Ar, tear her tatter'd ensign down!
Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle-shout,
And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquish'd foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquer'd knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!
O, better that her shatter'd hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,―
The lightning and the gale!
STRANGE! that one lightly-whisper'd tone
Is far, far sweeter unto me,
Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
Or breathe along the sea;
But, lady, when thy voice I greet,
Not heavenly music seems so sweet.
I look upon the fair, blue skies,
And naught but empty air I see;
But when I turn me to thine eyes,
It seemeth unto me
Ten thousand angels spread their wings
Within those little azure rings.
The lily hath the softest leaf
That ever western breeze hath fann'd, But thou shalt have the tender flower,
So I may take thy hand;
That little hand to me doth yield
More joy than all the broider'd field.
O, lady! there be many things
That seem right fair, below, above; But sure not one among them all Is half so sweet as love;Let us not pay our vows alone, But join two altars both in one.
Written when it was proposed to break up the frigate Constitution, as unfit for service.
SEE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,
She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,
Beneath her hissing lee.
The morning spray, like sea-born flowers,
With heap'd and glistening bells,
Falls round her fast in ringing showers,
With every wave that swells;
And, flaming o'er the midnight deep,
In lurid fringes thrown,
The living gems of ocean sweep
Along her flashing zone.
With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,
And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,
She thunders foaming by!
When seas are silent and serene,
With even beam she glides,
The sunshine glimmering through the green
That skirts her gleaming sides.
Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,
The beating of her restless heart
Still sounding through the storm;
Now answers, like a courtly dame,
The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,
The Pharos of the shore.
To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,
Who trims his narrow'd sail;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep
Her broad breast to the gale;
And many a foresail, scoop'd and strain'd,
Shall break from yard and stay,
Before this smoky wreath has stain'd
The rising mist of day.
Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, I see yon quivering mast;
The black throat of the hunted cloud
Is panting forth the blast!
An hour, and, whirl'd like winnowing chaff,
The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff,
White as the sea-bird's wing!
Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap
With floods of living fire;
Sleep on-and when the morning light
Streams o'er the shining bay,
O, think of those for whom the night
Shall never wake in day!
ALBERT PIKE was born in Boston, on the twenty-ninth day of December, 1809. When he was about four years old, his parents removed to Newburyport. His father, he informs me, "was a journeyman shoemaker, who worked hard, paid his taxes, and gave all his children the benefit of an education." The youth of the poet was passed principally in attending the district-schools at Newburyport, and an academy at Framingham, until he was sixteen years of age, when, after a rigid and triumphant examination, he was admitted to Harvard College. Not being able to pay the expenses of a residence at Cambridge, however, he soon after became an assistant teacher in the grammar-school at Newburyport, and, at the end of a year, its principal. He was induced to resign this office after a short time, and in the winter which followed was the preceptor of an academy at Fairhaven. He returned to Newburyport in the spring, on foot, and for one year taught there a private school. During all this time he had been a diligent student, intending to enter the university, in advance; but in the spring of 1831 he changed his plans, and started on his travels to the west and south.
He went first to Niagara, and then, through Cleveland, Cincinnati, Nashville, and Paducah, much of the way on foot, to Saint Louis. He left that city in August, with a company of forty persons, among whom were two young men besides himself from Newburyport, for Mexico; and after much fatigue and privation, arrived at Santa Fe on the twenty-eighth of November. Here he remained nearly a year, passing a part of the time as a clerk in a store, and the residue in selling merchandise through the country. Near the close of September, 1832, he left Taos, with a trappingparty; travelled around the sources of Red River to the head waters of the Brazos; separated from the company, with four others, and came into Arkansas,--travelling the last five hundred miles on foot, and reaching Fort Smith, in November, "without a rag of clothing, a dollar in money, or knowing a person in the territory."
Near this place he spent the winter in teaching a few children, and in the following July he went further down the country, and opened a school under more favourable auspices; but after a few weeks, being attacked by a fever, was compelled to abandon it. He had in the mean time written several poems for a newspaper printed at Little Rock, which pleased the editor so much that he sent for him to go there and become his partner. The proposition was gladly accepted, and in October he crossed the Arkansas and landed at Little Rock, paying his last cent for the ferriage of a poor old soldier, who had known his father in New England.
Here commenced a new era in the life of PIKE.
