  1809=1891. Albert Pike was born in Boston, but after his twenty-second year made his home in the South. He was a student at Harvard and taught for a while; in 1831, he went to Arkansas, walking, it is said, five hundred miles of the way, as his horse had run away in a storm. He became an editor and then a lawyer, cultivating letters at the same time, and wrote the “Hymns to the Gods.” He served in the Mexican and Civil Wars, with rank in the latter of Brigadier-General in the Confederate army. He afterwards made his home in Washington City, where he at first practised his profession, but later gave his attention mostly to literature and Freemasonry. WORKS.Hymns to the Gods. The following poem is one of the best on that wonderful bird whose song almost all Southern poets have celebrated. It has a classic ring and reminds one of Keats’ Odes on the Nightingale and on a Grecian Urn. TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.Thou glorious mocker of the world! I hear Thy many voices ringing through the glooms Of these green solitudes; and all the clear, Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear, And floods the heart. Over the spherÈd tombs No light from History’s starlit page illumes The memory of these nations; they have died: None care for them but thou; and thou mayst sing O’er me, perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified. Glad scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave The world’s mad turmoil and incessant din, Where none in other’s honesty believe, Where the old sigh, the young turn gray and grieve, Where misery gnaws the maiden’s heart within: Thou fleest far into the dark green woods, Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes No discord on thy melodies. Oh, where, Among the sweet musicians of the air, Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes? Ha! what a burst was that! The Æolian strain Goes floating through the tangled passages Of the still woods, and now it comes again, A multitudinous melody,—like a rain Of glassy music under echoing trees, Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul With a bright harmony of happiness, Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll Thin waves of crimson flame; till we become With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb, And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal. I cannot love the man who doth not love, As men love light, the song of happy birds; For the first visions that my boy-heart wove To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun Into the depths of Heaven’s blue heart, as words From the Poet’s lips float gently, one by one, And vanish in the human heart; and then I revelled in such songs, and sorrowed when, With noon-heat overwrought, the music-gush was done. Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades, Alone with nature,—but it may not be; I have to struggle with the stormy sea Of human life until existence fades Into death’s darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar Through the thick woods and shadow-checkered glades, While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o’er The brilliance of thy heart; but I must wear, As now, my garments of regret and care,— As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore. Yet why complain? What though fond hopes deferred Have overshadowed Life’s green paths with gloom? Content’s soft music is not all unheard; There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird, To welcome me within my humble home; There is an eye, with love’s devotion bright, The darkness of existence to illume. Then why complain? When Death shall cast his blight Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest Beneath these trees; and, from thy swelling breast, Over them pour thy song, like a rich flood of light. |
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