Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated)
Page 232
Vaine all thy learning.
Drowsie page, drowsie page,
Ever more turning.
Younge heade no lore will heede,
Younge heart’s a recklesse rover,
Younge beautie while you reade,
Sleeping dreames of absent lover.
RHYMED ADDRESS
The following lines were delivered at the reopening of the Park Theatre in New York on September 9, 1807, by the lessee, Thomas A. Cooper. The address was published in The Life and Letters of Washington Irving, by Pierre M. Irving, New York: G. P. Putnam, 1862-64, volume I, pages 204-208.
In drowsy days of yore — those stupid times
Ere fashion sanctioned follies — varnished crimes;
When neither rigid laws nor cynic rules
Could check the increase of knaves — the growth of fools —
Old Thespis then, a shrewd, though laughing sage
Fell on a merry plan to cure the age,
Held up a polished mirror to their faces,
Shewed guilt his scowl — folly her queer grimaces.
Both shrunk ashamed their hideous forms to view,
And from the arch reproof a lesson drew.
This magic glass we have — but when we shew it
’Tis to amuse the curious throng who view it.
Twere rude to hint in these enlightened days
The polished world could aught demand but praise.
Yet should some straggling vices lurk behind, —
We do not hold a mirror to the blind.
For your amusement on its surface clear,
We bid the Drama’s varied train appear.
See, wrapped in brooding sorrow, Hamlet move —
The glare of courts he shuns — the joys of love —
Holds dread communion with the opening tomb,
And, shuddering, learns his sire’s mysterious doom.
On fate’s drear verge in awful thought revolves
The fearful plunge — half doubts and half resolves,
Yet pausing, fears to pass the gloomy bourne
Of that dark realm whence travellers ne’er return.
Here may the lover learn how sure and strong
The potent passion bears its course along.
What jealous doubts perplex Othello’s brain —
What transports throb in youthful Romeo’s vein.
Lo! mad Octavian shuns with sullen pride
The hated sun, in cavern glooms to hide —
Now calls to mind the days when fortune smiled,
And love, and hope, and joy his youth beguiled,
Then spurns the golden vision, welcomes care,
On sorrow gluts and banquets on despair.
Nor shall young lovers only here discern
Congenial souls, and useful lessons learn.
Here may our touchy sparks, who dare resistance
“And hold their honors at a wary distance,”
From ancient Pistol learn the valiant stride,
The frown ferocious secret fears to hide,
And when with furious air he eats the leek
The art to bluster, and with strut — to sneak.
Plague on all cowards still, cries Mammoth Jack;
Marry and amen — Bardolph, a cup of sack —
Puffs under forty stone of solid mirth,
And, as he waddles, lards the trembling earth.
But would you mark how beams the mental ray,
How warms and animates the lifeless clay,
Note Leon’s idiot speech and vacant stare,
His smile, and bashful look, and awkward air;
Then see this simplest of the idiot kind
Step forth in all the majesty of mind;
Assert himself, the husband’s rights maintain,
And brave the power that would his honor stain.
Sometimes a harsher picture stands displayed
Where Brutus sternly waves the patriot blade
And Julius falls; or where our scenes disclose
The secret pangs that cursed ambition knows;
See fell Macbeth with Tarquin’s stealthy stride
And cautious glance to Duncan’s chamber glide,
Yet startled pause, while guilt unnerves his force,
To mark the air-drawn dagger’s fatal course.
Success may crown ambition’s daring blow,
The diadem may press the guilty brow,
Yet not the courtly buzz of regal state,
Where crowds of bowing lords obsequious wait,
Nor hosts of guards can chase those fiends away
That haunt his dreams by night, his thoughts by day.
What terrors agonize the tyrant’s heart!
See from his couch the bloody Richard start!
Guilt breaks his slumbers, fear his sense confounds,
“Another horse!” he cries, “bind up my wounds!”
Have mercy! Heaven — soft—’twas but a dream
Yet down his limbs cold drops of horror stream.
O, who that sees alarmed conscience roll
Her tide of terrors o’er the guilty soul,
But draws a lesson from the scene sublime,
Detests the culprit and abhors the crime.
Yet why thus bid dramatic phantoms pass
Like shadowy monarchs seen in Banquo’s glass?
Vanish each tragic sprite — each comic elf,
And let the manager enact himself.
While hopes invite and anxious doubts assail
I’ve launched my bark and hope a favoring gale.
Why should I fear? When round I cast my eye,
I see a friendly shore, a cloudless sky.
(Box. — ) A tranquil deep which every doubt beguiles,
A horizon of beauty, dressed in smiles.
