Section 5

How like a tissuey woof, how wonderful is mind ! How with each fibrous thought one idea dear, May like a golden thread these thoughts together bind-, While pale distrust, and hope, and quivering fear, With trembling, and dismay, and burning tears, With clear brow'd confidence wage open war, To rend that band away — while fate severe. With flaming sword presents a fearful bar. To the soft beams of hope's auspicious star.
Music. Addressed to a Listener.
And thou didst stay thy steps ; did'st linger nigh, And wherefore ? A careless list'ner was't thou. Unto my wild untutor'd lays — my rustic songs ? Ol is thy soul like mine ? — ever as a stream, Which gushing flows away in gentle sounds ? What said those wind-waked melodies to thee ? Or did their lowly breathings fail to reach thine heart ? Did not those gentle tones inspire thee with a se-nse Most sweet of heaven and its celestial bliss ? While of the palmy bowers of Paradise, Thou had'st a bright and joyous dream ? Methinks while bending o'er my simple harp. Some gentle seraph on my throbbing breast
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Had laid his hand and whispered, peace be still, While all the warring passions hush'd to rest As soft as those within an infant's breast, In quiet slept.
What tho' sad memories May darkly revel in the woe-worn soul, With many bitter griefs and sorrows fraught ? What though remembrance of the world's dark strife, May press upon the aching and the weary heart, Yet music can the wounded spirit soothe. In memories soft, as summer evening's latest sigh. I knew that thou wert near, and tremulous grew m?'
hand ; Why, I could not tell — but all in vain I strove, Those spirit stirring harmonies to wake Once more — when a sweet wand'ring sprite. Swept by, and with a silvery wing soft touch'd My mute and saddened harp — and sweet a strain, Of melody gush'd forth, to the glad songs Of Paradise akin, or rather like Some exiled angel's lay — breathing a sad lament. That earth-born joys are but fantastic fever-dreams.
Song of the Sprite.
Wake, mortal wake !
Awake from thy dreaming ; Lean not on earth.
All is but seeming ;
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MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. V\
Earth has no joy,
Unshaded by sorrow, Spring's fairest flowers
Will fade on the morrow.
And what is man's goodness ?
Mix'd with weakness and follj And the sound of his hfe,
Is a tone melancholy : Thou art but dust,
A mutable creature ; Thy affections bestow not,
On weak human nature.
Then wake, mortal wake.
Awake from thy dreaming. Lean not on earth.
All is but seeming.
A most delicious softness on my spirit fell. While the sweet joy of grief, a trembling tear. Had gathered, and on my drooping eyelids hung, And yet I was not sad, but 'twas a joy most sweet, So near allied are all the joys and griefs Of earth, that both in their excess. Are fraught with tears — entranc'd I listened. And I fancied that the evening wind did sob. As with a dying fall the fairy breathings ceased. My heart which had grown still now throbbed again, I turned me round — the fairy sprite had flown, While silently thou had'st departed too.
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Lines
On the death of a Lady who died on the eve of her departure for her paternal home,
A sufferer on a sick-bed lay,
Around whose aching head, Dread fever-fires in rage made way,
Whence reason's hght had fled.
'Twas but a few short days before,
A babe sat on her knee ; And as she softly murmur'd o'er,
A mother's minstrelsy : Sweet haunting thoughts blent with the strain^
And hopeful visions bright, That those she loved might yet agairi.
Smile on her gladdened sight.
Alas ! the long, long, wish'd for day,
Beamed o'er the bloomyjg earth, While she upon her death-couch lay.
Far from the household hearth ; The fever plague alas ! had set
Its hectic on her cheek — With clammy dews her brow was wet,
Her voice was low and weak.
And did she then that hope forget ?
With which her dreams were fraught —
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Say, did sweet mem'ry linge^r yet,
Within that fane of thousrht ? AK ! yes — throughout her fever-dreams,
That ceaseless wish had sway, As falls on dark benighted streams.
Some lonely planet's ray.
