Poems (Fields)/The Post of Honor

by James Thomas Fields

THE POST OF HONOR.

 

 

 When yon old towers proclaims the impatient Nine,^[1]
And Temple belles to homeward nooks incline,—
When airs are still, the organ pipes laid low,
And music's stream requested not to flow,—
When from his lips, whose mandates all obey,
The call rings out, admitting no delay,—
The bard, half conscious, rises to the floor,
And eyes the distance 'tween the desk and door;
He hoped some hand might kindly interpose
To veil the audience at the oration's close,
Some beam might start, some sudden false alarm
Might snatch a victim from the altar's harm;—
But, chained a captive at your chariot wheel,
To fail just now were hardly mercantile;
Promise to pay, you must endure the shock;—
There is no quarter after two o'clock.

 No bright Aurora, with her cheerful smiles,
The evening minstrel on his way beguiles;—
Child of the Dawn, she bids her coursers fly
Through rosier blushes to the morning sky.
While thus the fingers of relentless Time
Hold hard and heavy at the reins of rhyme,
Thy leaden wings, O sleep-compelling power,
I hear descending from their shadowy bower;—
Spare, spare thy influence, cease thy drowsy calls
A few brief moments, till the curtain falls.

---

 In boyhood's hour you bade my fluttering sail^[2]
Spread its light canvas to the morning gale;
First, at your summons, with averted eye,
I felt the breeze that swept my pennant by;
I heard your echoes gathering on the shore,
As then I launched one childish pebble more;—
Still the old echoes linger in my brain,
And all those voices seem to live again,
As now I come, with more than boyhood's fears,
To mark the dial of our added years.
O, more than favored, could I meet to-day
The smiles that cheered my dim and faltering way;
O, more than blest, could I recall to-night
Those welcome forms that met my dazzled sight;
All the dear faces, all the buried past,
Too bright and brief, too beautiful to last.

 Our vanished years! let Memory's muffled bell
Toll but one requiem, and but one farewell,
For him whose eyelids in a wintry grave^[3]
Were closed in anguish by the icy wave.
Rest, early friend, bemoaned in life's young bloom,
Gone, like a shadow, to the voiceless tomb.
When last we climbed to yon high, leafy crest
To watch the sunlight fading in the west,
Ah, little thought I that this hand would trace
These words of grief above thy burial-place.
Thou hast our tears; but lo! the clouds depart,
Our brother sleeps with sunshine on his heart;
The storm hag passed, the seas are silent now,
And Heaven's sweet smile has settled on his brow.

 Our added years! What though to these we bow,
Farewell the Past! All hail the eventful Now!
What though grave fathers, still my friends, I meet,
Whose nursery floors are worn with little feet,—
What though, companion of my former years,
Thy face at market every morn appears,
While I, still ignorant as the greenest baize
What "goods domestic" go the greatest ways,
Grope blindly homeward to my noontide meal,
Unknowing what my damask may reveal;—
Heart leaps to heart, and warmer grasps the hand,
When Autumn's bugle re-unites our band!

---

 That "virtue only makes our bliss below,
And all our knowledge is ourselves to know,"
We read at school, in unforgotten lines,
Where sterling sense in sparkling couplets shines;
My theme to-night thy glittering muse demands,
Who touched life's follies with unsparing hands,
Or thine, Urania, skilled to sweep the lyre^[4]
With all Pope's freedom, and with Campbell's fire.

 Star of the heart! the eagle's sunward plume!
Wild meteor, dancing in the midnight gloom,
Ambition's goal, that oft delusive dream,
The Post of Honor, is my chosen theme.
Its ampler range eludes my hurrying sight,
I can but hover, others may alight;—
Though far and wide the gleaming standard flies,
Wings clipt like mine can dare no upper skies.
But, though I come not with presuming hand
To scatter precepts, like a housewife's sand,—
Virtue's assassin, slander's bosom friend,
No verse of mine can flatter or commend.
The humblest muse should claim the honest line,
And swing no censer at corruption's shrine;
Unmoved by fear, should act no traitor's part,
Wear on her face the dial of her heart,
And dash aside, no matter who may hold
The poisoned chalice, though 't were made of gold.
Truth, ever sacred, counts that victory shame
Which clarions meanness to a world's acclaim;
Scorns the proud wretch who plays the fatal dart,
But, while he dallies, drives it to the heart;
Shuns the weak fool, whose eager gaze descries
His neighbor's faults with telescopic eyes;
Believes high rogues, though clad in jewels brave,
Should run the gantlet with the shabbiest knave,—
While Honor's Post should be for him secure
Who lets in sunshine at the poor man's door.

