There's a Curl that Beauty clusters, There's a Curl that Grace arrays; It mocketh all the lustres Of your laurels, palms, and bays.
The forehead where it lieth Rarely holds a deeper thought Than of where the blue moth flieth, And of how it may be caught.
The bright head where it beameth Rolls o'er the daisied earth, With a heart-fill'd laugh, that seemeth Like the trumpet-call of Mirth.
It glitters fresh and purely, Like the sea-shell, fathoms low; 'Tis the only gem that surely Addeth halo to the brow.
Humming-birds when resting On the citron green; Stars the night-cloud cresting, Ere the moon is seen;
Dewdrops in the dingle, Noon-lit harvest shocks, Foam upon the shingle; Ye are dimm'd by Childhood's locks.
Oh! Manhood's knightly feather, And Womanhood's rich pearl— Ye would not weigh together, Against Childhood's golden curl.
There's a Curl of bitter sadness, That is found when Peace and Gladness Have departed: When the World hath made the bosom, Like a canker-eaten blossom, Leper-hearted.
'Tis a Curl that seems to borrow All its strength from Hate and Sorrow, Pain and Scorn; Leaving the lip it lifteth, Cold as the snow that drifteth On the thorn.
That dark Curl ever turneth, As the coiling adder yearneth To its prey; Like that adder, ever shedding Fear round the footstep treading In its way.
Oh! a fearful thing to gaze on, Is the scathing Curl that plays on Human lips; Fierce as the lightning-flashes, Sharp as the gore-soak'd lashes Of men's whips.
There's a red Curl bursting in terrible form, By the mast that stood up in the longest storm; Onward shooteth the ringlet flake; Nor asketh nor heedeth the way it shall take; And it turns, and it twines, while its fork'd tongue shines, With a thirst that the great deep cannot slake. Round and round is the wild tress wound, Till frightfully fast is the pine-tree bound; It hisses and sings where the lifeboat swings, It roars and it rushes, it climbs and it clings From the hull to the spars, and blackens and chars With its waving grace and circling rings. It leapeth within the temples of earth, Like demon furies in revelling mirth; It graspeth the column with crushing might, It filleth the porch with purple light, It wrappeth itself in the silken fold; It darteth about the woven gold; It cracketh the dome-span of marble and oak, And rushes on high with its crest of smoke: It painteth the land with a ghastly dye, It flingeth a blood-stain over the sky. Oh a terrible thing, in the still dark hour, Is the Fire Curl wielding its ruthless power.
The salt wave Curls as it hurrieth fast, At the flood of the tide, in the face of the blast; It rears and it rolls in bold, bright scrolls, As the artist will of a God controls; It beateth and bindeth the lighthouse-top; It formeth a perch where the loud gulls drop. Over the coral leaf, leaping and light, It dances in robes of bridal white; As fair teeth show in a red-lipp'd smile, Over the wrecking breast of guile; And the Water Curl spreadeth its fringe on the land; A banner of might in a mightier hand.
There's a glossy Curl that groweth, In fullest, greenest length; When the summer sunbeam gloweth In straight, unshadow'd strength. Far in other climes it springeth, To our own dear walls it clingeth; O'er the lowly porch-seat creeping, Through the window-lattice peeping; In uncultured beauty trailing, O'er the garden's old gray paling. Lew it dangles, high it soars, Where all can pluck and none can snatch; Hanging round white cottage doors, And trellissing the latch. Up the chimney turret sprawling, O'er the farthest gable crawling, Soft and lovingly it prieth, Into every mossy patch; Where the honeysuckle lieth, With the houseleek, on the thatch. Shadowing the roadside dwelling, Gracefully it twirls and twists, O'er the purple bunches swelling; Young Pomona's amethysts. Oh! a sweet and sunny thing Is the Vine Curl, only coming When roses breathe and wild birds sing, And Nature tunes her own rich string Within the heart, and sets it humming.
And there's another glossy Curl that wanders where it will; But rarely on the cottage porch, or round the cottage sill; A darker tinge is on each leaf, it seeketh darker homes, And bravely stareth at the clouds when frowning Winter comes. The tottering heap within its grasp is closely held together; The proud tree stands within its thrall, like wild horse in a tether; It climbeth where the ruffled owl chimes with the midnight gust, And hears them sing, in doleful wail, the song of "dust to dust."
Where the Gothic pane has been, There it stretches—there it tangles With its drapery, between Dropping arch and broken angles. The granite pile is softly cracking; The topmost ridge is gray and hoary; And walls that stood the siege and sacking, Stand like flitting ghosts of Glory. The port-mouth'd parapet is shatter'd; The giant column fallen low; The buttress—firm when cannon-batter'd— Shakes now when merry wind-horns blow. Bit by bit the ruin crumbles; Bat and lizard there abiding; And the callow raven tumbles, From the loophole of his hiding. There Old Time is blithely sitting, In the finest of his dresses; And while his wrinkled brow is knitting, He hides it with his Ivy tresses. Base and battlement were strong, But passing moments have been stronger; Stone and stanchion lasted long, But the Ivy Curl lasts longer. No frost below, no storms above, The Ivy from its home can part; It leaneth like a woman's love, Towards a cold, ungrateful heart. Green when arm'd with icy spear, Green when deck'd with dewy pearl; A pleasant pall to hide a bier, Is the glossy Ivy Curl.
It forms an honest epitaph, Where ashes of a nation spread; Mark it who will, it needs no skill, 'Tis plainly writ and plainly read. The stately robes—the blazon'd crown— The scroll of right—the sword of ruth— The triumph—shouts that strive to drown God's own deep whisper—tones of truth— Oh! who would struggle Life away, Amid these hollow things of clay? Who would be panting in the race, That endeth in such lowly place! The Past, the Past—we blend the name With fever'd tales of glaring fame; But seek the City of the dead, Where mighty millions once were met; Where Song inspired and Valour bled, And Fortune's longest watch was set: There shall the Spirit fold its wings, Chafed in Ambition's swooping whirl; Smile at the nothingness of Kings, And bless the peaceful Ivy Curl.
