Poems of James Russell Lowell With biographical sketch by Nathan Haskell Dole (part 1 of 4)

Opening

POEMS

OF

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

BY

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE

NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. PUBLISHERS

|Copyright|, 1892, 1898, By T.Y. CROWELL & CO.

Norwood Press J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U.S.A.

EARLY POEMS.

Sonnet 1

Hakon's Lay 1

Out of Doors 3

A Reverie 4

In Sadness 6

Farewell 7

A Dirge 10

Fancies about a Rosebud 15

New Year's Eve, 1844 17

A Mystical Ballad 20

Opening Poem to A Year's Life 23

Dedication to Volume of Poems entitled A Year's Life 24

The Serenade 24

Song 26

The Departed 27

The Bobolink 30

Forgetfulness 32

Song 33

The Poet 34

Flowers 35

The Lover 39

To E. W. G. 40

Isabel 42

Music 43

Song 46

Ianthe 48

Love's Altar 52

Impartiality 54

Bellerophon 54

Something Natural 58

A Feeling 58

The Lost Child 59

The Church 60

The Unlovely 61

Love-Song 62

Song 63

A Love-Dream 65

Fourth of July Ode 66

Sphinx 67

"Goe, Little Booke!" 69

Sonnets 71

Sonnets on Names 82

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Threnodia 85

The Sirens 87

Irené 90

Serenade 93

With a Pressed Flower 93

The Beggar 94

My Love 95

Summer Storm 97

Love 100

To Perdita, Singing 101

The Moon 103

Remembered Music 104

Song 105

Allegra 105

The Fountain 106

Ode 107

The Fatherland 112

The Forlorn 112

Midnight 114

A Prayer 115

The Heritage 116

The Rose: A Ballad 118

A Legend of Brittany 120

Prometheus 139

Song 147

Rosaline 148

The Shepherd of King Admetus 151

The Token 152

An Incident in a Railroad Car 153

Rhœcus 156

The Falcon 160

Trial 161

A Requiem 161

A Parable 162

A Glance behind the Curtain 164

Song 172

A Chippewa Legend 172

Stanzas on Freedom 176

Columbus 176

An Incident of the Fire at Hamburg 183

The Sower 185

Hunger and Cold 187

The Landlord 189

To a Pine-Tree 190

Si Descendero in Infernum, Ades 191

To the Past 192

To the Future 194

Hebe 196

The Search 197

The Present Crisis 199

An Indian-Summer Reverie 203

The Growth of the Legend 211

A Contrast 213

Extreme Unction 214

The Oak 216

Ambrose 217

Above and Below 219

The Captive 220

The Birch-Tree 223

An Interview with Miles Standish 224

On the Capture of Certain Fugitive Slaves near Washington 228

To the Dandelion 230

The Ghost-Seer 231

Studies for Two Heads 236

On a Portrait of Dante by Giotto 239

On the Death of a Friend's Child 240

Eurydice 242

She Came and Went 245

The Changeling 245

The Pioneer 247

Longing 248

Ode to France 249

A Parable 254

Ode 255

Lines 257

To ---- 258

Freedom 259

Bibliolatres 261

Beaver Brook 262

Appledore 263

Dara 265

TO J. F. H. 267

MEMORIAL VERSES.

Kossuth 268

To Lamartine 269

To John G. Palfrey 271

To W. L. Garrison 273

On the Death of C. T. Torrey 274

Elegy on the Death of Dr. Channing 275

To the Memory of Hood 277

Sonnets 278

L'envoi 289

The Vision of Sir Launfal 293

A Fable for Critics 303

The Biglow Papers 357

The Unhappy Lot of Mr Knott 471

An Oriental Apologue 496

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

In the year 1639 Percival Lowle, or Lowell, a merchant of Bristol, England, landed at the little seaport town of Newbury, Mass.

We generally speak of a man's descent. In the case of James Russell Lowell's ancestry it was rather an ascent through eight generations. Percival Lowle's son, John Lowell, was a worthy cooper in old Newbury; his great-grandson was a shoemaker, his great-great-grandson was the Rev. John Lowell of Newburyport, the father of the Hon. John Lowell, who is regarded as the author of the clause in the Massachusetts Constitution abolishing slavery.

Judge Lowell's son, Charles, was a Unitarian minister, "learned, saintly, and discreet." He married Miss Harriet Traill Spence, of Portsmouth,--a woman of superior mind, of great wit, vivacity, and an impetuosity that reached eccentricity. She was of Keltic blood, of a family that came from the Orkneys, and claimed descent from the Sir Patrick Spens of "the grand old ballad." Several of her family were connected with the American navy. Her father was Keith Spence, purser of the frigate "Philadelphia," and a prisoner at Tripoli.

By ancestry on both sides, and by connections with the Russells and other distinguished families, Lowell was a good type of the New England gentleman.

He was born on the 22d of February, 1819, at Elmwood, not far from Brattle Street, Cambridge.

This three-storied colonial mansion of wood, was built in 1767 by Thomas Oliver, the last royal Lieutenant-Governor, before the Revolution.[1] Like other houses in "Tory Row," it was abandoned by its owners. Soon afterwards it came into possession of Elbridge Gerry, Governor of Massachusetts, and fifth Vice-President of the United States, whose memory and name are kept alive by the term "gerrymander." It next became the property of Dr. Lowell about a year before the birth of his youngest child, and it was the home of the poet until his death.

[Footnote 1: Thomas Oliver was graduated from Harvard College in the class of 1758. He was a gentleman of fortune, and lived first in Roxbury. He bought the property on Elmwood Avenue in 1766. When he accepted the royal commission of Lieutenant-Governor, he became President of the Council appointed by the King. On Sept. 2, 1774, about four thousand Middlesex freeholders assembled at Cambridge and compelled the mandamus councillors to resign. The President of the Council urged the propriety of delay, but the Committee would not spare him. He was forced to sign an agreement, "as a man of honor and a Christian, that he would never hereafter, upon any terms whatsoever, accept a seat at said Board on the present novel and oppressive form of government." He immediately quitted Cambridge; and when the British troops evacuated Boston he accompanied them. By an odd coincidence he went to reside at Bristol, England, where he died at the age of eighty-two years, in 1815, shortly before the Lowells, who were of Bristol origin, took possession of his former home. In Underwood's sketch of Lowell, Thomas Oliver is confused with Chief Justice Peter Oliver, a man of a very different type of character.]

Lowell's early education was obtained mainly at a school kept nearly opposite Elmwood by a retired publisher, an Englishman, Mr. William Wells. He also studied in the classical school of Mr. Danial G. Ingraham in Boston. He was graduated from Harvard College in the class of 1838. He is reported as declaring that he read almost everything except the class-books prescribed by the faculty. Lowell says, in one of his early poems referring to Harvard,--

"Tho' lightly prized the ribboned parchments three, Yet collegisse juvat, I am glad That here what colleging was mine I had."

He was secretary of the Hasty Pudding Society, and one of the editors of the college periodical Harvardiana, to which he contributed various articles in prose and verse. His neglect of prescribed studies, and disregard of college discipline, resulted in his rustication just before commencement in 1838. He was sent to Concord, where he resided in the family of Barzillai Frost, and made the acquaintance of Emerson, then beginning to rouse the ire of conservative Unitarianism by his transcendental philosophy, of the brilliant but overestimated Margaret Fuller, who afterwards severely criticised Lowell's verse, and of other well-known residents of the pretty town. He had been elected poet of his class. His removal from college prevented him from delivering the poem which was afterwards published anonymously for private distribution. It contained a satire on abolitionists and reformers. "I know the village," he writes long afterwards in the person of Hosea Biglow, Esquire.

"I know the village though, was sent there once A-schoolin', 'cause to home I played the dunce!"

On his return to Cambridge he took up the study of law, and, in 1840, received the degree of LL.B. He even went so far as to open an office in Boston; but it is a question whether there was any actual basis of fact in a whimsical sketch of his entitled "My First Client," published in the short-lived Boston Miscellany, edited by Nathan Hale.

Several things engrossed Lowell's attention to the exclusion of law. Society at Cambridge was particularly attractive at that time. Allston the painter was living at Cambridgeport. Judge Story's pleasant home was on Brattle Street. The Fays then occupied the house which has since become the seat of Radcliffe College. Longfellow, described as "a slender, blond young professor," was established in the Craigie House. The famous names of Dr. Palfrey, Professor Andrews Norton, father of Lowell's friend and biographer, the "saintly" Henry Ware, and others will occur to the reader. He was fond of walking and knew every inch of the beautiful ground then called "Sweet Auburn," now turned by the hand of misguided man into that most distressing of monstrosities--a modern cemetery. He haunted the poetic shades of the Waverley Oaks, heard the charming music of Beaver Brook, and climbed the hills of Belmont and Arlington.

He himself took his turn in establishing a magazine. In January, 1843, he started The Pioneer, to which Hawthorne, John Neal, Miss Barrett, Poe, Whittier, Story, Parsons, and others contributed, and which, in spite of such an array of talent, perished untimely during the winds of March.

He had already published, in 1841, a little volume of poems entitled "A Year's Life." They were marked by no great originality, betrayed little promise of future eminence, and Margaret Fuller, who reviewed them, was quite right in asserting that "neither the imagery nor the music of Lowell's verses was his own." The first sonnet in the present volume (page 1) practically acknowledges the force of this criticism. The influence of Wordsworth and Tennyson may be distinctly traced in most of them. But many of the lines were harsh and many of the rhymes were careless. Lowell's later and correcter taste omitted most of them from his collected works.

Not far from Elmwood, but in the adjoining village of Watertown, lived one of Lowell's classmates, whose sister, Maria White, a slender, delicate girl, with a poetic genius in some respects more regulated and lofty than his own, early inspired him with a true and saving love. Speaking of the influences that moulded his life, George William Curtis says:--

"The first and most enduring was an early and happy passion for a lovely and high-minded woman who became his wife--the Egeria who exalted his youth and confirmed his noblest aspirations; a heaven-eyed counsellor of the serener air, who filled his mind with peace and his life with joy."

The young lady's prudent father objected to the marriage until the newly fledged lawyer should be in a position to support a wife.

Shortly after the shipwreck of The Pioneer, Lowell was offered a hundred dollars by Graham's Monthly for ten poems. When Pegasus is able to earn such princely sums, there seems no reason why Love should be kept waiting at the cottage door. In 1844 Lowell published a new edition of his poems, and married Miss White. It was her influence that decided him to cast in his lot with the abolitionists. It was her refined taste that shaped and tempered his impetuous verse. A volume of her poems was in 1855, in an edition of fifty copies, privately printed, and is now very rare. It is an odd circumstance that in Lowell's library, from which Harvard College was allowed to select any volumes not in Gore Hall, neither this book nor any of Lowell's own early poems was to be found.

The young couple took up their residence at Elmwood, and here were born three daughters and a son. All but one of his children died in infancy. Many of the tenderest of his poems refer with touching pathos to his bereavement: such for instance are "The Changeling" and "The First Snowfall."

In 1845 appeared "The Vision of Sir Launfal,"--a genuine inspiration composed in two days in a sort of ecstasy of poetic fervor. That more than anything established his fame. He recognized that he was dedicated to the Muses.

In 1846 he wrote:--

"If I have any vocation, it is the making of verse. When I take my pen for that, the world opens itself ungrudgingly before me; everything seems clear and easy, as it seems sinking to the bottom could be as one leans over the edge of his boat in one of those dear coves at Fresh Pond.... My true place is to serve the cause as a poet. Then my heart leaps before me into the conflict."

The same year he began his "Biglow Papers" in the Boston Courier. Such jeux d'esprit are apt to be ephemeral. Lowell's are immortal. They preserved in literary form a fast-fading dialect; they caught and embalmed the mighty issues of a tremendous world-problem. Their influence was incalculable. He gathered them into a volume in 1848, and became corresponding editor of the Anti-Slavery Standard. Fortunate man who throws himself into an unpopular cause which is in harmony with the Right! How different from Wordsworth who attacked the ballot and took sides against reform!

Lowell's penchant for satire was exemplified again the same year in his "Fable for Critics."

In this Lowell with no sparing hand laid on his portraits most droll and amusing colors. It is a comic portrait gallery, a series of caricatures whose greatest value (as in all good caricatures) lies in the accurate presentation of characteristic features. He did not spare himself:--

"There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme. He might get on alone, spite of troubles and bowlders, But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders. The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinctions 'twixt singing and preaching; His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem At the head of a march to the last New Jerusalem."

Some of his thrusts left embittered feelings, but in general the tone was so good-natured that only the thin-skinned could object, and it must be confessed many of his judgments have been confirmed by Time.

In 1851 Lowell visited Europe, and spent upwards of a year widening his acquaintance with the polite languages. But it is remarkable that Lowell gave the world almost no metrical translations. Shortly after his return his wife died (Oct. 27, 1853) after a slow decline. In reference to this bereavement Longfellow wrote his beautiful poem, "The Two Angels."

The following year Longfellow resigned the Smith Professorship of the French and Spanish Languages and Literature and Belles Lettres, and Lowell was appointed his successor with two years' leave of absence. He had won his spurs. He had collected his poems in two volumes, not including "A Year's Life," the "Biglow Papers," or the "Fable for Critics." He was known as one of the most brilliant contributors to Putnam's Monthly and other magazines.

In 1854 he delivered a series of twelve lectures on English poetry before the Lowell Institute. Ten years before he had published a volume of "Conversations on the Poets." The contrast between the two works is no less pronounced than that between his earlier and later poems.

In both, however, there is a tendency toward a confusing over-elaboration--Metaphors trample on the heels of Similes, and quaint and often grotesque conceits sometimes pall upon the taste, just as in the poems a flash of incongruous wit sometimes disturbs the serenity that is desirable.

On his return from Europe, Mr. Lowell occupied the chair which he adorned by his brilliant attainments and made memorable by his fame. He lectured on Dante, Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Cervantes, and delighted his audiences. At the same time he was editor of the Atlantic Monthly for several years. From 1863 until 1872 he was associated with Professor Charles Eliot Norton in the conduct of the North American Review.

In 1857 he married Miss Frances Dunlap of Portland, Me., a cultivated lady who had been the governess of his daughter. She had unerring literary taste and sound judgment, and Mr. Lowell soon came to entrust to her the management of his financial affairs. She was enabled to make their comparatively small income more than meet the exigencies of an exacting position.

The second series of the "Biglow Papers," relating to the War of the Rebellion, were first published in the Atlantic. They were collected into a volume in 1865. That year was rendered notable by his "Commemoration Ode," the worthy crowning of one of the grandest poetic opportunities ever granted to man. "Under the Willows" appeared in 1869; "The Cathedral" in 1870.

In 1864 he had issued a collection of his early descriptive articles under the title, "Fireside Travels." In 1870 came "Among my Books." The second series followed in 1876. "My Study Windows" was published in 1871. All these prose works were marked by an exuberant, vivid, poetic, impassioned style. The tropical efflorescence of imagery was characteristic of them all. He ought to have remembered his own words,--

"Over-ornament ruins both poem and prose."

In 1876 appeared three memorial poems: that read at Concord, April 19, 1875; that read at Cambridge under the Washington Elm, July 3, 1875; and the Fourth of July Ode of 1876. This year Mr. Lowell was appointed one of the presidential electors; and the following year President Hayes first offered him the Austrian mission, and, on his refusal of that, gave him the honorary post at Madrid, which had been adorned by Everett, Irving, and Prescott. He was there three years, and, on the retirement of Mr. Welsh in 1880, was transferred to the Court of St. James, or, as one of the English papers expressed it, he became "His Excellency the Ambassador of American Literature to the Court of Shakespeare."

He was extremely popular. Known in private as "one of the most marvellous of story-tellers," he became the lion of many public occasions. The London News spoke of the "Extraordinary felicity of his occasional speeches." At Birmingham he delivered a noble address on Democracy. He was selected to deliver the oration at the dedication of the Dean Stanley Memorial. He spoke on Fielding at Taunton, on Coleridge at Westminster Abbey, on Gray at Cambridge. He was President of the Wordsworth Society. All sorts of honors were heaped upon him, both at home and abroad.

He returned to America in 1885, and once more occupied the somewhat dilapidated historic mansion at Elmwood. Once more he moved amid his rare and precious books, and heard the birds singing in the elms that his father had planted, or in the clustered bushes back of the house. He took a deep interest in the struggle for international copyright. He was President of the American Copyright League, and wrote the memorable lines:--

"In vain we call old notions fudge, And bend our conscience to our dealing; The Ten Commandments will not budge; And stealing will continue stealing."

He used the leisure of his failing health in revising his works. His last volume of poems was entitled "Heart's Ease and Rue." One of his latest poems, "My Book," appeared in the Christmas number of the New York Ledger in 1890. In the December number of the Atlantic his hand was visible in the anonymous "Contributor's Club."

During the last years his health was a matter of grave anxiety to his friends. In the spring of 1891 he seemed better. He was engaged in writing a life of Nathaniel Hawthorne. When the present writer call to see him one beautiful spring day, he found him in his library, at that moment engaged in making suggestions for the inscriptions on the new Boston Public Library. His manner was the perfection of courtesy and high breeding. His keen eyes seemed to read the very soul. Simplicity and beautiful dignity, tempered by evident feebleness of health, made him a memorable figure.

Toward the end of the summer he suddenly grew more seriously ill. He suffered severely, and his last words were, "Oh! why don't you let me die?"

He drew his last breath in the early morning of Aug. 12, 1891. He was buried at Mount Auburn, in the shadow of Indian Ridge, not far from Longfellow's grave, in a lot unenclosed and marked by no monument.

Memorial services were held in many places. Lord Tennyson cabled a message of sympathy: "England and America will mourn Mr. Lowell's death. They loved him and he loved them." The Queen publicly expressed her respect and sorrow.

Few men have left a deeper impress on their age. Few men have used noble powers more nobly. In private life and public station there is not a shadow to stain the whiteness of his fame.

As a poet he stands in the front rank of those who have yet appeared in America. As a critic he was generous and just; as a humorist he used his shafts of ridicule only to wound wrong; as a statesman and diplomat he was actuated by broad, far-seeing views; as a man he was a type to be upheld and followed. America has just cause to reverence his memory; and the whole English-speaking world, without geographical distinction, claims him as its own.

|Nathan Haskell Dole.|

EARLY POEMS.

SONNET.

If some small savor creep into my rhyme Of the old poets, if some words I use, Neglected long, which have the lusty thews Of that gold-haired and earnest-hearted time, Whose loving joy and sorrow all sublime Have given our tongue its starry eminence,-- It is not pride, God knows, but reverence Which hath grown in me since my childhood's prime; Wherein I feel that my poor lyre is strung With soul-strings like to theirs, and that I have No right to muse their holy graves among, If I can be a custom-fettered slave, And, in mine own true spirit, am not brave To speak what rusheth upward to my tongue.

HAKON'S LAY.

Then Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate, Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, And said: "O, Skald, sing now an olden song, Such as our fathers heard who led great lives; And, as the bravest on a shield is borne Along the waving host that shouts him king, So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas!"

Then the old man arose: white-haired he stood, White-bearded, and with eyes that looked afar From their still region of perpetual snow, Over the little smokes and stirs of men: His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years, As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, But something triumphed in his brow and eye, Which whoso saw it, could not see and crouch: Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused, Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods, So wheeled his soul into the air of song High o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang:

"The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light; And, from a quiver full of such as these, The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate? What archer of his arrows is so choice, Or hits the white so surely? They are men, The chosen of her quiver; nor for her Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked: Such answer household ends; but she will have Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips All needless stuff, all sapwood, hardens them, From circumstance untoward feathers plucks Crumpled and cheap, and barbs with iron will: The hour that passes is her quiver-boy; When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind, Nor 'gainst the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings, For sun and wind have plighted faith to her: Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold, In the butt's heart her trembling messenger!

"The song is old and simple that I sing: Good were the days of yore, when men were tried By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold; But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men, And the free ocean, still the days are good; Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity And knocks at every door of hut or hall, Until she finds the brave soul that she wants."

He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide Of interrupted wassail roared along; But Leif, the son of Eric, sate apart Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen; But then with that resolve his heart was bent, Which, like a humming shaft, through many a strife Of day and night across the unventured seas, Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands The first rune in the Saga of the West.

OUT OF DOORS.

'Tis good to be abroad in the sun, His gifts abide when day is done; Each thing in nature from his cup Gathers a several virtue up; The grace within its being's reach Becomes the nutriment of each, And the same life imbibed by all Makes each most individual: Here the twig-bending peaches seek The glow that mantles in their cheek-- Hence comes the Indian-summer bloom That hazes round the basking plum, And, from the same impartial light, The grass sucks green, the lily white.

Like these the soul, for sunshine made, Grows wan and gracile in the shade, Her faculties, which God decreed Various as Summer's dædal breed, With one sad color are imbued, Shut from the sun that tints their blood; The shadow of the poet's roof Deadens the dyes of warp and woof; Whate'er of ancient song remains Has fresh air flowing in its veins, For Greece and eldest Ind knew well That out of doors, with world-wide swell Arches the student's lawful cell.

Away, unfruitful lore of books, For whose vain idiom we reject The spirit's mother-dialect, Aliens among the birds and brooks, Dull to interpret or believe What gospels lost the woods retrieve, Or what the eaves-dropping violet Reports from God, who walketh yet His garden in the hush of eve! Away, ye pedants city-bred, Unwise of heart, too wise of head, Who handcuff Art with thus and so, And in each other's footprints tread, Like those who walk through drifted snow;

Who, from deep study of brick walls Conjecture of the water-falls, By six square feet of smoke-stained sky Compute those deeps that overlie The still tarn's heaven-anointed eye, And, in your earthen crucible, With chemic tests essay to spell How nature works in field and dell! Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold? Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold; To beach and rock repeats the sea The mystic Open Sesame; Old Greylock's voices not in vain Comment on Milton's mountain strain, And cunningly the various wind Spenser's locked music can unbind.

A REVERIE.

In the twilight deep and silent Comes thy spirit unto mine, When the moonlight and the starlight Over cliff and woodland shine, And the quiver of the river Seems a thrill of joy benign.

Then I rise and wander slowly To the headland by the sea, When the evening star throbs setting Through the cloudy cedar tree, And from under, mellow thunder Of the surf comes fitfully.

Then within my soul I feel thee Like a gleam of other years, Visions of my childhood murmur Their old madness in my ears, Till the pleasance of thy presence Cools my heart with blissful tears.

All the wondrous dreams of boyhood-- All youth's fiery thirst of praise-- All the surer hopes of manhood Blossoming in sadder days-- Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me With a better wreath than bays--

All the longings after freedom-- The vague love of human kind, Wandering far and near at random Like a winged seed in the wind-- The dim yearnings and fierce burnings Of an undirected mind--

All of these, oh best belovèd, Happiest present dreams and past, In thy love find safe fulfilment, Ripened into truths at last; Faith and beauty, hope and duty To one centre gather fast.

How my nature, like an ocean, At the breath of thine awakes, Leaps its shores in mad exulting And in foamy thunder breaks, Then downsinking, lieth shrinking At the tumult that it makes!

Blazing Hesperus hath sunken Low within the pale-blue west, And with golden splendor crowneth The horizon's piny crest; Thoughtful quiet stills the riot Of wild longing in my breast.

Home I loiter through the moonlight, Underneath the quivering trees, Which, as if a spirit stirred them, Sway and bend, till by degrees The far surge's murmur merges In the rustle of the breeze.

IN SADNESS.

There is not in this life of ours One bliss unmixed with fears, The hope that wakes our deepest powers A face of sadness wears, And the dew that showers our dearest flowers Is the bitter dew of tears.

Fame waiteth long, and lingereth Through weary nights and morns-- And evermore the shadow Death With mocking finger scorns That underneath the laurel wreath Should be a wreath of thorns.

The laurel leaves are cool and green, But the thorns are hot and sharp, Lean Hunger grins and stares between The poet and his harp; Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been, Grim want thrusts in the warp.

And if beyond this darksome clime Some fair star Hope may see, That keeps unjarred the blissful chime Of its golden infancy-- Where the harvest-time of faith sublime Not always is to be--

Yet would the true soul rather choose Its home where sorrow is, Than in a sated peace to lose Its life's supremest bliss-- The rainbow hues that bend profuse O'er cloudy spheres like this--

The want, the sorrow and the pain, That are Love's right to cure-- The sunshine bursting after rain-- The gladness insecure That makes us fain strong hearts to gain, To do and to endure.

High natures must be thunder-scarred With many a searing wrong; From mother Sorrow's breasts the bard Sucks gifts of deepest song, Nor all unmarred with struggles hard Wax the Soul's sinews strong.

Dear Patience, too, is born of woe, Patience that opes the gate Wherethrough the soul of man must go Up to each nobler state, Whose voice's flow so meek and low Smooths the bent brows of Fate.

Though Fame be slow, yet Death is swift, And, o'er the spirit's eyes, Life after life doth change and shift With larger destinies: As on we drift, some wider rift Shows us serener skies.

And though naught falleth to us here But gains the world counts loss, Though all we hope of wisdom clear When climbed to seems but dross, Yet all, though ne'er Christ's faith they wear, At least may share his cross.

FAREWELL.

Farewell! as the bee round the blossom Doth murmur drowsily, So murmureth round my bosom The memory of thee; Lingering, it seems to go, When the wind more full doth flow, Waving the flower to and fro, But still returneth, Marian!

My hope no longer burneth, Which did so fiercely burn, My joy to sorrow turneth, Although loath, loath to turn-- I would forget-- And yet--and yet My heart to thee still yearneth, Marian!

Fair as a single star thou shinest, And white as lilies are The slender hands wherewith thou twinest Thy heavy auburn hair; Thou art to me A memory Of all that is divinest: Thou art so fair and tall, Thy looks so queenly are, Thy very shadow on the wall, Thy step upon the stair, The thought that thou art nigh, The chance look of thine eye Are more to me than all, Marian, And will be till I die!

As the last quiver of a bell Doth fade into the air, With a subsiding swell That dies we know not where, So my hope melted and was gone: I raised mine eyes to bless the star That shared its light with me so far Below its silver throne, And gloom and chilling vacancy Were all was left to me, In the dark, bleak night I was alone! Alone in the blessed Earth, Marian, For what were all to me-- Its love, and light, and mirth, Marian, If I were not with thee?

