Fragments Poem by Albert Pike

(OF AN UNFINISHED POEM.)


Dear woman! star of sad life's clouded heaven,
I dedicate myself to thee again;
Fair woman! as man's guardian angel given,
Thou to the soul art like the summer rain,
Or gentle dew that falls at morn or even; —
Soother of woe, sweet comforter in pain;
Changing and beautiful like the sunset's hue,—
I dedicate myself again to you.

Myself, my pen, my heart, my hand,—yea, all,
All that I have or am, though valueless;
Despise it not, although the gift be small!
I swear my homage by the mystic tress,
The showers of light from radiant eyes that fall,
And soothe sick hearts in their sad loneliness;
By everything ethereal and human,
Which goes to constitute a perfect woman.

Man fell for thee, dear woman! it is said,—
And in thy arms it seemed to him but slight,
His loss of Heaven. For thee, too, he has bled,
And sunken cheerfully in death's long sleep;
For thee he has from fame and honor fled,
And counted shame, disgrace and pain but light,
While pressing thee to his enraptured breast,
And with the wealth of thy sweet kisses blest.

Thou hast inspired the poet's sweetest songs:
And he who has not bowed before thy shrine,
Glowed in thy love, and angered at thy wrongs,
Is no liege-man of poetry divine.
To thee the warrior's scimitar belongs,
And leaps like lightning when the cause is thine;
And thou hast kingdoms, empires overthrown,
By the strong magic that is all thine own.

Thou art the soother of the sad man's dreams;
Thy spirit comes to him when night is still,
Pressing soft fingers, like ethereal beams
Of sunshine on his brow of pain, until
Under her influence again he deems
That he is happy, and glad tears distil
Away the sadness of his wasted soul;—
And when the day-floods on his eyelids roll,

The memory of the vision still is sweet,
Making his sorrows more benign and calm.
Thou to the weary traveller's aching feet
Givest new strength, when, with expanded palm,
Sweet Fancy comes, and woman seems to greet;
And then, unmoved, he hears the thunder-psalm,
And the stern wind's storm-gathering lament,
The roar of Nature's mighty armament.

So hast thou been to me, when I have stood
On many a mountain's bald and snowy peak,
In the clear ether's silent solitude,
Whereon the storms their sharpest anger wreak,—
On cliffs of ice that there for ages brood,
Feeding clear streams that far below outbreak.
There dreams of thee have lit the darkling mind,
And cheered the heart before so sad and blind.

When I have stood my long and weary guard,
Upon the illimitable western plain,
While round me the harsh wind blew sharp and hard,
And not a star shone through the misty mane
Of the cold clouds that toward the thunder-scarred
Old mountains hurried, big with hail and rain:
I saw in visions those dear amber eyes,
To gain whose love, life were small sacrifice.

And since I ceased my houseless wandering,
Once more to live and toil amid mankind,
Still to the memory of those eyes I cling,
Lost to whose light, I should be truly blind.
And thou, dear woman, art the only thing,
That nerves the heart, and braces up the mind,
To struggle bravely with the selfish world,
Like a lone boat amid the breakers hurled.

For far off in the aisles of memory,
I see the faces that I bowed before,
While wandering on the shore of life's blue sea,
And playing with its waves:—those loved of yore:
And still they have dominion over me,
And day by day I worship them the more,—
The loved, the lost, the beautiful, and bright,
Whose radiant eyes would make mid-noon of night.

Ah, ye were made to lure mankind from sin,
And lead to heaven,—ye blessed and beautiful!
And could one leave the great world's busy din,
The selfish, the ill-natured, and the dull,
Finding a heaven your loving arms within,
Life were all bliss: it were indeed to cull
Sweet flowers, rare fruits, unwounded by the thorn,
And make of life one long and lovely morn.

