Within the caverns of my country lie1
The strangely fashioned implements of old,
And awful wrecks of frail humanity:
Perchance the relics of the wise and bold,
Nor habited in shroud, nor mingled with the mould.
Wide meads, through which the dark Muskingum flows,
With trophies of thy prowess are bespread ;
The bones of long-forgotten tribes repose
In mounds whereon the red oak lifts its head,
Like some unmoving guardian of the dead!
Hath science pierced the deep Lethean gloom
That wraps those remnants of old days, or shed
Dim light upon each antiquated tomb?
No beams of her keen eye the mystery illume!
The human victor, in his mad career
Of conquests, often pauses to survey,
While sternly leaning on his gory spear,
The wrecks of his own making, with dismay,-
Relentless Time proceedeth on his way,
While change is written on the face of earth,
Throwing no backward glance upon his prey:
He darkly frowns, and weeds conceal the hearth,
Once circled by the sons of luxury and mirth.
Stern Lord of Desolation! nations rise
And melt away, in thy career, like dew ;
The lofty pyramid, that still defies
Thy wasting tooth, will crumble in a few
Revolving years, and banish from the view.
Who can recount thy deeds? The level plain,
Whereon the herb and graceful palm once grew,
Is now a barren waste. The yellow grain
Once rustled in the breeze, where rolleth now the main. Avon, May 1835.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
Little sweet wine of Jurançon,
You are dear to my memory still!
With mine host and his merry song,
Under the rose-tree I drank my fill.
1 Cave of Kentucky, in which mummies were found.
Twenty years after, passing that way,
Under the trellis I found again
Mine host, still sitting there au frais,
And singing still the same refrain.
The Jurançon, so fresh and bold,
Treats me as one it used to know;
Souvenirs of the days of old
Already from the bottle flow.
With glass in hand our glances met,
We pledge, we drink. How sour it is
Never Argenteuil piquette
Was to my palate sour as this!
And yet the vintage was good in sooth,
The selfsame juice, the selfsame cask!
It was you, O gaiety of my youth,
That failed in the autumnal flask.
"Behold, Satan hath desired to have you that he may sift you as wheat." ST. LUKE Xxii. 31.
IN St. Luke's Gospel we are told
How Peter in the days of old
Was sifted;
And now, though ages intervene,
Sin is the same, while time and scenc
Are shifted.
Satan desires us, great and small,
As wheat, to sift us, and we all
Are tempted;
Not one, however rich or great
Is by his station or estate
Exempted.
No house so safely guarded is
But he, by some device of his,
Čan enter;
No heart hath armour so complete
But he can pierce with arrows fleet
Its centre.
For all at last the cock will crow
Who hear the warning voice, but go
Unheeding,
Till thrice and more they have denied
The Man of Sorrows, crucified
And bleeding.
One look of that pale suffering face
Will make us feel the deep disgrace
Of weakness;
Wo shall be sifted till the strength
Of self-conceit be changed at length
To meekness.
Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache,
The reddening scars remain, and make
Confession;
Lost innocence returns no more;
We are not what we were before
Transgression.
But noble souls, through dust and heat,
Rise from disaster and defeat
And conscious still of the Divine
Within them, lie on earth supine
No longer.
HELEN OF TYRE.
WHAT phantom is this, that appears
Through the purple mists of the years
Itself but a mist like these?
A woman of cloud and of fire;
It is she; it is Helen of Tyre,
The town in the midst of the seas!
O Tyre! in thy crowded streets
The phantom appears and retreats,
And the Israelites, that sell
Thy lilies and lions of brass,
Look up as they see her pass,
And murmur "Jezebel !'"
Then another phantom is seen
At her side, in a gray gabardine,
With beard that floats to his waist;"
It is Simon Magus, the Seer;
He speaks, and she pauses to hear
The words he utters in haste.
From this evil fame,
From this life of sorrow and shame,
I will lift thee and make thee mine!
Thou hast been Queen Candace,
And Helen of Troy, and shalt be
The Intelligence Divine !"
Oh, sweet as the breath of morn,
To the fallen and forlorn
Are whispered words of praise,
For the famished heart believes
The falsehood that tempts and deceives.
And the promise that betrays.
So she follows from land to land
The wizard's beckoning hand,
As a leaf is blown by the gust
Till she vanishes into night!
O reader, stoop down and write
With thy finger in the dust.
O town in the midst of the seas,
With thy rafts of cedar trees,
Thy merchandise and thy ships,
Thou, too, art become as nought,
A phantom, a shadow, a thought,
A name upon men's lips.
MADE FROM A FETTER OF BONNIVARD, THE PRISONER OF CHILLON; THE HANDLE OF WOOD FROM THE FRIGATE "CONSTITUTION," AND BOUND WITH A CIROLET OF GOLD, INSET WITH THREE PRECIOUS STONES FROM SIBERIA,
I THOUGHT this Pen would arise
From the casket where it lies-
Of itself would arise, and write
My thanks and my surprise.
When you gave it me under the pines,
I dreamed these gems from the mines
Of Siberia,. Ceylon, and Maine
Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines:
That this iron link from the chain
Of Bonnivard might retain
Some verse of the Poet who sang
Of the prisoner and his pain;
That this wood from the frigate's mast
Might write me a rhyme at last,
As it used to write on the sky
The song of the sea and the blast.
But motionless as I wait,
Like a Bishop lying in state
Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold,
And its jewels inviolate.
Then I must speak, and say
That the light of that summer day
In the garden under the pines
Shall not fade and pass away.
I shall see you standing there,
Caressed by the fragrant air,
With the shadow on your face,
And the sunshine on your hair.
I shall hear the sweet low tone
Of a voice before unknown,
Saying "This is from me to you-
From me, and to you alone."
And in words not idle and vain
I shall answer, and thank you again
For the gift, and the grace of the gift,
O beautiful Helen of Maine !
And for ever this gift will be
As a blessing from you to me,
As a drop of the dew of your youth
On the leaves of an aged tree,
THE POET AND HIS SONGS.
As the birds come in the spring,
We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
From the depths of the air;
As the rain comes from the cloud,
And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
Out of silence a sound;
As the grape comes to the vine,
The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
And the tide to the sea;
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