 Unchanging Power! thy genius still presides
O'er vanquished fields, and ocean's purpled tides;
Sits like a spectre at the soldier's board,
Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword;^[5]
For thee and thine combining squadrons form
To sweep the world with Glory's awful storm;
The intrepid warrior shouts thy deathless name,
And plucks new valor from thy torch of fame;
For him the bell shall wake its loudest song,
For him the cannon's thunder echo long,
For him a nation weave the unfading crown,
And swell the triumph of his sweet renown.
So Nelson watched, long ere Trafalgar's days,^[6]
Thy radiant orb, prophetic Glory, blaze,—
Saw Victory wait, to weep his bleeding scars,
And plant his breast with Honor's burning stars.
So the young hero, with expiring breath,
Bequeathes fresh courage in the hour of death,
Bids his brave comrades hear the inspiring blast,
And nail their colors, dauntless, to the mast;
Then dies, like Lawrence, trembling on his lip
That cry of Honor, "Don't give up the ship!"

 Pageant of light, dissolving into air,—
Thou glittering folly, seeming only fair,
What myriad insects, crowding to the flame.
Die in the arena, cheated of thy name!

 Go mark its influence o'er each scene of life,
Your neighbor feels it, and your neighbor's wife;
He o'er Columbia's District sees it shine,
While she, more modest, thinks a coach divine.
"Be rich, and ride," the buxom lady cries—
"Be famous, John," his answering heart replies;
"The golden portals of the Chamber wait
To give thee entrance at the next debate;
Get votes, get station, and the goal is won,
Shine in the Senate, and eclipse the sun;
Quadrennial glory shall compensate toil,
The feast of office, and the flow of spoil."

 Poor child of Fancy, party's candidate,
Born of a caucus, what shall be thy fate!
Nursed by a clique, perplexed I see thee stand,
Holding a letter in thy doubtful hand;—
It comes with questions that demand replies,
Important, weighty, relevant, and wise.
"Respected Sir," the sheet of queries runs,
In solid phalanx, like election buns,—
"Respected Sir, we humbly beg to know
Your mind on matters that we name below;
Be firm, consistent, that is, if you can;
The country rocks, and we must know our man.
And first, What think you of the Northern Lights,
And is it fatal when a mad dog bites?
Do you allow your corn to mix with peas,
And can you doubt the moon is one with cheese?
If all your young potatoes should decease,
What neighbor's patch would you incline to fleece?
When Lot's slow help-meet made that foolish halt,
Was she half rock, or only table salt?
And had the ark run thumping on the stumps,
Would you, if there, have aided at the pumps?
Do you approve of men who stick to pills,
Or aqueous pilgrims to Vermont's broad hills?
Do you mark Friday darkest of the seven?
Do you believe that white folks go to Heaven?
Do you imbibe brown sugar in your tea?
Do you spell Congress with a K or C?
Will you eat oysters in the month of June,
And soup and sherbet with a fork or spoon?
Towards what amusement does your fancy lean?
Do you believe in France or Lamartine?
Shall you at church eight times a month be found,
Or only absent when the box goes round?
Should Mr. Speaker ask you out to dine,
Will you accept, or how would you decline?
In case a comet should our earth impale,
Have you the proper tongs to seize his tail?
For early answers we would make request,—
Weigh well the topics, calmly act your best,
Show us your platform, how you mean to tread,
Plump on your feet, or flat upon your head;
If your opinions coincide with ours,
We delegate to you the proper powers.
N. B. — No bribes; the postage you must pay
From this to Boston, and the other way.
A Posiscript, private. — If we all agree,
The undersigned expect the usual fee;
And if you publish in the Western Ball,
Pray don't forget to print our names in full.

