Poems by Samuel G. Goodrich Part 7

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Dream of Youth]

In days of yore, while yet the world was new, And all around was beautiful to view-- When spring or summer ruled the happy hours, And golden fruit hung down mid opening flowers; When, if you chanced among the woods to stray, The rosy-footed dryad led the way,-- Or if, beside a mountain brook, your path, You ever caught some naad at her bath: 'Twas in that golden day, that Damon strayed.

Musing, alone, along a Grecian glade.

Retired the scene, yet in the morning light, Athens in view, shone glimmering to the sight.

'Twas far away, yet painted on the skies, It seemed a marble cloud of glorious dyes, Where yet the rosy morn, with lingering ray, Loved on the sapphire pediments to play.

But why did Damon heed the _distant_ scene?

For he was young, and all around was green: A noisy brook was romping through the dell, And on his ear the laughing echoes fell: Along his path the stooping wild flowers grew, And woo'd the very zephyrs as they flew.

Then why young Damon, heeding nought around, Seemed in some thrall of distant vision bound, I cannot tell--but dreamy grew his gaze, And all his thought was in a misty maze.

Awhile he sauntered--then beneath a tree, He sat him down, and there a reverie Came o'er his spirit like a spell,--and bright, A truth-like vision, shone upon his sight.

Around on every side, with glowing pinions, A circling band, as if from Jove's dominions, All wooing came, and sought with wily art, To steal away the youthful dreamer's heart.

One offered wealth--another spoke of fame, And held a wreath to twine around his name.

One brought the pallet, and the magic brush, By which creative art bids nature blush, To see her rival--and the artful boy, His story told--the all-entrancing joy His skill could give,--but well the rogue concealed The piercing thorns that flourish, unrevealed, Along the artist's path--the poverty, the strife Of study, and the weary waste of life-- All these, the drawback of his wily tale, The little artist covered with a veil.

Young Damon listened, and his heart beat high-- But now a cunning archer gained his eye-- And stealing close, he whispered in his ear, A glowing tale, so musical and dear, That Damon vowed, like many a panting youth, To Love, eternal constancy and truth!

But while the whisper from his bosom broke, A fearful Image to his spirit spoke: With frowning brow, and giant arm he stood, Holding a gla.s.s, as if in threatening mood, He waited but a moment for the sand, To sweep the idle Dreamer from the land!

Young Damon started, and his dream was o'er, But to his soul, the seeming vision bore A solemn meaning, which he could not spurn-- And Youth, perchance, may from our fable learn, That while the beckoning pa.s.sions woo and sigh, TIME, with his ready scythe, stands listening by.

Remembrance.[A]

You bid the minstrel strike the lute, And wake once more a soothing tone-- Alas! its strings, untuned, are mute, Or only echo moan for moan.

The flowers around it twined are dead, And those who wreathed them there, are flown; The spring that gave them bloom is fled, And winter's frost is o'er them thrown.

Poor lute! forgot 'mid strife and care, I fain would try thy strings once more,-- Perchance some lingering tone is there-- Some cherished melody of yore.

If flowers that bloom no more are here, Their odors still around us cling-- And though the loved are lost-still dear, Their memories may wake the string.

I strike--but lo, the wonted thrill, Of joy in sorrowing cadence dies: Alas! the minstrel's hand is chill, And the sad lute, responsive, sighs.

'Tis ever thus--our life begins, In Eden, and all fruit seems sweet-- We taste and knowledge, with our sins, Creeps to the heart and spoils the cheat.

In youth, the sun brings light alone-- No shade then rests upon the sight-- But when the beaming morn is flown, We see the shadows--not the light

I once found music every where-- The whistle from the willow wrung-- The string, set in the window, there, Sweet measures to my fancy flung.

But now, this dainty lute is dead-- Or answers but to sigh and wail, Echoing the voices of the fled, Pa.s.sing before me dim and pale!

