 | The poetical works of Bayard Taylor |  |
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LATEST LYRICS
1870–1878
THE BURDEN OF THE DAY
I
Who shall rise and cast away,First, the Burden of the Day?
Who assert his place, and teach
Lighter labor, nobler speech,
Standing firm, erect, and strong,
Proud as Freedom, free as Song?
II
Lo! we groan beneath the weightOur own weaknesses create;
Crook the knee and shut the lip,
All for tamer fellowship;
Load our slack, compliant clay
With the Burden of the Day!
III
Higher paths there are to tread;Fresher fields around us spread;
Other flames of sun and star
Flash at hand and lure afar;
Larger manhood might we share,
Surer fortune,—did we dare!
IV
In our mills of common thoughtBy the pattern all is wrought:
In our school of life, the man
Drills to suit the public plan,
And through labor, love, and play,
Shifts the Burden of the Day.
V
Ah, the gods of wood and stoneCan a single saint dethrone,
But the people who shall aid
'Gainst the puppets they have made?
First they teach and then obey:
'T is the Burden of the Day.
VI
Thunder shall we never hearIn this ordered atmosphere?
Never this monotony feel
Shattered by a trumpet's peal?
Never airs that burst and blow
From eternal summits, know?
VII
Though no man resent his wrong,Still is free the poet's song:
Still, a stag, his thought may leap
O'er the herded swine and sheep,
And in pastures far away
Lose the Burden of the Day!
1870.
IN THE LISTS
Could I choose the age and fortunate season
When to be born,
I would fly from the censure of your barren reason,
And the scourges of your scorn:
Could I take the tongue, and the land, and the station
That to me were fit,
I would make my life a force and an exultation,
And you could not stifle it!
When to be born,
I would fly from the censure of your barren reason,
And the scourges of your scorn:
Could I take the tongue, and the land, and the station
That to me were fit,
I would make my life a force and an exultation,
And you could not stifle it!
But the thing most near to the freedom I covet
Is the freedom I wrest
From a time that would bar me from climbing above it,
To seek the East in the West.
I have dreamed of the forms of a nobler existence
Than you give me here,
And the beauty that lies afar in the dateless distance
I would conquer, and bring more near.
Is the freedom I wrest
From a time that would bar me from climbing above it,
To seek the East in the West.
I have dreamed of the forms of a nobler existence
Than you give me here,
And the beauty that lies afar in the dateless distance
I would conquer, and bring more near.
It is good, undowered with the bounty of Fortune,
In the sun to stand:
Let others excuse, and cringe, and importune,
I will try the strength of my hand!
If I fail, I shall fall not among the mistaken,
Whom you dare deride:
If I win, you shall hear, and see, and at last awaken
To thank me because I defied!
In the sun to stand:
308
I will try the strength of my hand!
If I fail, I shall fall not among the mistaken,
Whom you dare deride:
If I win, you shall hear, and see, and at last awaken
To thank me because I defied!
1871.
THE SUNSHINE OF THE GODS
I
Who shall sunder the fetters,Who scale the invisible ramparts
Whereon our nimblest forces
Hurl their vigor in vain?
Where, like the baffling crystal
To a wildered bird of the heavens,
Something holds and imprisons
The eager, the stirring brain?
II
Alas, from the fresh emotion,From thought that is born of feeling,
From form, self-shaped, and slowly
Its own completeness evolving,
To the rhythmic speech, how long!
What hand shall master the tumult
Where one on the other tramples,
And none escapes a wrong?
Where the crowding germs of a thousand
Fancies encumber the portal,
Till one plucks a voice from the murmurs
And lifts himself into Song!
III
As a man that walks in the mist,As one that gropes for the morning
Through lengthening chambers of twilight,
The souls of the poems wander
Restless, and dumb, and lost,
Till the Word, like a beam of morning,
Shivers the pregnant silence,
And the light of speech descends
Like a tongue of the Pentecost!
IV
Ah, moment not to be purchased,Not to be won by prayers,
Not by toil to be conquered,
But given, lest one despair,
By the Gods in wayward kindness,
Stay—thou art all too fair!
Hour of the dancing measures,
Sylph of the dew and rainbow,
Let us clutch thy shining hair!
V
For the mist is blown from the mind,For the impotent yearning is over,
And the wings of the thoughts have power:
In the warmth and the glow creative
Existence mellows and ripens,
And a crowd of swift surprises
Sweetens the fortunate hour;
Till a shudder of rapture loosens
The tears that hang on the eyelids
Like a breeze-suspended shower,
With a sense of heavenly freshness
Blown from beyond the sunshine,
And the blood, like the sap of the roses,
Breaks into bud and flower.
VI
'T is the Sunshine of the Gods,The sudden light that quickens,
Unites the nimble forces,
And yokes the shy expression
To the thoughts that waited long,—
Waiting and wooing vainly:
But now they meet like lovers
In the time of willing increase,
Each warming each, and giving
The kiss that maketh strong:
And the mind feels fairest May-time
In the marriage of its passions,
For Thought is one with Speech,
In the Sunshine of the Gods,
And Speech is one with Song!
VII
Then a rhythmic pulse makes orderIn the troops of wandering fancies:
Held in soft subordination,
Lo! they follow, lead, or fly.
The fields of their feet are endless,
And the heights and the deeps are open
To the glance of the equal sky:
And the Masters sit no longer
In inaccessible distance,
But give to the haughtiest question,
Smiling, a sweet reply.
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VIII
Dost mourn, because the momentIs a gift beyond thy will,—
A gift thy dreams had promised,
Yet they gave to Chance its keeping
And fettered thy free achievement
With the hopes they not fulfil?
Dost sigh o'er the fleeting rapture,
The bliss of reconcilement
Of powers that work apart,
Yet lean on each other still?
IX
Be glad, for this is the token,The sign and the seal of the Poet:
Were it held by will or endeavor,
There were naught so precious in Song.
Wait: for the shadows unlifted
To a million that crave the sunshine,
Shall be lifted for thee erelong.
Light from the loftier regions
Here unattainable ever,—
Bath of brightness and beauty,—
Let it make thee glad and strong!
Not to clamor or fury,
Not to lament or yearning,
But to faith and patience cometh
The Sunshine of the Gods,
The hour of perfect Song!
NOTUS IGNOTO
I
Do you sigh for the power you dream of,The fair, evasive secret,
The rare imagined passion,
O Friend unknown!
Do you haunt Egyptian portals,
Where, within, the laboring goddess
Yields to the hands of her chosen
The sacred child, alone?
II
Ah, pause! There is consolationFor you, and pride:
Free of choice and worship,
Spared the pang and effort,
Nor partial made by triumph,
The poet's limitations
You lightly set aside:
Revived, in your fresher spirit
The buds of my thought may blossom,
And the clew, from weary fingers
Fallen, become your guide!
The taker, even as the giver,
The user as the maker,
Soil as seed, and rain as sunshine,
Alike are glorified!
III
Loss with gain is balanced;You may reach, when I but beckon;
You may drink, though mine the vintage,
You complete what I begun.
When at the temple-door I falter,
You advance to the altar;
I but rise to the daybreak,
You to the sun!
My goal is your beginning:
My steeps of aspiration
For you are won!
IV
Hark! the nightingale is chantingAs if her mate but knew;
Yet the dream within me
Which the bird-voice wakens,
Takes from her unconscious
Prompting, form and hue:
So the song I sing you,
Voice alone of my being,
Song for the mate and the nestling
Finer and sweeter meaning
May possess for you!
Lifting to starry summits,
Filling with infinite passion,
While the witless singer broodeth
In the darkness and the dew!
V
Carved on the rock as an arrowTo point your path, am I:
A cloud that tells, in the heavens,
Which way the breezes fly:
A brook that is born in the meadows,
And wanders at will, nor guesses
Whither its waters hie:
A child that scatters blossoms,
Thoughtless of memoried odors,
Or sweet surprises of color,
That waken when you go by:
A bee-bird of the woodland,
That finds the honeyed hollows
Of ancient oaks, for others,—
Even as these, am I!
VI
Accept, and enjoy, and follow,—Conquer wherein I yield!
310
From me concealed!
Truth, to whom will possess it,
Beauty to whom embraces,
Song and its inmost secret,
Life and its unheard music,
To whom will hear and know them,
Are ever revealed!
THE TWO HOMES
I
My home was seated high and fair,Upon a mountain's side;
The day was longest, brightest there;
Beneath, the world was wide.
Across its blue, embracing zone
The rivers gleamed, the cities shone,
And over the edge of the fading rim
I saw the storms in the distance dim,
And the flash of the soundless thunder.
