Whittier-land Part 10

_The Spectre._--There is a story going the rounds of our periodicals that a Miss G., of respectable family, young and very beautiful, attended Lord Byron for nearly a year in the habit of a page. Love, desperate and all-engrossing, seems to have been the cause of her singular conduct. Neglected at last by the man for whom she had forsaken all that woman holds dear, she resolved upon self-destruction, and provided herself with poison. Her designs were discovered by Lord Byron, who changed the poison for a sleeping potion. Miss G., with that delicate feeling of affection which had ever distinguished her intercourse with Byron, stole privately away to the funeral vault of the Byrons, and fastened the entrance, resolving to spare her lover the dreadful knowledge of her fate. She there swallowed the supposed poison--and probably died of starvation! She was found dead soon after.

Lord Byron never adverted to this subject without a thrill of horror.

The following from his private journal may, perhaps, have some connection with it:--

"I awoke from a dream--well! and have not others dreamed?--such a dream! I wish the dead would rest forever. Ugh! how my blood chilled--and I could not wake--and--and--

"Shadows to-night Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than could the substance of ten thousand-- Armed all in proof--

"I do not like this dream--I hate its foregone conclusion. And am I to be shaken by shadows? Ay, when they remind us of--no matter--but if I dream again I will try whether all sleep has the like visions."--Moore's "Byron," page 324.

She came to me last night-- The floor gave back no tread, She stood by me in the wan moonlight-- In the white robes of the dead-- Pale--pale, and very mournfully She bent her light form over me-- I heard no sound--I felt no breath Breathe o'er me from that face of death; Its dark eyes rested on my own, Rayless and cold as eyes of stone; Yet in their fixed, unchanging gaze, Something which told of other days-- A sadness in their quiet glare, As if Love's smile were frozen there, Came o'er me with an icy thrill-- O G.o.d! I feel its presence still!

And fearfully and dimly The pale cold vision pa.s.sed, Yet those dark eyes were fixed on me In sadness to the last.

I struggled--and my breath came back, As to the victim on the rack, Amid the pause of mortal pain Life steals to suffer once again!

Was it a dream? I looked around, The moonlight through the lattice shone; The same pale glow that dimly crowned The forehead of the spectral one!

And then I knew she had been there-- Not in her breathing loveliness, But as the grave's lone sleepers are, Silent and cold and pa.s.sionless!

A weary thought--a fearful thought-- Within the secret heart to keep: Would that the past might be forgot-- Would that the dead might sleep!

These are the concluding lines of a long poem written in 1829, while he was editing the "American Manufacturer." The poem as a whole was never in print; but these lines of it I find in the "Ess.e.x Gazette" of August 22, 1829, from which paper they were copied, as were most of his productions of that period, by the newspapers of the country. They were never in any collection of his works:--

A FRAGMENT

Lady, farewell! I know thy heart Has angel strength to soar above The cold reserve--the studied art That mock the glowing wings of love.

Its thoughts are purer than the pearl That slumbers where the wave is driven, Yet freer than the winds that furl The banners of the clouded heaven.

And thou hast been the brightest star That shone along my weary way-- Brighter than rainbow visions are, A changeless and enduring ray.

Nor will my memory lightly fade From thy pure dreams, high-thoughted girl;-- The ocean may forget what made Its blue expanse of waters curl, When the strong winds have pa.s.sed the sky; Earth in its beauty may forget The recent cloud that floated by; The glories of the last sunset-- But not from thy unchanging mind Will fade the dreams of other years, And love will linger far behind, In memory's resting place of tears!

Many of Whittier's early discarded verses are of a rather gruesome sort, but more are inspired by contemplation of sublime themes, like this apostrophe to "Eternity," which was published in the "New England Review" in 1831:--

ETERNITY

Boundless eternity! the winged sands That mark the silent lapse of flitting time Are not for thee; thine awful empire stands From age to age, unchangeable, sublime; Thy domes are spread where thought can never climb, In clouds and darkness where vast pillars rest.

I may not fathom thee: 't would seem a crime Thy being of its mystery to divest Or boldly lift thine awful veil with hands unblest.

Thy ruins are the wrecks of systems; suns Blaze a brief s.p.a.ce of age, and are not; Worlds crumble and decay, creation runs To waste--then perishes and is forgot; Yet thou, all changeless, heedest not the blot.

Heaven speaks once more in thunder; empty s.p.a.ce Trembles and wakes; new worlds in ether float, Teeming with new creative life, and trace Their mighty circles, which others shall displace.

Thine age is youth, thy youth is h.o.a.ry age, Ever beginning, never ending, thou Bearest inscribed upon thy ample page, Yesterday, forever, but as now Thou art, thou hast been, shall be: though I feel myself immortal, when on thee I muse, I shrink to nothingness, and bow Myself before thee, dread Eternity, With G.o.d coeval, coexisting, still to be.

I go with thee till time shall be no more, I stand with thee on Time's remotest age, Ten thousand years, ten thousand times told o'er; Still, still with thee my onward course I urge; And now no longer hear the surge Of Time's light billows breaking on the sh.o.r.e Of distant earth; no more the solemn dirge-- Requiem of worlds, when such are numbered o'er-- Steals by: still thou art on forever more.

From that dim distance I turn to gaze With fondly searching glance, upon the spot Of brief existence, when I met the blaze Of morning, bursting on my humble cot, And gladness whispered of my happy lot; And now 't is dwindled to a point--a speck-- And now 't is nothing, and my eye may not Longer distinguish it amid the wreck Of worlds in ruins, crushed at the Almighty's beck.

