Songs of Many Seasons (1862-74) | Page 4

gentle, loving eyes that gleam?Clear as a starlit mountain stream;--?So looked that other child of Shem,?The Maiden's Boy of Bethlehem!
And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood?That flows immingled from the Flood,--?Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains?Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes!?The New World's foundling, in thy pride?Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side,?And lo! the very semblance there?The Lord of Glory deigned to wear!
I see that radiant image rise,?The flowing hair, the pitying eyes,?The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows?The blush of Sharon's opening rose,--?Thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet?Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat,?Thy lips would press his garment's hem?That curl in wrathful scorn for them!
A sudden mist, a watery screen,?Dropped like a veil before the scene;?The shadow floated from my soul,?And to my lips a whisper stole,--?"Thy prophets caught the Spirit's flame,?From thee the Son of Mary came,?With thee the Father deigned to dwell,--?Peace be upon thee, Israel!"
18--. Rewritten 1874.
AFTER THE FIRE
WHILE far along the eastern sky?I saw the flags of Havoc fly,?As if his forces would assault?The sovereign of the starry vault?And hurl Him back the burning rain?That seared the cities of the plain,?I read as on a crimson page?The words of Israel's sceptred sage :--
_For riches make them wings, and they?Do as an eagle fly away_.
O vision of that sleepless night,?What hue shall paint the mocking light?That burned and stained the orient skies?Where peaceful morning loves to rise,?As if the sun had lost his way?And dawned to make a second day,--?Above how red with fiery glow,?How dark to those it woke below!
On roof and wall, on dome and spire,?Flashed the false jewels of the fire;?Girt with her belt of glittering panes,?And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes,?Our northern queen in glory shone?With new-born splendors not her own,?And stood, transfigured in our eyes,?A victim decked for sacrifice!
The cloud still hovers overhead,?And still the midnight sky is red;?As the lost wanderer strays alone?To seek the place he called his own,?His devious footprints sadly tell?How changed the pathways known so well;?The scene, how new! The tale, how old?Ere yet the ashes have grown cold!
Again I read the words that came?Writ in the rubric of the flame?Howe'r we trust to mortal things,?Each hath its pair of folded wings;?Though long their terrors rest unspread?Their fatal plumes are never shed;?At last, at last they spread in flight,?And blot the day and blast then night!
Hope, only Hope, of all that clings?Around us, never spreads her wings;?Love, though he break his earthly chain,?Still whispers he will come again;?But Faith that soars to seek the sky?Shall teach our half-fledged souls to fly,?And find, beyond the smoke and flame,?The cloudless azure whence they came!
1872.
A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY
Read at a meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society.
No! never such a draught was poured?Since Hebe served with nectar?The bright Olympians and their Lord,?Her over-kind protector,--?Since Father Noah squeezed the grape?And took to such behaving?As would have shamed our grandsire ape?Before the days of shaving,--?No! ne'er was mingled such a draught?In palace, hall, or arbor,?As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed?That night in Boston Harbor!?The Western war-cloud's crimson stained?The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon;?Full many a six-foot grenadier?The flattened grass had measured,?And many a mother many a year?Her tearful memories treasured;?Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall,?The mighty realms were troubled,?The storm broke loose, but first of all?The Boston teapot bubbled!
An evening party,--only that,?No formal invitation,?No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat,?No feast in contemplation,?No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band,?No flowers, no songs, no dancing,--?A tribe of red men, axe in hand,--?Behold the guests advancing!?How fast the stragglers join the throng,?From stall and workshop gathered!?The lively barber skips along?And leaves a chin half-lathered;?The smith has flung his hammer down,?The horseshoe still is glowing;?The truant tapster at the Crown?Has left a beer-cask flowing;?The cooper's boys have dropped the adze,?And trot behind their master;?Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,--?The crowd is hurrying faster,--?Out from the Millpond's purlieus gush?The streams of white-faced millers,?And down their slippery alleys rush?The lusty young Fort-Hillers--?The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,--?The tories seize the omen:?"Ay, boys, you'll soon have work to do?For England's rebel foemen,?'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang,?That fire the mob with treason,--?When these we shoot and those we hang?The town will come to reason."
On--on to where the tea-ships ride!?And now their ranks are forming,--?A rush, and up the Dartmouth's side?The Mohawk band is swarming!?See the fierce natives! What a glimpse?Of paint and fur and feather,?As all at once the full-grown imps?Light on the deck together!?A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps,?A blanket hides the breeches,--?And out the cursed cargo leaps,?And overboard it pitches!
O woman, at the evening board?So gracious, sweet, and purring,?So happy while the tea is poured,?So blest while spoons are stirring,?What martyr can compare with thee,?The mother, wife, or daughter,?That night, instead of best Bohea,?Condemned to milk and water!
Ah, little dreams the quiet dame?Who plies with' rock