And sure those smiles which cheered my former terrors,
Which beamed indulgence on my early errors,
Will not withdraw; nor censure’s waves overwhelm
Our feeble vessel, now I hold the helm.
Some, too, I see — I speak with grateful pride —
Whose generous favor knows no ebbing tide;
In every changeful season still the same,
Still prompt to aid — to prize my humble name.
Friends whom my heart, with honest warmth, would greet,
And still shall honor, while its pulses beat.
(Pit. — ) But lo! the critic tribe, a sapient band
Who full before me take their watchful stand;
Sages self-dubbed, who deign to teach the town
When to look pleased, or glum, to smile, or frown.
A precious set ye are — of motley hue,
Some arrant grumblers, faith, a crusty crew, —
Who blame in gross, in trivial points commend,
And often coin the fault you reprehend.
Some merry wags, who strike a careless stroke,
And crack an actor’s crown to crack a joke. —
How shall I win your favor, asks a pause —
To your own humors I commit my cause.
(Gallery. — ) Ye whose high wrath in rumbling thunder rolls
To fright lords, senators, and warriors’ souls,
Distilled almost to jelly with their fears,
While your descending censures storm their ears;
Your right assumptive none shall dare disprove
To hoot when groves, chairs, tables wrongly move.
Shifters of scenes no more shall act amiss
Nor jumbling seas with towns provoke your hiss;
Musicians dread your ever ready hands,
And John shall make his bow at your commands.
But hold! the anchor’s weighed, the sail’s unfurled,
And sink or swim, we try the billowy world.
No time is left for prayers to wind or wave,
But skill must try the slender bark to save;
Then rouse, my steadfast soul. “Blow wind, c
ome wrack,
At least, I’ll die with harness on my back.”
WRITTEN IN THE DEEP DENE ALBUM
JUNE 24, 1822
Published in the Cornhill Magasine, v. 1, May, 1860, p. 582, and also in The Life and Letters of Washington Irving, by Pierre M. Irving, New York: G. P. Putnam, 1862-64, volume II, pages 85-86.
Thou record of the votive throng
That fondly seek this fairy shrine,
And pay the tribute of a song
Where worth and loveliness combine —
What boots that I, a vagrant wight
From clime to clime still wandering on,
Upon thy friendly page should write —
Who’ll think of me when I am gone?
Go plough the wave, and sow the sand;
Throw seed to every wind that blows;
Along the highway strew thy hand
And fatten on the crop that grows.
For even thus the man that roams
On heedless hearts his feeling spends;
Strange tenant of a thousand homes,
And friendless, with ten thousand friends!
Yet here for once I’ll leave a trace,
To ask in aftertimes a thought;
To say that here a resting-place
My wayworn heart has fondly sought.
So the poor pilgrim heedless strays,
Unmoved, through many a region fair;
But at some shrine his tribute pays,
To tell that he has worshipped there.
TO MISS EMILY FOSTER ON HER BIRTHDAY
This poem was written in 1823, and published in The Life and Letters of Washington Irving, by Pierre M. Irving, New York: G. P. Putnam, 1862-64, volume II, pages 152-153. Contrary to the former traditional belief in the lifelong devotion of Irving to Matilda Hoffman, it is now generally accepted that he spent many years in a vain attempt to win the heart of Emily Foster.
’Twas now the freshness of the year
When fields were green and groves were gay,
When airs were soft and skies were clear,
And all things bloomed in lovely May —
Blest month, when nature in her prime
Bestows her fairest gifts on earth —
This was the time, the genial time,
She destined for her favorite’s birth.
And emblems delicate she chose,
Thy gentle virtues to bespeak —
The lily and the pale, pale rose
She faintly mingled in thy cheek.
The azure of her noontide sky
With dewy gleams of morn combining,
She took to form thy speaking eye
With heaven’s own blue serenely shining.
She bade the dawning’s transient blush,
The light and warmth of day revealing,
At times thy pallid beauty flush
With sudden glows of thought and feeling.
But oh! the innate worth refined
She treasured in thy gentle breast;
The generous gifts of heart and mind,
They best can tell who know thee best.
Bloom on — bloom on — frank nature’s child
Her favorite flower, her spotless one,
Still may she keep thee pure, unsoiled,
Still fresh, though ever shone upon.
ECHO AND SILENCE
This poem was written in 1832, and published in The Life and Letters of Washington Irving, by Pierre M. Irving, New York: G. P. Putnam, 1862-64, volume 4, page 406.
In eddying course when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the stores to strew,
As ‘mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo
Through glens untrod, and woods that frown’d on high,
Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy:
And lo! she’s gone — in robe of dark-green hue:
’Twas Echo, from her sister Silence flew,
For quick the hunter’s horn resounded to the sky.
