Indian Legends and Other Poems Part 7

I looked upon the fair young flowers That in our gardens bloom, Gazed on their winning loveliness, And then upon the tomb; I looked upon the smiling earth, The blue and cloudless sky, And murmured in my spirit's depths, "O I can never die!"

I heard my sister's joyous laugh, As she danced lightly by, Her heart was glad with love and hope, Its pulse with youth beat high; I sought my mother's quiet smile, She fondly drew me nigh, And still I said within my heart, "O I can never die!"

Stern winter came,--the fairy flowers Were swept by storms away, And swiftly pa.s.sed the verdant bloom Of summer's lovely day; My mother's smile grew more serene, And brighter was her eye, And now I know her only as An angel in the sky.

And sorrow's wing had cast a shade Upon my sister's smile, Had checked the voice of gladsome mirth, And bounding step the while; And when the bright spring came again, And clouds forsook the sky, Then I knelt down and thanked my G.o.d There was a time to die.

THE FALL OF JERUSALEM.

The sunset on Judah's high places grew pale, And purple tints shadowed the gorge and the vale, While Venus in beauty, with dilating eye, Out-riding the star-host, looked down from the sky On the city that struggled with foemen below,-- Jerusalem, peerless in grandeur and woe!

O'er the fast crumbling walls thronged the cohorts of Rome, Their batteries thundered on palace and dome, And the children of Israel in voiceless despair At the foot of the Temple had breathed a last prayer; For their armies were spent in the unequal strife, And Famine was maddening the pulses of life, The pestilence lurked in the zephyr's soft breath, And the gall-drops were poured from the drawn sword of Death.

The Night with starred garments moved noiseless on high, When they felt a hot blast on the cool air draw nigh;-- Did pinions infernal rejoicing sweep by?

They beheld a wild flash o'er the firmament s.h.i.+ne;-- Came there aid from above,--a legation divine?

There is fire on the mount, there is smoke in the air; The red flames shoot upward with bright, spectral glare; Men of Jacob, draw nigh, but like Moses unshod, 'T is the shrine of Jehovah, the temple of G.o.d.

The cherubim drooped and the pomegranates lay In the dust with the lamps that had glimmered all day; The censers and altar the ashes must claim, Though their unalloyed gold be the gold of Parvaim.

Fierce raged the consumer insatiate and strong, And cursed was its light by that soul-stricken throng, Who beheld their destruction and anguish and shame, Engraved by the lurid and forked tongues of flame, On pillar and pommel and chapiter high, Distinct as the law they had dared to defy, Was traced through the cloud where the Deity shone By the finger of G.o.d on the tablets of stone; They beheld e'en the Holy of Holies consume; Then with frenzied bemoaning lamented their doom.

The cedars of Lebanon thrilled with the wail That swept like a torrent Jehoshaphat's vale; Mount Tabor and Zion re-echoed afar The voice of lamenting for Judah's lost star; The Kedron replied from its sanctified glade; The olive-leaves shook in Gethsemane's shade; And a strange world came forth from the regions of s.p.a.ce And hung like a sword o'er the grave of that race; While the watchman, who terror-struck gazed on the sight, Not a signal gave forth from his fire-girded height, But breathlessly muttered, with cold lips and pale, "'T is the tenth day of Lous,--Jerusalem, wail!"

Day dawned o'er Judea, but never again Might the sunbeam in splendor flash back from her fane.

No prophet stood forth, and, with prescience sublime, Told of light in the Future unkindled by Time: No poet-king sounded his lyre o'er her tomb; No ruler went up 'mid the cloud's awful gloom And fervently plead with Jehovah's fierce ire; No G.o.d on Mount Sinai descended in fire; The eyes of the daughters of Rachel were dim; The priesthood were anguished by visions of HIM Who, patient and G.o.d-like, climbed Calvary's side; The ancient men sorrowed by Siloah's tide, And Israel to shame and oppression were sold, To bondage and exile for ages untold; And the hearts of the captives grew hollow and dry As the fruit that o'er Sodom hangs fair to the eye.

THE FIRST LOOK.

