 | The poetical works of Bayard Taylor |  |
101
THE POET'S JOURNAL
103
PREFACE
THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS
Not as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn,
And cheeks all bright, from rapture of the way,
But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn,
She comes to me to-day.
And cheeks all bright, from rapture of the way,
But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn,
She comes to me to-day.
Does she forget the trysts we used to keep,
When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground,
Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep
With threats of silver sound?
When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground,
Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep
With threats of silver sound?
Does she forget how shone the happy eyes
When they beheld her,—how the eager tongue
Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies,
To reach her where she sung?
When they beheld her,—how the eager tongue
Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies,
To reach her where she sung?
How at her sacred feet I cast me down?
How she upraised me to her bosom fair,
And from her garland shred the first light crown
That ever pressed my hair?
How she upraised me to her bosom fair,
And from her garland shred the first light crown
That ever pressed my hair?
Though dust is on the leaves, her breath will bring
Their freshness back: why lingers she so long?
The pulseless air is waiting for her wing,
Dumb with unuttered song.
Their freshness back: why lingers she so long?
The pulseless air is waiting for her wing,
Dumb with unuttered song.
If tender doubt delay her on the road,
Oh let her haste to find the doubt belied!
If shame for love unworthily bestowed,
That shame shall melt in pride.
Oh let her haste to find the doubt belied!
If shame for love unworthily bestowed,
That shame shall melt in pride.
If she but smile, the crystal calm shall break
In music, sweeter than it ever gave,
As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake
And laughs in every wave.
In music, sweeter than it ever gave,
As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake
And laughs in every wave.
The ripples of awakened song shall die
Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain,
Until, as once, upon her breast I lie—
Pardoned, and loved again!
Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain,
Until, as once, upon her breast I lie—
Pardoned, and loved again!
1859.
104
INSCRIPTION
TO THE MISTRESS OF CEDARCROFT
I
The evening shadows lengthen on the lawn:Westward, our immemorial chestnuts stand,
A mount of shade; but o'er the cedars drawn,
Between the hedge-row trees, in many a band
Of brightening gold, the sunshine lingers on,
And soon will touch our oaks with parting hand:
And down the distant valley all is still,
And flushed with purple smiles the beckoning hill.
II
Come, leave the flowery terrace, leave the bedsWhere Southern children wake to Northern air:
Let yon mimosas droop their tufted heads,
These myrtle-trees their nuptial beauty wear,
And while the dying day reluctant treads
From tree-top unto tree-top, with me share
The scene's idyllic peace, the evening's close,
The balm of twilight, and the land's repose.
III
Come, for my task is done: the task that drewMy footsteps from the chambers of the Day,—
That held me back, Beloved, even from you,
That are my daylight: for the Poet's way
Turns into many a lonely avenue
Where none may follow. He must sing his lay
First to himself, then to the One most dear;
Last, to the world. Come to my side, and hear!
IV
The poems ripened in a heart at rest,A life that first through you is free and strong,
Take them and warm them in your partial breast,
Before they try the common air of song!
Fame won at home is of all fame the best:
Crown me your poet, and the critic's wrong
Shall harmless strike where you in love have smiled,
Wife of my heart, and mother of my child!
1860.
105
[FIRST EVENING]
FIRST EVENING
The day had come, the day of many years.
My bud of hope, thorned round with guarding fears,
And sealed with frosts of oft-renewed delay,
Burst into sudden bloom—it was the day!
“Ernest will come!” the early sunbeams cried;
“Will come!” was breathed through all the woodlands wide;
“Will come, will come!” said cloud, and brook, and bird;
And when the hollow roll of wheels was heard
Across the bridge, it thundered, “He is near!”
And then my heart made answer, “He is here!”
My bud of hope, thorned round with guarding fears,
And sealed with frosts of oft-renewed delay,
Burst into sudden bloom—it was the day!
“Ernest will come!” the early sunbeams cried;
“Will come!” was breathed through all the woodlands wide;
“Will come, will come!” said cloud, and brook, and bird;
And when the hollow roll of wheels was heard
Across the bridge, it thundered, “He is near!”
And then my heart made answer, “He is here!”
Ernest was here, and now the day had gone
Like other days, yet wild and swift and sweet,—
And yet prolonged, as if with whirling feet
One troop of duplicated Hours sped on
And one trod out the moments lingeringly:
So distant seemed the lonely dawn from me.
But all was well. He paced the new-mown lawn,
With Edith at his side, and, while my firs
Stood bronzed with sunset, happy glances cast
On the familiar landmarks of the Past.
I heard a gentle laugh: the laugh was hers.
“Confess it,” she exclaimed, “I recognize,
No less than you, the features of the place,
So often have I seen it with the eyes
Your memory gave me: yea, your very face,
With every movement of the theme, betrayed
That here the sunshine lay, and there the shade.”
“A proof!” cried Ernest. “Let me be your guide,”
She said, “and speak not: Philip shall decide.”
To them I went, at beckon of her hand.
A moment she the mellow landscape scanned
In seeming doubt, but only to prolong
A witching aspect of uncertainty,
And the soft smile in Ernest's watching eye:
“Yonder,” she said, “(I see I am not wrong,
By Philip's face,) you built your hermit seat
Against the rock, among the scented fern,
Where summer lizards played about your feet;
And here, beside us, is the tottering urn
You cracked in fixing firmly on its base;
And here—yes, yes!—this is the very place—
I know the wild vine and the sassafras—
Where you and Philip, lying in the grass,
Disowned the world, renounced the race of men,
And you all love, except your own for him,
Until, through that, all love came back again.”
Here Edith paused; but Ernest's eyes were dim.
He kissed her, gave a loving hand to me,
And spoke: “Ah, Philip, Philip, those were days
We dare remember now, when only blaze
Far-off, the storm's black edges brokenly.
Who thinks, at night, that morn will ever be?
Who knows, far out upon the central sea,
That anywhere is land? And yet, a shore
Has set behind us, and will rise before:
A past foretells a future.” “Blessed be
That Past!” I answered, “on whose bosom lay
Peace, like a new-born child: and now, I see,
The child is man, begetting day by day
Some fresher joy, some other bliss, to make
Your life the fairer for his mother's sake.”
Like other days, yet wild and swift and sweet,—
And yet prolonged, as if with whirling feet
One troop of duplicated Hours sped on
And one trod out the moments lingeringly:
So distant seemed the lonely dawn from me.
But all was well. He paced the new-mown lawn,
With Edith at his side, and, while my firs
Stood bronzed with sunset, happy glances cast
On the familiar landmarks of the Past.
I heard a gentle laugh: the laugh was hers.
“Confess it,” she exclaimed, “I recognize,
No less than you, the features of the place,
So often have I seen it with the eyes
Your memory gave me: yea, your very face,
With every movement of the theme, betrayed
That here the sunshine lay, and there the shade.”
“A proof!” cried Ernest. “Let me be your guide,”
She said, “and speak not: Philip shall decide.”
To them I went, at beckon of her hand.
A moment she the mellow landscape scanned
In seeming doubt, but only to prolong
A witching aspect of uncertainty,
And the soft smile in Ernest's watching eye:
“Yonder,” she said, “(I see I am not wrong,
By Philip's face,) you built your hermit seat
Against the rock, among the scented fern,
Where summer lizards played about your feet;
And here, beside us, is the tottering urn
You cracked in fixing firmly on its base;
And here—yes, yes!—this is the very place—
I know the wild vine and the sassafras—
Where you and Philip, lying in the grass,
106
And you all love, except your own for him,
Until, through that, all love came back again.”
Here Edith paused; but Ernest's eyes were dim.
He kissed her, gave a loving hand to me,
And spoke: “Ah, Philip, Philip, those were days
We dare remember now, when only blaze
Far-off, the storm's black edges brokenly.
Who thinks, at night, that morn will ever be?
Who knows, far out upon the central sea,
That anywhere is land? And yet, a shore
Has set behind us, and will rise before:
A past foretells a future.” “Blessed be
That Past!” I answered, “on whose bosom lay
Peace, like a new-born child: and now, I see,
The child is man, begetting day by day
Some fresher joy, some other bliss, to make
Your life the fairer for his mother's sake.”
Deeper beneath the oaks the shadows grew:
The twilight glimmer from their tops withdrew,
And purple gloomed the distant hills, and sweet
The sudden breath of evening rose, with balm
Of grassy meadows: in the upper calm
The pulses of the stars began to beat:
The fire-flies twinkled: through the lindens went
A rustle, as of happy leaves composed
To airy sleep, of drowsy petals closed,
And the dark land lay silent and content.
We, too, were silent. Ernest walked, I knew,
With me, beneath the stars of other eves:
He heard, with me, the tongues of perished leaves:
Departed suns their trails of splendor drew
Across departed summers: whispers came
From voices, long ago resolved again
Into the primal Silence, and we twain,
Ghosts of our present selves, yet still the same,
As in a spectral mirror wandered there.
Its pain outlived, the Past was only fair.
Ten years had passed since I had touched his hand,
And felt upon my lips the brother-kiss
That shames not manhood,—years of quiet bliss
To me, fast-rooted on paternal land,
Mated, yet childless. He had journeyed far
Beyond the borders of my life, and whirled
Unresting round the vortex of the world,
The reckless child of some eccentric star,
Careless of fate, yet with a central strength
I knew would hold his life in equipoise,
And bent his wandering energies, at length,
To the smooth orbit of serener joys.
Few were the winds that wafted to my nest
A leaf from him: I learned that he was blest,—
The late fulfilment of my prophecy,—
And then I felt that he must come to me,
The old, unswerving sympathy to claim;
And set my house in order for a guest
Long ere the message of his coming came.
The twilight glimmer from their tops withdrew,
And purple gloomed the distant hills, and sweet
The sudden breath of evening rose, with balm
Of grassy meadows: in the upper calm
The pulses of the stars began to beat:
The fire-flies twinkled: through the lindens went
A rustle, as of happy leaves composed
To airy sleep, of drowsy petals closed,
And the dark land lay silent and content.
We, too, were silent. Ernest walked, I knew,
With me, beneath the stars of other eves:
He heard, with me, the tongues of perished leaves:
Departed suns their trails of splendor drew
Across departed summers: whispers came
From voices, long ago resolved again
Into the primal Silence, and we twain,
Ghosts of our present selves, yet still the same,
As in a spectral mirror wandered there.
Its pain outlived, the Past was only fair.
Ten years had passed since I had touched his hand,
And felt upon my lips the brother-kiss
That shames not manhood,—years of quiet bliss
To me, fast-rooted on paternal land,
Mated, yet childless. He had journeyed far
Beyond the borders of my life, and whirled
Unresting round the vortex of the world,
The reckless child of some eccentric star,
Careless of fate, yet with a central strength
I knew would hold his life in equipoise,
And bent his wandering energies, at length,
To the smooth orbit of serener joys.
Few were the winds that wafted to my nest
A leaf from him: I learned that he was blest,—
The late fulfilment of my prophecy,—
And then I felt that he must come to me,
The old, unswerving sympathy to claim;
107
Long ere the message of his coming came.
In gentle terraces my garden fell
Down to the rolling lawn. On one side rose,
Flanking the layers of bloom, a bolder swell
With laurels clad, and every shrub that grows
Upon our native hills, a bosky mound,
Whence the commingling valleys might be seen
Bluer and lovelier through the gaps of green.
The rustic arbor which the summit crowned
Was woven of shining smilax, trumpet-vine,
Clematis, and the wild white eglantine,
Whose tropical luxuriance overhung
The interspaces of the posts, and made
For each sweet picture frames of bloom and shade.
It was my favorite haunt when I was young,
To read my poets, watch my sunset fade
Behind my father's hills, and, when the moon
Shed warmer silver through the nights of June,
Dream, as 't were new, the universal dream.
This arbor, too, was Ernest's hermitage:
Here he had read to me his tear-stained page
Of sorrow, here renewed the pang supreme
Which burned his youth to ashes: here would try
To lay his burden in the hands of Song,
And make the Poet bear the Lover's wrong,
But still his heart impatiently would cry:
“In vain, in vain! You cannot teach to flow
In measured lines so measureless a woe.
First learn to slay this wild beast of despair,
Then from his harmless jaws your honey tear!”
Down to the rolling lawn. On one side rose,
Flanking the layers of bloom, a bolder swell
With laurels clad, and every shrub that grows
Upon our native hills, a bosky mound,
Whence the commingling valleys might be seen
Bluer and lovelier through the gaps of green.
