A SCENE IN A PRIVATE MAD-HOUSE.
STAY, jailer, stay, and hear my woe!
She is not mad who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now too well I know,
And what I was, and what should be.
I'll rave no more in proud despair;
My language shall be mild, though sad;
But yet I'll firmly, truly swear,
I am not mad! I am not mad!
My tyrant husband forged the tale.
Which chains me in this dismal cell,
My fate unknown my friends bewail;
Oh! jailer, haste that fate to tell!
Oh! haste my
father's heart to cheer!
His heart at once 't will grieve and glad
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad! I am not mad!
He smiles in scorn, and turns the key;
He quits the grate; - I knelt in vain ;
His glimmering lamp still, still I see-
'Tis gone, and all is gloom again.
Cold, bitter cold!- No warmth! no light!
Life, all thy comforts once I had;
Yet here I'm chained this freezing night,
Although not mad! no, no, not mad!
Tis sure some dream, some vision vain ;
What! I-the child of rank and wealth,-
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom, friends and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,
Which never more my heart must glad,
How aches my heart, how burns my head!
But 't is not mad! no, 't is not mad!
Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,
A mother's face, a mother's tongue?
She 'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
Nor round her neck how fast you clung;
Nor how with me you sued to stay;
Nor how that suit your sire forbade ;
Nor how
-I'll drive such thoughts away, They'll make me mad! they'll make me mad His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!
His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone! None ever bore a lovelier child:
And art thou now forever gone?
And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?
I will be free! unbar the door'
I am not mad! I am not mad!
Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries?
His chain some furious madman breaks;
He comes, I see his glaring eyes!
Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes! Help! help! He's gone!-Oh! fearful woe, Such screams to hear, such sights to see. My brain, my brain!-I know, I know, I am not mad, but soon shall be !
for, lo you!—while I speak-
Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare!
He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air!
Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;
Ay, laugh, ye fiends!-I feel the truth;
Your task is done! — I'm mad! I'm mad!
His brow was sad; his eye, beneath,
Flashedke a falchion from its sheath;
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
"Excelsior!"
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright:
Above, the spectral glaciers shone;
And from his lips escaped a groan,
"Try not the pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead;
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!".
And loud that clarion voice replied,
"Excelsior!"
"Oh! stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!".
A tear stood in his bright blue eye;
But still he answered, with a sigh,
66 Excelsior!"
"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, far up the height,
66 Excelsior!"
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
"Excelsior!"
A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half buried in the snow, was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
"Excelsior!"
There, in the twilight cold and gray
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
"Excelsior!"
THE BATTLE OF LIFE.
Up to the strife with care,
Be thine an oaken heart!
Life's daily contest nobly share,
Nor act a craven part!
Give murmurs to the coward throng,-
Be thine the joyous notes of song!
If thrown upon the field,
Up to the task once more! 'Tis worse than infamy to yield, 'Tis childish to deplore: Look stern misfortune in the eye, And breast the billow manfully!
Close in with every foe,
As thickly on they come!
They can but lay the body low,
And send thy spirit home:
Yet may'st thou stout it out, and view
What giant energy can do.
Soon shall the combat cease,
The struggle fierce and long,
And thine be true, unbroken peace,
And thine the victor's song:
Beyond the cloud, will wait for thee,
The wreath of immortality.
How cheery are the mariners,
Those lovers of the sea!
Their hearts are like its yesty waves,
As bounding and as free.
They whistle when the storm-bird whees
In circles, round the mast;
And sing, when, deep in foam, the ship Ploughs onward to the blast.
What care the mariners for gales?
There's music in their roar,
When wide the berth along the lee,
And leagues of room before.
Let billows toss to mountain heights
Or sink to chasms low;
The vessel stout will ride it out,
Nor reel beneath the blow.
With streamers down, and canvass furled,
The gallant hull will float
Securely, as on inland lake
A silken-tasselled boat;
And sound asleep some mariners,
And some with watchful eyes,
Will fearless be of dangers dark,
That roll along the skies.
God keep these cheery mariners!
And temper all the gales,
That sweep against the rocky coast,
To their storm-shattered sails;
And men on shore will bless the ship
That could so guided be,
Safe in the hollow of His hand,
To brave the mighty sea!
OH! why should the white man hang on my path, Like the hound on the tiger's track?
Does the flesh of my dark cheek waken his wrath? Does he covet the bow at my back?
He has rivers and seas, where the billow and breeze Bear riches for him alone;
And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood That the white man calls his own.
Then why should he covet the streams where none
But the red skin dare to swim?
Oh! why should he wrong the hunter one
Who never did harm to him?
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