 The ambitious guardian of the errant swine,
(Sometimes named hog-reeve by the sacred Nine.)
Think you no sighs his anxious breast denote,
Should chance divest him of his party's vote? —
Alas! he cries, with Wolsey in the play,
"Farewell, my greatness! Honor swept away!"
And feels, beneath that recreant party's frown,
A pang as great as when a king goes down.

 The country curate, quoting Greek for gold,
Sees it resplendent o'er some distant fold;
His reverend locks, just turned of twenty-two,
Need other perfumes than a Cape Ann dew;—
Her ampler arms a City church extends,
He'll be more useful there, he tells his friends;
He feels distressed, he goes with many a tear,
But yearns to practise in a wider sphere,—
Which, to interpret in a carnal sense,
Means a receipt of pounds instead of pence.
Go, worldly prophet! duty fling aside,
Your heart is Mammon's, and your worship Pride;
Ready to skulk when Progress might be taught,
Go hunt the Ibis of Egyptian thought,—
Leave Heaven for Tarshish, and you can't but fail,
For every Jonah always finds his whale.

 From pride of place his favor Honor turns,
And station only from his list he spurns.
At a late conference on a Hebrew word,
A Worcester blacksmith beat an English lord;
Think you he stooped, around that brow to bind
The waiting laurel due a titled mind?
No! "Scots wha hae" first thrilled with memories wild
The throbbing bosom of a ploughman's child,
And Ayr and Avon glide as gently still,
Though Burns and Shakspeare top the immortal hill.

 Yon fountain Nymph, now sparkling through the trees,⁷
In humble Natick wooed the mountain breeze;
There, 'mid the torrent, nursed in thunders loud
From the dark bosom of the stormy cloud,
Or gentlier fed, when Summer's showery train
In drops of music poured the welcome rain,
Her lot was cast, content to glide along,
Lulled by the ripple of her own sweet song.
The Indian maids, her playmates, passed away,
And still she waited for a brighter day,
Till, all matured, she rose at Duty's call,
And stepped a Naiad in her charmed hall, —
Sprang, crowned with grace, the monarch Elm beside,
And stood in radiant light his young enchanted bride.

 Be great like Murray, but like Murray feel,
And thrice like him refuse the proffered seal;
Rome's cautious bard, of verse the lyric sage, ⁸
Wrote fuge magna on his glowing page.
Greatness avoid I the throne has pangs to hide
That only lurk where kings and crowns abide.
Swing from the Common in your own balloon,
You may reach Marshfield in the afternoon;
But many a bog 'twixt here and Marshfield lies,
And gas may leak, and water fill your eyes.

 All are not born the glory of their race,
But all may shun the pathway to disgrace;
In humblest vales the patriot heart may glow;
That nurtures men — they give the inspiring blow.
Point back to heroes battling for the right,
To modest martyrs dying out of sight,
When low-born cowards loitered in the dust,
And when 't was honored to be brave and just;
When gray-haired age with reverend footsteps trod,
And when sweet childhood learned to worship God;
When truth was sacred, and when men were rare
Who bartered Faith for nothing and Voltaire.
 But does our pathway e'er conduct to fame?
The Merchant's honor is his spotless name;
Not circumscribed, just narrowed to the rank
That passes current only at the Bank,
But stamped with soul, howe'er the winds may blow,
Large as the sunlight, and unstained as snow.
Do good by stealth, be just, have faith in man;
The rest to Heaven, God always in the van,—
Though silent deeds may find no tongue to bless
Through the loud trumpet of the public press.

 Honors, 'tis true, from no condition rise,
Stick to your calling, there the profit lies;
What man has sown, just what he reaps denotes,
Expect no pearl-ash from a crop of votes;
Oil and Cochituate never yet would mix;
You can't pay rents and retail politics.

 Consult your means, avoid the tempter's wiles,
Shun grinning hosts of unreceipted files,
Let Heaven-eved Prudence battle with Desire,
And win the victory, though it be through fire.
Go swim at Newport to come home and sink
When the grim Notary drags you to the brink;
Play with old ocean, wanton as you will,
Time writes no wrinkles on a six months" bill.

 Where lies true Honor? Turn the glass once more,
A few brief pictures, and the scene is o'er,
All the procession may not pass to-night;
Enough if sketches show my purpose right.