The rustic arbor which the summit crowned
Was woven of shining smilax, trumpet-vine,
Clematis, and the wild white eglantine,
Whose tropical luxuriance overhung
The interspaces of the posts, and made
For each sweet picture frames of bloom and shade.
It was my favorite haunt when I was young,
To read my poets, watch my sunset fade
Behind my father's hills, and, when the moon
Shed warmer silver through the nights of June,
Dream, as 't were new, the universal dream.
This arbor, too, was Ernest's hermitage:
Here he had read to me his tear-stained page
Of sorrow, here renewed the pang supreme
Which burned his youth to ashes: here would try
To lay his burden in the hands of Song,
And make the Poet bear the Lover's wrong,
But still his heart impatiently would cry:
“In vain, in vain! You cannot teach to flow
In measured lines so measureless a woe.
First learn to slay this wild beast of despair,
Then from his harmless jaws your honey tear!”
Hither we came. Beloved hands had graced
The table with a flask of mellow juice,
Thereto the gentle herb that poets use
When Fancy droops, and in the corner placed
A lamp, that glimmered through its misty sphere
Like moonlit marble, on a pedestal
Of knotted roots, against the leafy wall.
The air was dry, the night was calm and clear,
And in the dying clover crickets chirped.
The Past, I felt, the Past alone usurped
Our thoughts,—the hour of confidence had come,
Of sweet confession, tender interchange,
Which drew our hearts together, yet with strange
Half-dread repelled them. Seeing Ernest dumb
With memories of the spot, as if to me
Belonged the right his secrets to evoke.
And Edith's eyes on mine, consentingly,
Conscious of all I wished to know, I spoke:
“Dear Friend, one volume of your life I read
Beneath these vines: you placed it in my hand
And made it mine,—but how the tale has sped
Since then. I know not, or can understand
From this fair ending only. Let me see
The intervening chapters, dark and bright,
In order, as you lived them. Give to-night
Unto the Past, dear Ernest, and to me!”
Thus I, with doubt and loving hesitance,
Lest I should touch a nerve he fain would hide;
But he, with calm and reassuring glance,
In which no troubled shadow lay, replied:
“That mingled light and darkness are no more
In this new life, than are the sun and shade
Of painted landscapes: distant lies the shore
Where last we parted, Philip: how I made
The journey, what adventures on the road,
What haps I met, what struggles, what success
Of fame, or gold, or place, concerns you less,
Dear friend, than how I lost that sorest load
I started with, and came to dwell at last
In the House Beautiful. There but remains
A fragment here and there,—wild, broken strains
And scattered voices speaking from the Past.”
“Let me those broken voices hear,” I said,
“And I shall know the rest.” “Well—be it so.
You, who would write ‘Resurgam’ o'er my dead,
The resurrection of my heart shall know.”
The table with a flask of mellow juice,
Thereto the gentle herb that poets use
When Fancy droops, and in the corner placed
A lamp, that glimmered through its misty sphere
Like moonlit marble, on a pedestal
Of knotted roots, against the leafy wall.
The air was dry, the night was calm and clear,
And in the dying clover crickets chirped.
The Past, I felt, the Past alone usurped
Our thoughts,—the hour of confidence had come,
Of sweet confession, tender interchange,
Which drew our hearts together, yet with strange
Half-dread repelled them. Seeing Ernest dumb
With memories of the spot, as if to me
Belonged the right his secrets to evoke.
And Edith's eyes on mine, consentingly,
Conscious of all I wished to know, I spoke:
“Dear Friend, one volume of your life I read
Beneath these vines: you placed it in my hand
And made it mine,—but how the tale has sped
Since then. I know not, or can understand
From this fair ending only. Let me see
108
In order, as you lived them. Give to-night
Unto the Past, dear Ernest, and to me!”
Thus I, with doubt and loving hesitance,
Lest I should touch a nerve he fain would hide;
But he, with calm and reassuring glance,
In which no troubled shadow lay, replied:
“That mingled light and darkness are no more
In this new life, than are the sun and shade
Of painted landscapes: distant lies the shore
Where last we parted, Philip: how I made
The journey, what adventures on the road,
What haps I met, what struggles, what success
Of fame, or gold, or place, concerns you less,
Dear friend, than how I lost that sorest load
I started with, and came to dwell at last
In the House Beautiful. There but remains
A fragment here and there,—wild, broken strains
And scattered voices speaking from the Past.”
“Let me those broken voices hear,” I said,
“And I shall know the rest.” “Well—be it so.
You, who would write ‘Resurgam’ o'er my dead,
The resurrection of my heart shall know.”
Then Edith rose, and up the terraces
Went swiftly to the house; but soon we spied
Her white dress gleam, returning through the trees,
And, softly flushed, she came to Ernest's side,
A volume in her hand. But he delayed
Awhile his task, revolving leaf by leaf
With tender interest, now that ancient grief
No more had power to make his heart afraid;
For pain, that only lives in memory,
Like battle-scars, it is no pain to show.
“Here, Philip, are the secrets you would know,”
He said: “Howe'er obscure the utterance be
The lamp you lighted in the olden time
Will show my heart's-blood beating through the rhyme:
A poet's journal, writ in fire and tears
At first, blind protestations, blinder rage,
(For you and Edith only, many a page!)
Then slow deliverance, with the gaps of years
Between, and final struggles into life,
Which the heart shrank from, as 'twere death instead.”
Then, with a loving glance towards his wife,
Which she as fondly answered, thus he read:—
Went swiftly to the house; but soon we spied
Her white dress gleam, returning through the trees,
And, softly flushed, she came to Ernest's side,
A volume in her hand. But he delayed
Awhile his task, revolving leaf by leaf
With tender interest, now that ancient grief
No more had power to make his heart afraid;
For pain, that only lives in memory,
Like battle-scars, it is no pain to show.
“Here, Philip, are the secrets you would know,”
He said: “Howe'er obscure the utterance be
The lamp you lighted in the olden time
Will show my heart's-blood beating through the rhyme:
A poet's journal, writ in fire and tears
At first, blind protestations, blinder rage,
(For you and Edith only, many a page!)
Then slow deliverance, with the gaps of years
Between, and final struggles into life,
Which the heart shrank from, as 'twere death instead.”
Then, with a loving glance towards his wife,
Which she as fondly answered, thus he read:—
THE TORSO
I
In clay the statue stood complete,As beautiful a form, and fair,
As ever walked a Roman street
Or breathed the blue Athenian air:
The perfect limbs, divinely bare,
Their old, heroic freedom kept,
And in the features, fine and rare,
A calm, immortal sweetness slept.
II
O'er common men it towered, a god,And smote their meaner life with shame,
109
Its lifted brow was crowned with flame
And purified from touch of blame:
Yet wholly human was the face,
And over them who saw it came
The knowledge of their own disgrace.
III
It stood, regardless of the crowd,And simply showed what men might be:
Its solemn beauty disavowed
The curse of lost humanity.
Erect and proud, and pure and free,
It overlooked each loathsome law
Whereunto others bend the knee,
And only what was noble saw.
IV
The patience and the hope of yearsTheir final hour of triumph caught;
The clay was tempered with my tears,
The forces of my spirit wrought
With hands of fire to shape my thought,
That when, complete, the statue stood,
To marble resurrection brought,
The Master might pronounce it good.
V
But in the night an enemy,Who could not bear the wreath should grace
My ready forehead, stole the key
And hurled my statue from its base;
And now its fragments strew the place
Where I had dreamed its shrine might be:
The stains of common earth deface
Its beauty and its majesty.
VI
The torso prone before me lies;The cloven brow is knit with pain:
Mute lips, and blank, reproachful eyes
Unto my hands appeal in vain.
My hands shall never work again:
My hope is dead, my strength is spent:
This fatal wreck shall now remain
The ruined sculptor's monument.
1860.
ON THE HEADLAND
I sit on the lonely headland,
Where the sea-gulls come and go:
The sky is gray above me,
And the sea is gray below.
Where the sea-gulls come and go:
The sky is gray above me,
And the sea is gray below.
There is no fisherman's pinnace
Homeward or outward bound;
I see no living creature
In the world's deserted round.
Homeward or outward bound;
I see no living creature
In the world's deserted round.
I pine for something human,
Man, woman, young or old,—
Something to meet and welcome,
Something to clasp and hold.
Man, woman, young or old,—
Something to meet and welcome,
Something to clasp and hold.
I have a mouth for kisses,
But there 's no one to give and take;
I have a heart in my bosom
Beating for nobody's sake.
But there 's no one to give and take;
I have a heart in my bosom
Beating for nobody's sake.
O warmth of love that is wasted!
Is there none to stretch a hand?
No other heart that hungers
In all the living land?
Is there none to stretch a hand?
No other heart that hungers
In all the living land?
I could fondle the fisherman's baby,
And rock it into rest;
I could take the sunburnt sailor,
Like a brother, to my breast.
And rock it into rest;
I could take the sunburnt sailor,
Like a brother, to my breast.
I could clasp the hand of any
Outcast of land or sea,
If the guilty palm but answered
The tenderness in me!
Outcast of land or sea,
If the guilty palm but answered
The tenderness in me!
The sea might rise and drown me,—
Cliffs fall and crush my head,—
Were there one to love me, living,
Or weep to see me dead!
Cliffs fall and crush my head,—
Were there one to love me, living,
Or weep to see me dead!
1855.
MARAH
The waters of my life were sweet,
Before that bolt of sorrow fell;
But now, though fainting with the heat,
I dare not drink the bitter well.
Before that bolt of sorrow fell;
But now, though fainting with the heat,
I dare not drink the bitter well.
My God! shall Sin across the heart
Sweep like a wind that leaves no trace,
But Grief inflict a rankling smart
No after blessing can efface?
Sweep like a wind that leaves no trace,
But Grief inflict a rankling smart
No after blessing can efface?
110
I see the tired mechanic take
His evening rest beside his door,
And gentlier, for their father's sake,
His children tread the happy floor:
His evening rest beside his door,
And gentlier, for their father's sake,
His children tread the happy floor:
The kitchen teems with cheering smells,
With clash of cups and clink of knives,
And all the household picture tells
Of humble yet contented lives.
With clash of cups and clink of knives,
And all the household picture tells
Of humble yet contented lives.
Then in my heart the serpents hiss:
What right have these, who scarcely know
The perfect sweetness of their bliss,
To flaunt it thus before my woe?
What right have these, who scarcely know
The perfect sweetness of their bliss,
To flaunt it thus before my woe?
Like bread, Love's portion they divide,
Like water drink his precious wine,
When the least crumb they cast aside
Were manna for these lips of mine.
Like water drink his precious wine,
When the least crumb they cast aside
Were manna for these lips of mine.
I see the friend of other days
Lead home his flushed and silent bride!
His eyes are suns of tender praise.
Her eyes are stars of tender pride.
Lead home his flushed and silent bride!
His eyes are suns of tender praise.
Her eyes are stars of tender pride.
Go, hide your shameless happiness.
The demon cries, within my breast;
Think not that I the bond can bless,
Which seeing, I am twice unblest.
The demon cries, within my breast;
Think not that I the bond can bless,
Which seeing, I am twice unblest.
The husband of a year proclaims
His recent honor, shows the boy,
And calls the babe a thousand names,
And dandles it in awkward joy:
His recent honor, shows the boy,
And calls the babe a thousand names,
And dandles it in awkward joy:
And then—I see the wife's pale cheek,
Her eyes of pure, celestial ray—
The curse is choked: I cannot speak,
But, weeping, turn my head away!
Her eyes of pure, celestial ray—
The curse is choked: I cannot speak,
But, weeping, turn my head away!
1860.
THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER
Last night the Tempter came to me, and said:“Why sorrow any longer for the dead?
The wrong is done: thy tears and groans are naught:
Forget the Past,—thy pain but lives in thought.
Night after night, I hear thy cries implore
An answer: she will answer thee no more.
Give up thine idle prayer that Death may come
And thou mayest somewhere find her: Death is dumb
To those that seek him. Live: for youth is thine.
Let not thy rich blood, like neglected wine,
Grow thin and stale, but rouse thyself, at last,
And take a man's revenge upon the Past.
What have thy virtues brought thee? Let them go,
And with them lose the burden of thy woe,
Their only payment for thy service hard:
They but exact, thou see'st, and not reward.
