Poets of the South Part 9

[Footnote 6: The years 1834-1840 were spent in Europe, chiefly in Italy.

Compare with this Byron's farewell to England, in Canto I of _Childe Harold_.]

SELECTION FROM GEORGE D. PRENTICE

THE CLOSING YEAR [1]

'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling,--'tis the knell Of the departed year.

No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred, As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand-- Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with his aged locks--and breathe, In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the earth forever.

'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart a specter dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have pa.s.sed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That specter lifts The coffin lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has pa.s.sed to nothingness.

The year Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful,-- And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man,--and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.

It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It pa.s.sed o'er The battle plain, where sword, and spear, and shield Flashed in the light of midday--and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the gra.s.s, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time!

Fierce spirit of the gla.s.s and scythe!--what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag--but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow,--cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water,--fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns,--mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain,--new empires rise, Gathering the strength of h.o.a.ry centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations,--and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of G.o.d, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pa.s.s away [2]

To darkle in the trackless void,--yet Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

[Footnote 1: See sketch of Prentice, page 14. The flight of time is another favorite theme with poets. _The Closing Year_ should be compared with Bryant's _The Flood of Years_; similar in theme, the two poems have much in common. The closing lines of Bryant's poem express a sweet faith that relieves the somber tone of the preceding reflections:--

"In the room Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw The heart, and never shall a tender tie Be broken; in whose reign the eternal Change That waits on growth and action shall proceed With everlasting Concord hand in hand."]

[Footnote 2. This is a reference to the belief that one of the seven stars originally supposed to form the Pleiades has disappeared. Such a phenomenon is not unknown; modern astronomers record several such disappearances. See Simms's _The Lost Pleiad_, following.]

SELECTIONS FROM WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS

THE LOST PLEIAD [1]

Not in the sky, Where it was seen So long in eminence of light serene,-- Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave, Nor down in mansions of the hidden deep, Though beautiful in green And crystal, its great caves of mystery,-- Shall the bright watcher have Her place, and, as of old, high station keep!

Gone! gone!

Oh! nevermore, to cheer The mariner, who holds his course alone On the Atlantic, through the weary night, When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep, Shall it again appear, With the sweet-loving certainty of light, Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep!

The upward-looking shepherd on the hills Of Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks, He wonders why her beauty doth not blaze, Gladding his gaze,-- And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous ways!

How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze, Much wondering, while the drowsy silence fills The sorrowful vault!--how lingers, in the hope that night May yet renew the expected and sweet light, So natural to his sight! [2]

And lone, Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone, Brood the once happy circle of bright stars: How should they dream, until her fate was known, That they were ever confiscate to death? [3]

That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars, And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, That they should fall from high; Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die, All their concerted springs of harmony Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone![4]

Ah! still the strain Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky; The sister stars, lamenting in their pain That one of the selected ones must die,-- Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest!

Alas! 'tis ever thus the destiny.

Even Rapture's song hath evermore a tone Of wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone.

The hope most precious is the soonest lost, The flower most sweet is first to feel the frost.

Are not all short-lived things the loveliest?

And, like the pale star, shooting down the sky, Look they not ever brightest, as they fly From the lone sphere they blest!

THE SWAMP FOX [5]

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, His friends and merry men are we; And when the troop of Tarleton [6] rides, We burrow in the cypress tree.

The turfy hammock is our bed, Our home is in the red deer's den, Our roof, the tree-top overhead, For we are wild and hunted men.

We fly by day and shun its light, But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, We mount and start with early night, And through the forest track our foe.[7]

And soon he hears our chargers leap, The flashing saber blinds his eyes, And ere he drives away his sleep, And rushes from his camp, he dies.

Free bridle bit, good gallant steed, That will not ask a kind caress To swim the Santee [8] at our need, When on his heels the foemen press,-- The true heart and the ready hand, The spirit stubborn to be free, The twisted bore, the smiting brand,-- And we are Marion's men, you see.

Now light the fire and cook the meal, The last, perhaps, that we shall taste; I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, And that's a sign we move in haste.

He whistles to the scouts, and hark!

You hear his order calm and low.

Come, wave your torch across the dark, And let us see the boys that go.

We may not see their forms again, G.o.d help 'em, should they find the strife!

For they are strong and fearless men, And make no coward terms for life; They'll fight as long as Marion bids, And when he speaks the word to shy, Then, not till then, they turn their steeds, Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.

Now stir the fire and lie at ease,-- The scouts are gone, and on the brush I see the Colonel [9] bend his knees, To take his slumbers too. But hush!

He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange; The man that's fighting day by day May well, when night comes, take a change, And down upon his knees to pray.

Break up that hoecake, boys, and hand The sly and silent jug that's there; I love not it should idly stand When Marion's men have need of cheer.

'Tis seldom that our luck affords A stuff like this we just have quaffed, And dry potatoes on our boards May always call for such a draught.

Now pile the brush and roll the log; Hard pillow, but a soldier's head That's half the time in brake and bog Must never think of softer bed.

The owl is hooting to the night, The cooter [10] crawling o'er the bank, And in that pond the flashing light Tells where the alligator sank.

What! 'tis the signal! start so soon, And through the Santee swamp so deep, Without the aid of friendly moon, And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!

But courage, comrades! Marion leads, The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night; So clear your swords and spur your steeds, There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, We leave the swamp and cypress tree, Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, And ready for the strife are we.

The Tory camp is now in sight, And there he cowers within his den; He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, He fears, and flies from Marion's men.

[Footnote 1: See note above. There is a peculiar fitness in the reference to the sea in this poem; for the constellation of the Pleiades was named by the Greeks from their word _plein_, to sail, because the Mediterranean was navigable with safety during the months these stars were visible.]

[Footnote 2: The poet seems to a.s.sociate the Chaldean shepherd with the Magi, who, as astrologers, observed the stars with profound interest. The hope expressed for the return of the star cannot be regarded, in the light of modern astronomy, as entirely fanciful. Only recently a new star has flamed forth in the constellation Perseus.]

[Footnote 3: The fixed stars, continually giving forth immeasurable quant.i.ties of heat, are in a process of cooling. Sooner or later they will become dark bodies. Astronomers tell us that there is reason to believe that the dark bodies or burned-out suns of the universe are more numerous than the bright ones, though the number of the latter exceeds 125 millions. The existence of such dark bodies has been established beyond a reasonable doubt.]

[Footnote 4: A reference to the old belief that the stars make music in their courses. In Job (x.x.xviii. 7) we read: "When the morning stars sang together." According to the Platonic philosophy, this music of the spheres, too faint for mortal ears, was heard only by the G.o.ds.