Part 10 (1/2)
Who says that Poesy is on the wane, And that the Muses tune their lyres in vain?
'Mid all the treasures of romantic story, When thought was fresh and fancy in her glory, Has ever Art found out a richer theme, More dark a shadow, or more soft a gleam, Than fall upon the scene, sketched carelessly, In the newspaper column of to-day?
American romance is somewhat stale.
Talk of the hatchet, and the faces pale, Wampum and calumets and forests dreary, Once so attractive, now begins to weary.
Uncas and Magawisca please us still, Unreal, yet idealized with skill; But every poetaster, scribbling witling, From the majestic oak his stylus whittling, Has helped to tire us, and to make us fear The monotone in which so much we hear Of ”stoics of the wood,” and ”men without a tear.”
Yet Nature, ever buoyant, ever young, If let alone, will sing as erst she sung; The course of circ.u.mstance gives back again The Picturesque, erewhile pursued in vain; Shows us the fount of Romance is not wasted,-- The lights and shades of contrast not exhausted.
Shorn of his strength, the Samson now must sue For fragments from the feast his fathers gave; The Indian dare not claim what is his due, But as a boon his heritage must crave; His stately form shall soon be seen no more Through all his father's land, the Atlantic sh.o.r.e; Beneath the sun, to _us_ so kind, _they_ melt, More heavily each day our rule is felt.
The tale is old,--we do as mortals must: Might makes right here, but G.o.d and Time are just.
Though, near the drama hastens to its close, On this last scene awhile your eyes repose; The polished Greek and Scythian meet again, The ancient life is lived by modern men; The savage through our busy cities walks, He in his untouched, grandeur silent stalks.
Unmoved by all our gayeties and shows, Wonder nor shame can touch him as he goes; He gazes on the marvels we have wrought, But knows the models from whence all was brought; In G.o.d's first temples he has stood so oft, And listened to the natural organ-loft, Has watched the eagle's flight, the muttering thunder heard.
Art cannot move him to a wondering word.
Perhaps he sees that all this luxury Brings less food to the mind than to the eye; Perhaps a simple sentiment has brought More to him than your arts had ever taught.
What are the petty triumphs _Art_ has given, To eyes familiar with the naked heaven?
All has been seen,--dock, railroad, and ca.n.a.l, Fort, market, bridge, college, and a.r.s.enal, Asylum, hospital, and cotton-mill, The theatre, the lighthouse, and the jail.
The Braves each novelty, reflecting, saw, And now and then growled out the earnest ”_Yaw_.”
And now the time is come, 'tis understood, When, having seen and thought so much, a _talk_ may do some good.
A well-dressed mob have thronged the sight to greet, And motley figures throng the s.p.a.cious street; Majestical and calm through all they stride, Wearing the blanket with a monarch's pride; The gazers stare and shrug, but can't deny Their n.o.ble forms and blameless symmetry.
If the Great Spirit their _morale_ has slighted, And wigwam smoke their mental culture blighted, Yet the _physique_, at least, perfection reaches, In wilds where neither Combe nor Spurzheim teaches; Where whispering trees invite man to the chase, And bounding deer allure him to the race.
Would thou hadst seen it! That dark, stately band, Whose ancestors enjoyed all this fair land, Whence they, by force or fraud, were made to flee, Are brought, the white man's victory to see.
Can kind emotions in their proud hearts glow, As through these realms, now decked by Art, they go?
The church, the school, the railroad, and the mart,-- Can these a pleasure to their minds impart?
All once was theirs,--earth, ocean, forest, sky,-- How can they joy in what now meets the eye?
Not yet Religion has unlocked the soul, Nor Each has learned to glory in the Whole!
Must they not think, so strange and sad their lot, That they by the Great Spirit are forgot?
From the far border to which they are driven, They might look up in trust to the clear heaven; But _here_,--what tales doth every object tell Where Ma.s.sasoit sleeps, where Philip fell!
We take our turn, and the Philosopher Sees through the clouds a hand which cannot err An unimproving race, with all their graces And all their vices, must resign their places; And Human Culture rolls its onward flood Over the broad plains steeped in Indian blood Such thoughts steady our faith; yet there will rise Some natural tears into the calmest eyes,-- Which gaze where forest princes haughty go, Made for a gaping crowd a raree-show.
But _this_ a scene seems where, in courtesy, The pale face with the forest prince could vie, For one presided, who, for tact and grace, In any age had held an honored place,-- In Beauty's own dear day had shone a polished Phidian vase!
Oft have I listened to his accents bland, And owned the magic of his silvery voice, In all the graces which life's arts demand, Delighted by the justness of his choice.
Not his the stream of lavish, fervid thought,-- The rhetoric by pa.s.sion's magic wrought; Not his the ma.s.sive style, the lion port, Which with the granite cla.s.s of mind a.s.sort; But, in a range of excellence his own, With all the charms to soft persuasion known, Amid our busy people we admire him,--”elegant and lone.”
He scarce needs words: so exquisite the skill Which modulates the tones to do his will, That the mere sound enough would charm the ear, And lap in its Elysium all who hear.
The intellectual paleness of his cheek, The heavy eyelids and slow, tranquil smile, The well-cut lips from which the graces speak, Pit him alike to win or to beguile; Then those words so well chosen, fit, though few, Their linked sweetness as our thoughts pursue, We deem them spoken pearls, or radiant diamond dew.
And never yet did I admire the power Which makes so l.u.s.trous every threadbare theme,-- Which won for La Fayette one other hour, And e'en on July Fourth could cast a gleam,-- As now, when I behold him play the host, With all the dignity which red men boast,-- With all the courtesy the whites have lost; a.s.sume the very hue of savage mind, Yet in rude accents show the thought refined; a.s.sume the _navete_ of infant age, And in such prattle seem still more a sage; The golden mean with tact unerring seized, A courtly critic shone, a simple savage pleased.
The stoic of the woods his skill confessed, As all the father answered in his breast; To the sure mark the silver arrow sped, The ”man without a tear” a tear has shed; And them hadst wept, hadst thou been there, to see How true one sentiment must ever be, In court or camp, the city or the wild,-- To rouse the father's heart, you need but name his child.