Thy life is cheated, thou art cast aside
In dust, the worn-out vessel of their pride.
Come, take thy pleasure: others do the same,
And love is theirs, and fortune, name, and fame!
Let not the name of Vice thine ear affright:
Vice is no darkness, but a different light,
Which thou dost need, to see thy path aright:
Or if some pang in this experience lie,
Through counter-pain thy present pain will die.
Bethink thee of the lost, the barren years,
Of harsh privations, unavailing tears,
The steady ache of strong desires restrained,
And what thou hast deserved, and what obtained:
Then go, thou fool! and, if thou canst, rejoice
To make such base ingratitude thy choice,
While each indulgence which thy brethren taste
But mocks thy palate, as it runs to waste!”
111
Alluring pictures round my prostrate head.
'Twixt sleep and waking, in my helpless ear
His honeyed voice rang musical and clear;
And half persuaded, shaken half with fear,
I heard him, till the Morn began to shine,
And found her brow less dewy-wet than mine.
1860.
EXORCISM
O tongues of the Past, be still!
Are the days not over and gone?
The joys have perished that were so sweet,
But the sorrow still lives on.
Are the days not over and gone?
The joys have perished that were so sweet,
But the sorrow still lives on.
I have sealed the graves of my hopes;
I have carried the pall of love:
Let the pains and pangs be buried as deep,
And the grass be as green above!
I have carried the pall of love:
Let the pains and pangs be buried as deep,
And the grass be as green above!
But the ghosts of the dead arise:
They come when the board is spread;
They poison the wine of the banquet cups
With the mould their lips have shed.
They come when the board is spread;
They poison the wine of the banquet cups
With the mould their lips have shed.
The pulse of the bacchant blood
May throb in the ivy wreath,
But the berries are plucked from the nightshade bough
That grows in the gardens of Death.
May throb in the ivy wreath,
But the berries are plucked from the nightshade bough
That grows in the gardens of Death.
I sleep with joy at my heart,
Warm as a new-made bride;
But a vampire comes to suck her blood,
And I wake with a corpse at my side.
Warm as a new-made bride;
But a vampire comes to suck her blood,
And I wake with a corpse at my side.
O ghosts, I have given to you
The bliss of the faded years;
The sweat of my brow, the blood of my heart,
And manhood's terrible tears!
The bliss of the faded years;
The sweat of my brow, the blood of my heart,
And manhood's terrible tears!
Take them, and be content:
I have nothing more to give:
My soul is chilled in the house of Death,
And 'tis time that I should live.
I have nothing more to give:
My soul is chilled in the house of Death,
And 'tis time that I should live.
Take them, and let me be:
Lie still in the churchyard mould,
Nor chase from my heart each new delight
With the phantom of the old!
Lie still in the churchyard mould,
Nor chase from my heart each new delight
With the phantom of the old!
1855.
SQUANDERED LIVES
The fisherman wades in the surges;
The sailor sails over the sea;
The soldier steps bravely to battle;
The woodman lays axe to the tree.
The sailor sails over the sea;
The soldier steps bravely to battle;
The woodman lays axe to the tree.
They are each of the breed of the heroes,
The manhood attempered in strife:
Strong hands, that go lightly to labor,
True hearts, that take comfort in life.
The manhood attempered in strife:
Strong hands, that go lightly to labor,
True hearts, that take comfort in life.
In each is the seed to replenish
The world with the vigor it needs,—
The centre of honest affections,
The impulse to generous deeds.
The world with the vigor it needs,—
The centre of honest affections,
The impulse to generous deeds.
But the shark drinks the blood of the fisher;
The sailor is dropped in the sea;
The soldier lies cold by his cannon;
The woodman is crushed by his tree.
The sailor is dropped in the sea;
The soldier lies cold by his cannon;
The woodman is crushed by his tree.
Each prodigal life that is wasted
In manly achievement unseen,
But lengthens the days of the coward,
And strengthens the crafty and mean.
In manly achievement unseen,
But lengthens the days of the coward,
And strengthens the crafty and mean.
The blood of the noblest is lavished
That the selfish a profit may find;
But God sees the lives that are squandered,
And we to His wisdom are blind.
That the selfish a profit may find;
But God sees the lives that are squandered,
And we to His wisdom are blind.
1855.
112
A SYMBOL
I
Heavy, and hot, and gray,
Day following unto day,
A felon gang, their blind life drag away,—
Day following unto day,
A felon gang, their blind life drag away,—
Blind, vacant, dumb, as Time,
Lapsed from his wonted prime,
Begot them basely in incestuous crime:
Lapsed from his wonted prime,
Begot them basely in incestuous crime:
So little life there seems
About the woods and streams,—
Only a sleep, perplexed with nightmare-dreams.
About the woods and streams,—
Only a sleep, perplexed with nightmare-dreams.
The burden of a sigh
Stifles the weary sky,
Where smouldering clouds in ashen masses lie:
Stifles the weary sky,
Where smouldering clouds in ashen masses lie:
The forests fain would groan,
But, silenced into stone,
Crouch, in the dull blue vapors round them thrown.
But, silenced into stone,
Crouch, in the dull blue vapors round them thrown.
O light, more drear than gloom!
Than death more dead such bloom:
Yet life—yet life—shall burst this gathering doom!
Than death more dead such bloom:
Yet life—yet life—shall burst this gathering doom!
II
Behold! a swift and silent fire
Yon dull cloud pierces, in the west,
And blackening, as with growing ire,
He lifts his forehead from his breast.
Yon dull cloud pierces, in the west,
And blackening, as with growing ire,
He lifts his forehead from his breast.
He mutters to the ashy host
That all around him sleeping lie,—
Sole chieftain on the airy coast,
To fight the battles of the sky.
That all around him sleeping lie,—
Sole chieftain on the airy coast,
To fight the battles of the sky.
He slowly lifts his weary strength,
His shadow rises on the day,
And distant forests feel at length
A wind from landscapes far away.
His shadow rises on the day,
And distant forests feel at length
A wind from landscapes far away.
III
How shall the cloud unload its thunder?
How shall its flashes fire the air?
Hills and valleys are dumb with wonder:
Lakes look up with a leaden stare.
How shall its flashes fire the air?
Hills and valleys are dumb with wonder:
Lakes look up with a leaden stare.
Hark! the lungs of the striding giant
Bellow an angry answer back!
Hurling the hair from his brows defiant,
Crushing the laggards along his track.
Bellow an angry answer back!
Hurling the hair from his brows defiant,
Crushing the laggards along his track.
Now his step, like a battling Titan's,
Scales in flame the hills of the sky:
Struck by his breath, the forest whitens;
Fluttering waters feel him nigh!
Scales in flame the hills of the sky:
Struck by his breath, the forest whitens;
Fluttering waters feel him nigh!
Stroke on stroke of his thunder-hammer—
Sheets of flame from his anvil hurled—
Heaven's doors are burst in the clamor:
He alone possesses the world!
Sheets of flame from his anvil hurled—
Heaven's doors are burst in the clamor:
He alone possesses the world!
IV
Drowned woods, shudder no more:
Vexed lakes, smile as before:
Hills that vanished, appear again:
Rise for harvest, prostrate grain!
Vexed lakes, smile as before:
Hills that vanished, appear again:
Rise for harvest, prostrate grain!
Shake thy jewels, twinkling grass:
Blossoms, tint the winds that pass:
Sun, behold a world restored!
World, again thy sun is lord!
Blossoms, tint the winds that pass:
Sun, behold a world restored!
World, again thy sun is lord!
Thunder-spasms the waking be
Into Life from Apathy:
Life, not Death, is in the gale,—
Let the coming Doom prevail!
Into Life from Apathy:
Life, not Death, is in the gale,—
Let the coming Doom prevail!
1859.
Thus far he read: at first with even tone,Still chanting in the old, familiar key,—
That golden note, whose grand monotony
Is musical in poets' mouths alone,—
But broken, as he read, became the chime.
To speak, once more, in Grief's forgotten tongue,
And feel the hot reflex of passion flung
Back on the heart by every pulse of rhyme
113
More calm than his. With many a tender break
Of voice, a dimness of the haughty eye,
And pause of wandering memory, he read;
While I, with folded arms and downcast head,
In silence heard each blind, bewildered cry.
Thus far had Ernest read: but, closing now
The book, and lifting up a calmer brow,
“Forgive me, patient God, for this!” he said:
“And you forgive, dear friend, and dearest wife,
If I have marred an hour of this sweet life
With noises from the valley of the Dead.
Long, long ago, the Hand whereat I railed
In blindness gave me courage to subdue
This wild revolt: I see wherein I failed:
My heart was false, when most I thought it true,
My sorrow selfish, when I thought it pure.
For those we lose, if still their love endure
Translation to that other land, where Love
Breathes the immortal wisdom, ask in heaven
No greater sacrifice than we had given
On earth, our love's integrity to prove.
If we are blest to know the other blest,
Then treason lies in sorrow. Vainly said!
Alone each heart must cover up its dead;
Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest:
Which I have found—but still these records keep,
Lest I, condemning others, should forget
My own rebellion. From these tares I reap,
In evil days, a fruitful harvest yet.
“But 't is enough, to-night. Nay, Philip, here
A chapter closes. See! the moon is near:
Your laurels glitter: come, my darling, sing
The hymn I wrote on such a night as this!”
Then Edith, stooping first to take his kiss,
Drew from its niche of woodbine her guitar,
With chords prelusive tuned a slackened string,
And sang, clear-voiced, as some melodious star
Were dropping silver sweetness from afar:
God, to whom we look up blindly,
Look Thou down upon us kindly:
We have sinned, but not designedly.
Look Thou down upon us kindly:
We have sinned, but not designedly.
If our faith in Thee was shaken,
Pardon Thou our hearts mistaken,
Our obedience reawaken.
Pardon Thou our hearts mistaken,
Our obedience reawaken.
We are sinful, Thou art holy:
Thou art mighty, we are lowly:
Let us reach Thee, climbing slowly.
Thou art mighty, we are lowly:
Let us reach Thee, climbing slowly.
Our ingratitude confessing,
On Thy mercy still transgressing,
Thou dost punish us with blessing!
On Thy mercy still transgressing,
Thou dost punish us with blessing!
114
[SECOND EVENING]
SECOND EVENING
It was the evening of the second day,
Which swifter, sweeter than the first had fled:
My heart's delicious tumult passed away
And left a sober happiness instead.
For Ernest's voice was ever in mine ear,
His presence mingled as of old with mine,
But stronger, manlier, brighter, more divine
Its effluence now: within his starry sphere
Of love new-risen my nature too was drawn,
And warmed with rosy flushes of the dawn.
Which swifter, sweeter than the first had fled:
My heart's delicious tumult passed away
And left a sober happiness instead.
For Ernest's voice was ever in mine ear,
His presence mingled as of old with mine,
But stronger, manlier, brighter, more divine
Its effluence now: within his starry sphere
Of love new-risen my nature too was drawn,
And warmed with rosy flushes of the dawn.
All day we drove about the lovely vales,
Under the hill-side farms, through summer woods,
The land of mingled homes and solitudes
That Ernest loved. We told the dear old tales
Of childhood, music new to Edith's ear,
Sang olden songs, lived old adventures o'er,
And, when the hours brought need of other cheer,
Spread on the ferny rocks a tempting store
Of country dainties. 'T was our favorite dell,
Cut by the trout-stream through a wooded ridge:
Above, the highway on a mossy bridge
Strode o'er it, and below, the water fell
Through hornblende bowlders, where the dircus flung
His pliant rods, the berried spice-wood grew,
And tulip-trees and smooth magnolias hung
A million leaves between us and the blue.
The silver water-dust in puffs arose
And turned to dust of jewels in the sun,
And like a cañon, in its close begun
Afresh, the stream's perpetual lullaby
Sang down the dell, and deepened its repose.
Here, till the western hours had left the sky,
We sat: then homeward loitered through the dusk
Of chestnut woods, along the meadow-side,
And lost in lanes that breathed ambrosial musk
Of wild-grape blossoms: and the twilight died.
Under the hill-side farms, through summer woods,
The land of mingled homes and solitudes
That Ernest loved. We told the dear old tales
Of childhood, music new to Edith's ear,
Sang olden songs, lived old adventures o'er,
And, when the hours brought need of other cheer,
Spread on the ferny rocks a tempting store
Of country dainties. 'T was our favorite dell,
Cut by the trout-stream through a wooded ridge:
Above, the highway on a mossy bridge
Strode o'er it, and below, the water fell
Through hornblende bowlders, where the dircus flung
His pliant rods, the berried spice-wood grew,
And tulip-trees and smooth magnolias hung
A million leaves between us and the blue.
