James Otis Rockwell

     He was the Child of Genius—and his soul
Burned with the living fire of Poesy!
Earth, with its multitudes of vales and hills—
Mountains whose heads are turban’d in the clouds,
And valleys deep where scarcely peers the glance
Of the meridian sun—the infinite Sea,
Cradling its beautiful idles, and with its waves
Changing a solemn lullaby—the Sky
Gorgeously gemm’d with sabaoth of stars,
Or curtained with the voiceful thunder-cloud—
Yes, Earth—Sea—Sky—were ever unto him
As a familiar volume, where he read
Marvellous legends of the olden time,
And conned mysterious truths, which he transcribed
On the fair tablets of his wondering soul.
What time he wandered forth alone—the stars
Burning above him, and the quiet earth
Like a hushed infant slumbering—he loved
To list to Nature’s ever-varying voice,
And let the influence of the stilly hour,
Like a weird presence, steal upon his soul,
Hushing each turbulent thought, and chast’ning all
His aspirations, till he felt himself
Lifted from earth, and sense, and sin, and lost
In the dim shadows of the dread TO BE!

     He lived not in the Present—but his mind
Framed a new world, and fairer far than this—
A world of Phantasie, where fruits and flowers
Were ever fresh and fadeless, men were brave,
And women true, and poets idolized—
And in the dim realm of creative Thought,
He could forget awhile the selfishness,
And fraud, and violence, and wo of earth.
Poesy claimed him for her own, and breathed
Into his soul her spirit, and bestowed
An intuition of the Beautiful!
His heart was tuned to music, and his ear
Quick to detect the latent melody
That slumbers in the harp of Æolus,
What time the breezes murmur not, nor wake,
Save fitfully and faintly.

                                          Months and years
Passed o’er the youthful dreamer, stealthily,
Almost unheeded—for the world of thought
In which his spirit reveled, still was bright!
And Hope, with magic wand, before his eyes
Etched beautiful pictures of the coming time,
And still the cheating siren gaily poured
Her most bewitching songs upon his ear,
And whispered flattering and delusive tales,
Of future greatness. Fame, too, diadem’d
And radiant with beauty, such as Mind
Throws round her own creations, standing high
On a proud pinnacle—around her brow
A gorgeous chaplet of undying flowers,
And in her hand a sceptre—smilingly
Looked on the young enthusiast, beck’ning him
Onward and upward ever! Thus he lived
In, and yet scarcely seeming of, the world—
Peopling the Universe with glorious forms—
Thoughts, feelings, passions, exultations, hopes,
Desires, and ecstacies, creations all
Of his own mind, yet wondrous beautiful!—
Holding companionship with vales and brooks,
Mountains and forests, sky, and clouds, and stars,
Sunlight and tempest, lightning, hail, and snow,
And wresting from them all a dialect
Known unto him alone, that ever came
With a peculiar eloquence to his soul;
He had no time to con the blotted page
Of human life—the record of its woes—
The history of its treacheries and tears—
And therefore was he happy.

                                                But a cloud
Came o’er the blue sky of the dreamer’s life,
And the glad sun was shadowed. He went forth
Undisciplined—unpanoplied—alone—
From the sweet home of infancy, to mix
In the wild tumults of the world, and meet
The foes that should beset him—envy—Hate—
Falsehood and Treachery—Distrust and Care.
The stars of life went out, and Darkness flung
Her thick pall o’er his spirit—and his brow
Lost its serene expression—and his eye
Grew cold and dim—his gorgeous dreams of Fame
Vanished, like frost-work from the sun’s warm kiss—
And the fresh hopes that buoyed his spirit up
In earlier days, were withered now and crushed!
The delicate harp was shattered! and its strings
Wailed fitfully and wildly in the breeze—
Pouring their mournful music over earth,
Like the low dirge above the early bier
Of the beloved and perished.

                                               Brief the time
Of the young poet’s struggle. Earth became 
Even as a peopled sepulchre to him;
Joyless as death, and cheerless as the grave!
Then Madness came, and laid her burning hand
Upon his brain—he shuddered at the touch,
Struggled a moment with the pitiless fiend,
Convulsively—and died.

                                         Kinder than man,
Earth welcomed home her own—“ashes to ashes
And dust to dust”—a few hot tears were shed—
The praise denied in life, over his corse
Was freely poured—but, oh! too late—and then
One of Earth’s loveliest and most gifted ones
Was left to the oblivion of the grave!

     Who piled his monument?—who sang his dirge?
Where lingers his remembrance?—who can tell
His struggles and his triumphs? Hath not Earth
A single harp to chant his requiem?
A single hand to pile his monument?
None!—none! Oh, what a mockery is fame!
The bard hath perished—and the world forgot!