II
But weary grew the sharp, cold wineOf winds that never kissed,
The changeless green of fir and pine,
The gray and clinging mist.
Above the granite sprang no bowers;
The soil gave low and scentless flowers;
And the drone and din of the waterfall
Became a challenge, a taunting call:
“'T is fair, 't is fair in the valley!”
III
Of all the homesteads deep and farMy fancy clung to one,
Whose gable burned, a mellow star,
Touched by the sinking sun.
Unseen around, but not unguessed,
The orchards made a leafy nest;
The turf before it was thick, I knew,
And bees were busy the garden through,
And the windows were dark with roses.
IV
“'T is happier there, below,” I sighed:The world is warm and near,
And closer love and comfort hide,
That cannot reach me here.
Who there abides must be so blest
He'll share with me his sheltered nest,
If down to the valley I should go,
Leaving the granite, the pines and snow,
And the winds that are keen as lances.”
V
I wandered down, by ridge and dell;The way was rough and long:
Though earlier shadows round me fell,
I cheered them with my song.
The world's great circle narrower grew,
Till hedge and thicket hid the blue;
But over the orchards, near at hand,
The gable shone on the quiet land,
And far away was the mountain!
VI
Then came the master: mournful-eyedAnd stern of brow was he.
“Oh, planted in such peace!” I cried,
“Spare but the least to me!”
“Who seeks,” he said, “this brooding haze,
The tameness of these weary days?
The highway's dust, the glimmer and heat,
The woods that fetter the young wind's feet,
And hide the world and its beauty?”
VII
He stretched his hand; he looked afarWith eyes of old desire:
I saw my home, a mellow star
That held the sunset's fire.
“But yonder home,” he cried, “how fair!
Its chambers burn like gilded air:
I know that the gardens are wild as dreams,
With the sweep of winds, the dash of streams,
And the pines that sound as an anthem!
VIII
“So quiet, so serenely highIt sits, when clouds are furled,
And knows the beauty of the sky,
The glory of the world!
311
He'll share with me that lofty crest,
If up to the mountain I should go,
Leaving the dust and the glare below,
And the weary life of the valley!”
1873.
IRIS
I
I am born from the womb of the cloudAnd the strength of the ardent sun,
When the winds have ceased to be loud,
And the rivers of rain to run.
Then light, on my sevenfold arch,
I swing in the silence of air,
While the vapors beneath me march
And leave the sweet earth bare.
II
For a moment, I hover and gleamOn the skirts of the sinking storm;
And I die in the bliss of the beam
That gave me being and form.
I fade, as in human hearts
The rapture that mocks the will:
I pass, as a dream departs
That cannot itself fulfil!
III
Beyond the bridge I have spannedThe fields of the Poet unfold,
And the riches of Fairyland
At my bases of misty gold.
I keep the wealth of the spheres
Which the high Gods never have won;
And I coin, from their airy tears,
The diadem of the sun!
IV
For some have stolen the graceThat is hidden in rest or strife;
And some have copied the face
Or echoed the voice of Life:
And some have woven of sound
A chain of the sweetest control,
And some have fabled or found
The key to the human soul:
V
But I, from the blank of the airAnd the white of the barren beam,
Have wrought the colors that flare
In the forms of a painter's dream.
I gather the souls of the flowers,
And the sparks of the gems, to me;
Till pale are the blossoming bowers,
And dim the chameleon sea!
VI
By the soul's bright sun, the eye,I am thrown on the artist's brain;
He follows me, and I fly;
He pauses, I stand again.
O'er the reach of the painted world
My chorded colors I hold,
On a canvas of cloud impearled
Drawn with a brush of gold!
VII
If I lure, as a mocking sprite,I give, as a goddess bestows,
The red, with its soul of might,
And the blue, with its cool repose;
The yellow that beckons and beams,
And the gentler children they bear.
For the portal of Art's high dreams
Is builded of Light and Air!
1872.
IMPLORA PACE
The clouds that stoop from yonder sky
Discharge their burdens, and are free;
The streams that take them hasten by,
To find relief in lake and sea.
Discharge their burdens, and are free;
The streams that take them hasten by,
To find relief in lake and sea.
The wildest wind in vales afar
Sleeps, pillowed on its ruffled wings;
And song, through many a stormy bar,
Beats into silence on the strings!
Sleeps, pillowed on its ruffled wings;
And song, through many a stormy bar,
Beats into silence on the strings!
And love o'ercomes his young unrest,
And first ambition's flight is o'er;
And doubt is cradled on the breast
Of perfect faith, and speaks no more.
And first ambition's flight is o'er;
And doubt is cradled on the breast
Of perfect faith, and speaks no more.
Our dreams and passions cease to dare,
And homely patience learns the part;
Yet still some keen, pursuing care
Forbids consent to brain and heart
And homely patience learns the part;
Yet still some keen, pursuing care
Forbids consent to brain and heart
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The gift unreached, beyond the hand;
The fault in all of beauty won;
The mildew of the harvest land,
The spots upon the risen sun!
The fault in all of beauty won;
The mildew of the harvest land,
The spots upon the risen sun!
And still some cheaper service claims
The will that leaps to loftier call:
Some cloud is cast on splendid aims,
On power achieved some common thrall.
The will that leaps to loftier call:
Some cloud is cast on splendid aims,
On power achieved some common thrall.
To spoil each beckoning victory,
A thousand pygmy hands are thrust;
And, round each height attained, we see
Our ether dim with lower dust.
A thousand pygmy hands are thrust;
And, round each height attained, we see
Our ether dim with lower dust.
Ah, could we breathe some peaceful air
And all save purpose there forget,
Till eager courage learn to bear
The gadfly's sting, the pebble's fret!
And all save purpose there forget,
Till eager courage learn to bear
The gadfly's sting, the pebble's fret!
Let higher goal and harsher way,
To test our virtue, then combine!
'T is not for idle ease we pray,
But freedom for our task divine.
To test our virtue, then combine!
'T is not for idle ease we pray,
But freedom for our task divine.
1872.
PENN CALVIN
I
Search high and low, search up and down,By light of stars or sun,
And of all the good folks of our town
There 's like Penn Calvin none.
He lightly laughs when all condemn,
He smiles when others pray;
And what is sorest truth to them
To him is idle play.
II
“Penn Calvin, lift, as duty bids,The load we all must bear!”
He only lifts his languid lids,
And says: “The morn is fair!”
“Learn while you may! for Life is stern,
And Art, alas! is long.”
He hums and answers: “Yes, I learn
The cadence of a song.”
III
“The world is dark with human woe;Man eats of bitter food.”
“The world,” he says, “is all aglow
With beauty, bliss, and good!”
“To crush the senses you must strive,
The beast of flesh destroy!”
“God gave this body, all alive,
And every sense is joy!”
IV
“Nay, these be heathen words we hear;The faith they teach is flown,—
A mist that clings to temples drear
And altars overthrown.”
“I reck not how nor whence it came,”
He answers; “I possess:
If heathens felt and owned the same,
How bright was heathenesse!”
V
“Though you be stubborn to believe,Yet learn to grasp and hold:
There 's power and honor to achieve,
And royal rule of gold!”
Penn Calvin plucked an open rose
And carolled to the sky:
“Shine, sun of Day, until its close,—
They live, and so do I!”
VI
His eyes are clear as they were kissedBy some unrisen dawn;
Our grave and stern philanthropist
Looks sad, and passes on.
Our pastor scowls, the pious flock
Avert their heads, and flee;
For pestilence or earthquake shock
Less dreadful seems than he.
VII
But all the children round him cling,Depraved as they were born;
And vicious men his praises sing,
Whom he forgets to scorn.
Penn Calvin's strange indifference gives
Our folks a grievous care:
He 's simply glad because he lives,
And glad the world is fair!
1871.
313
SUMMER NIGHT
VARIATIONS ON CERTAIN MELODIES
I
ANDANTE
Under the full-blown linden and the plane,That link their arms above
In mute, mysterious love,
I hear the strain!
Is it the far postilion's horn,
Mellowed by starlight, floating up the valley,
Or song of love-sick peasant, borne
Across the fields of fragrant corn,
And poplar-guarded alley?
Now from the woodbine and the unseen rose
What new delight is showered?
The warm wings of the air
Drop into downy indolence and close,
So sweetly overpowered:
But nothing sleeps, though rest seems everywhere.
II
ADAGIO
Something came with the falling dusk,Came, and quickened to soft unrest:
Something floats in the linden's musk,
And throbs in the brook on the meadow's breast.
