Read Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated) Online
Authors: Washington Irving
Irving, c.1830
THE poems of Washington Irving have received little attention — perhaps because they form a relatively unimportant part of his work, and, because, scattered throughout his prose writings (often in works printed privately and in small editions) or in the “albums” of friends, many of them are not readily accessible even to students of Irving’s life and writings. They were brought together by the compiler as a part of his Bibliography of Washington Irving, which The New York Public Library plans to publish in its
Bulletin
and in separate form, some time in 1931. The volumes in which the poems appear are fully identified in this bibliography under the appropriate classifications. Later it was felt to be more appropriate to print the poems by themselves and in advance of the publication of the bibliography. They have never before been printed as a collection.
Doubtless Irving refused to consider his own poetic efforts with too much seriousness, realizing that his talent, as his inclination, lay in the field of prose writing. Yet he was undoubtedly interested in poetry, as is shown by his efforts in introducing Bryant to the English and Campbell to the Americans, and by his friendship with Rogers.
Irving’s poetry, written in the somewhat sentimental, somewhat artificial style then largely in vogue, displays not infrequently a certain charm and dexterity of touch, an awareness of natural beauty, a genial and kindly sentiment in harmony with the tone of his prose writings. Much of it is of the
vers de société
type.
Some poems appear to have been written on the spur of the moment, with jocular unconventionality of rhyme and metre. Even the more serious poems give little indication of any final polishing before publication. The greater part is light-hearted, careless verse, written for the pleasure of friends or in honor of some special occasion, private or semi-public.
The Library and the compiler gratefully acknowledge the courtesy of the following copyright holders in granting permission to reprint certain of the poems: George S. Heilman, of New York; The Grolier Club of New York; The Bibliophile Society of Boston; and Henry Holt and Company of New York.
WRITTEN IN THE DEEP DENE ALBUM
TO MISS EMILY FOSTER ON HER BIRTHDAY
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1806.
Published in the
Atlantic Souvenir, 1827,
Philadelphia [cop. 1826], p. 146-148. This poem was later published in
The New-York Book of Poetry,
New-York: George Dearborn, 1837, pages 105-106, omitting stanzas 5, 6, 7 and 10, and with some slight changes in punctuation.
In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green,
Where nature had fashion’d a soft sylvan scene,
The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer,
PASSAIC in silence roll’d gentle and clear.
No grandeur of prospect astonish’d the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;
There the wild flowret blossom’d, the elm proudly waved,
And pure was the current the green bank that laved.
But the spirit that ruled o’er the thick-tangled wood,
And had fixed in its gloomy recess his abode,
Loved best the rude scene that the whirlwinds deform,
And gloried in thunder, and lightning and storm.
All flush’d from the tumult of battle he came,
Where the red-men encounter’d the children of flame,
While the noise of the warhoop still rung in his ears,
And the fresh, bleeding scalp as a trophy he wears.
Oh! deep was the horror, and fierce was the fight,
When the eyes of the red-men were shrouded in night;
When by strangers invaded, by strangers destroy’d,
They ensanguined the fields which their fathers enjoy’d.
Lo! the sons of the forest in terror retire,
Pale savages chase them with thunder and fire;
In vain whirls the war-club, in vain twangs the bow,
By thunder and fire are the warriors laid low.
From defeat and from carnage the fierce spirit came,
His breast was a tumult, his passions were flame,
Despair swells his heart, fury maddens his ire,
And black scowls his brow o’er his eyeballs of fire.
With a glance of disgust he the landscape survey’d,
With its fragrant wild flowrets, its wide-waving shade,
Its river meand’ring through margins of green,
Transparent its waters — its surface serene.
He rived the green hills — the wild woods he laid low,
He turn’d the still stream in rough channels to flow,
He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,
And hurl’d down the chasm the thundering wave.
A scene of strange ruin he scatter’d around,
Where cliffs piled on cliffs in wild majesty frown’d —
Where shadows of horror embrown the dark wood,
And the rainbow and mist mark the turbulent flood.
Countless moons have since roll’d — in this long lapse of time,
Cultivation has soften’d those features sublime,
The axe of the white man enliven’d the shade,
And dispell’d the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.
Yet the stranger still gazes, with wondering eye,
On rocks rudely torn and groves mounted on high —
Still loves on the cliff’s dizzy border to roam,
Where the torrent leaps headlong embosom’d in foam.
The following poem was written at the request of Irving’s friend, Gilbert Stuart Newton, and is descriptive of a painting by the latter. The lines appeared in
The Atlantic Souvenir, 1828,
Philadelphia [cop. 1827], page 294. An engraving of this painting forms the frontispiece of the volume. The poem was later published in
Irvingiana,
New York: C. B. Richardson, 1860, page lxiii.
Frostie age, frostie age!
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.
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, come wrack,
At least, I’ll die with harness on my back.”