The silver water-dust in puffs arose
And turned to dust of jewels in the sun,
And like a cañon, in its close begun
Afresh, the stream's perpetual lullaby
Sang down the dell, and deepened its repose.
Here, till the western hours had left the sky,
We sat: then homeward loitered through the dusk
Of chestnut woods, along the meadow-side,
And lost in lanes that breathed ambrosial musk
Of wild-grape blossoms: and the twilight died.
Long after every star came out, we paced
The terrace, still discoursing on the themes
The day had started, intermixed with dreams
Born of the summer night. Then, golden-faced,
Behind her daybreak of auroral gleams,
The moon arose: the bosom of the lawn
Whitened beneath her silent snow of light,
Save where the trees made isles of mystic night,
Dark blots against the rising splendor drawn,
And where the eastern wall of woodland towered,
Blue darkness, filled with undistinguished shapes:
But elsewhere, over all the landscape showered—
A silver drizzle on the distant capes
Of hills—the glory of the moon. We sought,
Drawn thither by the same unspoken thought,
The mound, where now the leaves of laurel clashed
Their dagger-points of light, around the bower,
And through the nets of leaf and elfin flower,
Cold fire, the sprinkled drops of moonshine flashed.
The terrace, still discoursing on the themes
The day had started, intermixed with dreams
Born of the summer night. Then, golden-faced,
Behind her daybreak of auroral gleams,
The moon arose: the bosom of the lawn
Whitened beneath her silent snow of light,
Save where the trees made isles of mystic night,
Dark blots against the rising splendor drawn,
And where the eastern wall of woodland towered,
Blue darkness, filled with undistinguished shapes:
But elsewhere, over all the landscape showered—
A silver drizzle on the distant capes
Of hills—the glory of the moon. We sought,
Drawn thither by the same unspoken thought,
115
Their dagger-points of light, around the bower,
And through the nets of leaf and elfin flower,
Cold fire, the sprinkled drops of moonshine flashed.
Erelong in Ernest's hand the volume lay,
(I did not need a second time to ask,)
And he resumed the intermitted task.
“This night, dear Philip, is the Poet's day,”
He said: “the world is one confessional:
Our sacred memories as freely fall
As leaves from o'er-ripe blossoms: we betray
Ourselves to Nature, who the tale can win
We shrink from uttering in the daylight's din.
So, Friend, come back with me a little way
Along the years, and in these records find
The sole inscriptions they have left behind.”
(I did not need a second time to ask,)
And he resumed the intermitted task.
“This night, dear Philip, is the Poet's day,”
He said: “the world is one confessional:
Our sacred memories as freely fall
As leaves from o'er-ripe blossoms: we betray
Ourselves to Nature, who the tale can win
We shrink from uttering in the daylight's din.
So, Friend, come back with me a little way
Along the years, and in these records find
The sole inscriptions they have left behind.”
ATONEMENT
If thou hadst died at midnight,
With a lamp beside thy bed;
The beauty of sleep exchanging
For the beauty of the dead:
With a lamp beside thy bed;
The beauty of sleep exchanging
For the beauty of the dead:
When the bird of heaven had called thee,
And the time had come to go,
And the northern lights were dancing
On the dim December snow,—
And the time had come to go,
And the northern lights were dancing
On the dim December snow,—
If thou hadst died at midnight,
I had ceased to bid thee stay,
Hearing the feet of the Father
Leading His child away.
I had ceased to bid thee stay,
Hearing the feet of the Father
Leading His child away.
I had knelt, in the awful Presence,
And covered my guilty head,
And received His absolution
For my sins toward the dead.
And covered my guilty head,
And received His absolution
For my sins toward the dead.
But the cruel sun was shining
In the cold and windy sky,
And Life, with his mocking voices,
Looked in to see thee die.
In the cold and windy sky,
And Life, with his mocking voices,
Looked in to see thee die.
God came and went unheeded;
No tear repentant shone;
And he took the heart from my bosom,
And left in its place a stone.
No tear repentant shone;
And he took the heart from my bosom,
And left in its place a stone.
Each trivial promise broken,
Each tender word unsaid,
Must be evermore unspoken,—
Unpardoned by the dead.
Each tender word unsaid,
Must be evermore unspoken,—
Unpardoned by the dead.
Unpardoned? No: the struggle
Of years was not in vain,—
The patience that wearies passion,
And the prayers that conquer pain.
Of years was not in vain,—
The patience that wearies passion,
And the prayers that conquer pain.
This tardy resignation
May be the blessed sign
Of pardon and atonement,
Thy spirit sends to mine.
May be the blessed sign
Of pardon and atonement,
Thy spirit sends to mine.
Now first I dare remember
That day of death and woe:
Within, the dreadful silence,
Without, the sun and snow!
That day of death and woe:
Within, the dreadful silence,
Without, the sun and snow!
1860.
DECEMBER
The beech is bare, and bare the ash,
The thickets white below;
The fir-tree scowls with hoar moustache,
He cannot sing for snow.
The thickets white below;
The fir-tree scowls with hoar moustache,
He cannot sing for snow.
The body-guard of veteran pines,
A grim battalion, stands;
They ground their arms, in ordered lines,
For Winter so commands.
A grim battalion, stands;
They ground their arms, in ordered lines,
For Winter so commands.
The waves are dumb along the shore,
The river's pulse is still;
The north-wind's bugle blows no more
Reveillé from the hill.
The river's pulse is still;
The north-wind's bugle blows no more
Reveillé from the hill.
The rustling sift of falling snow,
The muffled crush of leaves,
These are the sounds suppressed, that show
How much the forest grieves;
The muffled crush of leaves,
116
How much the forest grieves;
But, as the blind and vacant Day
Crawls to his ashy bed,
I hear dull echoes far away,
Like drums above the dead.
Crawls to his ashy bed,
I hear dull echoes far away,
Like drums above the dead.
Sigh with me, Pine that never changed!
Thou wear'st the Summer's hue;
Her other loves are all estranged,
But thou and I are true!
Thou wear'st the Summer's hue;
Her other loves are all estranged,
But thou and I are true!
1856.
SYLVAN SPIRITS
The gray stems rise, the branches braid
A covering of deepest shade.
Beneath these old, inviolate trees
There comes no stealthy, sliding breeze,
To overhear their mysteries.
A covering of deepest shade.
Beneath these old, inviolate trees
There comes no stealthy, sliding breeze,
To overhear their mysteries.
Steeped in the fragrant breath of leaves,
My heart a hermit peace receives:
The sombre forest thrusts a screen
My refuge and the world between,
And beds me in its balmy green.
My heart a hermit peace receives:
The sombre forest thrusts a screen
My refuge and the world between,
And beds me in its balmy green.
No fret of life may here intrude,
To vex the sylvan solitude.
Pure spirits of the earth and air,
From hollow trunk and bosky lair
Come forth, and hear your lover's prayer!
To vex the sylvan solitude.
Pure spirits of the earth and air,
From hollow trunk and bosky lair
Come forth, and hear your lover's prayer!
Come, Druid soul of ancient oak,
Thou, too, hast felt the thunder-stroke;
Come, Hamadryad of the beech,
Nymph of the burning maple, teach
My heart the solace of your speech!
Thou, too, hast felt the thunder-stroke;
Come, Hamadryad of the beech,
Nymph of the burning maple, teach
My heart the solace of your speech!
Alas! the sylvan ghosts preserve
The natures of the race they serve.
Not only Dryads, chaste and shy,
But piping Fauns, come dancing nigh,
And Satyrs of the shaggy thigh.
The natures of the race they serve.
Not only Dryads, chaste and shy,
But piping Fauns, come dancing nigh,
And Satyrs of the shaggy thigh.
Across the calm, the holy hush,
And shadowed air, there darts a flush
Of riot, from the lawless brood,
And rebel voices in my blood
Salute these orgies of the wood.
And shadowed air, there darts a flush
Of riot, from the lawless brood,
And rebel voices in my blood
Salute these orgies of the wood.
Not sacred thoughts alone engage
The saint in silent hermitage:
The soul within him heavenward strives,
Yet strong, as in profaner lives,
The giant of the flesh survives.
The saint in silent hermitage:
The soul within him heavenward strives,
Yet strong, as in profaner lives,
The giant of the flesh survives.
From Nature, as from human haunts,
That giant draws his sustenance.
By her own elves, in woodlands wild
She sees her robes of prayer defiled:
She is not purer than her child.
That giant draws his sustenance.
By her own elves, in woodlands wild
She sees her robes of prayer defiled:
She is not purer than her child.
1860.
THE LOST MAY
When May, with cowslip-braided locks,
Walks through the land in green attire,
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox
His torch of purple fire:
Walks through the land in green attire,
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox
His torch of purple fire:
When buds have burst the silver sheath,
And shifting pink, and gray, and gold
Steal o'er the woods, while fair beneath
The bloomy vales unfold:
And shifting pink, and gray, and gold
Steal o'er the woods, while fair beneath
The bloomy vales unfold:
When, emerald-bright, the hemlock stands
New-feathered, needled new the pine;
And, exiles from the orient lands,
The turbaned tulips shine:
New-feathered, needled new the pine;
And, exiles from the orient lands,
The turbaned tulips shine:
When wild azaleas deck the knoll,
And cinque-foil stars the fields of home,
And winds, that take the white-weed, roll
The meadows into foam:
And cinque-foil stars the fields of home,
And winds, that take the white-weed, roll
The meadows into foam:
Then from the jubilee I turn
To other Mays that I have seen,
Where more resplendent blossoms burn,
And statelier woods are green;—
To other Mays that I have seen,
Where more resplendent blossoms burn,
And statelier woods are green;—
Mays, when my heart expanded first,
A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew;
And one sweet wind of heaven dispersed
The only clouds I knew.
A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew;
117
The only clouds I knew.
For she, whose softly-murmured name
The music of the month expressed,
Walked by my side, in holy shame
Of girlish love confessed.
The music of the month expressed,
Walked by my side, in holy shame
Of girlish love confessed.
The budding chestnuts overhead,
Their sprinkled shadows in the lane,—
Blue flowers along the brooklet's bed,—
I see them all again!
Their sprinkled shadows in the lane,—
Blue flowers along the brooklet's bed,—
I see them all again!
The old, old tale of girl and boy,
Repeated ever, never old:
To each in turn the gates of joy,
The gates of heaven unfold.
Repeated ever, never old:
To each in turn the gates of joy,
The gates of heaven unfold.
And when the punctual May arrives,
With cowslip-garland on her brow,
We know what once she gave our lives
And cannot give us now.
With cowslip-garland on her brow,
We know what once she gave our lives
And cannot give us now.
1860.
CHURCHYARD ROSES
The woodlands wore a gloomy green,
The tawny stubble clad the hill,
And August hung her smoky screen
Above the valleys, hot and still.
The tawny stubble clad the hill,
And August hung her smoky screen
Above the valleys, hot and still.
No life was in the fields that day;
My steps were safe from curious eyes:
I wandered where, in churchyard clay,
The dust of love and beauty lies.
My steps were safe from curious eyes:
I wandered where, in churchyard clay,
The dust of love and beauty lies.
Around me thrust the nameless graves
Their fatal ridges, side by side,
So green, they seemed but grassy waves,
Yet quiet as the dead they hide.
Their fatal ridges, side by side,
So green, they seemed but grassy waves,
Yet quiet as the dead they hide.
And o'er each pillow of repose
Some innocent memento grew,
Of pansy, pink, or lowly rose,
Or hyssop, lavender, and rue.
Some innocent memento grew,
Of pansy, pink, or lowly rose,
Or hyssop, lavender, and rue.
What flower is hers, the maiden bride?
What sacred plant protects her bed?
I saw, the greenest mound beside,
A rose of dark and lurid red.
What sacred plant protects her bed?
I saw, the greenest mound beside,
A rose of dark and lurid red.
An eye of fierce demoniac stain,
It mocked my calm and chastened grief;
I tore it, stung with sudden pain,
And stamped in earth each bloody leaf.
It mocked my calm and chastened grief;
I tore it, stung with sudden pain,
And stamped in earth each bloody leaf.
