AN Autumn eve was closing in its loveliness serene,
O'er the rich, voluptuous beauty of a sunny, Southern scene,
Where the soft, empurpled Heaven smiles so sweetly from above,
And the murmur of the waters is the very voice of Love.
When, like a gush of joyousness along a darkened dream,
Far through the shady orange grove the tiny wavelets gleam;
And their music-tone is blending as it thrills upon the ear,
With the carol of the evening bird so exquisite and clear.
Along the waving woodland-through the meadows far away,
The wanton winds were trilling forth a merry roundelay;
And bearing on the golden clouds from out the glowing West,
Far floating up an azure sea, like air-ships of the Blest;
It waved aloft the banner'd spray that wreathed the rushing stream,
Which dying Day emblazoned with a rich and ruddy beam,
And seemed to call an echo from the charmed and fragrant air,
As though sweet waves of melody were surging everywhere.
Oh! if the wing of Peace within this dim and troubled sphere
Could stay its rapid flight a while, it well might linger here,
When this dreamy hour comes o'er us, fraught with mystical repose,
And e'en the shades of Life will steal the colors of the rose;
It summons to the happy heart all visions that are glad,
And brings long hidden memories to bosoms that are sad;
Lights up the shrine of ruined hopes, and brightens, for a while,
Its dust and desolation with the shadow of a smile.
An hour when holy thought on dove-like pinion flies away,
To wander on the sunbeam where the golden gates of day
Are closing with the music of a universal prayer,
A mighty anthem rolling on, proclaiming, "God is there!"
Where a glory-penciled radiance, stealing softly thro' the gloom,
Seems writing on the Western sky, "There's bliss beyond the tomb;"
And, soaring upward, points us to a love that, truly given,
Is to the erring child of earth the sweetest boon of Heaven.
The "Father of the Waters," rolling on in pomp and pride,
Caressed the sleeping valleys nestled closely by his side,
And kissed the gem-like islands slumbering on his waveless breast
As it bore majestically on the riches of the West;-
Proudly swept the noble waters, where, at the close of day,
Encircled in his winding course, the "Crescent City" lay;
And as around her busy shores the shining billows played,
Her mighty heart was throbbing, deep and strong, and undismayed.
'Twas sweet to see the sunset glow and mantle o'er the stream
And the mimic billows quiver in its deep refulgent beam;
'Twas sweet to list the vesper song that melted o'er the wave,
As happy bosoms caroled forth the joy that Nature gave;
'Twas fair to view the city's spires as, towering in their pride,
Their lengthening shades lay mirrored on the river's silver side,
Where gallant barks were riding, and its bosom whitening o'er
With snowy wings, which Commerce wafts to many a distant shore.
A stately steamer floated there, and as the waters crept
Around her swelling side, it seemed her giant pulses slept,
As lulled to gentle slumber by the softened lullaby
Which evening winds were chanting through the arches of the sky;
Her thunder-voice was silent, and her eye of flame at rest;
The breath of fire lay smouldering in her iron-banded breast;
And we never should have thought her, as she slumbered on the
A dark deceitful daughter of the subtle fiend of steam!
Upon her form full many an eye was gazing tearfully;
Upon her deck full many a heart was beating fearfully:
And yet that pearly tear was but a dew-drop of regret,
Which faintly whispered, "Once to love is never to forget; "
And if some timid bosom, half distrusting love untried,
Was feign to linger round its own forsaken fireside,
'Twas but a moment-fled, as drops of night from out the blossom, And Hope, the angel, woke and smiled on Sorrow's frozen bosom.
The hoary head and bending form, came mingled with the throng
Of bounding hearts, and sparkling eyes, and lips of joy and song;
The matron blessed her laughing child, who whiled away the hours,
And wove amid her sunny curls a wreath of autumn flowers;
And childhood's voice of melody was blended with the rush
Of busy care and passion, as the silver fountain's gush
Will murmur on so sweetly in some haunted solitude,
While the tempest's breath is crushing down the monarchs of the wood.
Angelic infancy was there, and lovely was its smile;
So full of purity and truth-so free from shade of guile;
With its blue-veined temples hidden by its waving golden curls,
And its coral lips just parted o'er a few fresh, tiny pearls;
On its cheek a tinge of crimson, like the sunset over snow,
Which pales or deepens sweetly, as the dimples come and go.