Shy Spirit of Love, awake, awake!
All things feel thee,
And all reveal thee:
The night was given for thy sweet sake.
Toil slinks aside, and leaves to thee the land;
The heart beats warmer for the idle hand;
The timid tongue unlearns its wrong,
And speech is turned to song;
The shaded eyes are braver;
And every life, like flowers whose scent is dumb
Till dew and darkness come,
Gives forth a tender savor.
O, each so lost in all, who may resist
The plea of lips unkissed,
Or, hearing such a strain,
Though kissed a thousand times, kiss not again!
III
APPASSIONATO
Was it a distant fluteThat breathed, and now is mute?
Or that lost soul men call the nightingale.
In bosky coverts hidden,
Filling with sudden passion all the vale?
O, chant again the tale,
And call on her whose name returns, unbidden,
A longing and a dream,
Adelaïda!
For while the sprinkled stars
Sparkle, and wink, and gleam,
Adelaïda!
Darkness and perfume cleave the unknown bars
Between the enamored heart and thee,
And thou and I are free,
Adelaïda!
Less than a name, a melody, art thou,
A hope, a haunting vow!
The passion-cloven
Spirit of thy Beethoven
Claimed with less ardor than I claim thee now,
Adelaïda!
Take form, at last: from these o'erbending branches
Descend, or from the grass arise!
I scarce shall see thine eyes,
Or know what blush the shadow stanches;
But all my being's empty urn shall be
Filled with thy mystery!
IV
CAPRICCIOSO
Nay, nay! the longings tender,The fear, the marvel, and the mystery,
314
Give, if thou canst, to me!
For I would be,
In this expressive languor,
While night conceals, the wooed and not the wooer;
Shaken with supplication, keen as anger;
Pursued, and thou pursuer!
Plunder my bosom of its hoarded fire,
And so assail me,
That coy denial fail me,
Slain by the mirrored shape of my desire!
Though life seem overladen
With conquered bliss, it only craves the more:
Teach me the other half of passion's lore—
Be thou the man, and I the maiden!
Ah! come,
While earth is waiting, heaven is dumb,
And blossom-sighs
So penetrate the indolent air,
The very stars grow fragrant in the skies!
Arise,
And thine approach shall make me fair,
Thy borrowed pleading all too soon subdue me,
Till both forget the part;
And she who failed to woo me
So caught, is held to my impatient heart!
1873.
THE GUESTS OF NIGHT
I ride in a gloomy land,
I travel a ghostly shore,—
Shadows on either hand,
Darkness behind and before;
Veils of the summer night
Dusking the woods I know;
A whisper haunts the height,
And the rivulet croons below.
I travel a ghostly shore,—
Shadows on either hand,
Darkness behind and before;
Veils of the summer night
Dusking the woods I know;
A whisper haunts the height,
And the rivulet croons below.
A waft from the roadside bank
Tells where the wild-rose nods;
The hollows are heavy and dank
With the steam of the golden-rods:
Incense of Night and Death,
Odors of Life and Day,
Meet and mix in a breath,
Drug me, and lapse away.
Tells where the wild-rose nods;
The hollows are heavy and dank
With the steam of the golden-rods:
Incense of Night and Death,
Odors of Life and Day,
Meet and mix in a breath,
Drug me, and lapse away.
Is it the hand of the Past,
Stretched from its open tomb,
Or a spell from thy glamoury cast,
O mellow and mystic gloom?
All, wherein I have part,
All that was loss or gain,
Slips from the clasping heart,
Breaks from the grasping brain.
Stretched from its open tomb,
Or a spell from thy glamoury cast,
O mellow and mystic gloom?
All, wherein I have part,
All that was loss or gain,
Slips from the clasping heart,
Breaks from the grasping brain.
Lo, what is left? I am bare
As a new-born soul,—I am naught;
My deeds are as dust in air,
My words are as ghosts of thought.
I ride through the night alone,
Detached from the life that seemed,
And the best I have felt or known
Is less than the least I dreamed.
As a new-born soul,—I am naught;
My deeds are as dust in air,
My words are as ghosts of thought.
I ride through the night alone,
Detached from the life that seemed,
And the best I have felt or known
Is less than the least I dreamed.
But the Night, like Agrippa's glass,
Now, as I question it, clears;
Over its vacancy pass
The shapes of the crowded years;
Meanest and most august,
Hated or loved, I see
The dead that have long been dust,
The living, so dead to me!
Now, as I question it, clears;
Over its vacancy pass
The shapes of the crowded years;
Meanest and most august,
Hated or loved, I see
The dead that have long been dust,
The living, so dead to me!
Place in the world's applause?
Nay, there is nothing there!
Strength from unyielding laws?
A gleam, and the glass is bare.
The lines of a life in song?
Faint runes on the rocks of time?
I see but a formless throng
Of shadows that fall or climb.
Nay, there is nothing there!
Strength from unyielding laws?
A gleam, and the glass is bare.
The lines of a life in song?
Faint runes on the rocks of time?
I see but a formless throng
Of shadows that fall or climb.
What else? Am I then despoiled
Of the garments I wove and wore?
Have I so refrained and toiled,
To find there is naught in store?
I have loved,—I love! Behold,
How the steady pictures rise!
And the shadows are pierced with gold
From the stars of immortal eyes.
Of the garments I wove and wore?
Have I so refrained and toiled,
To find there is naught in store?
I have loved,—I love! Behold,
How the steady pictures rise!
And the shadows are pierced with gold
From the stars of immortal eyes.
Nearest or most remote,
But dearest, hath none delayed;
And the spirits of kisses float
O'er the lips that never fade.
The Night each guest denies
Of the hand or haughty brain,
But the loves that were, arise,
And the loves that are, remain.
But dearest, hath none delayed;
And the spirits of kisses float
O'er the lips that never fade.
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Of the hand or haughty brain,
But the loves that were, arise,
And the loves that are, remain.
1871.
SONNET
Who, harnessed in his mail of Self, demandsTo be men's master and their sovran guide?—
Proclaims his place, and by sole right of pride
A candidate for love and reverence stands,
As if the power within his empty hands
Had fallen from the sky, with all beside,
So oft to longing and to toil denied,
That makes the leaders and the lords of lands?
He who would lead must first himself be led;
Who would be loved be capable of love
Beyond the utmost he receives; who claims
The rod of power must first have bowed his head,
And, being honored, honor what's above:
This know the men who leave the world their names.
1872.
TO MARIE
WITH A COPY OF THE TRANSLATION OF FAUST
This plant, it may be, grew from vigorous seed,Within the field of study set by Song;
Sent from its sprouting germ, perchance, a throng
Of roots even to that depth where passions breed;
Chose its own time, and of its place took heed;
Sucked fittest nutriment to make it strong:—
But you from every wayward season's wrong
Did guard it, showering, at its changing need,
Or dew of sympathy, or summer glow
Of apprehension of the finer toil,
And gave it, so, the nature that endures.
Our secret this, the world can never know:
You were the breeze and sunshine, I the soil:
The form is mine, color and odor yours!
1875.
CENTENNIAL HYMN
O God of Peace! now o'er the world
The armies rest, with banners furled:
O God of Toil! beneath thy sight
The toiling nations here unite;
O God of Beauty, bend and see
The Beautiful that shadows thee!
The armies rest, with banners furled:
O God of Toil! beneath thy sight
The toiling nations here unite;
O God of Beauty, bend and see
The Beautiful that shadows thee!
Our land, young hostess of the West,
Now first in festal raiment dressed,
Invites from every realm and clime
Her sisters of the elder time,
And bare of shield, ungirt by sword,
Bids welcome to her bounteous board.
Now first in festal raiment dressed,
Invites from every realm and clime
Her sisters of the elder time,
And bare of shield, ungirt by sword,
Bids welcome to her bounteous board.
Thy will, dear Father, gave to each
The force of hand, the fire of speech;
Thy guidance led from low to high,
Made failure still in triumph die,
And set for all, in fields apart,
The oak of Toil, the rose of Art!
The force of hand, the fire of speech;
Thy guidance led from low to high,
Made failure still in triumph die,
And set for all, in fields apart,
The oak of Toil, the rose of Art!
What though, within thy plan sublime,
Our eras are the dust of time,
Yet unto later good ordain
This rivalry of heart and brain,
And bless, through power and wisdom won,
The peaceful cycle here begun!
Our eras are the dust of time,
Yet unto later good ordain
This rivalry of heart and brain,
And bless, through power and wisdom won,
The peaceful cycle here begun!
