John Rollin Ridge

[B. Royce 0]

John Rollin Ridge was a Cherokee indian. After witnessing, at the age of twelve, the murder of his father and grandfather by warring tribal leaders, his white mother secreted him away and sent him to a private school in Massechussetts for two years. He then went back to Georgia for a couple years to study law, but after finding and killing the man he judged responsible for his father's death, he escaped to California. Somewhere about 1865 he wrote this remarkable poem which deserves a high place of recognition. So I present it here to The Forum.

The Atlantic Cable

Let Earth be glad! for that great work is done

Which makes, at last, the Old and New World one!

Let all mankind rejoice! for time nor space

Shall check the progress of the human race!

Though Nature heaved the Continents apart,

She cast in one great mould the human heart;

She framed on one great plan the human mind

And gave man speech to link him to his kind;

So that, though plains and mountains intervene,

Or oceans, broad and stormy, roll between,

If there but be a courier for the thought---

Swift-winged or slow---the land and seas are nought,

And man is nearer to his brother brought.

First, ere the dawn of letters was, or burst

The light of science on the world, men, nursed

In distant solitudes apart, did send

Their skin-clad heralds forth to thread the woods,

Scale mountain-peaks, or swim the sudden floods,

And bear their messages of peace or war.

Next, beasts were tamed to drag the roling car,

Or speed the mounted rider on his track;

And then came, too, the vessels, oar-propelled,

Which fled the ocean, as the clouds grew black,

And safe near shore their prudent courses held.

Next came the winged ships, which, brave and free,

Did skim the bosom of the bounding sea;

And dared the storms and darkness in their flight,

Yet drifted far before the winds and night;

Or lay within the dead calm's grasp of might.

Then, sea-divided nations nearer came,

Stood face to face, spake each the other's name,

In friendship grew, and learned the truth sublime,

That Man is Man in every age and climb.

They nearer were by months and years---but space

Must still be shortened in Improvement's race,

And steam came next to wake the world from sleep,

And launch her black-plumed warriors of the deep;

The which, in calm or storm, rode onward still,

And braved the raging elements at will.

Then distance, which from calms' and storms' delays

Grew into months, was shortened into days,

Ans Science' self declared her wildest dream

Reached not beyond this miracle of steam!

But steam hath not the lightning's wondrous power,

Though, Titan-like, mid Science' sons it tower

And wrestle with the ocean in his wrath,

And sweep the wild waves foaming from its path.

A mightier monarch is that subtler thing,

Which gives to human thought a thought-swift wing;

Which speaks in thunder like a god,

Or humbly stoops to kiss the lifted rod;

Ascends to Night's dim, solitary throne,

And clothes it with a splendor not its own---

A ghostly grandeir and a ghostly sheen,

Through which the pale stars tremble as they're seen;

Descends to fire the far horizon's rim,

And paints Mount Etnas in the cloudland grim;

Or, proud to own fair Science' rightful sway,

Low bends along th' electric wire to play,

And, helping out the ever-wondrous plan,

Becomes, in sooth, an errand-boy for man!

This Power it was, which, not content with aught

As yet achieved by human will or thought,

Disdained the slow account of months or days,

In navigation of the ocean ways,

And days would shorten into hours, and these

To minutes, in the face of sounding seas.

If Thought might not be borne upon the foam

Of furrowing keel, with speed that Thought should roam,

It then should walk, like light, the ocean's bed,

And laugh to scorn the winds and waves o'er-head!

Beneath the reahc of storm or wreck, down where

The skeletons of men and navies are,

Its silent steps should be; while o'er its path

The monsters of the deep, in sport or wrath,

The waters lashed, till like a pot should boil

The sea, and fierce Arion seize the upcast spoil.

America! to thee belongs the praise

Of this great crowning deed of modern days.

'Twas Franklin called the wonder from on high;

'Twas Morse who bade it on man's errands fly---

'Twas he foretold its pathway 'neath the sea:

A daring Field fulfilled the prophecy!

'Twas fitting that a great, free land like this

Should give the lightning's voice to Liberty;

Should wing the heralds of Earth's hapiness,

And sing, beneath the ever-sounding sea,

The fair, the bright millenial days to be.

Now may, ere long, the sword be sheathed to rust,

The helmet laid in undistinguished dust;

The thund'rous chariot pause in mid career,

Its crimsoned wheels no more through blood to steer;

The red-hoofed steed from fields of death be led,

Or turned to pasture where the armies bled;

For Nation unto Nation soon shall be

Together brought in knitted unity,

And man be bound to man by that strong chain,

Which, linking land to land and main to main,

Shall vibrate to the voice of Peace, and be

A throbbing heartstring of Humanity!

[B. Royce 0]

And here a love poem, written perhaps in the 1850's.

To Alice

I would not give one smile of thine,

For all the names renowned in story---

I'd rather press thy lips to mine

Than wear their richest wreath of glory.

I would not take a monarch's crown

For thy sweet voice, like dews distilling---

I'd throw the cumbrous burden down,

To meet thy warm embraces thrilling!

The golden sun, if I could coin

(And silver moon and stars) at pleasure---

My heart and soul with thine to join---

I'd spurn as trash that heap of treasure!

For thee, oh yes! thy winning ways,

I'd rend the ties of friend or brother,

And give one half of all my days,

If thou would'st love me thro' the other.

[Arnold 0]

Now may, ere long, the sword be sheathed to rust,

The helmet laid in undistinguished dust;

These lines show his sense of life. That reason has triumphed, and reason would now enter the affairs of men. Of course, he didn't know about Obama.

