THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN. 135
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side;
In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf;
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so
Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN.
'Twas a summery day in the last of May,
Pleasant in sun or shade;
And the hours went by, as the poets say,
Fragrant and fair on their flowery way;
And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway —
And the Fountain gayly played.
136 THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN.
The Fountain played right merrily,
And the world looked bright and gay; And a youth went by, with a restless eye, Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry; And he prayed to God that he might die And the Fountain played away.
Uprose the spray like a diamond throne,
And the drops like music rang -
And of those who marvelled how it shone
Was a proud man left in his shame alone:
And he shut his teeth with a smothered groan
And the Fountain sweetly sang.
And a rainbow spanned it changefully,
Like a bright ring broke in twain;
And the pale, fair girl, who stopped to see,
Was sick with the pangs of poverty –
And from hunger to guilt she chose to flee,
As the rainbow smiled again.
With as fair a ray, on another day,
The morning will have shone;
And as little marked, in bright Broadway,
A hearse will glide amid busy and gay,
And the bard who sings will have passed away —
And the Fountain will play on!
MARCH OF THE rebel ANGELS. 137
MARCH OF THE REBEL ANGELS.
MILTON'S "Paradise Lost."
ALL in a moment, through the gloom were seen
Ten thousand banners rise into the air,
With orient colors waving; with them rose
A forest huge of spears; and thronging helms
Appeared, and serried shields in thick array
Of depth immeasurable; anon they move
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood
Of flutes and soft recorders, such as raised
To height of noblest temper heroes old,
Arming to battle, and instead of rage,
Deliberate valor breathed, firm and unmoved
With dread of death to flight or foul retreat;
Nor wanting power to mitigate and 'suage
With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and chase
Anguish and doubt, and fear, and sorrow, and pain,
From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they,
Breathing united force, with fixéd thought,
Moved on in silence to soft pipes, that charmed
Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil; and now
Advanced in view they stand, a horrid front
Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise
Of warriors old, with ordered spear and shield,
Awaiting what command their mighty chief
Had to impose.
AND thou, remembered Sagamore,
Some fairy pencil traced thy shore,
With most artistic beauties rife,
Ere sturdy Nature gave it life;
The woods that skirt thy verdant side,
Bow over thee in love and pride,
And lay their shadows there to rest
Upon the pillow of thy breast;
No sounds of harsh discordance press
To mar thy blesséd peacefulness.
The old pines murmur whisperingly,
As if in earnest praise of thee;
And troops of brilliant loving birds
Sing their delights in joyous words,
Responsive to thine own sweet speech
That breaks in music on thy beach.
Among thy haunts again we've played,
Again along thy shore we've strayed,
And bowed like pilgrims at a shrine
Before thy beauties so divine!
Again our foreheads, warm and glowing,
Have felt thy crystal coolness flowing,
And love has strengthened in the beam
Reflected from thy shore and stream.
ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of coveyed grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious I pursue,
Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild scattered, clothe their ample sides.
Th' outstretching lake, embosomed 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay meandering sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side;
The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks dropped in Nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village glittering in the noontide beam.
Poetic ardors in my bosom swell,
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell;
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods,
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods.
Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled,
Misfortune's lightened steps might wander wild;
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