Let each with each his bounty spend,
Now knowledge borrow, beauty lend!
Let each in each more nobly see
Thyself in him, his faith in Thee:
All conquering power Thy gift divine,
All glory but the seal of Thine!
Now knowledge borrow, beauty lend!
Let each in each more nobly see
Thyself in him, his faith in Thee:
All conquering power Thy gift divine,
All glory but the seal of Thine!
February, 1876.
316
THE SONG OF 1876
I
Waken, voice of the Land's Devotion!Spirit of freedom, awaken all!
Ring, ye shores, to the Song of Ocean,
Rivers, answer, and mountains, call!
The golden day has come:
Let every tongue be dumb,
That sounded its malice or murmured its fears;
She hath won her story;
She wears her glory;
We crown her the Land of a Hundred Years!
II
Out of darkness and toil and dangerInto the light of Victory's day,
Help to the weak, and home to the stranger,
Freedom to all, she hath held her way!
Now Europe's orphans rest
Upon her mother-breast:
The voices of Nations are heard in the cheers;
That shall cast upon her
New love and honor,
And crown her the Queen of a Hundred Years!
III
North and South, we are met as brothers:East and West, we are wedded as one!
Right of each shall secure our mother's;
Child of each is her faithful son!
We give Thee heart and hand,
Our glorious native Land,
For battle has tried thee, and time endears:
We will write thy story,
And keep thy glory,
As pure as of old for a Thousand Years!
1876.
IMPROVISATIONS
I
Through the lonely halls of the night
My fancies fly to thee:
Through the lonely halls of the night,
Alone, I cry to thee.
For the stars bring presages
Of love, and of love's delight:
Let them bear my messages
Through the lonely halls of the night!
My fancies fly to thee:
Through the lonely halls of the night,
Alone, I cry to thee.
For the stars bring presages
Of love, and of love's delight:
Let them bear my messages
Through the lonely halls of the night!
In the golden porch of the morn
Thou com'st anew to me:
In the golden porch of the morn,
Say, art thou true to me?
If dreams have shaken thee
With the call thou canst not scorn,
Let Love awaken thee
In the golden porch of the morn!
Thou com'st anew to me:
In the golden porch of the morn,
Say, art thou true to me?
If dreams have shaken thee
With the call thou canst not scorn,
Let Love awaken thee
In the golden porch of the morn!
II
The rose of your cheek is precious;
Your eyes are warmer than wine;
You catch men's souls in the meshes
Of curls that ripple and shine—
But, ah! not mine.
Your eyes are warmer than wine;
You catch men's souls in the meshes
Of curls that ripple and shine—
But, ah! not mine.
Your lips are a sweet persuasion;
Your bosom a sleeping sea;
Your voice, with its fond evasion,
Is a call and a charm to me;
But I am free!
Your bosom a sleeping sea;
Your voice, with its fond evasion,
Is a call and a charm to me;
But I am free!
As the white moon lifts the waters,
You lift the passions, and lead;
As a chieftainess proud with slaughters,
You smile on the hearts that bleed:
But I take heed!
You lift the passions, and lead;
As a chieftainess proud with slaughters,
You smile on the hearts that bleed:
But I take heed!
III
Come to me, Lalage!
Girl of the flying feet,
Girl of the tossing hair
And the red mouth, small and sweet;
Less of the earth than air,
So witchingly fond and fair,
Lalage!
Girl of the flying feet,
Girl of the tossing hair
And the red mouth, small and sweet;
Less of the earth than air,
So witchingly fond and fair,
Lalage!
Touch me, Lalage!
Girl of the soft white hand,
Girl of the low white brow
And the roseate bosom band;
Bloom from an orchard bough
Less downy-soft than thou,
Lalage!
Girl of the soft white hand,
Girl of the low white brow
And the roseate bosom band;
Bloom from an orchard bough
Less downy-soft than thou,
Lalage!
Kiss me, Lalage!
Girl of the fragrant breath,
Girl of the sun of May;
As a bird that flutters in death,
My fluttering pulses say:
If thou be Death, yet stay,
Lalage!
Girl of the fragrant breath,
317
As a bird that flutters in death,
My fluttering pulses say:
If thou be Death, yet stay,
Lalage!
IV
What if I couch in the grass, or listlessly rock on the waters?If in the market I stroll, sit by the beakers of wine?
Witched by the fold of a cloud, the flush of a meadow in blossom,
Soothed by the amorous airs, touched by the lips of the dew?
First must be color and odor, the simple, unmingled sensation,
Then, at the end of the year, apples and honey and grain.
You, reversing the order, your barren and withering branches
Vainly will shake in the winds, mine hanging heavy with gold!
V
Though thy constant love I share,
Yet its gift is rarer;
In my youth I thought thee fair;
Thou art older and fairer!
Yet its gift is rarer;
In my youth I thought thee fair;
Thou art older and fairer!
Full of more than young delight
Now day and night are;
For the presence, then so bright,
Is closer, brighter.
Now day and night are;
For the presence, then so bright,
Is closer, brighter.
In the haste of youth we miss
Its best of blisses:
Sweeter than the stolen kiss,
Are the granted kisses.
Its best of blisses:
Sweeter than the stolen kiss,
Are the granted kisses.
Dearer than the words that hide
The love abiding,
Are the words that fondly chide,
When love needs chiding.
The love abiding,
Are the words that fondly chide,
When love needs chiding.
Higher than the perfect song
For which love longeth,
Is the tender fear of wrong,
That never wrongeth.
For which love longeth,
Is the tender fear of wrong,
That never wrongeth.
She whom youth alone makes dear
May awhile seem nearer:
Thou art mine so many a year,
The older, the dearer!
May awhile seem nearer:
Thou art mine so many a year,
The older, the dearer!
VI
A grass-blade is my warlike lance,
A rose-leaf is my shield;
Beams of the sun are, every one
My chargers for the field.
A rose-leaf is my shield;
Beams of the sun are, every one
My chargers for the field.
The morning gives me golden steeds,
The moon gives silver-white;
The stars drop down, my helm to crown,
When I go forth to fight.
The moon gives silver-white;
The stars drop down, my helm to crown,
When I go forth to fight.
Against me ride in iron mail
The squadrons of the foe:
The bucklers flash, the maces crash,
The haughty trumpets blow.
The squadrons of the foe:
The bucklers flash, the maces crash,
The haughty trumpets blow.
One touch, and all, with armor cleft,
Before me turn and yield.
Straight on I ride: the world is wide;
A rose-leaf is my shield!
Before me turn and yield.
Straight on I ride: the world is wide;
A rose-leaf is my shield!
Then dances o'er the waterfall
The rainbow, in its glee;
The daisy sings, the lily rings
Her bells of victory.
The rainbow, in its glee;
The daisy sings, the lily rings
Her bells of victory.
So am I armed where'er I go,
And mounted night or day:
Who shall oppose the conquering rose,
And who the sunbeam slay?
And mounted night or day:
Who shall oppose the conquering rose,
And who the sunbeam slay?
VII
The star o' the morn is whitest,
The bosom of dawn is brightest;
The dew is sown,
And the blossom blown
Wherein thou, my Dear, delightest.
The bosom of dawn is brightest;
The dew is sown,
And the blossom blown
Wherein thou, my Dear, delightest.
Hark, I have risen before thee,
That the spell of the day be o'er thee;
That the flush of my love
May fall from above,
And, mixed with the moon, adore thee!
That the spell of the day be o'er thee;
That the flush of my love
May fall from above,
And, mixed with the moon, adore thee!
Dark dreams must now forsake thee,
And the bliss of thy being take thee!
Let the beauty of morn
In thine eyes be born,
And the thought of me awake thee!
And the bliss of thy being take thee!
Let the beauty of morn
In thine eyes be born,
And the thought of me awake thee!
Come forth to hear thy praises,
Which the wakening world upraises;
Let thy hair be spun
With the gold o' the sun,
And thy feet be kissed by the daisies!
Which the wakening world upraises;
Let thy hair be spun
With the gold o' the sun,
And thy feet be kissed by the daisies!
318
VIII
Near in the forest
I know a glade;
Under the tree-tops
A secret shade!
I know a glade;
Under the tree-tops
A secret shade!
Vines are the curtains,
Blossoms the floor;
Voices of waters
Sing evermore.
Blossoms the floor;
Voices of waters
Sing evermore.
There, when the sunset's
Lances of gold
Pierce, or the moonlight
Is silvery cold,
Lances of gold
Pierce, or the moonlight
Is silvery cold,
Would that an angel
Led thee to me—
So, out of loneliness
Love should be!