Yet angel forms are in that train, And One upon the still air flings, Of woven melody, a strain, Down trembling from Her heaven-bent wings.

'Tis past--that Speaking Form is flown-- But memory's pleased and listening ear, Shall oft recall that choral tone, To love and poetry so dear.

And far away in after time, Shall blended Piety and Love Find fond expression in the rhyme, Bequeathed to earth by One above.

Poor lute!--thy bounding pulse is still,-- Yet all thy silence I forgive, That thus thy last--thy dying thrill, Would make Her gentle virtues live!

[Footnote A: Written by request for the "Memorial," a work published in New-York, 1850, in commemoration of the late Frances S. Osgood,--edited by Mary E. Hewett.]

The Old Oak.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Old Oak]

Friend of my early days, we meet once more!

Once more I stand thine aged boughs beneath, And hear again the rustling music pour, Along thy leaves, as whispering spirits breathe.

Full many a day of suns.h.i.+ne and of storm, Since last we parted, both have surely known; Thy leaves are thinned, decrepit is thy form,-- And all my cherished visions, they are flown!

How beautiful, how brief, those sunny hours Departed now, when life was in its spring-- When Fancy knew no scene undecked with flowers, And Expectation flew on Fancy's wing!

Here, on the bank, beside this whispering stream, Which still runs by as gayly as of yore, Marking its eddies, I was wont to dream Of things away, on some far fairy sh.o.r.e.

Then every whirling leaf and bubbling ball, That floated by, was full of radiant thought; Each linked with love, had music at its call, And thrilling echoes o'er my bosom brought.

The bird that sang within this gnarled oak, The waves that dallied with its leafy shade, The mellow murmurs from its boughs that broke, Their joyous tribute to my spirit paid.

No phantom rose to tell of future ill, No grisly warning marr'd my prophet dreams-- My heart translucent as the leaping rill, My thoughts all free and flas.h.i.+ng at its beams.

Here is the gra.s.sy knoll I used to seek At summer noon, beneath the spreading shade, And watch the flowers that stooped with glowing cheek, To meet the romping ripples as they played.

Here is the spot which memory's magic gla.s.s Hath often brought, arrayed in fadeless green, Making this oak, this brook, this waving gra.s.s-- A simple group--fond Nature's fairest scene.

And as I roamed beside the Rhone or Rhine, Or other favored stream, in after days, With jealous love, this rivulet would s.h.i.+ne, Full on my heart, and claim accustomed praise.

And oh! how oft by sorrow overborne, By care oppressed, or bitter malice wrung, By friends betrayed, or disappointment torn, My weary heart, all sickened and unstrung--

Hath yearned to leave the bootless strife afar, And find beneath this oak a quiet grave, Where the rough echo of the world's loud jar, Yields to the music of the mellow wave!

And now again I stand this stream beside; Again I hear the silver ripples flow-- I mark the whispers murmuring o'er the tide, And the light bubbles trembling as they go.

But oh! the magic-spell that lingered here, In boyhood's golden age, my heart to bless, With the bright waves that rippled then so clear, Is lost in ocean's dull forgetfulness.

Gone are the visions of that glorious time-- Gone are the glancing birds I loved so well, Nor will they wake again their silver chime, From the deep tomb of night in which they dwell!

And if perchance some fleeting memories steal, Like far-off echoes to my dreaming ear, Away, ungrasped, the cheating visions wheel, As spectres start upon the wing of fear.

Alas! the glorious sun, which then was high, Touching each common thing with rosy light, Is darkly banished from the lowering sky-- And life's dull onward pathway lies, in night.

Yes--I am changed--and this gray gnarled form, Its leaves all scattered by the rending blast, Is but an image of my heart;--the storm-- The storm of life, doth make us such at last!

Farewell, old oak! I leave thee to the wind, And go to struggle with the chafing tide-- Soon to the dust thy form shall be resigned, And I would sleep thy crumbling limbs beside.