And down upon that trampled grave
In recklessness my body cast:
“Give back the life I could not save,
Or give deliverance from the Past!”
In recklessness my body cast:
“Give back the life I could not save,
Or give deliverance from the Past!”
But something gently touched my cheek,
Caressing while its touch reproved:
A rose, all white and snowy-meek,
It grew upon the dust I loved!
Caressing while its touch reproved:
A rose, all white and snowy-meek,
It grew upon the dust I loved!
A breeze the holy blossom pressed
Upon my lips: Dear Saint, I cried,
Still blooms the white rose, in my breast,
Of Love, that Death has sanctified!
Upon my lips: Dear Saint, I cried,
Still blooms the white rose, in my breast,
Of Love, that Death has sanctified!
1860.
AUTUMNAL DREAMS
I
When the maple turns to crimsonAnd the sassafras to gold;
When the gentian 's in the meadow,
And the aster on the wold;
When the noon is lapped in vapor,
And the night is frosty-cold:
II
When the chestnut-burs are opened,And the acorns drop like hail,
And the drowsy air is startled
With the thumping of the flail,—
With the drumming of the partridge
And the whistle of the quail:
III
Through the rustling woods I wander,Through the jewels of the year,
From the yellow uplands calling,
Seeking her that still is dear:
She is near me in the autumn,
She, the beautiful, is near.
IV
Through the smoke of burning summer,When the weary winds are still,
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I can hear her on the hill,—
In the splendor of the woodlands,
In the whisper of the rill.
V
For the shores of Earth and HeavenMeet, and mingle in the blue:
She can wander down the glory
To the places that she knew,
Where the happy lovers wandered
In the days when life was true.
VI
So I think, when days are sweetest,And the world is wholly fair,
She may sometime steal upon me
Through the dimness of the air,
With the cross upon her bosom
And the amaranth in her hair.
VII
Once to meet her, ah! to meet her,And to hold her gently fast
Till I blessed her, till she blessed me,—
That were happiness, at last:
That were bliss beyond our meetings
In the autumns of the Past!
1860.
IN WINTER
The valley stream is frozen,
The hills are cold and bare,
And the wild white bees of winter
Swarm in the darkened air.
The hills are cold and bare,
And the wild white bees of winter
Swarm in the darkened air.
I look on the naked forest:
Was it ever green in June?
Did it burn with gold and crimson
In the dim autumnal noon?
Was it ever green in June?
Did it burn with gold and crimson
In the dim autumnal noon?
I look on the barren meadow:
Was it ever heaped with hay?
Did it hide the grassy cottage
Where the skylark's children lay?
Was it ever heaped with hay?
Did it hide the grassy cottage
Where the skylark's children lay?
I look on the desolate garden:
Is it true the rose was there?
And the woodbine's musky blossoms,
And the hyacinth's purple hair?
Is it true the rose was there?
And the woodbine's musky blossoms,
And the hyacinth's purple hair?
I look on my heart, and marvel
If Love were ever its own,—
If the spring of promise brightened,
And the summer of passion shone?
If Love were ever its own,—
If the spring of promise brightened,
And the summer of passion shone?
Is the stem of bliss but withered,
And the root survives the blast?
Are the seeds of the Future sleeping
Under the leaves of the Past?
And the root survives the blast?
Are the seeds of the Future sleeping
Under the leaves of the Past?
Ah, yes! for a thousand Aprils
The frozen germs shall grow,
And the dews of a thousand summers
Wait in the womb of the snow!
The frozen germs shall grow,
And the dews of a thousand summers
Wait in the womb of the snow!
1860.
YOUNG LOVE
We are not old, we are not cold,
Our hearts are warm and tender yet;
Our arms are eager to enfold
More bounteous love than we have met.
Our hearts are warm and tender yet;
Our arms are eager to enfold
More bounteous love than we have met.
Still many another heart lays bare
Its secret chamber to our eyes,
Though dim with passion's lurid air,
Or pure as morns of Paradise.
Its secret chamber to our eyes,
Though dim with passion's lurid air,
Or pure as morns of Paradise.
They give the love, whose glory lifts
Desire beyond the realm of sense;
They make us rich with lavish gifts,
The wealth of noble confidence.
Desire beyond the realm of sense;
They make us rich with lavish gifts,
The wealth of noble confidence.
We must be happy, must be proud,
So crowned with human trust and truth;
But ah! the love that first we vowed,
The dear religion of our youth!
So crowned with human trust and truth;
But ah! the love that first we vowed,
The dear religion of our youth!
Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare
The summer to its rose may bring;
Far sweeter to the wooing air
The hidden violet of the spring.
The summer to its rose may bring;
Far sweeter to the wooing air
The hidden violet of the spring.
Still, still that lovely ghost appears,
Too fair, too pure, to bid depart;
No riper love of later years
Can steal its beauty from the heart.
Too fair, too pure, to bid depart;
No riper love of later years
Can steal its beauty from the heart.
O splendid sun that shone above!
O green magnificence of Earth!
Born once into that land of love,
No life can know a second birth.
O green magnificence of Earth!
Born once into that land of love,
No life can know a second birth.
Dear, boyish heart, that trembled so
With bashful fear and fond unrest,—
More frightened than a dove, to know
Another bird within its nest!
With bashful fear and fond unrest,—
More frightened than a dove, to know
Another bird within its nest!
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Sharp thrills of doubt, wild hopes that came,
Fond words addressed,—each word a pang:
Then—hearts, baptized in heavenly flame,
How like the morning stars ye sang!
Fond words addressed,—each word a pang:
Then—hearts, baptized in heavenly flame,
How like the morning stars ye sang!
Love bound ye with his holiest link,
The faith in each that ask no more,
And led ye from the sacred brink
Of mysteries he held in store.
The faith in each that ask no more,
And led ye from the sacred brink
Of mysteries he held in store.
Love led ye, children, from the bowers
Where Strength and Beauty find his crown:
Ye were not ripe for mortal flowers;
God's angel brought an amaranth down.
Where Strength and Beauty find his crown:
Ye were not ripe for mortal flowers;
God's angel brought an amaranth down.
Our eyes are dim with fruitless tears,
Our eyes are dim, our hearts are sore:
That lost religion of our years
Comes never, never, nevermore!
Our eyes are dim, our hearts are sore:
That lost religion of our years
Comes never, never, nevermore!
1856.
THE CHAPEL
Like one who leaves the trampled street
For some cathedral, cool and dim,
Where he can hear in music beat
The heart of prayer, that beats for him;
For some cathedral, cool and dim,
Where he can hear in music beat
The heart of prayer, that beats for him;
And sees the common light of day,
Through painted panes, transfigured, shine,
And casts his human woes away,
In presence of the Woe Divine:
Through painted panes, transfigured, shine,
And casts his human woes away,
In presence of the Woe Divine:
So I, from life's tormenting themes,
Turn where the silent chapel lies,
Whose windows burn with vanished dreams,
Whose altar-lights are memories.
Turn where the silent chapel lies,
Whose windows burn with vanished dreams,
Whose altar-lights are memories.
There, watched by pitying cherubim,
In sacred hush, I rest awhile,
Till solemn sounds of harp and hymn
Begin to sweep the haunted aisle:
In sacred hush, I rest awhile,
Till solemn sounds of harp and hymn
Begin to sweep the haunted aisle:
A hymn that once but breathed complaint,
And breathes but resignation now,
Since God has heard the pleading saint,
And laid His hand upon my brow.
And breathes but resignation now,
Since God has heard the pleading saint,
And laid His hand upon my brow.
Restored and comforted, I go
To grapple with my tasks again;
Through silent worship taught to know
The blessed peace that follows pain.
To grapple with my tasks again;
Through silent worship taught to know
The blessed peace that follows pain.
1860.
IF LOVE SHOULD COME AGAIN
If Love should come again, I ask my heart
In tender tremors, not unmixed with pain,
Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine ancient smart,
If Love should come again?
In tender tremors, not unmixed with pain,
Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine ancient smart,
If Love should come again?
Couldst thou unbar the chambers where his nest
So long was made, and made, alas, in vain,
Nor with embarrassed welcome chill thy guest,
If Love should come again?
So long was made, and made, alas, in vain,
Nor with embarrassed welcome chill thy guest,
If Love should come again?
Would Love his ruined quarters recognize,
Where shrouded pictures of the Past remain,
And gently turn them with forgiving eyes,
If Love should come again?
Where shrouded pictures of the Past remain,
And gently turn them with forgiving eyes,
If Love should come again?
Would bliss, in milder type, spring up anew,
As silent craters with the scarlet stain
Of flowers repeat the lava's ancient hue,
If Love should come again?
As silent craters with the scarlet stain
Of flowers repeat the lava's ancient hue,
If Love should come again?
Would Fate, relenting, sheathe the cruel blade
Whereby the angel of thy youth was slain
That thou might'st all possess him, unafraid,
If Love should come again?
Whereby the angel of thy youth was slain
That thou might'st all possess him, unafraid,
If Love should come again?
In vain I ask: my heart makes no reply,
But echoes evermore the sweet refrain;
Till, trembling lest it seem a wish, I sigh:
If Love should come again.
But echoes evermore the sweet refrain;
Till, trembling lest it seem a wish, I sigh:
If Love should come again.
120
“The darkness and the twilight have an end,”
Said Ernest, as he laid the book aside,
And, with a tenderness he could not hide,
Smiled, seeing in the eyes of wife and friend
The same soft dew that made his own so dim.
My heart was strangely moved, but not for him.
The holy night, the stars that twinkled faint,
Serfs of the regnant moon, the slumbering trees
And silvery hills, recalled fair memories
Of her I knew, his life's translated saint,
Who seemed too sacred now, too far removed,
To be by him lamented or beloved.
And yet she stood, I knew, by Ernest's side
Invisible, a glory in the heart,
A light of peace, the inner counterpart
Of that which round us poured its radiant tide.
Said Ernest, as he laid the book aside,
And, with a tenderness he could not hide,
Smiled, seeing in the eyes of wife and friend
The same soft dew that made his own so dim.
My heart was strangely moved, but not for him.
The holy night, the stars that twinkled faint,
Serfs of the regnant moon, the slumbering trees
And silvery hills, recalled fair memories
Of her I knew, his life's translated saint,
Who seemed too sacred now, too far removed,
To be by him lamented or beloved.
And yet she stood, I knew, by Ernest's side
Invisible, a glory in the heart,
A light of peace, the inner counterpart
Of that which round us poured its radiant tide.
We sat in silence, till a wind, astray
From some uneasy planet, shook the vines
And sprinkled us with snow of eglantines.
The laurels rustled as it passed away,
And, million-tongued, the woodland whisper crept
Of leaves that turned in sleep, from tree to tree
All down the lawn, and once again they slept.
Then Edith from her tender fantasy
Awoke, yet still her pensive posture kept,
Her white hands motionless upon her knee,
Her eyes upon a star that sparkled through
The mesh of leaves, and hummed a wandering air,
(As if the music of her thoughts it were,)
Low, sweet, and sad, until to words it grew
That made it sweeter,—words that Ernest knew:
From some uneasy planet, shook the vines
And sprinkled us with snow of eglantines.
The laurels rustled as it passed away,
And, million-tongued, the woodland whisper crept
Of leaves that turned in sleep, from tree to tree
All down the lawn, and once again they slept.
Then Edith from her tender fantasy
Awoke, yet still her pensive posture kept,
Her white hands motionless upon her knee,
Her eyes upon a star that sparkled through
The mesh of leaves, and hummed a wandering air,
(As if the music of her thoughts it were,)
Low, sweet, and sad, until to words it grew
That made it sweeter,—words that Ernest knew:
Love, I follow, follow thee,
Wipe thine eyes and thou shalt see:
Sorrow makes thee blind to me.
Wipe thine eyes and thou shalt see:
Sorrow makes thee blind to me.
I am with thee, blessing, blest;
Let thy doubts be laid to rest:
Rise, and take me to thy breast!
Let thy doubts be laid to rest:
Rise, and take me to thy breast!
In thy bliss my steps behold:
Stretch thine arms and bliss enfold:
'T is thy sorrow makes me cold.
Stretch thine arms and bliss enfold:
'T is thy sorrow makes me cold.
Life is good, and life is fair,
Love awaits thee everywhere:
Love! is Love's immortal prayer.
Love awaits thee everywhere:
Love! is Love's immortal prayer.