Time--what is time to thee? a pa.s.sing thought To twice ten thousand ages--a faint spark To twice ten thousand suns; a fibre wrought Into the web of infinite--a cork Balanced against a world: we hardly mark Its being--even its name hath ceased to be; Thy wave hath swept it from us, thy dark Mantle of years, in dim obscurity Hath shrouded it around: Time--what is Time to thee!

In 1832 a living ichneumon was brought to Haverhill, and was on exhibition at Frinksborough, a section of Haverhill now known as "the borough," on the bank of the river above the railroad bridge. Three young ladies of Haverhill went to see it, escorted by Mr. Whittier.

They found that the animal had succ.u.mbed to the New England climate, and had just been buried. One of the ladies, Harriet Minot, afterward Mrs. Pitman, a life-long friend of the poet, suggested that he should write an elegy, and these are the lines he produced:--

THE DEAD ICHNEUMON

Stranger! they have made thy grave By the darkly flowing river; But the was.h.i.+ng of its wave Shall disturb thee never!

Nor its autumn tides which run Turbid to the rising sun, Nor the harsh and hollow thunder, When its fetters burst asunder, And its winter ice is sweeping, Downward to the ocean's keeping.

Sleeper! thou canst rest as calm As beside thine own dark stream, In the shadow of the palm, Or the white sand gleam!

Though thy grave be never hid By the o'ershadowing pyramid, Frowning o'er the desert sand, Like no work of mortal hand, Telling aye the same proud story Of the old Egyptian glory!

Wand'rer! would that we might know Something of thy early time-- Something of thy weal or woe In thine own far clime!

If thy step hath fallen where Those of Cleopatra were, When the Roman cast his crown At a woman's footstool down, Deeming glory's suns.h.i.+ne dim To the smile which welcomed him.

If beside the reedy Nile Thou hast ever held thy way, Where the embryo crocodile In the damp sedge lay; When the river monster's eye Kindled at thy pa.s.sing by, And the pliant reeds were bending Where his blackened form was wending, And the basking serpent started Wildly when thy light form darted.

Thou hast seen the desert steed Mounted by his Arab chief, Pa.s.sing like some dream of speed, Wonderful and brief!

Where the palm-tree's shadows lurk, Thou hast seen the turbaned Turk, Resting in voluptuous pride With his harem at his side, Veiled victims of his will, Scorned and lost, yet lovely still.

And the samiel hath gone O'er thee like a demon's breath, Marking victims one by one For its master--Death.

And the mirage thou hast seen Glittering in the sunny sheen, Like some lake in sunlight sleeping, Where the desert wind was sweeping, And the sandy column gliding, Like some giant onward striding.

Once the dwellers of thy home Blessed the path thy race had trod, Kneeling in the temple dome To a reptile G.o.d; Where the shrine of Isis shone Through the veil before its throne, And the priest with fixed eyes Watched his human sacrifice; And the priestess knelt in prayer, Like some dream of beauty there.

Thou, unhonored and unknown, Wand'rer o'er the mighty sea!

None for thee have reverence shown-- None have wors.h.i.+pped thee!

Here in vulgar Yankee land, Thou hast pa.s.sed from hand to hand, And in Frinksborough found a home, Where no change can ever come!

What thy closing hours befell None may ask, and none may tell.

Who hath mourned above thy grave?

None--except thy ancient nurse.

Well she may--thy being gave Coppers to her purse!

Who hath questioned her of thee?

None, alas! save maidens three, Here to view thee while in being, Yankee curious, paid for seeing, And would gratis view once more That for which they paid before.

Yet thy quiet rest may be Envied by the human kind, Who are showing off like thee, To the careless mind, Gifts which torture while they flow, Thoughts which madden while they glow, Pouring out the heart's deep wealth, Proffering quiet, ease, and health, For the fame which comes to them Blended with their requiem!

The following poem, which I have never seen in print, I find in a ma.n.u.script collection of Whittier's early poems, in the possession of his cousin, Ann Wendell, of Philadelphia. It is a political curiosity, being a reminiscence of the excitement caused by the mystery of the disappearance of William Morgan, in the vicinity of Niagara Falls, in 1826. It was written in 1830, three years before Whittier became especially active in the anti-slavery cause. He was then working in the interest of Henry Clay as against Jackson, and the Whigs had adopted some of the watchwords of the Anti-Masonic party:--

THE GRAVE OF MORGAN

Wild torrent of the lakes! fling out Thy mighty wave to breeze and sun, And let the rainbow curve above The foldings of thy clouds of dun.

Uplift thy earthquake voice, and pour Its thunder to the reeling sh.o.r.e, Till caverned cliff and hanging wood Roll back the echo of thy flood, For there is one who slumbers now Beneath thy bow-encircled brow, Whose spirit hath a voice and sign More strong, more terrible than thine.

A million hearts have heard that cry Ring upward to the very sky; It thunders still--it cannot sleep, But louder than the troubled deep, When the fierce spirit of the air Hath made his arm of vengeance bare, And wave to wave is calling loud Beneath the veiling thunder-cloud; That potent voice is sounding still-- The voice of unrequited ill.

Dark cataract of the lakes! thy name Unholy deeds have linked to fame.

High soars to heaven thy giant head, Even as a monument to him Whose cold unheeded form is laid Down, down amid thy caverns dim.

His requiem the fearful tone Of waters falling from their throne In the mid air, his burial shroud The wreathings of thy torrent cloud, His blazonry the rainbow thrown Superbly round thy brow of stone.

Aye, raise thy voice--the sterner one Which tells of crime in darkness done, Groans upward from thy prison gloom Like voices from the thunder's home.