Lovely poem to Alice as well.

[B. Royce 0]

Now may, ere long, the sword be sheathed to rust,

The helmet laid in undistinguished dust;

These lines show his sense of life. That reason has triumphed, and reason would now enter the affairs of men. Of course, he didn't know about Obama.

Lovely poem to Alice as well.

I'm glad you have enjoyed these poems, Arnold. In The Atlantic Cable I especially like the opening four lines:

"Let earth be glad! for that great work is done

Which makes, at last, the Old and New World one!

Let all mankind rejoice! for time nor space

Shall check the progress of the human race!"

Also, I like the noble expression of these lines:

"Then, sea-divided nations nearer came,

Stood face to face, spake each the other's name,

In friendship grew, and learned the truth sublime,

That Man is Man in every age and clime."

And the boastful expression in these:

"Or, proud to own fair Science' rightful sway,

Low bends along th' electric wire to play,

And, helping out the ever-wondrous plan,

Becomes, in sooth, an errand-boy for man!"

The magnificent, haughty picture here:

"If Thought might not be borne upon the foam

Of furrowing keel, with speed that Thought should roam,

It then should walk, like light, the ocean's bed,

And laugh to scorn the winds and waves o'er-head!"

And from the next to last stanza, these two, simple, true lines:

"America! to thee belongs the praise

Of this great crowning deed of modern days."---which can stand for so much more than just that cable.

[B. Royce 0]

Another fine-spun poem by Ridge with some beautiful descriptive phrases.

Lines on a humming bird seen at a lady's window.

Yon dew-drunk bacchanal

Hath emptied all the roses of their sweets,

And drained the fluent souls

Of all the lilies from their crystal bowls;

And now, on rapid wing he fleets

To where by yonder crystal pane

A lady, young and fair,

Looks out upon the sifting sunlit rain.

That ripe, red mouth he takes

For rarer flower than ever yet was quaffed,

And longeth much to sip

The honey of that warm and dewy lip,

And drain its sweetness at a draught.

Ah, vain, delusive hope! 'tis hard,

But, rainbow wing-ed bird,

Thou'rt not alone from those sweet lips debarred.

Now, charm-ed with her eyes,

And dazzled by their more than sunny light,

He winnoweth with his wings

The fineness of the golden mist, and swings

A breathing glory in her sight!

Too happy bird, he's won a smile

From that proud beauty there

Which from his throne an angel might beguile.

How dizzy with delight

He spins his radiant circles in the air!

Now, on their spiral breath

Upborn, he 'scapes th' enchantress underneath

And will not die of joy or of despair---

The joy of her bright eyes, and wild,

Despairing e'er to win

The nectar of those lips which on him smiled.

__________________________________________

And drained the fluent souls...

Looks out upon the sifting sunlit rain...

He winoweth with his wings

The fineness of the golden mist...

He spins his radiant circles in the air!------what fine writing is in all these lines. And what a master of English poetry have we here!

[B. Royce 0]

In the late 1850's John Ridge fled to California, leaving his wife behind in Arkansas. He did not know if he would ever see her again. Fortunately, he was later able to bring her to northern California, but before then he wrote this beautiful sad poem.

The Harp Of Broken Strings

A stranger in a stranger land,

Too calm to weep, too sad to smile,

I take my harp of broken strings,

A weary moment to beguile;

And tho no hope its promise brings,

And present joy is not for me,

Still o'er that harp I love to bend,

And feel its broken melody

With all my shattered feelings blend.

I love to hear its funeral voice

Proclaim how sad my lot, how lone;

And when my spirit wilder grows,

To list its deeper, darker tone.

And when my soul more madly glows

Above the wrecks that round it lie,

It fills me with a strange delight,

Past mortal bearing, proud and high,

To feel its music swell to might.

When beats my heart in doubt and awe,

And Reason pales upon her throne,

Ah, then, when no kind voice can cheer

The lot too desolate, too lone,

Its tones come sweet upon my ear,

As twilight o'er some landscape fair,

As light upon the wings of night

(The meteor flashes in the air,

The rising stars) its tones are bright.

And now by Sacramento's stream

What mem'ries sweet its music brings---

The vows of love, its smiles and tears,

Hang o'er this harp of broken strings.

It speaks, and midst her blushing fears

The beauteous one before me stands!

Pure spirit in her downcast eyes,

And like twin doves her folded hands!

It breathes again---and at my side

She kneels, with grace divinely rare---

Then showering kisses on my lips,

She hides our busses with her hair;

Then trembling with delight, she flings

Her beauteous self into my arms,

As if o'erpowered, she sought for wings

To hide her from her conscious charms.

It breathes once more, and bowed in grief,

The bloom has left her cheek forever,

While, like my broken harp-strings now,

Behold her form with feeling quiver!

She turns fer face o'errun with tears,

To him that silent bends above her,

And, by the sweets of other years,

Entreats him still, oh, still to love her!

He loves her still---but darkness falls

Upon his ruined fortunes now,

And 'tis his exile doom to flee.

The dews, like death, are on his brow,

And cold the pang about his heart;

Oh, cease--to die is agony:

'Tis more than death when loved ones part!

Well may this harp of broken strings

Seem sweet to me by this lonely shore.

When like a spirit it breaks forth,

And speaks of beauty evermore!

When like a spirit it evokes

The buried joys of early youth,

And clothes the shrines of early love,

With all the radiant light of truth!