A Wreath of Virginia Bay Leaves Poems of James Barron Hope — Story, Setting & Ideas

Cities were captur'd [2]--old men slain; Trampled the fields of waving cane; Or scatter'd wide the garner'd grain; An hour wrought wreck of years!

Where'er these stern freebooters trod, In hacienda--church of God-- Or, on the green-enamell'd sod-- They left foot-prints so deep, That but their simple names would start The blood back to each Spanish heart, And make the children weep.

E'en to this day, their many crimes The peasants sing in drowsy rhymes-- On mountain, or on plain; And as they sing, the plaintive song Tells many a deed of guilt and wrong-- Each has a doleful strain!

One glorious morn, it so befell, I heard the tale which I shall tell, At that Posada dark and grey Which stands upon the mountain way, Between Caracas and the sea; So grim--so dark--it seem'd to me Fit place for deed of guilt or sin-- Tho' peaceful peasants dwelt therein.

At midnight we, (my friends and I,) Beneath a tranquil tropic sky, Bestrode our mules and onward rode, Behind the guide who swiftly strode Up the dark mountain side; while we With many a jest and repartee-- With jingling swords, and spurs, and bits-- Made trial of our youthful wits. Ah! we were gay, for we were young And care had never on us flung-- But, to my tale: the purple sky Was thick overlaid with burning stars, And oft the breeze that murmur'd by, Brought dreamy tones from soft guitars, Until we sank in silence deep. It was a night for thought not sleep-- It was a night for song and love-- The burning planets shone above-- The Southern Cross was all ablaze-- 'Tis long since it then met my gaze!-- Above us, whisp'ring in the breeze, Were many strange, gigantic trees, And in their shadow, deep and dark, Slept many a pile of mould'ring bones; For tales of murder fell and stark, Are told by monumental stones Flung by the passer's hand, until The place grows to a little hill. Up through the shade we rode, nor spoke, Till suddenly the morning broke. Beneath we saw in purple shade The mighty sea; above display'd, A thousand gorgeous hues which met In tints that I remember yet; But which I may not paint, my skill, Alas! would but depict it ill-- E'en Claude has never given hints On canvas of such splendid tints! The mountains, which ere dawn of day I'd liken'd unto friars grey-- Gigantic friars clad in grey-- Stood now like kings, wrapp'd in the fold

[Footnote 2: Panama, Carthagena, Maracaibo, and Chagres, were at various times held by the buccaneers.]

_A Story of the Caracas Valley_.

Of gorgeous clouds around them roll'd-- Their lofty heads all crown'd with gold; And many a painted bird went by Strange to my unaccustom'd eye-- Their plumage mimicking the sky. O'er many a league, and many a mile-- Crag--pinnacle--and lone defile-- All Nature woke!--woke with a smile-- As tho' the morning's golden gleam Had broken some enchanting dream, But left its soft impression still, On lofty peak and dancing rill. With many a halt and many a call, At last we saw the rugged wall, And gaz'd upon the ruin'd gate Which even then look'd desolate, For that Posada so forlorn Seem'd sad e'en on so gay a morn! The heavy gate at length unbarr'd, We rode within the busy yard, Well scatter'd o'er with many a pack; For on that wild, romantic track, The long and heavy-laden trains Toil seaward from the valley's plains. And often on its silence swells The distant tinkle of the bells, While muleteers' shrill, angry cries From the dim road before you rise; And such were group'd in circles round Playing at monté on the ground; Each swarthy face that met my eye To thought of honesty gave lie. In each fierce orb there was a spark That few would care to see by dark-- And many a sash I saw gleam thro' The keen _cuchillo_ into view. Within; the place was rude enough-- The walls of clay--in color buff-- A pictur'd saint--a cross or so-- A hammock swinging to and fro-- A gittern by the window laid Whereon the morning breezes play'd, And its low tones and broken parts Seem'd like some thoughtless minstrel's arts-- A rugged table in the floor-- Ran thro' this homely _comedor_. Here, weary as you well may think, An hour or so we made abode, To give our mules both food and drink, Before we took again the road; And honestly, our own repast Was that of monks from lenten fast. The meal once o'er; our stores replaced; We gather'd where the window fac'd Upon the vale, and gaz'd below Where mists from a mad torrent's flow Were dimly waving to and fro. Meanwhile, the old guitar replied To the swift fingers of our guide: His voice was deep, and rich, and strong, And he himself a child of song. At first the music's liquid flow Was soft and plaintive--rich and low; The murmur of a fountain's stream Where sleeping water-lilies dream; Or, like the breathing of love-vows Beneath the shade of orange-boughs; And then more stirring grew his song-- A strain which swept the blood along! And as he sang, his eyes so sad-- Which lately wore the look of pain, Danc'd with a gleam both proud and glad, Awaken'd by his fervid strain-- His face now flush'd and now grew pale-- The song he sang, was this, my tale.

