Lays Of Ancient Virginia, And Other Poems Part 6

Angels of Earth! they soothe and bless The troubled soul of man, Bestow the most of happiness, They can.

Angels of Earth--they are but few, Sustained by Heavenly grace, To raise again, and to renew, Our race.

Predestined thus they do retain That image earliest given, To Adam, yet unknowing pain, From heaven.

They move before our wondering eyes, A vision pa.s.sing strange, And sure we feel from yonder skies, They range.

But oft, as brightest flowers and bows, The earliest fade and die; This glorious vision soonest goes On high.

Our verdant vale once knew a maid, Who dwelt in such a light, Her presence made the spirit's shade, Look bright.

Harmonia was her name. Her voice Was tremulously low; To hear it made the heart rejoice And glow.

Could I compare that voice divine, To bird's most joyous lay, When hailing from his lofty pine, Young day?

Or, to the thrush's full, rich song That gushes from her breast, And hushes all wild Pa.s.sion's throng To rest?

Could I compare the sight of her, To glorious angel spring-- To whose sweet breath--all lands--seas--stir, And sing.

Oh fair Harmonia! G.o.d is love, Who gave thee to our earth, To renovate and lift above Our birth.

Harmonia dwelt within a vale Of wildest loveliness, Where sweetest odors fill'd the gale To bless.

And so they called it "vale of Spring,"

This dear Harmonia's home; Where Beauty shed, with spendthrift wing, Her bloom.

The pine-crowned mountains stood around, To screen the lovely dale, From tempest's stroke, and lightning's wound, Fierce gale.

Harmonia grew to woman's pride, And blent her life with one; Like rivers bright, now side by side, They run.

The tale of grief, the sinner's tear, Come not to them in vain; The sad, remorseful wretch they cheer, Again.

Oh ne'er thought we, a vale of earth, With morn, and noon, and even, Could seem to own the very worth Of heaven.

Such is the valley of the spring, Our sweet Harmonia's home, Where beauty sheds, with liberal wing, Her bloom.

Meek Eva is another soul, Ordained to soothe and bless, And charm to joy, with soft control, Distress.

Meek Eva hath great, gleaming eyes, Full-orbed with radiant light, Which bring the beauty of the skies, To sight.

No word of anger ever falls, From her sweet mouth of grace; No sinful pa.s.sion ever palls Her face.

Sweet Eva lives to do but good, In all her gentle life: With her good fame, the neighborhood, Is rife.

Angels of good, they shed abroad The spirit of the dove; For He who gave them, is a G.o.d Of love.

Angels of light--they make a heaven Of such a world as this-- They make the rugged pathway even, To Bliss.

Angels of Earth--but we shall see These angels yet again; Where angels, robed in purity, E'er reign.

AUSTRALIA; OR, THE NEW GOLDEN AGE.

In ancient days, in old, immortal Rome, Where virtues, surnamed Roman, had their home; When Virtue triumphed over Vice, and threw Across their annals, a more lovely hue; When every citizen was proud to be The state's fast friend, and venal bribes would flee; When manhood wrote upon each lofty brow That glorious seal which makes the meaner bow; When Industry, Art, Science, Learning cast That light o'er Rome which gilds her to the last; The Roman minstrel caught the sacred flame, And made that age the chosen child of fame: The Golden Age recalled the happy hour, When man walked sinless in the first, sweet bower.

Such was the glorious golden Age of yore,-- That golden Age of virtue is no more.

The modern, brighter, happier Age of Gold;-- Oh! dost thou mean that Vice lies dead and cold In her detested grave, where none will shed, Not even her slaves, a tear above her, dead-- That Virtue lives--the rainbow child of heaven, And holds the balance in these centuries even?

The Golden Age! the words are still the same,-- The meaning once man's glory--now his shame.

Hail thou new Golden Age! O heavenly Age!

Mankind sustains thee with a n.o.ble rage: All, all unite to gild thee with some rays Of gathered light--themselves with shining praise.

See! how they rush, and leave sweet childhood's home, The serf his hut, the lordly man his dome, Forsakes, with callous heart, each hallow'd scene, The oft frequented tree, the shady green; Swift, swift they fly to see the realms of gold, And think to reap the joy their raving fancies told.

Ye, isles of Britain! see them quickly leave Your rocky coasts, and never deign to grieve.