Led thee to me—
So, out of loneliness
Love should be!
Never the breezes
Should lisp what we say,
Never the waters
Our secret betray!
Should lisp what we say,
Never the waters
Our secret betray!
Silence and shadow,
After, might reign;
But the old life be ours
Never again!
After, might reign;
But the old life be ours
Never again!
IX
What if we lose the seasons
That seem of our happiest choice,
That Life is fuller of reasons
To sorrow than rejoice,
That Time is richer in treasons,
And Hope has a faltering voice?
That seem of our happiest choice,
That Life is fuller of reasons
To sorrow than rejoice,
That Time is richer in treasons,
And Hope has a faltering voice?
The dreams wherewith we were dowered
Were gifts of an ignorant brain;
The truth has at last overpowered
The visions we clung to in vain:
But who would resist, as a coward.
The knowledge that cometh from pain?
Were gifts of an ignorant brain;
The truth has at last overpowered
The visions we clung to in vain:
But who would resist, as a coward.
The knowledge that cometh from pain?
For the love, as a flower of the meadow,
The love that stands firm as a tree—
For the stars that have vanished in shadow,
The daylight, enduring and free—
For a dream of the dim El Dorado,
A world to inhabit have we!
The love that stands firm as a tree—
For the stars that have vanished in shadow,
The daylight, enduring and free—
For a dream of the dim El Dorado,
A world to inhabit have we!
X
Heart, in my bosom beating
Fierce, as a power at bay!
Ever thy rote repeating
Louder, and then retreating.
Who shall thy being sway?
Fierce, as a power at bay!
Ever thy rote repeating
Louder, and then retreating.
Who shall thy being sway?
Over my will and under,
Equally king and slave,
Sometimes I hear thee thunder,
Sometimes falter and blunder
Close to the waiting grave!
Equally king and slave,
Sometimes I hear thee thunder,
Sometimes falter and blunder
Close to the waiting grave!
Oft, in the beautiful season,
Restless thou art, and wild;
Oft, with never a reason,
Turnest and doest me treason,
Treating the man as a child!
Restless thou art, and wild;
Oft, with never a reason,
Turnest and doest me treason,
Treating the man as a child!
Cold, when passion is burning,
Quick, when I sigh for rest,
Kindler of perished yearning,
Curb and government spurning,
Thou art lord of the breast!
Quick, when I sigh for rest,
Kindler of perished yearning,
Curb and government spurning,
Thou art lord of the breast!
XI
Fill, for we drink to Labor!
And Labor, you know, is Prayer:
I'll be as grand as my neighbor
Abroad, and at home as bare!
Debt, and bother, and hurry!
Others are burdened so:
Here 's to the goddess Worry,
And here 's to the goddess
Show!
And Labor, you know, is Prayer:
I'll be as grand as my neighbor
Abroad, and at home as bare!
Debt, and bother, and hurry!
Others are burdened so:
Here 's to the goddess Worry,
And here 's to the goddess
Show!
Reckless of what comes after,
Silent of whence we come:
Splendor and feat and laughter
Make the questioners dumb.
Debt, and bother, and hurry!
Nobody needs to know:
Here's to the goddess Worry,
And here 's to the goddess
Show!
Silent of whence we come:
Splendor and feat and laughter
Make the questioners dumb.
Debt, and bother, and hurry!
Nobody needs to know:
Here's to the goddess Worry,
And here 's to the goddess
Show!
Fame is what you have taken,
Character 's what you give:
When to this truth you waken,
Then you begin to live!
Debt, and bother, and hurry
Others have risen so:
Here 's to the goddess Worry,
And here 's to the goddess
Show!
Character 's what you give:
When to this truth you waken,
Then you begin to live!
Debt, and bother, and hurry
Others have risen so:
Here 's to the goddess Worry,
And here 's to the goddess
Show!
319
Honor 's a thing for derision,
Knowledge a thing reviled;
Love is a vanishing vision,
Faith is the toy of a child!
Debt, and bother, and hurry!
Honesty 's old and slow.
Here 's to the goddess Worry,
And here 's to the goddess
Show!
Knowledge a thing reviled;
Love is a vanishing vision,
Faith is the toy of a child!
Debt, and bother, and hurry!
Honesty 's old and slow.
Here 's to the goddess Worry,
And here 's to the goddess
Show!
1872–1875.
MARIGOLD
Homely, forgotten flower,
Under the rose's bower,
Plain as a weed,
Thou, the half-summer long,
Waitest and waxest strong,
Even as waits a song
Till men shall heed.
Under the rose's bower,
Plain as a weed,
Thou, the half-summer long,
Waitest and waxest strong,
Even as waits a song
Till men shall heed.
Then, when the lilies die,
And the carnations lie
In spicy death,
Over thy bushy sprays
Burst with a sudden blaze
Stars of the August days,
With Autumn's breath.
And the carnations lie
In spicy death,
Over thy bushy sprays
Burst with a sudden blaze
Stars of the August days,
With Autumn's breath.
Fain would the calyx hold;
But splits, and half the gold
Spills lavishly:
Frost, that the rose appalls,
Wastes not thy coronals,
Till Summer's lustre falls
And fades in thee.
But splits, and half the gold
Spills lavishly:
Frost, that the rose appalls,
Wastes not thy coronals,
Till Summer's lustre falls
And fades in thee.
1876.
WILL AND LAW
Will, in his lawless mirth,
Cried: “Mine be the sphere of Earth!
Mine be the hills and seas,
Night calm and morning breeze,
Shadowed and sun-lit hours,
Passions, delights, and powers,
Each in its turn to choose,
All to reject or use—
Thus myself to fulfil,
For I am Will!”
Cried: “Mine be the sphere of Earth!
Mine be the hills and seas,
Night calm and morning breeze,
Shadowed and sun-lit hours,
Passions, delights, and powers,
Each in its turn to choose,
All to reject or use—
Thus myself to fulfil,
For I am Will!”
Nature, with myriad mouth,
Answered from North and South:
“Back to the nest again,
Dream of thy idle brain!
Eyes shall open, and see
Power attained through me:
Mine the increasing days,
Mine the delight that stays,
Service from each to draw—
For I am Law!”
Answered from North and South:
“Back to the nest again,
Dream of thy idle brain!
Eyes shall open, and see
Power attained through me:
Mine the increasing days,
Mine the delight that stays,
Service from each to draw—
For I am Law!”
1876.
TRUE LOVE'S TIME OF DAY
When shall I find you, sweetheart,
That shall be and must be mine?
I seek, though the world divides us,
And I send you the secret sign.
That shall be and must be mine?
I seek, though the world divides us,
And I send you the secret sign.
There 's blood in the veins of morning,
So fresh it may well deceive,
When man goes forth as Adam,
And woman awaits him as Eve.
So fresh it may well deceive,
When man goes forth as Adam,
And woman awaits him as Eve.
There 's an elvish spell in twilight
When the bats of Fancy fly,
And sense is bound by a question,
And Fate by the quick reply.
When the bats of Fancy fly,
And sense is bound by a question,
And Fate by the quick reply.
And the moon is an old enchantress.
With her snares of glimmer and shade,
That have ever been false and fatal
To the dreams of man and maid.
With her snares of glimmer and shade,
That have ever been false and fatal
To the dreams of man and maid.
But I'll meet you at noonday, sweetheart,
In the billowy fields of grain,
When the sun is hot for harvest,
And you'll kiss me without reply.
In the billowy fields of grain,
When the sun is hot for harvest,
And you'll kiss me without reply.
1877.
YOUTH
Child with the butterfly,
Boy with the ball,
Youth with the maiden—
Still I am all.
Boy with the ball,
Youth with the maiden—
Still I am all.
320
Wisdom of manhood
Keeps the old joy;
Conquered illusions
Leave me a boy.
Keeps the old joy;
Conquered illusions
Leave me a boy.
Falsehood and baseness
Teach me but this:
Earth still is beautiful,
Being is bliss.
Teach me but this:
Earth still is beautiful,
Being is bliss.
Locks to my temples
Hoary may cling;
'T is but as daisies
On meadows of spring.
Hoary may cling;
'T is but as daisies
On meadows of spring.
1876.
THE IMP OF SPRINGTIME
Over the eaves where the sunbeams fall
Twitters the swallow;
I hear from the mountains the cataract call:
Follow, oh, follow!
Twitters the swallow;
I hear from the mountains the cataract call:
Follow, oh, follow!