Woman is ever loved most, most adored,
When gentle, trusting and affectionate:
Then avariciously her love we hoard
As a miser's gold: we scoff at scowling Fate;
And like an argosy that has on board
Of spices and rare silks a mighty freight,
We spread top-gallant sails, and plough the sea,
With confident keel, the fair winds blowing free.

And yet we love an under-current of pride,
A flash of fire in the softest, bluest eye,
As even the quietest river's placid tide
Will flash with foam when rocks beneath it lie!
For this the loveliest have been deified,
And men to gain a smile been glad to die:
And these, in times of Knighthood and Romance,
Oft set in rest the warrior's trusty lance.

Often she's like some fragrant, thankless flower,
That fed by the blushing dawn with honey-dew,
Gives her whole heart to the sun, at day's first hour,
But when he shines most constant and most true,
And rains upon her an abundant shower
Of light that is his love and being too,
Then closes her cold heart and turns away,
Ungrateful from the enamored god of day.

'Once more upon the ocean, yet once more,'
Launched in my frail bark of unstudied rhyme;
Upon that deep along whose sandy shore
Are strewed bright hopes, gay visions, schemes sublime,
Brilliant imaginings from fancy's store,
Wild aspirations, follies, ghastly crimes:—
On this rough ocean I unfurl my sail,
And bend my cheek to feel the rising gale.

Here by a high and beaked promontory,
Its name, Neglect, lie many a youngster, dead;
Some whose great griefs are told in piteous story,
And some that ever from men's knowledge fled,
Toiled in still cells and solitudes for glory,
With a miser's care night's long hours husbanded,
And startled the dull world with wondrous songs,
Filled with the sad tale of their many wrongs;

Until their life faded and paled away,
Like one low wail of a long agony;
Or fever-fire turning their dark hair gray,
Burned the tense brain into insanity,
Gloomy as night. For these, alas! are they
That were the servitors of Poetry;
Unfit to embark in the mad world's furious strife,
They sank beneath the howling storms of life.

Here they all lie, as if almost alive,
With deep, dark eyes, like lamps, that in the night,
Within a deep recess for mastery strive
With insolent darkness. Through the forehead's white,
Veins blue as seas wherein pearl-fishers dive
Yet swell transparent in the garish light;
While, as if life's long struggle were just o'er,
Nostril and lips are slightly stained with gore.

And these are they whose songs are now the food
And inspiration of ten thousand souls;
And while this sea, in its great solitude,
Laves their white feet, and, never quiet, rolls
The sad monotony of its blue flood,
On their dead ears, they live in immortal scrolls,—
BYRON and SHELLEY, CHATTERTON and KEATS,
SAVAGE, and all their co-unfortunates.

On this great sea I dare to steer my bark,
Sleep in its calm, nor tremble at its storm,
Dart through its mist and lightnings like the lark,
And sing like him when the bright sun shines warm;
Ride its wild swells, to its hoarse breakers hark;—
For the great waves that crush the frigate's form,
Spare the small skiffs that over shallows glide,
And where the tall ship sinks, they safely ride.

Fame! Thou bright beacon set amid the shoals,
Where, like the wrecker's light, thou lurest on,
The mariner to death!—Thou, to the souls
Of poets and philosophers the sun,
By whose clear beams they write their golden scrolls,
Drinking deep draughts at fabled Helicon;—
It were the falsest of all things, to say
That thou hast lured me not along my way.

For thee young poets from the world's vortex go,
To dry their hearts up by the midnight lamp;
For thee the chemist labors, sure and slow,
Sounding great nature's secrets: thou dost stamp,
And armies all the wide world overflow,
Scale the grim breach, defend the desperate camp:
Thou dost inspire the eloquent orator,
And senates, nations quake his voice before.

And yet thine empire is not absolute:—
The love of gold and woman share with thee
The human heart, and thy control dispute.
The latter thou o'ercomest frequently;
Thy fiery voice prevails against the mute
And gentle eloquence of woman's plea;
Enticed by thee the soldier leaves his bride,
Hoping to be by glory deified.