Live for love, and thou shalt be,
Loving others, true to me:
Love, I follow, follow thee!
Loving others, true to me:
Love, I follow, follow thee!
Thus Edith sang: the stars heard, and the night,
The happy spirits, leaning from the wall
Of Heaven, the saints, and God above them all,
Heard what she sang. She ceased: her brow was bright
With other splendor than the moon's: she rose,
Gave each a hand, and silently we trod
The dry, white gravel and the dewy sod,
And silently we parted for repose.
The happy spirits, leaning from the wall
Of Heaven, the saints, and God above them all,
Heard what she sang. She ceased: her brow was bright
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Gave each a hand, and silently we trod
The dry, white gravel and the dewy sod,
And silently we parted for repose.
[THIRD EVENING]
THIRD EVENING
For days before, the wild-dove cooed for rain.
The sky had been too bright, the world too fair.
We knew such loveliness could not remain:
We heard its ruin by the flattering air
Foretold, that o'er the field so sweetly blew,
Yet came, at night, a banshee, moaning through
The chimney's throat, and at the window wailed:
We heard the tree-toad trill his piercing note:
The sound seemed near us, when, on farms remote,
The supper-horn the scattered workmen hailed:
Above the roof the eastward-pointing vane
Stood fixed: and still the wild-dove cooed for rain.
The sky had been too bright, the world too fair.
We knew such loveliness could not remain:
We heard its ruin by the flattering air
Foretold, that o'er the field so sweetly blew,
Yet came, at night, a banshee, moaning through
The chimney's throat, and at the window wailed:
We heard the tree-toad trill his piercing note:
The sound seemed near us, when, on farms remote,
The supper-horn the scattered workmen hailed:
Above the roof the eastward-pointing vane
Stood fixed: and still the wild-dove cooed for rain.
So, when the morning came, and found no fire
Upon her hearth, and wrapped her shivering form
In cloud, and rising winds in many a gyre
Of dust foreran the footsteps of the storm,
And woods grew dark, and flowery meadows chill,
And gray annihilation smote the hill,
I said to Ernest: “'T was my plan, you see:
Two days to Nature, and the third to me.
For you must stay, perforce: the day is doomed.
No visitors shall yonder valley find,
Except the spirits of the rain and wind:
Here you must bide, my friends, with me entombed
In this dim crypt, where shelved around us lie
The mummied authors.” “Place me, when I die,”
Laughed Ernest, “in as fair a catacomb,
I shall not call posterity unjust,
That leaves my bones in Shakespeare's, Goethe's home,
Like king and beggar mixed in Memphian dust.
But you are right: this day we well may give
To you, dear Philip, and to those who stand
Protecting Nature with a jealous hand,
At once her subjects and her haughty lords;
Since, in the breath of their immortal words
Alone, she first begins to speak and live.”
Upon her hearth, and wrapped her shivering form
In cloud, and rising winds in many a gyre
Of dust foreran the footsteps of the storm,
And woods grew dark, and flowery meadows chill,
And gray annihilation smote the hill,
I said to Ernest: “'T was my plan, you see:
Two days to Nature, and the third to me.
For you must stay, perforce: the day is doomed.
No visitors shall yonder valley find,
Except the spirits of the rain and wind:
Here you must bide, my friends, with me entombed
In this dim crypt, where shelved around us lie
The mummied authors.” “Place me, when I die,”
Laughed Ernest, “in as fair a catacomb,
I shall not call posterity unjust,
That leaves my bones in Shakespeare's, Goethe's home,
Like king and beggar mixed in Memphian dust.
But you are right: this day we well may give
To you, dear Philip, and to those who stand
Protecting Nature with a jealous hand,
At once her subjects and her haughty lords;
Since, in the breath of their immortal words
Alone, she first begins to speak and live.”
I know not, if that day of dreary rain
Was not the happiest of the happy three.
For Nature gives, but takes away again:
Sound, odor, color—blossom, cloud, and tree
Divide and scatter in a thousand rays
Our individual being: but, in days
Of gloom, the wandering senses crowding come
To the close circle of the heart. So we,
Cosily nestled in the library,
Enjoyed each other and the warmth of home.
Each window was a picture of the rain:
Blown by the wind, tormented, wet, and gray,
Losing itself in cloud, the landscape lay;
Or wavered, blurred, behind the streaming pane;
Or, with a sudden struggle, shook away
Its load, and like a foundering ship arose
Distinct and dark above the driving spray,
Until a fiercer onset came, to close
The hopeless day. The roses writhed about
Their stakes, the tall laburnums to and fro
Rocked in the gusts, the flowers were beaten low,
And from his pygmy house the wren looked out
With dripping bill: each living creature fled,
To seek some sheltering cover for its head:
Yet colder, drearier, wilder as it blew
We drew the closer, and the happier grew.
Was not the happiest of the happy three.
For Nature gives, but takes away again:
Sound, odor, color—blossom, cloud, and tree
Divide and scatter in a thousand rays
Our individual being: but, in days
Of gloom, the wandering senses crowding come
To the close circle of the heart. So we,
Cosily nestled in the library,
Enjoyed each other and the warmth of home.
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Blown by the wind, tormented, wet, and gray,
Losing itself in cloud, the landscape lay;
Or wavered, blurred, behind the streaming pane;
Or, with a sudden struggle, shook away
Its load, and like a foundering ship arose
Distinct and dark above the driving spray,
Until a fiercer onset came, to close
The hopeless day. The roses writhed about
Their stakes, the tall laburnums to and fro
Rocked in the gusts, the flowers were beaten low,
And from his pygmy house the wren looked out
With dripping bill: each living creature fled,
To seek some sheltering cover for its head:
Yet colder, drearier, wilder as it blew
We drew the closer, and the happier grew.
She with her needle, he with pipe and book,
My guests contented sat: my cheerful dame,
Intent on household duties, went and came,
And I unto my childless bosom took
The little two-year Arthur, Ernest's child,
A darling boy, to both his parents true,—
With father's brow, and mother's eyes of blue,
And the same dimpled beauty when he smiled.
Ah me! the father's heart within me woke:
The child that never was, I seemed to hold:
The withered tenderness that bloomed of old
In vain, revived when little Arthur spoke
Of “Papa Philip!” and his balmy kiss
Renewed lost yearnings for a father's bliss.
And something glittered in the boy's bright hair:
I kissed him back, but turned away my head
To hide the pang I would not have thee share,
Dear wife! from whom the dearest promise fled.
God cannot chide so sacred a despair,
But still I dream that somewhere there must be
The spirit of a child that waits for me.
My guests contented sat: my cheerful dame,
Intent on household duties, went and came,
And I unto my childless bosom took
The little two-year Arthur, Ernest's child,
A darling boy, to both his parents true,—
With father's brow, and mother's eyes of blue,
And the same dimpled beauty when he smiled.
Ah me! the father's heart within me woke:
The child that never was, I seemed to hold:
The withered tenderness that bloomed of old
In vain, revived when little Arthur spoke
Of “Papa Philip!” and his balmy kiss
Renewed lost yearnings for a father's bliss.
And something glittered in the boy's bright hair:
I kissed him back, but turned away my head
To hide the pang I would not have thee share,
Dear wife! from whom the dearest promise fled.
God cannot chide so sacred a despair,
But still I dream that somewhere there must be
The spirit of a child that waits for me.
And evening fell, and Arthur, rosy-limbed
And snowy-gowned, in human beauty sweet,
Came pattering up with little naked feet
To kiss the good-night cup, that overbrimmed
With love two fathers and two mothers gave.
The steady rain against the windows drave,
And round the house the noises of the night
Mixed in a lulling music: dry old wood
Burned on the hearth in leaps of ruddy light,
And on the table purple beakers stood
Of harmless wine, from grapes that ripened on
The sunniest hillside of the smooth Garonne.
When Arthur slept, and doors were closed, and we
Sat folded in a sweeter privacy
Than even the secret-loving moon bestows,
Spoke Ernest: “Edith, shall I read the rest?”
She, while the spirit of a happy rose
Visited her cheeks, consenting smiled, and pressed
The hand he gave. “With what I now shall read,”
He added, “Philip, you must be content.
No further runs my journal, nor, indeed,
Beyond this chapter is there further need;
Because the gift of Song was chiefly lent
To give consoling music for the joys
We lack, and not for those which we possess:
I now no longer need that gift, to bless
My heart,—your heart, my Edith, and your boy's!”
And snowy-gowned, in human beauty sweet,
Came pattering up with little naked feet
To kiss the good-night cup, that overbrimmed
With love two fathers and two mothers gave.
The steady rain against the windows drave,
And round the house the noises of the night
Mixed in a lulling music: dry old wood
Burned on the hearth in leaps of ruddy light,
And on the table purple beakers stood
Of harmless wine, from grapes that ripened on
The sunniest hillside of the smooth Garonne.
When Arthur slept, and doors were closed, and we
Sat folded in a sweeter privacy
Than even the secret-loving moon bestows,
Spoke Ernest: “Edith, shall I read the rest?”
She, while the spirit of a happy rose
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The hand he gave. “With what I now shall read,”
He added, “Philip, you must be content.
No further runs my journal, nor, indeed,
Beyond this chapter is there further need;
Because the gift of Song was chiefly lent
To give consoling music for the joys
We lack, and not for those which we possess:
I now no longer need that gift, to bless
My heart,—your heart, my Edith, and your boy's!”
Therewith he read: the fingers of the rain
In light staccatos on the window played,
Mixed with the flame's contented hum, and made
Low harmonies to suit the varied strain.
In light staccatos on the window played,
Mixed with the flame's contented hum, and made
Low harmonies to suit the varied strain.
THE RETURN OF SPRING
Have I passed through Death's unconscious birth,
In a dream the midnight bare?
I look on another and fairer Earth:
I breathe a wondrous air!
In a dream the midnight bare?
I look on another and fairer Earth:
I breathe a wondrous air!
A spirit of beauty walks the hills,
A spirit of love the plain;
The shadows are bright, and the sunshine fills
The air with a diamond rain!
A spirit of love the plain;
The shadows are bright, and the sunshine fills
The air with a diamond rain!
Before my vision the glories swim,
To the dance of a tune unheard:
Is an angel singing where woods are dim,
Or is it an amorous bird?
To the dance of a tune unheard:
Is an angel singing where woods are dim,
Or is it an amorous bird?
Is it a spike of azure flowers,
Deep in the meadows seen,
Or is it the peacock's neck, that towers
Out of the spangled green?
Deep in the meadows seen,
Or is it the peacock's neck, that towers
Out of the spangled green?
Is a white dove glancing across the blue,
Or an opal taking wing?
For my soul is dazzled through and through,
With the splendor of the Spring.
Or an opal taking wing?
For my soul is dazzled through and through,
With the splendor of the Spring.
Is it she that shines, as never before,
The tremulous hills above,—
Or the heart within me, awake once more
To the dawning light of love?
The tremulous hills above,—
Or the heart within me, awake once more
To the dawning light of love?
1860.
MORNING
Along the east, where late the dark impended,
A dusky gleam is born:
The watches of the night are ended,
And heaven foretells the morn!
A dusky gleam is born:
The watches of the night are ended,
And heaven foretells the morn!
The hills of home, no longer hurled together,
In one wide blotch of night,
Lift up their heads through misty ether,
Distinct in rising light.
In one wide blotch of night,
Lift up their heads through misty ether,
Distinct in rising light.
Then, after pangs of darkness slowly dying,
O'er the delivered world
Comes Morn, with every banner flying
And every sail unfurled!
O'er the delivered world
Comes Morn, with every banner flying
And every sail unfurled!
So long the night, so chill, so blank and dreary,
I thought the sun was dead;
But yonder burn his beacons cheery
On peaks of cloudy red:
I thought the sun was dead;
But yonder burn his beacons cheery
On peaks of cloudy red:
And yonder fly his scattered golden arrows,
And smite the hills with day,
While Night her vain dominion narrows
And westward wheels away.
And smite the hills with day,
While Night her vain dominion narrows
And westward wheels away.
A sweeter air revives the new creation,
The dews are tears of bliss,
And Earth, in amorous palpitation,
Receives her bridegroom's kiss.
The dews are tears of bliss,
And Earth, in amorous palpitation,
Receives her bridegroom's kiss.
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Bathed in the morning, let my heart surrender
The doubts that darkness gave,
And rise to meet the advancing splendor—
O Night! no more thy slave.
