Initial Studies in American Letters Part 15

Beside the Moldau's rus.h.i.+ng stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward-bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful deep sound, The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.

I have read in the marvelous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rus.h.i.+ng stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful deep sound, Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rus.h.i.+ng of life's wave.

And when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith s.h.i.+neth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.

THE OCCULTATION OF ORION.

I saw, as in a dream sublime, The balance in the hand of Time.

O'er East and West its beam impended; And day, with all its hours of light, Was slowly sinking out of sight, While, opposite, the scale of night Silently with the stars ascended.

Like the astrologers of eld, In that bright vision I beheld Greater and deeper mysteries.

I saw, with its celestial keys, Its chords of air, its frets of fire, The Samian's great Aeolian lyre, Rising through all its sevenfold bars, From earth unto the fixed stars.

And through the dewy atmosphere, Not only could I see, but hear, Its wondrous and harmonious strings, In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, From Dian's circle light and near, Onward to vaster and wider rings, Where, chanting through his beard of snows, Majestic, mournful Saturn goes, And down the sunless realms of s.p.a.ce Reverberates the thunder of his ba.s.s.

Beneath the sky's triumphal arch This music sounded like a march, And with its chorus seemed to be Preluding some great tragedy.

Sirius was rising in the east; And, slow ascending one by one, The kindling constellations shone.

Begirt with many a blazing star, Stood the great giant, Algebar, Orion, hunter of the beast!

His sword hung gleaming by his side, And, on his arm, the lion's hide Scattered across the midnight air The golden radiance of its hair.

The moon was pallid, but not faint; And beautiful as some fair saint, Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay.

As if she heard the voice of G.o.d, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars, As on the glowing coals and bars That were to prove her strength, and try Her holiness and her purity.

Thus moving on, with silent pace, And triumph in her sweet, pale face, She reached the station of Orion.

Aghast he stood in strange alarm!

And suddenly from his outstretched arm Down fell the red skin of the lion Into the river at his feet.

His mighty club no longer beat The forehead of the bull; but he Reeled as of yore beside the sea, When, blinded by Oenopion, He sought the blacksmith at his forge, And, climbing up the mountain gorge, Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun, Then through the silence overhead, An angel with a trumpet said, "Forever more, forever more, The reign of violence is o'er."

And, like an instrument that flings Its music on another's strings, The trumpet of the angel cast Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, And on from sphere to sphere the words Re-echoed down the burning chords,-- "For evermore, for evermore, The reign of violence is o'er!"

DANTE.

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy thoughts arise, Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies.

What soft compa.s.sion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, By Fra Hilario in his diocese, As up the convent wall, in golden streaks, The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease.

And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE.

O Mother Earth! upon thy lap Thy weary ones receiving, And o'er there, silent as a dream, Thy gra.s.sy mantle weaving, Fold softly in thy long embrace That heart so worn and broken, And cool its pulse of fire beneath Thy shadows old and oaken.

Shut out from him the bitter word And serpent hiss of scorning; Nor let the storms of yesterday Disturb his quiet morning.

Breathe over him forgetfulness Of all save deeds of kindness, And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, Press down his lids in blindness.

There, where with living ear and eye, He heard Potomac's flowing, And, through his tall ancestral trees Saw autumn's sunset glowing, He sleeps--still looking to the West, Beneath the dark wood shadow, As if he still would see the sun Sink down on wave and meadow.

Bard, Sage, and Tribune--in himself All moods of mind contrasting-- The tenderest wail of human woe, The scorn like lightning blasting; The pathos which from rival eyes Unwilling tears could summon, The stinging taunt, the fiery burst Of hatred scarcely human!

Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower, From lips of life-long sadness; Clear picturings of majestic thought Upon a ground of madness; And over all Romance and Song A cla.s.sic beauty throwing, And laureled Clio at his side Her storied pages showing.

All parties feared him: each in turn Beheld its schemes disjointed, As right or left his fatal glance And spectral finger pointed.

Sworn foe of cant, he smote it down With trenchant wit unsparing, And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand The robe Pretense was wearing.

Too honest or too proud to feign A love he never cherished, Beyond Virginia's border line His patriotism perished.

While others hailed in distant skies Our eagle's dusky pinion, He only saw the mountain bird Stoop o'er his Old Dominion.

Still through each change of fortune strange, Racked nerve, and brain all burning, His loving faith in mother-land Knew never shade of turning; By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave, Whatever sky was o'er him, He heard her rivers' rus.h.i.+ng sound, Her blue peaks rose before him.

He held his slaves, yet made withal No false and vain pretenses, Nor paid a lying priest to seek For scriptural defenses.

His harshest words of proud rebuke, His bitterest taunt and scorning, Fell fire-like on the Northern brow That bent to him in fawning.

He held his slaves, yet kept the while His reverence for the Human, In the dark va.s.sals of his will He saw but man and woman.

No hunter of G.o.d's outraged poor His Roanoke valley entered; No trader in the souls of men Across his threshold ventured.

And when the old and wearied man Lay down for his last sleeping, And at his side, a slave no more, His brother-man stood weeping, His latest thought, his latest breath, To freedom's duty giving, With failing tongue and trembling hand The dying blest the living.

O! never bore his ancient State A truer son or braver; None trampling with a calmer scorn On foreign hate or favor.

He knew her faults, yet never stooped His proud and manly feeling To poor excuses of the wrong Or meanness of concealing.

But none beheld with clearer eye, The plague-spot o'er her spreading, None heard more sure the steps of Doom Along her future treading.

For her as for himself he spake, When, his gaunt frame up-bracing, He traced with dying hand "REMORSE!"

And perished in the tracing.

As from the grave where Henry sleeps, From Vernon's weeping willow, And from the gra.s.sy pall which hides The Sage of Monticello, So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone Of Randolph's lowly dwelling, Virginia! o'er thy land of slaves A warning voice is swelling.