Poems by Samuel G. Goodrich Part 9

Thou who canst bid the billows cease to roll, Oh! smooth a pillow for my weary soul-- Watch o'er the pilgrim in his shadowy sleep, And send sweet dreams to light the sullen deep!'

Thus spoke the maniac, while above he gazed, And his pale hands beseechingly upraised; Then on the viewless wind he swiftly sprung, And far below his senseless form was flung; A thin white spray told where he met the wave, And battling surges thunder o'er his grave!

The Two Shades.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Two Shades]

Along that gloomy river's brim, Where Charon plies the ceaseless oar, Two mighty Shadows, dusk and dim, Stood lingering on the dismal sh.o.r.e.

Hoa.r.s.e came the rugged Boatman's call, While echoing caves enforced the cry-- And as they severed life's last thrall, Each Spirit spoke one parting sigh.

"Farewell to earth! I leave a name, Written in fire, on field and flood--

Wide as the wind, the voice of fame, Hath borne my fearful tale of blood.

And though across this leaden wave, Returnless now my spirit haste, Napoleon's name shall know no grave, His mighty deeds be ne'er erased.

The rocky Alp, where once was set My courser's hoof, shall keep the seal, And ne'er the echo there forget The clangor of my glorious steel.

Marengo's hill-sides flow with wine-- And summer there the olive weaves, But busy memory e'er will twine The blood-stained laurel with its leaves.

The Danube's rus.h.i.+ng billows haste With the black ocean-wave to hide-- Yet is my startling story traced, In every murmur of its tide.

The pyramid on Giseh's plain, Its founder's fame hath long forgot-- But from its memory, time, in vain Shall strive Napoleon's name to blot.

The bannered storm that floats the sky, With G.o.d's red quiver in its fold, O'er startled realms shall lowering fly, A type of me, till time is told.

The storm--a thing of weal and woe, Of life and death, of peace and power-- That lays the giant forest low, Yet cheers the bent gra.s.s with its shower-- That, in its trampled pathway leaves, The uptorn roots to bud anew, And where the past o'er ruin grieves, Bids fresher beauty spring to view:-- The storm--an emblem of my name,-- Shall keep my memory in the skies-- Its flash-wreathed wing, a flag of flame, Shall spread my glory as it flies."

The Spirit pa.s.sed, and now alone, The darker Shadow trod the sh.o.r.e-- Deep from his breast the parting tone Swept with the wind, the landscape o'er.

"Farewell! I will not speak of deeds,-- For these are written but in sand-- And, as the furrow choked with weeds, Fade from the memory of the land.

The war-plumed chieftain cannot stay, To guard the gore his blade hath shed-- Time sweeps the purple stain away, And throws a veil o'er glory's bed.

But though my form must fade from view.

And Byron bow to fate resigned,-- Undying as the fabled Jew, Harold's dark spirit stays behind!

And he who yet in after years, Shall tread the vine-clad sh.o.r.es of Rhine, In Chillon's gloom shall pour his tears, Or raptured, see blue Leman s.h.i.+ne-- He shall not--cannot, go alone-- Harold unseen shall seek his side: Shall whisper in his ear a tone, So seeming sweet, he cannot chide.

He cannot chide; although he feel, While listening to the magic verse, A serpent round his bosom steal, He still shall hug the coiling curse.

Or if beneath Italian skies, The wanderer's feet delighted glide, Harold, in merry Juan's guise, Shall be his tutor and his guide.

One living essence G.o.d hath poured In every heart--the love of sway-- And though he may not wield the sword, Each is a despot in his way.

The infant rules by cries and tears-- The maiden, with her sunny eyes-- The miser, with the h.o.a.rd of years-- The monarch, with his clanking ties.

To me the will--the power--were given.

O'er plaything man to weave my spell, And if I bore him up to heaven, 'Twas but to hurl him down to h.e.l.l.