My heart will not forget thee More than the moaning brine Forgets the moon when she is set; The gush when first I met thee That thrilled my brain like wine, Doth thrill as madly yet; My heart cannot forget thee, Though it may droop and pine, Too deeply it had set thee In every love of mine; No new moon ever cometh, No flower ever bloometh, No twilight ever gloometh But I'm more only thine. Oh look not on me, Marian, Thine eyes are wild and deep, And they have won me, Marian, From peacefulness and sleep; The sunlight doth not sun me, The meek moonshine doth shun me, All sweetest voices stun me-- There is no rest Within my breast And I can only weep, Marian!

As a landbird far at sea Doth wander through the sleet And drooping downward wearily Finds no rest for her feet, So wandereth my memory O'er the years when we did meet: I used to say that everything Partook a share of thee, That not a little bird could sing, Or green leaf flutter on a tree, That nothing could be beautiful Save part of thee were there, That from thy soul so clear and full All bright and blessèd things did cull The charm to make them fair; And now I know That it was so, Thy spirit through the earth doth flow And face me wheresoe'er I go-- What right hath perfectness to give Such weary weight of woe Unto the soul which cannot live On anything more low? Oh leave me, leave me, Marian, There's no fair thing I see But doth deceive me, Marian, Into sad dreams of thee!

A cold snake gnaws my heart And crushes round my brain, And I should glory but to part So bitterly again, Feeling the slow tears start And fall in fiery rain: There's a wide ring round the moon, The ghost-like clouds glide by, And I hear the sad winds croon A dirge to the lowering sky; There's nothing soft or mild In the pale moon's sickly light, But all looks strange and wild Through the dim, foreboding night: I think thou must be dead In some dark and lonely place, With candles at thy head, And a pall above thee spread To hide thy dead, cold face; But I can see thee underneath So pale, and still, and fair, Thine eyes closed smoothly and a wreath Of flowers in thy hair; I never saw thy face so clear When thou wast with the living, As now beneath the pall, so drear, And stiff, and unforgiving; I cannot flee thee, Marian, I cannot turn away, Mine eyes must see thee, Marian, Through salt tears night and day.

A DIRGE.

Poet! lonely is thy bed, And the turf is overhead-- Cold earth is thy cover; But thy heart hath found release, And it slumbers full of peace 'Neath the rustle of green trees And the warm hum of the bees, Mid the drowsy clover; Through thy chamber, still as death, A smooth gurgle wandereth, As the blue stream murmureth To the blue sky over. Three paces from the silver strand, Gently in the fine, white sand, With a lily in thy hand, Pale as snow, they laid thee; In no coarse earth wast thou hid, And no gloomy coffin-lid Darkly overweighed thee. Silently as snow-flakes drift, The smooth sand did sift and sift O'er the bed they made thee; All sweet birds did come and sing At thy sunny burying-- Choristers unbidden, And, beloved of sun and dew, Meek forget-me-nots upgrew Where thine eyes so large and blue 'Neath the turf were hidden.

Where thy stainless clay doth lie, Blue and open is the sky, And the white clouds wander by, Dreams of summer silently Darkening the river; Thou hearest the clear water run; And the ripples every one, Scattering the golden sun, Through thy silence quiver; Vines trail down upon the stream, Into its smooth and glassy dream A green stillness spreading, And the shiner, perch, and bream Through the shadowed waters gleam 'Gainst the current heading.

White as snow, thy winding sheet Shelters thee from head to feet, Save thy pale face only; Thy face is turned toward the skies, The lids lie meekly o'er thine eyes, And the low-voiced pine-tree sighs O'er thy bed so lonely. All thy life thou lov'dst its shade: Underneath it thou art laid, In an endless shelter; Thou hearest it forever sigh As the wind's vague longings die In its branches dim and high-- Thou hear'st the waters gliding by Slumberously welter.

Thou wast full of love and truth, Of forgiveness and ruth-- Thy great heart with hope and youth Tided to o'erflowing. Thou didst dwell in mysteries, And there lingered on thine eyes Shadows of serener skies, Awfully wild memories, That were like foreknowing; Through the earth thou would'st have gone, Lighted from within alone, Seeds from flowers in Heaven grown With a free hand sowing.

Thou didst remember well and long Some fragments of thine angel-song, And strive, through want of woe and wrong, To win the world unto it; Thy sin it was to see and hear Beyond To-day's dim hemisphere-- Beyond all mists of hope and fear, Into a life more true and clear, And dearly thou didst rue it; Light of the new world thou hadst won, O'erflooded by a purer sun-- Slowly Fate's ship came drifting on, And through the dark, save thou, not one Caught of the land a token. Thou stood'st upon the farthest prow, Something within thy soul said "Now!" And leaping forth with eager brow, Thou fell'st on shore heart-broken.

Long time thy brethren stood in fear; Only the breakers far and near, White with their anger, they could hear; The sounds of land, which thy quick ear Caught long ago, they heard not. And, when at last they reached the strand, They found thee lying on the sand With some wild flowers in thy hand, But thy cold bosom stirred not; They listened, but they heard no sound Save from the glad life all around A low, contented murmur. The long grass flowed adown the hill, A hum rose from a hidden rill, But thy glad heart, that knew no ill But too much love, lay dead and still-- The only thing that sent a chill Into the heart of summer.

Thou didst not seek the poet's wreath But too soon didst win it; Without 'twas green, but underneath Were scorn and loneliness and death, Gnawing the brain with burning teeth, And making mock within it. Thou, who wast full of nobleness, Whose very life-blood 'twas to bless, Whose soul's one law was giving, Must bandy words with wickedness, Haggle with hunger and distress, To win that death which worldliness Calls bitterly a living.

"Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap!" Muttered earth, turning in her sleep; "Come home to the Eternal Deep!" Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep Of wings through thy soul's hush did creep, As of thy doom o'erflying; It seem'd that thy strong heart would leap Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep, But not with fear of dying; Men could not fathom thy deep fears, They could not understand thy tears, The hoarded agony of years Of bitter self-denying. So once, when high above the spheres Thy spirit sought its starry peers, It came not back to face the jeers Of brothers who denied it; Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps Of God, and thy white body sleeps Where the lone pine forever keeps Patient watch beside it.

Poet! underneath the turf, Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow, Thou hast struggled through the surf Of wild thoughts and want and sorrow. Now, beneath the moaning pine, Full of rest, thy body lieth, While far up is clear sunshine, Underneath a sky divine, Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth; Oft she strove to spread them here, But they were too white and clear For our dingy atmosphere.

Thy body findeth ample room In its still and grassy tomb By the silent river; But thy spirit found the earth Narrow for the mighty birth Which it dreamed of ever; Thou wast guilty of a rhyme Learned in a benigner clime, And of that more grievous crime, An ideal too sublime For the low-hung sky of Time.

The calm spot where thy body lies Gladdens thy soul in Paradise, It is so still and holy; Thy body sleeps serenely there, And well for it thy soul may care, It was so beautiful and fair, Lily white so wholly. From so pure and sweet a frame Thy spirit parted as it came, Gentle as a maiden; Now it lieth full of rest-- Sods are lighter on its breast Than the great, prophetic guest Wherewith it was laden.

FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD,

PRESSED IN AN OLD COPY OF SPENSER.

Who prest you here? The Past can tell, When summer skies were bright above, And some full heart did leap and swell Beneath the white new moon of love.

Some Poet, haply, when the world Showed like a calm sea, grand and blue, Ere its cold, inky waves had curled O'er the numb heart once warm and true;

When, with his soul brimful of morn, He looked beyond the vale of Time, Nor saw therein the dullard scorn That made his heavenliness a crime;

When, musing o'er the Poets olden, His soul did like a sun upstart To shoot its arrows, clear and golden, Through slavery's cold and darksome heart.

Alas! too soon the veil is lifted That hangs between the soul and pain, Too soon the morning-red hath drifted Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain!

Or were you prest by one who nurst Bleak memories of love gone by, Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst In dark and erring vacancy?

To him you still were fresh and green As when you grew upon the stalk, And many a breezy summer scene Came back--and many a moonlit walk;

And there would be a hum of bees, A smell of childhood in the air, And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair!

Then would you suddenly be blasted By the keen wind of one dark thought, One nameless woe, that had outlasted The sudden blow whereby 'twas brought.

Or were you prest here by two lovers Who seemed to read these verses rare, But found between the antique covers What Spenser could not prison there:

Songs which his glorious soul had heard, But his dull pen could never write, Which flew, like some gold-wingèd bird, Through the blue heaven out of sight?

My heart is with them as they sit, I see the rosebud in her breast, I see her small hand taking it From out its odorous, snowy nest;

I hear him swear that he will keep it, In memory of that blessed day, To smile on it or over-weep it When she and spring are far away.

Ah me! I needs must droop my head, And brush away a happy tear, For they are gone, and, dry and dead, The rosebud lies before me here.

Yet is it in no stranger's hand, For I will guard it tenderly, And it shall be a magic wand To bring mine own true love to me.

My heart runs o'er with sweet surmises, The while my fancy weaves her rhyme, Kind hopes and musical surprises Throng round me from the olden time.

I do not care to know who prest you: Enough for me to feel and know That some heart's love and longing blest you, Knitting to-day with long-ago.

NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844.

A FRAGMENT.

The night is calm and beautiful; the snow Sparkles beneath the clear and frosty moon And the cold stars, as if it took delight In its own silent whiteness; the hushed earth Sleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue, Secure as if angelic squadrons yet Encamped about her, and each watching star Gained double brightness from the flashing arms Of wingèd and unsleeping sentinels. Upward the calm of infinite silence deepens, The sea that flows between high heaven and earth, Musing by whose smooth brink we sometimes find A stray leaf floated from those happier shores, And hope, perchance not vainly, that some flower Which we had watered with our holiest tears, Pale blooms, and yet our scanty garden's best, O'er the same ocean piloted by love, May find a haven at the feet of God, And be not wholly worthless in his sight. O, high dependence on a higher Power, Sole stay for all these restless faculties That wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bare Wherein our human knowledge hath its home, Shifting their light-framed tents from day to day, With each new-found oasis, wearied soon, And only certain of uncertainty! O, mighty humbleness that feels with awe, Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less, That this huge Minster of the Universe, Whose smallest oratories are glorious worlds, With painted oriels of dawn and sunset; Whose carvèd ornaments are systems grand, Orion kneeling in his starry niche, The Lyre whose strings give music audible To holy ears, and countless splendors more, Crowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o'er all; Whose organ music is the solemn stops Of endless Change breathed through by endless Good; Whose choristers are all the morning stars; Whose altar is the sacred human heart Whereon Love's candles burn unquenchably, Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace; With all its arches and its pinnacles That stretch forever and forever up, Is founded on the silent heart of God, Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life Through the least veins of all created things. Fit musings these for the departing year; And God be thanked for such a crystal night As fills the spirit with good store of thoughts, That, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackle Upon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast A mild home-glow o'er all Humanity! Yes, though the poisoned shafts of evil doubts Assail the skyey panoply of Faith, Though the great hopes which we have had for man, Foes in disguise, because they based belief On man's endeavor, not on God's decree-- Though these proud-visaged hopes, once turned to fly, Hurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart That rankles in the soul and makes it sick With vain regret, nigh verging on despair-- Yet, in such calm and earnest hours as this, We well can feel how every living heart That sleeps to-night in palace or in cot, Or unroofed hovel, or which need hath known Of other homestead than the arching sky, Is circled watchfully with seraph fires; How our own erring will it is that hangs The flaming sword o'er Eden's unclosed gate, Which gives free entrance to the pure in heart, And with its guarding walls doth fence the meek. Sleep then, O Earth, in thy blue-vaulted cradle, Bent over always by thy mother Heaven! We all are tall enough to reach God's hand, And angels are no taller: looking back Upon the smooth wake of a year o'erpast, We see the black clouds furling, one by one, From the advancing majesty of Truth, And something won for Freedom, whose least gain Is as a firm and rock-built citadel Wherefrom to launch fresh battle on her foes; Or, leaning from the time's extremest prow, If we gaze forward through the blinding spray, And dimly see how much of ill remains, How many fetters to be sawn asunder By the slow toil of individual zeal, Or haply rusted by salt tears in twain, We feel, with something of a sadder heart, Yet bracing up our bruisèd mail the while, And fronting the old foe with fresher spirit, How great it is to breathe with human breath, To be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranks Of our old exiled king, Humanity; Encamping after every hard-won field Nearer and nearer Heaven's happy plains.

Many great souls have gone to rest, and sleep Under this armor, free and full of peace: If these have left the earth, yet Truth remains, Endurance, too, the crowning faculty Of noble minds, and Love, invincible By any weapons; and these hem us round With silence such that all the groaning clank Of this mad engine men have made of earth Dulls not some ears for catching purer tones, That wander from the dim surrounding vast, Or far more clear melodious prophecies, The natural music of the heart of man, Which by kind Sorrow's ministry hath learned That the true sceptre of all power is love And humbleness the palace-gate of truth. What man with soul so blind as sees not here The first faint tremble of Hope's morning-star, Foretelling how the God-forged shafts of dawn, Fitted already on their golden string, Shall soon leap earthward with exulting flight To thrid the dark heart of that evil faith Whose trust is in the clumsy arms of Force, The ozier hauberk of a ruder age? Freedom! thou other name for happy Truth, Thou warrior-maid, whose steel-clad feet were never Out of the stirrup, nor thy lance uncouched, Nor thy fierce eye enticèd from its watch, Thou hast learned now, by hero-blood in vain Poured to enrich the soil which tyrants reap; By wasted lives of prophets, and of those Who, by the promise in their souls upheld, Into the red arms of a fiery death Went blithely as the golden-girdled bee Sinks in the sleepy poppy's cup of flame By the long woes of nations set at war, That so the swollen torrent of their wrath May find a vent, else sweeping off like straws The thousand cobweb threads, grown cable-huge By time's long gathered dust, but cobwebs still, Which bind the Many that the Few may gain Leisure to wither by the drought of ease What heavenly germs in their own souls were sown;-- By all these searching lessons thou hast learned To throw aside thy blood-stained helm and spear And with thy bare brow daunt the enemy's front, Knowing that God will make the lily stalk, In the soft grasp of naked Gentleness, Stronger than iron spear to shatter through The sevenfold toughness of Wrong's idle shield.

A MYSTICAL BALLAD.

I.

The sunset scarce had dimmed away Into the twilight's doubtful gray; One long cloud o'er the horizon lay, 'Neath which, a streak of bluish white, Wavered between the day and night; Over the pine trees on the hill The trembly evening-star did thrill, And the new moon, with slender rim, Through the elm arches gleaming dim, Filled memory's chalice to the brim.

II.

On such an eve the heart doth grow Full of surmise, and scarce can know If it be now or long ago, Or if indeed it doth exist;-- A wonderful enchanted mist From the new moon doth wander out, Wrapping all things in mystic doubt, So that this world doth seem untrue, And all our fancies to take hue From some life ages since gone through.

III.

The maiden sat and heard the flow Of the west wind so soft and low The leaves scarce quivered to and fro; Unbound, her heavy golden hair Rippled across her bosom bare, Which gleamed with thrilling snowy white Far through the magical moonlight: The breeze rose with a rustling swell, And from afar there came the smell Of a long-forgotten lily-bell.

IV.

The dim moon rested on the hill, But silent, without thought or will, Where sat the dreamy maiden still; And now the moon's tip, like a star, Drew down below the horizon's bar; To her black noon the night hath grown, Yet still the maiden sits alone, Pale as a corpse beneath a stream And her white bosom still doth gleam Through the deep midnight like a dream.

V.

Cloudless the morning came and fair, And lavishly the sun doth share His gold among her golden hair, Kindling it all, till slowly so A glory round her head doth glow; A withered flower is in her hand, That grew in some far distant land, And, silently transfigurèd, With wide calm eyes, and undrooped head, They found the stranger-maiden dead.

VI.

A youth, that morn, 'neath other skies, Felt sudden tears burn in his eyes, And his heart throng with memories; All things without him seemed to win Strange brotherhood with things within, And he forever felt that he Walked in the midst of mystery, And thenceforth, why, he could not tell, His heart would curdle at the smell Of his once-cherished lily-bell.

VII.

Something from him had passed away; Some shifting trembles of clear day, Through starry crannies in his clay, Grew bright and steadfast, more and more, Where all had been dull earth before; And, through these chinks, like him of old, His spirit converse high did hold With clearer loves and wider powers, That brought him dewy fruits and flowers From far Elysian groves and bowers.

VIII.

Just on the farther bound of sense, Unproved by outward evidence, But known by a deep influence Which through our grosser clay doth shine With light unwaning and divine, Beyond where highest thought can fly Stretcheth the world of Mystery-- And they not greatly overween Who deem that nothing true hath been Save the unspeakable Unseen.

IX.

One step beyond life's work-day things, One more beat of the soul's broad wings, One deeper sorrow sometimes brings The spirit into that great Vast Where neither future is nor past; None knoweth how he entered there, But, waking, finds his spirit where He thought an angel could not soar, And, what he called false dreams before, The very air about his door.

X.

These outward seemings are but shows Whereby the body sees and knows; Far down beneath, forever flows A stream of subtlest sympathies That make our spirits strangely wise In awe, and fearful bodings dim Which, from the sense's outer rim, Stretch forth beyond our thought and sight, Fine arteries of circling light, Pulsed outward from the Infinite.

OPENING POEM TO A YEAR'S LIFE.

Hope first the youthful Poet leads, And he is glad to follow her; Kind is she, and to all his needs With a free hand doth minister.

But, when sweet Hope at last hath fled, Cometh her sister, Memory; She wreathes Hope's garlands round her head, And strives to seem as fair as she.

Then Hope comes back, and by the hand She leads a child most fair to see, Who with a joyous face doth stand Uniting Hope and Memory.

So brighter grew the Earth around, And bluer grew the sky above; The Poet now his guide hath found, And follows in the steps of Love.

DEDICATION TO VOLUME OF POEMS ENTITLED A YEAR'S LIFE.

The gentle Una I have loved, The snowy maiden, pure and mild, Since ever by her side I roved, Through ventures strange, a wondering child, In fantasy a Red Cross Knight, Burning for her dear sake to fight.

If there be one who can, like her, Make sunshine in life's shady places, One in whose holy bosom stir As many gentle household graces-- And such I think there needs must be-- Will she accept this book from me?

THE SERENADE.

Gentle, Lady, be thy sleeping, Peaceful may thy dreamings be, While around thy soul is sweeping, Dreamy-winged, our melody; Chant we, Brothers, sad and slow, Let our song be soft and low As the voice of other years, Let our hearts within us melt, To gentleness, as if we felt The dropping of our mother's tears.

Lady! now our song is bringing Back again thy childhood's hours-- Hearest thou the humbee singing Drowsily among the flowers? Sleepily, sleepily In the noontide swayeth he, Half rested on the slender stalks That edge those well-known garden walks; Hearest thou the fitful whirring Of the humbird's viewless wings-- Feel'st not round thy heart the stirring Of childhood's half-forgotten things?

Seest thou the dear old dwelling With the woodbine round the door? Brothers, soft! her breast is swelling With the busy thoughts of yore; Lowly sing ye, sing ye mildly, House her spirit not so wildly, Lest she sleep not any more. 'Tis the pleasant summertide, Open stands the window wide-- Whose voices, Lady, art thou drinking? Who sings the best belovèd tune In a clear note, rising, sinking, Like a thrush's song in June? Whose laugh is that which rings so clear And joyous in thine eager ear?

Lower, Brothers, yet more low Weave the song in mazy twines; She heareth now the west wind blow At evening through the clump of pines; O! mournful is their tune, As of a crazèd thing Who, to herself alone, Is ever murmuring, Through the night and through the day, For something that hath passed away. Often, Lady, hast thou listened, Often have thy blue eyes glistened, Where the summer evening breeze Moaned sadly through those lonely trees, Or with the fierce wind from the north Wrung their mournful music forth. Ever the river floweth In an unbroken stream, Ever the west wind bloweth, Murmuring as he goeth, And mingling with her dream; Onward still the river sweepeth With a sound of long-agone; Lowly, Brothers, lo! she weepeth, She is now no more alone; Long-loved forms and long-loved faces Round about her pillow throng, Through her memory's desert places Flow the waters of our song. Lady! if thy life be holy As when thou wert yet a child, Though our song be melancholy, It will stir no anguish wild; For the soul that hath lived well, For the soul that child-like is, There is quiet in the spell That brings back early memories.

SONG.

I.

Lift up the curtains of thine eyes And let their light outshine! Let me adore the mysteries Of those mild orbs of thine, Which ever queenly calm do roll, Attunèd to an ordered soul!

II.

Open thy lips yet once again And, while my soul doth hush With awe, pour forth that holy strain Which seemeth me to gush, A fount of music, running o'er From thy deep spirit's inmost core!

III.

The melody that dwells in thee Begets in me as well A spiritual harmony, A mild and blessèd spell; Far, far above earth's atmosphere I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear.

THE DEPARTED.

Not they alone are the departed, Who have laid them down to sleep In the grave narrow and lonely, Not for them only do I vigils keep, Not for them only am I heavy-hearted, Not for them only!

Many, many, there are many Who no more are with me here, As cherished, as beloved as any Whom I have seen upon the bier. I weep to think of those old faces, To see them in their grief or mirth; I weep--for there are empty places Around my heart's once crowded hearth; The cold ground doth not cover them, The grass hath not grown over them, Yet are they gone from me on earth;-- O! how more bitter is this weeping, Than for those lost ones who are sleeping Where sun will shine and flowers blow, Where gentle winds will whisper low, And the stars have them in their keeping! Wherefore from me who loved you so, O! wherefore did ye go? I have shed full many a tear, I have wrestled oft in prayer-- But ye do not come again; How could anything so dear, How could anything so fair, Vanish like the summer rain? No, no, it cannot be, But ye are still with me!

And yet, O! where art thou, Childhood, with sunny brow And floating hair? Where art thou hiding now? I have sought thee everywhere, All among the shrubs and flowers Of those garden-walks of ours-- Thou art not there! When the shadow of Night's wings Hath darkened all the Earth, I listen for thy gambolings Beside the cheerful hearth-- Thou art not there! I listen to the far-off bell, I murmur o'er the little songs Which thou didst love so well, Pleasant memories come in throngs And mine eyes are blurred with tears, But no glimpse of thee appears: Lonely am I in the Winter, lonely in the Spring, Summer and Harvest bring no trace of thee-- Oh! whither, whither art thou wandering, Thou who didst once so cleave to me?

And Love is gone;-- I have seen him come, I have seen him, too, depart, Leaving desolate his home, His bright home in my heart. I am alone! Cold, cold is his hearth-stone, Wide open stands the door; The frolic and the gentle one Shall I see no more, no more? At the fount the bowl is broken, I shall drink it not again, All my longing prayers are spoken, And felt, ah, woe is me, in vain! Oh, childish hopes and childish fancies, Whither have ye fled away? I long for you in mournful trances, I long for you by night and day; Beautiful thoughts that once were mine, Might I but win you back once more, Might ye about my being twine And cluster as ye did of yore! O! do not let me pray in vain-- How good and happy I should be, How free from every shade of pain, If ye would come again to me! O, come again! come, come again! Hath the sun forgot its brightness, Have the stars forgot to shine, That they bring not their wonted lightness To this weary heart of mine? 'Tis not the sun that shone on thee, Happy childhood, long ago-- Not the same stars silently Looking on the same bright snow-- Not the same that Love and I Together watched in days gone by! No, not the same, alas for me!

Would God that those who early went To the house dark and low, For whom our mourning heads were bent, For whom our steps were slow; O, would that these alone had left us, That Fate of these alone had reft us, Would God indeed that it were so! Many leaves too soon must wither, Many flowers too soon must die, Many bright ones wandering hither, We know not whence, we know not why, Like the leaves and like the flowers, Vanish, ere the summer hours, That brought them to us, have gone by.

O for the hopes and for the feelings, Childhood, that I shared with thee-- The high resolves, the bright revealings Of the soul's might, which thou gav'st me, Gentle Love, woe worth the day, Woe worth the hour when thou wert born, Woe worth the day thou fled'st away-- A shade across the wind-waved corn-- A dewdrop falling from the leaves Chance-shaken in a summer's morn! Woe, woe is me! my sick heart grieves, Companionless and anguish-worn! I know it well, our manly years Must be baptized in bitter tears; Full many fountains must run dry That youth has dreamed for long hours by, Choked by convention's siroc blast Or drifting sands of many cares; Slowly they leave us all at last, And cease their flowing unawares.

THE BOBOLINK.

Anacreon of the meadow, Drunk with the joy of spring! Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow I lie and drink thy jargoning; My soul is full with melodies, One drop would overflow it, And send the tears into mine eyes-- But what car'st thou to know it? Thy heart is free as mountain air, And of thy lays thou hast no care, Scattering them gayly everywhere, Happy, unconscious poet!

Upon a tuft of meadow grass, While thy loved-one tends the nest, Thou swayest as the breezes pass, Unburthening thine o'erfull breast Of the crowded songs that fill it, Just as joy may choose to will it. Lord of thy love and liberty, The blithest bird of merry May, Thou turnest thy bright eyes on me, That say as plain as eye can say-- "Here sit we, here in the summer weather, I and my modest mate together; Whatever your wise thoughts may be, Under that gloomy old pine tree, We do not value them a feather."

Now, leaving earth and me behind, Thou beatest up against the wind, Or, floating slowly down before it, Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest And thy bridal love-song utterest, Raining showers of music o'er it, Weary never, still thou trillest, Spring-gladsome lays, As of moss-rimmed water-brooks Murmuring through pebbly nooks In quiet summer days. My heart with happiness thou fillest, I seem again to be a boy Watching thee, gay, blithesome lover, O'er the bending grass-tops hover, Quivering thy wings for joy. There's something in the apple-blossom, The greening grass and bobolink's song, That wakes again within my bosom Feelings which have slumbered long. As long, long years ago I wandered, I seem to wander even yet, The hours the idle school-boy squandered, The man would die ere he'd forget. O hours that frosty eld deemed wasted, Nodding his gray head toward my books, I dearer prize the lore I tasted With you, among the trees and brooks, Than all that I have gained since then From learnèd books or study-withered men! Nature, thy soul was one with mine, And, as a sister by a younger brother Is loved, each flowing to the other, Such love for me was thine. Or wert thou not more like a loving mother With sympathy and loving power to heal, Against whose heart my throbbing heart I'd lay And moan my childish sorrows all away, Till calm and holiness would o'er me steal? Was not the golden sunset a dear friend? Found I no kindness in the silent moon, And the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend, Low singing evermore their pleasant tune? Felt I no heart in dim and solemn woods-- No loved-one's voice in lonely solitudes? Yes, yes! unhoodwinked then my spirit's eyes, Blind leaders had not taught me to be wise.

