Read Ebook: The New-York Book of Poetry by Hoffman Charles Fenno Editor

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1147 lines and 75903 words, and 23 pages

Its sinking arches once gave back as proud An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal, As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd As ever beat beneath a vest of steel, When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest day Called forth chivalric host to battle fray:

For here amid these woods did He keep court, Before whose mighty soul the common crowd Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought, Are like the Patriarch's sheaves to Heav'n's chos'n bowed-- HE who his country's eagle taught to soar, And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore.

And sights and sounds at which the world have wondered, Within these wild ravines have had their birth; Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thundered, And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth; And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoary But treasures up within the glorious story.

And yet not rich in high-souled memories only, Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming, Each cavernous glen and leafy valley lonely, And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming: But such soft fancies here may breathe around, As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground.

Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night-- Thou that to love so oft hast lent its soul, Since the lorn Lesbian languished 'neath thy light, Or fiery Romeo to his Juliet stole-- Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?

But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, And Night, more nearly now each step attending, As if to hide thy envied place of rest, Closes at last thy very couch beside, A matron curtaining a virgin bride.

Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting, While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver, As of the good when heavenward hence departing, Shines thy last smile upon the placid river. So--could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray-- Would I too steal from this dark world away.

ANACREONTIC.

BY A. H. BOGART.

The flying joy through life we seek For once is ours--the wine we sip Blushes like Beauty's glowing cheek, To meet our eager lip.

Round with the ringing glass once more! Friends of my youth and of my heart-- No magic can this hour restore-- Then crown it ere we part.

Ye are my friends, my chosen ones-- Whose blood would flow with fervour true For me--and free as this wine runs Would mine, by Heaven! for you.

Yet, mark me! When a few short years Have hurried on their journey fleet, Not one that now my accents hears Will know me when we meet.

Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain, The startling thought ye scarce will brook, Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers then In heart as well as look.

Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile, Will soon break youthful friendship's chain-- But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile? No--pour the wine again!

ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK.

BY EDWARD SANFORD.

There's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high And manly beauty of the Roman mould, And the keen flashing of thy full dark eye Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold; Of passions scathed not by the blight of time, Ambition, that survives the battle route. The man within thee scorns to play the mime To gaping crowds that compass thee about. Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side, Wrapped in fierce hate, and high unconquered pride.

Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet-- Vanquished and captive--dost thou deem that here-- The glowing day star of thy glory set-- Dull night has closed upon thy bright career? Old forest lion, caught and caged at last, Dost pant to roam again thy native wild? To gloat upon the life blood flowing fast Of thy crushed victims; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers?

For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers, To let thy tribe commit such fierce, and utter Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers. Though thine be old, hereditary hate, Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until It had become a madness, 'tis too late To crush the hordes who have the power, and will, To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains.

Spite of thy looks of cold indifference, There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder, Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder? Our big canoes, with white and wide-spread wings, That sweep the waters, as birds sweep the sky;-- Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by? Or if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion?

Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummies That grin in darkness in their coffin cases; What think'st thou of the art of making mummies, So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces? Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour; Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage, Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down, Pass in a moment from a king--to clown.

Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away? To the deep bosom of thy forest home, The hill side, where thy young pappooses play, And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come? Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws, For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear, Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas, That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here? The wife who made that shell-decked wampum belt, Thy rugged heart must think of her, and melt.

Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast Of the caged bird against his prison bars, That thou, the crowned warrior of the west, The victor of a hundred forest wars, Should'st in thy age, become a raree show Led, like a walking bear, about the town, A new caught monster, who is all the go, And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?

Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came, Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun, And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile, Of a bound warrior in his agony, Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's, Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.

Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree Is blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now. I'll not insult its fallen majesty, Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould, Rich, warm and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, No second verdure quickens in our cold New, barren earth; no life sustains it there. But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing, Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."

Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature, Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy; The best of blood glows in thy every feature, And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy, Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow; Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye, He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow All question of thy noble family; For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety, A leader in our city good society.

LINES ON A SKULL DUG UP BY THE PLOUGH.

BY D. SEYMOUR.

Couldst thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast? Was't thou, ere day dawned, wakened from thy slumbers? Did earth deny to thee the quiet rest She grants to all her children's countless numbers? In narrow bed they sleep away the hours Beneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers; No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow, Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow.

How naked art thou! Pale is now that face Which once, no doubt, was blooming--deeply dinted, A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface; Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted? Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning! No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening; Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad, As though I power o'er thy destiny had.