I heard the strokes of the midnight bell As they thrilled the quiet air, And saw the soft, white curtains wave In the lamp's uncertain glare; And felt the breath of the July night, Laden with fragrance and warmth and blight.

I knew that scarcely an hour before, With plaintive and feeble wail, A spirit had entered the gates of time, A being helpless and frail; That cradled beside me the stranger lay, Though I had not dared o'er her face to pray.

But roused by the voice of the midnight chime, O'er the little one I bent, And soft, sweet eyes were upraised to mine, As blue as the firmament,-- Eyes that had never beheld the day, Or the chastened light of the moonbeam's ray.

O wonderful meeting, on the verge Of Life and the dark BEYOND!

O wonderful glance from soul to soul United by tenderest bond!

The one corroded with earth and care, The other as falling snow-flakes fair;--

The one oppressed with contrition's tear, Familiar with grief and sin, The other with naught but the angel's face Who ushered the human in; The one a wrestler with Fate's decrees, The other environed with saintly ease;--

The one acquainted with Death and change, And with anguish faint and pale, The other as fresh as the earliest rose That opened in Eden's vale.

Dear Lord! that ever the blight should fall, That sin should sully and Death appall!

THE DAUGHTER OF JEPHTHAH AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

Night bent o'er the mountains With aspect serene; The deep waters slept 'Neath the moon's pallid sheen, And the stars in their courses Moved noiseless on high, As a soul, when it cleaveth In thought the blue sky.

The low winds were spent With the fever of day, And stirred scarce a leaf Of the green wood's array; And the white, fleecy clouds Hovered light on the air, Like an angel's wing, bent For a penitent prayer.

Sleep hushed in the city The tumult and strife, And calmed in the spirit The unrest of life: But one, where Mount Lebanon Lifted its snow, Slumbered not till the morn Wakened earth with its glow.

Beneath the dark cedars, Majestic, sublime, That for ages had mocked Both at tempest and Time, In whose tops the wild eagle His eyrie had made, She knelt with pale cheek In the damp, mossy glade.

The small hands were folded In wors.h.i.+p divine, And the silent leaves thrilled.

In that lone forest shrine, With the voice of the pleader, That, earnest and low, Was sad as the sea-sh.e.l.l's And plaintive with woe.

She prayed not for life, Though Youth's early bloom Glowed on her fair cheek, And recoiled from the tomb; But a heart pure and strong, Sublimed by its pain,-- A spirit attuned To the seraph's bright strain.

She saw not the dark boughs That, spectral and h.o.a.r, With lattice-work rude Arched her wide temple o'er; She marked not their shadows Gigantic and dim; Her soul was communing In triumph with Him;--

With the Ancient of Days, Who from mercy-seat high Beheld the pale pleader With vigilant eye; And Peace with white pinion Came down from His throne, And the gleam of her wing On that fair forehead shone.

O Thou that upholdest The feeble and frail, And leadest the pilgrim Through Life's narrow vale!

When the days that are measured My spirit below Shall have ceased to the past From the future to flow,--

May the Summoner find me As placid and strong, As meet for endurance Of agony long, With a faith as divine And vision as clear, As the watchers who wept On the hills of Judaea!

MONA LISA.

Leonardo da Vinci is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of Mona Lisa, a fair Florentine, without being able to come up to the idea of her beauty.

Artist! lay the brush aside; Twilight gathers chill and gray; Turn the picture to the wall,-- Thou hast wrought in vain to-day.

Thrice twelve months have hastened by Since thy canvas first grew bright With that brow's bewitching beauty, And that dark eye's melting light.

But the early morning s.h.i.+neth On thy tireless labors yet, And the portrait stands before thee Till the evening sun has set.

Faultless is the robe that falleth Round that form of matchless grace; Faultless is the softened outline Of the fair and oval face.

Thou hast caught the wondrous beauty Of the round cheek's roseate hue, And the full, red lips are smiling As this morn they smiled on you.

To that Lady thou hast given Immortality below; Wherefore then, with moody glances, Dost thou from thy labor go?

From the living face of beauty Beams the soul's expressive ray, And with all thy G.o.d-like genius This thou never canst portray.