  CANTO I.Sometimes old letters have the strangest things Recorded on the worn and sallow page: The writing, too, has neither head nor wings, But one would think that insects for an age Had wip'd their tiny feet where black ink clings, Regardless of the ancient scribbling sage, Whose quill, one pointed and one feather'd end, Had trail'd away his thoughts to absent friend. But who can be sure, they're any more queer Than those we moderns hast'ly pen to-day; E'en tho' their marks so odd and strange appear, That as we read the mind doth halt and stay Until the brain hath got a little clear, In order, as we let its powers play, We well can solve what all the scribblings mean, 'Tis so at six, or sev'n, or at sixteen. The language, too, is no more queer and strange, As thought doth spring and file along on thought, And spirits meet in pleasant interchange And scarcely caught at that in his small range, As some poor scribbler has his fabric wrought, And in the wretched scraping swiftly tells What feeling urges—what his bosom swells. Those who would have this sweetest priv'lege cease, Must ingrate be in senses more than one; Nor dwell at home, or anywhere in peace, Though parent, friend, daughter, or absent son, Such name 'twere well enough they should release; Indeed, 'twere well it never had begun, If cold neglect in writing they do show, No matter if the mails go swift or slow. But some there are who never can be made To answer letters until ages roll Almost away, or letters are mislaid, Or till an absent, good, and loving soul, Full well may think the friendly hand has stay'd, Or that the troubled fates may have control, Or illness may—or even worse, one's doubts— Our friend is gone away, or else in pouts. And yet, most happy one and all should be, If but allow'd to bring our distant friends So near that, they may feel and truly see Each impulse of the heart, and as it blends, Feel truly certain that we have the key Which opens friendship's valve, and makes amends For many sad, unkind, and ugly things, That daily life with all its worry brings. One friend I've had for many steady years. Who, though she lives a thousand miles away, Comes ever with her joys, her hopes and fears; Which stirs my own to mingle with her tears, And ev'ry throbbing of my heart doth stay For her, till all she feels, or thinks, or knows, Takes root in my own breast, and there it grows. She lives in icy—I in Southern clime: And e'en as the bright-eyed daughters of the South, She loves this land—so many years now mine; Nor deems its rainy seasons, or its drouth Objectionable, or so out of time, If Mail sacks but unseal their widened mouth, And bring her freshly posted speedy news From me and mine, where fall the Southern dews. When fierce war raged, and battle strife ran high, She o'er the horrid din and clamor came— In spirit came—and heav'd a weary sigh! We look'd together on the bloody plain, Until our crying souls no more could cry. As saw we our own braves' expiring pain; "Father, forgive" this wild, this raging crew, "For" in their strife "they know not what they do!" So oft, when Cynth'a pale, rode high at night, And smiled thro', or o'er a rift of clouds, She's told me of its beauty and pure light, That whitens air, like newly coffined shrouds, And makes the snows so flaky, keen and bright, While skaters skim the icy lakes in crowds, And she, with wishing, longing heart, once more Would come, or bring me to the ice-bound shore. In weariness of heart, the mind so dwells On all its windings thro' the pleasant past, Its smooth calm seas, and undulating swells. Leaves impress on our souls, which merely tells Of evanescent things that can not last; And e'en tho' painful, held with deep regret, Unwillingly would we ever forget. This is a long and quite extended reach, Of that begun an hour or two ago; And looks more like a set or settled speech, Than like the stream down which old letters flow: And so, dear reader, thro' the lengthen'd breach, If so you please, we'll travel rather slow, And take as we proceed—to make amends— Some letter missives from our absent friends. The first of friendly sort, we point you to, By Lewis, an ally of the "lost cause," Was penn'd at night, in 1862, When subject of Confed'rate army laws, And flew the show'ring deadly bullets, flew With little intermission—scarce a pause; And when men bravely fought, with might and main, To gain their