Dear hours! which now again I over-live, Hearing and seeing with the ears and eyes Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive Of my young heart came laden with rich prize, Gathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to be My spirit's food in days more wintery. Yea, yet again ye come! ye come! And, like a child once more at home After long sojourning in alien climes, I lie upon my mother's breast, Feeling the blessedness of rest, And dwelling in the light of other times.

O ye whose living is not Life, Whose dying is but death, Song, empty toil and petty strife, Rounded with loss of breath! Go, look on Nature's countenance, Drink in the blessing of her glance; Look on the sunset, hear the wind, The cataract, the awful thunder; Go, worship by the sea; Then, and then only, shall ye find, With ever-growing wonder, Man is not all in all to ye; Go with a meek and humble soul, Then shall the scales of self unroll From off your eyes--the weary packs Drop from your heavy-laden backs; And ye shall see, With reverent and hopeful eyes, Glowing with new-born energies, How great a thing it is to |be|!

FORGETFULNESS.

There's a haven of sure rest From the loud world's bewildering stress As a bird dreaming on her nest, As dew hid in a rose's breast, As Hesper in the glowing West; So the heart sleeps In thy calm deeps, Serene Forgetfulness!

No sorrow in that place may be, The noise of life grows less and less: As moss far down within the sea, As, in white lily caves, a bee, As life in a hazy reverie; So the heart's wave In thy dim cave, Hushes, Forgetfulness!

Duty and care fade far away What toil may be we cannot guess: As a ship anchored in the bay, As a cloud at summer-noon astray, As water-blooms in a breezeless day; So,'neath thine eyes, The full heart lies, And dreams, Forgetfulness!

SONG.

I.

What reck I of the stars, when I May gaze into thine eyes, O'er which the brown hair flowingly Is parted maidenwise From thy pale forehead, calm and bright, Over thy cheeks so rosy white?

II.

What care I for the red moon-rise? Far liefer would I sit And watch the joy within thine eyes Gush up at sight of it; Thyself my queenly moon shall be, Ruling my heart's deep tides for me!

III.

What heed I if the sky be blue? So are thy holy eyes, And bright with shadows ever new Of changeful sympathies, Which in thy soul's unruffled deep Rest evermore, but never sleep.

THE POET.

He who hath felt Life's mystery Press on him like thick night, Whose soul hath known no history But struggling after light;-- He who hath seen dim shapes arise In the soundless depths of soul, Which gaze on him with meaning eyes Full of the mighty whole, Yet will no word of healing speak, Although he pray night-long, "O, help me, save me! I am weak, And ye are wondrous strong!"-- Who, in the midnight dark and deep, Hath felt a voice of might Come echoing through the halls of sleep From the lone heart of Night, And, starting from his restless bed, Hath watched and wept to know What meant that oracle of dread That stirred his being so; He who hath felt how strong and great This Godlike soul of man, And looked full in the eyes of Fate, Since Life and Thought began; The armor of whose moveless trust Knoweth no spot of weakness, Who hath trod fear into the dust Beneath the feet of meekness;-- He who hath calmly borne his cross, Knowing himself the king Of time, nor counted it a loss To learn by suffering;-- And who hath worshipped woman still With a pure soul and lowly, Nor ever hath in deed or will Profaned her temple holy-- He is the Poet, him unto The gift of song is given, Whose life is lofty, strong, and true, He is the Poet, from his lips To live forevermore, Majestical as full-sailed ships, The words of Wisdom pour.

FLOWERS.

"Hail be thou, holie hearbe, Growing on the ground, All in the mount Calvary First wert thou found; Thou art good for manie a sore, Thou healest manie a wound, In the name of sweete Jesus I take thee from the ground." --Ancient Charm-verse.

I.

When, from a pleasant ramble, home Fresh-stored with quiet thoughts, I come, I pluck some wayside flower And press it in the choicest nook Of a much-loved and oft-read book; And, when upon its leaves I look In a less happy hour, Dear memory bears me far away Unto her fairy bower, And on her breast my head I lay, While, in a motherly, sweet strain, She sings me gently back again To by-gone feelings, until they Seem children born of yesterday.

II.

Yes, many a story of past hours I read in these dear withered flowers, And once again I seem to be Lying beneath the old oak tree, And looking up into the sky, Through thick leaves rifted fitfully, Lulled by the rustling of the vine, Or the faint low of far-off kine; And once again I seem To watch the whirling bubbles flee, Through shade and gleam alternately, Down the vine-bowered stream; Or 'neath the odorous linden trees, When summer twilight lingers long, To hear the flowing of the breeze And unseen insects' slumberous song, That mingle into one and seem Like dim murmurs of a dream; Fair faces, too, I seem to see, Smiling from pleasant eyes at me, And voices sweet I hear, That, like remembered melody, Flow through my spirit's ear.

III.

A poem every flower is, And every leaf a line, And with delicious memories They fill this heart of mine: No living blossoms are so clear As these dead relics treasured here; One tells of Love, of friendship one, Love's quiet after-sunset time, When the all-dazzling light is gone, And, with the soul's low vesper-chime, O'er half its heaven doth out-flow A holy calm and steady glow. Some are gay feast-songs, some are dirges, In some a joy with sorrow merges; One sings the shadowed woods, and one the roar Of ocean's everlasting surges, Tumbling upon the beach's hard-beat floor, Or sliding backward from the shore To meet the landward waves and slowly plunge once more. O flowers of grace, I bless ye all By the dear faces ye recall!

IV.

Upon the banks of Life's deep streams Full many a flower groweth, Which with a wondrous fragrance teems, And in the silent water gleams, And trembles as the water floweth, Many a one the wave upteareth, Washing ever the roots away, And far upon its bosom beareth, To bloom no more in Youth's glad May; As farther on the river runs, Flowing more deep and strong, Only a few pale, scattered ones Are seen the dreary banks along; And where those flowers do not grow, The river floweth dark and chill, Its voice is sad, and with its flow Mingles ever a sense of ill; Then, Poet, thou who gather dost Of Life's best flowers the brightest, O, take good heed they be not lost While with the angry flood thou fightest!

V.

In the cool grottos of the soul, Whence flows thought's crystal river, Whence songs of joy forever roll To Him who is the Giver-- There store thou them, where fresh and green Their leaves and blossoms may be seen, A spring of joy that faileth never; There store thou them, and they shall be A blessing and a peace to thee, And in their youth and purity Thou shalt be young forever! Then, with their fragrance rich and rare, Thy living shall be rife, Strength shall be thine thy cross to bear, And they shall be a chaplet fair, Breathing a pure and holy air, To crown thy holy life.

VI.

O Poet! above all men blest, Take heed that thus thou store them; Love, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest, Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest!) Watchfully brooding o'er them. And from those flowers of Paradise Scatter thou many a blessèd seed, Wherefrom an offspring may arise To cheer the hearts and light the eyes Of after-voyagers in their need. They shall not fall on stony ground, But, yielding all their hundred-fold, Shall shed a peacefulness around, Whose strengthening joy may not be told, So shall thy name be blest of all, And thy remembrance never die; For of that seed shall surely fall In the fair garden of Eternity. Exult then in the nobleness Of this thy work so holy, Yet be not thou one jot the less Humble and meek and lowly, But let thine exultation be The reverence of a bended knee; And by thy life a poem write, Built strongly day by day-- And on the rock of Truth and Right Its deep foundations lay.

VII.

It is thy |DUTY|! Guard it well! For unto thee hath much been given, And thou canst make this life a Hell, Or Jacob's-ladder up to Heaven. Let not thy baptism in Life's wave Make thee like him whom Homer sings-- A sleeper in a living grave, Callous and hard to outward things; But open all thy soul and sense To every blessèd influence That from the heart of Nature springs: Then shall thy Life-flowers be to thee, When thy best years are told, As much as these have been to me-- Yea, more, a thousand-fold!

THE LOVER.

I.

Go from the world from East to West, Search every land beneath the sky, You cannot find a man so blest, A king so powerful as I, Though you should seek eternally.

II.

For I a gentle lover be, Sitting at my loved-one's side; She giveth her whole soul to me Without a wish or thought of pride, And she shall be my cherished bride.

III.

No show of gaudiness hath she, She doth not flash with jewels rare; In beautiful simplicity She weareth leafy garlands fair, Or modest flowers in her hair.

IV.

Sometimes she dons a robe of green, Sometimes a robe of snowy white, But, in whatever garb she's seen, It seems most beautiful and right, And is the loveliest to my sight.

V.

Not I her lover am alone, Yet unto all she doth suffice, None jealous is, and every one Reads love and truth within her eyes, And deemeth her his own dear prize.

VI.

And so thou art, Eternal Nature! Yes, bride of Heaven, so thou art; Thou, wholly lovest every creature, Giving to each no stinted part, But filling every peaceful heart.

TO E. W. G.

"Dear Child! dear happy Girl! if thou appear Heedless--untouched with awe or serious thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not." --Wordsworth.

As through a strip of sunny light A white dove flashes swiftly on, So suddenly before my sight Thou gleamed'st a moment and wert gone; And yet I long shall bear in mind The pleasant thoughts thou left'st behind.

Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes, And happy with thine open smile, And, as I write, sweet memories Come thronging round me all the while; Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes-- And gentle feelings long forgot Looked up and oped their eyes, Like violets when they see a spot Of summer in the skies.

Around thy playful lips did glitter Heat-lightnings of a girlish scorn; Harmless they were, for nothing bitter In thy dear heart was ever born-- That merry heart that could not lie Within its warm nest quietly, But ever from each full, dark eye Was looking kindly night and morn.

There was an archness in thine eyes, Born of the gentlest mockeries, And thy light laughter rang as clear As water-drops I loved to hear In days of boyhood, as they fell Tinkling far down the dim, still well; And with its sound come back once more The feelings of my early years, And half aloud I murmured o'er-- "Sure I have heard that sound before, It is so pleasant in mine ears."

Whenever thou didst look on me I thought of merry birds, And something of spring's melody Came to me in thy words; Thy thoughts did dance and bound along Like happy children in their play, Whose hearts run over into song For gladness of the summer's day; And mine grew dizzy with the sight, Still feeling lighter and more light, Till, joining hands, they whirled away, As blithe and merrily as they.

I bound a larch-twig round with flowers, Which thou didst twine among thy hair, And gladsome were the few, short hours When I was with thee there; So now that thou art far away, Safe-nestled in thy warmer clime, In memory of a happier day I twine this simple wreath of rhyme.

Dost mind how she, whom thou dost love More than in light words may be said, A coronal of amaranth wove About thy duly-sobered head, Which kept itself a moment still That she might have her gentle will? Thy childlike grace and purity O keep forevermore, And as thou art, still strive to be, That on the farther shore Of Time's dark waters ye may meet, And she may twine around thy brow A wreath of those bright flowers that grow Where blessèd angels set their feet!

ISABEL.

As the leaf upon the tree, Fluttering, gleaming constantly, Such a lightsome thing was she, My gay and gentle Isabel! Her heart was fed with love-springs sweet, And in her face you'd see it beat To hear the sound of welcome feet-- And were not mine so, Isabel?

She knew it not, but she was fair, And like a moonbeam was her hair, That falls where flowing ripples are In summer evenings, Isabel! Her heart and tongue were scarce apart, Unwittingly her lips would part, And love came gushing from her heart, The woman's heart of Isabel.

So pure her flesh-garb, and like dew, That in her features glimmered through Each working of her spirit true, In wondrous beauty, Isabel! A sunbeam struggling through thick leaves, A reaper's song mid yellow sheaves, Less gladsome were;--my spirit grieves To think of thee, mild Isabel!

I know not when I loved thee first; Not loving, I had been accurst, Yet, having loved, my heart will burst, Longing for thee, dear Isabel! With silent tears my cheeks are wet, I would be calm, I would forget, But thy blue eyes gaze on me yet, When stars have risen, Isabel.

The winds mourn for thee, Isabel, The flowers expect thee in the dell, Thy gentle spirit loved them well; And I for thy sake, Isabel! The sunsets seem less lovely now Than when, leaf checkered, on thy brow They fell as lovingly as thou Lingered'st till moon-rise, Isabel!

At dead of night I seem to see Thy fair, pale features constantly Upturned in silent prayer for me, O'er moveless clasped hands, Isabel! I call thee, thou dost not reply; The stars gleam coldly on thine eye, As like a dream thou flittest by, And leav'st me weeping, Isabel!

MUSIC.

I.

I seem to lie with drooping eyes, Dreaming sweet dreams, Half longings and half memories, In woods where streams With trembling shades and whirling gleams, Many and bright, In song and light, Are ever, ever flowing; While the wind, if we list to the rustling grass, Which numbers his footsteps as they pass, Seems scarcely to be blowing; And the far-heard voice of Spring, From sunny slopes comes wandering, Calling the violets from the sleep, That bound them under snow-drifts deep, To open their childlike, asking eyes On the new summer's paradise, And mingled with the gurgling waters-- As the dreamy witchery Of Acheloüs' silver-voiced daughters Rose and fell with the heaving sea, Whose great heart swelled with ecstasy-- The song of many a floating bird, Winding through the rifted trees, Is dreamily half-heard-- A sister stream of melodies Rippled by the flutterings Of rapture-quivered wings.

II.

And now beside a cataract I lie, and through my soul, From over me and under, The never-ceasing thunder Arousingly doth roll; Through the darkness all compact, Through the trackless sea of gloom, Sad and deep I hear it boom; At intervals the cloud is cracked And a livid flash doth hiss Downward from its floating home, Lighting up the precipice And the never-resting foam With a dim and ghastly glare, Which, for a heart-beat, in the air, Shows the sweeping shrouds Of the midnight clouds And their wildly-scattered hair.

III.

Now listening to a woman's tone, In a wood I sit alone-- Alone because our souls are one;-- All around my heart it flows, Lulling me in deep repose; I fear to speak, I fear to move, Lest I should break the spell I love-- Low and gentle, calm and clear, Into my inmost soul it goes, As if my brother dear, Who is no longer here, Had bended from the sky And murmured in my ear A strain of that high harmony, Which they may sing alone Who worship round the throne.

IV.

Now in a fairy boat, On the bright waves of song, Full merrily I float, Merrily float along; My helm is veered, I care not how, My white sail bellies over me, And bright as gold the ripples be That plash beneath the bow; Before, behind, They feel the wind, And they are dancing joyously-- While, faintly heard, along the far-off shore The surf goes plunging with a lingering roar; Or anchored in a shadowy cove, Entranced with harmonies, Slowly I sink and rise As the slow waves of music move.

V.

Now softly dashing, Bubbling, plashing, Mazy, dreamy, Faint and streamy, Ripples into ripples melt, Not so strongly heard as felt; Now rapid and quick, While the heart beats thick, The music silver wavelets crowd, Distinct and clear, but never loud And now all solemnly and slow, In mild, deep tones they warble low, Like the glad song of angels, when They sang good will and peace to men; Now faintly heard and far, As if the spirit's ears Had caught the anthem of a star Chanting with his brother-spheres In the midnight dark and deep, When the body is asleep And wondrous shadows pour in streams From the twofold gate of dreams; Now onward roll the billows, swelling With a tempest-sound of might, As of voices doom foretelling To the silent ear of Night; And now a mingled ecstasy Of all sweet sounds it is;-- O! who may tell the agony Of rapture such as this?

VI.

I have drunk of the drink of immortals, I have drunk of the life-giving wine, And now I may pass the bright portals That open into a realm divine! I have drunk it through mine ears In the ecstasy of song, When mine eyes would fill with tears That its life were not more long; I have drunk it through mine eyes In beauty's every shape, And now around my soul it lies, No juice of earthly grape! Wings! wings are given to me, I can flutter, I can rise, Like a new life gushing through me Sweep the heavenly harmonies!

SONG.

O! I must look on that sweet face once more before I die; God grant that it may lighten up with joy when I draw nigh; God grant that she may look on me as kindly as she seems In the long night, the restless night, i' the sunny land of dreams!

I hoped, I thought, she loved me once, and yet, I know not why, There is a coldness in her speech, and a coldness in her eye. Something that in another's look would not seem cold to me, And yet like ice I feel it chill the heart of memory.

She does not come to greet me so frankly as she did, And in her utmost openness I feel there's something hid; She almost seems to shun me, as if she thought that I Might win her gentle heart again to feelings long gone by.

I sought the first spring-buds for her, the fairest and the best, And she wore them for their loveliness upon her spotless breast, The blood-root and the violet, the frail anemone, She wore them, and alas! I deemed it was for love of me!

As flowers in a darksome place stretch forward to the light, So to the memory of her I turn by day and night; As flowers in a darksome place grow thin and pale and wan, So is it with my darkened heart, now that her light is gone.

The thousand little things that love doth treasure up for aye, And brood upon with moistened eyes when she that's loved's away, The word, the look, the smile, the blush, the ribbon that she wore, Each day they grow more dear to me, and pain me more and more.

My face I cover with my hands, and bitterly I weep, That the quick-gathering sands of life should choke a love so deep, And that the stream, so pure and bright, must turn it from its track, Or to the heart-springs, whence it rose, roll its full waters back!

As calm as doth the lily float close by the lakelet's brim, So calm and spotless, down time's stream, her peaceful days did swim, And I had longed, and dreamed, and prayed, that closely by her side, Down to a haven still and sure, my happy life might glide.

But now, alas! those golden days of youth and hope are o'er, And I must dream those dreams of joy, those guiltless dreams no more; Yet there is something in my heart that whispers ceaselessly, "Would God that I might see that face once more before I die!"

IANTHE.

I.

There is a light within her eyes, Like gleams of wandering fire-flies; From light to shade it leaps and moves Whenever in her soul arise The holy shapes of things she loves; Fitful it shines and changes ever, Like star-lit ripples on a river, Or summer sunshine on the eaves Of silver-trembling poplar leaves, Where the lingering dew-drops quiver. I may not tell the blessedness Her mild eyes send to mine, The sunset-tinted haziness Of their mysterious shine, The dim and holy mournfulness Of their mellow light divine; The shadow of the lashes lie Over them so lovingly, That they seem to melt away In a doubtful twilight-gray, While I watch the stars arise In the evening of her eyes, I love it, yet I almost dread To think what it foreshadoweth; And, when I muse how I have read That such strange light betokened death-- Instead of fire-fly gleams, I see Wild corpse-lights gliding waveringly.

II.

With wayward thoughts her eyes are bright, Like shiftings of the northern-light, Hither, thither, swiftly glance they, In a mazy twining dance they, Like ripply lights the sunshine weaves, Thrown backward from a shaken nook, Below some tumbling water-brook, On the o'erarching platan-leaves, All through her glowing face they flit, And rest in their deep dwelling-place, Those fathomless blue eyes of hers, Till, from her burning soul re-lit, While her upheaving bosom stirs, They stream again across her face And with such hope and glory fill it, Death could not have the heart to chill it. Yet when their wild light fades again, I feel a sudden sense of pain, As if, while yet her eyes were gleaming, And like a shower of sun-lit rain Bright fancies from her face were streaming, Her trembling soul might flit away As swift and suddenly as they.

III.

A wild, inspirèd earnestness Her inmost being fills, And eager self-forgetfulness, That speaks not what it wills, But what unto her soul is given, A living oracle from Heaven, Which scarcely in her breast is born When on her trembling lips it thrills, And, like a burst of golden skies Through storm-clouds on a sudden torn, Like a glory of the morn, Beams marvellously from her eyes. And then, like a Spring-swollen river, Roll the deep waves of her full-hearted thought Crested with sun-lit spray, Her wild lips curve and quiver, And my rapt soul, on the strong tide upcaught, Unwittingly is borne away, Lulled by a dreamful music ever, Far--through the solemn twilight-gray Of hoary woods--through valleys green Which the trailing vine embowers, And where the purple-clustered grapes are seen Deep-glowing through rich clumps of waving flowers-- Now over foaming rapids swept And with maddening rapture shook-- Now gliding where the water-plants have slept For ages in a moss-rimmed nook-- Enwoven by a wild-eyed band Of earth-forgetting dreams, I float to a delicious land By a sunset heaven spanned, And musical with streams;-- Around, the calm, majestic forms And god-like eyes of early Greece I see, Or listen, till my spirit warms, To songs of courtly chivalry, Or weep, unmindful if my tears be seen, For the meek, suffering love of poor Undine.

IV.

Her thoughts are never memories, But ever changeful, ever new, Fresh and beautiful as dew That in a dell at noontide lies, Or, at the close of summer day, The pleasant breath of new-mown hay: Swiftly they come and pass As golden birds across the sun, As light-gleams on tall meadow-grass Which the wind just breathes upon. And when she speaks, her eyes I see Down-gushing through their silken lattices, Like stars that quiver tremblingly Through leafy branches of the trees, And her pale cheeks do flush and glow With speaking flashes bright and rare As crimson North-lights on new-fallen snow, From out the veiling of her hair-- Her careless hair that scatters down On either side her eyes, A waterfall leaf-tinged with brown And lit with the sunrise.

V.

When first I saw her, not of earth, But heavenly both in grief and mirth, I thought her; she did seem As fair and full of mystery, As bodiless, as forms we see In the rememberings of a dream; A moon-lit mist, a strange, dim light, Circled her spirit from my sight;-- Each day more beautiful she grew, More earthly every day, Yet that mysterious, moony hue Faded not all away; She has a sister's sympathy With all the wanderers of the sky, But most I've seen her bosom stir When moonlight round her fell, For the mild moon it loveth her, She loveth it as well, And of their love perchance this grace Was born into her wondrous face. I cannot tell how it may be, For both, methinks, can scarce be true, Still, as she earthly grew to me, She grew more heavenly too; She seems one born in Heaven With earthly feelings, For, while unto her soul are given More pure revealings Of holiest love and truth, Yet is the mildness of her eyes Made up of quickest sympathies, Of kindliness and ruth; So, though some shade of awe doth stir Our souls for one so far above us, We feel secure that she will love us, And cannot keep from loving her. She is a poem, which to me In speech and look is written bright, And to her life's rich harmony Doth ever sing itself aright; Dear, glorious creature! With eyes so dewy bright, And tenderest feeling Itself revealing In every look and feature, Welcome as a homestead light To one long-wandering in a clouded night, O, lovelier for her woman's weakness, Which yet is strongly mailed In armor of courageous meekness And faith that never failed!

VI.

Early and late, at her soul's gate, Sits Chastity in warderwise, No thoughts unchallenged, small or great, Go thence into her eyes; Nor may a low, unworthy thought Beyond that virgin warder win, Nor one, whose password is not "ought," May go without or enter in. I call her, seeing those pure eyes, The Eve of a new Paradise, Which she by gentle word and deed, And look no less, doth still create About her, for her great thoughts breed A calm that lifts us from our fallen state, And makes us while with her both good and great-- Nor is their memory wanting in our need: With stronger loving, every hour, Turneth my heart to this frail flower, Which, thoughtless of the world, hath grown To beauty and meek gentleness, Here in a fair world of its own-- By woman's instinct trained alone-- A lily fair which God did bless, And which from Nature's heart did draw Love, wisdom, peace, and Heaven's perfect law.

LOVE'S ALTAR.

I.

I built an altar in my soul, I builded it to one alone; And ever silently I stole, In happy days of long-agone, To make rich offerings to that ONE.

II.

'Twas garlanded with purest thought, And crowned with fancy's flowers bright, With choicest gems 'twas all inwrought Of truth and feeling; in my sight It seemed a spot of cloudless light.

III.

Yet when I made my offering there, Like Cain's, the incense would not rise; Back on my heart down-sank the prayer, And altar-stone and sacrifice Grew hateful in my tear-dimmed eyes.

IV.

O'er-grown with age's mosses green, The little altar firmly stands; It is not, as it once hath been, A selfish shrine;--these time-taught hands Bring incense now from many lands.

V.

Knowledge doth only widen love; The stream, that lone and narrow rose, Doth, deepening ever, onward move, And with an even current flows Calmer and calmer to the close.

VI.

The love, that in those early days Girt round my spirit like a wall, Hath faded like a morning haze, And flames, unpent by self's mean thrall, Rise clearly to the perfect |ALL|.

IMPARTIALITY.

I.

I cannot say a scene is fair Because it is beloved of thee, But I shall love to linger there, For sake of thy dear memory; I would not be so coldly just As to love only what I must.

II.

I cannot say a thought is good Because thou foundest joy in it; Each soul must choose its proper food Which Nature hath decreed most fit; But I shall ever deem it so Because it made thy heart o'erflow.

III.

I love thee for that thou art fair; And that thy spirit joys in aught Createth a new beauty there, With thine own dearest image fraught; And love, for others' sake that springs, Gives half their charm to lovely things.

BELLEROPHON.

DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND, JOHN F. HEATH.

I.

I feel the bandages unroll That bound my inward seeing; Freed are the bright wings of my soul, Types of my god-like being; High thoughts are swelling in my heart And rushing through my brain; May I never more lose part In my soul's realm again! All things fair, where'er they be, In earth or air, in sky or sea, I have loved them all, and taken All within my throbbing breast; No more my spirit can be shaken From its calm and kingly rest! Love hath shed its light around me, Love hath pierced the shades that bound me; Mine eyes are opened, I can see The universe's mystery, The mighty heart and core Of After and Before I see, and I am weak no more!

II.

Upward! upward evermore, To Heaven's open gate I soar! Little thoughts are far behind me, Which, when custom weaves together, All the nobler man can tether-- Cobwebs now no more can bind me! Now fold thy wings a little while, My trancèd soul, and lie At rest on this Calypso-isle That floats in mellow sky, A thousand isles with gentle motion Rock upon the sunset ocean; A thousand isles of thousand hues, How bright! how beautiful! how rare! Into my spirit they infuse A purer, a diviner air; The earth is growing dimmer, And now the last faint glimmer Hath faded from the hill; But in my higher atmosphere The sun-light streameth red and clear, Fringing the islets still;-- Love lifts us to the sun-light, Though the whole world would be dark; Love, wide Love, is the one light, All else is but a fading spark; Love is the nectar which doth fill Our soul's cup even to overflowing, And, warming heart, and thought, and will, Doth lie within us mildly glowing, From its own centre raying out Beauty and Truth on all without.

III.