Lo! the white shadow of my venturous sail
Flits over thy waves. Fortune perhaps may fill
My canvass with a favorable gale,
And so atone for all my want of skill.
If not, I shall not be the first to fail,
And, baffled often, I will struggle still:
Open my heart when death has stiffened it,
And in its deepest core you'll find 'Fame' writ!

Down with those stars and stripes that flout the sky!
Off with that banner from the indignant deep!
Chain up your eagle from his flight on high,
Bid him no more over the ocean sweep,
Scream to the wind, turn to the sun his eye!
Down, down with Freedom from each rampart steep,
And promontory tall, and prairie wide,
Where she hath been, till now, so deified!

Listen! how Europe rings from end to end
With scoff and jeer, and hatred's bitter scorn!—
Her Kings sit smiling at the clouds that bend,
Threatening wild storm, over a land now torn
With mad 'dissension; ready all to lend
Their hosts, still more to darken our bright morn,
And aid in this unhallowed, wretched strife,
So lately sprung of treason into life.

Think, think, dear brothers, of our days of glory,
The splendid memories that cluster round
The names of those ancestral patriots hoary,
Who fought to gain all that ye would confound:
Bead of their great deeds the surpassing story,
And turn again, before the awful sound
Of shame's dark ocean stun the startled soul,
And over you its raging surges roll!

Follow no longer where those madly lead
Whom crazed ambition and blind rage have brought
To do this traitorous work, this wicked deed!
Turn back! Along the path you tread is nought
But shame, disgrace and ruin! Ye will bleed,
Not like those heroes who in old time fought
And nobly bled in their dear country's cause:
Ye war against that country and her laws.

Look on the future with prophetic eye!
See on your green plains armies gathering,
As mists collect when a great storm is nigh!—
Mighty storm!—Along the hill-slopes cling
The light-horse, like dark flocks of birds, that fly
Before the wind with rapid, restless wing.
Here move the rifles, orderly and swift,
And there the musketeers' unbroken drift.

The battle!—Listen to the musketry!
While ever and anon amid its roll,
Roars the loud cannon: now the cavalry
Dash down, like waves against a rocky mole,
Built strong and far in the bosom of the sea.
The stern battalions charge as with one soul;
And now, like waves breaking in spray and rain,
The shattered ranks go floating back again.

The fight is over: misery scarce begun!
Count, if you can, the multitude of slain;
The hoary head lies glittering in the sun,
Pillowed upon the charger's misty mane;
And here, with hair like delicate moonlight spun,
A boy lies dying, with the crimson stain
Around his nostril and upon his lips;
While just below his heart the red rain drips.

The banner of your state in the dust lies low,
Rebellion draws to an untimely end;
Fair girls amid the horrid carnage go,
And anxiously above the corpses bend,
Seeking among your dead or those of the foe,
A father or a brother, or dear friend;
And constantly upon the tortured air
Rings the loud wail of agonized despair.

Where are your leaders, they who madly led
Your feet to this deep perilous abyss?
There lie the best and noblest, with the dead,
Happy in their entire unconsciousness:
The noisiest, like cowards, far have fled,
Pursued by scorn's indignant, general hiss,
To distant lands, that liberty disowns,
And crouch there in the shadows of old thrones.

Is this indeed to be your wretched fate?
Disgraced, degraded, humbled, and abased,
Fallen forever from your high estate,
To wander over Tyranny's dark waste,
Crouch like scared slaves around a despot's gate,
Bend at his nod, at his stern mandate haste?—
Oh, Thou, who once Thy favor to us lent,
Avert the doom, Father Omnipotent!

Turn then! before the final seal is set
To your apostacy!—before the flood
Waked by your madness, which it bears as yet,
Shall overwhelm you with a sea of blood!
Turn back! before your lovely land is wet
With crimson spray;—while treason's in its bud;-
Before the avenging angel spreads his wing,
Where whose dark shadow falls no grass will spring.