 The painter's skill life's lineaments may trace,
And stamp the impress of a speaking face;
The chisel's touch may make that marble warm
Which glows with all but breathing manhood's form,—
But deeper lines, beyond the sculptor's art,
Are those which write their impress on the heart.
 On Talfourd's page what bright memorials glow⁹
Of all that's noblest, gentlest, best below!
Thou generous brother, guard of griefs concealed,
Matured by sorrow, deep but unrevealed,
Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here,
The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere.
Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred dust,
And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallowed trust,
To Elia's grave the pilgrim shall repair,
And hang with love perennial garlands there.
 And thou, great Bard of never-dying name,¹⁰
Thy filial care outshines the poet's fame;
For who, that wanders by the dust of Gray
While memory tolls the knell of parting day,
 But lingers fondly at the hallowed tomb,
That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom,
To bless the son who poured that gushing tear,
So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier!
 Wreaths for that line which Woman's tribute gave,
"Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave."
Can I forget, a Pilgrim o'er the sea,
The countless shrines of Woman's charity?
In thy gay capital, bewildering France,
Where Pleasure's shuttle weaves the whirling dance,
Beneath the shelter of St. Mary's dome,
Where pallid suffering seeks and finds a home,
Methinks I see that sainted sister now¹¹
Wipe. Death's cold dew-drops from an infant's brow;
Can I forget that mild, seraphic grace
With heaven-eyed Patience meeting in her face?
Ah, sure, if angels leave celestial spheres,
We saw an angel dry a mortal's tears.

 'T was thine, Jerome, when shuddering nature cried¹²
For aid and rescue from the burning tide,
"T was thine, with vigorous arm, and manly breath,
To leap through danger, and to snatch from death;—
Though prince and peer assumed their noblest mien,
Thou wert the Ocean Monarch of that scene.
 Where e'er his camp-fires glistened on the sod,
Humane as brave, our latest Conqueror trod;
Honored not most when flying shaft and ball
Swept like red hail on Buena Vista's wall,
But for that aid a foot-worn soldier found
When limping wounded o'er the bloody ground, —
"My steed is thine," the pitying hero cried,
And lifted up a brother to his side.

 Slow to applaud, our pulses rarely bound
When Genius walks his own enchanted ground,
While many a son, though hailed in distant lands,
Receives no chaplet at our tardy hands.
Not thus, on other soil, true greatness pines,
Not thus old age to poverty declines;
See Worth advanced, and power-compelling
Mind On some proud hill-top gloriously enshrined,
While sterling Merit leaves his lowly plain
To found a peerage, dated from his brain.
Yet, stern old shores, still on thy rocks they stand
Who guard the portals of our native land!
Our Country first, their glory and their pride,
Land of their hopes, land where their fathers died,
When in the right, they 'I keep thy Honor bright,
When in the wrong, they 'll die to set it right.
 Let blooming boys, from stagnant cloisters freed,
Sneer at old virtues, and the Patriot's creed,
Forget the lessons taught at Valor's side,
And all their country's honest fame deride.
All are not such; some glowing blood remains
To warm the icy current of our veins,
Some from the watch-towers still descry afar
The faintest glimmer of an adverse star.
 When faction storms, when meaner statesmen quail,
Full high advanced, our eagle meets the gale!
On some preat point where Hônor takes her stand, —
The Ehrenbreitstein of our native land, —
See, in the front, to strike for Freedom's cause,
The mailed Defender of her rights and laws!
On his great arm behold a nation lean,
And parcel empire with the Island Queen;
Great in the council, peerless in debate,—
Who follows Webster takes the field too late.¹³

 Go track the globe, its changing climes exploro,
From crippled Europe to the Arab's shore,
See Albion's lion guard her stormy seas,
See Gallia's lilies float on every breeze,
Roam through the world, but find no brighter names
Than those true Honor for Columbia claims.
 Pause in that aisle, with half-suspended breath,
Where sceptered England shares her realm with Death,
And hear, beneath the Abbey's mouldering towers,
Her hoary minstrels chime the passing hours,
Then turn from halls, where blood-stained banners wave,
To peaceful Quincy and its new-made grave,—
From Pride and Power, enshrined in regal gloom,
To patriot Virtue, and to Vernon's tomb.

NOTES.

 

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Note 1. Page 1.