Each on his golden throne, Full royally, alone, I see the stars above me, With sceptre and with diadem; Mildly they look down and love me, For I have ever yet loved them; I see their ever-sleepless eyes Watching the growth of destinies; Calm, sedate, The eyes of Fate, They wink not, nor do roll, But search the depths of soul-- And in those mighty depths they see The germs of all Futurity, Waiting but the fitting time To burst and ripen into prime, As in the womb of mother Earth The seeds of plants and forests lie Age upon age and never die-- So in the souls of all men wait, Undyingly the seeds of Fate; Chance breaks the clod and forth they spring, Filling blind men with wondering. Eternal stars! with holy awe, As if a present God I saw, I look into those mighty eyes And see great destinies arise, As in those of mortal men Feelings glow and fade again! All things below, all things above, Are open to the eyes of Love.

IV.

Of Knowledge Love is master-key, Knowledge of Beauty; passing dear Is each to each, and mutually Each one doth make the other clear; Beauty is Love, and what we love Straightway is beautiful, So is the circle round and full, And so dear Love doth live and move And have his being, Finding his proper food By sure inseeing, In all things pure and good, Which he at will doth cull, Like a joyous butterfly Hiving in the sunny bowers Of the soul's fairest flowers, Or, between the earth and sky, Wandering at liberty For happy, happy hours!

V.

The thoughts of Love are Poesy, As this fair earth and all we see Are the thoughts of Deity-- And Love is ours by our birthright! He hath cleared mine inward sight; Glorious shapes with glorious eyes Round about my spirit glance, Shedding a mild and golden light On the shadowy face of Night; To unearthly melodies, Hand in hand, they weave their dance, While a deep, ambrosial lustre From their rounded limbs doth shine, Through many a rich and golden cluster Of streaming hair divine. In our gross and earthly hours We cannot see the Love-given powers Which ever round the soul await To do its sovereign will, When, in its moments calm and still, It re-assumes its royal state, Nor longer sits with eyes downcast, A beggar, dreaming of the past, At its own palace-gate.

VI.

I too am a Maker and a Poet; Through my whole soul I feel it and know it; My veins are fired with ecstasy! All-mother Earth Did ne'er give birth To one who shall be matched with me; The lustre of my coronal Shall cast a dimness over all.-- Alas! alas! what have I spoken? My strong, my eagle wings are broken, And back again to earth I fall!

SOMETHING NATURAL.

I.

When first I saw thy soul-deep eyes, My heart yearned to thee instantly, Strange longing in my soul did rise; I cannot tell the reason why, But I must love thee till I die.

II.

The sight of thee hath well-nigh grown As needful to me as the light; I am unrestful when alone, And my heart doth not beat aright Except it dwell within thy sight.

III.

And yet--and yet--O selfish love! I am not happy even with thee; I see thee in thy brightness move, And cannot well contented be, Save thou should'st shine alone for me.

IV.

We should love beauty even as flowers-- For all, 'tis said, they bud and blow, They are the world's as well as ours-- But thou--alas! God made thee grow So fair, I cannot love thee so!

A FEELING.

The flowers and the grass to me Are eloquent reproachfully; For would they wave so pleasantly Or look so fresh and fair, If a man, cunning, hollow, mean, Or one in anywise unclean, Were looking on them there?

No; he hath grown so foolish-wise He cannot see with childhood's eyes; He hath forgot that purity And lowliness which are the key Of Nature's mysteries; No; he hath wandered off so long From his own place of birth, That he hath lost his mother-tongue, And, like one come from far-off lands, Forgetting and forgot, he stands Beside his mother's hearth.

THE LOST CHILD.

I.

I wandered down the sunny glade And ever mused, my love, of thee; My thoughts, like little children, played, As gayly and as guilelessly.

II.

If any chanced to go astray, Moaning in fear of coming harms, Hope brought the wanderer back alway, Safe nestled in her snowy arms.

III.

From that soft nest the happy one Looked up at me and calmly smiled; Its hair shone golden in the sun, And made it seem a heavenly child.

IV.

Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down, And blest it with a love so deep, That, like a nursling of her own, It clasped her neck and fell asleep.

THE CHURCH.

I.

I love the rites of England's church; I love to hear and see The priest and people reading slow The solemn Litany; I love to hear the glorious swell Of chanted psalm and prayer, And the deep organ's bursting heart, Throb through the shivering air.

II.

Chants, that a thousand years have heard, I love to hear again, For visions of the olden time Are wakened by the strain; With gorgeous hues the window-glass Seems suddenly to glow, And rich and red the streams of light Down through the chancel flow.

III.

And then I murmur, "Surely God Delighteth here to dwell; This is the temple of his Son Whom he doth love so well;" But, when I hear the creed which saith, This church alone is His, I feel within my soul that He Hath purer shrines than this.

IV.

For his is not the builded church, Nor organ-shaken dome; In every thing that lovely is He loves and hath his home; And most in soul that loveth well All things which he hath made, Knowing no creed but simple faith That may not be gainsaid.

V.

His church is universal Love, And whoso dwells therein Shall need no customed sacrifice To wash away his sin; And music in its aisles shall swell, Of lives upright and true, Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps Down-quivering through the blue.

VI.

They shall not ask a litany, The souls that worship there, But every look shall be a hymn, And every word a prayer; Their service shall be written bright In calm and holy eyes, And every day from fragrant hearts Fit incense shall arise.

THE UNLOVELY.

The pretty things that others wear Look strange and out of place on me, I never seem dressed tastefully, Because I am not fair; And, when I would most pleasing seem, And deck myself with joyful care, I find it is an idle dream, Because I am not fair.

If I put roses in my hair, They bloom as if in mockery; Nature denies her sympathy, Because I am not fair; Alas! I have a warm, true heart, But when I show it people stare; I must forever dwell apart, Because I am not fair.

I am least happy being where The hearts of others are most light, And strive to keep me out of sight, Because I am not fair; The glad ones often give a glance, As I am sitting lonely there, That asks me why I do not dance-- Because I am not fair.

And if to smile on them I dare, For that my heart with love runs o'er, They say: "What is she laughing for?"-- Because I am not fair; Love scorned or misinterpreted-- It is the hardest thing to bear; I often wish that I were dead, Because I am not fair.

In joy or grief I must not share, For neither smiles nor tears on me Will ever look becomingly, Because I am not fair; Whole days I sit alone and cry, And in my grave I wish I were-- Yet none will weep me if I die, Because I am not fair.

My grave will be so lone and bare, I fear to think of those dark hours, For none will plant it o'er with flowers, Because I am not fair; They will not in the summer come And speak kind words above me there; To me the grave will be no home, Because I am not fair.

LOVE-SONG.

Nearer to thy mother-heart, Simple Nature, press me, Let me know thee as thou art, Fill my soul and bless me! I have loved thee long and well, I have loved thee heartily; Shall I never with thee dwell, Never be at one with thee?

Inward, inward to thy heart, Kindly Nature, take me, Lovely even as thou art, Full of loving make me! Thou knowest naught of dead-cold forms, Knowest naught of littleness, Lifeful Truth thy being warms, Majesty and earnestness.

Homeward, homeward to thy heart, Dearest Nature, call me; Let no halfness, no mean part, Any longer thrall me! I will be thy lover true, I will be a faithful soul, Then circle me, then look me through, Fill me with the mighty Whole.

SONG.

All things are sad:-- I go and ask of Memory, That she tell sweet tales to me To make me glad; And she takes me by the hand, Leadeth to old places, Showeth the old faces In her hazy mirage-land; O, her voice is sweet and low, And her eyes are fresh to mine As the dew Gleaming through The half-unfolded Eglantine, Long ago, long ago! But I feel that I am only Yet more sad, and yet more lonely!

Then I turn to blue-eyed Hope, And beg of her that she will ope Her golden gates for me; She is fair and full of grace, But she hath the form and face Of her mother Memory; Clear as air her glad voice ringeth, Joyous are the songs she singeth, Yet I hear them mournfully;-- They are songs her mother taught her, Crooning to her infant daughter, As she lay upon her knee. Many little ones she bore me, Woe is me! in by-gone hours, Who danced along and sang before me, Scattering my way with flowers; One by one They are gone, And their silent graves are seen, Shining fresh with mosses green, Where the rising sunbeams slope O'er the dewy land of Hope.

But, when sweet Memory faileth, And Hope looks strange and cold; When youth no more availeth, And Grief grows over bold;-- When softest winds are dreary, And summer sunlight weary, And sweetest things uncheery We know not why:-- When the crown of our desires Weighs upon the brow and tires, And we would die, Die for, ah! we know not what, Something we seem to have forgot, Something we had, and now have not;-- When the present is a weight And the future seems our foe, And with shrinking eyes we wait, As one who dreads a sudden blow In the dark, he knows not whence;-- When Love at last his bright eye closes, And the bloom upon his face, That lends him such a living grace, Is a shadow from the roses Wherewith we have decked his bier, Because he once was passing dear;-- When we feel a leaden sense Of nothingness and impotence, Till we grow mad-- Then the body saith, "There's but one true faith; All things are sad!"

A LOVE-DREAM.

Pleasant thoughts come wandering, When thou art far, from thee to me; On their silver wings they bring A very peaceful ecstasy, A feeling of eternal spring; So that Winter half forgets Everything but that thou art, And, in his bewildered heart, Dreameth of the violets, Or those bluer flowers that ope, Flowers of steadfast love and hope, Watered by the living wells, Of memories dear, and dearer prophecies, When young spring forever dwells In the sunshine of thine eyes.

I have most holy dreams of thee, All night I have such dreams; And, when I awake, reality No whit the darker seems; Through the twin gates of Hope and Memory They pour in crystal streams From out an angel's calmèd eyes, Who, from twilight till sunrise, Far away in the upper deep, Poised upon his shining wings, Over us his watch doth keep, And, as he watcheth, ever sings.

Through the still night I hear him sing, Down-looking on our sleep; I hear his clear, clear harp-strings ring, And, as the golden notes take wing, Gently downward hovering, For very joy I weep; He singeth songs of holy Love, That quiver through the depths afar, Where the blessèd spirits are, And lingeringly from above Shower till the morning star His silver shield hath buckled on And sentinels the dawn alone, Quivering his gleamy spear Through the dusky atmosphere.

Almost, my love, I fear the morn, When that blessèd voice shall cease, Lest it should leave me quite forlorn, Stript of my snowy robe of peace; And yet the bright reality Is fairer than all dreams can be, For, through my spirit, all day long, Ring echoes of that angel-song In melodious thoughts of thee; And well I know it cannot die Till eternal morn shall break, For, through life's slumber, thou and I Will keep it for each other's sake, And it shall not be silent when we wake.

FOURTH OF JULY ODE.

I.

Our fathers fought for Liberty, They struggled long and well, History of their deeds can tell-- But did they leave us free?

II.

Are we free from vanity, Free from pride, and free from self, Free from love of power and pelf, From everything that's beggarly?

III.

Are we free from stubborn will, From low hate and malice small, From opinion's tyrant thrall? Are none of us our own slaves still?

IV.

Are we free to speak our thought, To be happy, and be poor, Free to enter Heaven's door, To live and labor as we ought?

V.

Are we then made free at last From the fear of what men say, Free to reverence To-day, Free from the slavery of the Past?

VI.

Our fathers fought for liberty, They struggled long and well, History of their deeds can tell-- But ourselves must set us free.

SPHINX.

I.

Why mourn we for the golden prime When our young souls were kingly, strong, and true? The soul is greater than all time, It changes not, but yet is ever new.

II.

But that the soul is noble, we Could never know what nobleness had been; Be what ye dream! and earth shall see A greater greatness than she e'er hath seen.

III.

The flower pines not to be fair, It never asketh to be sweet and dear, But gives itself to sun and air, And so is fresh and full from year to year.

IV.

Nothing in Nature weeps its lot, Nothing, save man, abides in memory, Forgetful that the Past is what Ourselves may choose the coming time to be.

V.

All things are circular; the Past Was given us to make the Future great; And the void Future shall at last Be the strong rudder of an after fate.

VI.

We sit beside the Sphinx of Life, We gaze into its void, unanswering eyes, And spend ourselves in idle strife To read the riddle of their mysteries.

VII.

Arise! be earnest and be strong! The Sphinx's eyes shall suddenly grow clear, And speak as plain to thee ere long, As the dear maiden's who holds thee most dear.

VIII.

The meaning of all things in us-- Yea, in the lives we give our souls--doth lie; Make, then, their meaning glorious By such a life as need not fear to die!

IX.

There is no heart-beat in the day, Which bears a record of the smallest deed, But holds within its faith alway That which in doubt we vainly strive to read.

X.

One seed contains another seed, And that a third, and so for evermore; And promise of as great a deed Lies folded in the deed that went before.

XI.

So ask not fitting space or time, Yet could not dream of things which could not be; Each day shall make the next sublime, And Time be swallowed in Eternity.

XII.

God bless the Present! it is |ALL|; It has been Future, and it shall be Past; Awake and live! thy strength recall, And in one trinity unite them fast.

XIII.

Action and Life--lo! here the key Of all on earth that seemeth dark and wrong; Win this--and, with it, freely ye May enter that bright realm for which ye long.

XIV.

Then all these bitter questionings Shall with a full and blessèd answer meet; Past worlds, whereof the Poet sings, Shall be the earth beneath his snow-white fleet.

"GOE, LITTLE BOOKE!"

Go little book! the world is wide, There's room and verge enough for thee; For thou hast learned that only pride Lacketh fit opportunity, Which comes unbid to modesty.

Go! win thy way with gentleness: I send thee forth, my first-born child, Quite, quite alone, to face the stress Of fickle skies and pathways wild, Where few can keep them undefiled.

Thou earnest from a poet's heart, A warm, still home, and full of rest; Far from the pleasant eyes thou art Of those who know and love thee best, And by whose hearthstones thou wert blest.

Go! knock thou softly at the door Where any gentle spirits bin, Tell them thy tender feet are sore, Wandering so far from all thy kin, And ask if thou may enter in.

Beg thou a cup-full from the spring Of Charity, in Christ's dear name; Few will deny so small a thing, Nor ask unkindly if thou came Of one whose life might do thee shame.

We all are prone to go astray, Our hopes are bright, our lives are dim; But thou art pure, and if they say, "We know thy father, and our whim He pleases not,"--plead thou for him.

For many are by whom all truth, That speaks not in their mother-tongue, Is stoned to death with hands unruth, Or hath its patient spirit wrung Cold words and colder looks among.

Yet fear not! for skies are fair To all whose souls are fair within; Thou wilt find shelter everywhere With those to whom a different skin Is not a damning proof of sin.

But, if all others are unkind, There's one heart whither thou canst fly For shelter from the biting wind; And, in that home of purity, It were no bitter thing to die.

SONNETS.

I.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

I pray thee call not this society; I asked for bread, thou givest me a stone; I am an hungered, and I find not one To give me meat, to joy or grieve with me; I find not here what I went out to see-- Souls of true men, of women who can move The deeper, better part of us to love, Souls that can hold with mine communion free. Alas! must then these hopes, these longings high, This yearning of the soul for brotherhood, And all that makes us pure, and wise, and good, Come broken-hearted, home again to die? No, Hope is left, and prays with bended head, "Give us this day, O God, our daily bread!"

II.

Great human nature, whither art thou fled? Are these things creeping forth and back agen, These hollow formalists and echoes, men? Art thou entombèd with the mighty dead? In God's name, no! not yet hath all been said, Or done, or longed for, that is truly great; These pitiful dried crusts will never sate Natures for which pure Truth is daily bread; We were not meant to plod along the earth, Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange; We were not meant to struggle from our birth To skulk and creep, and in mean pathways range; Act! with stern truth, large faith, and loving will! Up and be doing! God is with us still.

III.

TO A FRIEND.

One strip of bark may feed the broken tree, Giving to some few limbs a sickly green; And one light shower on the hills, I ween, May keep the spring from drying utterly. Thus seemeth it with these our hearts to be; Hope is the strip of bark, the shower of rain, And so they are not wholly crushed with pain. But live and linger on, far sadder sight to see; Much do they err, who tell us that the heart May not be broken; what, then, can we call A broken heart, if this may not be so, This death in life, when, shrouded in its pall, Shunning and shunned, it dwelleth all apart, Its power, its love, its sympathy laid low?

IV.

So may it be, but let it not be so, O, let it not be so with thee, my friend; Be of good courage, bear up to the end, And on thine after way rejoicing go! We all must suffer, if we aught would know; Life is a teacher stern, and wisdom's crown Is oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling down, Blood, mixed with tears, blinding her eyes doth flow But Time, a gentle nurse, shall wipe away This bloody sweat, and thou shalt find on earth, That woman is not all in all to Love, But, living by a new and second birth, Thy soul shall see all things below, above, Grow bright and brighter to the perfect day.

V.

O child of Nature! O most meek and free, Most gentle spirit of true nobleness! Thou doest not a worthy deed the less Because the world may not its greatness see; What were a thousand triumphings to thee, Who, in thyself, art as a perfect sphere Wrapt in a bright and natural atmosphere Of mighty-souledness and majesty? Thy soul is not too high for lowly things, Feels not its strength seeing its brother weak, Not for itself unto itself is dear, But for that it may guide the wanderings Of fellow-men, and to their spirits speak The lofty faith of heart that knows no fear.

VI.

TO ----

Deem it no Sodom-fruit of vanity, Or fickle fantasy of unripe youth Which ever takes the fairest shows for truth, That I should wish my verse beloved of thee; 'Tis love's deep thirst which may not quenchèd be. There is a gulf of longing and unrest, A wild love-craving not to be represt, Whereto, in all our hearts, as to the sea, The streams of feeling do forever flow. Therefore it is that thy well-meted praise Falleth so shower-like and fresh on me, Filling those springs which else had sunk full low, Lost in the dreary desert-sands of woe, Or parched by passion's fierce and withering blaze.

VII.

Might I but be beloved, and, O most fair And perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee, How should I feel a cloud of earthly care, If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me? O woman's love! O flower most bright and rare! That blossom'st brightest in extremest need, Woe, woe is me! that thy so precious seed Is ever sown by Fancy's changeful air, And grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts, Who can be little even in the light Of thy meek holiness--while souls more great Are left to wander in a starless night, Praying unheard--and yet the hardest parts Befit those best who best can cope with Fate.

VIII.

Why should we ever weary of this life? Our souls should widen ever, not contract, Grow stronger, and not harder, in the strife, Filling each moment with a noble act; If we live thus, of vigor all compact, Doing our duty to our fellow-men, And striving rather to exalt our race Than our poor selves, with earnest hand or pen We shall erect our names a dwelling-place Which not all ages shall cast down agen; Offspring of Time shall then be born each hour, Which, as of old, earth lovingly shall guard, To live forever in youth's perfect flower, And guide her future children Heavenward.

IX.

GREEN MOUNTAINS.

Ye mountains, that far off lift up your heads, Seen dimly through their canopies of blue, The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds Distance-created beauty over you; I am not well content with this far view; How may I know what foot of loved-one treads Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds? We should love all things better, if we knew What claims the meanest have upon our hearts: Perchance even now some eye, that would be bright To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms; Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts To souls that have encircled mine with light-- O brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms!

X.

My friend, adown Life's valley, hand in hand, With grateful change of grave and merry speech Or song, our hearts unlocking each to each, We'll journey onward to the silent land; And when stern Death shall loose that loving band, Taking in his cold hand a hand of ours, The one shall strew the other's grave with flowers, Nor shall his heart a moment be unmanned. My friend and brother! if thou goest first, Wilt thou no more re-visit me below? Yea, when my heart seems happy, causelessly And swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst With joy unspeakable--my soul shall know That thou, unseen, art bending over me.

XI.

Verse cannot say how beautiful thou art, How glorious the calmness of thine eyes, Full of unconquerable energies, Telling that thou hast acted well thy part. No doubt or fear thy steady faith can start, No thought of evil dare come nigh to thee, Who hast the courage meek of purity, The self-stayed greatness of a loving heart, Strong with serene, enduring fortitude; Where'er thou art, that seems thy fitting place, For not of forms, but Nature, art thou child; And lowest things put on a noble grace When touched by ye, O patient, Ruth-like, mild And spotless hands of earnest womanhood.

XII.

The soul would fain its loving kindness tell, But custom hangs like lead upon the tongue; The heart is brimful, hollow crowds among, When it finds one whose life and thought are well; Up to the eyes its gushing love doth swell, The angel cometh and the waters move, Yet it is fearful still to say "I love," And words come grating as a jangled bell. O might we only speak but what we feel, Might the tongue pay but what the heart doth owe, Not Heaven's great thunder, when, deep peal on peal, It shakes the earth, could rouse our spirits so, Or to the soul such majesty reveal, As two short words half-spoken faint and low!

XIII.

I saw a gate: a harsh voice spake and said, "This is the gate of Life;" above was writ, "Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it;" Then shrank my heart within itself for dread; But, softer than the summer rain is shed, Words dropt upon my soul, and they did say, "Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and pray!" So, without fear I lifted up my head, And lo! that writing was not, one fair word Was carven in its stead, and it was "Love." Then rained once more those sweet tones from above With healing on their wings: I humbly heard, "I am the Life, ask and it shall be given! I am the way, by me ye enter Heaven!"

XIV.

To the dark, narrow house where loved ones go, Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door None but the sexton knocks at any more, Are they not sometimes with us yet below? The longings of the soul would tell us so; Although, so pure and fine their being's essence, Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence, Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow, Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever With great thoughts worthy of their high behests Our souls are filled, those bright ones with us be, As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests;-- O let us live so worthily, that never We may be far from that blest company.

XV.

I fain would give to thee the loveliest things, For lovely things belong to thee of right, And thou hast been as peaceful to my sight, As the still thoughts that summer twilight brings; Beneath the shadow of thine angel wings O let me live! O let me rest in thee, Growing to thee more and more utterly, Upbearing and upborn, till outward things Are only as they share in thee a part! Look kindly on me, let thy holy eyes Bless me from the deep fulness of thy heart; So shall my soul in its right strength arise, And nevermore shall pine and shrink and start, Safe-sheltered in thy full souled sympathies.

XVI.

Much I had mused of Love, and in my soul There was one chamber where I dared not look, So much its dark and dreary voidness shook My spirit, feeling that I was not whole: All my deep longings flowed toward one goal For long, long years, but were not answerèd, Till Hope was drooping, Faith well-nigh stone-dead, And I was still a blind, earth-delving mole; Yet did I know that God was wise and good, And would fulfil my being late or soon; Nor was such thought in vain, for, seeing thee, Great Love rose up, as, o'er a black pine wood, Round, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full moon, Filling my soul with glory utterly.

XVII.

Sayest thou, most beautiful, that thou wilt wear Flowers and leafy crowns when thou art old, And that thy heart shall never grow so cold But they shall love to wreath thy silvered hair And into age's snows the hope of spring-tide bear? O, in thy child-like wisdom's moveless hold Dwell ever! still the blessings manifold Of purity, of peace, and untaught care For other's hearts, around thy pathway shed, And thou shalt have a crown of deathless flowers To glorify and guard thy blessèd head And give their freshness to thy life's last hours; And, when the Bridegroom calleth, they shall be A wedding-garment white as snow for thee.

XVIII.

Poet! who sittest in thy pleasant room, Warming thy heart with idle thoughts of love, And of a holy life that leads above, Striving to keep life's spring-flowers still in bloom, And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume-- O, there were other duties meant for thee, Than to sit down in peacefulness and Be! O, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom, Souls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin, So crusted o'er with baseness, that no ray Of heaven's blessed light may enter in! Come down, then, to the hot and dusty way, And lead them back to hope and peace again-- For, save in Act, thy Love is all in vain.

XIX.

"NO MORE BUT SO?"

No more but so? Only with uncold looks, And with a hand not laggard to clasp mine, Think'st thou to pay what debt of love is thine? No more but so? Like gushing water-brooks, Freshening and making green the dimmest nooks Of thy friend's soul thy kindliness should flow; But, if 'tis bounded by not saying "no," I can find more of friendship in my books, All lifeless though they be, and more, far more In every simplest moss, or flower, or tree; Open to me thy heart of hearts' deep core, Or never say that I am dear to thee; Call me not Friend, if thou keep close the door That leads into thine inmost sympathy.

XX.

TO A VOICE HEARD IN MOUNT AUBURN.

Like the low warblings of a leaf-hid bird, Thy voice came to me through the screening trees, Singing the simplest, long-known melodies; I had no glimpse of thee, and yet I heard And blest thee for each clearly-carolled word; I longed to thank thee, and my heart would frame Mary or Ruth, some sisterly, sweet name For thee, yet could I not my lips have stirred; I knew that thou wert lovely, that thine eyes Were blue and downcast, and methought large tears, Unknown to thee, up to their lids must rise With half-sad memories of other years, As to thyself alone thou sangest o'er Words that to childhood seemed to say "No More!"

XXI.

ON READING SPENSER AGAIN.

Dear, gentle Spenser! thou my soul dost lead, A little child again, through Fairy land, By many a bower and stream of golden sand, And many a sunny plain whose light doth breed A sunshine in my happy heart, and feed My fancy with sweet visions; I become A knight, and with my charmèd arms would roam To seek for fame in many a wondrous deed Of high emprize--for I have seen the light Of Una's angel's face, the golden hair And backward eyes of startled Florimel; And, for their holy sake, I would outdare A host of cruel Paynims in the fight, Or Archimage and all the powers of Hell.

XXII.

Light of mine eyes! with thy so trusting look, And thy sweet smile of charity and love, That from a treasure well uplaid above, And from a hope in Christ its blessing took; Light of my heart! which, when it could not brook The coldness of another's sympathy, Finds ever a deep peace and stay in thee, Warm as the sunshine of a mossy nook; Light of my soul! who, by thy saintliness And faith that acts itself in daily life, Canst raise me above weakness, and canst bless The hardest thraldom of my earthly strife-- I dare not say how much thou art to me Even to myself--and O, far less to thee!

XXIII.

Silent as one who treads on new-fallen snow, Love came upon me ere I was aware; Not light of heart, for there was troublous care Upon his eyelids, drooping them full low, As with sad memory of a healèd woe; The cold rain shivered in his golden hair, As if an outcast lot had been his share, And he seemed doubtful whither he should go: Then he fell on my neck, and, in my breast Hiding his face, awhile sobbed bitterly, As half in grief to be so long distrest, And half in joy at his security-- At last, uplooking from his place of rest, His eyes shone blessedness and hope on me.

XXIV.

A gentleness that grows of steady faith; A joy that sheds its sunshine everywhere; A humble strength and readiness to bear Those burthens which strict duty ever lay'th Upon our souls;--which unto sorrow saith, "Here is no soil for thee to strike thy roots, Here only grow those sweet and precious fruits; Which ripen for the soul that well obey'th; A patience which the world can neither give Nor take away; a courage strong and high, That dares in simple usefulness to live, And without one sad look behind to die When that day comes;--these tell me that our love Is building for itself a home above."