Buds on the bushes and blooms on the mead
Swiftly are swelling;
Hark! the Spring whispereth: “Make ye with speed
Ready my dwelling.”
Swiftly are swelling;
Hark! the Spring whispereth: “Make ye with speed
Ready my dwelling.”
Out of the tremulous blue of the air
Calling before her,
Who was it bade me “Awake and prepare,
Thou mine adorer!”
Calling before her,
Who was it bade me “Awake and prepare,
Thou mine adorer!”
“Leave me,” I said; “I have known thee of old,
Love the annoyer,
Arming, at last, with thine arrows of gold,
Time, the Destroyer.”
Love the annoyer,
Arming, at last, with thine arrows of gold,
Time, the Destroyer.”
“Follow,” he laughed, “where the bliss of the earth
Wooes thee, compelling;
Yet in the Spring, and her thousandfold birth,
I, too, am dwelling.”
Wooes thee, compelling;
Yet in the Spring, and her thousandfold birth,
I, too, am dwelling.”
Out of the buds he was peeping, and sang
Soft with the swallow;
Yea, and he called where the cataract sprang:
Follow, oh, follow!
Vain to defy, or evade, or, in sooth,
Bid him to leave me!
But his deception is dearer than truth:
Let him deceive me!
Soft with the swallow;
Yea, and he called where the cataract sprang:
Follow, oh, follow!
Vain to defy, or evade, or, in sooth,
Bid him to leave me!
But his deception is dearer than truth:
Let him deceive me!
1878.
A LOVER'S TEST
I sat to-day beneath the pine
And saw the long lake shine.
The wind was weary, and the day
Sank languidly away
Behind the forest's purple rim:
The sun was fair for me, I lived for him!
And saw the long lake shine.
The wind was weary, and the day
Sank languidly away
Behind the forest's purple rim:
The sun was fair for me, I lived for him!
I did not miss you. All was sweet,
Sky, earth, and soul complete
In harmony, which could afford
No more, nor spoil the chord.
Could I be blest, and you afar,
Were other I, or you, than what we are?
Sky, earth, and soul complete
In harmony, which could afford
No more, nor spoil the chord.
Could I be blest, and you afar,
Were other I, or you, than what we are?
The sifted silver of the night
Rained down a strange delight;
The moon's moist beams on meadows made
Pale bars athwart the shade,
And murmurs crept from tree to tree,
Mysterious whispers—not from you to me!
Rained down a strange delight;
The moon's moist beams on meadows made
Pale bars athwart the shade,
And murmurs crept from tree to tree,
Mysterious whispers—not from you to me!
I stirred the embers, roused the brand
And mused: on either hand
The pedigree of human thought
Sang, censured, cheered, or taught.
Pausing at each Titanic line,
I caught no echo of your soul to mine!
And mused: on either hand
The pedigree of human thought
Sang, censured, cheered, or taught.
Pausing at each Titanic line,
I caught no echo of your soul to mine!
At last, when life recast its form
To passive rest and warm,
Ere the soft, lingering senses cease
In sleep's half-conscious peace,
The wish I might have fashioned died
In dreams that never brought you to my side!
To passive rest and warm,
Ere the soft, lingering senses cease
In sleep's half-conscious peace,
The wish I might have fashioned died
In dreams that never brought you to my side!
Farewell! my nature's highest stress
Mine equal shall possess.
'T is easier to renounce, or wait,
Haply, the perfect fate.
My coldness is the haughty fire
That naught consumes except its full desire!
Mine equal shall possess.
321
Haply, the perfect fate.
My coldness is the haughty fire
That naught consumes except its full desire!
1874.
TO MY DAUGHTER
Learn to live, and live to learn,
Ignorance like a fire doth burn,
Little tasks make large return.
Ignorance like a fire doth burn,
Little tasks make large return.
In thy labors patient be,
Afterward, released and free,
Nature will be bright to thee.
Afterward, released and free,
Nature will be bright to thee.
Toil, when willing, groweth less;
“Always play” may seem to bless,
Yet the end is weariness.
“Always play” may seem to bless,
Yet the end is weariness.
Live to learn, and learn to live,
Only this content can give;
Reckless joys are fugitive!
Only this content can give;
Reckless joys are fugitive!
1872.
A FRIEND'S GREETING
TO J. G. WHITTIER, FOR HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY
Snow-bound for earth, but summer-souled for thee,
Thy natal morning shines:
Hail, Friend and Poet. Give thy hand to me,
And let me read its lines!
Thy natal morning shines:
Hail, Friend and Poet. Give thy hand to me,
And let me read its lines!
For skilled in Fancy's palmistry am I,
When years have set their crown;
When Life gives light to read its secrets by,
And deed explains renown.
When years have set their crown;
When Life gives light to read its secrets by,
And deed explains renown.
So, looking backward from thy seventieth year
On service grand and free,
The pictures of thy spirit's Past are clear,
And each interprets thee.
On service grand and free,
The pictures of thy spirit's Past are clear,
And each interprets thee.
I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sires
In Time's lost morning knew,
Kindling, as priest, the lonely altar-fires
That from Earth's darkness grew.
In Time's lost morning knew,
Kindling, as priest, the lonely altar-fires
That from Earth's darkness grew.
Then, wise with secrets of Chaldæan lore,
In high Akkadian fane;
Or pacing slow by Egypt's river-shore,
In Thothmes' glorious reign.
In high Akkadian fane;
Or pacing slow by Egypt's river-shore,
In Thothmes' glorious reign.
I hear thee, wroth with all iniquities
That Judah's kings betrayed,
Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's decrees,
Or Mamre's terebinth shade.
That Judah's kings betrayed,
Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's decrees,
Or Mamre's terebinth shade.
And, ah!—most piteous vision of the Past,
Drawn by thy being's law,
I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast,
Beneath the lion's paw.
Drawn by thy being's law,
I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast,
Beneath the lion's paw.
Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword upon
The Paynim helm and shield!
How shone with Godfrey, and at Askalon,
Thy white plume o'er the field!
The Paynim helm and shield!
How shone with Godfrey, and at Askalon,
Thy white plume o'er the field!
Strange contradiction!—where the sand-waves spread
The boundless desert sea,
The Bedouin spearmen found their destined head,
Their dark-eyed chief—in thee!
The boundless desert sea,
The Bedouin spearmen found their destined head,
Their dark-eyed chief—in thee!
And thou wert friar in Cluny's saintly cell,
And Skald by Norway's foam,
Ere fate of Poet fixed thy soul, to dwell
In this New England home.
And Skald by Norway's foam,
Ere fate of Poet fixed thy soul, to dwell
In this New England home.
Here art thou Poet,—more than warrior, priest;
And here thy quiet years
Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast,
Or clash of swords or spears.
And here thy quiet years
Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast,
Or clash of swords or spears.
The faith that lifts, the courage that sustains,
These thou wert sent to teach:
Hot blood of battle, beating in thy veins,
Is turned to gentle speech.
These thou wert sent to teach:
Hot blood of battle, beating in thy veins,
Is turned to gentle speech.
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Not less, but more, than others hast thou striven;
Thy victories remain:
The scars of ancient hate, long since forgiven,
Have lost their power to pain.
Thy victories remain:
The scars of ancient hate, long since forgiven,
Have lost their power to pain.
Apostle pure of Freedom and of Right,
Thou had'st thy one reward:
Thy prayers were heard, and flashed upon thy sight
The Coming of the Lord!
Thou had'st thy one reward:
Thy prayers were heard, and flashed upon thy sight
The Coming of the Lord!
Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender songs,
Slumbers the blade of truth;
But Age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs
The eager hope of Youth!
Slumbers the blade of truth;
But Age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs
The eager hope of Youth!
Another line upon thy hand I trace,
All destinies above:
Men know thee most as one that loves his race,
And bless thee with their love!
All destinies above:
Men know thee most as one that loves his race,
And bless thee with their love!
1877.
PEACH-BLOSSOM
I
Nightly the hoar-frost freezesThe young grass of the field,
Nor yet have blander breezes
The buds of the oak unsealed:
Not yet pours out the pine
His airy resinous wine;
But over the southern slope,
In the heat and hurry of hope,
The wands of the peach-tree first
Into rosy beauty burst:
A breath, and the sweet buds ope!
A day, and the orchards bare,
Like maids in haste to be fair,
Lightly themselves adorn
With a scarf the Spring at the door
Has sportively flung before,
Or a stranded cloud of the morn!
II
What spirit of Persia comethAnd saith to the buds, “Unclose!”
Ere ever the first bee hummeth,
Or woodland wild flower blows?