A fort above Laguayra stands, Which all the town below commands. The damp moss clings upon its walls-- The rotting drawbridge slowly falls-- Its dreary silentness appalls! The iron bars are thick with rust And slowly moulder into dust; The roofless turrets show the sky, The moats below are bare and dry-- No captain issues proud behest-- The guard-room echoes to no jest; As I have said, within those walls The very silentness appalls! In other days it was not so-- The Spanish banner, long ago, Above the turrets tall did flow. And many a gallant soldier there With musket or with gleaming spear, Pac'd on the battlements that then Were throng'd with tall and proper men. But this was many a year ago-- A long shot back for mem'ry's bow! The Governor here made his home Beneath the great hall's gilded dome. And here his lady-wife he brought From Spain, across the sea; And sumptuous festival was made, Where now the tangled ivy's shade Is hanging drearily. The lady was both fair and young-- Fair as a poet ever sung; And well they lov'd; so it is told;-- Had plighted troth in days gone by, Ere he had won his spurs of gold, Or, gain'd his station high. And often from the martial keep They'd sail together on the deep; Or, wander many a weary mile In lonely valley, or defile.

Well; once upon this road, a pair, A lady and a cavalier, Were riding side by side. And she was young and "passing fair," With crimson lips and ebon hair-- She was the gallant's bride! And he was cast in manly mould, His port was high, and free, and bold-- Fitting a cavalier! But now bent reverently low His crest's unsullied plume of snow Play'd 'mid the lady's hair.

This knight with orders on his breast, The Governor, as you have guess'd-- The lady was his wife, and they, Alone were on the road that day;-- Their horses moving at a walk, And they engaged in earnest talk, Low words and sweet they spoke; The lady smil'd, and blush'd, and then, Smiling and blushing, spoke again; When sleeping echo woke-- Woke with the shouts of a wild band Who urg'd with spur and heavy hand Their steeds along the way.

Gave but one look the cavalier-- Murmur'd a vow the lady fair-- His right arm is around her thrown Her form close-gather'd to his own; While his brave steed, white as the snow, Darts like an arrow from the bow; His hoofs fall fast as tempest rain Spurning the road that rings again. Onward the race!--now fainter sounds The yell and whoop; but still like hounds The pirate band behind him rush Breaking the mountains solemn hush. On speeds he now--his steed so white Far in advance, proclaims his flight; God speed him and his bride! But ah! that chasm's fearful gape Seems to forbid hope of escape, He _cannot_ turn aside.

He bends his head; is it in pray'r? Is it to shed a bitter tear? Or utter craven vow? No; 'tis to gaze into those eyes Which are to him love-litten skies-- To kiss his lady's brow. And must he on? full well he knew That none were spar'd by that wild crew-- Never a lady fair. And now a shout, a fierce halloo, Told that they were again in view-- Close to his ear a bullet sings, And then the distant carbine rings.

Why pales the cavalier? And why does he now set his teeth And draw his dagger from its sheath? He breasts his charger at the leap-- He pricketh him full sharp and deep: He leaps, and then with heaving flank Gains footing on the other bank: A moment--'mid the pass's gloom, Vanish both veil and dancing plume-- It seems a dream. No! there is proof, The clatter of a flying hoof, And too, the lady's steed remains, With empty seat, and flying reins; And then is borne to that wild rout, A long and proud triumphant shout. And he who led the pirate band, Urg'd on his horse, with spur and hand; The long locks drifted from his brow, Like midnight waves from storm-vexed prow; And darkly flashed his eyes of jet Beneath the brows which almost met. Stern was his face; but war and crime, --For he had sinn'd in many a clime-- Had plough'd it deeper far than time. He was their chief: will he draw rein? Will he the yawning rift refrain? And with his halting band remain? He rais'd up in his stirrups, high, Better the chasm to descry, And measure with his hawk-like eye, While his dark steed begrim'd with toil, Tried madly, vainly, to recoil! A mutter'd curse--a sabre goad-- Full at the leap the robber rode: Great God! his horse near dead and spent, Scarce halfway o'er the chasm went. That fearful rush, and daring bound, Was followed by a crashing sound-- A sudden, awful knell! For down, more than a thousand feet, Where mist and mountain torrent meet, That reckless rider fell.

