The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 11

[Transcriber's note: The original text referred to the "Louirville Journal" (clearly an erratum).]

My Father! Orphan lips unknown To love's sweet uses sob the word My father! dim with anguish, heard In Heaven between a storm of moan And the white calm that faith hath fixed For solace, far beyond the world, Where, all our starry dreams unfurled, We drink the wine of peace unmixed.

Mine! folded in the awful trust That draws the world's face down in awe, Holding her breath, as if she saw G.o.d's secret written in the dust-- My father! oh, the dreary years The dreary winds have wailed across Since his path, from the hills of loss, Wound, shining, o'er the golden spheres.

What time the Angel at our door Said soft, between our orphan-moan-- Arise! oh, soul! the night is done And day hath bloomed forevermore!

I locked my icy hand across My sobbing heart and sadly cried-- I lose thee in the glorified-- The world is darkened with my loss!

Oh, Angel! cried I--wrath complete!

With awful brows and eyes intense!

(For faith's white robe of reverence Slid noiseless to my sorrow's feet) Oh, Angel, help me out of strife!

I could have borne all mortal pain-- I could have lived my life in vain-- But this hath touched my inner life!

And eighteen hundred fifty-seven Hath filled a decade of slow years Since first my orphan cries and tears Broke wild across the walls of Heaven.

This eve his grave is winter-white!

And 'twixt the snow-wind's stormy thrills I hear across the Northern hills The solemn footsteps of the night!

Blow wind! Oh, wind, blow wild and high!

Blow o'er the dismal s.p.a.ce of woods-- Blow down the roaring Northern floods And let the dreary day go by!

Blow, wind, from out the shining West, And wrap the hazy world in glow-- Blow wind and drift about my snow The summer of his endless rest!

For he has fallen fast asleep And cannot give me moan for moan-- My heart is heavy as a stone And there is no one left to weep!

My _soul_ is heavy and doth lie Reaching up from my wretchedness-- Reaching up blindly for redress The stern gray walls of ent.i.ty!

Once in the golden spring-time hours, In the sweet garden of my youth, There fell a seed of bitter truth That sprang and shadowed all the flowers-- Alone! The roses died apace And pale the mournful violet blew-- Only the royal lily grew And glorified the lonesome place!

In me the growth of human ills Than human love had reached no higher, But Seraphim with lips of fire Have won me to the shining hills-- I cannot hide my soul in art-- I cannot mend my life's defect-- This thunderous s.p.a.ce of intellect G.o.d gave me for a peaceful heart!

Hush! oh, my mournful heart, be still, The heavy night is coming on, But heavier lie the shadows drawn About his grave so low and chill-- From out the awful sphere of G.o.d, Oh, deathly wind, blow soft and low!

My soul is weary and would go Where never foot of mortal trod!

AT THE NIGHTFALL.

I muse alone in the fading light, Where the mournful winds forever Sweep down from the dim old hills of night, Like the wail of a haunted river.

Alone! by the grave of a buried love, The ghostly mist is parted, Where the stars shine faint in the blue above, Like the smile of the broken-hearted.

The living turn from my fond embrace, As if no love were needed; The tears I wept on thy young dead face Were never more unheeded

Than my wild prayer for peace unwon-- One pure affection only, One faithful heart to lean upon, When life is sad and lonely.

The low gra.s.sy roof, my glorious dead, Is bright with the b.u.t.tercup's blossom, And the night-blooming roses burn dimly and red On the green sod that covers thy bosom.

Thy pale hands are folded, oh beautiful saint, Like lily-buds chilly and dew-wet, And the smile on thy lip is as solemn and faint As the beams of a norland sunset.

The angel that won thee a long time ago To the sh.o.r.e of the glorious immortals, In the sphere of the starland shall wed us, I know, When I pa.s.s through the beautiful portals.

THE MIDNIGHT CHIME.

Suggested by the tolling of the bell on the sash factory in Port Deposit on a stormy night in January, 1856.

The rain is the loudest and wildest Of rains that ever fell; And the winds like an army of chanters Through the desolate pine-woods swell, And hark! through the shout of the tempest, The sound of the midnight bell.

Now close on the storm it rises, Now sadly it sinks with a moan-- Like a human heart in its anguish, Crushing a fruitless groan-- Like a soul that goes wailing and pining, Thro' the motherless world, alone.

Is it hung in an ancient turret?

Is it swung by a mortal hand?

Is it chiming in woe or gladness, Its symphonies sweet and grand?

Is it rung for a shadowy sorrow, In the shadowy phantom land?

Alas for the beautiful guesses That live in a poet's rhyme-- 'Tis only the bell of the factory Tolling its woe sublime; And the wind is the ghostly ringer, Ringing the midnight chime.

Toll, mournful bell of the tempest, Through my dreams by sleep unblest; My bosom is throbbing as madly To surges of wild unrest-- E'en as thy heart of iron Is beating thy brazen breast!

MAY-THALIA.

TO THOMAS HEMPSTEAD.

Thy lay--a sweet sung bridal hymn, Wedding the Old year to the New, 'Mid starry buds, and silver dew, And brooks, and birds in woodlands dim--

That touched the hidden veins of thought With the electric force of strife, Thrilled the dumb marble of my life Unto a perfect beauty wrought.

And straight, unclasping from my brow The th.o.r.n.y crown of lost delight, The solemn grandeur of the night Flashed on me from old years, as now.

The budding of my days is past!

And May sits weeping in the shade The weeds on April's grave have made, Blown slantwise in the sobbing blast.

Ah me! but in the Poet's heart Some pools of troubled water lie!

The hidden founts of agony, That keep the better springs apart.

What comfort is there in the Earth!

What height, or depth, where we may hide Our life long anguish, and abide The ripening unto newer birth!

But Poet, in thy song is power To lift the flood gates of my woe, And bid its solemn surging flow Far from the triumph of this hour.

Yea, rising from life's evil things, My soul, long blinded from the light, Starlit across the purple night Sweeps the red lightning of her wings!

I will be free! there is a strength In the full blowing of our youth To climb the rosied hills of truth From the dry desert's burning length.

From far a voice shouts to my fate As shout the choiring Angels, when The fiery cross of suffering men Falls broken at the narrow gate!

Be brave! be n.o.ble, and sublime Thyself unto a higher aim-- Keeping thy nature white of blame In all the dreary walks of time!