The doubts that darkness gave,
And rise to meet the advancing splendor—
O Night! no more thy slave.
I breathe at last, thy gloomy reign forgetting,
Thy weary watches done,
Thy last pale star behind me setting,
The freedom of the sun!
Thy weary watches done,
Thy last pale star behind me setting,
The freedom of the sun!
1860.
THE VISION
I
She came, long absent from my side,And absent from my dreams, she came,
The earthly and the heavenly bride,
In maiden beauty glorified:
She looked upon me, angel-eyed:
She called me by my name.
II
But I, whose heart to meet her sprangAnd shook the fragile house of dreams,
Stood, smitten with a guilty pang:
In other groves and temples rang
The songs that once for her I sang,
By woods and faery streams.
III
Her eyes had power to lift my head,And, timorous as a truant child,
I met the sacred light they shed,
The light of heaven around her spread;
She read my face; no word she said:
I only saw she smiled.
IV
“Canst thou forgive me, Angel mine,”I cried; “that Love at last beguiled
My heart to build a second shrine?
See, still I kneel and weep at thine,
But I am human, thou divine!”
Still silently she smiled.
V
“Dost undivided worship claim,To keep thine altar undefiled?
Or must I bear thy tender blame,
And in thy pardon feel my shame,
Whene'er I breathe another name?”
She looked at me, and smiled.
VI
“Speak, speak!” and then my tears came fast,My troubled heart with doubt grew wild:
“Will 't vex the love, which still thou hast,
To know that I have peace at last?”
And from my dream the vision passed,
And still, in passing, smiled.
1860.
LOVE RETURNED
I
He was a boy when first we met;His eyes were mixed of dew and fire,
And on his candid brow was set
The sweetness of a chaste desire.
But in his veins the pulses beat
Of passion, waiting for its wing,
As ardent veins of summer heat
Throb through the innocence of spring.
II
As manhood came, his stature grew,And fiercer burned his restless eyes,
Until I trembled, as he drew
From wedded hearts their young disguise.
Like wind-fed flame his ardor rose,
And brought, like flame, a stormy rain:
In tumult, sweeter than repose,
He tossed the souls of joy and pain.
III
So many years of absence change!I knew him not when he returned:
His step was slow, his brow was strange,
His quiet eye no longer burned.
When at my heart I heard his knock,
No voice within his right confessed:
I could not venture to unlock
Its chambers to an alien guest.
IV
Then, at the threshold, spent and wornWith fruitless travel, down he lay.
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On his reviving beauty play.
I knelt, and kissed his holy lips,
I washed his feet with pious care;
And from my life the long eclipse
Drew off, and left his sunshine there.
V
He burns no more with youthful fire;He melts no more in foolish tears;
Serene and sweet, his eyes inspire
The steady faith of balanced years.
His folded wings no longer thrill,
But in some peaceful flight of prayer:
He nestles in my heart so still,
I scarcely feel his presence there.
VI
O Love, that stern probation o'er,Thy calmer blessing is secure!
Thy beauteous feet shall stray no more,
Thy peace and patience shall endure!
The lightest wind deflowers the rose,
The rainbow with the sun departs,
But thou art centred in repose,
And rooted in my heart of hearts!
1860.
A WOMAN
I
She is a woman: therefore, I a man,In so much as I love her. Could I more,
Then I were more a man. Our natures ran
Together, brimming full, not flooding o'er
The banks of life, and evermore will run
In one full stream until our days are done.
II
She is a woman, but of spirit braveTo bear the loss of girlhood's giddy dreams;
The regal mistress, not the yielding slave
Of her ideal, spurning that which seems
For that which is, and, as her fancies fall,
Smiling: the truth of love outweighs them all.
III
She looks through life, and with a balance justWeighs men and things, beholding as they are
The lives of others: in the common dust
She finds the fragments of the ruined star:
Proud, with a pride all feminine and sweet,
No path can soil the whiteness of her feet.
IV
The steady candor of her gentle eyesStrikes dead deceit, laughs vanity away;
She hath no room for petty jealousies,
Where Faith and Love divide their tender sway.
Of either sex she owns the nobler part:
Man's honest brow and woman's faithful heart.
V
She is a woman, who, if Love were guide,Would climb to power, or in obscure content
Sit down: accepting fate with changeless pride—
A reed in calm, in storm a staff unbent:
No pretty plaything, ignorant of life,
But Man's true mother, and his equal wife.
1860.
THE COUNT OF GLEICHEN
I read that story of the Saxon knight,
Who, leaving spouse and feudal fortress, made
The Cross of Christ his guerdon in the fight,
And joined the last Crusade.
Who, leaving spouse and feudal fortress, made
The Cross of Christ his guerdon in the fight,
And joined the last Crusade.
Whom, in the chase on Damietta's sands
Estrayed, the Saracens in ambush caught,
And unto Cairo, to the Soldan's hands,
A wretched captive brought:
Estrayed, the Saracens in ambush caught,
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A wretched captive brought:
Whom then the Soldan's child, a damsel brave,
Saw, pitied, comforted, and made him free,
And with him flew, herself a willing slave
In Love's captivity.
Saw, pitied, comforted, and made him free,
And with him flew, herself a willing slave
In Love's captivity.
I read how he to bless her love was fain,
To whom his renovated life he owed,
Yet with a pang the towers beheld again
Where still his wife abode:
To whom his renovated life he owed,
Yet with a pang the towers beheld again
Where still his wife abode:
The wife whom first he loved: would she not scorn
The second bride he could not choose but wed,
The second mother to his children, born
In her divided bed?
The second bride he could not choose but wed,
The second mother to his children, born
In her divided bed?
Lo! at his castle's foot the noble dame
With tears of blessing, holy, undefiled
By human pain, received him when he came,
And kissed the Soldan's child!
With tears of blessing, holy, undefiled
By human pain, received him when he came,
And kissed the Soldan's child!
My tears were on the pages as I read
The touching close: I made the story mine,
Within whose heart, long plighted to the dead,
Love built his living shrine.
The touching close: I made the story mine,
Within whose heart, long plighted to the dead,
Love built his living shrine.
I too had dared, a captive in the land,
To pay with love the love that broke my chain:
Would she, who waited, stretch the pardoning hand,
When I returned again?
To pay with love the love that broke my chain:
Would she, who waited, stretch the pardoning hand,
When I returned again?
Would she, my freedom and my bliss to know,
With my disloyalty be reconciled,
And from her bower in Eden look below,
And bless the Soldan's child?
With my disloyalty be reconciled,
And from her bower in Eden look below,
And bless the Soldan's child?
For she is lost: but she, the later bride,
Who came my ruined fortune to restore,
Back from the desert wanders at my side,
And leads me home once more.
Who came my ruined fortune to restore,
Back from the desert wanders at my side,
And leads me home once more.
If human love, she sighs, could move a wife
The holiest sacrifice of love to make,
Then the transfigured angel of thy life
Is happier for thy sake!
The holiest sacrifice of love to make,
Then the transfigured angel of thy life
Is happier for thy sake!
1860.
BEFORE THE BRIDAL
Now the night is overpast,
And the mist is cleared away:
On my barren life at last
Breaks the bright, reluctant day.
And the mist is cleared away:
On my barren life at last
Breaks the bright, reluctant day.
Day of payment for the wrong
I was doomed so long to bear;
Day of promise, day of song,
Day that makes the future fair!
I was doomed so long to bear;
Day of promise, day of song,
Day that makes the future fair!
Let me wake to bliss alone:
Let me bury every fear:
What I prayed for, is my own;
What was distant, now is near.
Let me bury every fear:
What I prayed for, is my own;
What was distant, now is near.
For the happy hour that waits
No reproachful shade shall bring,
And I hear forgiving Fates
In the happy bells that ring.
No reproachful shade shall bring,
And I hear forgiving Fates
In the happy bells that ring.
Leave the song that now is mute,
For the sweeter song begun:
Leave the blossom for the fruit,
And the rainbow for the sun!
For the sweeter song begun:
Leave the blossom for the fruit,
And the rainbow for the sun!
1860.
POSSESSION
I
“It was our wedding-dayA month ago,” dear heart, I hear you say.
If months, or years, or ages since have passed,
I know not: I have ceased to question Time.
I only know that once there pealed a chime
Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast,
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And forth we walked: the world was free and wide
Before us. Since that day
I count my life: the Past is washed away.
II
It was no dream, that vow:It was the voice that woke me from a dream,—
A happy dream, I think; but I am waking now,
And drink the splendor of a sun supreme
That turns the mist of former tears to gold.
Within these arms I hold
The fleeting promise, chased so long in vain:
Ah, weary bird! thou wilt not fly again:
Thy wings are clipped, thou canst no more depart,—
Thy nest is builded in my heart!
III
I was the crescent; thouThe silver phantom of the perfect sphere,
Held in its bosom: in one glory now
Our lives united shine, and many a year—
Not the sweet moon of bridal only—we
One lustre, ever at the full, shall be:
One pure and rounded light, one planet whole,
One life developed, one completed soul!
For I in thee, and thou in me,
Unite our cloven halves of destiny.
IV
God knew His chosen time:He bade me slowly ripen to my prime,
And from my boughs withheld the promised fruit,
Till storm and sun gave vigor to the root.
Secure, O Love! secure
Thy blessing is: I have thee day and night:
Thou art become my blood, my life, my light:
God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt endure!
1860.
UNDER THE MOON
I
From you and home I sleep afar,Under the light of a lonely star,
Under the moon that marvels why
Away from you and home I lie.
Ah! love no language can declare,
The hovering warmth, the tender care,
The yielding, sweet, invisible air
That clasps your bosom, and fans your cheek
With the breath of words I cannot speak,—
Such love I give, such warmth impart:
The fragrance of a blossomed heart.
II
The moon looks in upon my bed,Her yearning glory lays my head,
And round me clings, a lonely light,
The aureole of the winter night;
But in my heart a gentle pain,
A balmier splendor in my brain,
Lead me beyond the frosty plane,—
Lead me afar, to mellower skies,
Where under the moon a palace lies;
Where under the moon our bed is made,
Half in splendor and half in shade.
III
The marble flags of the corridorThrough open windows meet the floor,
And Moorish arches in darkness rise
Against the gleam of the silver skies:
Beyond, in flakes of starry light,
A fountain prattles to the night,
And dusky cypresses, withdrawn
In silent conclave, stud the lawn;
While mystic woodlands, more remote,
In seas of airy silver float,
So hung in heaven, the stars that set
Seem glossy leaves the dew has wet
On topmost boughs, and sparkling yet.
IV
In from the terraced garden blowsThe spicy soul of the tuberose,
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From the nightingale's throat as never before;
For he sings not now of wounding thorn,
He sings as the lark in the golden morn,—
A song of joy, a song of bliss,
Passionate notes that clasp and kiss,
Perfect peace and perfect pride,
Love rewarded and satisfied,
For I see you, darling, at my side.
V
I see you, darling, at my side:I clasp you closer, in sacred pride.
I shut my eyes, my senses fail,
Becalmed by Night's ambrosial gale.
Softer than dews the planets weep,
Descends a sweeter peace than sleep;
All wandering sounds and motions die
In the silent glory of the sky;
But, as the moon goes down the West,
Your heart, against my happy breast,
Says in its beating: Love is Rest.
1859.
THE MYSTIC SUMMER
'T is not the dropping of the flower,
The blush of fruit upon the tree,
Though summer ripens, hour by hour,
The garden's sweet maternity:
The blush of fruit upon the tree,
Though summer ripens, hour by hour,
The garden's sweet maternity:
'T is not that birds have ceased to build,
And wait their brood with tender care;
That corn is golden in the field,
And clover balm is in the air;—
And wait their brood with tender care;
That corn is golden in the field,
And clover balm is in the air;—
Not these the season's splendor bring,
And crowd with life the happy year,
Nor yet, where yonder fountains sing,
The blaze of sunshine, hot and clear.
And crowd with life the happy year,
Nor yet, where yonder fountains sing,
The blaze of sunshine, hot and clear.
In thy full womb, O Summer! lies
A secret hope, a joy unsung,
Held in the hush of these calm skies,
And trembling on the forest's tongue.
A secret hope, a joy unsung,
Held in the hush of these calm skies,
And trembling on the forest's tongue.
The lands of harvest throb anew
In shining pulses, far away;
The Night distils a dearer dew,
And sweeter eyelids has the Day.
