| |
| THE SUN is high in heaven; a favoring breeze | |
| Fills the white sail and sweeps the rippling seas, | |
| And the tall vessel walks her destined way, | |
| And rocks and glitters in the curling spray. | |
| Among the shrouds, all happiness and hope, | 5 |
| The busy seaman coils the rattling rope, | |
| And tells his jest, and carols out his song, | |
| And laughs his laughter, vehement and long; | |
| Or pauses on the deck, to dream awhile | |
| Of his babes’ prattle and their mother’s smile, | 10 |
| And nods the head, and waves the welcome hand, | |
| To those who weep upon the lessening strand. | |
| His is the roving step and humor dry, | |
| His the light laugh, and his the jocund eye; | |
| And his the feeling which, in guilt or grief, | 15 |
| Makes the sin venial, and the sorrow brief. | |
| But there are hearts, that merry deck below, | |
| Of darker error, and of deeper woe,— | |
| Children of wrath and wretchedness who grieve | |
| Not for the country, but the crimes they leave, | 20 |
| Who, while for them on many a sleepless bed | |
| The prayer is murmured and the tear is shed, | |
| In exile and in misery, lock within | |
| Their dread despair, their unrepented sin, | |
| And in their madness dare to gaze on heaven, | 25 |
| Sullen and cold, unawed and unforgiven! | |
| There the gaunt robber, stern in sin and shame, | |
| Shows his dull features and his iron frame; | |
| And tenderer pilferers creep in silence by, | |
| With quivering lip, flushed brow, and vacant eye. | 30 |
| And some there are who, in their close of day, | |
| With dropping jaw, weak step, and temples gray, | |
| Go tottering forth, to find, across the wave, | |
| A short sad sojourn, and a foreign grave; | |
| And some, who look their long and last adieu | 35 |
| To the white cliffs that vanish from the view, | |
| While youth still blooms, and vigor nerves the arm, | |
| The blood flows freely, and the pulse beats warm. | |
| The hapless female stands in silence there, | |
| So weak, so wan, and yet so sadly fair, | 40 |
| That those who gaze, a rude untutored tribe, | |
| Check the coarse question and the wounding gibe, | |
| And look, and long to strike the fetter off, | |
| And stay to pity, though they came to scoff. | |
| Then o’er her cheek there runs a burning blush, | 45 |
| And the hot tears of shame begin to rush | |
| Forth from their swelling orbs;—she turns away, | |
| And her white fingers o’er her eyelids stray, | |
| And still the tears through those white fingers glide, | |
| Which strive to check them, or at least to hide! | 50 |
| And there the stripling, led to plunder’s school, | |
| Ere Passion slept, or Reason learned to rule, | |
| Clasps his young hands, and beats his throbbing brain, | |
| And looks with marvel on his galling chain. | |
| O, you may guess, from that unconscious gaze, | 55 |
| His soul hath dreamed of those far-fading days, | |
| When, rudely nurtured on the mountain’s brow, | |
| He tended day by day his father’s plough; | |
| Blest in his day of toil, his night of ease, | |
| His life of purity, his soul of peace. | 60 |
| O, yes! to-day his soul hath backward been | |
| To many a tender face and beauteous scene,— | |
| The verdant valley and the dark brown hill, | |
| The small fair garden, and its tinkling rill, | |
| His grandame’s tale, believed at twilight hour, | 65 |
| His sister singing in her myrtle bower, | |
| And she, the maid, of every hope bereft, | |
| So fondly loved, alas! so falsely left,— | |
| The winding path, the dwelling in the grove, | |
| The look of welcome, and the kiss of love,— | 70 |
| These are his dreams; but these are dreams of bliss! | |
| Why do they blend with such a lot as his? | |
| And is there naught for him but grief and gloom, | |
| A lone existence, and an early tomb? | |
| Is there no hope of comfort and of rest | 75 |
| To the seared conscience and the troubled breast? | |
| Oh, say not so! In some far distant clime, | |
| Where lives no witness of his early crime, | |
| Benignant Penitence may haply muse | |
| On purer pleasures and on brighter views, | 80 |
| And slumbering Virtue wake at last to claim | |
| Another being, and a fairer fame. | |
| Beautiful land! within whose quiet shore | |
| Lost spirits may forget the stain they bore; | |
| Beautiful land! with all thy blended shades | 85 |
| Of waste and wood, rude rocks, and level glades, | |
| On thee, on thee I gaze, as Moslems look | |
| To the blest islands of their Prophet’s Book: | |
| And oft I deem that, linked by magic spell, | |
| Pardon and Peace upon thy valleys dwell, | 90 |
| Like two sweet Houris beckoning o’er the deep | |
| The souls that tremble and the eyes that weep! | |
| Therefore on thee undying sunbeams throw | |
| Their clearest radiance and their warmest glow, | |
| And tranquil nights, cool gales, and gentle showers | 95 |
| Make bloom eternal in thy sinless bowers. | |
| Green is thy turf; stern Winter doth not dare | |
| To breathe his blast, and leave a ruin there, | |
| And the charmed ocean roams thy rocks around, | |