His band drew up:--they could not speak, For long, and loud his charger's shriek Was heard in an unearthly scream, Above that roaring mountain stream-- Like fancied sound in fever'd dream, When the sick brain with crazy skill Weaves fantasies of woe and ill. Some said: no steed gave forth that yell, And hinted solemnly of--hell! And others said, that from his vest A miniature with haughty crest And features like the lady's 'pressed, Fell on the rugged bank: But who he was, none knew or tell;

They simply point out where he fell When horse and horseman sank. Like Ravenswood he left no trace-- Tradition only points the place.

Rude is my hand, and rude my lay-- Rude as the Inn, time-worn and grey, Where resting, on the mountain-way, I heard the tale which I have tried To tell to thee; and saw the wide Deep rift--ten yards from side to side-- Great God! it was a fearful ride The robber took that day.

THREE SUMMER STUDIES.

The cock hath crow'd. I hear the doors unbarr'd; Down to the moss-grown porch my way I take, And hear, beside the well within the yard, Full many an ancient, quacking, splashing drake, And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen--all Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call.

The dew is thick upon the velvet grass-- The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops, And as the cattle from th' enclosure pass, Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load, Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road.

A lustrous polish is on all the leaves-- The birds flit in and out with varied notes-- The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves-- A partridge-whistle thro' the garden floats, While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries, As red and gold flush all the eastern skies.

Up comes the sun: thro' the dense leaves a spot Of splendid light drinks up the dew; the breeze Which late made leafy music dies; the day grows hot, And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees: The burnish'd river like a sword-blade shines, Save where 'tis shadow'd by the solemn pines.

Over the farm is brooding silence now-- No reaper's song--no raven's clangor harsh-- No bleat of sheep--no distant low of cow-- No croak of frogs within the spreading marsh-- No bragging cock from litter'd farm-yard crows, The scene is steep'd in silence and repose.

A trembling haze hangs over all the fields-- The panting cattle in the river stand Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields. It seems a Sabbath thro' the drowsy land: So hush'd is all beneath the Summer's spell, I pause and listen for some faint church bell.

The leaves are motionless--the song-bird's mute-- The very air seems somnolent and sick: The spreading branches with o'er-ripen'd fruit Show in the sunshine all their clusters thick, While now and then a mellow apple falls With a dull sound within the orchard's walls.

The sky has but one solitary cloud, Like a dark island in a sea of light; The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows ploughed Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight, While over yonder road a dusty haze Grows reddish purple in the sultry blaze.

That solitary cloud grows dark and wide, While distant thunder rumbles in the air, A fitful ripple breaks the river's tide-- The lazy cattle are no longer there, But homeward come in long procession slow, With many a bleat and many a plaintive low.

Darker and wider-spreading o'er the west Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form, And mirror'd turrets on the river's breast Tell in advance the coming of a storm-- Closer and brighter glares the lightning's flash And louder, nearer, sounds the thunder's crash.

The air of evening is intensely hot, The breeze feels heated as it fans my brows-- Now sullen rain-drops patter down like shot-- Strike in the grass, or rattle 'mid the boughs. A sultry lull: and then a gust again, And now I see the thick-advancing rain.

It fairly hisses as it comes along, And where it strikes bounds up again in spray As if 'twere dancing to the fitful song Made by the trees, which twist themselves and sway In contest with the wind which rises fast, Until the breeze becomes a furious blast.

And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled, The clouds lie pil'd up in the splendid west, In massive shadow tipp'd with purplish red, Crimson or gold. The scene is one of rest; And on the bosom of yon still lagoon I see the crescent of the pallid moon.

THE WASHINGTON MEMORIAL ODE.

Certain events, like architects, build up Viewless cathedrals, in whose aisles the cup Of some impressive sacrament is kist-- Where thankful nations taste the Eucharist. Pressed to their lips by some heroic Past Enthroned like Pontiff in the temple vast-- Where incense rises t'wards the dome sublime From golden censers in the hands of Time-- Where through the smoke some sculptured saint appears Crowned with the glories of historic years; Before whose shrine whole races tell their beads-- From whose pale front each sordid thought recedes, Gliding away like white and stealthy ghost, As Memory rears it's consecrated Host, As blood and body of a sacred name Make the last supper of some deathless fame.