From this time his efforts appear to have been crowned with success. The "Arkansas Advocate" was edited by him until the autumn of 1834, when it became his property. Soon after his arrival at his new home he began to devote his leisure to the study of the law, and he was now admitted to the bar. He continued both to write for his paper and to practise in the courts, until the summer of 1836, when he sold his printing establishment; and since then he has successfully pursued his profession. He was married at Little Rock, in November, 1834.
About this time he published at Boston a volume of prose sketches and poems, among which are an interesting account of his journeys over the prairies, and some fine poetry, written at Santa Fe and among the mountains and forests of Mexico. the preface to it, he says: "What I have written has been a transcript of my own feelings-too much so, perhaps, for the purposes of fame. Writing has always been to me a communion with my own soul. These poems were composed in desertion and loneliness, and sometimes in places of fear and danger. My only sources of thought and imagery have been my own mind, and Nature, who has appeared to me generally in desolate guise and utter dreariness, and not unfrequently in sublimity."
His "Hymns to the Gods," published afterward, were composed at an carly age, in Fairhaven, and principally while he was surrounded by pupils, in the school-room. They are bold, spirited, scholarly and imaginative, and their diction is appropriate and poetical, though in some instances marred by imperfect and double rhymes. Of his minor pieces, "Spring" and "To the Mockingbird," are the best. I have heard praise bestowed on "Ariel," a poem much longer than these, published in 1835, but as it appeared in a periodical which had but a brief existence, I have not been able to obtain a copy of it. In "Fantasma," in which, I suppose, he intended to shadow forth his own "eventful history," he speaks of one who "Was young,
And had not known the bent of his own mind,
Until the mighty spell of COLERIDGE woke
Its hidden powers,"
and in some of his poems there is a cast of thought similar to that which pervades many of the works of this poet, though nothing that amounts to imitation. His early struggles, and subsequent wanderings and observations furnished him with the subjects, thoughts, and imagery of many of his pieces, and they therefore leave on the mind an impression of nature and truth. He still writes occasionally for the literary magazines, but none of his later poems seem to be equal to those which I have quoted in this work.
GoD of the mighty deep! wherever now
The waves beneath thy brazen axles bow-
Whether thy strong, proud steeds, wind-wing'd
and wild,
Trample the storm-vex'd waters round them piled,
Swift as the lightning-flashes, that reveal
The quick gyrations of each brazen wheel;
While round and under thee, with hideous roar,
The broad Atlantic, with thy scourging sore,
Thundering, like antique Chaos in his spasms,
In heaving mountains and deep-yawning chasms,
Fluctuates endlessly; while, through the gloom,
Their glossy sides and thick manes fleck'd with foam,
Career thy steeds, neighing with frantic glee
In fierce response to the tumultuous sea,—
Whether thy coursers now career below,
Where, amid storm-wrecks, hoary sea-plants grow,
Broad-leaved, and fanning with a ceaseless motion
The pale, cold tenants of the abysmal ocean-
O, come! our altars waiting for thee stand,
Smoking with incense on the level strand!
Perhaps thou lettest now thy horses roam
Upon some quiet plain; no wind-toss'd foam
Is now upon their limbs, but leisurely
They tread with silver feet the sleeping sea,
Fanning the waves with slowly-floating manes,
Like mist in sunlight; haply, silver strains
From clamorous trumpets round thy chariot ring,
And green-robed sea-gods unto thee, their king,
Chant, loud in praise: APOLLO now doth gaze
With loving looks upon thee, and his rays
Light up thy steeds' wild eyes: a pleasant warmth
Is felt upon the sea, where fierce, cold storm
Has just been rushing, and the noisy winds,
That EOLUS now within their prison binds,
Flying with misty wings: perhaps, below
Thou liest in green caves, where bright things glow
With myriad colours-many a monster cumbers
The sand a-near thee, while old TRITON slumbers
As idly as his wont, and bright eyes peep
Upon thee every way, as thou dost sleep.
Perhaps thou liest on some Indian isle,
Under a waving tree, where many a mile
Stretches a sunny shore, with golden sands
Heap'd up in many shapes by naiads' hands,
And, blushing as the waves come rippling on,
Shaking the sunlight from them as they run
And curl upon the beach-like molten gold
Thick-set with jewellery most rare and old-
And sea-nymphs sit, and, with small, delicate shells,
Make thee sweet melody: as in deep dells
We hear, of summer nights, by fairies made,
The while they dance within some quiet shade,
Sounding their silver flutes most low and sweet,
In strange but beautiful tunes, that their light feet
May dance upon the bright and misty dew
In better time: all wanton airs that blew
But lately over spice trees, now are here,
Waving their wings, all odour-laden, near
The bright and laughing sea. O, wilt thou rise,
And come with them to our new sacrifice!
