Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 66

Right hath each beneath the sun To the breadth and liberal s.p.a.ce Of the independent race,-- To the chariot and the steed, To the will, desire, and deed!

VI.

Ah, the G.o.ds of wood and stone Can a single saint dethrone, But the people who shall aid 'Gainst the puppets they have made?

First they teach and then obey: 'Tis the Burden of the Day.

VII.

Thunder shall we never hear In this ordered atmosphere?

Never this monotony feel Shattered by a trumpet's peal?

Never airs that burst and blow From eternal summits, know?

VIII.

Though no man resent his wrong, Still is free the poet's song: Still, a stag, his thought may leap O'er the herded swine and sheep, And in pastures far away Lose the burden of the Day!

=_John Townsend Trowbridge,[91] 1827-._=

From the Atlantic Monthly.

=_415._= "DOROTHY IN THE GARRET."

In the low-raftered garret, stooping Carefully over the creaking boards, Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping Among its dusty and cobwebbed h.o.a.rds; Seeking some bundle of patches, hid Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage, Or satchel hung on its nail, amid The heir-looms of a by-gone age.

There is the ancient family chest, There the ancestral cards and hatchel; Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest, Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel.

Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom Of the chimney, where, with swifts and reel, And the long-disused, dismantled loom, Stands the old-fas.h.i.+oned spinning wheel.

She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen, A part of her girlhood's little world; Her mother is there by the window, st.i.tching; Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirled With many a click; on her little stool She sits, a child by the open door, Watching, and dabbling her feet in the pool Of suns.h.i.+ne spilled on the gilded floor.

Her sisters are spinning all day long; To her wakening sense, the first sweet warning Of daylight come, is the cheerful song To the hum of the wheel, in the early morning.

Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy, On his way to school, peeps in at the gate; In neat, white pinafore, pleased and coy, She reaches a hand to her bashful mate;

And under the elms, a prattling pair, Together they go, through glimmer and gloom It all comes back to her, dreaming there In the low-raftered garret room; The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather The heart's first trouble, and love's beginning, Are all in her memory linked together; And now it is she herself that is spinning.

With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip, Turning the spokes with the flas.h.i.+ng pin, Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip, Stretching it out and winding it in, To and fro, with a blithesome tread, Singing she goes, and her heart is full, And many a long-drawn golden thread Of fancy, is spun with the s.h.i.+ning wool.

[Footnote 91: After struggling through many early discouragements has attained high repute, both in prose and verse. Has written several novels. New York is his native State.]

=_Henry Timrod,[92] 1829-1867._=

From his "Poems."

=_416._= THE UNKNOWN DEAD.

The rain is plas.h.i.+ng on my sill, But all the winds of Heaven are still; And so it falls with that dull sound Which thrills us in the church-yard ground, When the first spadeful drops like lead Upon the coffin of the dead.

Beyond my streaming window-pane, I cannot see the neighboring vane, Yet from its old familiar tower The bell comes, m.u.f.fled, through the shower What strange and unsuspected link Of feeling touched, has made me think-- While with a vacant soul and eye I watch that gray and stony sky-- Of nameless graves on battle-plains Washed by a single winter's rains, Where--some beneath Virginian hills, And some by green Atlantic rills, Some by the waters of the West-- A myriad unknown heroes rest?

Ah! not the chiefs, who, dying, see Their flags in front of victory, Or, at their life-blood's n.o.ble cost Pay for a battle n.o.bly lost, Claim from their monumental beds The bitterest tears a nation sheds.

Beneath yon lonely mound--the spot By all save some fond few, forgot-- Lie the true martyrs of the fight Which strikes for freedom and for right.

Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, The lofty faith that with them died, No grateful page shall farther tell Than that so many bravely fell; And we can only dimly guess What worlds of all this world's distress, What utter woe, despair, and dearth, Their fate has brought to many a hearth.

Just such a sky as this should weep Above them, always, where they sleep; Yet, haply, at this very hour Their graves are like a lover's bower; And Nature's self, with eyes unwet, Oblivious of the crimson debt To which she owes her April grace, Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place.

[Footnote 92: A native of South Carolina. He has a fine poetic sentiment, with much beauty of expression, and is an especial favorite in the South.]

=_Susan A. Talley Von Weiss,_=[93] about =_1830-._=

=_417._= THE SEA-Sh.e.l.l.

Sadly the murmur, stealing Through the dim windings of the mazy sh.e.l.l, Seemeth some ocean-mystery concealing Within its cell.

And ever sadly breathing, As with the tone of far-off waves at play, That dreamy murmur through the sea-sh.e.l.l wreathing Ne'er dies away.

It is no faint replying Of far-off melodies of wind and wave, No echo of the ocean billow, sighing Through gem-lit cave.

It is no dim retaining Of sounds that through the dim sea-caverns swell But some lone ocean spirit's sad complaining, Within that cell.

I languish for the ocean-- I pine to view the billow's heaving crest; I miss the music of its dream-like motion, That lulled to rest.

How like art thou, sad spirit, To many a one, the lone ones of the earth!

Who in the beauty of their souls inherit A purer birth;

Yet thou, lone child of ocean, May'st never more behold thine ocean-foam, While they shall rest from each wild, sad emotion, And find their home!

[Footnote 93: A native of Virginia; her poetical pieces have been much admired.]

=_Albert Sutliffe,[94] 1830-._=

=_418._= "MAY NOON."

The farmer tireth of his half-day toil, He pauseth at the plough, He gazeth o'er the furrow-lined soil, Brown hand above his brow.

He hears, like winds lone m.u.f.fled 'mong the hills, The lazy river run; From shade of covert woods, the eager rills Bound forth into the sun.