Earlier Poems (1830-1836) | Page 3

read it in an hour!
The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball,
The sabre's thirsting edge,
The
hot shell, shattering in its fall,
The bayonet's rending wedge,--
Here
scattered death; yet, seek the spot,
No trace thine eye can see,
No
altar,--and they need it not
Who leave their children free!
Look where the turbid rain-drops stand
In many a chiselled square;

The knightly crest, the shield, the brand
Of honored names were
there;--
Alas! for every tear is dried
Those blazoned tablets knew,

Save when the icy marble's side
Drips with the evening dew.

Or gaze upon yon pillared stone,
The empty urn of pride;
There
stand the Goblet and the Sun,--
What need of more beside?
Where
lives the memory of the dead,
Who made their tomb a toy?
Whose
ashes press that nameless bed?
Go, ask the village boy!
Lean o'er the slender western wall,
Ye ever-roaming girls;
The
breath that bids the blossom fall
May lift your floating curls,
To
sweep the simple lines that tell
An exile's date and doom;
And sigh,
for where his daughters dwell,
They wreathe the stranger's tomb.
And one amid these shades was born,
Beneath this turf who lies,

Once beaming as the summer's morn,
That closed her gentle eyes;

If sinless angels love as we,
Who stood thy grave beside,
Three
seraph welcomes waited thee,
The daughter, sister, bride
I wandered to thy buried mound
When earth was hid below
The
level of the glaring ground,
Choked to its gates with snow,
And
when with summer's flowery waves
The lake of verdure rolled,
As
if a Sultan's white-robed slaves
Had scattered pearls and gold.
Nay, the soft pinions of the air,
That lift this trembling tone,
Its
breath of love may almost bear
To kiss thy funeral stone;
And, now
thy smiles have passed away,
For all the joy they gave,
May
sweetest dews and warmest ray
Lie on thine early grave!
When damps beneath and storms above
Have bowed these fragile
towers,
Still o'er the graves yon locust grove
Shall swing its Orient
flowers;
And I would ask no mouldering bust,
If e'er this humble
line,
Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust,
Might call a tear on
mine.
TO AN INSECT
The Katydid is "a species of grasshopper found in the United States, so
called from the sound which it makes."--Worcester. I used to hear this

insect in Providence, Rhode Island, but I do not remember hearing it in
Cambridge, Massachusetts, where I passed my boyhood. It is well
known in other towns in the neighborhood of Boston.
I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,
Wherever thou art hid,
Thou
testy little dogmatist,
Thou pretty Katydid
Thou mindest me of
gentlefolks,--
Old gentlefolks are they,--
Thou say'st an undisputed
thing
In such a solemn way.
Thou art a female, Katydid
I know it by the trill
That quivers
through thy piercing notes,
So petulant and shrill;
I think there is a
knot of you
Beneath the hollow tree,--
A knot of spinster
Katydids,---
Do Katydids drink tea?
Oh tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?
And was
she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a
naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than one?
I warrant Katy did no
more
Than many a Kate has done.
Dear me! I'll tell you all about
My fuss with little Jane,
And Ann,
with whom I used to walk
So often down the lane,
And all that tore
their locks of black,
Or wet their eyes of blue,--
Pray tell me,
sweetest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do?
Ah no! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,
The rock
shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,
Before the
little Katydid
Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the
maid
Whose name she knows so well.
Peace to the ever-murmuring race!
And when the latest one
Shall
fold in death her feeble wings

Beneath the autumn sun,
Then shall
she raise her fainting voice,
And lift her drooping lid,
And then the
child of future years
Shall hear what Katy did.
THE DILEMMA

Now, by the blessed Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet
sixteen;
By every name I cut on bark
Before my morning star grew
dark;
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart,
By all that thrills the
beating heart;
The bright black eye, the melting blue,--
I cannot
choose between the two.
I had a vision in my dreams;--
I saw a row of twenty beams;
From
every beam a rope was hung,
In every rope a lover swung;
I asked
the hue of every eye
That bade each luckless lover die;
Ten
shadowy lips said, heavenly blue,
And ten accused the darker hue.
I asked a matron which she deemed
With fairest light of beauty
beamed;
She answered, some thought both were fair,--
Give her
blue eyes and golden hair.
I might have liked her judgment well,

But, as she spoke, she rung the bell,
And all her girls, nor small nor
few,
Came marching in,--their eyes were blue.
I asked a maiden; back she flung
The locks that round her forehead
hung,
And turned her eye, a glorious one,
Bright as a diamond in
the sun,
On me, until beneath its rays
I felt as if my hair would
blaze;
She liked all eyes but eyes of green;
She looked at me; what
could she mean?
Ah! many lids Love lurks between,
Nor heeds the coloring of his
screen;
And