Such the mother presses closely to her bosom, and a sigh
Of deep affection whispers, "'Tis too beautiful to die."
The smile of God shone over them-and heaven had never seemed
So near that mother's gaze of faith, as, while her infant dreamed,
A tear of bliss unspeakable lit up her earnest eye,
And, mid its silent eloquence, she sought the throne on high.
Her silvery tones fell o'er the heart, as through the twilight dim,
Echos the pealing anthem of the glorious Seraphim;
And a meek and thankful tenderness, as holy as her vow,
Like starry light, was resting on her heaven-tinted brow.
The loving and beloved were there; and, standing side by side,
Gazing far into the sunset, were the lover and his bride;
Round their hearts a voiceless melody, a softly breathing pæan,
Seemed floating far away into the boundless empyrean,
And then to fall and melt again upon the dulcet tone,
Which gave their world of happiness a music of its own,—
Till tears began to tremble in her eye of liquid blue,
Like sleeping violets laden with the gems of early dew.
His voice was low, and soft, and deep, and like to that which swells, So faint and yet so thrillingly from out the rose-lipped shells; It murmured, while a shade of pride lay hidden in its tone: "Yes, thou art mine-forever mine-my beautiful, my own!" Then listened, lest its breath should break the sweet bewildering strain Of maiden's love to passion's words low answering again; 'Twas only such as woman's heart in every age has given: "With thee all things are happiness,-without thee, what is Heaven!"
The lonely wanderer was there, returned from distant lands,
As one who walks and yet who dreams, upon the deck he stands.
No pleasant greeting wakes him with a well remembered tone;
He gazed upon the gathered crowd, and sighed, "I'm all alone."
Yet to his soul a "still small voice" is breathing audibly;
It tells of wife and children in the hallowed sanctity
Of home; and oh! that music to the weary heart was blest;
"For there," he whispered faintly, "will the wanderer be at rest."
"Far in the Northern sky there floats a pure and snowy cloud,
Whose silvery vailings beautify the Heaven they seem to shroud;
Perhaps its graceful foldings hang above my distant home,
To bear its guardian angels on their kindly missions come ;-
(Ha! now we move,) my wayward thought so far away had roved
It bore my heart before me to the presence of the loved.
I soon shall rest among them-weary, worn and tempest-tost,-
A crash!-a yell! a storm of blood! "Great God! the boat-we're
A mingled cry of wrath and woe, of anguish keen and fell-
It seemed the wailings of the damned had burst the bonds of heil.
Like tongues of demons flashing, streamed the flaming mass on high,
And a last destructive crashing rent the arches of the sky;
Then hoarsely through the wreathing vail of blood and flame and
smoke,
The heavy tones of wild despair and dying horror broke ;-
Soft woman's shriek, and manhood's groan, were blended in the roar,
As, gasping in the surge of death, they sank to rise no more.
Down, down upon the fallen rained a storm of blood and fire,
And withering o'er the dying came the steam-fiend's breath of ire ;
Fierce desolation burned and flashed from out his soul of gloom,
As glares a demon's eye beneath the shadow of the tomb.
The darkened air grew heavy with its burden deep and dread,
Of quivering flesh, and gasping life, and wailing o'er the dead;
For darker than the battle when the work of Death is done,
Was the rage of strong destruction ere its victory was won.
With straining eye, and freezing veins, and lips all deadly pale,
The crash was heard, the shock was felt,-the best and bravest quail—
Then suddenly above the wreck a stillness deep and strange-
A silence which the soul might feel, yet never note the change,
Fell o'er it, and there sighed around no wailing of the breeze,
To linger on the bloody shore, or moan among the trees.
A lyre of life lay crushed beneath Azrael's iron will;
A mighty heart was broken, and its fever-pulse was still.
A sense of cold and mystic dread crept shuddering through the crowd,
As gazing on the mangled dead, the coffin, and the shroud,
The soul of sweet humanity in horror turned away-
Pale Pity vailed her drooping eye, her sick heart strove to pray;
For arms of might lay helpless there, and prone in blood and dust,
The haughty lip so lately wreathed with confidence and trust;
And Ruin, pale with horror at the wreck his wrath hath made,
In mercy gave the mangled mass the death for which it prayed.
|