy with nature's symphony,
Contributes its mite to swell the bright blue sea:
Though from obscurity darkly it rose,
Now through the merry sunshine sparkling it flows,
Laughing as it leaps from rocky height,
Or moaning in the depths of chasm'd night,
Down, down it madly rushes from rocky ledge,
Till far across the plains, through heath and hedge,
It gurgles on, and gurgling evermore,
Till lost amid the sea's tumultuous roar.
Inexorable fate! the frailest flower
That blooms to fade and wither in an hour,
That smiles unseen, unloved to pass away,
Secures the object of its destiny!
Yet men there are who never seem to find
The humble end to which they were design'd;
Ambitious aspirants for power and fame,
But die at last, and leave what? scarce a name.
Others there are, though much less worthy, found,
Whom nature with her choicest gifts hath crowned.
Prodigies indeed, yet the world must own,
That fame ne'er epitaphed a more reckless drone.
More pets hath fate, though less supremely blest,
Those who on the arm of fortune rest
Content, if with earth's countless bounties fed,
With pockets filled 'tis true, but empty head.
But here must end the theme of my moonstruck song
For the ox must hear my voice at the plow ere long;
The nightingale hath flown, the owl is gone,
And the first red light of morn begins to dawn.
Trol la trol la! away to the plow!
Both happy and free is a farmer's son;
He earns his own bread by the sweat of his brow,
And lives at his ease when his toil is done.
By honest industry he has gained his wealth,
And lives for his friends as well as himself.
Trolla! trol la! sing merrily
A farmer's life is the life for me!
With the lowing ox, and the bleating flocks,
With horses and swine his land he stocks;
of useful books has a rich supply,
And his garners are filled with corn and rye.
In the cool green glade he sleeps in the shade,
But dreams of none but a farmer's maid.
Trolla! trol la! sing merily!
A farmer's life is the life for me;
Trol la! trol la! both happy and free
Is a farmer's life, 'tis the life for me.
But why this ecstacy, this overflow,
This thrill of soul! the poet does not know.
Of the field of rye he has lost all recollection,
Sufficeth that he's made a resurrection;
And sauntering listless homeward, luckily strayed
Beneath the window of his dairy-maid;
And as the lark her song to the free air flings,
The lover tunes his lyre, and thus he sings
Sweet Lizzie, awake! 'tis early dawn,
The golden eyes of morn
Are peeping in o'er flow'ry lawn,
And fields of waving corn.
The eastern hills with rosy light
Are blushing through the trees,
And odors sweet from roses bright,
Float on the morning breeze.
Yet, dim are morning's eyes to thine,
And pale her rosy light,
To the blushes on thy cheek divine,
And thy neck so lily white.
Then Lizzie awake! the dew-drops bright
Are sparkling on each tree,
And a garland of roses red and white,
Have I wreathed in beauty to thee.
|