Mazelli, and Other Poems [33]
me that in fortune's arduous chase,
I have such fleetness as would win the prize;--
But all the pomps of circumstance and place,
A glance, a word, a smile of thine outvies!
Leave Fortune to her parasites! mine be
The blessed lot to dwell with love and thee.
To lead thee on through life, and to enlarge
Thy soul with added knowledge, day by day,
To guard thee, as an angel guards his charge,
From every ill that lurks along the way!
To smooth that rugged way, and strew its marge
With the bright flowrs that never can decay,--
This were a lot too glorious, too divine,
And yet Hope whispers that it shall be mine.
Now listen, love,--this plan shall rule my life
And thine:--In some remote and sunny dell,
Far from the crowded city's silly strife,
My hands shall rear the home where we will dwell;
Shall till the soil, with fertile fruitage rife,
And teach the golden ear to shoot and swell;
And my sole wished for recompense shall be
My ever growing, deep'ning love for thee.
Thy task shall be to train the trailing vine,
To watch, and cherish in its growth, the flow'r
Whose breath and cheek are sweet and fair as thine;
To bless and brighten the domestic bow'r
Where we will build to Love a hallowed shrine,
And bow us, in his worship, every hour;
Till, chastened by thy smile, my heart has grown
As pure, and soft, and sinless as thine own.
Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream,--
Come from the world,--the crowd is not for thee;
Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam
Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity;--
Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem
That such as they are, thou couldst ever be!
Come, for my soul adores thee with a love
As burning as the seraphs feel above.
These lines are inscribed to the memory of John Q. Carlin, killed
at Buena Vista.
Warrior of the youthful brow,
Eager heart and eagle eye!
Pants thy soul for battle now?
Burns thy glance with victory?
Dost thou dream of conflicts done,
Perils past and trophies won?
And a nation's grateful praise
Given to thine after days?
Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold
As the clay upon it prest;
And in many a slimy fold,
Winds the grave-worm round thy breast.
Thou wilt join the fight no more,--
Glory's dream with thee is o'er,--
And alike are now to thee
Greatness and obscurity.
But an ever sunny sky,
O'er thy place of rest is bending;
And above thy grave, and nigh,
Flowers ever bright are blending.
O'er thy dreamless, calm repose,
Balmily the south wind blows,--
With the green turf on thy breast,
Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!
When the alarum first was sounded,
Marshalling in arms the brave,
Forth thy fearless spirit bounded,
To obtain thee--what? A grave!
Fame had whispered in thine ear,
Words the high-souled love to hear,--
But the ruthless hand of death
From thee snatched the hero's wreath.
Often will the grief-shade start
O'er thy sister's mood of joy,
Vainly will thy mother's heart
Yearn to greet her absent boy;
Never sister's lip shall press
On thine own its fond caress,--
Never more a mother's eye
Flash in pride when thou art by!
Where the orange, bending lowly
With its golden fruit, is swaying;
And the Indian maiden, slowly
By her native stream is straying;
O'er thy dreamless, calm repose,
Balmily the South wind blows,--
With the green turf on thy breast,
Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!
A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ.
Many ages ago, near the high Hartz, there dwelt
A rude race of blood-loving giants, who felt
No joy but the fierce one which Carnage bestows,
When her foul lips are clogged with the blood of her foes.
And fiercer and bolder than all of the rest
Was Bohdo,(1) their chieftain;--'twas strange that a breast,
Which nothing like kindness or pity might move,
Should glow with the warmth and the rapture of love.
Yet he loved, and the pale mountain-monarch's fair child
Was the maid of his heart; but tho' burning and wild
Was the love that he bore her, it won no return,
And the flame
I have such fleetness as would win the prize;--
But all the pomps of circumstance and place,
A glance, a word, a smile of thine outvies!
Leave Fortune to her parasites! mine be
The blessed lot to dwell with love and thee.
To lead thee on through life, and to enlarge
Thy soul with added knowledge, day by day,
To guard thee, as an angel guards his charge,
From every ill that lurks along the way!
To smooth that rugged way, and strew its marge
With the bright flowrs that never can decay,--
This were a lot too glorious, too divine,
And yet Hope whispers that it shall be mine.
Now listen, love,--this plan shall rule my life
And thine:--In some remote and sunny dell,
Far from the crowded city's silly strife,
My hands shall rear the home where we will dwell;
Shall till the soil, with fertile fruitage rife,
And teach the golden ear to shoot and swell;
And my sole wished for recompense shall be
My ever growing, deep'ning love for thee.
Thy task shall be to train the trailing vine,
To watch, and cherish in its growth, the flow'r
Whose breath and cheek are sweet and fair as thine;
To bless and brighten the domestic bow'r
Where we will build to Love a hallowed shrine,
And bow us, in his worship, every hour;
Till, chastened by thy smile, my heart has grown
As pure, and soft, and sinless as thine own.
Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream,--
Come from the world,--the crowd is not for thee;
Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam
Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity;--
Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem
That such as they are, thou couldst ever be!
Come, for my soul adores thee with a love
As burning as the seraphs feel above.
These lines are inscribed to the memory of John Q. Carlin, killed
at Buena Vista.
Warrior of the youthful brow,
Eager heart and eagle eye!
Pants thy soul for battle now?
Burns thy glance with victory?
Dost thou dream of conflicts done,
Perils past and trophies won?
And a nation's grateful praise
Given to thine after days?
Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold
As the clay upon it prest;
And in many a slimy fold,
Winds the grave-worm round thy breast.
Thou wilt join the fight no more,--
Glory's dream with thee is o'er,--
And alike are now to thee
Greatness and obscurity.
But an ever sunny sky,
O'er thy place of rest is bending;
And above thy grave, and nigh,
Flowers ever bright are blending.
O'er thy dreamless, calm repose,
Balmily the south wind blows,--
With the green turf on thy breast,
Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!
When the alarum first was sounded,
Marshalling in arms the brave,
Forth thy fearless spirit bounded,
To obtain thee--what? A grave!
Fame had whispered in thine ear,
Words the high-souled love to hear,--
But the ruthless hand of death
From thee snatched the hero's wreath.
Often will the grief-shade start
O'er thy sister's mood of joy,
Vainly will thy mother's heart
Yearn to greet her absent boy;
Never sister's lip shall press
On thine own its fond caress,--
Never more a mother's eye
Flash in pride when thou art by!
Where the orange, bending lowly
With its golden fruit, is swaying;
And the Indian maiden, slowly
By her native stream is straying;
O'er thy dreamless, calm repose,
Balmily the South wind blows,--
With the green turf on thy breast,
Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!
A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ.
Many ages ago, near the high Hartz, there dwelt
A rude race of blood-loving giants, who felt
No joy but the fierce one which Carnage bestows,
When her foul lips are clogged with the blood of her foes.
And fiercer and bolder than all of the rest
Was Bohdo,(1) their chieftain;--'twas strange that a breast,
Which nothing like kindness or pity might move,
Should glow with the warmth and the rapture of love.
Yet he loved, and the pale mountain-monarch's fair child
Was the maid of his heart; but tho' burning and wild
Was the love that he bore her, it won no return,
And the flame