Turn! that whenever men have made your grave,
They say not, as they pile the parting sod,
'Here lies a traitor,' or, 'Here rots a slave.'
Turn! lest old men some day above it nod,
And warn their boy to be no traitorous knave,
But reverence his country and his God,
Lest he deserve a doom as sad as yours,
The world's stern sentence, that like time endures.

Have ye been never troubled in your dreams,
With spirits, rising from your fathers' tombs,
And in the darkness, or the moon's thin gleams,
Warning you of those miserable dooms,
Which hunt the traitor to the world's extremes,
As wolves hunt men, far in Siberian glooms?
Ah! these must haunt you,—these most noble ones,
These heroes, Liberty's illustrious sons.

Had I a sire who thus from the grave could rise,
Point to his wounds, and say, 'With these I bought
That freedom which you madly now despise,
And sealed the compact that your hands have sought
To break and shatter,'—I would close mine eyes,
For shame that I to sin had so been wrought,
And heap up dust and ashes on my head,
For knave corrupt, or idiot misled.

There is an isle, circled by southern seas,
Far in a soft clime of perpetual spring,
Where the voluptuous odor-laden breeze,
Is never chilled in its far wandering
By churlish frost; no winters ever free
The delicate flowers, or numb the bee's thin wing,
As in this harsh, inhospitable clime,
Where we, unfortunate, do waste our time.

And all along its shores are sunny beaches,
Paved smoothly with the golden, jewelled sand;
And deep among mossed rocks are narrow reaches,
Where the lost waves frolic along the strand.
On every side the broad blue ocean stretches,
Gemmed with no island, rimmed with no green land:
This diamond of the sea shines there alone,
The only jewel of that distant zone.

Within the isle are clustered great broad trees,
With fruits and flowers, young buds and nested birds,
Fed by delicious winds from calm, far seas,
With honey-dew. Like a fond lover's words,
Or music's most voluptuous harmonies,
These winds float here and there in whispering herds,
Their light wings heavy with rich odors, where
Sedate bees ride, and their rich freightage bear.

Back from the shore the mountains overlook
The island and the broad realm of the sea,
Haughty and high. The upper element shook
His thick snows there, when time began to be,
And there, to the curious sun a close-sealed book,
It coldly glitters. Sleeping silently
Below, great trees robe the rude mountain-side,
Through whose high tops the white clouds flocking ride.

And light and love ever inhabit here,
Within this beautiful and happy isle:
Through the green woods wander the dappled deer,
And feeds the snowy antelope; and while
Round the great trunks the frightened shadows peer,
That bless the grass, and make the flowers to smile,
With its great lamping eyes the shy gazelle
Looks out from every nook and ivied dell.

The simple people in that paradise
Live as men lived when the young world was green,
In primitive innocence supremely wise;
Rich with content. No prisons there are seen,
No palaces offend plebian eyes,
Their simple laws say ever what they mean;
And happy under patriarchal sway,
They see glad hours and calm days glide away.

One of these islanders, some years ago,
Seeking for pearls and rosy, wrinkled shells,
To deck his sweetheart's hair, took heart to row,
By fair skies tempted, into the outer swells,
Beyond the coral-shoals, his light canoe;
And diving there into the sea's deep wells,
Gathered white pearls and crimson coral-stems,
And blushing shells,—old ocean's favorite gems.

He noted not that one small, grayish cloud,
Low in the west, the swift storm's harbinger,
Spread swiftly upward, like an unrolling shroud,
Dark as its native midnight sepulchre:
That armies of wild winds did skyward crowd,
Like shadowy cohorts riding with mad spur,
Scourging the cloud-surge, that in great waves piled,
Grew every moment more sublimely wild.