Ye, sunny sh.o.r.es of France! behold them start Nor shed one teardrop, as your ships depart.

Ye love-charmed bowers of Spain! your Houris' eyes Are rayless now--for brighter l.u.s.tre vies!

Ye, boundless plains, and giant hills, that rise In craggy pride, and prop Columbia's skies, Ye view your maddened sons, with guilty haste, Roll from your sh.o.r.es and tempt the watery waste-- Forgotten every claim that Virtue knows, Despised the scenes, where early childhood rose, Swift to the land of gold, they, joyful, flee, Nor care the sacred joys of home again to see.

Lo! where they rush, and leave the drooping land-- Unseen the parting tear, the loved one's waving hand.

Thus they depart--if those who walk the main, But few shall view their native scenes again.

Oh G.o.d! how vile thy creatures there become!

Thy pleadings powerless--all thy threatenings dumb: On far Australia's plains, by California's streams, Life's crimson flowing current often gleams: For Cain has found in gold another power To make him slay, as Envy at the hour, When Thou dost set the ever-during mark On him a Wanderer, where all earth was dark.

And how uncertain is the hold on life, In those sad lands of gold and constant strife.

Fiends strike by day; by night they ever lurk, By wood or cottage, swift to do Death's work; Till even when none are near to deal the blow, Imagination sees a hidden foe, Behind each tree, and by the little cot, Till gloomy Apprehension shades each spot.

Lo! in yon bower of honeysuckle where A thousand bees intone the summer air; And humming birds, a fairy birth of springs, Hover to suck the sweet on quivering wings; There, at the morning's sweet and balmy prime, A clasping couple blame the swift-wing'd Time.

Each morn, each eve, they seek this lonely bower, And deeply bless its fair and fragrant flower, Which shadows o'er so much of wildest bliss-- The burning glance--the long and honied kiss-- The broken sigh--the murmured, tender word, Whose thrilling tone the inmost heart hath stirred-- The matchless joy which makes us hold as nought, All pangs that Fate may bring, or ever brought.

The lover hears that far amid the West, Gold gleams within each river's crystal breast-- That, wide and far, the gorgeous vision smiles, And laps the spirit in delicious wiles.

He quits--he flies--he will behold the strand, Where Wealth lies gasping for his tardy hand.

He will return--an edifice shall rise In stately grandeur to the curving skies; In their own land, his lovely bride and he, Will move a lord and lady of degree.

She springs--she flings her fair, etherial form Upon his breast, which once, with love, was warm-- But now curst love of gold has surely chilled, The heart that once her love so wildly thrilled.

Her long, fair locks, distracted, stream below, Her gushing tears like wintry torrents, flow: Her Herbert steels his heart against their power,-- The ship that wafts him sails, ere morning's hour.

At length he hails the longed for, distant sh.o.r.e; The perils of the deep, at least, are o'er, No fell disease has struck, with vengeful power, His form to earth, to this protracted hour.

He sees the land--before his gaze unfold The mighty, gorgeous realms of guilt and gold.

How swells his bursting heart with evil pride!

Cursed pride, for which so many souls have died.

Accursed pride of Lucre--loathsome Dame Of every sin on earth that hath a name.

In fancy now he sees his palace soar A fairy work! upon his childhood's sh.o.r.e; In fancy sees his smiling, loving bride, A queen amid her menial train preside; And quite forgets that she his wiser wife, Would love some cot, wherein to pa.s.s their life:-- Till Fate, vindictive, lays her lover low Far from the hand which might relieve his woe.

At last, he dies--his spirit's latest groan By her unheard--his latest wish unknown.

Thus Heaven hath punished him whose love of gold Hath made him slight what he should dearest hold.

Beside yon haw-crowned hill, a widowed dame, Dwelt with her son, by whom her living came.

Enticed by gorgeous dreams that haunt his sleep, Her age's pillar wanders o'er the deep-- Deserts his aged, widowed, trembling dame-- Ah thus will gain destroy the sense of shame!

There on those barren hills and burning plains, His insane fancy gloats on glittering gains.

Until, at last, avenging fever lays, His form on earth, through dark, delirious days, Without a mother's soothing care to ease His dying throes, beyond those distant seas.

Yet, when, in that brief s.p.a.ce which comes before, The spirit flies, to visit earth no more, A transient light breads on his wildest brain, His bosom speaks in this lamenting strain!