Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 62

If a strong will and most courageous bearing, If to be cruel as the Roman Nero; If all that's chivalrous, and all that's daring, Can make a hero, then the boy's a hero!

But changing soon with his increasing stature, The boy is lost in manhood's riper age, And with him goes his former triple nature,-- No longer Poet, Hero, now, nor Sage!

=_396._= SONNET TO A CLAM.

Inglorious friend! most confident I am Thy life is one of very little ease; Albeit men mock thee with their similes, And prate of being "happy as a clam!"

What though thy sh.e.l.l protects thy fragile head From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?

Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee, While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed, And bear thee off,--as foemen take their spoil,-- Far from thy friends and family to roam; Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home, To meet destruction in a foreign broil!

Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

=_Lucy Hooper, 1816-1841._= (Manual, p. 524.)

=_397._= "THE DEATH-SUMMONS."

A voice is on mine ear--a solemn voice: I come, I come, it calls me to my rest; Faint not, my yearning heart; rejoice, rejoice; Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest: On the bright waters there, the living streams, Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary bark, Waked by rude waves no more from gentle dreams, Sadly to feel that earth to thee is dark-- Not bright as once; O, vain, vain memories, cease, I cast your burden down--I strive for peace.

I heed the warning voice: oh, spurn me not, My early friend; let the bruised heart go free: Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lot Hath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee; Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile, Thinking o'er wasted hours, a weary train, Cheered by the moon's soft light, the sun's glad smile, Watching the blue sky o'er my path of pain, Waiting nay summons: whose shall be the eye To glance unkindly--I have come to die!

Sweet words--to die! O, pleasant, pleasant sounds, What bright revealings to my heart they bring; What melody, unheard in earth's dull rounds, And floating from the land of glorious Spring The eternal home! my weary thoughts revive, Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love, Gentle and kindly thoughts for all that live, Fanned by soft breezes from the world above: And pausing not, I hasten to my rest-- Again, O, gentle summons, thou art blest!

=_Catharine Ann Warfield._=

=_398._= "THE RETURN TO ASHLAND.[85]"

Unfold the silent gates, The Lord of Ashland waits Patient without, to enter his domain; Tell not who sits within, With sad and stricken mien, That he, her soul's beloved, hath come again.

Long hath she watched for him, Till hope itself grew dim, And sorrow ceased to wake the frequent tear; But let these griefs depart, Like shadows from her heart-- Tell her, the long expected host is here.

He comes--but not alone, For darkly pressing on, The people pa.s.s beneath his bending trees, Not as they came of yore, When torch and banner bore Their part amid exulting harmonies.

But still, and sad, they sweep Amid the foliage deep, Even to the threshold of that mansion gray, Whither from life's unrest, As an eagle seeks his nest, It ever was his wont to flee away.

And he once more hath come To that accustomed home, To taste a calm, life never offered yet; To know a rest so deep, That they who watch and weep, In this vain world may well its peace regret.

[Footnote 85: The home of Henry Clay.]

=_Arthur Cleveland c.o.xe, 1818-._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_399._= THE HEART'S SONG.

In the silent midnight watches, List thy bosom door; How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, Knocketh evermore!

Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating; 'Tis thy heart of sin; 'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth, "Rise, and let me in."

Death comes down with reckless footstep To the hall and hut; Think you Death will tarry knocking Where the door is shut?

Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth; But thy door is fast.

Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth; Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand entreating Christ to let thee in, At the gate of heaven beating, Wailing for thy sin.

Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin, Hast thou then forgot?

Jesus waited long to know thee,-- Now he knows thee not.

=_William Ross Wallace, 1819-._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_400._= THE NORTH EDDA.

n.o.ble was the old North Edda, Filling many a n.o.ble grave, That for "man the one thing needful In his world is to be brave."

This, the Norland's blue-eyed mother Nightly chanted to her child, While the Sea-King, grim and stately, Looked upon his boy and smiled.

Let us learn that old North Edda Chanted grandly on the grave, Still for man the one thing needful In his world is to be brave.

Valkyrs yet are forth and choosing Who must be among the slain; Let us, like that grim old Sea-King, Smile at Death upon the plain,--

Smile at tyrants leagued with falsehood, Knowing Truth, eternal, stands With the book G.o.d wrote for Freedom Always open in her hands,--

Smile at fear when in our duty, Smile at Slander's Jotun-breath, Smile upon our shrouds when summoned Down the darkling deep of death.

Valor only grows a manhood; Only this upon our sod, Keeps us in the golden shadow Falling from the throne of G.o.d.

=_Walter Whitman, 1819-.[86]_=

From Leaves of Gra.s.s.

=_401._= THE BROOKLYN FERRY AT TWILIGHT.

I too, many and many a time cross'd the river, the sun half an hour high; I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls--I saw them high in the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies, I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong shadow, I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south.

I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water, Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams, Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head, in the sun-lit water, Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward, Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet, Look'd towards the lower bay to notice the arriving ships, Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me, Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor, The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars, The round masts, the swimming motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants, The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses, The white wake left by the pa.s.sage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels, The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set, The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening, The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store-houses by the docks, On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank'd on each side by the barges--the hay-boat, the belated lighter, On the neighboring sh.o.r.e, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night.

Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets.