The Poets and Poetry of America

534

THE LAST TILT.

Ar twilight, through the shadow, fled
An ancient, war-worn knight,
Array'd in steel, from head to heel,
And on a steed of white;
And, in the knight's despite,
The horse pursued his flight:
For the old man's cheek was pale,
And his hands strove at the rein,
With the clutch of phrensied pain;
And his courser's streaming mane
Swept, dishevell'd, on the gale.

"Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell

Went wailing away over meadow and mere"SEVEN!"

Counted aloud by the sentinel clock

On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet

Fell, like lead, on the ear

As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.

The old knight heard the mystic clock;
And the sound, like a funeral-bell,
Rang in his ears till their caverns were full
Of the knoll of the desolate knell.
And the steed, as aroused by a spell,
Sprang away with a withering yell,
While the old man strove again,

But each time with feebler force,

To arrest the spectral horse

In its mad, remorseless course,

But, alas! he strove in vain.

Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell

Went wailing away over meadow and mere"EIGHT!"

Counted aloud by the sentinel clock

On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet

Fell, like lead, on the ear

As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.

The steed was white, and gaunt, and grim,
With lidless, leaden eyes,

That burn'd with the lurid, livid glare
Of the stars of Stygian skies;
And the wind, behind, with sighs,
Mimick'd his maniac cries,

While through the ebony gloom, alone,
Wan-visaged Saturn gazed

On the warrior-unamazed

On the steed whose eyeballs blazed

With a lustre like his own.

Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell

Went wailing away over meadow and mere"NINE!"

Counted aloud by the sentinel clock

On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet

Fell, like lead, on the ear

As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.

Athwart a swart and shadowy moor
The struggling knight was borne,
And far away, before him, gleam'd
A light like the gray of morn;

While the old man, weak, forlorn,
And wan, and travel-worn,
Gazed, mad with deathly fear:
For he dream'd it was the day,
Though the dawn was far away,
And he trembled with dismay

In the desert, dark and drear! "Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"TEN!"

Counted aloud by the sentinel clock

On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet

Fell, like lead, on the ear

As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.

In casque and cuirass, white as snow,
Came, merrily, over the wold,

A maiden knight, with lance and shield,
And a form of manly mould,
And a beard of woven gold:
When, suddenly, behold!—
With a loud, defiant cry,

And a tone of stern command,

The ancient knight, with lance in hand, Rush'd, thundering, over the frozen land, And bade him " Stand, or die!"

Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"ELEVEN!"

Counted aloud by the sentinel clock

On the turret of Time; and the regular beat
Of his echoing feet

Fell, like lead, on the ear

As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.

With his ashen lance in rest,

Career'd the youthful knight,

With a haughty heart, and an eagle eye,
And a visage burning bright-
For he loved the tilted fight —
And, under Saturn's light,
With a shock that shook the world,
The rude old warrior fell--and lay
A corpse-along the frozen clay!
As with a crash the gates of day
Their brazen valves unfurl'd.

"Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"TWELVE!"

Counted aloud by the sentinel clock

On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Of his echoing. feet

Fell, like lead, on the ear

As he left the dead Year on his desolate bier!

BERENICE.

I WOULD that I could lay me at thy feet,
And with a bosom, warm with rapture, greet
The rose-like fragrance of thy odorous sighs,
Drinking, with dazzled eyes,

The radiant glory of a face

HENRY B. HIRST.

Which, even in dreams, adorns the Italian skies
Of passionate love-the Astarte of their space!

This, in some quiet, column'd chamber, where
The glare of sunlight dies, yet all is light;
With all around us ruddy, rich, and rare-
Books red with gold, and mirrors diamond-bright, |
And choicest paintings, and rich flowers which bear
Their beauty, bloom, and fragrance, day and night,

And stately statues, white as gods, between
The scarlet blossoms and the leaves of green,
With all that Art creates, and Fancy rears,
And Genius snatches from supernal spheres.

All day, all day, dear love, would I lie there,
With elbow sunk in some soft ottoman,
Feeling far more than man,
Breathing the fragrance of the enchanted air
Swimming around thee; while, with book in hand,
I would unfold to thee the ancient sages-
Poet's, like CHAUCER'S, quaint, delicious pages,
And wander thoughtfully through the poet's land-
Through it by night-a calm, unclouded night,
Full of sweet dreams.

By murmurous streams,
Sparkling with starry gleams,

We'd pause, entranced by Dian's amber light,
And watch the Nereid rising from the wave,
Or see the Oread lave

Her faultless feet in lucid ripples, white
As Indian ivory with the milky ray,
Trembling around their forms in liquid play.