XXV.

When the glad soul is full to overflow, Unto the tongue all power it denies, And only trusts its secret to the eyes; For, by an inborn wisdom, it doth know There is no other eloquence but so; And, when the tongue's weak utterance doth suffice, Prisoned within the body's cell it lies, Remembering in tears its exiled woe: That word which all mankind so long to hear, Which bears the spirit back to whence it came, Maketh this sullen clay as crystal clear, And will not be enclouded in a name; It is a truth which we can feel and see, But is as boundless as Eternity.

XXVI.

TO THE EVENING-STAR.

When we have once said lowly "Evening-Star!" Words give no more--for, in thy silver pride, Thou shinest as naught else can shine beside: The thick smoke, coiling round the sooty bar Forever, and the customed lamp-light mar The stillness of my thought--seeing things glide So samely:--then I ope my windows wide, And gaze in peace to where thou shin'st afar. The wind that comes across the faint-white snow So freshly, and the river dimly seen, Seem like new things that never had been so Before; and thou art bright as thou hast been Since thy white rays put sweetness in the eyes Of the first souls that loved in Paradise.

XXVII.

READING.

As one who on some well-known landscape looks, Be it alone, or with some dear friend nigh, Each day beholdeth fresh variety, New harmonies of hills, and trees, and brooks-- So is it with the worthiest choice of books, And oftenest read: if thou no meaning spy, Deem there is meaning wanting in thine eyes; We are so lured from judgment by the crooks And winding ways of covert fantasy, Or turned unwittingly down beaten tracks Of our foregone conclusions, that we see, In our own want, the writer's misdeemed lacks: It is with true books as with Nature, each New day of living doth new insight teach.

XXVIII.

TO ----, AFTER A SNOW-STORM.

Blue as thine eyes the river gently flows Between his banks, which, far as eye can see, Are whiter than aught else on earth may be, Save inmost thoughts that in thy soul repose; The trees all crystalled by the melted snows, Sparkle with gems and silver, such as we In childhood saw 'mong groves of Faërie, And the dear skies are sunny-blue as those; Still as thy heart, when next mine own it lies In love's full safety, is the bracing air; The earth is all enwrapt with draperies Snow-white as that pure love might choose to wear-- O for one moment's look into thine eyes, To share the joy such scene would kindle there!

SONNETS ON NAMES.

EDITH.

A Lily with its frail cup filled with dew, Down-bending modestly, snow-white and pale, Shedding faint fragrance round its native vale, Minds me of thee, Sweet Edith, mild and true, And of thy eyes so innocent and blue, Thy heart is fearful as a startled hare, Yet hath in it a fortitude to bear For Love's sake, and a gentle faith which grew Of Love: need of a stay whereon to lean, Felt in thyself, hath taught thee to uphold And comfort others, and to give, unseen, The kindness thy still love cannot withhold: Maiden, I would my sister thou hadst been, That round thee I my guarding arms might fold.

ROSE.

My ever-lightsome, ever-laughing Rose, Who always speakest first and thinkest last, Thy full voice is as clear as bugle-blast; Right from the ear down to the heart it goes And says, "I'm beautiful! as who but knows?" Thy name reminds me of old romping days, Of kisses stolen in dark passage-ways, Or in the parlor, if the mother-nose Gave sign of drowsy watch. I wonder where Are gone thy tokens, given with a glance So full of everlasting love till morrow, Or a day's endless grieving for the dance Last night denied, backed with a lock of hair, That spake of broken hearts and deadly sorrow.

MARY.

Dark hair, dark eyes--not too dark to be deep And full of feeling, yet enough to glow With fire when angered; feelings never slow, But which seem rather watching to forthleap From her full breast; a gently-flowing sweep Of words in common talk, a torrent-rush, Whenever through her soul swift feelings gush, A heart less ready to be gay than weep, Yet cheerful ever; a calm matron-smile, That bids God bless you; a chaste simpleness, With somewhat, too, of "proper pride," in dress;-- This portrait to my mind's eye came, the while I thought of thee, the well-grown woman Mary, Whilome a gold-haired, laughing little fairy.

CAROLINE.

A staidness sobers o'er her pretty face, Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes, And a quaint look about her lips denies; A lingering love of girlhood you can trace In her checked laugh and half-restrainèd pace; And, when she bears herself most womanly, It seems as if a watchful mother's eye Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace: Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free As water long held back by little hands, Within a pump, and let forth suddenly, Until, her task remembering, she stands A moment silent, smiling doubtfully, Then laughs aloud and scorns her hated bands.

ANNE.

There is a pensiveness in quiet Anne, A mournful drooping of the full gray eye, As if she had shook hands with misery, And known some care since her short life began; Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan, And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack, You feel as if she must be dressed in black; Yet is she not of those who, all they can, Strive to be gay, and striving, seem most sad-- Hers is not grief, but silent soberness; You would be startled if you saw her glad, And startled if you saw her weep, no less; She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath day, She decorously glides to church to pray.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THRENODIA.

Gone, gone from us! and shall we see These sibyl-leaves of destiny, Those calm eyes, nevermore? Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, Wherein the fortunes of the man Lay slumbering in prophetic light, In characters a child might scan? So bright, and gone forth utterly! O stern word--Nevermore!

The stars of those two gentle eyes Will shine no more on earth; Quenched are the hopes that had their birth, As we watched them slowly rise, Stars of a mother's fate; And she would read them o'er and o'er, Pondering as she sate, Over their dear astrology, Which she had conned and conned before, Deeming she needs must read aright What was writ so passing bright. And yet, alas! she knew not why, Her voice would falter in its song, And tears would slide from out her eye, Silent, as they were doing wrong. O stern word--Nevermore!

The tongue that scarce had learned to claim An entrance to a mother's heart By that dear talisman, a mother's name, Sleeps all forgetful of its art! I loved to see the infant soul (How mighty in the weakness Of its untutored meekness!) Peep timidly from out its nest, His lips, the while, Fluttering with half-fledged words, Or hushing to a smile That more than words expressed, When his glad mother on him stole And snatched him to her breast! O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, That would have soared like strong-winged birds Far, far, into the skies, Gladding the earth with song, And gushing harmonies, Had he but tarried with us long! O stern word--Nevermore!

How peacefully they rest, Crossfolded there Upon his little breast, Those small, white hands that ne'er were still before, But ever sported with his mother's hair, Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore! Her heart no more will beat To feel the touch of that soft palm, That ever seemed a new surprise Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes To bless him with their holy calm,-- Sweet thoughts! they made her eyes as sweet. How quiet are the hands That wove those pleasant bands! But that they do not rise and sink With his calm breathing, I should think That he were dropped asleep. Alas! too deep, too deep Is this his slumber! Time scarce can number The years ere he will wake again. O, may we see his eyelids open then! O stern word--Nevermore!

As the airy gossamere, Floating in the sunlight clear, Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly, Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, So from his spirit wandered out Tendrils spreading all about, Knitting all things to its thrall With a perfect love of all: O stern word--Nevermore!

He did but float a little way Adown the stream of time, With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, Or listening their fairy chime; His slender sail Ne'er felt the gale; He did but float a little way, And, putting to the shore While yet 'twas early day, Went calmly on his way, To dwell with us no more! No jarring did he feel, No grating on his vessel's keel, A strip of silver sand Mingled the waters with the land Where he was seen no more: O stern word--Nevermore!

Full short his journey was; no dust Of earth unto his sandals clave; The weary weight that old men must, He bore not to the grave. He seemed a cherub who had lost his way And wandered hither, so his stay With us was short, and 'twas most meet That he should be no delver in earth's clod Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet To stand before his God: O blest word--Evermore!

1839.

THE SIRENS.

The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The sea is restless and uneasy; Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, Wandering thou knowest not whither;-- Our little isle is green and breezy, Come and rest thee! O come hither; Come to this peaceful home of ours, Where evermore The low west-wind creeps panting up the shore To be at rest among the flowers; Full of rest, the green moss lifts, As the dark waves of the sea Draw in and out of rocky rifts, Calling solemnly to thee With voices deep and hollow,-- "To the shore Follow! O, follow! To be at rest forevermore! Forevermore!"

Look how the gray old Ocean From the depth of his heart rejoices, Heaving with a gentle motion, When he hears our restful voices; List how he sings in an under-tone, Chiming with our melody; And all sweet sounds of earth and air Melt into one low voice alone, That murmurs over the weary sea, And seems to sing from everywhere,-- "Here mayst thou harbor peacefully, Here mayst thou rest from the aching oar; Turn thy curvèd prow ashore, And in our green isle rest for evermore! Forevermore!" And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep, Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, "Evermore!" Thus, on Life's weary sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, from far and near, Ever singing low and clear, Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be, Than to be toiling late and soon? In the dreary night to see Nothing but the blood-red moon Go up and down into the sea; Or, in the loneliness of day, To see the still seals only Solemnly lift their faces gray, Making it yet more lonely? Is it not better, than to hear Only the sliding of the wave Beneath the plank, and feel so near A cold and lonely grave, A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Even in death unquietly? Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the sidelong shark Upturnèd patiently, Ever waiting there for thee: Look down and see those shapeless forms, Which ever keep their dreamless sleep Far down within the gloomy deep, And only stir themselves in storms, Rising like islands from beneath, And snorting through the angry spray, As the frail vessel perisheth In the whirls of their unwieldy play; Look down! Look down! Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, That waves its arms so lank and brown, Beckoning for thee! Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Into the cold depth of the sea! Look down! Look down! Thus on Life's lonely sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sad, from far and near, Ever singing full of fear, Ever singing drearfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream; The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, The green grass floweth like a stream Into the ocean's blue; Listen! O, listen! Here is a gush of many streams, A song of many birds, And every wish and longing seems Lulled to a numbered flow of words,-- Listen! O, listen! Here ever hum the golden bees Underneath full-blossomed trees, At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned;-- The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land All around with a slumberous sound, The singing waves slide up the strand, And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, The waters gurgle longingly, As if they fain would seek the shore, To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, To be at rest forevermore,-- Forevermore. Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, from far and near, Ever singing in his ear, "Here is rest and peace for thee."

|Nantasket|, July, 1840.

IRENÉ.

Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear, Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, Free without boldness, meek without a fear, Quicker to look than speak its sympathies; Far down into her large and patient eyes I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, I look into the fathomless blue skies.

So circled lives she with Love's holy light, That from the shade of self she walketh free; The garden of her soul still keepeth she An Eden where the snake did never enter; She hath a natural, wise sincerity, A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her A dignity as moveless as the centre; So that no influence of earth can stir Her steadfast courage, nor can take away The holy peacefulness, which, night and day, Unto her queenly soul doth minister.

Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, child-like gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear; And, though herself not unacquaint with care, Hath in her heart wide room for all that be,-- Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, But open is as eglantine full blown. Cloudless forever is her brow serene, Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence Welleth a noiseless spring of patience, That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green And full of holiness, that every look, The greatness of her woman's soul revealing, Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling As when I read in God's own holy book.

A graciousness in giving that doth make The small'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake;-- The deep religion of a thankful heart, Which rests instinctively in Heaven's law With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness;--a holy awe For holy things,--not those which men call holy, But such as are revealèd to the eyes Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly Before the face of daily mysteries;-- A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly To the full goldenness of fruitful prime, Enduring with a firmness that defies All shallow tricks of circumstance and time, By a sure insight knowing where to cling, And where it clingeth never withering;-- These are Irené's dowry, which no fate Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state.

In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth No less than loveth, scorning to be bound With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes, Giving itself a pang for others' sakes; No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye, Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride That passeth by upon the other side; For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. Right from the hand of God her spirit came Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence It came, nor wandered far from thence, But laboreth to keep her still the same, Near to her place of birth, that she may not Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot.

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth, But her whole thought would almost seem to be How to make glad one lowly human hearth; For with a gentle courage she doth strive In thought and word and feeling so to live As to make earth next heaven; and her heart Herein doth show its most exceeding worth, That, bearing in our frailty her just part, She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, But hath gone calmly forth into the strife, And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood With lofty strength of patient womanhood: For this I love her great soul more than all, That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall, She walks so bright and heaven-like therein,-- Too wise, too meek, too womanly, to sin.

Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen By sailors, tempest-toss'd upon the sea, Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh, Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been, Her sight as full of hope and calm to me;-- For she unto herself hath builded high A home serene, wherein to lay her head, Earth's noblest thing, a Woman perfected.

1840.

SERENADE.

From the close-shut windows gleams no spark, The night is chilly, the night is dark, The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan, My hair by the autumn breeze is blown, Under thy window I sing alone, Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The darkness is pressing coldly around, The windows shake with a lonely sound, The stars are hid and the night is drear, The heart of silence throbs in thine ear, In thy chamber thou sittest alone, Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The world is happy, the world is wide, Kind hearts are beating on every side; Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled Alone in the shell of this great world? Why should we any more be alone? Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

O, 'tis a bitter and dreary word, The saddest by man's ear ever heard! We each are young, we each have a heart, Why stand we ever coldly apart? Must we forever, then, be alone? Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

1840.

WITH A PRESSED FLOWER.

This little flower from afar Hath come from other lands to thine; For, once, its white and drooping star Could see its shadow in the Rhine.

Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk, And numbered over, half afraid, Its petals in her evening walk.

"He loves me, loves me not," she cries; "He loves me more than earth or heaven!" And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven.

And thou must count its petals well, Because it is a gift from me; And the last one of all shall tell Something I've often told to thee.

But here at home, where we were born, Thou wilt find flowers just as true, Down-bending every summer morn With freshness of New-England dew.

For Nature, ever kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above, Or here our granite rocks among.

1840.

THE BEGGAR.

A beggar, through the world am I,-- From place to place I wander by. Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, For Christ's sweet sake and charity!

A little of thy steadfastness, Rounded with leafy gracefulness, Old oak, give me,-- That the world's blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro, While my stout-hearted trunk below And firm-set roots unshaken be.

Some of thy stern, unyielding might, Enduring still through day and night Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,-- That I may keep at bay The changeful April sky of chance And the strong tide of circumstance,-- Give me, old granite gray.

Some of thy pensiveness serene, Some of thy never-dying green, Put in this scrip of mine,-- That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light, And deck me in a robe of white, Ready to be an angel bright,-- O sweetly-mournful pine.

A little of thy merriment, Of thy sparkling, light content, Give me, my cheerful brook,-- That I may still be full of glee And gladsomeness, where'er I be, Though fickle fate hath prisoned me In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good To me, since I've been in the wood; Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart; But good-bye, kind friends, every one, I've far to go ere set of sun; Of all good things I would have part, The day was high ere I could start, And so my journey's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget To beg of thee, dear violet! Some of thy modesty, That blossoms here as well, unseen, As if before the world thou'dst been, O, give, to strengthen me.

1839.

MY LOVE.

I.

Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near.

II.

Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

III.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share.

IV.

She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemèd in her eyes.

V.

She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth.

VI.

Blessing she is: God made her so, And deeds of weekday holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless.

VII.

She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

VIII.

She is a woman: one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears.

IX.

I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, And yet doth ever flow aright.

X.

And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh and fair and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

1840.

SUMMER STORM.

Untremulous in the river clear, Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge So still the air that I can hear The slender clarion of the unseen midge; Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep, Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases, Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases, The huddling trample of a drove of sheep Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases In dust on the other side; life's emblem deep, A confused noise between two silences, Finding at last in dust precarious peace. On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming tide Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide Wavers the long green sedge's shade from side to side; But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge, Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened spray; Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge, And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway.

Suddenly all the sky is hid As with the shutting of a lid, One by one great drops are falling Doubtful and slow, Down the pane they are crookedly crawling, And the wind breathes low; Slowly the circles widen on the river, Widen and mingle, one and all; Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver, Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall.

Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter, The wind is gathering in the west; The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter, Then droop to a fitful rest; Up from the stream with sluggish flap Struggles the gull and floats away; Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap,-- We shall not see the sun go down to-day: Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, And tramples the grass with terrified feet, The startled river turns leaden and harsh. You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat.

Look! look! that livid flash! And instantly follows the rattling thunder, As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, On the Earth, which crouches in silence under; And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile; For a breath's space I see the blue wood again, And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile, That seemed but now a league aloof, Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof; Against the windows the storm comes dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, The blue lightning flashes, The rapid hail clashes, The white waves are tumbling, And, in one baffled roar, Like the toothless sea mumbling A rock-bristled shore, The thunder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling,-- Will silence return never more?

Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still; Again, now, now, again Plashes the rain in heavy gouts, The crinkled lightning Seems ever brightening, And loud and long Again the thunder shouts His battle-song,-- One quivering flash, One wildering crash, Followed by silence dead and dull, As if the cloud, let go, Leapt bodily below To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow, And then a total lull.

Gone, gone, so soon! No more my half-crazed fancy there Can shape a giant in the air, No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form;-- The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me.

1839.

LOVE.

True Love is but a humble, low-born thing, And hath its food served up in earthen ware; It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, Through the everydayness of this work-day world, Baring its tender feet to every roughness, Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray From Beauty's law of plainness and content. A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a home; Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must, And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless, Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth In bleak November, and, with thankful heart, Smile on its ample stores of garnered fruit, As full of sunshine to our aged eyes As when it nursed the blossoms of our spring. Such is true Love, which steals into the heart With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark, And hath its will through blissful gentleness,-- Not like a rocket, which, with savage glare, Whirrs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night Painfully quivering on the dazèd eyes; A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults, Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points, But loving-kindly ever looks them down With the o'ercoming faith of meek forgiveness; A love that shall be new and fresh each hour, As is the golden mystery of sunset, Or the sweet coming of the evening star, Alike, and yet most unlike, every day, And seeming ever best and fairest now; A love that doth not kneel for what it seeks, But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer, Showing its worthiness of noble thoughts By a clear sense of inward nobleness; A love that in its object findeth not All grace and beauty, and enough to sate Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good Found there, it sees but Heaven-granted types Of good and beauty in the soul of man, And traces, in the simplest heart that beats, A family-likeness to its chosen one, That claims of it the rights of brotherhood. For love is blind but with the fleshly eye, That so its inner sight may be more clear; And outward shows of beauty only so Are needful at the first, as is a hand To guide and to uphold an infant's steps: Great spirits need them not: their earnest look Pierces the body's mask of thin disguise, And beauty ever is to them revealed, Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of clay, With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze, Yearning to be but understood and loved.

1840.

TO PERDITA, SINGING.

Thy voice is like a fountain, Leaping up in clear moonshine; Silver, silver, ever mounting, Ever sinking, Without thinking, To that brimful heart of thine.

Every sad and happy feeling, Thou hast had in bygone years, Through thy lips come stealing, stealing, Clear and low; All thy smiles and all thy tears In thy voice awaken, And sweetness, wove of joy and woe, From their teaching it hath taken Feeling and music move together, Like a swan and shadow ever Heaving on a sky-blue river In a day of cloudless weather.

It hath caught a touch of sadness, Yet it is not sad; It hath tones of clearest gladness, Yet it is not glad; A dim, sweet, twilight voice it is Where to-day's accustomed blue Is over-grayed with memories, With starry feelings quivered through.

Thy voice is like a fountain Leaping up in sunshine bright, And I never weary counting Its clear droppings, lone and single, Or when in one full gush they mingle, Shooting in melodious light.

Thine is music such as yields Feelings of old brooks and fields, And, around this pent-up room, Sheds a woodland, free perfume; O, thus forever sing to me! O, thus forever! The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me, Flowing like an emerald river, And the bright blue skies above! O, sing them back, as fresh as ever, Into the bosom of my love,-- The sunshine and the merriment, The unsought, evergreen content, Of that never cold time, The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went Through and through the old time!

Peace sits within thine eyes, With white hands crossed in joyful rest, While, through thy lips and face, arise The melodies from out thy breast; She sits and sings, With folded wings And white arms crost, "Weep not for passed things, They are not lost: The beauty which the summer time O'er thine opening spirit shed, The forest oracles sublime That filled thy soul with joyous dread, The scent of every smallest flower That made thy heart sweet for an hour,-- Yea, every holy influence, Flowing to thee, thou knewest not whence, In thine eyes to-day is seen, Fresh as it hath ever been; Promptings of Nature, beckonings sweet, Whatever led thy childish feet, Still will linger unawares The guiders of thy silver hairs; Every look and every word Which thou givest forth to-day, Tell of the singing of the bird Whose music stilled thy boyish play."

Thy voice is like a fountain, Twinkling up in sharp starlight, When the moon behind the mountain Dims the low East with faintest white, Ever darkling, Ever sparkling, We know not if 'tis dark or bright; But, when the great moon hath rolled round, And, sudden-slow, its solemn power Grows from behind its black, clear-edged bound, No spot of dark the fountain keepeth, But, swift as opening eyelids, leapeth Into a waving silver flower.

1841.

THE MOON.

My soul was like the sea, Before the moon was made, Moaning in vague immensity, Of its own strength afraid, Unrestful and unstaid.

Through every rift it foamed in vain, About its earthly prison, Seeking some unknown thing in pain, And sinking restless back again, For yet no moon had risen: Its only voice a vast dumb moan, Of utterless anguish speaking, It lay unhopefully alone, And lived but in an aimless seeking.

So was my soul; but when'twas full Of unrest to o'erloading, A voice of something beautiful Whispered a dim foreboding, And yet so soft, so sweet, so low, It had not more of joy than woe; And, as the sea doth oft lie still, Making its waters meet, As if by an unconscious will, For the moon's silver feet, So lay my soul within mine eyes When thou, its guardian moon, didst rise. And now, howe'er its waves above May toss and seem uneaseful, One strong, eternal law of Love, With guidance sure and peaceful, As calm and natural as breath, Moves its great deeps through life and death.

REMEMBERED MUSIC.

A FRAGMENT.

Thick-rushing, like an ocean vast Of bisons the far prairie shaking, The notes crowd heavily and fast As surfs, one plunging while the last Draws seaward from its foamy breaking.

Or in low murmurs they began, Rising and rising momently, As o'er a harp Æolian A fitful breeze, until they ran Up to a sudden ecstasy.

And then, like minute drops of rain Ringing in water silvery, They lingering dropped and dropped again, Till it was almost like a pain To listen when the next would be.

1840.

SONG.

TO M. L.

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, A lily-bud not opened quite, That hourly grew more pure and white, By morning, and noontide, and evening nursed: In all of nature thou hadst thy share; Thou wast waited on By the wind and sun; The rain and the dew for thee took care; It seemed thou never couldst be more fair.

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, A lily-bud; but O, how strange, How full of wonder was the change, When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full bloom burst! How did the tears to my glad eyes start, When the woman-flower Reached its blossoming hour, And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart!

Glad death may pluck thee, but never before The gold dust of thy bloom divine Hath dropped from thy heart into mine, To quicken its faint germs of heavenly lore; For no breeze comes nigh thee but carries away Some impulses bright Of fragrance and light, Which fall upon souls that are lone and astray, To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day.

ALLEGRA.

I would more natures were like thine, That never casts a glance before,-- Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine So lavishly to all dost pour, That we who drink forget to pine, And can but dream of bliss in store.

Thou canst not see a shade in life; With sunward instinct thou dost rise, And, leaving clouds below at strife, Gazest undazzled at the skies, With all their blazing splendors rife, A songful lark with eagle's eyes.

Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth; Some influence more gay than ours Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, As if thy natal stars were flowers That shook their seeds round thee on earth.

And thou, to lull thine infant rest, Wast cradled like an Indian child; All pleasant winds from south and west With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest, Till Nature looked at thee and smiled.

Thine every fancy seems to borrow A sunlight from thy childish years, Making a golden cloud of sorrow, A hope-lit rainbow out of tears,-- Thy heart is certain of to-morrow, Though 'yond to-day it never peers.

I would more natures were like thine, So innocently wild and free, Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and shine, Like sunny wavelets in the sea, Making us mindless of the brine, In gazing on the brilliancy.

THE FOUNTAIN.

Into the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing From morn till night!

Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow!

Into the starlight, Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day!

Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery. Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary;--

Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best, Upward or downward, Motion thy rest;--

Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same;--

Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine Thy element;--

Glorious fountain! Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, Upward, like thee!

ODE.

I.

In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife; He saw the mysteries which circle under The outward shell and skin of daily life. Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, His soul was led by the eternal law; There was in him no hope of fame, no passion, But, with calm, god-like eyes, he only saw. He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried, Chief-mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried Alone were fitting themes of epic verse: He could believe the promise of to-morrow, And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day; He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow Than the world's seeming loss could take away. To know the heart of all things was his duty, All things did sing to him to make him wise, And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty, The soul of all looked grandly from his eyes. He gazed on all within him and without him, He watched the flowing of Time's steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him And whispered to him, and he prophesied. Than all men he more fearless was and freer, And all his brethren cried with one accord,-- "Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer! Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!" He to his heart with large embrace had taken The universal sorrow of mankind, And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. He could interpret well the wondrous voices Which to the calm and silent spirit come; He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices In the star's anthem than the insect's hum. He in his heart was ever meek and humble, And yet with kingly pomp his numbers ran, As he foresaw how all things false should crumble Before the free, uplifted soul of man: And, when he was made full to overflowing With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, Out rushed his song, like molten iron glowing, To show God sitting by the humblest hearth. With calmest courage he was ever ready To teach that action was the truth of thought, And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady, An anchor for the drifting world he wrought. So did he make the meanest man partaker Of all his brother-gods unto him gave; All souls did reverence him and name him Maker, And when he died heaped temples on his grave. And still his deathless words of light are swimming Serene throughout the great, deep infinite Of human soul, unwaning and undimming, To cheer and guide the mariner at night.

II.

But now the Poet is an empty rhymer Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, To all men's prides and fancies as they pass. Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars. Maker no more,--O, no! unmaker rather, For he unmakes who doth not all put forth The power given by our loving Father To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth. Awake! great spirit of the ages olden! Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, And let man's soul be yet again beholden To thee for wings to soar to her desire. O, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, Be no more shame-faced to speak out for Truth, Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth! O, prophesy no more the Maker's coming, Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear In the dim void, like to the awful humming Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere. O, prophesy no more, but be the Poet! This longing was but granted unto thee That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it, That beauty in its highest thou couldst be. O, thou who moanest tost with sea-like longings, Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews And soul by Mother-Earth with freedom fed, In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, The old free nature is not chained or dead, Arouse! let thy soul break in music-thunder, Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder And tell the age what all its signs have meant, Where'er thy wildered crowd of brethren jostles, Where'er there lingers but a shade of wrong, There still is need of martyrs and apostles, There still are texts for never-dying song: From age to age man's still aspiring spirit Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes, And thou in larger measure dost inherit What made thy great forerunners free and wise. Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain, That all may drink and find the rest they seek. Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven, A silence of deep awe and wondering; For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, To hear a mortal like an angel sing.

