A Wreath Of Virginia Bay Leaves Part 5

Opinions which I had been taught to hold As full of pith and gravity, he took As 'twere, 'twixt thumb and finger of his wit-- Rubbed off their gloss, until they seemed to me, All, as he said, varnished hypocrisies.

Most wise for one so young! and strangely read In books of quaint philosophy--although His mind's strange alchemy could find some Rich thought hidden in the basest thing, Which he trans.m.u.ted into golden words, So that in hearing him I often thought Upon the story of that Saint whose mouth Was radiant with the angel's blessed touch, Which gave him superhuman eloquence; And though he was thus gifted, yet--ah me!

Still earnest with my theme, I bade him think Of Auerbach's cellar, and that wa.s.sail night Whole centuries ago: and then in phrase, Better than that which cometh to me now I likened it--the necromancy which Drew richest vintage from the rugged boards-- Unto the spell wherewith he'd bound himself-- The spell by which he drew from simplest things Conceptions beautiful, as Faust drew wine From the rude table; for this friend of mine Was a true poet, though he seldom wrote: The wealth which might have royally endowed Some n.o.ble charity for coming time Was idly wasted--pearls dissolved in wine--

Still on my theme I hung and pointed out, Full eagerly, how Mephistopheles Ordered the gimlet wherewith it was drawn:

But he who went his way that summer night, Beneath the shadow of those stately trees Comes back to me--to earth--ah! nevermore.

He fell obscurely in the common ranks-- His keen sword rusted in its splendid sheath.

G.o.d pardon him his faults! for faults he had; But oh! so blent with goodness, that the while The lip of every theory of his Curved with a sneer, each action smiled With Christian charity.

Like Manfred he had summoned to his aid Forbidden ministers--but unlike his-- Of the earth, earthy, which did slowly clutch Upon his lofty faculties until They summoned him from the lone tow'r of thought And false philosophy wherein he dwelt.

G.o.d pardon him! Amen.

INDOLENCE. [5]

I turn aside; and, in the pause, might start As Mem'ry's elbow leans upon Time's Chart, Which shows, alas! how soon all men must glide Over meridians on life's ocean tide-- Meridians showing how both youth and sage Are sailing northward to the zone of age: On to an atmosphere of gloom I wist, Where mariners are lost in melancholy mist.

But gayer thoughts, like spring-tide swallows, dart Through youth's brave mind and animate its heart.

But Indolence is seen a pallid Ruth-- A timid gleaner in the fields of youth-- A wretched gath'rer of the scattered grain Left by the reapers who have swept the plain; But with no Boaz standing by the while, To watch its figure with approving smile.

[Footnote 5: (From a Poem p.r.o.nounced before the Phi Beta Kappa Society and graduating cla.s.ses of William and Mary College, July 4th, 1858.)]

THE JAMESTOWN ANNIVERSARY ODE.

In those vast forests dwelt a race of kings, Free as the eagle when he spreads his wings-- His wings which never in their wild flight lag-- In mists which fly the fierce tornado's flag; Their flight the eagle's! and their name, alas!

The eagle's shadow swooping o'er the gra.s.s, Or, as it fades, it well may seem to be The shade of tempest driven o'er the sea.

Fierce, too, this race, as mountain torrent wild, With haughty hearts, where Mercy rarely smiled-- All their traditions--histories imbued With tales of war and sanguinary feud, Yet though they never couched the knightly lance, The glowing songs of Europe's old romance Can find their parallels amid the race, Which, on this spot, met England face to face.

And when they met the white man, hand to hand, Twilight and sunrise stood upon the strand-- Twilight and sunrise? Saxon suns.h.i.+ne gleams To-day o'er prairies and those distant streams, Which hurry onward through far Western plains, Where the last Indian, for a season, reigns.

Here, the red CANUTE on this spot, sat down, His splendid forehead stormy with a frown, To quell, with the wild lightning of his glance The swift encroachment of the wave's advance; To meet and check the ruthless tide which rose, Crest after crest of energetic foes, While high and strong poured on each cruel wave, Until they left his royalty--a grave; But, o'er this wild, tumultuous deluge glows A vision fair as Heaven to saint e'er shows; A dove of mercy o'er the billows dark Fluttered awhile then fled within G.o.d's ark.

Had I the power, I'd reverently describe That peerless maid--the "pearl of all her tribe,"

As evening fair, when coming night and day Contend together which shall wield its sway.

But, here abashed, my paltry fancy stays; For her, too humble its most stately lays.

A shade of twilight's softest, sweetest gloom-- The dusk of morning--found a splendid tomb In England's glare; so strange, so vast, so bright, The dusk of morning burst in splendid light, Which falleth through the Past's cathedral aisles, Till sculptured Mercy like a seraph smiles.

And though Fame's grand and consecrated fane No kingly statue may, in time, retain, _Her_ name shall linger, nor with age grow faint; Its simple sound--the image of a saint.

Sad is the story of that maiden's race, Long driven from each legendary place.

All their expansive hunting-grounds are now Torn by the iron of the Saxon's plough, Which turns up skulls and arrow-heads and bones-- Their places nameless and unmarked by stones.

Now freighted vessels toil along the view, Where once was seen the Indian's bark canoe; And to the woods the shrill escaping steam Proclaims our triumph in discordant scream.

Where rose the wigwam in its sylvan shade, Where the bold hunter in his freedom strayed, And met his foe or chased the bounding stag, The lazy horses at the harrow lag.

Where the rude dance was held or war-song rose, The scene is one of plenty and repose.

The quiver of her race is empty now, Its bow lies broken underneath the plough; And where the wheat-fields ripple in the gale, The vanished hunter scarcely leaves a trail.

'Twas where yon river musically flows, The European's nomenclature rose; A keen-edged axe, which since, alas! has swept Away their names--those boughs, which blossoms kept, Leaving so few, that when their story's drowned, 'Twill sink, alas! with no fair garland crowned.

What strange vicissitudes and perils fell On the first settlers 'tis not mine to tell; I scarce may pause to syllable the name Which the great Captain left behind to fame; A name which echoes through the tented past Like sound of charge rung in a bugle's blast.

His age, although it still put faith in stars, No longer glanced through feudal helmet's bars, But stood in its half armor; thus stands he An image half of antique chivalry, And half presented to our eager eyes, The brilliant type of modern enterprise.

A knightly blade, without one spot of rust, Undimmed by time and undefaced by dust, His name hangs up in that past age's hall, Where many hang, the brightest of them all.

AN ELEGIAC ODE.[6]

He chastens us as nations and as men, He smites us sore until our pride doth yield, And hence our heroes, each with hearts for ten, Were vanquished in the field;

And stand to-day beneath our Southern sun O'erthrown in battle and despoiled of hope, Their drums all silent and their cause undone, And they all left to grope

In darkness till G.o.d's own appointed time In His own manner pa.s.seth fully by.

Our Penance this. His Parable sublime Means we must learn to die.

Not as our soldiers died beneath their flags, Not as in tumult and in blood they fell, When from their columns, clad in homely rags, Rose the Confederate yell.

Not as they died, though never mortal men Since Tubal Cain first forged his cruel blade Fought as they fought, nor ever shall agen Such Leader be obeyed!

No, not as died our knightly, soldier dead, Though they, I trust, have found above surcease For all life's troubles, but on Christian bed Should we depart in peace,

Falling asleep like those whose gentle deeds Are governed through time's pa.s.sions and its strife, So justly that we might erect new creeds From each well ordered life,

Whose saintly lessons are so framed that we May learn that pain is but a text sublime, Teaching us how to learn at Sorrow's knee To value things of time.