And thus the suflf'er sadly spoke, " Say are we not most there ?" And from some startling dream awoke, " Where are my sisters, where ?" " Oh ! yes ; we'll be there by and by,'*
With warm and anxious friends, While o'er her couch with mournful eyes,
An anxious watcher bends.
" We're almost there — we're almost there"
Again she feebly said — " I see the wild streams flashins: fair. O'er many a rock-bound bed." Oh ! th^e in innocence I've play'd.
And rear'd the beechen bow'r. And down the flow'ry dell have stray'd In childhood's elfin hour.
But all at once the voice was still,
The pulses ceas'd their play ; The longing dream was now fulfill 'd.
In yon bright world away ; And seraphs from the realms of light,
72 MRS. MUNDAY'S POEMS.
Bent o'er the dying bed, While on their wavering pinions bright, Her grieving spirit fled.
Oh ! she indeed had found the goal,
A blissful home at last ; Beyond — where time's dark surges roll,
The weary soul had pass'd. No more along her father's hall,
Shall sound her parting words. Or ringing laugh, or light foot-fall,
Or voice so like a bird's.
Call it not hard that she hath gone Beyond our aching sight ;
Upon her soul a glorious dawn. Bursts forth in floods of light.
For life is but a passing dream, A ray — a dim uncertain gleam, Of joys beyond the tomb.
Life's toiling transient day is done,
The spirit's mission o'er ; Substantial life it hath begun.
Where it had bloom'd before. We know that thou art happy there.
In thy celestial rest. In angel robes thou'lt wax more fair,
With those the pure and bless'd.
MISCELLANEOTTi PIECES.
Where fadeless bowers immortal wa7
Dost thou remember still ? Or did'st in lethean waters lave,
And q^uafF thy spirit's fill ? Say, wil't thou from thy natal skies,
Or some sweet starry sphere, Bend earth-ward, still thy radient eye
Watch o'er the lov'd ones here ?
'Tis silent all — and evening shades,
Are sadly gathering round ; A mournful joy my breast pervades ;
Some spell my heart hath bound. And now I hear the autumn winds
Wail through the perish 'd leaves — That sound in thee a semblance finds,
So mournfully it grieves.
And as the sobbing voice floats by With deep and solemn swell.
To v^^eeping flow'rs it seems to sigh A spirit's sad farewell !
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74 MRS. mundat's poems.
The Daguerrean Gallery.
Let's call and see the pictures — A fairy grot, this gallery of art ! Where true to life, and nature pictur'd stand, Groupings and forms, that facinate the heart ; So perfect is this skill the master can command.
The old, the young are there, And bright amid the galaxy of faces. Is one with fair young brow and eyes serene, The child of love and favor'd of the graces. Of all the throng, the " star particular," and queen.
Look on this picture here — Is it not like ? — else wherefore flow my tears ? Oh ! yes — too true ; this faithful semblance dear, Of one he lov'd thro' dark and shad'wy years, A wand'rer in the groves of some supernal sphere.
And here as in thy life — The same arch smile around thy lip is playing. The tender radience of thy fervent eyes, As when on happy scenes their gaz-e was straying, And soft their light as beams of midnight skies.
And on thy open brow. In careless grace a wealth of sunny hair. Is clustering still, in many a wavelet fair, Aye ; all are there — each feature of that face divine ! Oh ! genius bright, the power, the gift is thine.
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Oh ! art mysterious — That with thy heav'n-boin hand-maid light can'st
trace, The image of the mind in form and face, Which impress on the spotless page shall last, Preserved from blight or mould till time is past.
The Pen.
Come gentle muse, in measur'd lays once more. Unto the penman's art thy votive offerings pour ; Come let us roam along the aisles of time. By Zion's sacred streams and hills^ublime ; Where once of old with soul and mind inspir'd, An ancient scribe with heaven's wisdom fir'd, On Parian tablets white as artic snow, The sacred law transcribed — and hence we know- The pen's great art is sacred and divine ! Since he who formed our being's grand design, First wrought with holy hand the skiey lore, That all the nations worship and adore.