He hurried towards the circling coral-reef,
Urging his frail skiff on, with wild alarm;
But the storm stooped: there was a very brief
And terrible stillness, a portentous calm,
Like stunned despair, or sudden, speechless grief,
And then God's organ pealed its thunder-psalm,
And the whole sea seemed with one groan to lift
Into white foam, thick as an Alpine drift.

Then the gale smote him: seas of spray drove by;
But not a wave could lift its struggling head
Into the air. From the black, boiling sky,
Thick torrents poured like rivers filled and fed
With great spring-rains; sharp hail shot hissing by,
And with incessant blaze, around his head,
Flashed the white lightning, while the awful voice
Of thunder bade the hurricane rejoice.

And seaward sped the light, thin, frail canoe,
While he clung to it with a mute despair;
Long trained the ocean's realms to wander through,
His skiff capsized, he rose again to the air,
And still held fast, still onward with it flew:
And still the storm-god, from his western lair,
Urged on his slave, the furious hurricane,
Till night fell, when he called him home again.

And then the clouds began to break and part,
And soon shone out the broad, bright, patient moon,
But still the winds shrieked, and the sea's great heart
Swelled in vast waves. Lightnings, retreating soon,
Lingered upon the horizon yet, to dart
Their Parthian arrows; then came night's high noon,
And all the stars shone, trembling at the roar
Of winds and waves that smote the sky's blue floor,

Righting his skiff, till morning he outrode
The dying wind, and eastward still fled on;
And when above the orient barrier strode,
In all his summer pomp, the regal sun,
And while he journeyed on his westering road,
Till evening came when the long day was done,
Still it sailed there, that light and fragile thing,
Like the faint hopes that to a sad heart cling.

And all that night, thinking of home he lay,
For the ocean, like a stunned hope, now was still:
On the sea's verge he seemed to see the spray
Break over his loved coral-reefs,—the hill
That cast its shadow on his home,—the gray
And mist-crowned mountain,—the clear, dancing rill,
That fed his flowers,—the trees that over the eaves
Of his small cottage shook their sheltering leaves.

At dawn he slept, slept soundly, nor awoke,
Till noon was shining brightly on his eyes;
And still around no living object broke
The broad monotony of sea and skies.—
Yes!—scarce distinguished from the flickering smoke
Of the sun's heat, a something he descries:
Hope gleams once more, a feeble, fitful spark,
And once again he urges on his bark.

On the horizon soon the object grows
To a gallant ship, full-rigged,—ah, joyful sight!—
That while the fair breeze on her quarter blows,
Over the waters wings her steady flight,
Startling the sleepy monsters that repose
Deep in the sea: shaking her canvass white,
Near him she slides;—her sails are thrown aback,
She halts, as halts a racer on the track,

Tossing his mane back on the eager wind:
They cast a rope; the stranger gains the deck;
Tottering and weak, with hunger faint and blind.
Then spurning from her side the skiff's frail wreck,
Onward she leaps, while on the deck reclined,
But little does the stranger know or reck
Whither they bear him, so he be with men,
And not cast forth upon the waves again.

A month or two they cruised about those seas,
Touching at many a green and flowery isle,
Where patient insects had by slow degrees
Done giants' work, and builded many a pile
Of rock and reef; then with a favoring breeze,
Homeward they turned, and voyaged many a mile,
And bent around the Southern Giant's Horn,
That Cape of dread to mariner's forlorn.

And so they northward sailed, until there grew
Cold on the iron visage of the sea;
Sharp hail fell thick, stinging their garments through,
Ice gathered on the cordage silently,
And then hove up the shores, long, low, and blue,
And one great promontory on the lee,
Where stood the homes of many in the ship.
Then quivered many a firm and manly lip.

And out of many a stern and fearless eye,
Warm tears fell, on the weather-bronzed cheek.
How the heart softens when its home is nigh!
The iron nerves, like children's become weak!
Oh, that I too might feel before I die
This blessed joy! If love again could speak
One word of gentle greeting in my ear,
How bright and sunny would the world appear!