Mazelli, and Other Poems, George W. Sands [primary phonics .TXT] 📗

PREFACE

Under this head, I desire to say a few words upon three subjects,
--my friends, my book, and myself.

My friends, though not legion in number, have been, in their
efforts in my behalf, disinterested, sincere, and energetic.

My book: I lay it, as my first offering, at the shrine of my
country's fame. "Would it were worthier." While our soldiers
are first in every field where they meet our enemies, and while
the wisdom of our legislators is justified before all the world,
in the perfection of our beloved institutions, our literature
languishes. This should not be so; for literature, with its
kindred arts, makes the true glory of a nation. We bow in spirit
when Greece is named, not alone because she was the mother of
heroes and lawgivers, but because her hand rocked the cradle of
a literature as enduring as it is beautiful and brilliant, and
cherished in their infancy those arts which eventually repaid her
nursing care in a rich harvest of immortal renown.

For myself I have little to say. I have not written for fame, and
if my life had been a happy one I should never have written at all.
As it was, I early came to drink of the bitter cup; and sorrow,
whilst it cuts us off from the outer, drives us back upon the inner
world;-- and then the unquiet demon of ceaseless thought is roused,
and the brain becomes "a whirling gulf of phantasy and flame," and
we rave and--write! Yes, write! And men read and talk about genius,
and, God help them! Often envy its unhappy possessors the fatal gift
which lies upon heart and brain like molten lead! Of all who have
gained eminence among men as poets, how few are there of whom it may
not be justly said, "They have come up through much tribulation."

G. W. S.


CONTENTS

Mazelli,
Canto I.,
Canto II.,
Canto III.,
The Misanthrope Reclaimed,
Act I.,
Act II.,
Act III.,
Act IV.,
Miscellaneous Poems,


Dedication.

Frederick City, September 7th, 1849.

Dear Sir,--

In humble testimony of my gratitude for your services as a friend,
and my admiration and respect for your character and worth as an
author and a man, permit me to dedicate to you the poem of "Mazelli."

Your obedient servant,

George W. Sands.

To Samuel Tyler, Esq.,
Of the Maryland Bar.


MAZELLI

Canto I.

I.

"Stay, traveller, stay thy weary steed,
The sultry hour of noon is near,
Of rest thy way-worn limbs have need,
Stay, then, and, taste its sweetness here.
The mountain path which thou hast sped
Is steep, and difficult to tread,
And many a farther step 'twill cost,
Ere thou wilt find another host;
But if thou scorn'st not humble fare,
Such as the pilgrim loves to share,--
Not luxury's enfeebling spoil,
But bread secured by patient toil--
Then lend thine ear to my request,
And be the old man's welcome guest.
Thou seest yon aged willow tree,
In all its summer pomp arrayed,
'Tis near, wend thither, then, with me,
My cot is built beneath its shade;
And from its roots clear waters burst
To cool thy lip, and quench thy thirst:--
I love it, and if harm should, come
To it, I think that I should weep;
'Tis as a guardian of my home,
So faithfully it seems to keep
Its watch above the spot where I
Have lived so long, and mean to die.
Come, pardon me for prating thus,
But age, you know, is garrulous;
And in life's dim decline, we hold
Thrice dear whate'er we loved of old,--
The stream upon whose banks we played,
The forest through whose shades we strayed,
The spot to which from sober truth
We stole to dream the dreams of youth,
The single star of all Night's zone,
Which we have chosen as our own,
Each has its haunting memory
Of things which never more may be."

II.

Thus spake an aged man to one
Who manhood's race had just begun.
His form of manhood's noblest length
Was strung with manhood's stoutest strength,
And burned within his eagle eye
The blaze of tameless energy--
Not tameless but untamed--for life
Soon breaks the spirit with its strife
And they who in their souls have nursed
The brightest visions, are the first
To learn how Disappointment's blight
Strips life of its illusive light;
How dreams the heart has dearest held
Are ever first to be dispelled;
How hope, and power, and love, and fame,
Are each an idly sounding name,
A phantom, a deceit, a wile,
That woos and dazzles to beguile.
But time had not yet tutored him,
The youth of hardy heart and limb,
Who quickly drew his courser's bit;
For though too haughty to submit,
In strife for mastery with men,
Yet to a prayer, or a caress,
His soul became all gentleness,--
An infant's hand might lead him then:
So answered he,--"In sooth the way
My steed and I have passed to-day,
Is of such weary, winding length,
As sorely to have tried our strength,
And I will bless the bread and salt
Of him who kindly bids me halt."
Then springing lightly to the ground,
His girth and saddle he unbound,
And turning from the path aside,
The steed and guest, the host and guide,
Sought where the old man's friendly door
Stood ever open to the poor:
The poor--for seldom came the great,
Or rich, the apers of their state,
That simple, rude abode to see,
Or claim its hospitality.

III.