And by this hallow'd Book are we not told
Of Babalonia's king, who, in the days of old
His lordly guests unto a royal feast
Had summon'd ; and richest viands of the east,
With priceless treasures from the temple brought,
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Shone on the board by cunning workmen wrought. And when the stirring voice of revelry went high, And sounds of harp and lute, with voices soft swept by, Amid the rosy splendors of Belshazzar's pillar'd halls, While sweet aromas rose along the gilded walls.
Over against the lamps a shad'wy hand did glide, #hich, when the king beheld, his heart within him died. Trembling and pale, convulsed and fix'd he sate. As blasted by a spell, with eyes of fear and hate, A stifled cry arose as if the monarch dream'd, While from his burning gaze remorse and madness
gleam'd ; Jtony and cold his brow as when in death's repose, Around the writhing heart its icy waters close. Qod's finger wrote his doom, high on the gorgeous wall, jid morning red beheld the impious tyrant's fall.
And what the triumphs that the pen hath wrought: That herald of the heart, and mercury of thought. Lo ! when a little band of valient men. Proclaimed " we will be free" — ^the wing'd pen Swept o'er the spotless page — a glorious word Impress'd — and when the old world wondering heard. Proud Albion's Lion roar'd in thunder tones, And orient despots trembled on their thousand thrones. Beyond the western wave an empire rose. O'er which the olive's fragrant blossoms close ; Where )m's eagle builds her eyrie wild,
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And wraps her " aegis" round her free-born child. The pen hath spoken ! and not all in vain, The bloodless sword, that hath its thousands slain, The potent instrument of genius-gifted minds ; The wizzard power — the mystic link that binds The glittering gems that grace the labyrinths of time. How varied are its powers — how low, yet how sublime, " To build the lofty verse, or honied lines of rhyme, To blazon evil deeds or consecrate a crime."
Now twined with cypress boughs, or laurel wreaths Of love, and hope, and fame, and death it breathes, With thoughts that through the soul's deep sanctum';^
thrill. To soothe the aching heart, or bind the tameless will. Doth not our hearts exult, grow still — expire .'' As o'er the poet's page of breathing fire, Instinct with soul and mind, when rapt we learn. Those livins: truths that shall forever burn ? And by its aid the volume of the past. Unto a wondering world has been unseal'd, While stripp'd of dust and blight now stand revealed The glories of the old Augustan age. Of hero, warrior-bard and poet-sage. Mark ! with what skill the artist can combine. With, written charm and talismanic sign, The chaste, the smoothe, the graceful and refin'd, In characters of thought that syllable the mind. Who would not learn with strength and ease to wield,
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MRS. MUNDAY'S poems.
This weapon of the mind in learninoj's boundless field ?
Who would not emulate the master's art,
That facinates the eye and speaks unto the heart ?
VV^hose nimble pen glides through the wordy chase,
♦Vith many a circling curve or line of waving grace.
Thus far I have proceeded with my theme
As through the tissuey Vs^indings of a dream,
And yet not half the spoils are counted o'er.
Brought by the pen down time's benighted shore,
Not half the triumph's by its influence won,
Since light and truth, their high career begun.
Yet, if my humble lay, unto this sacred art.
An influence lends, that speaks to mind and heart,
My wishes are achieved — my object won,
The muse's task is ended and my song is done.
f
Childhoo d's Rambles.
^"Sweetly wild, sweetly wild,
Were the scenes that charmed me when a child."