Then to some tall old wood, beneath old trees,
Which, in the primal hours,
Gave birth to flowers

Fairer than those which jewell'd Grecian leas
What time the Dryads woo'd the summer breeze.
We'd seek some mossy bank, and sit, and scan
The stars, forgetting earth and man,

And all that is of earth, and watch the spheres,
And dream we heard their music; and, with tears
Born of our bliss, arise, and walk again,
Languid with passion's epicurean pain.

Treading the feather'd grasses,
Through misty, moonlit passes,

On, on, along some vernal, verdant plain

Our steps should falter, while the linnet's strain
Made music for our feet, and, keeping time,
Our hearts replied with gentle chime.
As our souls throbb'd responsive to the rhyme
Of perfect love, which Nature murmur'd round,
Making earth holy ground,

And as the gods who ruled all things we saw.

Then giving way to mad imaginings

Born of the time and place-
The perfume which pervaded space,
The natural emotions of our race-
We'd vow that love should be the only law

Henceforth for earth; that even the rudest things
Should love and be beloved: while we,
The ADAM and Eve, should sit enthroned, and see
All earth an Eden, and with thankful eyes
Reverence God in our new paradise.

THE LOST PLEIAD.
BEAUTIFUL sisters! tell me, do you ever
Dream of the loved and lost one, she who fell
And faded in Love's turbid, crimson river?
The sacred secret tell.

Calmly the purple heavens reposed around her,
As, chanting harmonies, she danced along:
Ere Eros in his silken meshes bound her,
Her being pass'd in song.

Once on a day she lay in dreamy slumber;
Beside her slept her golden-tonguéd lyre;
And radiant visions-fancies without number-
Fill'd breast and brain with fire.
She dream'd; and in her dreams saw bending o'er
her

A form her fervid fancy deified;
And, waking, view'd the noble one before her,
Who woo'd her as his bride.

What words, what passionate words he breathed,
beseeching,

Have long been lost in the descending years;
Nevertheless, she listen'd to his teaching,

Smiling between her tears.

And ever since that hour the happy maiden
Wanders unknown of any one but Jove;
Regretting not the lost Olympian Aidenn
In the Elysium-Love!

NO MORE.

NO MORE-no more! What vague, mysterious,
Inexplicable terrors in the sound!

What soul-disturbing secrecies abound

In those sad syllables! and what delirious,
Wild phantasies, what sorrowful and what serious
Mysteries lie hid in them! No More-No More!
Where is the silent and the solemn shore,
Wash'd by what soundless seas, where all imperious
He reigns? And over what his awful reign?

Who questions, maddens! what is veil'd in shade,
Let sleep in shadow. When No More was made,
Eternity felt his deity on the wane,
And Zeus rose shrieking, Saturn-like and hoat,
Before that dread Prometheus-No MORE!

ASTARTE.

THY lustre, heavenly star! shines ever on me.
I, trembling like Endymion over-bent
By dazzling Dian, when with wonderment
He saw her crescent light the Latmian lea:
And like a Naiad's sailing on the sea,

Floats thy fair form before me the azure ai
Is all ambrosial with thy hyacinth hair:
While round thy lips the moth in airy glee
Hovers, and hums in dim and dizzy dreams,
Drunken with odorous breath: thy argent eyes
(Twin planets swimming through Love's lustrous
skies)

Are mirror'd in my heart's serenest streams-
Such eyes saw SHAKSPERE, flashing bold and bright
When queenly Egypt rode the Nile at night.

AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE.

[Born about 1817.1

THE largest work by Mr. DUGANNE which I hardly be stated, is Mr. LOWELL'S "Fable for have seen is a yellow-covered octavo called, “The Critics." "American Bards," by Mr. GORHAM Mysteries of Three Cities! Boston, New York, A. WORTH, "Truth, a New Year's Gift for and Philadelphia! a True History of Men's Scribblers," by Mr. WILLIAM J. SNELLING, and Hearts and Habits!" and on the title-page, which "The Quacks of Helicon," by Mr. L. A WILMER, is here faithfully copied, he is described as the are superior to any others of the second class. author of "The Illegitimate," "Emily Harper," Mr. DUGANNE'S "Parnassus in Pillory," cannot l'he Pastor," "The Two Clerks," 66 Secret be regarded as equal to either of these, but it has Guilt," Fortunes of Pertinax," "etc. etc." He some epigrammatic turns of expression, with is therefore undoubtedly a voluminous writer in occasional critical suggestions, neatly delivered, prose, for it may be inferred that all these pro- which render it very readable. If the works here ductions are in that form; and he has published referred to be compared with that amazing exhiin verse The Iron Harp,” “Parnassus in Pil-bition of satiric rage, “The Dunciad,” of which lory," and "The Mission of Intellect," besides a most of our attempts in this class are imitations, great number of short pieces, in the newspapers, in a greater or less degree, according to the abiliwhich are collected with the rest in a hand-ties of their respective authors, no surprise will be some octavo edition of his "Poetical Works." The argument of "Parnassus in Pillory" is thus announced:

