Lays Of Ancient Virginia, And Other Poems Part 21

O poet, would'st thou make a name That ne'er will die, But be coeval with the lights In yonder sky?

Strike not a single, trembling chord, In the heart-lyre; But wake the full and sweet accord Of every wire.

Of joy, of grief, of hopeless love And pining care, Of terror, pain, and deep remorse, And wild despair.

Of Hope, of Faith, of Piety: Each fibre move; But yet the sweetest note shall be The note of Love.

Strike! poet! strike each quiv'ring chord, In that strange lyre, Then, men thy golden songs will h.o.a.rd, Till time expire.

THE CHILD'S PRAYER.

O Lord, I kneel at mother's knee, And lift my trembling heart to thee.

Send down thy grace, I meekly pray, To drive my evil thoughts away: Alas! even now I feel my heart, From G.o.d is learning to depart.

But Thou, even now, canst change my heart, For very good, O G.o.d, thou art; And thou can'st give me ample grace, To run aright my earthly race; Nor wander whither I must die, Far from the comfort of Thine eye.

Yes Lord! I beg thy Heavenly love, To fit me for a home above; That I may sing the anthems sweet Where pardon'd children all shall meet; And that on earth my walk may be, O G.o.d, forever nigh to Thee.

CRITICUS.

The Southern Muse--so long with drooping wing,-- The Southern Muse, alas! too sad to sing-- Her fair head drooped and dim her mournful eye, While pitying breezes sighed in sorrow by,-- At last--at last--a wondrous friend has found, Whose power shall make her through all time renowned: Oh! now to her what magic shall belong, To charm the nations with a peerless song!

Hail Criticus! thou marvel of the age!

Oh! thou wilt fire her with a n.o.ble rage!

Oh! thou her song wilt kindly patronize, And make her honored in the nation's eyes.

Oh! glorious vision which transports my soul, While thoughts of triumph through my bosom roll; The G.o.ddess comes, she brightly smiles once more, Nor sadly sighs, as long she sighed of yore; Her breath the fragrance of the Southern grove, Her voice the voice of victory and of love;-- Approaching proudly now, with sweetest strain, Greets Criticus, her G.o.dsire--but in vain.

How modest! Criticus! thou wilt not wear A single honor--n.o.bler is thy care-- Thou wilt not, merely, reign the Muse's sire; But thou wilt sometimes woo her willing lyre!

Earth! hear that song! The strains that softly sweep From mermaid's sh.e.l.l, across the moonlit deep-- The tones of visions which have only dwelt In that deep bosom which has wildly felt-- Those notes like far off music from the plain, Where grief nor hate can e'er be known again-- That haunt the spirit 'midst this lower sphere, And wake the dreamer's ever faithful tear-- How die away in saddest silence all Those strains, O Criticus! when thou dost--"squall!"

Sagacious Criticus! no witling's wit, Compares with thine, or durst compare with it.

How could Parna.s.sus rise in days of yore, Ere thou had'st taught the clumsy rocks to soar?

How could the muses in their ambient bower, In loftiest lays, antic.i.p.ate thy power!

How could the sparkling Helicon flow free, How durst it ripple, and not wait for thee?

No business had the Stagyrite to name The rules of verse; old Homer was to blame, For laying out too soon the Iliad's plan; Homer was nothing but a "blind, old man!"

Light, light that Ajax prayed for, now has come, And poetasters hence may read their doom!

O Grant us, sweetly, Grant, thy gentle roar, And pigs shall squeal, and a.s.ses bray no more![F]

Great Criticus! ill.u.s.trious lord of song!

To thee a double wreath shall e'er belong: The Critics' cypress and the Poet's bay Shall twine in love to deck thy brow for aye; For far o'er Dunciad's heroes shall thou reign, And ne'er shalt lose that honored seat again.

And still, while future ages roll along, Our Southern minstrels to thy court shall throng; There lowly fall, and humbly beg thee grant The sweet reward of their melodious chant; A verdant laurel for each beaming brow, To bloom through ages, as it bloometh now-- Or, if thou frown, receive thy chastening rod, Thou, Bard's Maecenas, and thou Poet's G.o.d!

[Footnote F: 16 lines above were written by Prof. E. Longley.]

TO MARY.

Now lovely Vesper shows her lamp, In yonder slowly darkening sky; It is the hour, when musing here, I heave for thee the bursting sigh.

Thus, Mary, as yon mournful pall Of darkness falls on all things round, Ah! tell me shall the gloom of fate, My cheerless pathway thus surround?

But, as yon lamp--the lamp of love!

With brilliant smile, relieves the gloom, Say, shall thy heavenly smile relieve The darkness of my mortal doom?

Alas! I do not know thy thoughts, If thou wilt slay, or sweetly save; Yet I shall love thee fondly still, Until I rest within the grave.

SONG OF THE CONVERTED HEATHEN.

The sky to me did never speak, The sea rolled ever dumb,-- Of him beneath whose wondrous power, Their mystic forms had come.

The sacred light was curtained back From my exploring eye, And I seemed left to grope in night, And there at last to die.

When lo! upon a day there came A Man, with placid brow, Who rent the curtain--and the light Is gushing on me now.

The sky doth speak to me of G.o.d, The deep and rolling sea Is ever grandly singing, Lord, To my bowed soul, of Thee.

Oh! I can see around them now A radiant light doth shine, A light that mocks the pencil's pride, A light that is divine.

SIN OF THE CHORAL SINGER.

Hark! the organ's solemn peal Ascends the lofty fane, To win the soul's repeal, From everlasting pain:

To waft the voice of praise To Him who reigns above, Which blends with burning lays Of Seraph's holy love.