Bright-hair'd APOLLO !-thou who ever art
A blessing to the world-whose mighty heart
Forever pours out love, and light, and life:
Thou, at whose glance all things of earth are rife
With happiness; to whom, in early spring,
Bright flowers raise up their heads, where'er they
On the steep mountain-side, or in the vale [cling
Are nestled calmly. Thou at whom the pale
And weary earth looks up, when winter flees,
With patient gaze: thou forwhom wind-stripp'd trees
Put on fresh leaves, and drink deep of the light
That glitters in thine eye: thou in whose bright
And hottest rays the eagle fills his eye
With quenchless fire, and far, far up on high
Screams out his joy to thee: by all the names
That thou dost bear-whether thy godhead claims
PHOEBUS, or SOL, or golden-hair'd APOLLO,
Cynthian or Pythian-if thou dost follow
The fleeing night, O, hear
Our hymn to thee, and smilingly draw near!
O, most high poet! thou whose great heart's swell
Pours itself out on mountain and deep dell:
Thou who dost touch them with thy golden feet,
And make them for a poet's theme most meet:
Thou who dost make the poet's eye perceive
Great beauty everywhere-in the slow heave
Of the unquiet sea, or in the war
Of its unnumber'd waters; on the shore
Of pleasant streams, upon the jagged cliff
Of savage mountain, where the black clouds drift
Full of strange lightning; or upon the brow
Of silent night, that solemnly and slow
Comes on the earth; O, thou! whose influence
Touches all things with beauty, makes each sense
Double delight, tinges with thine own heart
Each thing thou meetest; thou who ever art
Living in beauty-nay, who art, in truth,
Beauty imbodied-hear, while all our youth
With earnest calling cry!
Answer our hymn, and come to us, most high!
O, thou! who strikest oft thy golden lyre
In strange disguise, and with a wondrous fire
Sweepest its strings upon the sunny glade,
While dances to thee many a village maid,
Decking her hair with wild flowers, or a wreath
Of thine own laurel, while, reclined beneath
Some ancient oak, with smiles at thy good heart,
As though thou wert of this our world a part,
Thou lookest on them in the darkening wood,
While fauns come forth, and, with their dances rude,
Flit round among the trees with merry leap,
Like their god, PAN; and from fir thickets deep
Come up the satyrs, joining the wild crew,
And capering for thy pleasure: from each yew,
And oak, and beech, the wood-nymphs oft peep out
To see the revelry, while merry shout
And noisy laughter rings about the wood,
And thy lyre cheers the darken'd solitude-
O, come! while we do sound
Our flutes and pleasant-pealing lyres around!
O, most high prophet!-thou that showest men Deep-hidden knowledge: thou that from its den
Bringest futurity, that it comes by
In visible shape, passing before the eye
Shrouded in visions: thou in whose high power
Are health and sickness: thou who oft dost shower
Great plagues upon the nations, with hot breath
Scorching away their souls, and sending death
Like fiery mist amid them; or again,
Like the sweet breeze that comes with summer rain,
Touching the soul with joy, thou sendest out
Bright health among the people, who about
With dewy feet and fanning wings doth step,
And touch each poor, pale cheek with startling lip,
Filling it with rich blood, that leaps anew
Out from the shrivell'd heart, and courses through
The long-forsaken veins!—O, thou, whose name
Is sung by all, let us, too, dare to claim
Thy holy presence here!
Hear us, bright god, and come in beauty near!
O, thou, the lover of the springing bow!
Who ever in the gloomy woods dost throw
Thine arrows to the mark, like the keen flight
Of those thine arrows that with midday light
Thou proudly pointest; thou from whom grim bears
And lordly lions flee, with strange, wild fears,
And hide among the mountains: thou whose cry
Sounds often in the woods, where whirl and fly
The time-worn leaves-when, with a merry train,
BACCHUS is on the hills, and on the plain
The full-arm'd CERES-when upon the sea
The brine-gods sound their horns, and merrily
The whole earth rings with pleasure: then thy voice
Stills into silence every stirring noise,
With utmost sweetness pealing on the hills,
And in the echo of the dancing rills,
And o'er the sea, and on the busy plain,
And on the air, until all voices wane
Before its influence-
O, come, great god, be ever our defence!