| With softer motion and with sweeter sound: | 100 |
| Among thy blooming flowers and blushing fruit | |
| The whispering of young birds is never mute, | |
| And never doth the streamlet cease to well | |
| Through its old channel in the hidden dell. | |
| O, if the Muse of Greece had ever strayed, | 105 |
| In solemn twilight, through thy forest shade, | |
| And swept her lyre, and waked thy meads along | |
| The liquid echo of her ancient song, | |
| Her fabling Fancy in that hour had found | |
| Voices of music, shapes of grace, around; | 110 |
| Among thy trees, with merry step and glance, | |
| The Dryad then had wound her wayward dance, | |
| And the cold Naiad in thy waters fair | |
| Bathed her white breast, and wrung her dripping hair. | |
| Beautiful land! upon so pure a plain | 115 |
| Shall Superstition hold her hated reign? | |
| Must Bigotry build up her cheerless shrine | |
| In such an air, on such an earth as thine? | |
| Alas! Religion from thy placid isles | |
| Veils the warm splendor of her heavenly smiles, | 120 |
| And the wrapt gazer in the beauteous plan | |
| Sees nothing dark—except the soul of Man. | |
| Sweet are the links that bind us to our kind, | |
| Meek, but unyielding,—felt, but undefined; | |
| Sweet is the love of brethren, sweet the joy | 125 |
| Of a young mother in her cradled boy, | |
| And sweet is childhood’s deep and earnest glow | |
| Of reverence for a father’s head of snow! | |
| Sweeter than all, ere our young hopes depart, | |
| The quickening throb of an impassioned heart, | 130 |
| Beating in silence, eloquently still, | |
| For one loved soul that answers to its thrill. | |
| But where thy smile, Religion, hath not shone, | |
| The chain is riven, and the charm is gone; | |
| And, unawakened by thy wondrous spell, | 135 |
| The Feelings slumber in their silent cell. | |
| Hushed is the voice of labor and of mirth, | |
| The light of day is sinking from the earth, | |
| And Evening mantles in her dewy calm | |
| The couch of one who cannot heed its balm. | 140 |
| Lo! where the chieftain on his matted bed | |
| Leans the faint form, and hangs the feverish head! | |
| There is no lustre in his wandering eye, | |
| His forehead hath no show of majesty; | |
| His gasping lip, too weak for wail or prayer, | 145 |
| Scarce stirs the breeze, and leaves no echo there; | |
| And his strong arm, so nobly wont to rear | |
| The feathered target or the ashen spear, | |
| Drops powerless and cold! the pang of death | |
| Locks the set teeth and chokes the struggling breath, | 150 |
| And the last glimmering of departing day | |
| Lingers around to herald life away. | |
| Is there no duteous youth to sprinkle now | |
| One drop of water on his lip and brow? | |
| No dark-eyed maid to bring with soundless foot | 155 |
| The lulling potion or the healing root? | |
| No tender look to meet his wandering gaze? | |
| No tone of fondness, heard in happier days, | |
| To soothe the terrors of the spirit’s flight, | |
| And speak of mercy and of hope to-night? | 160 |
| All love, all leave him!—terrible and slow | |
| Along the crowd the whispered murmurs grow. | |
| “The hand of Heaven is on him! is it ours | |
| To check the fleeting of his numbered hours? | |
| Oh, not to us,—oh, not to us is given | 165 |
| To read the book, or thwart the will, of Heaven! | |
| Away, away!” and each familiar face | |
| Recoils in horror from his sad embrace; | |
| The turf on which he lies is hallowed ground, | |
| The sullen priest stalks gloomily around, | 170 |
| And shuddering friends, that dare not soothe or save, | |
| Hear the last groan, and dig the destined grave. | |
| The frantic widow folds upon her breast | |
| Her glittering trinkets and her gorgeous vest, | |
| Circles her neck with many a mystic charm, | 175 |
| Clasps the rich bracelet on her desperate arm, | |
| Binds her black hair, and stains her eyelid’s fringe | |
| With the jet lustre of the henna’s tinge; | |
| Then, on the spot where those dear ashes lie, | |
| In bigot transport sits her down to die. | 180 |
| Her swarthy brothers mark the wasted cheek, | |
| The straining eyeball, and the stifled shriek, | |
| And sing the praises of her deathless name, | |
| As the last flutter racks her tortured frame. | |
| They sleep together: o’er the natural tomb | 185 |
| The lichened pine rears up its form of gloom, | |
| And lorn acacias shed their shadow gray, | |
| Bloomless and leafless, o’er the buried clay. | |
| And often there, when calmly, coldly bright, | |
| The midnight moon flings down her ghastly light, | 190 |
| With solemn murmur and with silent tread, | |
| The dance is ordered, and the verse is said, | |
| And sights of wonder, sounds of spectral fear, | |
| Scare the quick glance and chill the startled ear. | |
| Yet direr visions e’en than these remain; | 195 |
| A fiercer guiltiness, a fouler stain! | |
| Oh, who shall sing the scene of savage strife, | |
| Where Hatred glories in the waste of life? | |
| The hurried march, the looks of grim delight, | |