III.

Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking For one to bring the Maker's name to light, To be the voice of that almighty speaking Which every age demands to do it right. Proprieties our silken bards environ; He who would be the tongue of this wide land Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron And strike it with a toil-embrownèd hand; One who hath dwelt with Nature well-attended, Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books, Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended, So that all beauty awes us in his looks; Who not with body's waste his soul hath pampered, Who as the clear northwestern wind is free, Who walks with Form's observances unhampered, And follows the One Will obediently; Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit, Control a lovely prospect every way; Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet, And find a bottom still of worthless clay; Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working, Knowing that one sure wind blows on above, And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking, One God-built shrine of reverence and love; Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches Around the centre fixed of Destiny, Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches The moving globe of being like a sky; Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are nearer Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom dearer Than that of all his brethren, low or high; Who to the Right can feel himself the truer For being gently patient with the wrong, Who sees a brother in the evil-doer, And finds in Love the heart's-blood of his song;-- This, this is he for whom the world is waiting To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, Too long hath it been patient with the grating Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art. To him the smiling soul of man shall listen, Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside, And once again in every eye shall glisten The glory of a nature satisfied. His verse shall have a great, commanding motion, Heaving and swelling with a melody Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean, And all the pure, majestic things that be. Awake, then, thou! we pine for thy great presence To make us feel the soul once more sublime, We are of far too infinite an essence To rest contented with the lies of Time. Speak out! and, lo! a hush of deepest wonder Shall sink o'er all this many-voicèd scene, As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene.

1841.

THE FATHERLAND.

Where is the true man's fatherland? Is it where he by chance is born? Doth not the yearning spirit scorn In such scant borders to be spanned? O, yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is, Where God is God and man is man? Doth he not claim a broader span For the soul's love of home than this? O, yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

Where'er a human heart doth wear Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves, Where'er a human spirit strives After a life more true and fair, There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland!

Where'er a single slave doth pine, Where'er one man may help another,-- Thank God for such a birthright, brother,-- That spot of earth is thine and mine! There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland!

THE FORLORN.

The night is dark, the stinging sleet, Swept by the bitter gusts of air, Drives whistling down the lonely street, And stiffens on the pavement bare.

The street-lamps flare and struggle dim Through the white sleet-clouds as they pass, Or, governed by a boisterous whim, Drop down and rattle on the glass.

One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl Faces the east-wind's searching flaws, And, as about her heart they whirl, Her tattered cloak more tightly draws.

The flat brick walls look cold and bleak, Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze; Yet dares she not a shelter seek, Though faint with hunger and disease.

The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, And, piercing through her garments thin, Beats on her shrunken breast, and there Makes colder the cold heart within.

She lingers where a ruddy glow Streams outward through an open shutter, Adding more bitterness to woe, More loneness to desertion utter.

One half the cold she had not felt, Until she saw this gush of light Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt Its slow way through the deadening night.

She hears a woman's voice within, Singing sweet words her childhood knew, And years of misery and sin Furl off, and leave her heaven blue.

Her freezing heart, like one who sinks Outwearied in the drifting snow, Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks No longer of its hopeless woe:

Old fields, and clear blue summer days, Old meadows, green with grass and trees That shimmer through the trembling haze And whiten in the western breeze,--

Old faces,--all the friendly past Rises within her heart again, And sunshine from her childhood cast Makes summer of the icy rain.

Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow, From all humanity apart, She hears old footsteps wandering slow Through the lone chambers of her heart.

Outside the porch before the door, Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone, She lies, no longer foul and poor, No longer dreary and alone.

Next morning something heavily Against the opening door did weigh, And there, from sin and sorrow free, A woman on the threshold lay.

A smile upon the wan lips told That she had found a calm release, And that, from out the want and cold, The song had borne her soul in peace.

For, whom the heart of man shuts out, Sometimes the heart of God takes in, And fences them all round about With silence mid the world's loud din;

And one of his great charities Is Music, and it doth not scorn To close the lids upon the eyes Of the polluted and forlorn;

Far was she from her childhood's home, Farther in guilt had wandered thence, Yet thither it had bid her come To die in maiden innocence.

1842.

MIDNIGHT.

The moon shines white and silent On the mist, which, like a tide Of some enchanted ocean, O'er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost-like billows Silently far and wide.

A vague and starry magic Makes all things mysteries, And lures the earth's dumb spirit Up to the longing skies,-- I seem to hear dim whispers, And tremulous replies.

The fireflies o'er the meadow In pulses come and go; The elm-trees' heavy shadow Weighs on the grass below; And faintly from the distance The dreaming cock doth crow.

All things look strange and mystic, The very bushes swell And take wild shapes and motions, As if beneath a spell,-- They seem not the same lilacs From childhood known so well.

The snow of deepest silence O'er everything doth fall, So beautiful and quiet, And yet so like a pall,-- As if all life were ended, And rest were come to all.

O wild and wondrous midnight, There is a might in thee To make the charmèd body Almost like spirit be, And give it some faint glimpses Of immortality!

1842.

A PRAYER.

God! do not let my loved one die, But rather wait until the time That I am grown in purity Enough to enter thy pure clime Then take me, I will gladly go, So that my love remain below!

O, let her stay! She is by birth What I through death must learn to be, We need her more on our poor earth, Than thou canst need in heaven with thee; She hath her wings already, I Must burst this earth-shell ere I fly.

Then, God, take me! We shall be near, More near than ever, each to each: Her angel ears will find more clear My heavenly than my earthly speech; And still, as I draw nigh to thee, Her soul and mine shall closer be.

1841.

THE HERITAGE.

The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

O, rich man's son! there is a toil, That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white hands,-- This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to be, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O, poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign, A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

THE ROSE: A BALLAD.

I.

In his tower sat the poet Gazing on the roaring sea, "Take this rose," he sighed, "and throw it Where there's none that loveth me. On the rock the billow bursteth And sinks back into the seas, But in vain my spirit thirsteth So to burst and be at ease. Take, O, sea! the tender blossom That hath lain against my breast; On thy black and angry bosom It will find a surer rest. Life is vain, and love is hollow, Ugly death stands there behind, Hate and scorn and hunger follow Him that toileth for his kind." Forth into the night he hurled it, And with bitter smile did mark How the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark. Foam and spray drive back to leeward, And the gale, with dreary moan, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, Through the breakers all alone.

II.

Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow, Tracing words upon the sand: "Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long,-- Ever to this sick heart fold him,-- Be the spirit of his song? Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forevermore!" Swells the tide and overflows it, But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone."

III.

In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the noon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night. Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden-lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. "Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind. Hope is truth,--the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth Nearer God from day to day." Not a word the maiden uttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek.

1842.

A LEGEND OF BRITTANY.

PART FIRST.

I.

Fair as a summer dream was Margaret,-- Such dream as in a poet's soul might start, Musing of old loves while the moon doth set: Her hair was not more sunny than her heart, Though like a natural golden coronet It circled her dear head with careless art, Mocking the sunshine, that would fain have lent To its frank grace a richer ornament.

II.

His loved one's eyes could poet ever speak, So kind, so dewy, and so deep were hers,-- But, while he strives, the choicest phrase, too weak Their glad reflection in his spirit blurs; As one may see a dream dissolve and break Out of his grasp when he to tell it stirs, Like that sad Dryad doomed no more to bless The mortal who revealed her loveliness.

III.

She dwelt forever in a region bright, Peopled with living fancies of her own, Where naught could come but visions of delight, Far, far aloof from earth's eternal moan: A summer cloud thrilled through with rosy light, Floating beneath the blue sky all alone, Her spirit wandered by itself, and won A golden edge from some unsetting sun.

IV.

The heart grows richer that its lot is poor,-- God blesses want with larger sympathies,-- Love enters gladliest at the humble door, And makes the cot a palace with his eyes; So Margaret's heart a softer beauty wore, And grew in gentleness and patience wise, For she was but a simple herdsman's child, A lily chance-sown in the rugged wild.

V.

There was no beauty of the wood or field But she its fragrant bosom-secret knew, Nor any but to her would freely yield Some grace that in her soul took root and grew: Nature to her glowed ever new-revealed, All rosy fresh with innocent morning dew, And looked into her heart with dim, sweet eyes That left it full of sylvan memories.

VI.

O, what a face was hers to brighten light, And give back sunshine with an added glow, To wile each moment with a fresh delight, And part of memory's best contentment grow! O, how her voice, as with an inmate's right, Into the strangest heart would welcome go, And make it sweet, and ready to become Of white and gracious thoughts the chosen home!

VII.

None looked upon her but he straightway thought Of all the greenest depths of country cheer, And into each one's heart was freshly brought What was to him the sweetest time of year, So was her every look and motion fraught With out-of-door delights and forest lere: Not the first violet on a woodland lea Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she.

VIII.

Is love learned only out of poets' books? Is there not somewhat in the dropping flood, And in the nunneries of silent nooks, And in the murmured longing of the wood, That could make Margaret dream of lovelorn looks, And stir a thrilling mystery in her blood More trembly secret than Aurora's tear Shed in the bosom of an eglatere?

IX.

Full many a sweet forewarning hath the mind, Full many a whispering of vague desire, Ere comes the nature destined to unbind Its virgin zone, and all its deeps inspire,-- Low stirrings in the leaves, before the wind Wakes all the green strings of the forest lyre, Faint heatings in the calyx, ere the rose Its warm voluptuous breast doth all unclose.

X.

Long in its dim recesses pines the spirit, Wildered and dark, despairingly alone; Though many a shape of beauty wander near it, And many a wild and half-remembered tone Tremble from the divine abyss to cheer it, Yet still it knows that there is only one Before whom it can kneel and tribute bring, At once a happy vassal and a king.

XI.

To feel a want, yet scarce know what it is, To seek one nature that is always new, Whose glance is warmer than another's kiss, Whom we can bare our inmost beauty to, Nor feel deserted afterwards,--for this But with our destined co-mate we can do,-- Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope Of the young soul with one mysterious hope.

XII.

So Margaret's heart grew brimming with the lore Of love's enticing secrets; and although She had found none to cast it down before, Yet oft to Fancy's chapel she would go To pay her vows, and count the rosary o'er Of her love's promised graces:--haply so Miranda's hope had pictured Ferdinand Long ere the gaunt wave tossed him on the strand.

XIII.

A new-made star that swims the lonely gloom, Unwedded yet and longing for the sun, Whose beams, the bride-gifts of the lavish groom Blithely to crown the virgin planet run, Her being was, watching to see the bloom Of love's fresh sunrise roofing one by one Its clouds with gold, a triumph-arch to be For him who came to hold her heart in fee.

XIV.

Not far from Margaret's cottage dwelt a knight Of the proud Templars, a sworn celibate, Whose heart in secret fed upon the light And dew of her ripe beauty, through the grate Of his close vow catching what gleams he might Of the free heaven, and cursing--all too late-- The cruel faith whose black walls hemmed him in, And turned life's crowning bliss to deadly sin.

XV.

For he had met her in the wood by chance, And, having drunk her beauty's wildering spell, His heart shook like the pennon of a lance That quivers in a breeze's sudden swell, And thenceforth, in a close-enfolded trance, From mistily golden deep to deep he fell; Till earth did waver and fade far away Beneath the hope in whose warm arms he lay.

XVI.

A dark, proud man he was, whose half-blown youth Had shed its blossoms even in opening, Leaving a few that with more winning ruth Trembling around grave manhood's stem might cling, More sad than cheery, making, in good sooth, Like the fringed gentian, a late autumn spring:-- A twilight nature, braided light and gloom, A youth half-smiling by an open tomb.

XVII.

Fair as an angel, who yet inly wore A wrinkled heart foreboding his near fall; Who saw him always wished to know him more, As if he were some fate's defiant thrall And nursed a dreaded secret at its core; Little he loved, but power most of all, And that he seemed to scorn, as one who knew By what foul paths men choose to crawl thereto.

XVIII.

He had been noble, but some great deceit Had turned his better instinct to a vice: He strove to think the world was all a cheat, That power and fame were cheap at any price, That the sure way of being shortly great Was even to play life's game with loaded dice, Since he had tried the honest play and found That vice and virtue differed but in sound.

XIX.

Yet Margaret's sight redeemed him for a space From his own thraldom; man could never be A hypocrite when first such maiden grace Smiled in upon his heart; the agony Of wearing all day long a lying face Fell lightly from him, and, a moment free, Erect with wakened faith his spirit stood And scorned the weakness of its demon-mood.

XX.

Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her thought, Which would not let the common air come near, Till from its dim enchantment it had caught A musical tenderness that brimmed his ear With sweetness more ethereal than aught Save silver-dropping snatches that whilere Rained down from some sad angel's faithful harp To cool her fallen lover's anguish sharp.

XXI.

Deep in the forest was a little dell High overarchèd with the leafy sweep Of a broad oak, through whose gnarled roots there fell A slender rill that sung itself asleep, Where its continuous toil had scooped a well To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook From its small urn a drizzly murmur shook.

XXII.

The wooded hills sloped upward all around With gradual rise, and made an even rim, So that it seemed a mighty casque unbound From some huge Titan's brow to lighten him, Ages ago, and left upon the ground, Where the slow soil had mossed it to the brim, Till after countless centuries it grew Into this dell, the haunt of noontide dew.

XXIII.

Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun-flecked green, Wound through the thickset trunks on every side, And, toward the west, in fancy might be seen A gothic window in its blazing pride, When the low sun, two arching elms between, Lit up the leaves beyond, which, autumn-dyed With lavish hues, would into splendor start, Shaming the labored panes of richest art.

XXIV.

Here, leaning once against the old oak's trunk, Mordred, for such was the young Templar's name, Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon shrunk From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame Made him forget that he was vowed a monk, And all the outworks of his pride o'ercame: Flooded he seemed with bright delicious pain, As if a star had burst within his brain.

XXV.

Such power hath beauty and frank innocence: A flower bloomed forth, that sunshine glad to bless, Even from his love's long leafless stem; the sense Of exile from Hope's happy realm grew less, And thoughts of childish peace, he knew not whence, Thronged round his heart with many an old caress, Melting the frost there into pearly dew That mirrored back his nature's morning-blue.

XXVI.

She turned and saw him, but she felt no dread, Her purity, like adamantine mail, Did so encircle her; and yet her head She drooped, and made her golden hair her veil, Through which a glow of rosiest lustre spread, Then faded, and anon she stood all pale, As snow o'er which a blush of northern-light Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows white.

XXVII.

She thought of Tristrem and of Lancilot, Of all her dreams, and of kind fairies' might, And how that dell was deemed a haunted spot, Until there grew a mist before her sight, And where the present was she half forgot, Borne backward through the realms of old delight,-- Then, starting up awake, she would have gone, Yet almost wished it might not be alone.

XXVIII.

How they went home together through the wood, And how all life seemed focussed into one Thought-dazzling spot that set ablaze the blood, What need to tell? Fit language there is none For the heart's deepest things. Who ever wooed As in his boyish hope he would have done? For, when the soul is fullest, the hushed tongue Voicelessly trembles like a lute unstrung.

XXIX.

But all things carry the heart's messages And know it not, nor doth the heart well know, But nature hath her will; even as the bees, Blithe go-betweens, fly singing to and fro With the fruit-quickening pollen;--hard if these Found not some all unthought-of way to show Their secret each to each; and so they did, And one heart's flower-dust into the other slid.

XXX.

Young hearts are free; the selfish world it is That turns them miserly and cold as stone, And makes them clutch their fingers on the bliss Which but in giving truly is their own;-- She had no dreams of barter, asked not his, But gave hers freely as she would have thrown A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth Its generous fragrance, thoughtless of its worth.

XXXI.

Her summer nature felt a need to bless, And a like longing to be blest again; So, from her sky-like spirit, gentleness Dropt ever like a sunlit fall of rain, And his beneath drank in the bright caress As thirstily as would a parchèd plain, That long hath watched the showers of sloping gray Forever, ever, falling far away.

XXXII.

How should she dream of ill? the heart filled quite With sunshine, like the shepherd's-clock at noon, Closes its leaves around its warm delight; Whate'er in life is harsh or out of tune Is all shut out, no boding shade of light Can pierce the opiate ether of its swoon: Love is but blind as thoughtful justice is, But naught can be so wanton-blind as bliss.

XXXIII.

All beauty and all life he was to her; She questioned not his love, she only knew That she loved him, and not a pulse could stir In her whole frame but quivered through and through With this glad thought, and was a minister To do him fealty and service true, Like golden ripples hasting to the land To wreck their freight of sunshine on the strand.

XXXIV.

O dewy dawn of love! O hopes that are Hung high, like the cliff-swallow's perilous nest, Most like to fall when fullest, and that jar With every heavier billow! O unrest Than balmiest deeps of quiet sweeter far! How did ye triumph now in Margaret's breast, Making it readier to shrink and start Than quivering gold of the pond-lily's heart.

XXXV.

Here let us pause: O, would the soul might ever Achieve its immortality in youth, When nothing yet hath damped its high endeavor After the starry energy of truth! Here let us pause, and for a moment sever This gleam of sunshine from the days unruth That sometime come to all, for it is good To lengthen to the last a sunny mood.

PART SECOND.

I.

As one who, from the sunshine and the green, Enters the solid darkness of a cave, Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen May yawn before him with its sudden grave, And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean, Dreaming he hears the plashing of a wave Dimly below, or feels a damper air From out some dreary chasm, he knows not where;--

II.

So, from the sunshine and the green of love, We enter on our story's darker part; And, though the horror of it well may move An impulse of repugnance in the heart, Yet let us think, that, as there's naught above The all-embracing atmosphere of Art, So also there is naught that falls below Her generous reach, though grimed with guilt and woe.

III.

Her fittest triumph is to show that good Lurks in the heart of evil evermore, That love, though scorned, and outcast, and withstood, Can without end forgive, and yet have store; God's love and man's are of the self-same blood, And He can see that always at the door Of foulest hearts the angel-nature yet Knocks to return and cancel all its debt.

IV.

It ever is weak falsehood's destiny That her thick mask turns crystal to let through The unsuspicious eyes of honesty; But Margaret's heart was too sincere and true Aught but plain truth and faithfulness to see, And Mordred's for a time a little grew To be like hers, won by the mild reproof Of those kind eyes that kept all doubt aloof.

V.

Full oft they met, as dawn and twilight meet In northern climes; she full of growing day As he of darkness, which before her feet Shrank gradual, and faded quite away, Soon to return; for power had made love sweet To him, and, when his will had gained full sway, The taste began to pall; for never power Can sate the hungry soul beyond an hour.

VI.

He fell as doth the tempter ever fall, Even in the gaining of his loathsome end; God doth not work as man works, but makes all The crooked paths of ill to goodness tend; Let him judge Margaret! If to be the thrall Of love, and faith too generous to defend Its very life from him she loved, be sin, What hope of grace may the seducer win?

VII.

Grim-hearted world, that look'st with Levite eyes On those poor fallen by too much faith in man. She that upon thy freezing threshold lies, Starved to more sinning by thy savage ban,-- Seeking that refuge because foulest vice More god-like than thy virtue is, whose span Shuts out the wretched only,--is more free To enter Heaven than thou wilt ever be!

VIII.

Thou wilt not let her wash thy dainty feet With such salt things as tears, or with rude hair Dry them, soft Pharisee, that sit'st at meat With him who made her such, and speak'st him fair, Leaving God's wandering lamb the while to bleat Unheeded, shivering in the pitiless air: Thou hast made prisoned virtue show more wan And haggard than a vice to look upon.

IX.

Now many months flew by, and weary grew To Margaret the sight of happy things; Blight fell on all her flowers, instead of dew; Shut round her heart were now the joyous wings Wherewith it wont to soar; yet not untrue, Though tempted much, her woman's nature clings To its first pure belief, and with sad eyes Looks backward o'er the gate of Paradise.

X.

And so, though altered Mordred came less oft, And winter frowned where spring had laughed before, In his strange eyes, yet half her sadness doffed, And in her silent patience loved him more: Sorrow had made her soft heart yet more soft, And a new life within her own she bore Which made her tenderer, as she felt it move Beneath her breast, a refuge for her love.

XI.

This babe, she thought, would surely bring him back, And be a bond forever them between; Before its eyes the sullen tempest-rack Would fade, and leave the face of heaven serene; And love's return doth more than fill the lack, Which in his absence withered the heart's green; And yet a dim foreboding still would flit Between her and her hope to darken it.

XII.

She could not figure forth a happy fate, Even for this life from heaven so newly come; The earth must needs be doubly desolate To him scarce parted from a fairer home: Such boding heavier on her bosom sate One night, as, standing in the twilight gloam, She strained her eyes beyond that dizzy verge At whose foot faintly breaks the future's surge.

XIII.

Poor little spirit! naught but shame and woe Nurse the sick heart whose lifeblood nurses thine: Yet not those only; love hath triumphed so, As for thy sake makes sorrow more divine: And yet, though thou be pure, the world is foe To purity, if born in such a shrine; And, having trampled it for struggling thence, Smiles to itself, and calls it Providence.

XIV.

As thus she mused, a shadow seemed to rise From out her thought, and turn to dreariness All blissful hopes and sunny memories, And the quick blood doth curdle up and press About her heart, which seemed to shut its eyes And hush itself, as who with shuddering guess Harks through the gloom and dreads e'en now to feel Through his hot breast the icy slide of steel.

XV.

But, at the heart-beat, while in dread she was, In the low wind the honeysuckles gleam, A dewy thrill flits through the heavy grass, And, looking forth, she saw, as in a dream, Within the wood the moonlight's shadowy mass: Night's starry heart yearning to hers doth seem, And the deep sky, full-hearted with the moon, Folds round her all the happiness of June.

XVI.

What fear could face a heaven and earth like this? What silveriest cloud could hang 'neath such a sky? A tide of wondrous and unwonted bliss Rolls back through all her pulses suddenly, As if some seraph, who had learned to kiss From the fair daughters of the world gone by, Had wedded so his fallen light with hers, Such sweet, strange joy through soul and body stirs.

XVII.

Now seek we Mordred: He who did not fear The crime, yet fears the latent consequence: If it should reach a brother Templar's ear, It haply might be made a good pretence To cheat him of the hope he held most dear; For he had spared no thought's or deed's expense, That, by-and-by might help his wish to clip Its darling bride,--the high grand mastership.

XVIII.

The apathy, ere a crime resolved is done, Is scarce less dreadful than remorse for crime; By no allurement can the soul be won From brooding o'er the weary creep of time: Mordred stole forth into the happy sun, Striving to hum a scrap of Breton rhyme, But the sky struck him speechless, and he tried In vain to summon up his callous pride.

XIX.

In the court-yard a fountain leaped alway, A Triton blowing jewels through his shell Into the sunshine; Mordred turned away, Weary because the stone face did not tell Of weariness, nor could he bear to-day, Heartsick, to hear the patient sink and swell Of winds among the leaves, or golden bees Drowsily humming in the orange-trees.

XX.

All happy sights and sounds now came to him Like a reproach: he wandered far and wide, Following the lead of his unquiet whim, But still there went a something at his side That made the cool breeze hot, the sunshine dim; It would not flee, it could not be defied, He could not see it, but he felt it there, By the damp chill that crept among his hair.

XXI.

Day wore at last; the evening star arose, And throbbing in the sky grew red and set; Then with a guilty, wavering step he goes To the hid nook where they so oft had met In happier season, for his heart well knows That he is sure to find poor Margaret Watching and waiting there with lovelorn breast Around her young dream's rudely scattered nest.

XXII.

Why follow here that grim old chronicle Which counts the dagger-strokes and drops of blood? Enough that Margaret by his mad steel fell, Unmoved by murder from her trusting mood, Smiling on him as Heaven smiles on Hell, With a sad love, remembering when he stood Not fallen yet, the unsealer of her heart, Of all her holy dreams the holiest part.

XXIII.

His crime complete, scarce knowing what he did, (So goes the tale,) beneath the altar there In the high church the stiffening corpse he hid, And then, to 'scape that suffocating air, Like a scared ghoul out of the porch he slid; But his strained eyes saw bloodspots everywhere, And ghastly faces thrust themselves between His soul and hopes of peace with blasting mien.

XXIV.

His heart went out within him, like a spark Dropt in the sea; wherever he made bold To turn his eyes, he saw, all stiff and stark, Pale Margaret lying dead; the lavish gold Of her loose hair seemed in the cloudy dark To spread a glory, and a thousandfold More strangely pale and beautiful she grew: Her silence stabbed his conscience through and through:

XXV.

Or visions of past days,--a mother's eyes That smiled down on the fair boy at her knee, Whose happy upturned face to hers replies,-- He saw sometimes: or Margaret mournfully Gazed on him full of doubt, as one who tries To crush belief that does love injury; Then she would wring her hands, but soon again Love's patience glimmered out through cloudy pain.

XXVI.

Meanwhile he dared not go and steal away The silent, dead-cold witness of his sin; He had not feared the life, but that dull clay, Those open eyes that showed the death within, Would surely stare him mad; yet all the day A dreadful impulse, whence his will could win No refuge, made him linger in the aisle, Freezing with his wan look each greeting smile.

XXVII.

Now, on the second day there was to be A festival in church: from far and near Came flocking in the sunburnt peasantry, And knights and dames with stately antique cheer, Blazing with pomp, as if all faërie Had emptied her quaint halls, or, as it were, The illuminated marge of some old book, While we were gazing, life and motion took.

XXVIII.

When all were entered, and the roving eyes Of all were staid, some upon faces bright, Some on the priests, some on the traceries That decked the slumber of a marble knight, And all the rustlings over that arise From recognizing tokens of delight, When friendly glances meet,--then silent ease Spread o'er the multitude by slow degrees.

XXIX.

Then swelled the organ: up through choir and nave The music trembled with an inward thrill Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until The hushed air shivered with the throb it gave, Then, poising for a moment, it stood still, And sank and rose again, to burst in spray That wandered into silence far away.

XXX.

Like to a mighty heart the music seemed, That yearns with melodies it cannot speak, Until, in grand despair of what it dreamed, In the agony of effort it doth break, Yet triumphs breaking; on it rushed and streamed And wantoned in its might, as when a lake, Long pent among the mountains, bursts its walls And in one crowding gush leaps forth and falls.

XXXI.