The Annual Poem before the Mercantile Library Association is usually delivered on the same evening, immediately after an Address at the Tremont Temple.

Note 2. Page 2.
In boyhood's hour,

On a previous occasion, (in 1838,) the Anniversary Poem was recited by the author of the one now published.

Note 3. Page 3.
For him whose eyelids in a wintry grave,

Orlando Pitts, who was lost in the steamer Atlantic on the 27th of November, 1846. Among the many victims of that fearful storm, no one was more deeply lamented than the subject of these lines.

Note 4. Page 5.
Or thine, Urania,

It is scarcely necessary to explain this reference. Those who have read the admirable Poem pronounced in 1846 before the Society by Dr. O. W. Holmes, need not be reminded here of its excellence.

Note 5. Page 7.
Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword;

"Mother!" said a Spartan boy, going to battle, "My sword is too short." "Add a step to it," was the heroic reply.

Note 6. Page 7.
So Nelson watched,

See Southey's glowing life of the great naval hero.

Note 7. Page 13.
Yon fountain Nymph, &c.

This passage refers to the beautiful jet so recently introduced to add its graceful beauty to Boston Common. The old Elm Tree, standing near the Pond, is too well known to require a further notice here.

Note 8. Page 14.
Rome's cautious bard,

"Fuge magna: licet subpaupere tecto,
Reges, et regum vita praecurre ami cos."

Horace.

Note 9. Page 16.
On Talfourd's page, &c.

The "Final Memorials of Charles Lamb," recently published by his eminent biographer, have added a new and solemn interest to the character of Elia. Such an exhibition of self-sacrifice under similar circumstances was never made before.

Note 10. Page 17.
And thou, great Bard of never dying name,

Gray lies buried in Stoke church, at the south-east corner of the chancel. He desired to be laid near the tomb of his mother, whom he had long and affectionately loved, and over whose remains the pilgrim to this interesting spot will read the following inscription, placed there by the author of the Elegy

BESIDE HER FRIEND AND SISTER,
HERE SLEEP THE REMAINS OF
DOROTHY GRAY,
WIDOW, THE TENDER MOTHER
OF MANY CHILDREN, ONE OF WHOM ALONE
HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO SURVIVE HER.

Note 11. Page 18.
Methinks I see that sainted sister now,

Whoever has visited the Parisian hospitals, especially those devoted to the care of children, cannot fail to have learned a lesson not easily to be forgotten. The patient, gentle devotion of a young female, in the full flush of womanly beauty, to the wants of a dying orphan-infant, suggested this passage.

Note 12. Page 18.
'Twas thine, Jerome,

Some difference of opinion seems to exist with reference to this courageous sailor. That he worked manfully in the perilous scene to save those who were exposed to imminent danger, is a sufficient reason why his name should be honorably mentioned every where.

Note 13. Page 20.
Who follows Webster takes the field too late.

This closing line of the paragraph alluding to the great Statesman, was suggested by the well-known quotation:—

"Who follows Homer, takes the field too late;
Though stout as Hector, sure of Hector's fate,
A wound, as from Achilles' spear, he feels,
Falls and adorns the Grecian's chariot wheels."

1. Note 1. Page 1.

   The Annual Poem before the Mercantile Library Association is usually delivered on the same evening, immediately after an Address at the Tremont Temple.

2. Note 2. Page 2.
   In boyhood's hour,

   On a previous occasion, (in 1838,) the Anniversary Poem was recited by the author of the one now published.

3. Note 3. Page 3.
   For him whose eyelids in a wintry grave,

   Orlando Pitts, who was lost in the steamer Atlantic on the 27th of November, 1846. Among the many victims of that fearful storm, no one was more deeply lamented than the subject of these lines.

4. Note 4. Page 5.
   Or thine, Urania,

   It is scarcely necessary to explain this reference. Those who have read the admirable Poem pronounced in 1846 before the Society by Dr. O. W. Holmes, need not be reminded here of its excellence.

5. Note 5. Page 7.
   Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword;

   "Mother!" said a Spartan boy, going to battle, "My sword is too short." "Add a step to it," was the heroic reply.

6. Note 6. Page 7.
   So Nelson watched,

   See Southey's glowing life of the great naval hero.