From where the hermit's cottage stood,
Beneath its huge old guardian tree,
The gazer's wand'ring eye might see,
Where, in its maze of field and wood,
And stretching many a league away,
A broad and smiling valley lay:--
Lay stilly calm, and sweetly fair,
As if Death had not entered there;
As if its flowers, so bright of bloom,
Its birds, so gay of song and wing,
Would never lose their soft perfume,
Would never, never cease to sing.
Fat flocks were in its glens at rest,
Pure waters wandered o'er its breast,
The sky was clear, the winds were still,
Rich harvests grew on every hill,
The sun in mid-day glory smiled,
And nature slumbered as a child.

IV.

And now, their rustic banquet done,
And sheltered from the noontide sun
By the old willow's pleasant shade,
The guest and host the scene surveyed;
Marked how the mountain's mighty base
The valley's course was seen to trace;
Marked how its graceful azure crest
Against the sky's blue arch was pressed,
And how its long and rocky chain
Was parted suddenly in twain,
Where through a chasm, wide and deep,
Potomac's rapid waters sweep,
While rocks that press the mountain's brow,
Nod o'er his waves far, far below;(1)
Marked how those waves, in one broad blaze,
Threw back the sun's meridian rays,
And, flashing as they rolled along,
Seemed all alive with light and song;
Marked how green bower and garden showed
Where rose the husbandman's abode,
And how the village walls were seen
To glimmer with a silvery sheen,
Such as the Spaniard saw, of yore,
Hang over Tenuchtitlan's walls,
When maddened with the lust of gore,
He came to desecrate her halls;
To fire her temples, towers, and thrones,
And turn her songs of peace to groans.
They gazed, till from the hermit's eye
A tear stole slow and silently;
A tear, which Memory's hand had taken
From a deep fountain long congealed;
A tear, which showed how strongly shaken
The heart must be, which thus revealed,
Through time's dim shadows, gathering fast,
Its recollections of the past;
Then, as a sigh escaped his breast,
Thus spake the hermit to his guest.

V.

"Thou seest how fair a scene is here;
It seems as if 'twere planned above,
And fashioned from some happier sphere,
To be the home of peace and love.
Yet man, too fond of strife, to dwell
In meek contentment's calm repose,
Will turn an Eden to a hell,
And triumph in his brother's woes!
And passion's lewd and lawless host,
Delight to rave and revel most
Where generous Nature stamps and strews
Her fairest forms, and brightest hues:
And Discord here has lit her brand,
And Hatred nursed her savage brood,
And stern Revenge, with crimson hand,
Has written his foul deeds in blood.
But those who loved and suffered then,
Have given place to other men:
Of all who live, to me alone
The story, of their fate is known;
Give heed, and I will tell it thee,
Tho' mournful must the story be.

VI.

I mind as if 'twere yesterday,
The hour when first I stood beside
The margin of yon rushing tide,
And watched its wild waves in their play;
These locks that now are thin and gray,
Then clustered thick and dark as thine,
And few had strength of arm like mine.
Thou seest how many a furrow now
Time's hand hath ploughed athwart my brow:
Well, then it was without a line;--
And I had other treasures too,
Of which 'tis useless now to vaunt;
Friends, who were kind, and warm, and true;
A heart, that danger could not daunt;
A soul, with wild dreams wildly stirred;
And hope that had not been deferred.
I cannot count how many years
Have since gone by, but toil and tears,
And the lone heart's deep agony,
I feel have sadly altered me;--
Yet mourn I not the change, for those
I loved or scorned, my friends or foes,
Have fallen and faded, one by one,
As time's swift current hurried by,
Till I, of all my kith alone,
Am left to wait, and wish to die.

VII.

How strong a hand hath Time! Man rears,
And names his work immortal; years
Go by. Behold! where dwelt his pride,
Stern Desolation's brood abide;
The owl within his bower sits,
The lone bat through his chamber flits;
Where bounded by the buoyant throng,
With measured step, and choral song,
The wily serpent winds along;
While the Destroyer stalketh by,
And smiles, as if in mockery.
How strong a band hath Time! Love weaves
His wreath of flowers and myrtle leaves,
(Methinks his fittest crown would be
A chaplet from the cypress tree;)
With hope his breast is swelling high,
And brightly beams his laughing eye;
But soon his hopes are mixed with fears,
And soon his smiles are quenched in tears:
Then Disappointment's blighting breath
Breathes o'er him, and he droops to death;
While the Destroyer glideth by,
And smiles, as if in mockery.
How strong a hand hath Time! Fame wins
The eager youth to her embrace;
With tameless ardour he begins,
And follows up the bootless race;
Ah! bootless--for, as on he hies,
With equal speed the phantom flies,
Till youth, and strength, and vigour gone,
He faints, and sinks, and dies unknown;
While the Destroyer passeth by,
And smiles, as if in mockery.
Gaze, stranger, on the scene below;
'Tis scarce a century ago,
Since here abode another race,
The men of tomahawk and bow,
The savage sons of war and chase;
Yet where,