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Poems by Frederick Goddard Tuckerman

Tuckerman, Frederick Goddard (1821-1873)
1 occurrence of tambour
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PART I.
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PART II.
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Sonnets.
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PART 1.
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[I. Sometimes, when winding slow by brook and bower]
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[II. Wherefore, with this belief, held like a blade]
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[III. And borne with theirs, my proudest thoughts do seem]
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[IV. Nor looks that backward life so bare to me]
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[V. And so the day drops by; the horizon draws]
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[VI. Not sometimes, but, to him that heeds the whole]
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[VII. Dank fens of cedar; hemlock-branches gray]
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[VIII. As when, down some broad River dropping, we]
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[IX. Yet wear we on; the deep light disallowed]
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[X. An upper chamber in a darkened house]
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[XI. What profits it to me, though here allowed]
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[XII. Tall, stately plants, with spikes and forks of gold]
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[XIII. As one who walks and weeps by alien brine]
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[XIV. Not proud of station; nor in worldly pelf]
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[XV. And she, her beauty never made her cold]
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[XVI. Yet Nature, where the thunder leaves its trace]
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[XVII. All men,—the Preacher saith,—whate'er or whence]
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[XVIII. Perchance his own small field some charge demands]
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[XIX. Yet vain, perhaps, the fruits our care applaud]
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[XX. Still craves the spirit: never Nature solves]
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[XXI. O Father, God! to whom, in happier days]
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[XXII. The morning comes; not slow, with reddening gold]
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[XXIII. Shall I not see her? Yes; for one has seen]
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[XXIV. Perhaps a dream; yet surely truth has beamed]
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[XXV. By this low fire I often sit to woo]
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[XXVI. For Nature daily through her grand design]
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[XXVII. So, to the mind long brooding but on it]
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[XXVIII. Not the round natural world, not the deep mind]
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PART II.

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176

[VI. Not sometimes, but, to him that heeds the whole]

Not sometimes, but, to him that heeds the whole,
And in the Ample reads his personal page,
Labouring to reconcile, content, assuage,
The vexed conditions of his heritage,
For ever waits an angel at the goal,
And ills seem but as food for spirits sage,
And grief becomes a dim apparelage,
The weed and wearing of the sacred soul,
Might I but count, but here, one watchlight spark!
But vain, oh vain! this turning for the light,—
Vain as a groping hand to rend the dark.
I call, entangled in the night, a night
Of wind and voices! but the gusty roll
Is vague, nor comes there cheer of pilotage.
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