| The yell, the rush, the slaughter, and the flight, | 200 |
| The arms unwearied in the cruel toil, | |
| The hoarded vengeance and the rifled spoil, | |
| And, last of all, the revel in the wood, | |
| The feast of death, the banqueting of blood, | |
| When the wild warrior gazes on his foe | 205 |
| Convulsed beneath him in his painful throe, | |
| And lifts the knife, and kneels him down to drain | |
| The purple current from the quivering vein? | |
| Cease, cease the tale; and let the ocean’s roll | |
| Shut the dark horror from my wildered soul! | 210 |
| And are there none to succor? none to speed | |
| A fairer feeling and a holier creed? | |
| Alas! for this, upon the ocean blue, | |
| Lamented Cook, thy pennon hither flew; | |
| For this, undaunted, o’er the raging brine | 215 |
| The venturous Frank upheld his Saviour’s sign. | |
| Unhappy Chief! while Fancy thus surveys | |
| The scattered islets and the sparkling bays, | |
| Beneath whose cloudless sky and gorgeous sun | |
| Thy life was ended, and thy voyage done, | 220 |
| In shadowy mist thy form appears to glide, | |
| Haunting the grove, or floating on the tide; | |
| Oh, there was grief for thee, and bitter tears, | |
| And racking doubts through long and joyless years; | |
| And tender tongues that babbled of the theme, | 225 |
| And lonely hearts that doated on the dream. | |
| Pale Memory deemed she saw thy cherished form | |
| Snatched from the foe, or rescued from the storm; | |
| And faithful Love, unfailing and untired, | |
| Clung to each hope, and sighed as each expired. | 230 |
| On the bleak desert, or the tombless sea, | |
| No prayer was said, no requiem sung for thee; | |
| Affection knows not whether o’er thy grave | |
| The ocean murmur or the willow wave; | |
| But still the beacon of thy sacred name | 235 |
| Lights ardent souls to Virtue and to Fame, | |
| Still Science mourns thee, and the grateful Muse | |
| Wreathes the green cypress for her own Pérouse. | |
| But not thy death shall mar the gracious plan, | |
| Nor check the task thy pious toil began; | 240 |
| O’er the wide waters of the bounding main | |
| The Book of Life must win its way again, | |
| And, in the regions by thy fate endeared, | |
| The cross be lifted, and the altar reared. | |
| With furrowed brow and cheek serenely fair, | 245 |
| The calm wind wandering o’er his silver hair, | |
| His arm uplifted, and his moistened eye | |
| Fixed in deep rapture on the golden sky,— | |
| Upon the shore, through many a billow driven, | |
| He kneels at last, the Messenger of Heaven! | 250 |
| Long years, that rank the mighty with the weak, | |
| Have dimmed the flush upon his faded cheek, | |
| And many a dew and many a noxious damp, | |
| The daily labor, and the nightly lamp, | |
| Have reft away, forever reft, from him | 255 |
| The liquid accent and the buoyant limb. | |
| Yet still within him aspirations swell | |
| Which time corrupts not, sorrow cannot quell,— | |
| The changeless zeal, which on, from land to land, | |
| Speeds the faint foot and nerves the withered hand, | 260 |
| And the mild Charity, which, day by day, | |
| Weeps every wound and every stain away, | |
| Rears the young bud on every blighted stem, | |
| And longs to comfort where she must condemn. | |
| With these, through storms and bitterness and wrath, | 265 |
| In peace and power he holds his onward path, | |
| Curbs the fierce soul, and sheathes the murderous steel, | |
| And calms the passions he hath ceased to feel. | |
| Yes! he hath triumphed!—while his lips relate | |
| The sacred story of his Saviour’s fate, | 270 |
| While to the search of that tumultuous horde | |
| He opens wide the Everlasting Word, | |
| And bids the soul drink deep of Wisdom there, | |
| In fond devotion, and in fervent prayer, | |
| In speechless awe the wonder-stricken throng | 275 |
| Check their rude feasting and their barbarous song: | |
| Around his steps the gathering myriads crowd, | |
| The chief, the slave, the timid, and the proud; | |
| Of various features, and of various dress, | |
| Like their own forest-leaves, confused and numberless. | 280 |
| Where shall your temples, where your worship be, | |
| Gods of the air, and rulers of the sea? | |
| In the glad dawning of a kinder light, | |
| Your blind adorer quits your gloomy rite, | |
| And kneels in gladness on his native plain, | 285 |
| A happier votary at a holier fane. | |
| Beautiful land, farewell!—when toil and strife, | |
| And all the sighs and all the sins of life | |
| Shall come about me,—when the light of Truth | |
| Shall scatter the bright mists that dazzled youth, | 290 |
| And Memory muse in sadness on the past, | |
| And mourn for pleasures far too sweet to last; | |
| How often shall I long for some green spot, | |
| Where, not remembering, and remembered not, | |
| With no false verse to deck my lying bust, | 295 |
| With no fond tear to vex my mouldering dust, | |
| This busy brain may find its grassy shrine, | |
| And sleep, untroubled, in a shade like thine! | |
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