By that most gloomy day, when with a cry
Young HYACINTH fell down, and his dark eye
Was fill'd with dimming blood-when on a bed
Of his own flowers he laid his wounded head,
Breathing deep sighs; by those heart-cherish'd eyes
Of long-loved HYACINTH-by all the sighs
That thou, O, young APOLLO, then didst pour
On every gloomy hill and desolate shore,
Weeping at thy great soul, and making dull
Thy ever-quenchless eye, till men were full
Of strange forebodings for thy lustre dimm'd,
And many a chant in many a fane was hymn'd
Unto the pale-eyed sun; the satyrs stay'd
Long time in the dull woods, then on the glade
They came and look'd for thee; and all in vain
Poor DIAN sought thy love, and did complain
For want of light and life;-by all thy grief,
O, bright APOLLO! hear, and give relief
To us who cry to thee-
O, come, and let us now thy glory see!
NO. III. TO VENUS.
O, thou, most lovely and most beautiful! Whether thy doves now lovingly do lull
Thy bright eyes to soft slumbering upon
Some dreamy south wind: whether thou hast gone
Upon the heaven now, or if thou art
Within some floating cloud, and on its heart
Pourest rich-tinted joy; whether thy wheels
Are touching on the sun-forsaken fields,
And brushing off the dew from bending grass,
Leaving the poor green blades to look, alas!
With dim eyes at the moon-(
-(ah! so dost thou
Full oftquench brightness!)--VENUS, whether now
Thou passest o'er the sea, while each light wing
Of thy fair doves is wet, while sea-maids bring
Sweet odours for thee-(ah! how foolish they!
They have not felt thy smart!)—
They know not, while in ocean-caves they play,
How strong thou art.
Where'er thou art, O, VENUS! hear our song-
Kind goddess, hear! for unto thee belong
All pleasant offerings: bright doves coo to thee,
The while they twine their necks with quiet glee
Among the morning leaves; thine are all sounds
Of pleasure on the earth; and where abounds
Most happiness, for thee we ever look;
Among the leaves, in dimly-lighted nook,
Most often hidest thou, where winds may wave
Thy sunny curls, and cool airs fondly lave
Thy beaming brow, and ruffle the white wings
Of thy tired doves; and where his love-song sings,
With lightsome eyes, some little, strange, sweet bird,
With notes that never but by thee are heard-
O, in such scene, most bright, thou liest now,
And, with half-open eye,
Drinkest in beauty-O, most fair, that thou
Wouldst hear our cry!
O, thou, through whom all things upon the earth
Grow brighter: thou for whom even laughing mirth
Lengthens his note; thou whom the joyous bird
Singeth continuously; whose name is heard
In every pleasant sound: at whose warm glance
All things look brighter: for whom wine doth dance
More merrily within the brimming vase,
To meet thy lip: thou, at whose quiet pace
Joy leaps on faster, with a louder laugh,
And Sorrow tosses to the sea his staff,
And pushes back the hair from his dim eyes,
To look again upon forgotten skies;
While Avarice forgets to count his gold,
Yea, unto thee his wither'd hand doth hold,
Fill'd with that heart-blood: thòu, to whose high
All things are made to bow, [might
Come thou to us, and turn thy looks of light
O, hear, great goddess! thou whom all obey;
At whose desire rough satyrs leave their play,
And gather wild-flowers, decking the bright hair
Of her they love, and oft blackberries bear
To shame them at her eyes: O, thou! to whom
They leap in awkward mood, within the gloom
Of darkening oak trees, or at lightsome noon
Sing unto thee, upon their pipes, a tune
Of wondrous languishment: thou whose great
Brings up the sea-maids from each ocean-bower,
With many an idle song, to sing to thee,
And bright locks flowing half above the sea,
And gleaming eyes, as if in distant caves
They spied their lovers-(so among the waves
Small bubbles flit, mocking the kindly sun,
With little, laughing brightness)—
O, come, and ere our festival be done,
Our new loves bless!
O, thou who once didst weep, and with sad tears
Bedew the pitying woods!—by those great fears
That haunted thee when thy beloved lay
With dark eyes drown'd in death-by that dull day
When poor ADONIS fell, with many a moan,
Among the leaves, and sadly and alone
Breathed out his spirit-O, do thou look on
All maidens who, for too great love, grow wan,
And pity them: come to us when night brings
Her first faint stars, and let us hear the wings
Of thy most beauteous and bright-eyed doves
Stirring the breathless air; let all thy loves
Be flying round thy car, with pleasant songs
Moving upon their lips: come! each maid longs
For thy fair presence-goddess of rich love!
