A pale youth,* mingling in the throng! With light
And airy step, and mien of such a grace
As breathes thro' marble from the sculptor's dream,
He pass'd, and after him the stranger's eye
Turn'd with inquiring wonder. Dumb no more
Were the invisible dwellers in the trees;
For, as he went, the feathery branches seem'd
To "syllable his name ;" and to the ears
Of them who met him, whispering music flew,
Stealing their hearts away to link to his.
"Love him!" the old man heard as if the leaves
Of his own roof-tree murmur'd it; "Love well
The poet who may sow your grave with flowers,
The traveller to the far land of the Past,
Lost to your feet forever!" Sadly lean'd
The mourner at her window as he came,
And the far-drooping elm-leaf touch'd her brow,
And whisper'd, "He has counted all thy tears!
The breaking chord was audible to him!
The agony for which thou, weeping, saidst
There was no pity, for its throbs were dumb-
He look'd but in thine eyes, and read it all!
Love him, for sorrowing with thee !" The sad child,
Sitting alone with his unheeded grief,
Look'd at him through his tears, and smiled to hear
The same strange voice that talk'd to him in dreams
Speak from the low tree softly; and it said—
"The stranger who looks on thee loves the child!
* JAMES HILLHOUSE, who had died at New Haven a few months before.
He has seen angels like thee; and thy sorrow
Touches his own, as he goes silent by.
Love him, fair child!" The poor man, from his door,
Look'd forth with cheerful face, and as the eye,
The soft eye of the poet, turn'd to his,
A whisper from the tree said, "This is he
Who knows thy heart is human as his own,
Who, with inspired numbers, tells the world.
That love dwells with the lowly. He has made
The humble roof a burthen in sweet song-
Interpreted thy heart to happier men !
Love him! oh, love him, therefore!" The stern man,
Who, with the tender spirit of a child,
Walks in some thorny path, unloved and lone;
The maiden with her secret; the sad mother,
Speaking no more of her dishonor'd boy,
But bound to him with all her heart-strings yet,-
These heard the trees say, as the poet pass'd,
"Yours is the mournful poetry of life,
And in the sad lines of your silent lips,
Reads he with tenderest pity! Knit to him
The hearts he opens like a clasped book,
And, in the honey'd music of his verse,
Hear your dumb griefs made eloquent!" With eye
Watchful and moist, the poet kept his way,
Unconscious of the love around him springing;
And when from its bent path the evening star
Stepp'd silently, and left the lesser fires
Lonely in heaven, the poet had gone in,
Mute with the many sorrows he had seen;
And, with the constancy of starry eyes,
The hearts he touch'd drew to him.
From a Poem delivered at Brown University in 1830.
WHAT is ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat!
Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly
The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine
Hath not such gems. Earth's constellated thrones
Have not such pomp of purple and of gold.
It hath no features. In its face is set
A mirror, and the gazer sees his own.
It looks a god, but it is like himself!
It hath a mien of empery, and smiles
Majestically sweet-but how like him!
It follows not with fortune. It is seen
Rarely or never in the rich man's hall.
It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy,
And lifts his humble window, and comes in.
The narrow walls expand, and spread away
Into a kingly palace, and the roof
Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work
The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write
His name in burning letters over all.
And ever, as he shuts his wilder'd eyes,
The phantom comes and lays upon his lids
A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear
Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain
Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay.
He is its slave henceforth! His days are spent
In chaining down his heart, and watching where
To rise by human weaknesses. His nights
Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours.
His kindred are forgotten or estranged.
Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eye.
His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd
Half into scorn-till the bright, fiery boy,
That was a daily blessing but to see,
His spirit was so bird-like and so pure,
Is frozen, in the very flush of youth,
Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man!
And what is its reward? At best a name ! Praise-when the ear has grown too dull to hear! Gold-when the senses it should please are dead! Wreaths when the hair they cover has grown gray! Fame-when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb! All things but love-when love is all we want, And close behind comes Death, and ere we know That ev'n these unavailing gifts are ours, He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave!
Yet oh what godlike gifts neglected lie
Wasting and marr'd in the forgotten soul !
The finest workmanship of God is there. 'Tis fleeter than the wings of light and wind; 'Tis subtler than the rarest shape of air; Fire, and wind, and water do its will; Earth has no secret from its delicate eyeThe air no alchymy it solveth not;
The star-writ Heavens are read and understood, And every sparry mineral hath a name,
And truth is recognised, and beauty felt,
And God's own image stamp'd upon its brow.
How is it so forgotten? Will it live
When the great firmament is roll'd away ?
Hath it a voice, forever audible,
"I AM ETERNAL !" Can it overcome
This mocking passion-fiend, and even here
Live like a seraph upon truth and light?
How can we ever be the slaves we are, With a sweet angel sitting in our breasts! How can we creep so lowly, when our wings Tremble and plead for freedom! Look at him Who reads aright the image on his soul, And gives it nurture like a child of light. His life is calm and blessed, for his peace, Like a rich pearl beyond the
Lies deep in his own bosom. He is pure,
For the soul's errands are not done with men.
His senses are subdued and serve the soul.
He feels no void, for every faculty
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