Deeper and deeper shudders shook the air, As the huge bass kept gathering heavily, Like thunder when it rouses in its lair, And with its hoarse growl shakes the low-hung sky, It grew up like a darkness everywhere, Filling the vast cathedral;--suddenly, From the dense mass a boy's clear treble broke Like lightning, and the full-toned choir awoke.

XXXII.

Through gorgeous windows shone the sun aslant, Brimming the church with gold and purple mist, Meet atmosphere to bosom that rich chant, Where fifty voices in one strand did twist Their varicolored tones, and left no want To the delighted soul, which sank abyssed In the warm music cloud, while, far below, The organ heaved its surges to and fro.

XXXIII.

As if a lark should suddenly drop dead While the blue air yet trembled with its song, So snapped at once that music's golden thread, Struck by a nameless fear that leapt along From heart to heart, and like a shadow spread With instantaneous shiver through the throng, So that some glanced behind, as half aware A hideous shape of dread were standing there.

XXXIV.

As when a crowd of pale men gather round, Watching an eddy in the leaden deep, From which they deem the body of one drowned Will be cast forth, from face to face doth creep An eager dread that holds all tongues fast bound Until the horror, with a ghastly leap, Starts up, its dead blue arms stretched aimlessly, Heaved with the swinging of the careless sea,--

XXXV.

So in the faces of all these there grew, As by one impulse, a dark, freezing awe, Which, with a fearful fascination drew All eyes toward the altar; damp and raw The air grew suddenly, and no man knew Whether perchance his silent neighbor saw The dreadful thing which all were sure would rise To scare the strained lids wider from their eyes.

XXXVI.

The incense trembled as it upward sent Its slow, uncertain thread of wandering blue, As 't were the only living element In all the church, so deep the stillness grew, It seemed one might have heard it, as it went, Give out an audible rustle, curling through The midnight silence of that awe-struck air, More hushed than death, though so much life was there.

XXXVII.

Nothing they saw, but a low voice was heard Threading the ominous silence of that fear, Gentle and terrorless as if a bird, Wakened by some volcano's glare, should cheer The murk air with his song; yet every word In the cathedral's farthest arch seemed near As if it spoke to every one apart, Like the clear voice of conscience in each heart.

XXXVIII.

"O Rest, to weary hearts thou art most dear! O Silence, after life's bewildering din, Thou art most welcome, whether in the sear Days of our age thou comest, or we win Thy poppy-wreath in youth! then wherefore here Linger I yet, once free to enter in At that wished gate which gentle Death doth ope, Into the boundless realm of strength and hope?

XXXIX.

"Think not in death my love could ever cease; If thou wast false, more need there is for me Still to be true; that slumber were not peace, If 't were unvisited with dreams of thee: And thou hadst never heard such words as these, Save that in heaven I must ever be Most comfortless and wretched, seeing this Our unbaptizèd babe shut out from bliss.

XL.

"This little spirit with imploring eyes Wanders alone the dreary wild of space; The shadow of his pain forever lies Upon my soul in this new dwelling-place; His loneliness makes me in Paradise More lonely, and, unless I see his face, Even here for grief could I lie down and die, Save for my curse of immortality.

XLI.

"World after world he sees around him swim Crowded with happy souls, that take no heed Of the sad eyes that from the night's faint rim Gaze sick with longing on them as they speed With golden gates, that only shut out him; And shapes sometimes from Hell's abysses freed Flap darkly by him, with enormous sweep Of wings that roughen wide the pitchy deep.

XLII.

"I am a mother,--spirits do not shake This much of earth from them,--and I must pine Till I can feel his little hands, and take His weary head upon this heart of mine; And, might it be, full gladly for his sake Would I this solitude of bliss resign, And be shut out of Heaven to dwell with him Forever in that silence drear and dim.

XLIII.

"I strove to hush my soul, and would not speak At first, for thy dear sake; a woman's love Is mighty, but a mother's heart is weak, And by its weakness overcomes; I strove To smother bitter thoughts with patience meek, But still in the abyss my soul would rove, Seeking my child, and drove me here to claim The rite that gives him peace in Christ's dear name.

XLIV.

"I sit and weep while blessed spirits sing; I can but long and pine the while they praise, And, leaning o'er the wall of Heaven, I fling My voice to where I deem my infant strays, Like a robbed bird that cries in vain to bring Her nestlings back beneath her wings' embrace; But still he answers not, and I but know That Heaven and earth are both alike in woe."

XLV.

Then the pale priests, with ceremony due, Baptized the child within its dreadful tomb Beneath that mother's heart, whose instinct true Star-like had battled down the triple gloom Of sorrow, love, and death: young maidens, too, Strewed the pale corpse with many a milkwhite bloom, And parted the bright hair, and on the breast Crossed the unconscious hands in sign of rest.

XLVI.

Some said, that, when the priest had sprinkled o'er The consecrated drops, they seemed to hear A sigh, as of some heart from travail sore Released, and then two voices singing clear, Misereatur Deus, more and more Fading far upward, and their ghastly fear Fell from them with that sound, as bodies fall From souls upspringing to celestial hall.

PROMETHEUS.

One after one the stars have risen and set, Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain: The Bear, that prowled all night about the fold Of the North-star, hath shrunk into his den, Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn, Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient; And now bright Lucifer grows less and less, Into the heaven's blue quiet deep-withdrawn. Sunless and starless all, the desert sky Arches above me, empty as this heart For ages hath been empty of all joy, Except to brood upon its silent hope, As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now. All night have I heard voices: deeper yet The deep low breathing of the silence grew, While all about, muffled in awe, there stood Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart, But, when I turned to front them, far along Only a shudder through the midnight ran, And the dense stillness walled me closer round. But still I heard them wander up and down That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings Did mingle with them, whether of those hags Let slip upon me once from Hades deep, Or of yet direr torments, if such be, I could but guess; and then toward me came A shape as of a woman: very pale It was, and calm; its cold eyes did not move, And mine moved not, but only stared on them. Their fixed awe went through my brain like ice, A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart, And a sharp chill, as if a dank night fog Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt: And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh, A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips Stiffening in death, close to mine ear. I thought Some doom was close upon me, and I looked And saw the red moon through the heavy mist, Just setting, and it seemed as if it were falling, Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged Into the rising surges of the pines, Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength, Sent up a murmur in the morning wind, Sad as the wail that from the populous earth All day and night to high Olympus soars, Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O Jove!

Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom. And are these tears? Nay, do not triumph, Jove, They are wrung from me but by the agonies Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall From clouds in travail of the lightning, when The great wave of the storm high-curled and black Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break. Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force? True Power was never born of brutish Strength, Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts, That quell the darkness for a space, so strong As the prevailing patience of meek Light, Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace, Wins it to be a portion of herself? Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast The never-sleeping terror at thy heart, That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear Than this thy ravening bird on which I smile? Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold What kind of doom it is whose omen flits Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves The fearful shadow of the kite. What need To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save? Evil its errand hath, as well as Good; When thine is finished, thou art known no more: There is a higher purity than thou, And higher purity is greater strength; Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might. Let man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled With thought of that drear silence and deep night Which, like a dream, shall swallow thee and thine: Let man but will, and thou art god no more, More capable of ruin than the gold And ivory that image thee on earth. He who hurled down the monstrous Titan-brood Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned, Is weaker than a simple human thought. My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze, That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair, Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole: For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow In my wise heart the end and doom of all.

Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown By years of solitude,--that holds apart The past and future, giving the soul room To search into itself,--and long commune With this eternal silence;--more a god, In my long-suffering and strength to meet With equal front the direst shafts of fate, Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism, Girt with thy baby-toys of force and wrath. Yes, I am that Prometheus who brought down The light to man, which thou, in selfish fear, Hadst to thyself usurped,--his by sole right, For Man hath right to all save Tyranny,-- And which shall free him yet from thy frail throne. Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance, Begotten by the slaves they trample on, Who, could they win a glimmer of the light, And see that Tyranny is always weakness, Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease, Would laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain Which their own blindness feigned for adamant. Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right To the firm centre lays its moveless base. The tyrant trembles, if the air but stirs The innocent ringlets of a child's free hair, And crouches, when the thought of some great spirit, With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale, Over men's hearts, as over standing corn, Rushes, and bends them to its own strong will. So shall some thought of mine yet circle earth, And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove!

And, wouldst thou know of my supreme revenge Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart, Realmless in soul, as tyrants ever are, Listen! and tell me if this bitter peak, This never-glutted vulture, and these chains Shrink not before it; for it shall befit A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart. Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand On a precipitous crag that overhangs The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see, As in a glass, the features dim and vast Of things to come, the shadows, as it seems, Of what have been. Death ever fronts the wise; Not fearfully, but with clear promises Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne, Their out-look widens, and they see beyond The horizon of the Present and the Past, Even to the very source and end of things. Such am I now: immortal woe hath made My heart a seer, and my soul a judge Between the substance and the shadow of Truth. The sure supremeness of the Beautiful, By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure Of such as I am, this is my revenge, Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch, Through which I see a sceptre and a throne. The pipings of glad shepherds on the hills, Tending the flocks no more to bleed for thee,-- The songs of maidens pressing with white feet The vintage on thine altars poured no more,-- The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath Dim grape-vine bowers, whose rosy bunches press Not half so closely their warm cheeks, unpaled By thoughts of thy brute lust,--the hive-like hum Of peaceful commonwealths, where sunburnt Toil Reaps for itself the rich earth made its own By its own labor, lightened with glad hymns To an omnipotence which thy mad bolts Would cope with as a spark with the vast sea,-- Even the spirit of free love and peace, Duty's sure recompense through life and death,-- These are such harvests as all master-spirits Reap, haply not on earth, but reap no less Because the sheaves are bound by hands not theirs; These are the bloodless daggers wherewithal They stab fallen tyrants, this their high revenge: For their best part of life on earth is when, Long after death, prisoned and pent no more, Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, have become Part of the necessary air men breathe; When, like the moon, herself behind a cloud, They shed down light before us on life's sea, That cheers us to steer onward still in hope. Earth with her twining memories ivies o'er Their holy sepulchres; the chainless sea, In tempest or wide calm, repeats their thoughts; The lightning and the thunder, all free things, Have legends of them for the ears of men. All other glories are as falling stars, But universal Nature watches theirs: Such strength is won by love of human kind.

Not that I feel that hunger after fame, Which souls of a half-greatness are beset with; But that the memory of noble deeds Cries, shame upon the idle and the vile, And keeps the heart of Man forever up To the heroic level of old time. To be forgot at first is little pain To a heart conscious of such high intent As must be deathless on the lips of men; But, having been a name, to sink and be A something which the world can do without, Which, having been or not, would never change The lightest pulse of fate,--this is indeed A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs. Endless despair shall be thy Caucasus, And memory thy vulture; thou wilt find Oblivion far lonelier than this peak,-- Behold thy destiny! Thou think'st it much That I should brave thee, miserable god! But I have braved a mightier than thou, Even the tempting of this soaring heart, Which might have made me, scarcely less than thou, A god among my brethren weak and blind,-- Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing To be down-trodden into darkness soon. But now I am above thee, for thou art The bungling workmanship of fear, the block That awes the swart Barbarian; but I Am what myself have made,--a nature wise With finding in itself the types of all,-- With watching from the dim verge of the time What things to be are visible in the gleams Thrown forward on them from the luminous past,-- Wise with the history of its own frail heart, With reverence and sorrow, and with love, Broad as the world, for freedom and for man.

Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love, By whom and for whose glory, ye shall cease: And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I Shall be a power and a memory, A name to fright all tyrants with, a light Unsetting as the pole-star, a great voice Heard in the breathless pauses of the fight By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong, Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake Huge echoes that from age to age live on In kindred spirits, giving them a sense Of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung: And many a glazing eye shall smile to see The memory of my triumph, (for to meet Wrong with endurance, and to overcome The present with a heart that looks beyond, Are triumph,) like a prophet eagle, perch Upon the sacred banner of the Right. Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed, And feeds the green earth with its swift decay, Leaving it richer for the growth of truth; But Good, once put in action or in thought, Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down The ripe germs of a forest. Thou; weak god, Shalt fade and be forgotten! but this soul, Fresh-living still in the serene abyss, In every heaving shall partake, that grows From heart to heart among the sons of men,-- As the ominous hum before the earthquake runs Far through the Ægean from roused isle to isle,-- Foreboding wreck to palaces and shrines, And mighty rents in many a cavernous error That darkens the free light to man:--This heart, Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and claws Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall In all the throbbing exultations share That wait on freedom's triumphs, and in all The glorious agonies of martyr-spirits,-- Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged clouds That veil the future, showing them the end,-- Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth, Girding the temples like a wreath of stars. This is a thought, that, like a fabled laurel, Makes my faith thunder-proof; and thy dread bolts Fall on me like the silent flakes of snow On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus: But, O thought far more blissful, they can rend This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star!

Unleash thy crouching thunders now, O Jove! Free this high heart, which, a poor captive long, Doth knock to be let forth, this heart which still, In its invincible manhood, overtops Thy puny godship, as this mountain doth The pines that moss its roots. O, even now, While from my peak of suffering I look down, Beholding with a far-spread gush of hope The sunrise of that Beauty, in whose face, Shone all around with love, no man shall look But straightway like a god he is uplift Unto the throne long empty for his sake, And clearly oft foreshadowed in wide dreams By his free inward nature, which nor thou, Nor any anarch after thee, can bind From working its great doom,--now, now set free This essence, not to die, but to become Part of that awful Presence which doth haunt The palaces of tyrants, to hunt off, With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings And hideous sense of utter loneliness, All hope of safety, all desire of peace, All but the loathed forefeeling of blank death,-- Part of that spirit which doth ever brood In patient calm on the unpilfered nest Of man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow fledged To sail with darkening shadow o'er the world, Filling with dread such souls as dare not trust In the unfailing energy of Good, Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make Of some o'erbloated wrong,--that spirit which Scatters great hopes in the seed-field of man, Like acorns among grain, to grow and be A roof for freedom in all coming time!

But no, this cannot be; for ages yet, In solitude unbroken, shall I hear The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout, And Euxine answer with a muffled roar, On either side storming the giant walls Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam, (Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow,) That draw back baffled but to hurl again, Snatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil, Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst, My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove, Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad In vain emprise. The moon will come and go With her monotonous vicissitude; Once beautiful, when I was free to walk Among my fellows, and to interchange The influence benign of loving eyes, But now by aged use grown wearisome;-- False thought! most false! for how could I endure These crawling centuries of lonely woe Unshamed by weak complaining, but for thee, Loneliest, save me, of all created things, Mild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter, With thy pale smile of sad benignity?

Year after year will pass away and seem To me, in mine eternal agony, But as the shadows of dumb summer clouds, Which I have watched so often darkening o'er The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first, But, with still swiftness lessening on and on Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle where The gray horizon fades into the sky, Far, far to the northward. Yes, for ages yet Must I lie here upon my altar huge, A sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be, As it hath been, his portion; endless doom, While the immortal with the mortal linked Dreams of its wings and pines for what it dreams, With upward yearn unceasing. Better so: For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child, And empire over self, and all the deep Strong charities that make men seem like gods; And love, that makes them be gods, from her breasts Sucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood. Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems, Having two faces, as some images Are carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill; But one heart lies beneath, and that is good, As are all hearts, when we explore their depths. Therefore, great heart, bear up! thou art but type Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain Would win men back to strength and peace through love: Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left; And faith, which is but hope grown wise; and love And patience, which at last shall overcome.

1843.

SONG.

Violet! sweet violet! Thine eyes are full of tears; Are they wet Even yet With the thought of other years? Or with gladness are they full, For the night so beautiful, And longing for those far-off spheres?

Loved-one of my youth thou wast, Of my merry youth, And I see, Tearfully, All the fair and sunny past, All its openness and truth, Ever fresh and green in thee As the moss is in the sea.

Thy little heart, that hath with love Grown colored like the sky above, On which thou lookest ever, Can it know All the woe Of hope for what returneth never, All the sorrow and the longing To these hearts of ours belonging?

Out on it! no foolish pining For the sky Dims thine eye, Or for the stars so calmly shining; Like thee let this soul of mine Take hue from that wherefor I long, Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping--but divine. Violet! dear violet! Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling sense Of that glad obedience Which made thee all that Nature meant thee!

1841.

ROSALINE.

Thou look'dst on me all yesternight, Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright As when we murmured our troth-plight Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline! Thy hair was braided on thy head, As on the day we two were wed, Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead, But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline!

The death-watch ticked behind the wall, The blackness rustled like a pall, The moaning wind did rise and fall Among the bleak pines, Rosaline! My heart beat thickly in mine ears; The lids may shut out fleshly fears, But still the spirit sees and hears,-- Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!

A wildness rushing suddenly, A knowing some ill-shape is nigh, A wish for death, a fear to die,-- Is not this vengeance, Rosaline? A loneliness that is not lone, A love quite withered up and gone, A strong soul trampled from its throne,-- What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?

'Tis drear such moonless nights as these, Strange sounds are out upon the breeze, And the leaves shiver in the trees, And then thou comest, Rosaline! I seem to hear the mourners go, With long black garments trailing slow, And plumes anodding to and fro, As once I heard them, Rosaline!

Thy shroud is all of snowy white, And, in the middle of the night, Thou standest moveless and upright, Gazing upon me, Rosaline! There is no sorrow in thine eyes, But evermore that meek surprise,-- O, God! thy gentle spirit tries To deem me guiltless, Rosaline!

Above thy grave the robin sings, And swarms of bright and happy things Flit all about with sunlit wings,-- But I am cheerless, Rosaline! The violets on the hillock toss, The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss; For nature feels not any loss,-- But I am cheerless, Rosaline!

I did not know when thou wast dead; A blackbird whistling overhead Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled, But dared not leave thee, Rosaline! The sun rolled down, and very soon, Like a great fire, the awful moon Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline!

The stars came out; and, one by one, Each angel from his silver throne Looked down and saw what I had done; I dared not hide me, Rosaline! I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry Against me to God's quiet sky, I thought I saw the blue lips try To utter something, Rosaline!

I waited with a maddened grin To hear that voice all icy thin Slide forth and tell my deadly sin To hell and heaven, Rosaline! But no voice came, and then it seemed That, if the very corpse had screamed, The sound like sunshine glad had streamed Through that dark stillness, Rosaline!

And then, amid the silent night, I screamed with horrible delight, And in my brain an awful light Did seem to crackle, Rosaline! It is my curse! sweet memories fall From me like snow,--and only all Of that one night, like cold worms crawl My doomed heart over, Rosaline!

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, Wherein such blessed memories, Such pitying forgiveness lies, Than hate more bitter, Rosaline? Woe's me! I know that love so high As thine, true soul, could never die, And with mean clay in churchyard lie,-- Would it might be so, Rosaline!

1841.

THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS.

There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-shell He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well-pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone, And e'en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a god.

1842.

THE TOKEN.

It is a mere wild rosebud, Quite sallow now, and dry, Yet there 's something wondrous in it,-- Some gleams of days gone by,-- Dear sights and sounds that are to me The very moons of memory, And stir my heart's blood far below Its short-lived waves of joy and woe.

Lips must fade and roses wither, All sweet times be o'er,-- They only smile, and, murmuring "Thither!" Stay with us no more: And yet ofttimes a look or smile, Forgotten in a kiss's while, Years after from the dark will start, And flash across the trembling heart.

Thou hast given me many roses, But never one, like this, O'erfloods both sense and spirit With such a deep, wild bliss; We must have instincts that glean up Sparse drops of this life in the cup, Whose taste shall give us all that we Can prove of immortality.

Earth's stablest things are shadows, And, in the life to come, Haply some chance-saved trifle May tell of this old home: As now sometimes we seem to find, In a dark crevice of the mind, Some relic, which, long pondered o'er, Hints faintly at a life before.

AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR.

He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Pressed round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own.

And, when he read, they forward leaned, Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned From humble smiles and tears.

Slowly there grew a tender awe, Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, As if in him who read they felt and saw Some presence of the bard.

It was a sight for sin and wrong And slavish tyranny to see, A sight to make our faith more pure and strong In high humanity.

I thought, these men will carry hence Promptings their former life above, And something of a finer reverence For beauty, truth, and love.

God scatters love on every side, Freely among his children all, And always hearts are lying open wide, Wherein some grains may fall.

There is no wind but soweth seeds Of a more true and open life, Which burst, unlooked-for, into high-souled deeds, With wayside beauty rife.

We find within these souls of ours Some wild germs of a higher birth, Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers Whose fragrance fills the earth.

Within the hearts of all men lie These promises of wider bliss, Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, In sunny hours like this.

All that hath been majestical In life or death, since time began, Is native in the simple heart of all, The angel heart of man.

And thus, among the untaught poor, Great deeds and feelings find a home, That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of classic Greece and Rome.

O, mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skiey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity!

All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole:

In his wide brain the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of wrong.

All thought begins in feeling,--wide In the great mass its base is hid, And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid.

Nor is he far astray who deems That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams From the great heart of God.

God wills, man hopes: in common souls Hope is but vague and undefined, Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls A blessing to his kind.

Never did Poesy appear So full of heaven to me, as when I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear To the lives of coarsest men.

It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century;--

But better far it is to speak One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men;

To write some earnest verse or line, Which, seeking not the praise of art, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine In the untutored heart.

He who doth this, in verse or prose, May be forgotten in his day, But surely shall be crowned at last with those Who live and speak for aye.

1842.

RHŒCUS.

God sends his teachers unto every age, To every clime, and every race of men, With revelations fitted to their growth And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth Into the selfish rule of one sole race: Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed The life of man, and given it to grasp The master-key of knowledge, reverence, Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right; Else never had the eager soul, which loathes The slothful down of pampered ignorance, Found in it even a moment's fitful rest.

There is an instinct in the human heart Which makes that all the fables it hath coined, To justify the reign of its belief And strengthen it by beauty's right divine, Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands, Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. For, as in nature naught is made in vain, But all things have within their hull of use A wisdom and a meaning which may speak Of spiritual secrets to the ear Of spirit; so, in whatsoe'er the heart Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, To make its inspirations suit its creed, And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring Its needful food of truth, there ever is A sympathy with Nature, which reveals, Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light And earnest parables of inward lore. Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.

A youth named Rhœcus, wandering in the wood, Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall, And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, He propped its gray trunk with admiring care, And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind That murmured "Rhœcus!" 'Twas as if the leaves, Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it, And, while he paused bewildered, yet again It murmured "Rhœcus!" softer than a breeze. He started and beheld with dizzy eyes What seemed the substance of a happy dream Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak. It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair To be a woman, and with eyes too meek For any that were wont to mate with gods. All naked like a goddess stood she there, And like a goddess all too beautiful To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. "Rhœcus, I am the Dryad of this tree," Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew, "And with it I am doomed to live and die; The rain and sunshine are my caterers, Nor have I other bliss than simple life; Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give, And with a thankful joy it shall be thine."

Then Rhœcus, with a flutter at the heart, Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold, Answered: "What is there that can satisfy The endless craving of the soul but love? Give me thy love, or but the hope of that Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." After a little pause she said again, But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, "I give it, Rhœcus, though a perilous gift; An hour before the sunset meet me here." And straightway there was nothing he could see But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak, And not a sound came to his straining ears But the low trickling rustle of the leaves, And far away upon an emerald slope The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe.

Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, Men did not think that happy things were dreams Because they overstepped the narrow bourne Of likelihood, but reverently deemed Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful To be the guerdon of a daring heart. So Rhœcus made no doubt that he was blest, And all along unto the city's gate Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked, The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, And he could scarce believe he had not wings Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange.

Young Rhœcus had a faithful heart enough, But one that in the present dwelt too much, And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that, Like the contented peasant of a vale, Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond. So, haply meeting in the afternoon Some comrades who were playing at the dice He joined them and forgot all else beside.

The dice were rattling at the merriest, And Rhœcus, who had met but sorry luck, Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, When through the room there hummed a yellow bee That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs As if to light. And Rhœcus laughed and said, Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, "By Venus! does he take me for a rose?" And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand. But still the bee came back, and thrice again Rhœcus did beat him off with growing wrath. Then through the window flew the wounded bee, And Rhœcus, tracking him with angry eyes, Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly Against the red disc of the setting sun,-- And instantly the blood sank from his heart, As if its very walls had caved away. Without a word he turned, and, rushing forth, Ran madly through the city and the gate, And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade, By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim, Darkened wellnigh unto the city's wall.

Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, And, listening fearfully, he heard once more The low voice murmur "Rhœcus!" close at hand: Whereat he looked around him, but could see Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. Then sighed the voice, "Oh, Rhœcus! nevermore Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, Me, who would fain have blessed thee with a love More ripe and bounteous than ever yet Filled up with nectar any mortal heart: But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, And sent'st him back to me with bruisèd wings. We spirits only show to gentle eyes. We ever ask an undivided love, And he who scorns the least of Nature's works Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. Farewell! for thou canst never see me more."

Then Rhœcus beat his breast, and groaned aloud And cried, "Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more!" "Alas!" the voice returned, "'t is thou art blind, Not I unmerciful; I can forgive, But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes; Only the soul hath power o'er itself." With that again there murmured "Nevermore!" And Rhœcus after heard no other sound, Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, Like the long surf upon a distant shore, Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. The night had gathered round him: o'er the plain The city sparkled with its thousand lights, And sounds of revel fell upon his ear Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, With all its bright sublimity of stars, Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze; Beauty was all around him and delight, But from that eve he was alone on earth.

THE FALCON.

I know a falcon swift and peerless As e'er was cradled in the pine; No bird had ever eye so fearless, Or wings so strong as this of mine.

The winds not better love to pilot A cloud with molten gold o'errun, Than him, a little burning islet, A star above the coming sun.

For with a lark's heart he doth tower, By a glorious, upward instinct drawn; No bee nestles deeper in the flower Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.

No harmless dove, no bird that singeth, Shudders to see him overhead; The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth To innocent hearts no thrill of dread.

Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver, For still between them and the sky The falcon Truth hangs poised forever And marks them with his vengeful eye.

TRIAL.

I.

Whether the idle prisoner through his grate Watches the waving of the grass-tuft small, Which, having colonized its rift i' the wall, Takes its free risk of good or evil fate, And, from the sky's just helmet draws its lot Daily of shower or sunshine, cold or hot;-- Whether the closer captive of a creed, Cooped up from birth to grind out endless chaff, Sees through his treadmill-bars the noonday laugh, And feels in vain his crumpled pinions breed;-- Whether the Georgian slave look up and mark, With bellying sails puffed full, the tall cloud-bark Sink northward slowly,--thou alone seem'st good, Fair only thou, O Freedom, whose desire Can light in muddiest souls quick seeds of fire, And strain life's chords to the old heroic mood.

II.