independence—but in vain. The letter said—'twas not a hasty note— "This now to you, may prove farewell, in fine; We're all equipped, and waiting for the boat, That leaves her moorings somewhere close to nine, Which soon is here—and then afloat, afloat, And by the morning sun's first blushing shine, We'll wear the victor's glorious laurel wreath, Or else be shrouded in the arms of death! "I know, good friend, this strain must give you pain; In carelessness I would not take a step; And taking this, if counted with the slain, For me I know—whom she'll ne'er meet again; Yet shall I hope, before the next sunset, That she, alike yourself, may gladly tell, There's One above, who doeth all things well. "There are some things to jot down here, that I Would kindly ask, my dearest friend, of you. If I am hors de combat plac'd, and die, Or battle's lost or gained—here's my adieu, But please this letter send—or please to try— My feelings scarcely can I now subdue, While fate obstruent says, a few hours more May transport all to an unbroken shore. "Should fickle fortune frown, and leave me fall Into unfriendly and blood-greedy hands, 'Twill be like being—if I be at all— In hands next like to those of savage bands. It doth not matter on this earthly ball, So much where one may be, or what breeze fans. The unhappy casualties the post will cite, Ere one more sun has settled into night. "Dear Charley's going too—the noble boy— She's sad to see him with the warring host. His joyous look, 'tis a pity to destroy; A thousand pities more his life were lost. But she knows well, naught but the main decoy, Could take him thus from her, he loves the most. God grant him life—a long and happy life, And one with blessings, free from battle's strife. "And now, kind friend, I say a sad good-by; The rolling drum doth call us to repair— Under the dull, though quiet darken'd sky, As cannons play, and iron missels fly— To duty—parcel'd out to each a share: But none of us can tell the sad finale: And now again I say, good-by, farewell!" And thus the letter ended—in a strain, That led beloved ones at home to think, If war should spare, that he would speak again; But give us news from which the heart would shrink, For so is all that comes from battle plain, Where death holds ev'ry dear one on his brink. Such is the fate of war—the olden story, Where men invest their lives in search of glory. And shall I tell, how with her hand in mine, Poor Mary sat, and leaned upon my breast; And how her tears fell down on ev'ry line; And how, before the morning sun's first shine, Her weary form was out, and loosely dress'd; And how she pac'd the room the live long day, Till ev'ning light had lost its latest ray! Poor child! the premonition seemed to be, That many trials were in store for her, Altho' their unveil'd form she could not see; Th CANTO II.If there be anything that is heartrending, It is when called upon to yield our cheer To those whose joys have found a sudden ending, Indeed the task's a hopeless one—that's clear— To attempt to improve upon or save by mending. As well essay to move a planet from its sphere, As talk to any one whose real sorrow Has pass'd the line where he was wont to borrow. I've tried it oft, and given o'er the task; And hopeful too as any woman that e'er tried, Or man either, e'en though he wore the mask, That Satan wore to set our mother Eve beside Herself enough to think, and curious ask, Why she was ever made, or ever tied Upon this curious revolving ball, And where her crazy actions brought "the fall." That was the fearful thing in nature's God— The giving to that simple child the power To tread where his own mighty footsteps trod! The gloomy clouds o'er all mankind since low'r, And lay their stubborn heads beneath the sod! His grandchild might have bloom'd supernal flow'r, Of all the grand and awful fabrication, Nor need redemption nor regeneration. Perhaps such questions we've no right to put, Unto the Framer of the Universe; To our inquis'tiveneness his doors are shut, On dit—and recommended well of course, By the theologist in pious hut, With clearing small around—or what is worse, He lives beyond where busy thoughts do center, And so beyond the pale where gossips enter. But then theology is not the theme To claim my present labor or my time. We'll then retire to Mary's broken dream; Although the task is hard, in changing rhyme, To waft her smoothly down life's whirling stream, And land her safe in any pleasant clime, When knowing that her dearest hopes have pal'd, And every sweet anticipation fail'd. My muse has sung the task, a hopeless one, To offer balm to one in woe not found; Or being found, it meets a chronic tone. To raise the sadden'd brow when sorrow crown'd, Is near a failure ere the task's begun; 'Tis throwing straws to one already drown'd; The light frail things are in a feeble clasp, And serve no other purpose than to grasp. You may try this, or that, or other thing, And find each move is not responsive met, Except to prove abortive, and to fling Your kindest purpose back, from efforts set In bounds of common sense—another ring, Within whose compass many chafe and fret. To try to lead a moody woful mind— 'Tis but a task where blind must lead the blind. "When fate—the dark-brow'd Mistress—lays her hand With heavy weight upon a mortal wight, It is as if King Terror's deadly wand Had swept along, and wither'd left and right; Or like one's bark, left on a sullen strand, Where soundless waters rise in fury's might, Rock on and on, in sullen moaning clash, Unmindful of the human wrecks they dash. And Mary—-still I hear her stifled moan, As vainly the letter she tried to read, The anguish of her low, distressful groan, Would cause a heart of adamant to bleed. It seem'd her brain were like a flaming stone; Her heart a torn and bent and broken reed; And such a look of wan and woeful pain! God grant me such a likeness ne'er again." Next day they bore her to her city home, With life enough scarce left, her frame to bear; All had been swept away like wild sea foam, And nothing left but a fond mother's care, To nurse away the fever which had come; A fit attendant of her woes, and share— A heated languor with sufficient breath To hold her just within the porch of death. CANTO III.But turn we now to other scenes than these, At least awhile, and take a cheerful look, As trav'ler looks from sand to greenleaf trees, And 'neath the shade where runs the babbling brook, Who doffs his hat to the refreshing breeze, And reading nature as a living book, He feels her smiling, in its joyous glim, Has such a sweet affinity for him. Life should not be all terrors—nor its charms Be life-long raptures, or unending songs; When both are blended, each alike disarms; Nor constant good nor ill, alone belongs To life—one only brings us moral harms, And on our poor humanity, great wrongs; For by the constant sameness would man's deeds Defeat all progress that to greatness leads. So from the gloomy picture drawn above, We'll turn away and find a brighter side. Let not the drooping Mary die of love, As many storied ones have lov'd and died; Nor solitaire in heart forever rove; But bid her all life's changes firm abide; Her case is hom'opathic, we discover— Similia similibus curanter. Months came and went, and still she linger'd on, At home by the sea. Its solitary shore, Was travers'd often by her step alone; Somehow the dark sea's surging, sullen roar, Brought quietude, when elsewhere she found none; Her daily lone walks there were many score. Philosophy no pedagogue can teach Is sometimes found upon a lonely beach. The saddest, yet the sweetest melancholy, Inspires a feeble, slow reviving frame, If but allow'd to steal from heartless folly, Away from all that bears the social name; And 'neath the spreading evergreen sea-holly, Check down the fires of disappointment's flame; And thereby give the thoughts a purer turn, And cool the heated caldron where they burn. In such a state, the bubbles we pursue Seem but the vaunt of sickly strength and pride; We're on our way, a weary wand'ring through, With fallen hopes flung losely on the tide Of morbid aims—whose almost crying hue Is pencil'd by dull care. Nor can we hide The care-worn hues with careful toilet hands; The glass of life drops slow, but sure, the sands. The tameless passions frequent in the breast, Are like the molten waves of Ætna's fire; Knowing nor years, nor months, nor weeks of rest— Tho' some there are to better things aspire— Impulses whatsoe'er, not one repress'd; Their every song's a ceaseless never tire, And no reflection in its secret springs, On what demands it 'mid a thousand things. Her letters oft were fill'd with moaning words, Whose sadden'd tone inspir'd one's heart with awe; E'en her description of sweet singing birds Did moan—and so did all she heard and saw. Home-sheltered—like the flock the shepherd herds— Where she would fain from prying eyes withdraw, There dead monotony did reign and sigh, That tells how near the fount of tears is dry. And yet me thought her grief had soften'd down More in that calm inertia—settled state— Whose features wore, nor smile, nor cheer, nor frown; A kind of understanding with Dame Fate, That wreathing thus her brow with sorrow's crown, Were far less sad than when 'twere wrought too late To wear its jagging ugly thorns, and give A single farthing for such life to live. At length news came—how Arthur Wildbent had So kindly driven her along the strand; And air-improv'd, it made us all so glad. That last reunion, while the Melrose Band Discoursed sweet music, she had been less sad; That once she gam'd croquet with cheerful hand, And beat—but beat old Melancholy better, And hence she boasted of it in her letter. She frequent made the balmy ev'ning drive Adown the beach, so like a sanded floor; Where white-capp'd waves, that seem'd almost alive, Did chase each other to the shining shore, Buzzing like restless bees within the hive; Or, like the porpoise, rolling by the score, Tho' gathering nothing in their briny splash, Except the wat'ry pearls to shore they dash. 'Tis true, she always miss'd good Charley when, The ev'ning throngs were wont to congregate— The greatest press was on her spirits then— Howe'er they whirl'd in dance, or stood, or sat, Not one amid the gallant crowd of men, Could for his absence ever compensate, Unless it might be Lewis—who to-day Reminded her of him who'd pass'd away. Life had its pleasures, beauty had the world; Tho' fewest of them had been brought to bear Upon a destiny like hers, so furl'd; Scarce naught of either could be painted there; All romance so remotely had been hurl'd, She lik'd some work of lonely quiet, where By somber daylight, or by flick'ring taper, Her inburst feelings she could note on paper. Life's new sensations are but few and precious— Thus speaks some writer of some wondrous cave; It may be Mammoth, with its caverns spacious; Whose floors, obliv'ous, Leth'an waters lave; And when we wander thro' them, strange refresh us; Most surely do, if we but catch and save, For rarest of all rare delicious dishes, A string full of the tiny eyeless fishes. But where find we in life, sensations new? Such as have never yet been told, we mean. Of Such, me thinks indeed, the number's few; And may not reach one even in a dream. 'Tis true, we often all the old renew, Which to one's own sensations new may seem; And yet they but repeat—so we believe— All those once told by Adam to his Eve. Yes, so far told, as then it could be done, In the beginning time of this world's ways— Thro' which their course to pick, they'd just begun— But not express'd in such poetic lays, As down the rippling tide of language run The thought and feeling of the later days; And more's the pity—since their employment Seems but a very circumscribed enjoyment. "'Tis now two years since Charley pass'd away," She wrote, "and I have liv'd for him as true As any one who keeps her wedding day; 'Till lately I have somewhat chang'd my view; 'Tis not so well for one to mourn alway; The news, sweet friend, the news I'll break to you— Unless this letter meet with a miscarriage— And own to you, again I think of marriage. "And you may guess my choice, the favor'd one; He's more like him than any I have met, Indeed, than any I have ever known; And this is why my heart is on him set; I can not always pass my life alone, The choice I feel that I shall ne'er regret; You know him well, and know I never can— Search o'er the earth—secure a better man. "Somehow I feel myself so sadly chang'd, I'm scarce the same you knew in days of yore; My sorrow hath so much my mind derang'd, Instead of twenty years, I feel fourscore. From youthful pleasures I'm so far estrang'd, Myself doth seem a matron grave, and hoar With silvered front, and seems a grave surprise, That I'm not trying to repair my eyes. "I aim to do my duty as I ought, And of his life be crowning joy and bliss, That Lew may realize how ev'ry thought, From wedding day to death, shall be all his; And ev'ry purpose shall be truly taught, That wifely love should point alone to this; So in our union we may find repair For all the sorrows both have had to bear." |
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