Happiest was I in childhood's day, Wand'ring among the early flowers of May ; By streams of sweetest trill. In the slant shades of evening still, Along the hedge-grown paths ; Or o'er the fields where, wending on his way,
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 7^
Amid the fragrant swaths "~
Of new made hay ; The merry plow-boy sings his careless lay. Or staying at rosy morn', Amid the gentle flocks — Their snowy fleeces shorn ; Nipping the low sweet shrubs that grow. O'er moss-grown rocks, And ledges steep ; Where groups of virgin snow-drops peep, And green the pendant ivy creeps, In the black silence of the glen, Where all day long. The damps among. The moody owl sleeps. /hese are the scenes that charmed me then. And oft in childhrod, Through the wild wood. Where the fra2:rant woodbine blows With the single petal'd rose ; I sought the spring, In steep banks hidden. Whose waters constant gush unbidden ; Or cool down dripping. The green rocks o'er ; While distant roar. Of cascade wild. Sweetly charmed me when a child. Or wending among the golden shocks.
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Of dew-perfuming grain, Sweet as the breath of early rain, Where groups of stalwart men, With mirth and jocund songs again ; In scant frocks Of flaxen woof, The hospitable roof At early morn forsake. And in the labors of the field partake. And where tassel'd corn. With rich lands of fresh plow'd ground, Yield fragrance to the summer air ; While welcome sound Of supper horn. Bade from the field the rustic swain repair- Or rambling along the plain. Alone throughout the live long day ;
Humming some wild strain, Of self-taught roundelay ;
By fence rows far, That skirt some distant field. Or loitering late when bright the vesper star. Shines from afar as would a silver shield ; And bearing home the spoils, Of childhood's rambles ; With quick and stealthy step along the brake, Where hidden coils. The fear-awakening snake ; Or trilling oft a merry lay,
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MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
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And timing it with buoyant step and childish gambol, Thoughtless I sought my home-directed way. With wreaths of heart's ease white and blue ; My bosom's own pecuhar flower, That in the nooks and corners of the fence rows grew * Or from some woody height or lowly bower, The box-wood's feathry bloom ; With string 'd buds in scarlet strans.
Woven in shining bands ; Gleeful o'er my young brows thrown, And with the loose locks careless worn, That darkly strayed in childish grace, Around a pensive face. And on my way star-lit. Oft seeking leaves of fungi race j Orange and scarlet. Wrought in gay festoon ; Where mimic orchard's grew of white mushroom,
With velvet mosses ; And feathery fern its pliant stamen tosses. To the soft daliance of the wavino; breeze ; And with the wealth of these. Grouping among translucent water weeds, Like stringed beads ; Bright prism-colored shells. Those water sounding bells. Within whose radient cells. With voice most soft. Some fairy oft
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MRS. MUNDAY'S POEMS.
Full many a tale of ocean tells. And reach'd the orchard's wealth of snowy bloom, Where with perfume, My youthful sense grew glad ;
A joy so sweet — yet sad — Thus all the joys I ever knew.
Were tinged with that peculiar hue,
Of pleasant gloom ; Like roses blooming o'er a tomb. I sought where mid the apple boughs. And snow-white blows, Hid by a woof of dark green leaves ; Blithe robin red-breast. In dark brown vest. His feathered temple weaves ; In sooth I thought The builder bird A fairy net-work wrought, Of rarest masonry.
And when I heard. His sky born melody. That like a flood of rippling sound. Woke all the echoes round ; While sporting in the sunset's glow. My youthful wonder sought to know.
Whence without control. Did those gleeful numbers roll.
That he would pour with all his soul } Sang he of distant goal.
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Or memoiy-clierished climes ; Where softest chimes, Of music-murmuring streams, Fall on the ear a 'transing sound ; And where like starry beams. Or snow flakes falling round : The beauteous bridal rose. In tender fragrance blows ? But childhood's sinless hours are gone,
Its dreams forever lied ; The bird from apple bough has flown. And the happy scene is speed : For I've left the haunts that my childhood knew,
And the silent distances of blue ; Full many a veil of tissuey hue.
Have cast o'er w^eary leagues between. And shut from sight the haunting scene.
A Portrait.
Aye ; it is fair, e'en as the brow of night's Pale regent, whose enchanted beams stole down, The Latmian hills of old, and charm'd Endymeon's heart to joy and paphean dreams.