Yet are there other gifts more fair than thine, Nor can I count him happiest who has never Been forced with his own hand his chains to sever, And for himself find out the way divine; He never knew the aspirer's glorious pains, He never earned the struggle's priceless gains. O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor, Lifelong we build these human natures up Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine, And Trial ever consecrates the cup Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine.

A REQUIEM.

Ay, pale and silent maiden, Cold as thou liest there, Thine was the sunniest nature That ever drew the air, The wildest and most wayward, And yet so gently kind, Thou seemedst but to body A breath of summer wind.

Into the eternal shadow That girds our life around, Into the infinite silence Wherewith Death's shore is bound, Thou hast gone forth, belovèd! And I were mean to weep, That thou hast left Life's shallows, And dost possess the Deep.

Thou liest low and silent, Thy heart is cold and still, Thine eyes are shut forever, And Death hath had his will; He loved and would have taken, I loved and would have kept, We strove,--and he was stronger, And I have never wept.

Let him possess thy body, Thy soul is still with me, More sunny and more gladsome Than it was wont to be: Thy body was a fetter That bound me to the flesh, Thank God that it is broken, And now I live afresh!

Now I can see thee clearly; The dusky cloud of clay, That hid thy starry spirit, Is rent and blown away: To earth I give thy body, Thy spirit to the sky, I saw its bright wings growing, And knew that thou must fly.

Now I can love thee truly, For nothing comes between The senses and the spirit, The seen and the unseen; Lifts the eternal shadow, The silence bursts apart, And the soul's boundless future Is present in my heart.

A PARABLE.

Worn and footsore was the Prophet, When he gained the holy hill; "God has left the earth," he murmured, "Here his presence lingers still.

"God of all the olden prophets, Wilt thou speak with men no more? Have I not as truly served thee, As thy chosen ones of yore?

"Hear me, guider of my fathers, Lo! a humble heart is mine; By thy mercy I beseech thee, Grant thy servant but a sign!"

Bowing then his head, he listened For an answer to his prayer; No loud burst of thunder followed, Not a murmur stirred the air:--

But the tuft of moss before him Opened while he waited yet, And, from out the rock's hard bosom, Sprang a tender violet.

"God! I thank thee," said the Prophet "Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain For the gift of prophecy.

"Still thou speakest with thy children Freely as in eld sublime; Humbleness, and love, and patience, Still give empire over time.

"Had I trusted in my nature, And had faith in lowly things, Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me, And set free my spirit's wings.

"But I looked for signs and wonders, That o'er men should give me sway, Thirsting to be more than mortal, I was even less than clay.

"Ere I entered on my journey, As I girt my loins to start, Ran to me my little daughter, The beloved of my heart;--

"In her hand she held a flower, Like to this as like may be, Which, beside my very threshold, She had plucked and brought to me."

1842.

A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN.

We see but half the causes of our deeds, Seeking them wholly in the outer life, And heedless of the encircling spirit-world, Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us All germs of pure and world-wide purposes. From one stage of our being to the next We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge, The momentary work of unseen hands, Which crumbles down behind us; looking back, We see the other shore, the gulf between, And, marvelling how we won to where we stand, Content ourselves to call the builder Chance, We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall, Not to the birth-throes of a mighty Truth Which, for long ages in blank Chaos dumb, Yet yearned to be incarnate, and had found At last a spirit meet to be the womb From which it might be born to bless mankind,-- Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years, And waiting but one ray of sunlight more To blossom fully.

But whence came that ray? We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought Rather to name our high successes so. Only the instincts of great souls are Fate, And have predestined sway: all other things, Except by leave of us, could never be. For Destiny is but the breath of God Still moving in us, the last fragment left Of our unfallen nature, waking oft Within our thought, to beckon us beyond The narrow circle of the seen and known, And always tending to a noble end, As all things must that overrule the soul, And for a space unseat the helmsman, Will. The fate of England and of freedom once Seemed wavering in the heart of one plain man, One step of his and the great dial-hand, That marks the destined progress of the world In the eternal round from wisdom on To higher wisdom, had been made to pause A hundred years. That step he did not take,-- He knew not why, nor we, but only God,-- And lived to make his simple oaken chair More terrible and grandly beautiful, More full of majesty than any throne Before or after, of a British king.

Upon the pier stood two stern-visaged men, Looking to where a little craft lay moored, Swayed by the lazy current of the Thames, Which weltered by in muddy listlessness. Grave men they were, and battlings of fierce thought Had trampled out all softness from their brows, And ploughed rough furrows there before their time, For another crop than such as homebred Peace Sows broadcast in the willing soil of Youth. Care, not of self, but of the commonweal, Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead A look of patient power and iron will, And something fiercer, too, that gave broad hint Of the plain weapons girded at their sides. The younger had an aspect of command,-- Not such as trickles down, a slender stream, In the shrunk channel of a great descent,-- But such as lies entowered in heart and head, And an arm prompt to do the 'hests of both. His was a brow where gold were out of place, And yet it seemed right worthy of a crown, (Though he despised such,) were it only made Of iron, or some serviceable stuff That would have matched his sinewy, brown face. The elder, although he hardly seemed, (Care makes so little of some five short years,) Had a clear, honest face, whose rough-hewn strength Was mildened by the scholar's wiser heart To sober courage, such as best befits The unsullied temper of a well-taught mind, Yet so remained that one could plainly guess The hushed volcano smouldering underneath. He spoke: the other, hearing, kept his gaze Still fixed, as on some problem in the sky.

"O, Cromwell, we are fallen on evil times! There was a day when England had wide room For honest men as well as foolish kings; But now the uneasy stomach of the time Turns squeamish at them both. Therefore let us Seek out that savage clime, where men as yet Are free: there sleeps the vessel on the tide, Her languid canvas drooping for the wind; Give us but that, and what need we to fear This Order of the Council? The free waves Will not say, No, to please a wayward king, Nor will the winds turn traitors at his beck: All things are fitly cared for, and the Lord Will watch as kindly o'er the exodus Of us his servants now, as in old time. We have no cloud or fire, and haply we May not pass dry-shod through the ocean-stream; But, saved or lost, all things are in His hand." So spake he, and meantime the other stood With wide gray eyes still reading the blank air, As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw Some mystic sentence, written by a hand Such as of old made pale the Assyrian king, Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast.

"Hampden! a moment since, my purpose was To fly with thee,--for I will call it flight, Nor flatter it with any smoother name,-- But something in me bids me not to go; And I am one, thou knowest, who, unmoved By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul Whispers of warning to the inner ear. Moreover, as I know that God brings round His purposes in ways undreamed by us, And makes the wicked but his instruments To hasten on their swift and sudden fall, I see the beauty of his providence In the King's order: blind, he will not let His doom part from him, but must bid it stay As 't were a cricket, whose enlivening chirp He loved to hear beneath his very hearth. Why should we fly? Nay, why not rather stay And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls, Not, as of old the walls of Thebes were built, By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be, With the more potent music of our swords? Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea Claim more God's care than all of England here? No: when he moves His arm, it is to aid Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed, As some are ever, when the destiny Of man takes one stride onward nearer home. Believe it, 'tis the mass of men He loves; And, where there is most sorrow and most want, Where the high heart of man is trodden down The most, 'tis not because He hides his face From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate. Not so: there most is He, for there is He Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad Are not so near his heart as they who dare Frankly to face her where she faces them, On their own threshold, where their souls are strong To grapple with and throw her; as I once, Being yet a boy, did cast this puny king, Who now has grown so dotard as to deem That he can wrestle with an angry realm, And throw the brawned Antæus of men's rights. No, Hampden! they have half-way conquered Fate Who go half-way to meet her,--as will I. Freedom hath yet a work for me to do; So speaks that inward voice which never yet Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on To noble deeds for country and mankind. And, for success, I ask no more than this,-- To bear unflinching witness to the truth. All true, whole men succeed: for what is worth Success's name, unless it be the thought, The inward surety, to have carried out A noble purpose to a noble end, Although it be the gallows or the block? 'Tis only Falsehood that doth ever need These outward shows of gain to bolster her. Be it we prove the weaker with our swords; Truth only needs to be for once spoke out, And there's such music in her, such strange rhythm, As makes men's memories her joyous slaves, And clings around the soul, as the sky clings Round the mute earth, forever beautiful, And, if o'erclouded, only to burst forth More all-embracingly divine and clear: Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis like A star new-born, that drops into its place, And which, once circling in its placid round, Not all the tumult of the earth can shake.

"What should we do in that small colony Of pinched fanatics, who would rather choose Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair, Than the great chance of setting England free? Not there, amid the stormy wilderness, Should we learn wisdom; or if learned, what room To put it into act,--else worse than naught? We learn our souls more, tossing for an hour Upon this huge and ever-vexèd sea Of human thought, where kingdoms go to wreck Like fragile bubbles yonder in the stream, Than in a cycle of New England sloth, Broke only by some petty Indian war, Or quarrel for a letter more or less, In some hard word, which, spelt in either way Not their most learned clerks can understand. New times demand new measures and new men; The world advances, and in time outgrows The laws that in our fathers' day were best; And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme Will be shaped out by wiser men than we, Made wiser by the steady growth of truth. We cannot bring Utopia by force; But better, almost, be at work in sin; Than in a brute inaction browse and sleep. No man is born into the world, whose work Is not born with him; there is always work, And tools to work withal, for those who will; And blessèd are the horny hands of toil! The busy world shoves angrily aside The man who stands with arms akimbo set, Until occasion tells him what to do; And he who waits to have his task marked out Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds: Reason and Government, like two broad seas, Yearn for each other with outstretched arms Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, And roll their white surf higher every day. One age moves onward, and the next builds up Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild, Rearing from out the forests they had felled The goodly framework of a fairer state; The builder's trowel and the settler's axe Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand; Ours is the harder task, yet not the less Shall we receive the blessing for our toil From the choice spirits of the aftertime. My soul is not a palace of the past, Where outworn creeds, like Rome's gray senate quake, Hearing afar the Vandal's trumpet hoarse, That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change; Then let it come: I have no dread of what Is called for by the instinct of mankind; Nor think I that God's world will fall apart, Because we tear a parchment more or less. Truth is eternal, but her effluence, With endless change is fitted to the hour; Her mirror is turned forward to reflect The promise of the future, not the past. He who would win the name of truly great Must understand his own age and the next, And make the present ready to fulfil Its prophecy, and with the future merge Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave. The future works out great men's destinies; The present is enough for common souls, Who, never looking forward, are indeed Mere clay, wherein the footprints of their age Are petrified forever: better those Who lead the blind old giant by the hand From out the pathless desert where he gropes, And set him onward in his darksome way. I do not fear to follow out the truth, Albeit along the precipice's edge. Let us speak plain: there is more force in names Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name, Let us call tyrants, tyrants, and maintain, That only freedom comes by grace of God, And all that comes not by his grace must fall For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.

"I will have one more grapple with the man Charles Stuart: whom the boy o'ercame, The man stands not in awe of. I, perchance, Am one raised up by the Almighty arm To witness some great truth to all the world. Souls destined to o'erleap the vulgar lot, And mould the world unto the scheme of God, Have a fore-consciousness of their high doom, As men are known to shiver at the heart, When the cold shadow of some coming ill Creeps slowly o'er their spirits unawares. Hath Good less power of prophecy than Ill? How else could men whom God hath called to sway Earth's rudder, and to steer the bark of Truth, Beating against the tempest tow'rd her port, Bear all the mean and buzzing grievances, The petty martyrdoms, wherewith Sin strives To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, The sneers, the unrecognizing look of friends, Who worship the dead corpse of old king Custom, Where it doth lie in state within the Church, Striving to cover up the mighty ocean With a man's palm, and making even the truth Lie for them, holding up the glass reversed, To make the hope of man seem farther off? My God! when I read o'er the bitter lives Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great To beat beneath the cramped mode of the day, And see them mocked at by the world they love, Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths Of that reform which their hard toil will make The common birthright of the age to come,-- When I see this, spite of my faith in God, I marvel how their hearts bear up so long; Nor could they, but for this same prophecy, This inward feeling of the glorious end.

"Deem me not fond; but in my warmer youth, Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed away, I had great dreams of mighty things to come; Of conquest, whether by the sword or pen I knew not; but some conquest I would have, Or else swift death: now wiser grown in years, I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar In aftertime to win a starry throne; And so I cherish them, for they were lots, Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. Now will I draw them, since a man's right hand, A right hand guided by an earnest soul, With a true instinct, takes the golden prize From out a thousand blanks. What men call luck Is the prerogative of valiant souls, The fealty life pays its rightful kings. The helm is shaking now, and I will stay To pluck my lot forth; it were sin to flee!"

So they two turned together; one to die, Fighting for freedom on the bloody field; The other, far more happy, to become A name earth wears forever next her heart; One of the few that have a right to rank With the true Makers: for his spirit wrought Order from Chaos; proved that right divine Dwelt only in the excellence of truth; And far within old Darkness' hostile lines Advanced and pitched the shining tents of Light. Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell, That--not the least among his many claims To deathless honor--he was Milton's friend, A man not second among those who lived To show us that the poet's lyre demands An arm of tougher sinew than the sword.

1843.

SONG.

O, moonlight deep and tender, A year and more agone, Your mist of golden splendor Round my betrothal shone!

O, elm-leaves dark and dewy, The very same ye seem, The low wind trembles through ye, Ye murmur in my dream!

O, river, dim with distance, Flow thus forever by: A part of my existence Within your heart doth lie!

O, stars, ye saw our meeting, Two beings and one soul, Two hearts so madly beating To mingle and be whole!

O, happy night, deliver Her kisses back to me, Or keep them all, and give her A blissful dream of me!

1842.

A CHIPPEWA LEGEND.[A]

ἀλγεινὰ μέν μοι καὶ λέγειν ἐστὶν τάδε ἄλγος δὲ σιγᾷν. Æschylus, Prom. Vinct. 197.

[Footnote A: For the leading incidents in this tale, I am indebted to the very valuable "Algic Researches" of Henry R. Schoolcraft, Esq.]

The old Chief, feeling now well-nigh his end, Called his two eldest children to his side, And gave them, in few words, his parting charge:-- "My son and daughter, me ye see no more; The happy hunting-grounds await me, green With change of spring and summer through the year: But, for remembrance, after I am gone, Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake: Weakling he is and young, and knows not yet To set the trap, or draw the seasoned bow; Therefore of both your loves he hath more need, And he, who needeth love, to love hath right; It is not like our furs and stores of corn, Whereto we claim sole title by our toil, But the Great Spirit plants it in our hearts, And waters it, and gives it sun, to be The common stock and heritage of all: Therefore be kind to Sheemah, that yourselves May not be left deserted in your need."

Alone, beside a lake, their wigwam stood, Far from the other dwellings of their tribe; And, after many moons, the loneliness Wearied the elder brother, and he said, "Why should I dwell here all alone, shut out From the free, natural joys that fit my age? Lo, I am tall and strong, well skilled to hunt, Patient of toil and hunger, and not yet Have seen the danger which I dared not look Full in the face; what hinders me to be A mighty Brave and Chief among my kin?" So, taking up his arrows and his bow, As if to hunt, he journeyed swiftly on, Until he gained the wigwams of his tribe, Where, choosing out a bride, he soon forgot, In all the fret and bustle of new life, The little Sheemah and his father's charge.

Now when the sister found her brother gone, And that, for many days, he came not back, She wept for Sheemah more than for herself; For Love bides longest in a woman's heart, And flutters many times before he flies, And then doth perch so nearly, that a word May lure him back, as swift and glad as light; And Duty lingers even when Love is gone Oft looking out in hope of his return; And, after Duty hath been driven forth, Then Selfishness creeps in the last of all, Warming her lean hands at the lonely hearth, And crouching o'er the embers, to shut out Whatever paltry warmth and light are left, With avaricious greed, from all beside. So, for long months, the sister hunted wide, And cared for little Sheemah tenderly; But, daily more and more, the loneliness Grew wearisome, and to herself she sighed, "Am I not fair? at least the glassy pool, That hath no cause to flatter, tells me so; But, O, how flat and meaningless the tale, Unless it tremble on a lover's tongue! Beauty hath no true glass, except it be In the sweet privacy of loving eyes." Thus deemed she idly, and forgot the lore Which she had learned of nature and the woods, That beauty's chief reward is to itself, And that the eyes of Love reflect alone The inward fairness, which is blurred and lost Unless kept clear and white by Duty's care So she went forth and sought the haunts of men, And, being wedded, in her household cares, Soon, like the elder brother, quite forgot The little Sheemah and her father's charge.

But Sheemah, left alone within the lodge, Waited and waited, with a shrinking heart, Thinking each rustle was his sister's step, Till hope grew less and less, and then went out, And every sound was changed from hope to fear. Few sounds there were:--the dropping of a nut, The squirrel's chirrup, and the jay's harsh scream, Autumn's sad remnants of blithe Summer's cheer, Heard at long intervals, seemed but to make The dreadful void of silence silenter. Soon what small store his sister left was gone, And, through the Autumn, he made shift to live On roots and berries, gathered in much fear Of wolves, whose ghastly howl he heard ofttimes, Hollow and hungry, at the dead of night. But Winter came at last, and, when the snow, Thick-heaped for gleaming leagues o'er hill and plain, Spread its unbroken silence over all, Made bold by hunger, he was fain to glean, (More sick at heart than Ruth, and all alone,) After the harvest of the merciless wolf, Grim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and gaunt, yet feared A thing more wild and starving than himself; Till, by degrees, the wolf and he grew friends, And shared, together all the winter through.

Late in the Spring, when all the ice was gone, The elder brother, fishing in the lake, Upon whose edge his father's wigwam stood, Heard a low moaning noise upon the shore: Half like a child it seemed, half like a wolf, And straightway there was something in his heart That said, "It is thy brother Sheemah's voice." So, paddling swiftly to the bank, he saw, Within a little thicket close at hand, A child that seemed fast changing to a wolf, From the neck downward, gray with shaggy hair That still crept on and upward as he looked. The face was turned away, but well he knew That it was Sheemah's, even his brother's face. Then with his trembling hands he hid his eyes, And bowed his head, so that he might not see The first look of his brother's eyes, and cried, "O, Sheemah! O, my brother, speak to me! Dost thou not know me, that I am thy brother? Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt dwell With me henceforth, and know no care or want!" Sheemah was silent for a space, as if 'T were hard to summon up a human voice, And, when he spake, the sound was of a wolf's: "I know thee not, nor art thou what thou say'st; I have none other brethren than the wolves, And, till thy heart be changed from what it is, Thou art not worthy to be called their kin." Then groaned the other, with a choking tongue, "Alas! my heart is changed right bitterly; 'Tis shrunk and parched within me even now!" And, looking upward fearfully, he saw Only a wolf that shrank away and ran, Ugly and fierce, to hide among the woods.

STANZAS ON FREEDOM

Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave? If ye do not feel the chain, When it works a brother's pain, Are ye not base slaves indeed, Slaves unworthy to be freed?

Women! who shall one day bear Sons to breathe New England air, If ye hear, without a blush, Deeds to make the roused blood rush Like red lava through your veins, For your sisters now in chains,-- Answer! are ye fit to be Mothers of the brave and free?

Is true Freedom but to break Fetters for our own dear sake, And, with leathern hearts, forget That we owe mankind a debt? No! true freedom is to share All the chains our brothers wear, And, with heart and hand, to be Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak, They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.

COLUMBUS.

The cordage creaks and rattles in the wind, With freaks of sudden hush; the reeling sea Now thumps like solid rock beneath the stern, Now leaps with clumsy wrath, strikes short, and, falling Crumbled to whispery foam, slips rustling down The broad backs of the waves, which jostle and crowd To fling themselves upon that unknown shore, Their used familiar since the dawn of time, Whither this foredoomed life is guided on To sway on triumph's hushed, aspiring poise One glittering moment, then to break fulfilled.

How lonely is the sea's perpetual swing, The melancholy wash of endless waves, The sigh of some grim monster undescried, Fear-painted on the canvas of the dark, Shifting on his uneasy pillow of brine! Yet night brings more companions than the day To this drear waste; new constellations burn, And fairer stars, with whose calm height my soul Finds nearer sympathy than with my herd Of earthen souls, whose vision's scanty ring Makes me its prisoner to beat my wings Against the cold bars of their unbelief, Knowing in vain my own free heaven beyond. O God! this world, so crammed with eager life, That comes and goes and wanders back to silence Like the idle wind, which yet man's shaping mind Can make his drudge to swell the longing sails Of highest endeavor,--this mad, unthrift world, Which, every hour, throws life enough away To make her deserts kind and hospitable, Lets her great destinies be waved aside By smooth, lip-reverent, formal infidels, Who weigh the God they not believe with gold, And find no spot in Judas, save that he, Driving a duller bargain than he ought, Saddled his guild with too cheap precedent. O Faith! if thou art strong, thine opposite Is mighty also, and the dull fool's sneer Hath ofttimes shot chill palsy through the arm, Just lifted to achieve its crowning deed, And made the firm-based heart, that would have quailed The rack or fagot, shudder like a leaf Wrinkled with frost, and loose upon its stem. The wicked and the weak, by some dark law, Have a strange power to shut and rivet down Their own horizon round us, to unwing Our heaven-aspiring visions, and to blur With surly clouds the Future's gleaming peaks, Far seen across the brine of thankless years. If the chosen soul could never be alone In deep mid-silence, open-doored to God, No greatness ever had been dreamed or done; Among dull hearts a prophet never grew; The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude.

The old world is effete; there man with man Jostles, and, in the brawl for means to live, Life is trod under-foot,--Life, the one block Of marble that's vouchsafed wherefrom to carve Our great thoughts, white and god-like, to shine down The future, Life, the irredeemable block, Which one o'er-hasty chisel-dint oft mars, Scanting our room to cut the features out Of our full hope, so forcing us to crown With a mean head the perfect limbs, or leave The god's face glowing o'er a satyr's trunk, Failure's brief epitaph. Yes, Europe's world Reels on to judgment; there the common need, Losing God's sacred use, to be a bond 'Twixt Me and Thee, sets each one scowlingly O'er his own selfish hoard at bay; no state, Knit strongly with eternal fibres up Of all men's separate and united weals, Self-poised and sole as stars, yet one as light. Holds up a shape of large Humanity To which by natural instinct every man Pays loyalty exulting, by which all Mould their own lives, and feel their pulses filled With the red fiery blood of the general life, Making them mighty in peace, as now in war They are, even in the flush of victory, weak, Conquering that manhood which should them subdue. And what gift bring I to this untried world? Shall the same tragedy be played anew, And the same lurid curtain drop at last On one dread desolation, one fierce crash Of that recoil which on its makers God Lets Ignorance and Sin and Hunger make, Early or late? Or shall that commonwealth Whose potent unity and concentric force Can draw these scattered joints and parts of men Into a whole ideal man once more, Which sucks not from its limbs the life away, But sends it flood-tide and creates itself Over again in every citizen, Be there built up? For me, I have no choice; I might turn back to other destinies, For one sincere key opes all Fortune's doors; But whoso answers not God's earliest call, Forfeits or dulls that faculty supreme Of lying open to his genius Which makes the wise heart certain of its ends.

Here am I; for what end God knows, not I; Westward still points the inexorable soul: Here am I, with no friend but the sad sea, The beating heart of this great enterprise, Which, without me, would stiffen in swift death; This have I mused on, since mine eye could first Among the stars distinguish and with joy Rest on that God-fed Pharos of the north, On some blue promontory of heaven lighted That juts far out into the upper sea; To this one hope my heart hath clung for years, As would a foundling to the talisman Hung round his neck by hands he knew not whose. A poor, vile thing and dross to all beside, Yet he therein can feel a virtue left By the sad pressure of a mother's hand, And unto him it still is tremulous With palpitating haste and wet with tears, The key to him of hope and humanness, The coarse shell of life's pearl, Expectancy. This hope hath been to me for love and fame, Hath made me wholly lonely on the earth, Building me up as in a thick-ribbed tower, Wherewith enwalled my watching spirit burned, Conquering its little island from the Dark, Sole as a scholar's lamp, and heard men's steps, In the far hurry of the outward world, Pass dimly forth and back, sounds heard in dream As Ganymede by the eagle was snatched up From the gross sod to be Jove's cupbearer, So was I lifted by my great design: And who hath trod Olympus, from his eye Fades not that broader outlook of the gods; His life's low valleys overbrow earth's clouds, And that Olympian spectre of the past Looms towering up in sovereign memory, Beckoning his soul from meaner heights of doom. Had but the shadow of the Thunderer's bird, Flashing athwart my spirit, made of me A swift-betraying vision's Ganymede, Yet to have greatly dreamed precludes low ends Great days have ever such a morning-red, On such a base great futures are built up, And aspiration, though not put in act, Comes back to ask its plighted troth again, Still watches round its grave the unlaid ghost Of a dead virtue, and makes other hopes, Save that implacable one, seem thin and bleak As shadows of bare trees upon the snow, Bound freezing there by the unpitying moon.

While other youths perplexed their mandolins, Praying that Thetis would her fingers twine In the loose glories of her lover's hair, And wile another kiss to keep back day, I, stretched beneath the many-centuried shade Of some writhed oak, the wood's Laocoön, Did of my hope a dryad mistress make, Whom I would woo to meet me privily, Or underneath the stars, or when the moon Flecked all the forest floor with scattered pearls. O days whose memory tames to fawning down The surly fell of Ocean's bristled neck!

I know not when this hope enthralled me first, But from my boyhood up I loved to hear The tall-pine-forests of the Apennine Murmur their hoary legends of the sea, Which hearing, I in vision clear beheld; The sudden dark of tropic night shut down O'er the huge whisper of great watery wastes, The while a pair of herons trailingly Flapped inland, where some league-wide river hurled The yellow spoil of unconjectured realms Far through a gulf's green silence, never scarred By any but the Northwind's hurrying keels. And not the pines alone; all sights and sounds To my world-seeking heart paid fealty, And catered for it as the Cretan bees Brought honey to the baby Jupiter, Who in his soft hand crushed a violet, God-like foremusing the rough thunder's gripe; Then did I entertain the poet's song, My great Idea's guest, and, passing o'er That iron bridge the Tuscan built to hell, I heard Ulysses tell of mountain-chains Whose adamantine links, his manacles, The western main shook growling, and still gnawed. I brooded on the wise Athenian's tale Of happy Atlantis, and heard Björne's keel Crunch the gray pebbles of the Vinland shore: For I believed the poets; it is they Who utter wisdom from the central deep, And, listening to the inner flow of things, Speak to the age out of eternity.