What prescient soul in the sod
Garlands each barren rod
With fringes of bloom that speak
Of the baby's tender breast,
And the boy's pure lip unpressed,
And the pink of the maiden's cheek?
The swift, keen Orient so
Prophesies as of old,
While the apple's blood is cold,
Remembering the snow.
III
Afar, through the mellow hazesWhere the dreams of June are stayed,
The hills, in their vanishing mazes,
Carry the flush, and fade!
Southward they fall, and reach
To the bay and the ocean beach,
Where the soft, half-Syrian air
Blows from the Chesapeake's
Inlets and coves and creeks
On the fields of Delaware!
And the rosy lakes of flowers,
That here alone are ours,
Spread into seas that pour
Billow and spray of pink
Even to the blue wave's brink,
All down the Eastern Shore!
IV
Pain, Doubt, and Death are over!Who thinks, to-day, of toil?
The fields are certain of clover,
The gardens of wine and oil.
What though the sap of the North
Drowsily peereth forth
In the orchards, and still delays?
The peach and the poet know
Under the chill the glow,
And the token of golden days!
V
What fool, to-day, would ratherIn wintry memories dwell?
What miser reach to gather
The fruit these boughs foretell?
No, no!—the heart has room
For present joy alone,
Light shed and sweetness blown,
For odor and color and bloom!
As the earth in the shining sky,
Our lives in their own bliss lie;
Whatever is taught or told,
However men moan and sigh,
Love never shall grow cold,
And Life shall never die!
1876.
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ASSYRIAN NIGHT-SONG
I
There is naught, on either hand,But the moon upon the sand.
Pale and glimmering, far and dim,
To the Desert's utmost rim,
Flows the inundating light
Over all the lands of Night.
Bel, the burning lord, has fled:
In her blue, uncurtained bed,
Ishtar, bending from above,
Seeks her Babylonian love.
Silver-browed, forever fair,
Goddess of the dusky hair
And the jewel-sprinkled breast,
Give me love, or give me rest!
II
I have wandered lone and farAs the ship of Izdubar,
When the gathered waters rose
High on Nizir's mountain snows,
Drifting where the torrent sped
Over life and glory dead.
Hear me now! I stretch my hands
From the moon-sea of the sands
Unto thee, or any star
That was guide to Izdubar!
Where the bulls with kingly heads
Guard the way to palace-beds,
Once I saw a woman go,
Swift as air and soft as snow,
Making swan and cypress one,
Steel and honey, night and sun,—
Once of death I knew the sting:
Beauty queen—and I not king!
III
Where the Hanging Gardens soarOver the Euphrates' shore,
And from palm and clinging vine
Lift aloft the Median pine,
Torches flame and wine is poured,
And the child of Bel is lord!
I am here alone with thee,
Ishtar, daughter of the Sea,
Who of woven dew and air
Spread'st an ocean, phantom-fair,
With a slow pulse beating through
Wave of air and foam of dew.
As I stand, I seem to drift
With its noiseless fall and lift,
While a veil of lightest lawn,
Or a floating form withdrawn,
Or a glimpse of beckoning hands
Gleams and fades above the sands.
IV
Day, that mixed my soul with men,Has it died forever, then?
Is there any world but this?
If the god deny his bliss,
And the goddess cannot give,
What are gods, that men should live?
Lo! the sand beneath my feet
Hoards the bounty of its heat,
And thy silver cheeks I see
Bright with him who burns for thee.
Give the airy semblance form,
Bid the dream be near and warm;
Or, if dreams but flash and die
As a mock to heart and eye,
Then descend thyself, and be,
Ishtar, sacred bride to me!
1876.
MY PROLOGUE
I
If heat of youth, 'tis heat suppressedThat fills my breast:
The childhood of a voiceless lyre
Preserves my fire.
I chanted not while I was young;
But ere age chill, I liberate my tongue!
II
Apart from stormy ways of men,Maine's loneliest glen
Held me as banished, and unheard
I saved my word:
I would not know the bitter taste
Of the crude fame which falls to them that haste.
III
On each impatient year I tossedA holocaust
Of effort, ashes ere it burned,
And justly spurned.
If now I own maturer days.
I know not: dust to me is passing praise.
IV
But out of life arises song,Clear, vital, strong—
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The speech divine
No other can interpret: grand
And permanent as time and race and land.
V
I dreamed I spake it: do I dream,In pride supreme,
Or, like late lovers, found the bride
Their youth denied,
Is this my stinted passion's flow?
It well may be; and they that read will know.
1874.
GABRIEL
I
Once let the Angel blow!—A peal from the parted heaven,
The first of seven!
For the time is come that was foretold
So long ago!
As the avalanche gathers, huge and cold,
From the down of the harmless snow,
The years and the ages gather and hang
Till the day when the word is spoken:
When they that dwell in the end of time
Are smitten alike for the early crime
As the vials of wrath are broken!
II
Yea, the time hath come;Though Earth is rich, her children are dumb!
Ye cry: Beware
Of the dancer's floating hair,
And the cymbal's clash, and the sound of pipe and drum!
But the Prophet cries: Beware
Of the hymn unheard, the unanswered prayer;
For ignorance is past,
And knowledge comes at last,
And the burden it brings to you how can ye bear?
III
Again let the Angel blow!The seals are loosened that seemed to bind
The Future's bliss and woe!
For a shrinking soul, an uncertain mind,
For eyes that see, but are growing blind,
Your landmarks fade and change:
The colors to-day you borrow
Take another hue to-morrow;
The forms of your faith are wild and strange!
Walking, you stagger to and fro:
So, let the Angel blow!
IV
Ah, shall the Angel blow?Something must have remained,
Something fresh and unstained,
Sprung from the common soil where the virtues grow:
Nay, it is not so!
Art succumbs to the coarser sense,
Greed o'ercometh sweet abstinence;
Of vices young men talk,
In scarlet your women walk,
And the soul of honor that made you proud,
The loftier grace your lives avowed,
Are a passive corpse and a tattered shroud:
What you forget, can your children know?
So, let the Angel blow!
V
Yes, let the Angel blow!A peal from the parted heaven,
The first of seven;—
The warning, not yet the sign, of woe!
That men arise
And look about them with wakened eyes,
Behold on their garments the dust and slime,
Refrain, forbear,
Accept the weight of a nobler care
And take reproach from the fallen time!
1874.
THE LOST CARYATID
When over Salamis stands Homer's moon,
And from the wasted wave
Of spent Ilissus falls no liquid croon,
But tears that wet a grave;
When on Pentelicus the quarried scars
Are dusk as dying stars;
And from the wasted wave
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But tears that wet a grave;
When on Pentelicus the quarried scars
Are dusk as dying stars;
When Attica's gray olives blend and gleam
Like sea-mists o'er the plain;
And, islanded in Time's eternal stream,
Only Athenè's fane
Shines forth, when every light of heaven must kiss
Art's one Acropolis:
Like sea-mists o'er the plain;
And, islanded in Time's eternal stream,
Only Athenè's fane
Shines forth, when every light of heaven must kiss
Art's one Acropolis:
Then, unto him—the modern Hellenes say—
In whom old dreams survive;
For whom the force of each immortal day
Earth knew, is yet alive—
To him who waits and listens there alone,
Rises a strange, sweet moan.
In whom old dreams survive;
For whom the force of each immortal day
Earth knew, is yet alive—
To him who waits and listens there alone,
Rises a strange, sweet moan.
The voice of broken marble, the complaint
Of beauty nigh despair,
In the thick wilderness of years grown faint
For lack of rite and prayer,
Since all perfection, making her sublime,
Provoked her evil time.
Of beauty nigh despair,
In the thick wilderness of years grown faint
For lack of rite and prayer,
Since all perfection, making her sublime,
Provoked her evil time.
It floats around the Panathenaic frieze
Till every triglyph sings,
While up from Dionysian chairs the breeze
A murmurous answer brings;
But most it gathers voice, and rests upon
The spoiled Erechtheion.
Till every triglyph sings,
While up from Dionysian chairs the breeze
A murmurous answer brings;
But most it gathers voice, and rests upon
The spoiled Erechtheion.
There the white architrave that fronts the east
Lightly five sisters hold
As blossom-baskets at a bridal feast,
Or jars of Samian gold:
Each proud and pure, and still a glorious wraith
Of Beauty wed to Faith!
Lightly five sisters hold
As blossom-baskets at a bridal feast,
Or jars of Samian gold:
Each proud and pure, and still a glorious wraith
Of Beauty wed to Faith!
