Selections from American poetry Part 34

"Here's Cooper, who's written six volumes to show He's as good as a lord: well, let's grant that he's so; If a person prefer that description of praise, Why, a coronet's certainly cheaper than bays; But he need take no pains to convince us he's not (As his enemies say) the American Scott.

Choose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud That one of his novels of which he's most proud, And I'd lay any bet that, without ever quitting Their box, they'd be all, to a man, for acquitting.

He has drawn you he's character, though, that is new, One wildflower he's plucked that is wet with the dew Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to mince, He has done naught but copy it ill ever since; His Indians, with proper respect be it said, Are just Natty b.u.mpo daubed over with red, And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat, Rigged up in duck pants and a sou'-wester hat, (Though once in a Coffin, a good chance was found To have slipt the old fellow away underground.) All his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks The derniere chemise of a man in a fix, (As a captain besieged, when his garrison's small, bets up caps upon poles to be seen o'er the wall;) And the women he draws from one model don't vary, All sappy as maples and flat as a prairie.

When a character's wanted, he goes to the task As a cooper would do in composing a cask; He picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful, Just hoops them together as tight as is needful, And, if the best fortune should crown the attempt, he Has made at the most something wooden and empty.

"Don't suppose I would underrate Cooper's abilities If I thought you'd do that, I should feel very ill at ease; The men who have given to one character life And objective existence, are not very rife, You may number them all, both prose-writers and singers, Without overrunning the bounds of your fingers, And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker Than Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar.

"There is one thing in Cooper I like, too, and that is That on manners he lectures his countrymen gratis, Not precisely so either, because, for a rarity, He is paid for his tickets in unpopularity.

Now he may overcharge his American pictures, But you'll grant there's a good deal of truth in his strictures; And I honor the man who is willing to sink Half his present repute for the freedom to think, And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, Will risk t'other half for the freedom to speak, Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store, Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower.

VI. Poe and Longfellow.

"There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge, Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, In a way to make people of common-sense d.a.m.n metres, Who has written some things quite the best of their kind, But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind, Who--but hey-day! What's this? Messieurs Mathews and Poe, You mustn't fling mud-b.a.l.l.s at Longfellow so, Does it make a man worse that his character's such As to make his friends love him (as you thin) too much?

Why, there is not a bard at this moment alive More willing than he that his fellows should thrive, While you are abusing him thus, even now He would help either one of you out of a dough; You may say that he's smooth and all that till you're hoa.r.s.e But remember that elegance also is force; After polishing granite as much as you will, The heart keeps its tough old persistency still; Deduct all you can that still keeps you at bay, Why, he'll live till men weary of Collins and Gray.

'Tis truth that I speak Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change a line In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline.

That's not ancient nor modern, its place is apart Where time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art, 'Tis a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and strife As quiet and chaste as the author's own life.

VII. Irving.

"What! Irving? thrice welcome, warm heart and fine brain, You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair; Nay, don't be embarra.s.sed, nor look so beseeching,-- I shan't run directly against my own preaching, And, having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; But allow me to speak what I honestly feel,-- To a true poet-heart add the fun of d.i.c.k Steele, Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill, With the whole of that partnership's stock and good will, Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell, The fine old English Gentleman, simmer it well, Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain That only the finest and clearest remain, Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves, And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserving A name either English or Yankee,--just Irving.

VIII. Holmes.

"There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit The electrical tingles of hit after hit; In long poems 'tis painful sometimes, and invites A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, Which p.r.i.c.ks down its little sharp sentences spitefully As if you got more than you'd t.i.tle to rightfully, And you find yourself hoping its wild father Lightning Would flame in for a second and give you fright'ning.

He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre, But many admire it, the English pentameter, And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse, With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse, Nor e'er achieved aught in 't so worthy of praise As the tribute of Holmes to the grand Ma.r.s.eillaise.

You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Timon; Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on, Heaping verses on verses and tames upon tomes, He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of Holmes.

His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satyric In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes That are trodden upon are your own or your foes'.

IX. Lowell.

"There is Lowell, who's striving Parna.s.sus to climb With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching; His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, But he'd rather by half make a drum of the sh.e.l.l And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem, At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem.

X. Spirit of Ancient Poetry.

"My friends, in the happier days of the muse, We were luckily free from such things as reviews, Then naught came between with its fog to make clearer The heart of the poet to that of his hearer; Then the poet brought heaven to the people, and they Felt that they, too, were poets in hearing his lay; Then the poet was prophet, the past in his soul Pre-created the future, both parts of one whole; Then for him there was nothing too great or too small.

For one natural deity sanctified all; Then the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods Save the spirit of silence that hovers and broods O'er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods He asked not earth's verdict, forgetting the clods, His soul soared and sang to an audience of G.o.ds.

'Twas for them that he measured the thought and the line, And shaped for their vision the perfect design, With as glorious a foresight, a balance as true, As swung out the worlds in the infinite blue; Then a glory and greatness invested man's heart The universal, which now stands estranged and apart, In the free individual moulded, was Art; Then the forms of the Artist seemed thrilled with desire For something as yet unattained, fuller, higher, As once with her lips, lifted hands, and eyes listening, And her whole upward soul in her countenance glistening, Eurydice stood--like a beacon unfired, Which, once touched with flame, will leap heav'nward inspired-- And waited with answering kindle to mark The first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark.

Then painting, song, sculpture, did more than relieve the need that men feel to create and believe, And as, in all beauty, who listens with love Hears these words oft repeated--'beyond and above.'

So these seemed to be but the visible sign Of the grasp of the soul after things more divine; They were ladders the Artist erected to climb O'er the narrow horizon of s.p.a.ce and of time, And we see there the footsteps by which men had gained To the one rapturous glimpse of the never-attained, As shepherds could erst sometimes trace in the sod The last spurning print of a sky-cleaving G.o.d.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

OLD IRONSIDES

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar;-- The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the floods And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee;-- The harpies of the sh.o.r.e shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

O better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the G.o.d of storms, The lightning and the gale!

THE LAST LEAF

I saw him once before, As he pa.s.sed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found, By the Crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said-- Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago-- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crock is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.

MY AUNT

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!

Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her,--though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!

Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way?

How can she lay her gla.s.ses down, And say she reads as well, When through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?

Her father--grandpapa! forgive This erring lip its smiles-- Vowed she should make the finest girl Within a hundred miles; He sent her to a stylish school; 'Twas in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board, To make her straight and tall; They laced her up, they starved her down, To make her light and small; They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, They screwed it up with pins;-- O never mortal suffered more In penance for her sins.