This the event! Here springs the temple grand, Whose mighty arches take in all the land! Its twilight aisles stretch far away and reach 'Mid lights and shadows which defy my speech: And near its portal which Morn opened wide-- Grey Janitor!--to let in all this tide Of prayerful men, most solemnly there stands One recollection, which, for pious hands Is ready like the Minster's sculptured vase, With holy water for each reverent face. And mystic columns, which my fancy views, Glow in a thousand soft, subduing hues Flung through the stained windows of the Past in gloom, Of royal purple o'er our warrior's tomb.

Oh, proud old Commonwealth! thy sacred name Makes frequent music on the lips of Fame! And as the nation, in its onward march, Thunders beneath the Union's mighty arch, Thine the bold front which every patriot sees The stateliest figure on its massive frieze. Oh, proud old State! well may thy form be grand, 'Twas thine to give a Savior to the land. For, in the past, when upward rose the cry, "Save or we perish!" thine 'twas to supply The master-spirit of the storm whose will Said to the billows in their wrath: "Be still!" And though a great calm followed, yet the age In which he saw that mad tornado rage Made in its cares and wild tempestuous strife One solemn Passion of his noble life.

This day, then, Countrymen of all the year, We well may claim to be without a peer: Amid the rest--impalpable and vast-- It stands a Cheops looming through the past, Close to the rushing, patriotic Nile Which here o'erflows our hearts to make them smile With a rich harvest of devoted zeal, Men of Virginia, for the Common-weal!

And to our Bethlehem ye who come to-day-- Ye who compose this multitude's array-- Ye who are here from mighty Northern marts With frankincense and myrrh within your hearts-- Ye who are here from the gigantic West, The offspring nurtured at Virginia's breast, Which in development by magic seems Straight to embody all that Progress dreams-- Ye who are here from summer-wedded lands-- From Carolina's woods to Tampa's sands, From Florida to Texas broad and free Where spreads the prairie, like a dark, green sea-- Ye whose bold fathers from Virginia went In wilds to pitch brave enterprise's tent, Spreading our faith and social system wide, By which we stand peculiarly allied!-- Ye Southern men, whose work is but begun, Whose course is on t'ward regions of the sun, Whose brave battalions moved to tropic sods Solemn and certain as though marching gods Were ordered in their circumstance and state Beneath the banner of resistless Fate!

Ye have been welcomed, Countrymen, by him [3] Beside whose speech my rhetoric grows dim-- Whose thoughts are flint and steel--whose words are flame, For they all stir us like some hero's name: But once again the Commonwealth extends Her open hand in welcome to her friends; Come ye from North, or South, or West, or East, No bull's head enters at Virginia's feast. And ye who've journeyed hither from afar, Know that fair Freedom's liquid morning star Still sheds its glories in a thousand beams, Gilding our forests, fountains, mountains, streams, With light as luminous as on that morn When the Messiah of the land was born. Then as we here partake the mystic rites To which his memory like a priest invites; Kneeling beside the altars of this day, Let every heart subdued one moment pray,

[Footnote 3: Governor Wise.]

That He who lit our morning star's pure light Will never blot it from the nation's sight; That He will banish those portentous clouds Which from so many its effulgence shrouds-- Which none will deem me Hamlet-mad when I Say hang like banners on the darkened sky, Suggesting perils in their warlike shape, Which Heavenly Father grant that we escape!

Why touch upon these topics, do you ask? Why blend these themes with my allotted task? My answer's brief, 'tis, Citizens, because I see fierce warfare made upon the Laws. A people's poets are that people's seers, The prophet's faculty, in part, is theirs, And thus 'tis fit that from this statue's base, Beneath great Washington's majestic face, That I should point the dangers which menace Our social temple's symmetry and grace.

But here I pause, for happier omens look, And playing Flamen turn to Nature's book: Where late rich Autumn sat on golden throne, A stern usurper makes the crown his own; The courtier woodlands, robbed of all their state, Stripped of their pomp, look grim and desolate; Reluctant conscripts, clad in icy mail, Their captive pleadings rise on every gale. Now mighty oaks stand like bereaved Lears; Pennons are furled on all the sedgy spears Where the sad river glides between its banks, Like beaten general twixt his pompless ranks; And the earth's bosom, clad in armor now, Bids stern defiance to the iron plough, While o'er the fields so desolate and damp Invading Winter spreads his hostile camp.[4]