In shade affrighted Silence melts away;
Not so her sister. Hark! For onward still
With far-heard step she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill:
Ah! mark the merry maid in mockful play,
With thousand mimic tones, the laughing forests fill.
SONG
This poem was found in the Album of John Howard Payne. It was written in October, 1810, and published in The Life and Writings of John Howard Payne, by Gabriel Harrison, Albany, N. Y.: J. Munsell, 1875, page 397.
Oh, turn, cruel, fair one! nor slight a fond youth
Who would woo thee with tenderness, fervor and truth!
Tho’ my fortune’s but small, yet stern want I’m above,
And I’ll swear that no swain is more wealthy in love!
In a shady, white cottage, embosom’d in trees,
Where boughs, lightly waving, invite the cool breeze,
My empire I’ve fixed, — and full green is my bower,
And pure is the wild brook that runs by my door.
Oh! there let me lead thee! for there shalt thou reign,
The cottage thy palace, the grove thy domain;
With a chaplet of roses and myrtle so green
I’ll encircle thy brows, and proclaim thee my queen! — .
A green bank shall form thy imperial seat;
And the fruits of each autumn I’ll lay at thy feet;
Or on beds of sweet violets shalt thou recline;
And the tributes of spring shall thy temples entwine.
What queen could e’er boast of a tribute so fair?
Of a throne so serene? of a palace so rare?
Could reign more secure, and unrivall’d than thee?
Or could boast of a subject more faithful than me?
SIGNS OF THE TIMES
These verses, found in the Album of John Howard Payne, were written by Irving after hearing a sermon in which the preacher unconsciously referred to some incidents of the previous night. Irving, with several companions, including a Mr. Morris Ogden, had dined at Dyde’s Tavern, New York. On the way home Mr. Ogden ran off with the sign of Cheesbrough & Co. The poem was published in The Life and Writings of John Howard Payne, by Gabriel Harrison, Albany, N. Y.: J. Munsell, 187S, page 398.
As Morris once stroll’d into Trinity church,
He quickly discovered he’d got in a lurch;
For, as soon as the minister eyes on him set,
“S’blood, Morris,” says he, “but I’ll give you a sweat.”
Down, down, down, Derry Down!
“This scapegrace, my breth’ren, who keeps such late hours,
“And Broadway from the Park to the Battery scours,
“Must not fancy, from me, he his wickedness hides,
“Since they know up aloft when he frolics at Dyde’s.” —
Down, down, down, Derry Down!
Then he talk’d very much ‘bout the “SIGNS of the Times,”
And that pulling them down, was the vilest of crimes!
He that pulls down a sign should be laid fast in fetters.
Since ’tis plain that he hastens — the downfall of letters!
Down, down, down, Derry Down!
In defense, Morris urg’d — tho’ he frolic’d at night,
Yet, according to Scripture, he acted but right;
For at night he improved his time like the devil,
As very well knowing “the days,” sir, “are evil.”
Down, down, down, Derry Down!
With respect to the sign, no defense need be made —
As he wish’d but to give Mr. Cheesbrough his trade —
So not caring just then the good folks to arouse —
He wisely took down, sir, the name of the house!
Down, down, down, Derry Down!
Far be it from him, sir, the peace to molest —
He meant, on the contrary, all for the best: —
&nb
sp; And tho’ he had shoulder’d the sign in his fun,
He was sure he had given the firm a good run!
Down, down, down, Derry Down!
UNTITLED POEM I.
Included in Notes and Journal of Travel in Europe, New York: The Grolier Club, 1921, appearing on page 25 of volume 3. Reprinted here by permission of The Grolier Club.
Oh liberty thou goddess heavenly bright
Profuse of bliss & pregnant with delight
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train
Thou makest the gloomy face of nature gay
Givst beauty to the sun & pleasure to the day
UNTITLED POEM II.
Included in Notes and Journal of Travel in Europe, New York: The Grolier Club, 1921, appearing on page 32 of volume 3. Reprinted here by permission of The Grolier Club.
In solemn silence a majestic band
Heroes & gods & Roman consuls stand
Stern tyrants whom their cruelties renown
And emperors in Parian Marble frown.
While the bright dames to whom they humbly sued
Still shew the charms that their proud hearts subdued.
THE LAY OF THE SUNNYSIDE DUCKS
Published in From Pinafores to Politics, by Mrs. J. Borden Harriman, New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1923, pages 22-23. Reprinted here by permission of the publisher.
By Sunnyside bower runs a little Indian Brook,
As wild as wild can be;
It flows down from hills where Indians lived of old
To the mighty Tappan Sea.
And this little brook supplies a goodly little pond
Where the Sunnyside ducks do play,