Изображения страниц

8. Oh! what was to become of us, we sometimes thought in sadness that all at once made our spirits sink-like a lark falling suddenly to earth, struck by the fear of some unwonted shadow from above-what was to become of us when the mandate should arrive for him to leave the manse forever, and sail away in a ship to India, never more to return! Ever as that dreaded day drew nearer more frequent was the haze in our eyes; and in our blindness we knew not that such tears ought to have been more rueful still, for that he then lay under orders for a longer and more lamentable voyage—a voyage over the narrow strait to the eternal shore.

9. All-all at once he drooped: on one fatal morning the dread decay began-with no forewarning, the springs on which his being had so lightly, so proudly, so grandly moved, gave way. Between one Sabbath and another his bright eyes darkened-and while all the people were assembled at the sacrament, the soul of Emilius Godfrey soared up to heaven.

10. It was indeed a dreadful death, serene and sainted though it were; and not a hall-not a house-not a hutnot a shieling within all the circle of those wide mountains, that did not on that night mourn as if it had lost a son. All the vast parish attended his funeral-Lowlanders and Highlanders in their own garb of grief.

11. And have time and the tempest now blackened the white marble of that monument?-is that inscription now hard to be read?--the name of Emilius Godfrey in green obliteration-nor haply one surviving who ever saw the light of the countenance of him there interred? Forgotten as if he had never been! for few were that glorious orphan' kindred, and they lived in a foreign land-forgotten but by one heart; faithful through all the chances and changes of this restless world! And therein enshrined, amongst all its holiest remembrances, shall be the image of Emilius Godfrey, till it too, like his, shall be but dust and ashes.





BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.


I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 't is my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls by fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.


The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack

When the morning star shines dead;


As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on my airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.


That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.


I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.


I am the daughter of the earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.




HERE, unreasonable complainer! dost thou stand, and what is around thee? The world spreads before thee its sublime mysteries, where the thoughts of sages lose themselves in wonder; the ocean lifts up its eternal anthems to thine ear; the golden sun lights thy path; the wide heavens stretch themselves above thee, and worlds rise upon worlds, and systems beyond systems, to infinity; and dost thou stand in the center of all this, to complain of thy lot and place? Pupil of that infinite teaching! minister at Nature's great altar! child of Heaven's favor! ennobled being! redeemed creature! must thou pine in sullen and envious melancholy, amidst the plenitude of the whole creation?

2. "But thy neighbor is above thee," thou sayest. What then? What is that to thee? What though the shout of millions rose around him? What is that to the millionvoiced nature that God has given thee? That shout dies away into the vacant air; it is not his but thy naturethy favored, sacred, and glorious nature is thine. It is the reality, to which praise is but a fleeting breath. Thou canst meditate the things which applause but celebrates.

3. In that thou art a man, thou art infinitely exalted

above what any man can be in that he is praised. I would rather be the humblest man in the world, than barely be thought greater than the greatest. The beggar is greater as a man, than is the man merely as a king. Not one of the crowds that listened to the eloquence of Demosthenes and Cicero,—not one who has bent with admiration over the pages of Homer and Shakspeare, not one who followed in the train of Cæsar or of Napoleon,-would part with th humblest power of thought, for all the fame that is echoin. over the world and through the ages.





EAR yonder copse where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.


Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, or wished to change, his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.


His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire and talked the night away,-
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »