For down, more than a thousand feet, Where mist and mountain torrent meet, That reckless rider fell.

His band drew up:--they could not speak, For long, and loud his charger's shriek Was heard in an unearthly scream, Above that roaring mountain stream-- Like fancied sound in fever'd dream, When the sick brain with crazy skill Weaves fantasies of woe and ill.

Some said: no steed gave forth that yell, And hinted solemnly of--h.e.l.l!

And others said, that from his vest A miniature with haughty crest And features like the lady's 'pressed, Fell on the rugged bank: But who he was, none knew or tell;

They simply point out where he fell When horse and horseman sank.

Like Ravenswood he left no trace-- Tradition only points the place.

Rude is my hand, and rude my lay-- Rude as the Inn, time-worn and grey, Where resting, on the mountain-way, I heard the tale which I have tried To tell to thee; and saw the wide Deep rift--ten yards from side to side-- Great G.o.d! it was a fearful ride The robber took that day.

THREE SUMMER STUDIES.

I.

The c.o.c.k hath crow'd. I hear the doors unbarr'd; Down to the moss-grown porch my way I take, And hear, beside the well within the yard, Full many an ancient, quacking, splashing drake, And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen--all Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call.

The dew is thick upon the velvet gra.s.s-- The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops, And as the cattle from th' enclosure pa.s.s, Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load, Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road.

A l.u.s.trous polish is on all the leaves-- The birds flit in and out with varied notes-- The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves-- A partridge-whistle thro' the garden floats, While yonder gaudy peac.o.c.k harshly cries, As red and gold flush all the eastern skies.

Up comes the sun: thro' the dense leaves a spot Of splendid light drinks up the dew; the breeze Which late made leafy music dies; the day grows hot, And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees: The burnish'd river like a sword-blade shines, Save where 'tis shadow'd by the solemn pines.

II.

Over the farm is brooding silence now-- No reaper's song--no raven's clangor harsh-- No bleat of sheep--no distant low of cow-- No croak of frogs within the spreading marsh-- No bragging c.o.c.k from litter'd farm-yard crows, The scene is steep'd in silence and repose.

A trembling haze hangs over all the fields-- The panting cattle in the river stand Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields.

It seems a Sabbath thro' the drowsy land: So hush'd is all beneath the Summer's spell, I pause and listen for some faint church bell.

The leaves are motionless--the song-bird's mute-- The very air seems somnolent and sick: The spreading branches with o'er-ripen'd fruit Show in the sunshine all their cl.u.s.ters thick, While now and then a mellow apple falls With a dull sound within the orchard's walls.

The sky has but one solitary cloud, Like a dark island in a sea of light; The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows ploughed Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight, While over yonder road a dusty haze Grows reddish purple in the sultry blaze.

III.

That solitary cloud grows dark and wide, While distant thunder rumbles in the air, A fitful ripple breaks the river's tide-- The lazy cattle are no longer there, But homeward come in long procession slow, With many a bleat and many a plaintive low.

Darker and wider-spreading o'er the west Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form, And mirror'd turrets on the river's breast Tell in advance the coming of a storm-- Closer and brighter glares the lightning's flash And louder, nearer, sounds the thunder's crash.

The air of evening is intensely hot, The breeze feels heated as it fans my brows-- Now sullen rain-drops patter down like shot-- Strike in the gra.s.s, or rattle 'mid the boughs.

A sultry lull: and then a gust again, And now I see the thick-advancing rain.

It fairly hisses as it comes along, And where it strikes bounds up again in spray As if 'twere dancing to the fitful song Made by the trees, which twist themselves and sway In contest with the wind which rises fast, Until the breeze becomes a furious blast.

And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled, The clouds lie pil'd up in the splendid west, In ma.s.sive shadow tipp'd with purplish red, Crimson or gold. The scene is one of rest; And on the bosom of yon still lagoon I see the crescent of the pallid moon.

THE WASHINGTON MEMORIAL ODE.

Certain events, like architects, build up Viewless cathedrals, in whose aisles the cup Of some impressive sacrament is kist-- Where thankful nations taste the Eucharist.

Pressed to their lips by some heroic Past Enthroned like Pontiff in the temple vast-- Where incense rises t'wards the dome sublime From golden censers in the hands of Time-- Where through the smoke some sculptured saint appears Crowned with the glories of historic years; Before whose shrine whole races tell their beads-- From whose pale front each sordid thought recedes, Gliding away like white and stealthy ghost, As Memory rears it's consecrated Host, As blood and body of a sacred name Make the last supper of some deathless fame.

This the event! Here springs the temple grand, Whose mighty arches take in all the land!

Its twilight aisles stretch far away and reach 'Mid lights and shadows which defy my speech: And near its portal which Morn opened wide-- Grey Janitor!--to let in all this tide Of prayerful men, most solemnly there stands One recollection, which, for pious hands Is ready like the Minster's sculptured vase, With holy water for each reverent face.

And mystic columns, which my fancy views, Glow in a thousand soft, subduing hues Flung through the stained windows of the Past in gloom, Of royal purple o'er our warrior's tomb.

Oh, proud old Commonwealth! thy sacred name Makes frequent music on the lips of Fame!

And as the nation, in its onward march, Thunders beneath the Union's mighty arch, Thine the bold front which every patriot sees The stateliest figure on its ma.s.sive frieze.

Oh, proud old State! well may thy form be grand, 'Twas thine to give a Savior to the land.

For, in the past, when upward rose the cry, "Save or we perish!" thine 'twas to supply The master-spirit of the storm whose will Said to the billows in their wrath: "Be still!"

And though a great calm followed, yet the age In which he saw that mad tornado rage Made in its cares and wild tempestuous strife One solemn Pa.s.sion of his n.o.ble life.

This day, then, Countrymen of all the year, We well may claim to be without a peer: Amid the rest--impalpable and vast-- It stands a Cheops looming through the past, Close to the rushing, patriotic Nile Which here o'erflows our hearts to make them smile With a rich harvest of devoted zeal, Men of Virginia, for the Common-weal!

And to our Bethlehem ye who come to-day-- Ye who compose this mult.i.tude's array-- Ye who are here from mighty Northern marts With frankincense and myrrh within your hearts-- Ye who are here from the gigantic West, The offspring nurtured at Virginia's breast, Which in development by magic seems Straight to embody all that Progress dreams-- Ye who are here from summer-wedded lands-- From Carolina's woods to Tampa's sands, From Florida to Texas broad and free Where spreads the prairie, like a dark, green sea-- Ye whose bold fathers from Virginia went In wilds to pitch brave enterprise's tent, Spreading our faith and social system wide, By which we stand peculiarly allied!-- Ye Southern men, whose work is but begun, Whose course is on t'ward regions of the sun, Whose brave battalions moved to tropic sods Solemn and certain as though marching G.o.ds Were ordered in their circ.u.mstance and state Beneath the banner of resistless Fate!

Ye have been welcomed, Countrymen, by him [3]

Beside whose speech my rhetoric grows dim-- Whose thoughts are flint and steel--whose words are flame, For they all stir us like some hero's name: But once again the Commonwealth extends Her open hand in welcome to her friends; Come ye from North, or South, or West, or East, No bull's head enters at Virginia's feast.

And ye who've journeyed hither from afar, Know that fair Freedom's liquid morning star Still sheds its glories in a thousand beams, Gilding our forests, fountains, mountains, streams, With light as luminous as on that morn When the Messiah of the land was born.

Then as we here partake the mystic rites To which his memory like a priest invites; Kneeling beside the altars of this day, Let every heart subdued one moment pray,

[Footnote 3: Governor Wise.]

That He who lit our morning star's pure light Will never blot it from the nation's sight; That He will banish those portentous clouds Which from so many its effulgence shrouds-- Which none will deem me Hamlet-mad when I Say hang like banners on the darkened sky, Suggesting perils in their warlike shape, Which Heavenly Father grant that we escape!

Why touch upon these topics, do you ask?

Why blend these themes with my allotted task?

My answer's brief, 'tis, Citizens, because I see fierce warfare made upon the Laws.

A people's poets are that people's seers, The prophet's faculty, in part, is theirs, And thus 'tis fit that from this statue's base, Beneath great Washington's majestic face, That I should point the dangers which menace Our social temple's symmetry and grace.

But here I pause, for happier omens look, And playing Flamen turn to Nature's book: Where late rich Autumn sat on golden throne, A stern usurper makes the crown his own; The courtier woodlands, robbed of all their state, Stripped of their pomp, look grim and desolate; Reluctant conscripts, clad in icy mail, Their captive pleadings rise on every gale.

Now mighty oaks stand like bereaved Lears; Pennons are furled on all the sedgy spears Where the sad river glides between its banks, Like beaten general twixt his pompless ranks; And the earth's bosom, clad in armor now, Bids stern defiance to the iron plough, While o'er the fields so desolate and damp Invading Winter spreads his hostile camp.[4]