Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 54

[Footnote 83: A native of North Carolina; best known in political life, but meritorious in literature.]

[Footnote 84: In this church repose Galileo, Michael Angelo, Alfieri, and other ill.u.s.trious Italians.]

=_Geo. W. Bethune, 1803-1862._= (Manual, p. 487.)

Invocation.

=_362._= MYTHOLOGY GIVES PLACE TO CHRISTIANITY.

Hushed is their song; from long-frequented grove, Pale Memory, are thy bright-eyed daughters gone; No more in strains of melody and love, Gush forth thy sacred waters, Helicon; Prostrate on Egypt's plain, Aurora's son, G.o.d of the sunbeam and the living lyre, No more shall hail thee with mellifluous tone; Nor shall thy Pythia, raving from thy fire, Speak of the future sooth to those who would inquire.

No more at Delos, or at Delphi now, Or e'en at mighty Ammon's Lybian shrine, The white-robed priests before the altar bow, To slay the victim and to pour the wine, While gifts of kingdoms round each pillar twine; Scarce can the cla.s.sic pilgrim, sweeping free From fallen architrave the desert vine.

Trace the dim names of their divinity-- G.o.ds of the ruined temples, where, oh where! are ye?

The Naiad bathing in her crystal spring, The guardian Nymph of every leafy tree, The rus.h.i.+ng Aeolus on viewless wing, The flower-crowned Queen of every cultured lea, And he who walked, with monarch-tread, the sea, The awful Thunderer, threatening them aloud, G.o.d! were their vain imaginings of Thee, Who saw Thee only through the illusive cloud That sin had flung around their spirits, like a shroud.

As fly the shadows of uncertain night, On misty vapors of the early day, When bursts o'er earth the sun's resplendent light-- Fantastic visions! they have pa.s.sed away, Chased by the purer Gospel's orient ray.

My soul's bright waters flow from out thy throne, And on my ardent breast thy sunbeam's play; Fountain of thought! True Source of light! I own In joyful strains of praise, thy sovereign power alone.

O breathe upon my soul thy Spirit's fire, That I may glow like seraphim on high, Or rapt Isaiah kindling o'er his lyre; And sent by Thee, let holy Hope be nigh, To fill with prescient joy my ravished eye, And gentle Love; to tune each jarring string Accordant with the heavenly harmony; Then upward borne, on Faith's aspiring wing, The praises of my G.o.d to listening earth, I sing.

=_Charles Fenno Hoffman, 1806-._= (Manual, pp. 487, 505, 519.)

From "The Vigil of Faith."

=_363._= THE RED MAN'S HEAVEN.

White man! I say not that they lie Who preach a faith so dark and drear, That wedded hearts in yon cold sky Meet not as they were mated here.

But scorning not thy faith, thou must Stranger, in mine have equal trust,-- The Red man's faith, by Him implanted, Who souls to both our bodies granted.

Thou know'st in life we mingle not; Death cannot change our different lot!

He who hath placed the White man's heaven Where hymns in vapory clouds are chanted, To harps by angel fingers play'd, Not less on his Red children smiles, To whom a land of souls is given, Where in the ruddy West array'd.

Brighten our blessed hunting isles.

Those blissful ISLANDS OF THE WEST!

I've seen, myself, at sunset time, The golden lake in which they rest; Seen, too, the barks that bear The Blest, Floating toward that fadeless clime: First dark, just as they leave our sh.o.r.e, Their sides then brightening more and more, Till in a flood of crimson light They melted from my straining sight.

And she who climb'd the storm-swept steep, She who the foaming wave would dare, So oft love's vigil here to keep,-- Stranger, albeit thou think'st I dote, I know, I know she watches there!

Watches upon that radiant strand, Watches to see her lover's boat Approach The Spirit-Land.

He ceased, and spoke no more that night, Though oft, when chillier blew the blast, I saw him moving in the light The fire, that he was feeding, cast; While I, still wakeful, ponder'd o'er His wondrous story more and more.

I thought, not wholly waste the mind Where Faith so deep a root could find, Faith which both love and life could save, And keep the first, in age still fond.

Thus blossoming this side the grave In steadfast trust of fruit beyond.

And when in after years I stood By INCA-PAH-CHO'S haunted water, Where long ago that hunter woo'd In early youth its island daughter, And traced the voiceless solitude Once witness of his loved one's slaughter-- At that same season of the leaf In which I heard him tell his grief,-- I thought some day I'd weave in rhyme, That tale of mellow autumn time.

=_William Gilmore Simms, 1806-1870._= (Manual, pp. 523, 490, 510.)

From "The Ca.s.sique of Accabee."

=_364._= NATURE INSPIRES SENTIMENT.

It was a night of calm. O'er Ashley's waters Crept the sweet billows to their own soft tune, While she, most bright of Keawah's fair daughters, Whose voice might spell the footsteps of the moon, As slow we swept along, Poured forth her own sweet song-- A lay of rapture not forgotten soon.

Hushed was our breathing, stayed the lifted oar, Our spirits rapt, our souls no longer free, While the boat, drifting softly to the sh.o.r.e, Brought us within the shades of Accabee.

"Ah!" sudden cried the maid, In the dim light afraid, "'Tis here the ghost still walks of the old Yema.s.see."

And sure the spot was haunted by a power To fix the pulses in each youthful heart; Never was moon more gracious in a bower, Making delicious fancy-work for art, Weaving so meekly bright Her pictures of delight, That, though afraid to stay, we sorrowed to depart.

"If these old groves are haunted"--sudden then, Said she, our sweet companion,--"it must be By one who loved, and was beloved again, And joy'd all forms of loveliness to see:-- Here, in these groves they went, Where love and wors.h.i.+p, blent, Still framed the proper G.o.d for each idolatry.

"It could not be that love should here be stern, Or beauty fail to sway with sov'reign might; These from so blessed scenes should something learn, And swell with tenderness, and shape delight: These groves have had their power, And bliss, in by-gone hour, Hath charm'd with sight and song the pa.s.sage of the night."

"It were a bliss to think so;" made reply Our Hubert--"yet the tale is something old, That checks us with denial;--and our sky, And these brown woods that, in its glittering fold, Look like a fairy clime, Still unsubdued by time, Have evermore the tale of wrong'd devotion told."

"Give us thy legend, Hubert;" cried the maid;-- And, with down-dropping oars, our yielding prow Shot to a still lagoon, whose ample shade Droop'd from the gray moss of an old oak's brow: The groves, meanwhile, lay bright, Like the broad stream, in light, Soft, sweet as ever yet the lunar loom display'd.

=_Nathaniel Parker Willis, 1807-1867._= (Manual, pp. 504, 519.)

From the "Sacred Poems."

=_365._= HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.

The morning pa.s.s'd, and Asia's sun rose up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.

The cattle of the hills were in the shade, And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms in her spicy trees.

It was an hour of rest; but Hagar found No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips For water; but she could not give it him.

She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,-- For it was better than the close, hot breath Of the thick pines,--and tried to comfort him,-- But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know Why G.o.d denied him water in the wild.

She sat a little longer, and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.

It was too much for her, she lifted him, And bore him further on, and laid his head Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub; And, shrouding up her face, she went away, And sat to watch where he could see her not, Till he should die; and watching him, she mourned:

"G.o.d stay thee in thine agony, my boy!

I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, And see death settle on my cradle-joy.

How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!

And could I see thee die?

"I did not dream of this when thou wert straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers; Or wearing rosy hours, By the rich gush of water-sources playing, Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, So beautiful and deep.