MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.
YES, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely!
The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe,
To the crimson woods he saith,
To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,"Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!"
And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread Over the grassy skies,
No mist or stain!
Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one that crieth In the wilderness alone,
Vex not his ghost!"
Then comes with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!
These poems were written for the most part | during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names, and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion, "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."
WHEN the warn sun that brings Seed-time and harvest has returned again, "Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain.
When forest glades are teaming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-on of storms.
From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, The drooping tree revives.
The softly-warbled song
Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings.
When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.
And when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star.
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with A sober gladness the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, And from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And, dipping in warn light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle Wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man sits down By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, From cottage-roofs the warbling blue-bird sings; Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
Oh, what a glory doth this world put on For him, who, with a fervent heart goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear.
WOODS IN WINTER.
WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill
That overbrows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung.
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their merry lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
Chill airs and wintry winds! my car Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year,- I listen, and it cheers me long.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM,
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung
The blood-red banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.
"Take thy banner! May it wave Proudly o'er the good and brave; When the battle's distant wail Breaks the Sabbath of our vale, When the clarion's music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills, When the spear in conflict shakes, And the strong lance shivering breaks. "Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, Guard it!-till our homes are free! Guard it!-God will prosper thee! In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rash of steeds and men,' Ilis right hand will shield thee then. "Take thy banner! But when night Closes round the ghastly fight, If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare him!-By our holy vow,' By our prayers and many tears, By the mercy that endears,
Spare him!-he our love hath shared! Spare him!-as thou wouldst be spared!
"Take thy banner!-and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, And the muffled drum should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee." The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud
SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.
I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.
The clouds were far beneath me;-bathed in light
They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,
And, in their fading-glory, shone Like hosts in battle overthrown.
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered
And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft, The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow Was darkened by the forest's shade, Or glistened in the white cascade; Where, upward, in the mellow blush of day, The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.
I heard the distant waters dash,
I saw the current whirl and flash.- And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach
The woods were bending with a silent reach,
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread." With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought When the fast-ushering star of morning comes O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf: Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves, In the green valley, where the silver brook From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stone with end- less laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds. and gentle winds,- The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening goes,- Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, The distant lake, fountains,-and miglity trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy To have it round us,-and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence
BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. ON sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowy light of evening fell: And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down The glory, that the wood receives, At Sunset, in its brazen leaves.
Far upward in the mellow light
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone,
In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes,
By which the Indian's soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, grey forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave. They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers,
And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days.
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, from within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid: The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds. And the broad belt of shells and beads Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death-dirge of the slain; Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief. Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unréined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd.
They buried the dark chief, they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.
COPLAS DE MANRIQUE
FROM THE SPANISH.
Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his "History of Spain," makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; and speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war, gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young; and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame." He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Canavete, in the year 1479.
The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Predes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1479; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclès; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocana. It was his death which called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, "Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a
funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggeration. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception
is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on-calm, dignified, and majestic.
O LET the soul her slumbers break,
Let the thought be quickened, and awake Awake to sec
How soon this life is past and gone, How death comes softly stealing on, How silently!
Swiftly our pleasures glide away, Our hearts recall the distant day With many sighs;
The moments that cre speeding fast
We heed not, but the past,-the past,- More highly prize.
Onward its course the present keeps,
Onward the constant currents sweeps, Till life is done:
And, did we judge of time aright, The past and future in their flight Would be as one.
Let no one fondly dream again,
That Hope and all her shadowy train Will not decay;
Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Remembered like a tale that's told They pass away.
Our lives are rivers, gliding free,
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, The silent grave!
Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave.
Thither the mighty torrents stray, Thither the brook pursues its way, And tinkling rill.
There all are equal. Side by side The poor man and the son of pride Lie calm and still.
I will not here invoke the throng Of orators and sons of song, The deathless few:
Fiction entices and deceives, And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, Lies poisonous dew.
To One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth,-the Good and Wisc,- To Him I cry,
Who shared on earth our common lot, But the world comprehended not His deity.
This world is but the rugged road Which leads us to the bright abode Of peace above;
So let us choose that narrow way, Which leads no traveller's foot astray From realms of love.
Our cradle is the starting place, In life we run the onward race,
And reach the goal:
When, in the mansions of the blest, Death leaves to its eternal rest The weary soul.
Did we but use it as we ought,
This world would school each wandering thought To its high state.
Faith wings the soul beyond the sky,
Up to that better world on high,
For which we wait.
Yes, the glad messenger of love,
To guide us to our home above, The Saviour came;
Born amid mortal cares and fears, He suffered in this vale of tears
A death of shame.
Behold of what delusive worth
The bubbles we pursue on earth.
The shapes we case,
Amid a world of treachery!
They vanish ere death shuts the eye,
And leave no trace.
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