I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn thee To gaze upon the sun that gilds these fields; But on my pilgrim staff I lift and turn thee, And try if to my spells thy silence yields; Wert thou my brother once--and did those glances Respond to love's and friendship's soft advances? Has then a spirit in this frame-work slept? Say, hast thou loved and hated, smiled and wept?

Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions, The murderer or the murdered to be? Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions, Or didst thou Honour's banner follow free? Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story, Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth, gold, or glory? The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand, Was it the scourge or guardian of the land?

Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains, The tear may tremble in a mother's eye, And as approaching death dries up life's fountains, Thou to her thoughts and prayers may'st still be nigh; Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying, Perhaps thy friends for thy return are sighing, And dream not that upon this little hill The dews of night upon thy skull distil.

Or wert thou one of the accursed banditti Who wrought such outrage on fair Germany? Who made the field a desert, fired the city, Defiled the pure, and captive led the free? Didst thou, in disposition fierce and hellish, Thy span of life with deeds like these embellish? Then--God of righteousness! to thee belongs, Not unto us, to judge and right our wrongs.

The sun already toward the west is tending, His rays upon thy hollow temples strike; Thou heed'st them not; heed'st not the rains, descending On good and bad, just and unjust alike. The mild, cool breeze of even is round me playing, Sweet perfume from the woods and fields are straying; Rich grain now waves where lances bristled then; Thus do all things proclaim God's love to men.

Whoe'er thou wert, who by a fellow-mortal Were hurried out of life; we are at peace; Thus I return thee to the grave's dark portal, Revenge and hatred on this spot should cease. Rest where thy mouldering skeleton reposes, And may the perfume of the forest roses Waft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast! Thou restless one! return thee to thy rest.

SONG.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

I know thou dost love me--ay! frown as thou wilt, And curl that beautiful lip Which I never can gaze on without the guilt Of burning its dew to sip. I know that my heart is reflected in thine, And, like flowers that over a brook incline, They toward each other dip.

Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light, 'Mid the careless, proud, and gay, I will steal like a thief in thy heart at night, And pilfer its thoughts away. I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour, And thy soul in secret shall own the power It dares to mock by day.

THE MINISINK.

BY A. B. STREET

The ground bird flutters from the grass That hides her tiny nest, The startled deer, as by I pass, Bounds in the thicket's breast; The red-bird rears his crimson wing From the long fern of yonder spring, A sweet and peaceful rest Breathes o'er the scene, where once the sound Of battle shook the gory ground.

Long will the shuddering hunter tell How once, in vengeful wrath, Red warriors raised their fiercest yell And trod their bloodiest path; How oft the sire--the babe--the wife Shriek'd vain beneath the scalping knife 'Mid havoc's fiery scathe; Until the boldest quail'd to mark, Wrapp'd round the woods, Night's mantle dark.

At length the fisher furl'd his sail Within the shelter'd creek, The hunter trod his forest trail The mustering band to seek; The settler cast his axe away, And grasp'd his rifle for the fray, All came, revenge to wreak-- With the rude arms that chance supplied, And die, or conquer, side by side.

Behind the footsteps of their foe, They rush'd, a gallant throng, Burning with haste, to strike a blow For each remembered wrong; Here on this field of Minisink, Fainting they sought the river's brink Where cool waves gush'd along; No sound within the woods they heard, But murmuring wind and warbling bird.

A shriek!--'tis but the panther's--nought Breaks the calm sunshine there, A thicket stirs!--a deer has sought From sight a closer lair; Again upon the grass they droop, When burst the well-known whoop on whoop Shrill, deafening on the air, And bounding from their ambush'd gloom, Like wolves the savage warriors come.

In vain upsprung that gallant band And seized their weapons by, Fought eye to eye, and hand to hand, Alas! 'twas but to die; In vain the rifle's skilful flash Scorch'd eagle plume and wampum sash; The hatchet hiss'd on high, And down they fell in crimson heaps, Like the ripe corn the sickle reaps.

In vain they sought the covert dark, The red knife gash'd each head, Each arrow found unerring mark, Till earth was pil'd with dead. Oh! long the matron watch'd, to hear Some voice and footstep meet her ear, Till hope grew faint with dread; Long did she search the wood-paths o'er, That voice and step she heard no more.

Years have pass'd by, the merry bee Hums round the laurel flowers, The mock-bird pours her melody Amid the forest bowers; A skull is at my feet, though now The wild rose wreathes its bony brow, Relic of other hours. It bids the wandering pilgrim think Of those who died at Minisink.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet