ART. IV.-POETICAL CONTRIBUTIONS.
ALAS! those blissful days are gliding on
Unto the shadowy twilight of the past,
While days more bright, more glorious, take their place.
Yet, when the evening's dusky curtains fall
Around the busy world, and veil its face,
Excluding all its noise and dazzling glare;
While 'mid the trees the trembling moonlight sleeps,
And sighing winds are hushed, and merry bird,
Awed by the voice of silence, not unheard
By spirit's sense, though to the mortal ear
Soundless, the voice of the Invisible;
Then, when no thought of present care intrudes,
I turn me to the past, all shadowy,
Like the dim scene around, and calm, and fair.
A traveller through the sun and shade of life,
As night and weariness my footsteps stay,
I turn to where my journey first began,
And gaze with tearful eye towards my home.
Still bends the elm above my father's door,
And the long grass, fed by its falling leaves,
Grows green beneath. Against its moss-grown trunk
Musing I leaned, or gazing upward, felt
The presence of the life that breathes in all.
Oh how I love that tree! Its every leaf
Whispers some word of childhood's history.
'Twas here I gamboled with a merry crew
Of noisy playmates. By my sister's side.
Here oft I sat, filling her eager ear
With tales of goblins, elves, and Fairy-land,
With windy vaunts of wondrous deeds to come,
And castles built so high by fantasy,
So baseless, that they needs must totter down.
'Twas here my father tuned my youthful tongue
To lisp the rhymes of ancient poesy,
And catch the flowing numbers, as they fell
In music from his lips, while glowed the west,
A sea of fire, with purple isles o'erbuilt
With gorgeous palaces, fretted with gold;
And on its shores
so to my eye it seemed.
Spirits in dazzling robes were gliding on.
There too, methought, my mother's sainted face
Looked down upon us, with a glance of love
That filled my very soul with bliss and peace;
A bliss, a peace, that told me, God was here,
And first in seraph-tones murmured, Thou art.
Still waves that well known tree, and still beneath Its sheltering arms, all time-embrowned and old, With lichens patching its decaying roof,
The embosomed homestead rests. There, as of yore,
My gray-haired father sits, his thoughtful brow
Engraved with tales of sage experience,
And by his side, gazing with earnest eye
Into his face, a lovely woman stands;
Though years have ripened her fair form, the same,
The very same, that frolicked wild and free
Upon the green with me, in earlier days,
And laughed and shouted in her girlish glee.
How oft we've rested on the mossy rock,
That stems yon merry, ever-babbling stream,
Its waves as wild and frolicksome as we,
Dipping our unshod feet into its depths,
Nor thinking how like life that streamlet ran.
I SAW a worm, with many a fold,
It spun itself a silken tomb;
And there in winter-time enrolled,
It heeded not the cold or gloom.
The traces of a dry, dead leaf
Were left in lines upon its cone;
The record of its history brief,
A spring and summer come and gone.
VOL. XXXVIII. 4TH S. VOL. III. NO. III.
Within a small, snug nook it lay,
Nor rain nor snow could reach it there; Nor wind was felt in gusty day,
Nor biting cold of frosty air.
But spring returned; its mild, warm breath
Was felt within the sleeper's cell;
And waking from its trance of death,
I saw it crawl from out its shell.
And starting where they lay beneath,
Were eyelet wings spread one by one;
Each perfected as from a sheath,
And shining in the morning sun.
Slow and with pain it first moved on,
And of the dust still seemed to be;
An hour passed by; the worm was gone;
It soared on golden pinions free!
III. ON SOME IVY SEEN AT HEIDELBERG CASTLE.
And when round the turrets
Its arms it has flung,
It sits like a victor
Its prizes among:
Weary men, as they pass,
Stop to gaze at, awhile,
The green growing ivy
Around the old pile.
SWEET are the tints, which oft at sunset hour
Bedeck the western sky, when clouds convene
In festival attire, intent to show
Fit parting homage to the lord of day;
Sweet are deep draughts, from the cool fountain's brim,
To him who toils at summer's thirsty noon;
Sweet is the touch of dainty-textured moss,
That greenly carpets the dim forest floor;
Sweet is the dense, keen fragrance, that exhales
From beds of bloom yet wet with dew or shower;
Sweet are the tones of distant minstrelsy,
At twilight hour, upon the calm, bright deep;
Oh! sweet all these
yet sweeter far to me
The influence shed from holiness of heart.
V. THE LAMENT OF DAVID OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN.
These lines were written on reading the version of the same passage in the Christian Examiner of September, 1844. In one respect, I have departed both from the original and from the former version. There are so many ludicrous associations connected with the word "Jonathan," and still more with "Brother Jonathan," that I have not ventured to introduce them into serious poetry. In the venerable simplicity of our Common Version, with which we are familiar from infancy, they strike us less unfavorably; but even there they are not unfelt. "Saul" is obnoxious to no such associations; and the parts of the lament which apply to his son may be made sufficiently obvious, without the use of the name.
How are the mighty fallen! thy boast,
Thy beauty, Israel! fallen in fight;
The king, the warrior, mid their host,
Lie slain, Gilboa! on thy height.
Tell not in Gath our grief, our shame
In streets of Askelon; lest they,
Th' uncircumcised, our foes, proclaim
Their triumph, and our sore dismay.
O! ne'er, Gilboa ! on thy field
May dews descend, nor shower again Thy fruits revive; since there his shield Th' anointed lost, the brave was slain.
Their bow of strength, their sword of might
Turned never from the strife before:
With fat of foes, in many a fight,
That sword, that bow, was gorged with gore.
More swift than eagles swept they by,
Stronger than lions in their pride:
Their lives were lovely, and they lie
In death united, side by side.
Daughters of Israel! weep for Saul,
For Saul who made your pride his care, With purple clothed, and scarlet pall,
And wreathed with gems and gold your hair.
Oh! pleasant hast thou been to me,
My friend my brother! fallen in vain, Untimely fallen; this breast for thee Bleeds now, as thine in battle slain.
Gentle as brave, to me thy heart
Was soft as woman's: woman ne'er Showed love like thine, devoid of art, From envy free, from doubt, from fear.
How fallen the mighty! sire and son
In death down-cloven, -kingly pride
And manly beauty, hearts that won
All swords to combat on their side.
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