And if I chose upon the rack Of doubt to stretch the tortured mind, To turn Faith's heavenward footstep back, Her hope despoiled--her vision, blind-- Or if on Virtue's holy brow, A wreath of scorn I sought to twine-- And bade her minions mocking bow, With sweeter vows at pleasure's shrine-- Or if I mirrored to the thought, With glorious truth the charms of earth, While yet the trusting fool I taught, To scoff at Him who gave it birth-- Or if I filled the soul with light, And bore its buoyant wing in air-- To plunge it down in deeper night, And mock its maniac wanderings there-- I did but wield the wand of power, That G.o.d intrusted to my clasp, And not, the tyrant of an hour-- Will I resign it to Death's grasp!

The despot with his iron chain, In idle bonds the limbs may bind-- He who would hold a sterner reign, Must twine the links around the mind.

Thus I have thrown upon my race, A chain that ages cannot rend-- And mocking Harold stays to trace, The slaves that to my sceptre bend."

The Teacher's Lesson.

I saw a child some four years old, Along a meadow stray; Alone she went--unchecked--untold-- Her home not far away.

She gazed around on earth and sky-- Now paused, and now proceeded; Hill, valley, wood,--she pa.s.sed them by, Unmarked, perchance unheeded.

And now gay groups of roses bright, In circling thickets bound her-- Yet on she went with footsteps light, Still gazing all around her.

And now she paused, and now she stooped, And plucked a little flower-- A simple daisy 'twas, that drooped Within a rosy bower.

The child did kiss the little gem, And to her bosom pressed it; And there she placed the fragile stem, And with soft words caressed it.

I love to read a lesson true, From nature's open book-- And oft I learn a lesson new, From childhood's careless look.

Children are simple--loving--true; 'Tis Heaven that made them so; And would you teach them--be so too-- And stoop to what they know.

Begin with simple lessons--things On which they love to look: Flowers, pebbles, insects, birds on wings-- These are G.o.d's spelling-book.

And children know His A, B, C, As bees where flowers are set: Would'st thou a skilful teacher be?-- Learn, then, this alphabet.

From leaf to leaf, from page to page, Guide thou thy pupil's look, And when he says, with aspect sage, "Who made this wondrous book?"

Point thou with reverent gaze to heaven, And kneel in earnest prayer, That lessons thou hast humbly given, May lead thy pupil there.

Perennials.

Life is a journey, and its fairest flowers Lie in our path beneath pride's trampling feet; Oh, let us stoop to virtue's humble bowers, And gather those, which, faded, still are sweet.

These way-side blossoms amulets are of price; They lead to pleasure, yet from dangers warn;-- Turn toil to bliss, this earth to Paradise, And sunset death to heaven's eternal morn.

A good deed done hath memory's blest perfume,-- A day of self-forgetfulness, all given To holy charity, hath perennial bloom That goes, undrooping, up from earth to heaven.

Forgiveness, too, will flourish in the skies-- Justice, transplanted thither, yields fair fruit; And if repentance, borne to heaven, dies, 'Tis that no tears are there to wet its root.

To a Lady who had been Singing.

The spirit-harp within the breast A spirit's touch alone can know,-- Yet thine the power to wake its rest, And bid its echoing numbers flow.

Yes,--and thy minstrel art the while, Can blend the tones of weal and we, So archly, that the heart may smile, Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow.

And thus thy wizard skill can weave Music's soft twilight o'er the breast, As mingling day and night, at eve, Robe the far purpling hills for rest.

Thy voice is treasured in my soul, And echoing memory shall prolong Those woman tones, whose sweet control Melts joy and sorrow into song.

The tinted sea-sh.e.l.l, borne away Far from the ocean's pebbly sh.o.r.e, Still loves to hum the choral lay, The whispering mermaid taught of yore.

The hollow cave, that once hath known Echo's lone voice, can ne'er forget-- But gives--though parting years have flown-- The wild responsive cadence yet.