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felt that they have commanded so little attention. Several of them evince as much malice, but all together, except Mr. LOWELL'S ingenious performance, do not display as much poetry or wit, as the meanest page of POPE's ill-natured but incomparably polished and pointed attack on his contemporaries.

From his "Iron Harp," Mr. DUGANNE seems to belong to "the party of progress," and his favorite poet, it may be guessed, is EBENEZER ELLIOTT. The most creditable illustration of his abilities is probably the following ode on Mr. POWERS's statue of the Greek Slave.

ODE TO THE GREEK SLAVE.

O GREEK! by more than Moslem fetters thrall'd!
O marble prison of a radiant thought,

Where life is half recall'd,

And beauty dwells, created, not enwrought-
Why hauntest thou my dreams, enrobed in light, |
And atmosphered with purity, wherein
Mine own soul is transfigured, and grows bright,
As though an angel smiled away its sin?

O chastity of Art!

Behold! this maiden shape makes solitude
Of all the busy mart:

Beneath her soul's immeasurable woe,
All sensuous vision lies subdued,
And from her veiled eyes the flow
Of tears, is inward turned upon her heart;
While on the prisoning lips

Her eloquent spirit swoons,
And from the lustrous brow's eclipse
Falls patient glory, as from clouded moons!
Severe in vestal grace, yet warm

And flexile with the delicate glow of youth,

She stands, the sweet embodiment of Truth; Her pure thoughts clustering around her form, Like seraph garments, whiter than the snows Which the wild sea upthrows.

O Genius! thou canst chain

Not marble only, but the human soul,
And melt the heart with soft control,

And wake such reverence in the brain,
That man may be forgiven,

If in the ancient days he dwelt
Idolatrous with sculptured life, and knelt
To Beauty more than Heaven!

Genius is worship! for its works adore
The Infinite Source of all their glorious thought,
So blessed Art, like Nature, is o'erfraught
With such a wondrous store

Of hallowed influence, that we who gaze
Aright on her creations, haply pray and praise!

Go, then, fair Slave! and in thy fetters teach
What Heaven inspired and Genius hath de-
signed-

Be thou Evangel of true Art, and preach
The freedom of the mind!

E. SPENCER MILLER.

[Born, 1817.]

Mr. E. SPENCER MILLER is a son of the late eminent theologian, the Reverend SAMUEL MILLER, D.D., of Princeton, New Jersey, where he was born on the third day of September, 1817. When nineteen years of age he was graduated at Nassau Hall, in his native town, and having studied the law, and been admitted to the bar, in Philadelphia, chose that city for his residence, and has attained to a distinguished position there in his profession.

Mr. MILLER has not hitherto been known to the public as a poet. The only book upon the titlepage of which he has placed his name, is a stout octavo called 46 A Treatise on the Law of Parti

tion, by Writ, in Pennsylvania,” published in 1847; but while engaged in researches concerning this most unpoetical subject, in leisure hours his mind was teeming with those beautiful productions which were given to the world in 1849, in a modest anonymous volume entitled "Caprices." Among these poems are some that evince an imagination of unusual sensibility and activity, and in all are displayed culture and wise reflection. No one of our poets has made a first appearance in a book of greater promise, and it will be justly regretted if devotion to the law or to any other pursuit prevents its accomplished author from keeping that promise to the lovers of literature.

NIAGARA.

HO, SPIRIT! I am with thee now;
My stride is by the rushing brow,
The mist is round me while I bow.

By summer streams, by land and sea,
Niagara, I have yearned to thee,

And dreamed what thou wouldst say to me.

In spells of vision I have stood,
And with the turmoil of thy flood
Have struggled into brotherhood.

The hour is mine; the dream is gone;
The sleep of Summer streams is done;
And I am by thy side alone.

