Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848. Various
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Название: Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848
Автор: Various
Издательство: Public Domain
Жанр: Журналы
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On many a fair but distant shore;
By Lima's crumbling walls I'd pondered
And gazed upon the Andes hoar.
The ocean's wild and restless billow,
That rears its crested head on high,
For years had been my couch and pillow,
Until its sameness pained my eye.
The playmates of my joyous childhood,
With whom I laughed the hours away,
And wandered through the tangled wildwood
Till close of sultry summer day;
My aged, gray, and feeble mother,
Whom most I longed to see again,
My sisters, and my only brother,
Were o'er the wild and faithless main.
At length the lagging days were numbered,
That bound me to a foreign shore,
And glorious hopes that long had slumbered
Again their gilded plumage wore;
Fond voices in my ear were singing
The songs I loved in boyhood's day,
As in my hammoc slowly swinging
I mused the still night-hours away.
And sylvan scenes then came before me,
The bright green fields I loved so well,
Ere Sorrow threw his shadow o'er me,
The streamlet, mountain, wood and dell;
The lonely grave-yard, sad and dreary,
Which in the night I passed with dread,
Where, with their sleepless vigils weary,
The white stones watch above the dead;
Were spread like pictured chart around me,
Where Fancy turned my gazing eye,
Till slumber with his fetters bound me,
And dimmed each star in memory's sky.
Then came bright dreams – but all were routed
When morning lit the ocean blue,
And I, awaking, gayly shouted,
"My last, last night in famed Peru!"
"Farewell Peru! thy shores are fading,
As swift we plough the furrowed main,
And clouds with drooping wings are shading
The towering Andes, wood and plain.
The passing breeze, thus idly singing,
A sweeter, dearer voice hath found,
And hope within my heart is springing,
Our white-winged bark is Homeward Bound!"
'Twas night – at length my feet were nearing
The home from which they long had strayed;
No star was in the sky appearing,
My boyhood's scenes were wrapped in shade.
I paused beside the grave-yard dreary,
And entered through its creaking gate,
To find if yet my mother, weary
Of this cold world, had shared the fate
Of those who in their graves were sleeping,
But could not find her grass-grown bed,
Though many a stranger stone was keeping
Its patient watch above the dead.
But hers was not among them gleaming,
And so I turned with joy away,
For many a night had I been dreaming
That there she pale and faded lay!
POOR PENN —
"I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest; – most excellent humor."
Some years ago, ere yet I had reaped the harvest of "oats" somewhat wildly sown, I resided in one of our principal western cities, and, like most juveniles within sight of the threshold of their majority, harbored a decided predilection for the stage. Not a coach and four, as is sometimes understood by that expression, but that still more lumbering vehicle, the theatre, which hurries down the rough road of life a load of passengers quite as promiscuous and impatient. The odor of the summer-fields gave me less delight than that which exhaled from the foot-lights; and the wild forest-scenes were less enchanting than those transitory views which honest John Leslie nightly presented to the audience, too often "few" if not "fit." There is something, too, in the off-hand, taking-luck-as-it-comes sort of life among actors, which to me was especially attractive; and I was not long in making the acquaintance of many. But the memory of one among the number lingers with me still, with more mingled feelings of pain and pleasure than that of any other. Poor Penn – , I will not write his name in full, lest, should he be living, it might meet his eye and give his good-natured heart a moment's discomfort. To him more than any other my nature warmed, as did his to me, until we were cemented in friendship. What pleasant rambles of summer-afternoons, after rehearsal; what delightful nights when the play was done, what songs, recitations and professional anecdotes were ours, no one but ourselves can know. The character he most loved to play was Crack, in the "Turnpike Gate." Poor Penn – ! I can see him yet – "Some gentleman has left his beer – another one will drink it!" How admirably he made that point! But that is gone by, and he may ere this have made his last point and final exit. After six months of the closest intimacy, I suddenly missed my hitherto daily companion, and all inquiries at his boarding-house and the theatre proved fruitless. For days I frequented our old haunts, but in vain; he had vanished, leaving no trace to tell of the course he had taken. I seemed altogether forsaken – utterly lost – and felt as if I looked like a pump without a handle – a cart with but one wheel – a shovel without the tongs – or the second volume of a novel, which, because somebody has carried off the first, is of no interest to any one. At last a week went by, and I sauntered down to the ferry, and stepping aboard the boat suffered myself to be conveyed to the opposite shore. On the bank stood the United States barracks, and gathered about were groups of soldiers, looking as listless and unwarlike as if they had just joined the "peace-league." But their present quiet was only like that of a summer sea, which would bear unharmed the slightest shallop that ever maiden put from shore, but when battling tempests rise can hurl whole navies into wreck. Suddenly catching a glimpse of a figure at a distance which reminded me of my friend, I eagerly addressed one of the soldiers, and pointing out the object of my curiosity, inquired who he was.
"That's our sergeant," replied the man.
"Oh!" I ejaculated in my disappointment, feeling assured that a week would not have raised Penn – to that honor, and I sat down on the green bank and watched the steamboats as they passed up and down between me and the city. And as I gazed, many a sad reflection and strange conjecture passed and re-passed along the silent current of my mind. How alone I felt! Even the groups of soldiers standing about were but as so many stacks of muskets. My eyes wandered listlessly from object to object, and rested at last on a pair of boots at my side, such as had been moving about me for the last half hour, and they, that is my eyes, not the boots, naturally, but slowly, followed up the military stripe on the side of the pantaloons, then took a squirrel leap to the Uncle Sam buttons on the breast of the coat, and passed leisurely from one to another upward, until they lit at last full in the owner's face! That quizzical look – that Roman nose! There was no mistaking Penn – , Sergeant Penn – , of the United States Army! My surprise may easily be imagined. However, a few minutes explained all.
Alas! СКАЧАТЬ