Come on the odorous air;
And, as thy light wheels roll, from us remove
All love-sick care!
Lo, we have many kinds of incense here
To offer thee, and sunny wine and clear,
Fit for young BACCHUS: flowers we have here too,
That we have gather'd when the morning dew
Was moist upon them; myrtle-wreaths we bear,
To place upon thy bright, luxuriant hair,
And shade thy temples too; 'tis now the time
Of all fair beauty: thou who lovest the clime
Of our dear Cyprus, where sweet flowers blow
With honey in their cups, and with a glow
Like thine own cheek, raising their modest heads
To be refresh'd with the transparent beads
Of silver dew: behold, this April night,
Our altars burn for thee; lo, on the light
We pour out incense from each golden vase;
O, goddess, hear our words!
And hither turn, with thine own matchless grace,
Thy white-wing'd birds.
Most graceful goddess!—whether now thou art
Hunting the dun deer in the silent heart
Of some old, quiet wood, or on the side
Of some high mountain, and, most eager-eyed,
Dashing upon the chase, with bended bow
And arrow at the string, and with a glow
Of wondrous beauty on thy cheek, and feet
Like thine own silver moon-yea, and as fleet
As her best beams-and quiver at the back,
Rattling to all thy steppings; if some track
In distant Thessaly thou followest up,
Brushing the dews from many a flower-cup
And quiet leaf, and listening to the bay
Of thy good hounds, while in the deep woods they,
Strong-limb'd and swift, leap on with eager bounds,
And with their long, deep note each hill resounds,
Making thee music:-goddess, hear our cry,
And let us worship thee, while far and high
Goes up thy brother-while his light is full
Upon the earth; for, when the night-winds lull
The world to sleep, then to the lightless sky DIAN must go, with silver robes of dew, And sunward eye.
Perhaps thou liest on some shady spot
Among the trees, while frighten'd beasts hear not
The deep bay of thy hounds; but, dropping down
Upon green grass, and leaves all sere and brown,
Thou pillowest thy delicate head upon
Some ancient mossy root, where wood-winds run
Wildly about thee, and thy fair nymphs point
Thy death-wing'd arrows, or thy hair anoint
With Lydian odours, and thy strong hounds lie
Lazily on the earth, and watch thine eye,
And watch thine arrows, while thou hast a dream.
Perchance, in some deep-bosom'd, shaded stream
Thou bathest now, where even thy brother sun
Cannot look on thee-where dark shades and dun
Fall on the water, making it most cool,
Like winds from the broad sea, or like some pool
In deep, dark cavern: hanging branches dip
Their locks into the stream, or slowly drip
With tear-drops of rich dew: before no eyes
But those of flitting wind-gods, each nymph hies
Into the deep, cool, running stream, and there
Thou pillowest thyself upon its breast,
O queen, most fair!
By all thine hours of pleasure-when thou wast
Upon tall Latmos, moveless, still, and lost
In boundless pleasure, ever gazing on
Thy bright-eyed youth, whether the unseen sun
Was lighting the deep sea, or at mid-noon
Careering through the sky-by every tune
And voice of joy that thrill'd about the chords
Of thy deep heart, when thou didst hear his words
In that cool, shady grot, where thou hadst brought
And placed ENDYMION; where fair hands had taught
All beauty to shine forth; where thy fair maids
Had brought up shells for thee, and from the glades
All sunny flowers, with precious stones and gems
Of utmost beauty, pearly diadems
Of many sea-gods; birds were there, that sang
Ever most sweetly; living waters rang
Their changes to all time, to soothe the soul
Of thy ENDYMION; pleasant breezes stole
With light feet through the cave, that they might
His dewy lips;-O, by those hours of bliss
That thou didst then enjoy, come to us, fair
And beautiful DIANA-take us now
Under thy care!
O, winged messenger! if thy light feet
Are in the star-paved halls where high gods meet,
Where the rich nectar thou dost take and sip
At idly-pleasant leisure, while thy lip
Utters rich eloquence, until thy foe,
JuNo herself, doth her long hate forego,
And hangs upon thine accents; VENUS Smiles,
And aims her looks at thee with winning wiles;
And wise MINERVA's cup stands idly by
The while thou speakest. Whether up on high
Thou wing'st thy way-or dost but now unfurl
Thy pinions like the eagle, while a whirl
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