The hour is mine; I feel thy spray;
I press along thy rainbow way;
God help my throbbing heart to-day.
The hour is mine; my feet are near;
I falter not, but wrestle here;
Eternal words are in mine ear.
I falter not; I feel the whole;
The mysteries of thy presence roll
In waves of tumult o'er my soul.
I merge myself, my race, my clime,
And as I tread thy paths sublime,
I seem to stand alone with Time;
To stand, all lost, with Time alone;
He makes thy sullen roar his own,
An infinite sad monotone:
Majestic dirge of strifes and sighs;
The voices of the year that rise
Between the two eternities:

Forever new, forever old,
Forever one, yet manifold,

Forever what all time hath veld.

THE WIND.

I STIR the pulses of the mind,

And, with my passive cheek inclined,

I lay my ear along the wind.

It fans my face, it fans the tree,
It goes away and comes to me,
I feel it, but I cannot see.

Upon my chilly brow it plays,
It whispers of forgotten days,
It says whatever fancy says.

Away, away-by wood and plain,
About the park, and through the lane
It goes and comes to me again.

Away, again away, it roams,
By fields of flocks and human homes,
And laden with their voices comes:
It comes and whispers in my ear,
So close I cannot choose but hear;
It speaks, and yet I do not fear;

Then, sweeping where the shadows ie,
Its murmur softens to a sigh
That pains me as it passes by,

And, in its sorrow, and reproof,
Goes wailing round the wall and roof,
So sad the swallow soars aloof.

Away, the old cathedral bell
Is swinging over bill and dell;
Devoted men are praying well.

Away, with every breath there come
The tones of toil's eternal hum,-
Man, legion-voiced, yet ever dumb...
Away, away, by lake and lea,-
It cometh ever back to me,

I feel it, but I cannot see.....

"THE BLUE-BEARD CHAMBERS OF

THE HEART."

MOULD upon the ceiling,

Mould upon the floor,

Windows barred and double barred,

Opening nevermore;

Spiders in the corners,

Spiders on the shelves,

Weaving frail and endless webs

Back upon themselves;
Weaving, ever weaving,
Weaving in the gloom,
Till the drooping drapery
Trails about the room.
Waken not the echo,

Nor the bat, that clings
In the curious crevices
Of the pannelings.
Waken not the echo,

It will haunt your ear
Wall and ceiling whispering
Words you would not hear.
Hist! the spectres gather,
Gather in the dark,

Where a breath has brushed away

Dust from off a mark;

Dust of weary winters,

Dust of solemn years,

Dust that deepens in the silence,
As the minute wears.

On the shelf and wainscot,
Window-bars and wall,
Covering infinite devices,
With its stealthy fall.

Hist! the spectres gather,

Break, and group again, Wreathing, writhing, gibbering

Round that fearful stain;

Blood upon the panels,

Blood upon the floor,

Blood that baffles wear and washing,

Red for evermore.

See, they pause and listen,

Where the bat that clings,

Stirs within the crevices

Of the pannelings.

See, they pause and listen,
Listen through the air;

How the eager life has struggled,
That was taken there;

See. they pause and listen,
Listen in the gloom;
For a startled breath is sighing,
Sighing through the room.
Sighing in the corners,
Sighing on the floor,
Sighing through the window-bars,
That open nevermore.
Waken not those whispers;

They will pain your ears;

Waken not the dust that deepens

Through the solemn years,-
Deepens in the silence,

Deepens in the dark;
Covering closer, as it gathers,
Many a fearful mark.
Hist! the spectres gather,
Break and group again,
Wreathing, writhing, gibbering,
Round that fearful stain:
Blood upon the panels,

Blood upon the floor,

Blood that baffles wear and washings Red for evermore.

THE GLOW-WORM.

DEEP within the night,
Toiling on its way,
With its feeble lamp
Giving out a ray.
Close about its path

Sombre shadows meet,
And the light is cast
Only at its feet.
Castle-top and grange

Off within the dark;
What are they to it,
Groping by its spark?
Castle-top and grange,

Orchard, lane, and wood, Human homes asleep, Precipice and flood, What are they to it, Groping by its ray; GOD hath given light,

Light for all its way; Light to know each step

Of the toilsome ground; Wherefore should it pry, Questioning, around? . In the night of time,

Toiling through the dark, Reason's feeble lamp

Giveth out its spark. Close about my path Hidden wonders lie, Mysteries unseen, Shapes of destiny, Beings of the air,

Shadowless and weird, Looking upon me,

Uttering unheard,— Sad and warning eyes

Pleading from the past, From the years to come Mournful glances cast,— What are they to me,

Toiling towards the day; GOD hath given light,

Light for all my way.

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