The sixth has vanished, from the service torn,
Long since, by savage hands,
And keeps dumb vigil where the misty morn
Creeps o'er Cimmerian lands;
While they, in pallid lip and dew-damp cheek
Lament, and seem to speak:
Long since, by savage hands,
And keeps dumb vigil where the misty morn
Creeps o'er Cimmerian lands;
While they, in pallid lip and dew-damp cheek
Lament, and seem to speak:
“Where art thou, sister? Thee, the sparkling day,
The moonbeam finds no more,
Save in some hall where darker gods decay
On some barbarian shore!
Ah, where, beyond Poseidon's bitter foam,
Hear'st thou the voice of home?
The moonbeam finds no more,
Save in some hall where darker gods decay
On some barbarian shore!
Ah, where, beyond Poseidon's bitter foam,
Hear'st thou the voice of home?
“Where, when, as now, the night's mysterious hush
Our ancient life renews,
Or when the tops of Corydallus flush
O'er the departing dews—
And lovely Attica, in silver spread,
Forgets that she is dead—
Our ancient life renews,
Or when the tops of Corydallus flush
O'er the departing dews—
And lovely Attica, in silver spread,
Forgets that she is dead—
“Bidest thou in exile? Speak! Our being cold,—
Thou knowest!—yet retains
The thrill of choric strophes, flutes of gold,
And all victorious strains.
Dark is the world that knows not us divine;
But, ah! what fate is thine?”
Thou knowest!—yet retains
The thrill of choric strophes, flutes of gold,
And all victorious strains.
Dark is the world that knows not us divine;
But, ah! what fate is thine?”
Lo! from afar, across unmeasured seas
An answering sound is blown,
As when some wind-god's ghost moves Thessaly's
Tall pines to solemn tone;
Yet happy, as a sole Arcadian flute,
When harvest-fields are mute.
An answering sound is blown,
As when some wind-god's ghost moves Thessaly's
Tall pines to solemn tone;
Yet happy, as a sole Arcadian flute,
When harvest-fields are mute.
“I hear ye, sisters!”—thus the answer falls:
“My marble sends reply
To you, who guard the fair, immortal halls
Beneath our ancient sky;
Yet give no sadder echo to your moan,—
I am not here alone!
“My marble sends reply
To you, who guard the fair, immortal halls
Beneath our ancient sky;
Yet give no sadder echo to your moan,—
I am not here alone!
“Dark walls surround me; that keen azure fire
Of day and night is fled;
Yet worship clothes me, and the old desire
That round your feet is dead:
I see glad eyes, I feel fresh spirits burn,
And beauteous faith return!
Of day and night is fled;
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That round your feet is dead:
I see glad eyes, I feel fresh spirits burn,
And beauteous faith return!
“What idle hand or scornful set me here
I heed no longer now;
Men know my loveliness, and, half in fear,
Touch mine insulted brow:
In me the glory of the gods discrowned
The race again has found.
I heed no longer now;
Men know my loveliness, and, half in fear,
Touch mine insulted brow:
In me the glory of the gods discrowned
The race again has found.
“Move proudly, sisters, bear your architrave
Without me, whom ye miss!
Truth finds her second birthplace, not her grave,
On our Acropolis!
And children here, while there but aliens roam,
Shall build once more our home.”
Without me, whom ye miss!
Truth finds her second birthplace, not her grave,
On our Acropolis!
And children here, while there but aliens roam,
Shall build once more our home.”
1877.
THE VILLAGE STORK
The old Hercynian Forest sent
His weather on the plain;
Wahlwinkel's orchards writhed and bent
In whirls of wind and rain.
Within her nest, upon the roof,
For generations tempest-proof,
Wahlwinkel's stork with her young ones lay,
When the hand of the hurricane tore away
The house and the home that held them.
His weather on the plain;
Wahlwinkel's orchards writhed and bent
In whirls of wind and rain.
Within her nest, upon the roof,
For generations tempest-proof,
Wahlwinkel's stork with her young ones lay,
When the hand of the hurricane tore away
The house and the home that held them.
The storm passed by; the happy trees
Stood up, and kissed the sun;
And from the birds new melodies
Came fluting one by one.
The stork, upon the paths below,
Went sadly pacing to and fro,
With dripping plumes and head depressed,
For she thought of the spoiled ancestral nest,
And the old, inherited honor.
“Behold her now!” the throstle sang
From out the linden tree;
“Who knows from what a line she sprang,
Beyond the unknown sea?”
“If she could sing, perchance her tale
Might move us,” chirruped the nightingale.
“Sing? She can only rattle and creak!”
Whistled the bullfinch, with silver beak,
Within the wires of his prison.
Stood up, and kissed the sun;
And from the birds new melodies
Came fluting one by one.
The stork, upon the paths below,
Went sadly pacing to and fro,
With dripping plumes and head depressed,
For she thought of the spoiled ancestral nest,
And the old, inherited honor.
“Behold her now!” the throstle sang
From out the linden tree;
“Who knows from what a line she sprang,
Beyond the unknown sea?”
“If she could sing, perchance her tale
Might move us,” chirruped the nightingale.
“Sing? She can only rattle and creak!”
Whistled the bullfinch, with silver beak,
Within the wires of his prison.
And all birds there, or loud or low,
Were one in scoff and scorn;
But still the stork paced to and fro,
As utterly forlorn.
Then suddenly, in turn of eye,
She saw a poet passing by,
And the thought in his brain was an arrow of fire,
That pierced her with passion, and pride, and ire,
And gave her a voice to answer.
Were one in scoff and scorn;
But still the stork paced to and fro,
As utterly forlorn.
Then suddenly, in turn of eye,
She saw a poet passing by,
And the thought in his brain was an arrow of fire,
That pierced her with passion, and pride, and ire,
And gave her a voice to answer.
She raised her head and shook her wings,
And faced the piping crowd.
“Best service,” said she, “never sings,
True honor is not loud.
My kindred carol not, nor boast;
Yet we are loved and welcomed most,
And our ancient race is dearest and first,
And the hand that hurts us is held accursed
In every home of Wahlwinkel!
And faced the piping crowd.
“Best service,” said she, “never sings,
True honor is not loud.
My kindred carol not, nor boast;
Yet we are loved and welcomed most,
And our ancient race is dearest and first,
And the hand that hurts us is held accursed
In every home of Wahlwinkel!
“Beneath a sky forever fair,
And with a summer sod,
The land I come from smiles—and there
My brother was a god!
My nest upon a temple stands
And sees the shine of desert lands;
And the palm and the tamarisk cool my wings,
When the blazing beam of the noonday stings,
And I drink from the holy river!
And with a summer sod,
The land I come from smiles—and there
My brother was a god!
My nest upon a temple stands
And sees the shine of desert lands;
And the palm and the tamarisk cool my wings,
When the blazing beam of the noonday stings,
And I drink from the holy river!
“There I am sacred, even as here;
Yet dare I not be lost,
When meads are bright, hearts full of cheer,
At blithesome Pentecost.
Then from mine obelisk I depart,
Guided by something in my heart,
And sweep in a line over Libyan sands
To the blossoming olives of Grecian lands,
And rest on the Cretan Ida!
Yet dare I not be lost,
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At blithesome Pentecost.
Then from mine obelisk I depart,
Guided by something in my heart,
And sweep in a line over Libyan sands
To the blossoming olives of Grecian lands,
And rest on the Cretan Ida!
“Parnassus sees me as I sail;
I cross the Adrian brine;
The distant summits fade and fail,
Dalmatian, Apennine;
The Alpine snows beneath me gleam,
I see the yellow Danube stream;
But I hasten on till my spent wings fall
Where I bring a blessing to each and all,
And babes to the wives of Wahlwinkel!”
I cross the Adrian brine;
The distant summits fade and fail,
Dalmatian, Apennine;
The Alpine snows beneath me gleam,
I see the yellow Danube stream;
But I hasten on till my spent wings fall
Where I bring a blessing to each and all,
And babes to the wives of Wahlwinkel!”
She drooped her head and spake no more;
The birds on either hand
Sang louder, lustier than before—
They could not understand.
Thus mused the stork, with snap of beak:
“Better be silent, than so speak!
Highest being can never be taught:
They have their voices, I my thought;
And they were never in Egypt!”
The birds on either hand
Sang louder, lustier than before—
They could not understand.
Thus mused the stork, with snap of beak:
“Better be silent, than so speak!
Highest being can never be taught:
They have their voices, I my thought;
And they were never in Egypt!”
August, 1878.
| The poetical works of Bayard Taylor | |