In shining pulses, far away;
The Night distils a dearer dew,
And sweeter eyelids has the Day.
And not in vain the peony burns,
In bursting globes, her crimson fire,
Her incense-dropping ivory urns
The lily lifts in many a spire:
In bursting globes, her crimson fire,
Her incense-dropping ivory urns
The lily lifts in many a spire:
And not in vain the tulips clash
In revelry the cups they hold
Of fiery wine, until they dash
With ruby streaks the splendid gold!
In revelry the cups they hold
Of fiery wine, until they dash
With ruby streaks the splendid gold!
Send down your roots the mystic charm
That warms and flushes all your flowers,
And with the summer's touch disarm
The thraldom of the under powers,
That warms and flushes all your flowers,
And with the summer's touch disarm
The thraldom of the under powers,
Until, in caverns, buried deep,
Strange fragrance reach the diamond's home,
And murmurs of the garden sweep
The houses of the frighted gnome!
Strange fragrance reach the diamond's home,
And murmurs of the garden sweep
The houses of the frighted gnome!
For, piercing through their black repose,
And shooting up beyond the sun,
I see that Tree of Life, which rose
Before the eyes of Solomon:
And shooting up beyond the sun,
I see that Tree of Life, which rose
Before the eyes of Solomon:
Its boughs, that, in the light of God,
Their bright, innumerous leaves display,—
Whose hum of life is borne abroad
By winds that shake the dead away.
Their bright, innumerous leaves display,—
Whose hum of life is borne abroad
By winds that shake the dead away.
And, trembling on a branch afar,
The topmost nursling of the skies,
I see my bud, the fairest star
That ever dawned for watching eyes.
The topmost nursling of the skies,
I see my bud, the fairest star
That ever dawned for watching eyes.
Unnoticed on the boundless tree,
Its fragrant promise fills the air;
Its little bell expands, for me,
A tent of silver, lily-fair.
Its fragrant promise fills the air;
Its little bell expands, for me,
A tent of silver, lily-fair.
All life to that one centre tends;
All joy and beauty thence outflow;
Her sweetest gifts the summer spends,
To teach that sweeter bud to blow.
All joy and beauty thence outflow;
Her sweetest gifts the summer spends,
To teach that sweeter bud to blow.
So, compassed by the vision's gleam,
In trembling hope, from day to day
As in some bright, bewildering dream,
The mystic summer wanes away.
In trembling hope, from day to day
As in some bright, bewildering dream,
The mystic summer wanes away.
1859.
129
THE FATHER
The fateful hour, when Death stood by
And stretched his threatening hand in vain,
Is over now, and Life's first cry
Speaks feeble triumph through its pain.
And stretched his threatening hand in vain,
Is over now, and Life's first cry
Speaks feeble triumph through its pain.
But yesterday, and thee the Earth
Inscribed not on her mighty scroll:
To-day she opes the gate of birth,
And gives the spheres another soul.
Inscribed not on her mighty scroll:
To-day she opes the gate of birth,
And gives the spheres another soul.
But yesterday, no fruit from me
The rising winds of Time had hurled:
To-day, a father,—can it be
A child of mine is in the world?
The rising winds of Time had hurled:
To-day, a father,—can it be
A child of mine is in the world?
I look upon the little frame,
As helpless on my arm it lies:
Thou giv'st me, child, a father's name,
God's earliest name in Paradise.
As helpless on my arm it lies:
Thou giv'st me, child, a father's name,
God's earliest name in Paradise.
Like Him, creator too I stand:
His Power and Mystery seem more near;
Thou giv'st me honor in the land,
And giv'st my life duration here.
His Power and Mystery seem more near;
Thou giv'st me honor in the land,
And giv'st my life duration here.
But love, to-day, is more than pride;
Love sees his star of triumph shine,
For Life nor Death can now divide
The souls that wedded breathe in thine:
Love sees his star of triumph shine,
For Life nor Death can now divide
The souls that wedded breathe in thine:
Mine and thy mother's, whence arose
The copy of my face in thee;
And as thine eyelids first unclose,
My own young eyes look up to me.
The copy of my face in thee;
And as thine eyelids first unclose,
My own young eyes look up to me.
Look on me, child, once more, once more,
Even with those weak, unconscious eyes;
Stretch the small hands that help implore;
Salute me with thy wailing cries!
Even with those weak, unconscious eyes;
Stretch the small hands that help implore;
Salute me with thy wailing cries!
This is the blessing and the prayer
A father's sacred place demands:
Ordain me, darling, for thy care,
And lead me with thy helpless hands!
A father's sacred place demands:
Ordain me, darling, for thy care,
And lead me with thy helpless hands!
1858.
THE MOTHER
Paler, and yet a thousand times more fair
Than in thy girlhood's freshest bloom, art thou:
A softer sun-flush tints thy golden hair,
A sweeter grace adorns thy gentle brow.
Than in thy girlhood's freshest bloom, art thou:
A softer sun-flush tints thy golden hair,
A sweeter grace adorns thy gentle brow.
Lips that shall call thee “mother!” at thy breast
Feed the young life, wherein thy nature feels
Its dear fulfilment: little hands are pressed
On the white fountain Love alone unseals.
Feed the young life, wherein thy nature feels
Its dear fulfilment: little hands are pressed
On the white fountain Love alone unseals.
Look down, and let Life's tender daybreak throw
A second radiance on thy ripened hour:
Retrace thine own forgotten advent so,
And in the bud behold thy perfect flower.
A second radiance on thy ripened hour:
Retrace thine own forgotten advent so,
And in the bud behold thy perfect flower.
Nay, question not: whatever lies beyond
God will dispose. Sit thus, Madonna mine,
For thou art haloed with a love as fond
As Jewish Mary gave the Child Divine.
God will dispose. Sit thus, Madonna mine,
For thou art haloed with a love as fond
As Jewish Mary gave the Child Divine.
I lay my own proud title at thy feet;
Thine the first, holiest right to love shalt be:
Though in his heart our wedded pulses beat,
His sweetest life our darling draws from thee.
Thine the first, holiest right to love shalt be:
Though in his heart our wedded pulses beat,
His sweetest life our darling draws from thee.
The father in his child beholds this truth,
His perfect manhood has assumed its reign:
Thou wear'st anew the roses of thy youth,—
The mother in her child is born again.
His perfect manhood has assumed its reign:
Thou wear'st anew the roses of thy youth,—
The mother in her child is born again.
1858.
130
Thus came the Poet's Journal to an end.
His heart's completed music ceased to flow
From Ernest's lips: the tale I wished to know
Was wholly mine. “I am content, dear friend,”
I said: “to me no voice can be obscure
Wherein your nature speaks: the chords I hear,
Too far and frail to strike a stranger's ear.”
With that, I bowed to Edith's forehead pure,
And kissed her with a brother's blameless kiss:
“To you the fortune of these days I owe,
My other Ernest, like him most in this,
That you can hear the cries of ancient woe
With holy pity free from any blame
Of jealous love, and find your highest bliss
To know, through you his life's fulfilment came.”
“And through him, mine,” the woman's heart replied:
For Love's humility is Love's true pride.
His heart's completed music ceased to flow
From Ernest's lips: the tale I wished to know
Was wholly mine. “I am content, dear friend,”
I said: “to me no voice can be obscure
Wherein your nature speaks: the chords I hear,
Too far and frail to strike a stranger's ear.”
With that, I bowed to Edith's forehead pure,
And kissed her with a brother's blameless kiss:
“To you the fortune of these days I owe,
My other Ernest, like him most in this,
That you can hear the cries of ancient woe
With holy pity free from any blame
Of jealous love, and find your highest bliss
To know, through you his life's fulfilment came.”
“And through him, mine,” the woman's heart replied:
For Love's humility is Love's true pride.
“These are your sweetest poems, and your best,”
To him I said. “I know not,” answered he,
“They are my truest. I have ceased to be
The ambitious knight of Song, that shook his crest
In public tilts: the sober hermit I,
Whose evening songs but few approach to hear,—
Who, if those few should cease to lend an ear,
Would sing them to the forest and the sky
Contented: singing for myself alone.
No fear that any poet dies unknown,
Whose songs are written in the hearts that know
And love him, though their partial verdict show
The tenderness that moves the critic's blame.
Those few have power to lift his name above
Forgetfulness, to grant that noblest fame
Which sets its trumpet to the lips of Love!”
To him I said. “I know not,” answered he,
“They are my truest. I have ceased to be
The ambitious knight of Song, that shook his crest
In public tilts: the sober hermit I,
Whose evening songs but few approach to hear,—
Who, if those few should cease to lend an ear,
Would sing them to the forest and the sky
Contented: singing for myself alone.
No fear that any poet dies unknown,
Whose songs are written in the hearts that know
And love him, though their partial verdict show
The tenderness that moves the critic's blame.
Those few have power to lift his name above
Forgetfulness, to grant that noblest fame
Which sets its trumpet to the lips of Love!”
“Nay, then,” said I, “you are already crowned.
If your ambition in the loving pride
Of us, your friends, is cheaply satisfied,
We are those trumpets: do you hear them sound?”
And Edith smilingly together wound
Light stems of ivy to a garland fair,
And pressed it archly on her husband's hair;
But he, with earnest voice, though in his eyes
A happy laughter shone, protesting, said:
“Respect, dear friends, the Muse's sanctities,
Nor mock, with wreaths upon a living head,
The holy laurels of the deathless Dead.
Crown Love, crown Truth when first her brow appears,
And crown the Hero when his deeds are done:
The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one,
In the slow process of the doubtful years.
Who seeks too eagerly, he shall not find:
Who, seeking not, pursues with single mind
Art's lofty aim, to him will she accord,
At her appointed time, the sure reward.”
The tall clock, standing sentry in the hall,
Struck midnight: on the panes no longer beat
The weary storm: the wind began to fall,
And through the breaking darkness glimmered, sweet
With tender stars, the flying gleams of sky.
“Come, Edith, lend your voice to crown the night,
And give the new day sunny break,” said I:
She listening first in self-deceiving plight
Of young maternal trouble, for a cry
From Arthur's crib, sat down in happy calm,
And sang to Ernest's heart his own thanksgiving psalm.
If your ambition in the loving pride
Of us, your friends, is cheaply satisfied,
We are those trumpets: do you hear them sound?”
And Edith smilingly together wound
Light stems of ivy to a garland fair,
And pressed it archly on her husband's hair;
But he, with earnest voice, though in his eyes
A happy laughter shone, protesting, said:
“Respect, dear friends, the Muse's sanctities,
Nor mock, with wreaths upon a living head,
The holy laurels of the deathless Dead.
Crown Love, crown Truth when first her brow appears,
And crown the Hero when his deeds are done:
The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one,
In the slow process of the doubtful years.
Who seeks too eagerly, he shall not find:
Who, seeking not, pursues with single mind
Art's lofty aim, to him will she accord,
At her appointed time, the sure reward.”
131
Struck midnight: on the panes no longer beat
The weary storm: the wind began to fall,
And through the breaking darkness glimmered, sweet
With tender stars, the flying gleams of sky.
“Come, Edith, lend your voice to crown the night,
And give the new day sunny break,” said I:
She listening first in self-deceiving plight
Of young maternal trouble, for a cry
From Arthur's crib, sat down in happy calm,
And sang to Ernest's heart his own thanksgiving psalm.
Thou who sendest sun and rain,
Thou who spendest bliss and pain,
Good with bounteous hand bestowing,
Evil for Thy will allowing,—
Though Thy ways we cannot see,
All is just that comes from Thee.
Thou who spendest bliss and pain,
Good with bounteous hand bestowing,
Evil for Thy will allowing,—
Though Thy ways we cannot see,
All is just that comes from Thee.
In the peace of hearts at rest,
In the child at mother's breast,
In the lives that now surround us,
In the deaths that sorely wound us,
Though we may not understand,
Father, we behold Thy hand!
In the child at mother's breast,
In the lives that now surround us,
In the deaths that sorely wound us,
Though we may not understand,
Father, we behold Thy hand!
Hear the happy hymn we raise;
Take the love which is Thy praise;
Give content in each condition;
Bend our hearts in sweet submission,
And Thy trusting children prove
Worthy of the Father's love!
Take the love which is Thy praise;
Give content in each condition;
Bend our hearts in sweet submission,
And Thy trusting children prove
Worthy of the Father's love!
1860.
| The poetical works of Bayard Taylor | |